MemoRandom: A Thriller
Page 40
“Nearly there, Adnan,” he muttered.
He saw David Sarac leaning against a tree. His face was white, his head was hanging at an odd angle. There were patches of red in the snow around him.
The other man was standing about thirty feet away. Atif recognized him now; it was the man he’d seen coming out of the door of Sarac’s building. Was he Janus? If Sasha was right, he wasn’t guilty of Adnan’s death. But Atif wasn’t about to take any risks. A psychopath like Sasha was capable of saying anything and making it sound believable. He hadn’t come this far only to abandon his mission.
Atif raised his pistol, feeling the pain getting steadily worse. An eight, close to a nine now.
The first bullet missed Atif by three feet or so. He carried on walking, waiting to shoot until he was sure of hitting his target. The man fired again, using one of the gateposts as a support. Another miss, but this time so close that Atif could feel the rush of air as it passed. He raised his gun and aimed.
The third bullet hit him below his ribs, making him stagger. Atif kept walking, forcing himself to hold his pistol hand up. The man’s weapon clicked and Atif saw him fumbling desperately for a fresh cartridge. He took a step, then another. The man clicked the new cartridge into place and raised his arm.
Atif shot him twice, in the center of his body. The man dropped his gun and slumped beside the gatepost. Atif carried on staggering forward and didn’t stop until he was holding the barrel of the pistol against the man’s head. He realized too late that it was a mistake. A millisecond before the blow hit him he noticed that the man was wearing a bulletproof vest.
Atif tumbled backward but managed to grab hold of a branch at the last minute and stay on his feet. The man kicked him in the thigh, making his leg buckle. Then he aimed a rock-hard right hook at Atif’s ear that brought him to his knees, and followed through with an elbow to his shoulder. Atif fell forward and ended up on all fours. He felt the ground lurch.
An arm tightened around his throat as a hand pushed hard at the back of his neck. He tried to break free and keep his airway open.
But it was too late. The man already had him in a stranglehold. Atif could hear the other man’s breath panting in his ear. He could almost smell the adrenaline coursing through his body. The scent of victory.
Atif twisted his head, trying to buy himself a few more seconds. His fingers felt along the outside of his shin, and he reached into the back of his boot. His fingers closed around the switchblade he had taken from Bakshi, and he pulled it out and opened the blade. At that moment his field of vision began to shrink and turn black. He tried to raise his arm but realized he didn’t have enough strength left.
• • •
Sarac rested his right hand against his knee. He drew as much air as he could into his lungs and closed his left eye before he squeezed the trigger of the revolver Bergh had given him.
There was still a bit of insulating tape stuck to its side, but that didn’t bother him. He waited until the bead was right in the middle of the notch, then pulled the trigger the rest of the way and shot Peter in the middle of his triumphant, mocking grin.
For a moment Molnar stood there with his arms around Atif’s neck. A hole had appeared in his perfect row of teeth. His eyes stared blankly at Sarac, as if he still couldn’t take in what had happened. Then he collapsed without a sound.
After a few moments Atif straightened up slightly. He took several gasping breaths, then slumped back against a tree, in the same posture as Sarac. On the ground beside him he found his pistol. He picked it up and closed his fingers around the butt. He found that it had got very heavy.
“Is that him?” Atif gestured with the barrel toward Molnar’s body. “Janus?”
Sarac shook his head, then cleared his throat and spat another mouthful of blood onto the white snow.
“So where is he, then?” Atif’s voice sounded weary.
“Everywhere.” Sarac waved his revolver in the air, then back toward the house.
Atif raised his pistol and aimed it at Sarac. Sarac immediately did the same to Atif. For a little while they just sat there, staring at each other above the barrels of their guns.
“One of the others,” Atif mumbled. “Which one?”
“You don’t get it.” Sarac coughed and spat out even more blood. “Janus isn’t one of them.”
“Who is he then? Tell me, for fuck’s sake!” Atif waved his pistol angrily. He noticed it was getting harder to hold. He stared at Sarac, then looked over toward the wrecked house; the flames were leaping from the roof. High above them the clouds had eased slightly. Leaving a gap through which the stars were visible.
The god who starts and ends all wars, a voice said in his head. It sounded like Adnan’s.
And suddenly he understood, he understood how it all fit together. He realized to his own surprise that he was smiling. So smart, so utterly ingenious. And, at the same time—so incredibly cruel.
“You,” he muttered. “Y-you’re Janus. You, them, all of you—everyone. Together . . .”
Sarac smiled wryly. Blood was seeping from one corner of his mouth, forming little bubbles. The arm holding the revolver sank to the ground.
Atif lowered his gun, leaned his head back against the tree trunk, and started to laugh. A couple of seconds later Sarac joined in.
They were still laughing when Natalie found them. Hoarse, rattling laughter that had nothing at all to do with joy. They didn’t stop until she told them to shut up.
EPILOGUE
“So, how do we handle this, Minister?” Wallin was sitting in the armchair on the other side of Stenberg’s desk.
“Nine dead, another ten wounded, several of them police officers. The worst underworld shoot-out in Swedish history,” he said.
“We turn it to our advantage,” Stenberg said. “A sign of how organized crime is getting out of control. The police can’t handle it, they need more resources, better leadership.”
“And the police officers who were there, what about their involvement?” Wallin said.
“Well.” Stenberg made a small gesture with his hand. “That’s primarily the district commissioner’s problem. After all, they were her staff. At a guess, Eva Swensk will do what she usually does: blame everything on a few individuals and wash her lily-white hands of the whole business. I’d say her chances of succeeding are fairly high. Bergh has already had to resign, and David Sarac looks like an excellent candidate for the vacant role of scapegoat. Besides, he’d have trouble defending himself, wouldn’t he?”
“But Minister, surely you’re not thinking of letting Swensk get off that lightly?” Wallin sounded anxious.
Stenberg smiled and gave a little shrug of his shoulders. “Sometimes one has to reevaluate one’s position, Oscar. It’s all about alliances. I had a good meeting with Carina LeMoine this morning. Eva Swensk has strong support inside the party. Besides, as Carina pointed out, a female National Police Chief would undeniably make us look forward-thinking and progressive. In many ways it would make everything simpler. Favors given, favors received, that’s how things work.”
Wallin nodded and appeared to think hard for a few moments. Then he opened the folder he had placed on the desk between them. It contained two apparently identical forms with official-looking logos at the top.
“Speaking of which, Minister,” he said. “We’ve had the test results back from the National Forensics Lab. The blood found in Sophie Thorning’s apartment.”
“Oh,” Stenberg said, trying to keep his voice calm.
Wallin looked at his boss. Waited until the other man’s gaze wavered slightly. That told him all he needed to know. He took one of the forms out of the folder and pushed it across to Stenberg.
“The blood was hers,” he said. “So there’s no evidence at all to prove that anyone else was in the apartment when Sophie Thorning died.”
He paused and looked down at the almost identical form that was still in the folder. He waited long enough for Stenberg to look at
it before slowly closing the folder.
“You’re quite right, Minister,” Wallin said. “Alliances are important. But one should never forget who one’s real friends are.”
Stenberg sat and looked at Wallin in silence for a few moments, then looked up at the Kennedy quote above the man’s head, the one his wife had given him. Finally he cast a quick glance at his Patek Philippe. For a brief instant he got the impression that the second hand was stuck.
“I understand,” he said in a toneless voice. “Thank you, Oscar.”
“Don’t mention it, Minister.”
Wallin stood up and walked toward the door.
“Oh, one more thing,” Stenberg said, trying to sound unconcerned. “What happened with that infiltrator? Did we ever find out who he really was?”
Wallin shook his head.
“No one we’ve questioned admits to knowing anything about Janus’s true identity. Nor anyone else, for that matter. He seems to have gone up in smoke. Almost as if he never existed . . .”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are always a lot of people involved in the creation of a book. Some are easy to thank: my family, editor, and agent. Or all the brilliant people who translate my stories into so many different languages. Others are more difficult to thank publicly, because I am unable to identify them by their real names for various reasons. But that doesn’t in any way diminish my gratitude for their help.
I would like to say a special thank-you to the popular psychologist Henrik Fexeus, who has taught me a lot about how easy it is to fool the human mind. For someone who knows its secrets, at least.
Anders de la Motte
New York, 2014
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JORGEN RINGSTRAND
ANDERS DE LA MOTTE is the author of Game, Buzz, and Bubble. He has worked as a police officer and the director of security at one of the world’s largest IT companies. He now works as an international security consultant in addition to being Sweden’s most exciting and innovative new thriller writer.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Anders de la Motte
English language translation copyright © 2015 by Neil Smith
Originally published in 2014 in Sweden by agreement with Salomonsson Agency.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
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Interior design by Kyoko Watanabe
Cover design by Alex Merto
Cover image © Donald G. Jean/Getty images
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 978-1-4767-8806-7
ISBN 978-1-4767-8807-4 (ebook)
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About Anders de la Motte