The Believer

by Joakim Zander

  BERGORT BURNS

  Mehdi just nods.

  “Come on,” he says. “Let’s drive around while we’re waiting for Yazz.”

  The old, red Mazda sits where we left it. It looks like a cheap toy among all the SUVs and BMWs on this block.

  “Where are you going?” I say. “Yazz said we need to stay far away from Bergort until she’s fixed this.”

  Mehdi doesn’t seem to hear me, just heads straight for the car with the key in hand, fully concentrated. I speed up and catch up to him at the car. He already has the key in the lock.

  “Brother,” I say. “Talk to me. What the hell is going on?”

  He opens the door and folds the seat forward so I can climb into the backseat. I’m still wondering why I’m supposed to get in the backseat, when he turns around with an expression on his face that’s so sad it confuses me.

  “I’m sorry, brother,” he hisses, his lungs whistling. “I’m sorry, Fadi.”

  It’s the last thing I hear before someone pushes me up against the side of the car and pulls my hands behind my back. The last thing I hear, before someone ties my hands behind my back and throws me headfirst into the backseat of the car. I try to scream and turn around, but someone hits me in the back of the head with what feels like a hammer or a gun. From the corner of my eye I see a shadow, a shaky silhouette. The shadow has a hood in his hands, and there’s nothing I can do when he pulls it down over my head, and the whole car disappears into darkness, the whole city disappears, the whole summer.

  They push me onto the floor and keep an arm on my head while we drive calmly through the city. The darkness around me is confusing, and I struggle to breathe and to keep my breathing calm. I hear frantic voices, but not what they’re saying. Mehdi is talking to me, in his shitty, stupid, badly pronounced Arabic so the other person in the car won’t understand: “Sorry, Fadi. Very sorry. They want Yazz. They promise they will let you go.”

  I don’t give a shit about why, just lie still in the backseat. Feel the hood grow wet from my tears.

  63. STOCKHOLM—SATURDAY, AUGUST 22, 2015

  AFTER THE LAST few days, she should feel much worse than she does when she sinks down into her seat on the airport’s express train to Stockholm. Her headache isn’t bad, barely noticeable. She ate a couple of dry samosas from a corner shop and drank almost a quart of water as a preventive measure when she finally got home from One Aldwych last night. But she couldn’t sleep, even though her head felt heavy and pleasantly buzzed from wine and fatigue. Instead she lay awake, tossing and turning until at least three, then finally fell asleep. The room had been too hot, the sounds from the street too loud, her mind filled with stressful thoughts, images of Patrick on the tracks, Stirling Security, Charlotte’s mysterious emails. She must have gotten up a dozen times to check that the door was locked, the stove turned off, her passport packed in her bag. . . .

  She was supposed to fly in the afternoon because she didn’t need to be there until the presentation on Sunday morning, but for a fee of fifty pounds, she managed to rebook in time to make it to Stirling Security’s office on Kungsgatan for Charlotte’s meeting. If nothing else, she wanted to find out who was behind GL.

  She turns her eyes up toward the express train’s small flat screen, which plays ads aimed at business travelers and news clips on a loop. The screen shows burning cars and masked young men throwing stones at retreating policemen. The riots that started in Bergort earlier this week have apparently spread to other suburbs in Stockholm during the night. Same as in London, where riots and demonstrations took place throughout the summer. It’s a summer of unrest.

  But before she has time to take in what exactly is happening in the suburbs of Stockholm, the news clip is replaced by a serious-looking advertisement for a company that provides “comprehensive and holistic security at the macro level.” As the screen goes black a familiar company name slowly appears in red: Stirling Security.

  It’s not even ten when she arrives at Kungsgatan 30, which ends up being the address of one of the Kung’s Towers. Not a bad place to establish yourself.

  There’s a café just forty feet from the entrance, and she finds a table by the window, from which she can keep an eye on whoever goes in or out of the door.

  She listlessly orders a croissant, a cappuccino, and a mineral water at the counter. When she sits down at her table, she realizes even though she’s been eating poorly the last few days, she’s still not hungry, and she thinks again of the terrible week she’s had.

  The only thing she really wants now is a glass of cold white wine. The thought should make her feel worried, she thinks. A person shouldn’t drink every day. Not so you end up with blackouts and can’t sleep until you’ve had at least half a bottle. And she definitely shouldn’t be craving a glass of wine at ten in the morning, even if she’s been up since five.

  She takes out her phone and checks the time. Ten-fifteen. Forty-five minutes until the meeting begins.

  At ten-forty, she sees a taxi roll up and stop outside the door. She leans back quickly when she realizes it’s Charlotte jumping out of the backseat and walking toward the entrance. Charlotte takes out her phone and seems to make a short call. When she’s finished, she stands, waiting on the sidewalk.

  A few minutes pass, then Klara sits up in her chair. At first she thinks she must be mistaken, and she leans toward the window to get a better angle. There’s no doubt. Outside the entrance to the café, she sees George Lööw, in fresh-looking, perfectly fitting chinos and a dark blue blazer with a small handkerchief sticking out of his breast pocket. Brown, shiny shoes. His hair is a little longer than she remembers it, combed back, and sun-bleached, she’s sure, from dinners in Sandhamn and sailing trips outside Marstrand. But his jumpy gaze is just as tormented and haunted as she remembers it.

  George, she thinks. What a coincidence that he’d show up here right now.

  Seeing him brings back everything that happened last Christmas in Sankt Anna. George Lööw, the Brussels lobbyist who without knowing it, nearly got her killed in the archipelago at her grandparents’. George Lööw, who at the very last second developed some sort of moral compass and saved both her life and Gabriella’s.

  She closes her eyes for a moment and shakes her head. It feels like a dream now. The snow and storm. Her father, who she never actually met, dying in her arms. And George was the one who finally rescued her.

  They’d only been in contact sporadically since then. He’d emailed her a few times and asked how things were going in London, but lately she hadn’t felt up to answering.

  George stops right outside the café, and she sees that he’s with someone else. A young Arabic woman dressed in jeans and a bomber jacket, her long, curly hair in a ponytail, sticking out from under a red cap. She looks cool, exudes a kind of self-confidence that makes it impossible to look away from her. Her youth and attitude feel like the opposite of George’s conservative, polished surface—they are undoubtedly a rather odd couple.

  They stand outside the door of the café, and George appears to be trying to convince the girl of something. Klara see his hands flying around, sees him run them nervously through his hair. Finally, he leaves the girl and continues up the street. When he does, he passes right outside the window where she’s sitting; if not for the glass she could reach out and touch him.

  She’s about to get up and run after him until she remembers Charlotte is standing just a little ways up the street. And that’s when she finally realizes where he’s going.

  Without hesitation, George heads straight toward Charlotte and shakes her hand, then they head up the stairs, open the door, and disappear inside.

  She flashes back to the email address in Patrick’s folder: gl@stirlingsecurity.com. GL. George Lööw. Even after all the bizarre fucking shit she’s been through, she did not expect this. She hadn’t expected that George Lööw would be representing Stirling Security. At the same time, she’s not the least bit surprised. What she knew of him indicated that h
e moved in the darkest corners of the already shady world of lobbying.

  She turns her gaze back down the street to where the young woman is standing outside the café with her cell phone in one hand, apparently looking at something on the screen with one earbud in her ear.

  Then the young woman takes a step back toward the facade and collapses, as if she’s received a blow to the stomach.

  64. STOCKHOLM—SATURDAY, AUGUST 22, 2015

  THE VIDEO IS only fifteen seconds long and not particularly violent. Someone wearing a black hood, white ties around his hands and feet shackled, is lying on a made bed. Two hands pull the hood off to reveal that it’s Fadi. His cracked lips and gaunt cheeks. He’s squinting at the glare after the darkness of the hood. He spits and throws himself around on the bed and screams:

  “Fuck them! Don’t do what they say!”

  Someone gives him a hard slap with an open hand across the cheek. Then the camera turns toward another masked face. The same masks she saw in Bergort the other night. Same as what Mehdi and the gangsters wore yesterday.

  “You have until five, bitch,” the man says. “Six hours. Maybe we’ll find you before that. But if you don’t show up in front of the school by then, that’s it for your little brother. Do you understand?”

  She closes the phone and backs up against the wall. Her eyes no longer focus, and she sinks down on her haunches, afraid she might vomit. It’s too much. Too many threads and knots. Too much pulling her and Fadi back. Too much to ever escape Bergort.

  How did they find Fadi?

  Mehdi?

  The betrayals are piling up. Nobody but Mehdi could have ratted them out. Again. It’s the only explanation.

  Tears flow down her cheeks, and there’s nothing she can do to stop them. It’s just her and nobody else. Like always, just her.

  And she doesn’t notice that she’s no longer alone until she hears a quiet voice somewhere to the right of her. Slowly, she turns toward it. A slender woman with big brown eyes and a dark pageboy cut is squatting beside her. She’s holding up a napkin. Yasmine takes it reflexively, but then just sits there with it in her hand, as if she doesn’t know what to use it for. Then she feels the dark-haired woman put a hand on her shoulder:

  “Can I help you?” she says. “What’s your name?”

  65. STOCKHOLM—SATURDAY, AUGUST 22, 2015

  SHE LOOKS AT the weeping girl sitting on the sidewalk with a napkin in her hand. The girl looks confused, as if she barely knows where she is, as if a steel rope that kept her upright had suddenly broken under the burden of a tremendous weight and dropped her straight onto the cement.

  There’s no feeling in the world she’s more familiar with right now, and Klara gently puts her hand on the girl’s thin shoulder.

  “I can help you.”

  The girl doesn’t respond, but Klara gets her to her feet, leans her against the wall.

  “I can’t stay here,” she mumbles. “I can’t . . .”

  The girl twists out of Klara’s vague embrace. At the same time a kind of spark illuminates in her eyes, and she looks at Klara as if she hadn’t really noticed her until now.

  “I’m okay,” she says. “You can let go now.”

  There’s an automatic, suppressed aggressiveness in the way she says it. As if she’s not the kind to take anyone’s help. Not someone who relies on good intentions. As if she’s accustomed to being disappointed. She turns around and heads rapidly down the street toward Stureplan.

  “Wait . . .” Klara says. She stands there for a second considering her options. She can find George Lööw again. But there’s something about this girl. Something that makes her need to know more.

  “Hey,” she shouts. “Wait!”

  The girl glances over her shoulder but doesn’t slow down.

  With a few quick steps, Klara catches up and puts a hand on her shoulder. But the girl brushes her hand away.

  “I told you not to touch me, bitch,” she says. “Sorry. Thanks for the napkin, but I’m fine now, OK?”

  “I know George Lööw too,” Klara begins. “I saw you with him.”

  The girl just looks at her, but then shakes her head slightly.

  “I have no time for drama,” she says. “Believe me, he’s all yours, lady. He’s probably screwing around, but not with me.”

  Klara can’t help but smile.

  “Probably,” she says. “But how do you know him?”

  “Seriously,” the girl says. “I don’t care. Bye.”

  She turns and starts walking down the street again.

  “Do you know anything about Stirling Security?” Klara calls out in a last desperate attempt.

  Then the girl stops and turns around. She looks at Klara for a moment. Then she walks slowly toward her.

  “What did you say?”

  “Stirling Security? Do you know anything about them? I promise, it’s important.”

  “What do you mean important?” the girl says. “What the hell do you know about important?”

  Klara swallows and doesn’t look away, there’s something about the girl’s reaction that makes her continue, something in her eyes that convinces Klara she’s on the right track.

  “I know that people have died,” she says quietly. “And it has to do with them. And somehow it has to do with George too.”

  Something happens, something changes in the girl’s eyes. Desperation pushes through that tough surface.

  “What do you know?” she says. “I have very little time.”

  “My name is Klara. I guess you could say I know George from past experience, and I know he works with shady stuff. I know that Stirling Security is up to something awful. Something connected to Russia, or at least a Russian company.”

  She can hear how fuzzy all this sounds, and she digs into her pocket to pull out a cigarette and a lighter. Her mouth is dry from the tension, and the smoke tastes bitter on the first drag.

  “I think it has to do with the meeting of EU justice ministers that begins here tomorrow,” she continues. “It has something to do with a report my boss has written.”

  She takes another drag. The cars roll past them on the street. A sparse stream of Saturday shoppers and tourists stroll by them on the sidewalk. The world is moving on like usual, but they’re in a separate, surreal bubble.

  “A colleague of mine was murdered,” she continues. “Because he started investigating this.”

  She’s lowered her voice to a whisper now, and the girl comes closer. She looks at Klara with intense, searching eyes while she fiddles with the phone she’s holding in her hand. She looks as if she’s trying to make some kind of decision. Then she opens her mouth:

  “My little brother has been kidnapped,” she says in a completely hollow voice.

  “Oh my God,” Klara whispers. “And you think it has to do with George?”

  The girl nods slowly.

  “Somehow,” she says. “In some fucking way.”

  “Have you called the police? I mean, can you call the police?”

  The girl just looks at her.

  “Are you kidding?”

  Klara nods calmly. “But what happened?” she says. “Why was he kidnapped?”

  “Long story,” the girl replies. “Fadi, my brother, disappeared. To Syria. We thought he was dead, but then he came back and got involved in the riots somehow.”

  “The riots in the suburbs?”

  “In Bergort. His friend was involved, and Fadi got involved too. And now he’s been abducted.”

  “By whom?”

  “The people involved in this. The people behind it. Or by their hired thugs.”

  She points up along the street.

  “Stirling Security, or whatever the hell their name is,” she continues. “That Lööw works for, he’s the one who pays the kids to create chaos night after night. And there’s also some fucking Russian behind Stirling Security. He drives around in a car with blue diplomat plates and a chauffeur.”

  Klara sees the whiteboar
d in Patrick’s office in front of her. The Russian Embassy. She sees the payments to Charlotte in front of her. The bank in Vaduz. And amid all this: George Lööw.

  “But what do they want in return?” Klara says. “I mean, what do the kidnappers want?”

  “Me,” the girl says quietly. “They want me. I only have a few hours.”

  As she stands there on the street with somebody who needs help even more than she does, Klara realizes it won’t work. She can’t do this on her own.

  “We need help,” she says. “You need help. And if you let me, I think I know someone who might be able to help us. I can’t promise anything, but it’s better than nothing.”

  The girl’s facade has collapsed now, and tears flow down her cheeks. She nods slowly.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she says. “I haven’t got a clue.”

  “Come,” Klara says and pulls her down toward Stureplan. She’s going to call someone she should have called a long time ago.

  66. STOCKHOLM—SATURDAY, AUGUST 22, 2015

  THE BAY IS so shiny and gray it looks like polished stone, as if she could walk across it from Skeppsbron to her room at the Lydmar on the other side. But that room is in the past now, and she will never set foot in it again.

  She left an old version of herself behind there. It started when David’s fist hit her temple a week ago, a memory that’s already cracked and yellowed, and feels like it happened to someone else. For the last week she’s been reduced, layer by layer, until only the core remains. The prototype. That which survives. That which protects.

  She glances at the woman walking beside her, Klara, who still has a phone to her ear. Who is she? Why does she trust her? Maybe it’s those brown eyes with small sad wrinkles at their corners? Perhaps it’s how she speaks with that peculiar, rural accent, and her gentle touch? Maybe it’s because she cares? Or maybe she just can’t do this by herself anymore.