The Friend

by Joakim Zander

She smiles at him again, as one smiles at a child whose demands one has no intention of giving in to. ‘That’s not going to happen, Matti. Like I said, we have a lot to talk about, you and me.’

  Jacob swallows hard. ‘Don’t call me that,’ he says. ‘That’s not my name any more.’

  ‘Your name’s not Matti Johansson any more,’ she says. ‘Well, that is indeed true. You’re Jacob Seger now. It’s a much grander name, you might say. Fits the person you want to be.’

  ‘Please,’ he says. ‘Leave me alone. I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  But the woman isn’t listening to him, doesn’t hear him. ‘It wasn’t good enough for you to grow up with a lonely, alcoholic mother in Eskilstuna,’ she begins. ‘That’s understandable. Welfare and evictions. You have big dreams, Matti. Your background must feel like a handicap. You’re made for embassies and elegant dinner parties. Castles, perhaps? Surely you didn’t grow up in such miserable conditions?’

  He shakes his head. It can’t be true. Everything he put behind him, everything he worked so hard to escape. Why now? Now when he’s so close?

  His mouth is dry, his head is spinning.

  ‘I need water,’ he whispers.

  But the woman’s already passed by him, found a glass and is filling it from the tap. She hands it to him.

  ‘There you go,’ she says. ‘Now let’s sit down in the living room.’

  *

  ‘I don’t know who you are,’ Jacob says when they finally sit down at the table in front of the closed balcony door. ‘But there’s nothing illegal or suspicious about changing one’s name.’

  Jacob has to raise his voice to be heard over the traffic and baseline thumping from the bars.

  ‘Illegal?’ the woman says. ‘No, definitely not. Suspicious? Well…’ She holds up her hands like scales.

  ‘How do you know about this?’ he says. ‘Why did you investigate me? Why are you here?’

  The woman leans back in her chair and stares calmly at him. ‘When are you planning to meet Yassim Al-Abbas again?’ she says.

  ‘I…’ he says. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  He takes a gulp of water. Al-Abbas. Is that Yassim’s last name?

  Slowly the woman leans over the table, her dark, expressionless eyes boring into his own. ‘My name is Myriam Awad,’ she says. ‘Officially, I work with cultural affairs at the Swedish Institute in Alexandria.’

  ‘And unofficially?’ Jacob whispers, his lungs tightening in his chest, the whole room shrinking around him.

  ‘Unofficially I work for something called the Office for Special Acquisition,’ she says calmly. ‘It’s part of MUST, the Swedish military’s intelligence service.’

  Now the whole room is spinning around him. Is this woman in his apartment some kind of spy?

  ‘You’re in over your fucking head, Matti,’ she says. ‘What did your new fella tell you about his job?’

  ‘Don’t call me Matti,’ Jacob says.

  Myriam smiles slightly and Jacob can almost see what she’s like outside of this sick, terrifying situation. She’s almost beautiful, with her soft, clear features and smooth, olive skin. Her symmetrical mouth and determined nose. They don’t fit her ruthless manner. Then her smile disappears, and she’s coldly menacing again.

  ‘Okay, Jacob,’ she says, with air quotes. ‘Let me guess, he told you he’s a photographer?’

  Jacob nods, reluctantly. She seems pleased.

  ‘Ask to see some of his photographs,’ she says. ‘Ask him where they’re published. If you doubt the truth of what I’m about to tell you this evening.’

  ‘What do you think he’s done?’ he says.

  ‘Your boyfriend is a terrorist,’ she says. ‘Or worse than that. He doesn’t do the deed himself. He’s what they call a “lighter”. That means he doesn’t carry out or even plan terror attacks. But he’s the one who transports the plan. Do you understand?’

  Jacob shakes his head. ‘Excuse me?’ he says, convinced he misheard or that she’s joking.

  She just looks at him with a blend of impatience and contempt. ‘Your boyfriend is a terrorist,’ she says again. ‘Is that so hard to take in, Matti? Maybe you didn’t run into them very often in the housing projects of Eskilstuna?’

  ‘It’s impossible,’ Jacob whispers. Terrorist. The word echoes in his mind. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘We know because we keep an eye on these things, Matti. We put together puzzles with our colleagues in the other Western intelligence services. Trade information. I’m sure this is overwhelming for you, but you’ve landed in the middle of something much bigger than you can imagine.’

  He looks up at her. ‘What do you mean?’ he whispers.

  She doesn’t answer, just stands up and walks with her hands behind her back over to the balcony door and looks out.

  ‘Often a terrorist attack is planned in the Middle East by ISIS. But the perpetrators of the attack are already in place in Europe; it’s too risky to fly people in. There’s no shortage of willing brothers who want to kill the infidels already in place. But someone has to bring the plan to them, because often several different cells are involved and most of them don’t even know about the others. Nowadays, terrorists don’t use email for the most sensitive information – only human couriers will do. We’ve gotten too good at picking up any chatter online, and they know that.’

  Jacob rubs his hands over his face. Lighter. Chatter online.

  ‘Something’s up right now,’ she continues. ‘Something big is being planned in Europe, I can’t say more than that. And your new boyfriend is mixed up in it.’

  Jacob thinks of Yassim’s eyes, his voice and hands, of his wrists. ‘You’re wrong,’ he says. ‘Yassim is gay. ISIS hates gay people.’

  Myriam shrugs and turns to him. ‘They’re very pragmatic, just like everyone else,’ she says. ‘He’s westernized and can easily pass back and forth over borders. The fact that he’s gay is probably even good cover. Or has been until now, when we got him in our sights.’

  ‘Why don’t you just take him in then, if you’re so sure?’

  His shock is starting to pass and in its place he’s started to feel pissed off. Why the hell should he get pulled into this?

  ‘Because he’s just a little cog,’ Myriam says. ‘Because we want to know more about his network. Where his orders are coming from and where he’s taking them. We want to know what the plan is and how it’s being carried out. One person is just one person – we want to know it all.’

  She falls silent and then says slowly: ‘And you’re going to help us with that.’

  She turns and looks at Jacob.

  ‘The information about Al-Abbas was shared with us by another country. They’ve known about him for a long time and were waiting for the right moment. When you showed up a few weeks ago they found out who you were and contacted us.’ She smiles and throws her arms wide as if she were presenting a magic trick. ‘And voila, here we are.’

  Jacob meets her eyes. His shock is now a crushing headache, and he feels unfathomably tired. ‘I’m not interested,’ he says.

  Myriam nods and settles down at the table again. ‘I know everything about you. I know exactly how hard it must have been for you to rise out of the environment you grew up in, to get to where you’re headed now. A career. A foreign post. After studying you, I know it wasn’t easy to go from Matti Johansson to Jacob Seger. But this is where we are now. And you now have a unique opportunity to make a real contribution.’

  Jacob massages his temples with his fingertips. He doesn’t want to make a real contribution. He just wants to live his life, become what he always wanted to be. And be left in peace.

  Myriam takes a computer out of the bag she brought with her and puts it on the table in front of him. She also fishes a thumb drive out and puts it on the table. ‘The next time you meet Yassim, put this in his USB jack. It’s pre-programmed with mobile broadband. It’ll take care of the installation on its own, and it’s
lightning fast. Through that programme we’ll get access to whatever’s on his computer. Piece of cake.’

  Jacob doesn’t move, he just stares straight ahead. ‘No,’ he says. ‘I’m not interested.’ Slowly he lifts his head and looks at Myriam. ‘Go ahead and tell them I’m from a fucking working-class background if you want. It’ll be embarrassing for me. And tough. But I’ve been through worse.’

  His rage is growing. Why did he change his name anyway? Because the whole time he was growing up he wanted to escape the stigma of being poor. Escape his mother. Escape where he came from.

  Becoming Jacob Seger was a big part of his metamorphosis, and he’s been terrified for a long time that someone would find out who he used to be. But now, in this apartment in Beirut, he feels like it doesn’t matter any more. He has finally become whom he wanted to be. And he won’t let anyone force him to do anything any more.

  Myriam doesn’t say a word, just opens the computer and runs a hand over the track pad until a video window opens. When she presses play, Jacob knows there’s nothing he can do. Escape is impossible.

  He can only watch a few seconds of the video – it’s too naked and raw and disgusting. His hands tremble when he slams the screen shut. He falls forward and buries his head in his hands. ‘What have you done?’ he sobs. ‘Why?’

  ‘What have we done?’ Myriam’s voice is ice cold. ‘Isn’t that you in this video? Aren’t you the one raping that kid? Hassan is his name, by the way. And he’s fifteen years old.’

  His world is collapsing. That’s Jacob on the video. Jacob and the guy from the bathhouse. Before he closed the screen, he saw himself hit the boy across the cheek and pull his hair. Call him a whore.

  ‘It’s not what it looks like,’ he whispers. ‘He asked for it. He wanted me to do it.’

  ‘Really?’ Myriam says. ‘Is that your defence? That he wanted to be raped?’

  ‘If you play it again you’ll hear that he wants it.’ His panic has awoken again in a kind of delayed reaction and sent a fever through him as he realizes the consequences of that video. Homosexual rape in Lebanon, where homosexuality itself is illegal. And even if he managed to explain it in a convincing way… His career is over. Long before it even started. Everything he struggled for. Everything he dreamed about. Over.

  ‘I’ve watched it more times than anyone should ever have to watch such a thing,’ Myriam says. ‘And all I see is a Swedish brat brutally raping a poor, underage boy.’

  ‘That’s not what happened!’ he screams. ‘He came onto me, and I didn’t even want to go to the bathhouse, it was Vargander who arranged a car and…’

  He falls silent when the pieces finally fall into place. Myriam says nothing. She just sits on the other side of the table, staring at him with those dark, icy eyes.

  ‘It was a trap,’ he whispers. ‘The car, the bathhouse, the guy who hit on me. Vargander arranged everything.’

  Myriam shakes her head in frustration. ‘Vargander is just a useful idiot,’ she says. ‘He loaned the car out to you because we asked him to. He doesn’t know anything about this, and you shouldn’t tell him either.’

  ‘This can’t be happening,’ Jacob mumbles. It’s not happening, it’s not happening, it’s not happening…

  He doesn’t stop his mantra until Myriam takes him by the chin and forces him to look deep into her eyes, her face no more than a few centimetres from his. ‘It’s happening, Jacob,’ she says. ‘The sooner you accept it, the better things will be for you. None of this will matter if you just do what I ask you to do. It’s fucking ridiculous that I would have to go to these lengths to get you to do what’s right. You’re dating a terrorist, for fuck’s sake. Wake up!’

  Her eyes are so intense that Jacob has to look away.

  She stands up and slams a piece of paper onto the table. ‘My number. You call me when your boyfriend’s back in town. Or we’ll let the law take care of this matter.’

  When Jacob finally looks up again, Myriam is gone. It could have been a dream. If it weren’t for the thumb drive and the phone number on the table in front of him.

  22 November

  Stockholm

  Klara takes a step out from behind the car door, and heads to one of three heavily armed police officers blocking traffic. Something’s happening further down the street, and the police officer turns around to see it. The SWAT team is making its move: two of them are heading slowly towards the doors of Lindblad & Wiman, one of them has a machine gun in his arms, and the other seems to be taking out handcuffs from a pocket in his belt.

  They open the building’s door with caution. Klara catches a glimpse of Gabriella’s red hair and jacket. Then the police scream something she can’t make out. But now she’s almost to the barricade, staring beyond it, her pulse pounding at her temples.

  ‘I said: Get back in your car!’

  Suddenly there’s an officer in a black helmet right in front of her, his eyes black with adrenaline and authority. She didn’t hear him, barely even saw him; now she stops mid-step.

  Gabriella is out on the stairs of the office, and the police are moving towards her. Klara can hear her surprised, incredulous voice, despite the distance.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ she shouts.

  They’re around her now, the police officer with handcuffs and two more. It’s so fast, so surreal, Klara can’t even take in the details, can barely distinguish them. She hears Gabriella shout again and sees the police change their tactics; they no longer appear as individuals, just fast and violent movements. They scream: ‘Get down! Don’t move!’

  They grab hold of Gabriella, two of them at least, forcing her down onto her knees and then pushing her entire body onto the sidewalk. Onto her stomach with her face to the street. They sit on top of her, pressing her to the ground.

  Klara opens her mouth, takes another step towards the barricade, feels her whole body pulsing, shaking with doubt and adrenaline.

  ‘I’m not gonna tell you again: go back to your car!’ The officer in front of her is screaming now. He’s in her face, and she stops. She looks at him with her eyes wide, then takes a step back, then another, holding up her hands.

  ‘What…’ she begins. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I’ll arrest you if you don’t get in your car immediately!’ the officer says.

  He’s young, Klara notes as she stumbles backwards. Probably no older than twenty-five. Her hands tremble. What does that matter? She can feel the car door against her back, see one police officer sitting on Gabriella and forcing her arms behind her back to handcuff them. She hears Gabriella shout and scream, hears her upset and confused voice.

  ‘That’s my friend!’ Klara screams at the police officer, forcing her eyes away. ‘What are you doing to her?’

  The officer doesn’t say anything, just stares at her with those dark, nervous eyes.

  ‘She’s a fucking lawyer!’ Klara continues. ‘You can’t just do whatever the fuck you want, do you understand? There are rules and laws and…’

  The policeman’s fingers move to the handcuffs hanging from his belt. It’s clear he won’t tolerate much more from her, and she reconsiders, holds up her hands again and backs around the car door.

  Behind the barricades, the policemen are lifting Gabriella to her feet and putting her into a waiting black van. It slowly rolls away down Skeppsbron.

  Klara sits down in the car, her head pounding, the whole world vibrating around her.

  What the hell is going on? She dropped off Gabriella ten minutes ago, and now she’s been arrested at her own office?

  Behind the barricades, the police have started to relax and take off their helmets, a police car is slowly rolling away in the same direction as the van, towards Slussen. Another van rolls out from one of the side streets and stops in front of the entrance to the law firm. Two people in white overalls jump out. They wait on the street outside the door, chatting with the police.

  The policeman with the black eyes at the barricade takes a step
to the side, onto one of the wide sidewalks. He says something into his headset and waves his arm to a car at the back of the queue that’s now formed on Skeppsbron. The black Volvo pulls away from the line of cars and slowly drives up onto the sidewalk, towards the police officer, then stops. One of the tinted windows rolls down halfway and what looks like a driver’s licence is stuck out. Klara can’t see inside the car from this angle, but she can see the police officer return the card and wave the Volvo towards the waiting police.

  The car stops behind the newly arrived van and a man in his sixties with messy, grey hair jumps out, dressed in a cardigan, leather jacket and sturdy boots. He goes over to one of the uniformed police officers and grabs him before he can disappear into the building. The two men in white overalls follow him into the foyer.

  There’s no doubt who it is.

  Anton Bronzelius.

  The Säpo officer she and Gabriella have encountered a few times in recent years. Bronzelius, who this summer threatened them when they were planning to reveal that Säpo knew a Russian company was planning to infiltrate European police forces. Säpo even gave the Russians more or less free rein to foment riots in the suburbs of Stockholm.

  Klara and Gabriella ignored Bronzelius’s threats and instead went to the media and exposed the entire scandal. Klara was convinced that Bronzelius was bluffing when he said he’d get his revenge.

  You don’t want me as an enemy, believe me, he said.

  But now it’s obvious Bronzelius has led a SWAT team to arrest Gabriella. Klara’s been naive. Bronzelius meant every word.

  7 September–16 October

  Beirut

  ‘You call me when your boyfriend’s back in town,’ Myriam said.

  And Yassim was supposed to be back after just a few days. But two weeks go by, and Jacob still hasn’t heard anything from him. Jacob passes his time at the embassy letting his mind wander back and forth between the memory of Yassim’s smooth body and the terrible meeting he had with Myriam Awad.

  Her indifferent expression is burned onto his retinas, and his mind is filled with what she told him about Yassim. That he’s a terrorist.