The Friend

by Joakim Zander

  ‘Where are your pills?’ he asks and turns to her with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  ‘My sleeping pills?’ Klara asks.

  ‘Yeah, unless you have more drugs you’d like to mention to me? Grab them. I have an idea.’

  15–21 November

  Beirut

  The connection is slow and unreliable, and it’s driving him crazy, but finally the browser loads.

  He starts by reading through a few articles about the scandal in Sweden this summer. The riots in the suburbs that were subsidized and even partly organized by a Russian company with links to the Kremlin. And the woman who exposed it all, whose picture he could hardly escape all through the autumn. The young Swedish lawyer with red hair and eyes so sincere and intense that they burned straight through every photograph and video clip.

  Gabriella Seichelmann.

  Now he skims through the story again, and it’s still unimaginable. That Säpo knew all about the Russians stirring up things in the suburbs, that the Russians paid criminals to organize the riots among bored teenage boys rejected by society. The cynicism of it all. And Säpo just let the suburbs burn in order to achieve some political advantage.

  And then this Gabriella Seichelmann ferreted it out and told everyone. In article after article, news show after news show, she talked about how Säpo threatened her and her clients to keep them silent. It ended with the Justice Minister promising an investigation, despite the fact that Säpo denied everything or refused to comment.

  She’d become a kind of celebrity, a symbol for those who dare to stand up to the powerful. A truth-teller in the most literal sense of the word. And she was a lawyer.

  Jacob looks up the law firm where she works: Lindblad & Wiman. A few clicks later and he has her profile in front of him: a tasteful, serious black-and-white picture. And the number to her cell phone.

  He takes a deep breath. She took on the whole establishment this summer. She seems dedicated and convincing and knows what she’s doing. Maybe she has some idea or thoughts about what a person in his position should do? It’ll be expensive of course, but he has no other choice now.

  ‘Did you find what you’re looking for?’ Alexa has entered the messy office, stands at the doorway behind him. He spins around in his chair, away from her cluttered desk, and looks at her where she stands, still with a cup of tea in her hand.

  ‘Well, it’s no wasta,’ he says. ‘But it might be something. Can I borrow your phone?’

  *

  Gabriella answers at the first ring, as if she’d been waiting with phone in hand.

  ‘This is Seichelmann,’ she says briefly.

  Jacob sighs deeply; he didn’t think she’d just answer the phone.

  ‘The lawyer Gabriella Seichelmann?’ he asks after a short pause.

  ‘The same,’ she says briefly and formally. ‘To whom am I speaking?’

  ‘I can’t talk long,’ Jacob begins, nervous to actually have her on the line, nervous how much it’s costing Alexa.

  ‘Then I suggest you tell me what you want,’ she says drily.

  The phone connection crackles from atmosphere and distance. ‘I’ve come across some information. That is, I’m in Beirut. And someone’s given me some information that they want me to bring to Europe.’

  He stops. It sounds so fucking crazy.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she asks. She sounds distracted, as if she’s not listening properly or as if she doesn’t take him seriously.

  ‘I’m not crazy,’ he says. ‘I can’t say what my name is. Call me Karl, okay?’

  ‘Okay, Karl. Tell me, then. What is this information and what can I do for you?’

  ‘A few months ago in Beirut I met a guy who’s a photographer in Syria,’ he begins. ‘But it turned out to be a cover story. In fact, he’s been gathering information about drone attacks that the West are carrying out, and how they’re killing civilians. But he has people after him, and he asked me to get the information out of Lebanon. A Swedish spy threatened me, and today I was shot at when…’

  ‘Calm down,’ Gabriella says. There’s something new in her voice now, interest rather than suspicion. ‘Don’t give any more details over the phone, ok? But you have a passport and tickets to Europe? And you’re being hunted?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says.

  ‘When are you flying out and to where?’

  ‘Brussels,’ he says. ‘In about a week.’

  ‘Okay,’ she says. ‘I can be in Brussels on the 24th.’

  Gabriella seems to be writing something down at her end. ‘Don’t tell me which date you’re flying,’ she says. ‘Buy a burner phone when you land. Call me, and I’ll tell you where to meet me. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I understand.’

  Her obvious competence is an immense relief to him. She’s silent for a moment as if thinking. ‘It’s your only chance, the way I see it, if you don’t want to contact the Swedish embassy, and you don’t want to, right? You fly according to plan.’

  ‘Okay,’ Jacob says. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘We’ll fix this,’ she says. ‘Just one more thing. Make sure you copy the information and put it in a safe place. Send it by mail or whatever.’

  ‘That could be… difficult,’ he says.

  ‘Just figure it out,’ Gabriella says curtly. ‘That information is all you have. Call me when you’re in Europe. I’ll meet you there.’

  And then she hangs up. Jacob looks up at Alexa, who’s leaning against the doorframe of her tiny office. She gestures for him to accompany her.

  ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘I have a slightly unpleasant suggestion.’

  *

  Over the next few days Alexa takes care of everything. A bed at a hostel, a meal in the youth centre’s dining room three times a day. Even some English books that former guests left behind and a shaky Internet connection that allows him to send half-hearted lies to his colleagues at the embassy about how sick he is, and that he won’t be into the office this coming week.

  The days go by, and he only leaves bed to eat. He hears the serious voices of young European volunteers, but doesn’t participate in their conversations. Just eats and goes back to his room, opens up an American thriller and reads until he falls asleep.

  How long does he lie there before he starts believing it’s all a dream? Two days? Three? The wound on his back has almost healed now, and the chip almost doesn’t hurt at all.

  Beside the chip there’s nothing to remind him of what he’s been through. It’s so strange to live like this. No contact with anyone, beside Alexa who looks at him with worry and eventually stops trying to include him in the centre’s various projects. He doesn’t have it in him. Doesn’t dare. Just says ‘maybe tomorrow’ every day, but doesn’t mean it.

  On the fourth day, doubt settles in again. He can barely even remember Yassim’s face, how his lips tasted, how his hands felt on his skin. The only things that exist are his stress, the hole in his chest, his doubts, and a task he doesn’t really understand. He asks Alexa to borrow the computer in her office, just to read news and see what’s going on in the world. She’s told him to stay away from email if he doesn’t want to be discovered, and he trusts her and is relieved to follow orders.

  But he hasn’t read his embassy email since he sent his excuse and he has to see if someone has answered or commented. So he logs in.

  He has two new messages. One ‘Okay. Feel better’ from Agneta. And then one from an address he’s never seen before. Just numbers and a Gmail message, sent a few days ago. That’s all. He clicks on it.

  The message consists of three words in English. Nothing more.

  Hold on. Soon.

  But it’s enough. Jacob’s heart stops when he reads it, and suddenly he can feel Yassim. He stares at the email for five minutes, then logs out, erases his search history, closes the browser and stands up. Two days left. That’s all.

  He almost floats out of the office into the empty dining room. He’s almost
back to his bed when he hears Alexa’s voice behind him. ‘Jacob, it’s time.’

  He turns around and sees her standing there, her dark eyes, her thick hair in a braid that hangs over one shoulder. But all he can think about is Yassim’s message, and Yassim. He slowly shakes his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘Is it really necessary?’

  But Alexa just nods calmly. She looks so determined. ‘The car’s waiting. Remember what the lawyer said? You can’t afford to chance it, Jacob.’

  He knows she’s right. He knows love is not enough, that nothing is ever what it seems to be. So he shrugs. ‘Okay, let’s get it over with.’

  *

  A clinic that’s even smaller than the one Yassim took him to, a room full of worried faces and feverish eyes, but Alexa guides him straight across the waiting room and into the doctor’s office, which is barely bigger than a closet. No windows, just a shabby bed covered with cracked vinyl, a round stool and a small table of wrapped disposable instruments.

  The door opens and Alexa turns around, greets a woman in green surgical scrubs with a green shawl over her hair. Her eyes seem tired – maybe she’s worked all through the night, maybe longer than that. Alexa kisses her cheeks.

  ‘Thank you, Aisha,’ she says. ‘I owe you.’

  But the woman just smiles and shakes her head and pushes past Alexa. ‘We’re even,’ she says. ‘For now.’

  She sits down in front of Jacob and looks at him with eyes as exhausted as they are cold and indifferent. ‘So,’ she says. ‘Alexa is my friend, and she says you have something under the skin on your back that I need to take out. Which I will. But I’ve been up for thirty-six hours, and I have a waiting room full of people who need my help. That means I don’t want to hear anything from you, okay? I don’t want to know who you are, why you’re in Shatila, or what you have under your skin. And I don’t want to hear any whining about how much it hurts. Short and sweet. This will take fifteen minutes, and I want complete silence from you. Is that clear?’

  Jacob nods. Her sternness and competence are soothing, and for the next fifteen minutes, he allows himself the temporary relief of surrendering completely to someone else’s demands.

  Then they’re back in the car again – Alexa, Jacob, and the small chip in a plastic bag in his hand. He turns it over and over in the yellow, dusty afternoon light.

  ‘It’s probably password protected,’ Alexa says. ‘So you won’t be able to see what’s on it. But that’s not the point.’

  ‘What is the point?’ Jacob whispers.

  Alexa turns to him in the back seat and grabs his face, draws it close and looks deep into his eyes.

  ‘The point is that now you’re not just a shell, habibi,’ she says. ‘Not just a passive vehicle. Now you have some kind of power, some kind of control. If you need it.’

  *

  And so the week passes by, and the time is here at last. Jacob stands in the hallway of the youth centre with his backpack next to him on the floor, the wound on his back aching more than ever. Alexa opens the door to the dark drizzle falling like a haze over the alley. A motorcycle idles energetically beneath the small staircase. A black helmet with a black visor covers the driver’s head. Jeans and a motorcycle jacket that match the bright-red paint on the gas tank.

  ‘Well, then,’ says Alexa, putting an arm around Jacob. ‘Bashir will take you to the airport.’

  Jacob turns to her. He’s scared and stressed. No doubt about that. But he also feels relief, almost joy that it’s so close to being over now. Finally, it’s moving forward. He nods seriously to her. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Thank you for—’

  But he doesn’t get further, because Alexa holds up a hand to stop him. ‘Don’t thank me now,’ she says. ‘Thank me when it’s over.’

  He leans over to kiss her cheeks, but she holds him at a distance. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ she says, opening a hand.

  Jacob looks down in confusion at an unopened condom package in her palm. He looks up at her, smiles uncomprehendingly. ‘Well,’ he says. ‘I’m not really in the mood. I don’t even know where Yassim is.’

  She laughs and shakes her head. ‘Darling,’ she says. ‘Your little secret? The chip? Did you intend to take it out of Beirut in your pocket?’

  ‘You mean…’ he begins.

  She nods. ‘I mean you’re going to swallow it like a good little drug smuggler, is what I mean.’

  *

  His mouth still tastes like rubber. It felt like the condom got stuck halfway down his throat, no matter how much water he drank, but swallow it he did. And now he jumps onto the motorcycle behind Bashir, doesn’t even dare to look at him first, just inches closer to Bashir than seems comfortable. Holds his arms tightly around his stiff, red leather jacket and keeps his eyes shut as they speed through the labyrinth of Shatila and out to the real streets and roads.

  Before he knows it, they’re on the highway to the airport. When Jacob forces his eyes open, he can see them weaving between honking cars, and he senses the green flags whipping in the darkness above the Hezbollah-controlled suburbs, which are hardly more than shanty towns. This is the last time I’ll see this, he thinks. The last time I’ll travel this stretch. He’s leaving Beirut behind him now. And more than that, he’s leaving his old life here. Everything is new now. Now there is only insecurity and fear. And love. Most of all, there’s love.

  At the airport, Bashir finally slows and follows the normal rhythm of the traffic. Then stops at the sidewalk outside the terminal. Jacob loosens his grip around Bashir’s upper body, his arms stiff from holding so tight. He can barely straighten them out. He should say something to Bashir, who’s flipped up the visor of his black helmet and turned around. But Bashir looks past him up the street, and there’s something in his eyes that makes Jacob fall silent.

  Slowly, he turns around and sees what Bashir sees.

  Up at the entrance that connects the terminal building and the parking lot sits a grey van with tinted windows, slowly rolling past the roadblocks and security guards. Panic grips his chest, bouncing through his blood. He thinks of the men at the Armenian bookstore in Hamra. The gunshot through the rear window of the taxi. How did they find him?

  Jacob lowers the visor on his helmet with trembling hands and grabs hold of Bashir’s waist again.

  ‘Drive!’ he says. ‘Please drive away from here.’

  24 November

  Brussels

  George takes four pills from the bottle Gabriella’s neighbour gave to Klara and puts them on a wooden cutting board in the kitchen.

  ‘Google suggests you do this,’ he says, starting to hack the pills up with a sharp Japanese knife. ‘And you know you can always count on the sociopaths, right?’

  ‘This is the craziest plan I’ve ever heard in my life,’ Klara says. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if I just ran away as fast as I could and jumped into the subway?’

  ‘That’s Plan B,’ George says. He stops hacking and turns to her. ‘Don’t you want to find out who’s following you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I just don’t see how this will help me answer that.’

  George bends over the cutting board and chops the last of the pills into a fine powder that he gently brushes into a small plastic container.

  ‘Stop nagging and just trust me. We don’t have any time to lose if this is going to work. He’ll be done with his coffee soon.’

  He throws on his coat and puts the bottle on the floor of the hall while he ties his shoes. ‘Give me three minutes,’ he says. ‘That’s all, Klara. There are small margins in this brilliant plan.’

  Klara shakes her head sceptically. ‘You’ve fucking lost it.’

  ‘Come up with something better then,’ he says with an even stare.

  ‘I just did,’ she says. ‘Run down into the subway.’

  George puts an arm on her shoulder. ‘What do we have to lose?’ he says. ‘If this works, we’ll find out more about these people. If it doesn’t work, we do your plan, okay?’
/>
  Klara sighs. ‘Just do it then.’

  *

  It’s a clear, cold morning as she steps out of George’s building exactly three minutes after he disappeared up the street, heading towards the intersection, past the BMW where her suspected pursuer sits.

  She pulls her coat more tightly around her, forcing herself not to look at the BMW. But after she passes, she can’t help but glance back at the man sitting there. Just like George said: wide shoulders and short beard, the same style coat as the other men she’s seen following her. He’s still holding a coffee cup in his hand. That’s good, at least.

  She’s about twenty metres past the car when she hears its door open and close. She resists the urge to turn around, but can feel her pulse start to quicken.

  She starts to hurry, just as they agreed upon. Almost jogging now, which will force her pursuer to do the same.

  She comes to the corner and turns to the right, catches sight of George straight ahead, even though he has the collar of his coat turned upwards and a dark stocking cap pulled low on his forehead. He’s leaning against the door of a closed restaurant and when he sees her, he starts walking in her direction at high speed. She nods quickly, and he nods back. Resolute and focused.

  Then she stops at the entrance to the bakery, as they decided, and lights a cigarette. She glances back towards the corner.

  She can’t believe her eyes. It happens just like George planned it. The man following her barrels around the corner, and George is standing there ready. He takes a step towards him, and they collide.

  The man is much bigger than George, and George almost bounces off of him. But George grabs hold of his hand, grabs the cup and backs up.

  ‘Oh, pardon!’ she hears George shouting. ‘I didn’t mean to. I…’

  ‘What the hell!’ the man hisses. ‘Watch out!’

  He catches sight of Klara and calms down, relieved he hasn’t lost her and obviously not wanting to expose himself.

  ‘Forgive me, forgive me,’ George repeats in French. He’s brushing the man’s jacket where the coffee spilled. ‘Let me compensate you, that’s the least I can do. Let me buy you a cup of coffee.’