Ask No Mercy (Max Anger Book 1)

by Martin Österdahl

  Gachov sank down beside Sharik, stroked her quivering body, massaged her bad hip.

  “Good girl,” he whispered. “What is it that’s gotten you so excited?”

  At the water’s edge, Gachov soon found the answer. A few bones. Of course. A dog is a dog.

  Then he furrowed his brow. What kind of bones were these? He lifted one out of the shallow water. They hadn’t come from any of the birds that were so common here. They were thick and brown gray.

  Gachov held the bone in his outstretched hand, spun it, lifted it to the sky. Shreds of flesh were stuck to the bone. Someone with a good appetite seemed to have chewed on it.

  He looked down into the water. More bones lay rocking in the waves that rolled against the stones. He felt his stomach lurch and was now hardly hearing Sharik’s low whining. Didn’t that look like a rib cage?

  He turned around. Was someone watching him? Or was it a memory from the past, awakened by this discovery, that was haunting him?

  As a young student Gachov had visited remote areas of Ukraine in connection with a project on the mass starvation of the thirties. He had found graves containing the remains of human beings who had become the prey of other starving people.

  The images from Ukraine were etched in his mind forever. People had been so terribly desperate then.

  Could this really be true? Or was he imagining things?

  The bone he was holding and the bones that lay at the edge of the beach were without a doubt from a human being.

  It was just like then. In the Ukrainian countryside.

  Holodomor. Stalin’s great famine.

  Nausea washed over him again, and this time he could not resist it. He dropped the bone and bent over. Brought up everything in his stomach.

  Finally the cramps subsided, and he became aware that Sharik was nudging him. Whimpering quietly. He patted her gently and wiped his mouth with his other hand.

  Five years after the fall of the Soviet Union. Had things really gotten this bad?

  Gachov took hold of Sharik’s collar and snapped on the leash. There, there. Good girl. He knew better than to call the police. He could share this only with trusted friends.

  Gachov looked out at the sea a last time.

  “Come on, Sharik,” he said. “It’s time to go home.”

  8

  From his window seat, Max had followed his plane’s progress over the islands, almost all of which he could name, toward the open waters of the Baltic. The plane had left the Stockholm archipelago behind, but Max was still there in his thoughts, remembering how the threat from the east had always felt present while he was growing up.

  During his childhood, he had often ridden his bicycle up the gravel path to the northern tip of Arholma, hidden the bike behind a tree, and sneaked past the warning symbols along the cliffs to get a glimpse of the Arholma Battery, the supposedly secret coastal defense installation everyone on the island knew about. One time, when he was sitting on the cliffs looking out across the sea, everything around him started to shake. It sounded as if a big metal cogwheel had suddenly been set in motion. Max stood up and walked farther out along the cliffs. Then the mountain opened, and a gigantic arm was pointed toward the sea. Toward the east.

  It was the biggest cannon Max had ever seen. An awakening dragon that turned its rage against something above the wide, roiling sea. The cannon fired several shots, and everything around him thundered. Max ran back to his bicycle as fast as he could, and as he raced down the mountain, questions tumbled through his head. Why is a cannon living in the mountain?

  Some years later, he was back. He and his papa stood outside the gates of the facility together, and his papa spoke with the man on the other side. The man looked around and then opened the gate. Max had seen him at home in the kitchen a few times. He and Max’s papa had played poker, shared a bottle of whiskey.

  The uniformed man led them along a path, up toward the big mountain. Beyond the beach and two big birches lay the open horizon. When they came close to the mountain, Max’s father took hold of Max and quietly said, “Remember what I told you. Not a word to anyone.”

  The officer lifted a camouflage-colored rubber net that had covered the entrance to the space within the mountain. The corridor they entered was reminiscent of a grotto. When the heavy door closed behind them, everything went black. Max took hold of Papa’s arm, pressed himself against him.

  They came to a second heavy metal door. When the man opened the door and switched on the lights, he turned to Papa.

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  Papa nodded and led Max over the threshold, deeper into the mountain. They walked through the corridors in silence, passing a sickroom, an operating room, a barracks, and a dining hall. An information panel on one of the walls stated that as many as 110 men had worked here at the height of the Cold War. The entire facility had been blasted out of the mountain.

  Papa pointed into a room.

  “This is the brain of the facility. The fire control center. This is where information from various radar stations is collected, and this is where the order to fire is issued.”

  In his mind Max saw the great dragon that had been chasing him in his dreams.

  “Why is the order to fire given?”

  Papa crouched down in front of him.

  “There is a mighty enemy out there. An enemy we can never let out of our sight. We who live on the islands bear a responsibility for Sweden, a responsibility we have been given by the king. One day you will understand, and you will need to do all you can to defend your country.”

  He ruffled Max’s hair.

  “You know Bread Man Erik, who lives down by the church?”

  Max nodded. The old man could often be seen sitting in his tractor near the general store, waiting to drive day-tripping Stockholmers around the island. He had a sign on his tractor: “Island Taxi.”

  “Erik’s family has lived on the island for hundreds of years,” Max’s father continued. “His family has passed on stories of how the Russians invaded the island and set it on fire. You’ve seen the etchings on the cliffs, haven’t you?”

  Max nodded. All around the island were etchings from the time of the Russian Pillage of 1719–21, etchings left both by Russians and by the fleeing Swedes. The etchings were a reminder of the terror people had felt back then.

  “Only we out here on the islands have looked the enemy in the eye,” Papa said. “Only we know what he is capable of. When all others forget, we must remember. That’s why it’s so important that you should see this facility.”

  Papa stood and walked on, deeper into the mountain. They came to a narrow spiral staircase that led them upward.

  “Why isn’t anyone here?” Max asked.

  Papa stopped on the stairs and turned around.

  “The armed forces are leaving Arholma, Max.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they believe the war is over.”

  “Is it?”

  Papa shook his head.

  “The war hasn’t even begun.”

  He walked up the stairs, no longer seeming to be aware of Max. They reached the uppermost level. The dragon’s forehead. Papa admired the big artillery shells that would be fed into the enormous cannon. The brass-colored shells shone in a dimly lit space in the gun’s undercarriage.

  Papa lifted up a shell and showed Max how the cannon would be loaded.

  “There was a cannon like this one on Ovanskär,” he said. “They’ve already dismantled that one.”

  Max turned around. The opposite wall was covered with buttons and levers. One of the turquoise levers could be placed in either of two positions. At that moment, the lever was in a position labeled “Peace.” The other position was labeled “War.”

  Papa laid a hand on Max’s shoulder.

  “The question isn’t really whether the war has begun or ended. The question is whether we are willing to defend our country. At all times, in all situations, at any price. Are you willing, Max?”
/>   Was he really willing? Max had not been able to answer his father then.

  The great city on the Gulf of Finland was visible through the window of the plane. Only an hour away. In the years that had passed between his visit to the battery and now, he had experienced war himself. Four years ago in Bosnia, a young man from Luleå had died in front of his eyes.

  Nothing was worse than war. But there were things Max felt he had to defend and things he felt he had to fight against. At all times, in all situations, at any price.

  The arrivals hall was full of men in big fur hats and thick winter coats, and women with children running around their legs. People here had a different temperament. The faces that met him were worn and gray, but their curious looks were alert, and everyone seemed to be looking at him.

  But the face Max wanted to meet him when he came to Saint Petersburg, a face that was always so full of life, was glaringly absent.

  Where are you, Pashie?

  Max bent down and pretended to adjust the laces of his black leather boots, but they were perfectly knotted, and the shoe polish from that morning still had a perfect shine. He looked in two directions, toward the people in the hall and the people behind him. Looked for the man who had sat on the other side of the plane’s center aisle and had watched Max curiously while he had read the document from Sarah. Looked at one of the customs officers who had observed him a little too long.

  Max had started to sweat under his warm winter clothes. But he found that both men seemed to have lost interest in him.

  He took a deep breath. It was time again.

  Russia.

  Max sank into the backseat of the taxi he had ordered in advance. The driver turned toward him, but Max held up a hand, signaling that he didn’t want to talk. The driver shook his head, muttering, stomped on the accelerator, and drove off.

  There were long lines outside the currency-exchange offices along the broad avenues around Pulkovo Airport. There was something proud in the posture of the people the taxi passed.

  At first his gaze locked onto the back of every young woman; every coat and every hat looked as if it could belong to Pashie.

  He could hear her voice.

  “No one is going to let go here, Max. People are not going to miss their chance. Not the presidential candidates, not the oligarchs, not the little businesspeople on the street. The train is leaving the station right now. If you want to get rich and be a part of Russia’s future, you have to realize this. Those who stay on the station platform are doomed to poverty and misery, doomed to belong to Russia’s past.”

  The last time they had seen each other, Pashie had talked a great deal about how she perceived Russia’s future. He had tried to concentrate on listening but hadn’t really succeeded. He’d been too caught up in what he’d found out about his own background.

  As usual, Pashie had come up with new angles and made connections he hadn’t made himself. And, as usual, she’d done so with that warmth in her voice. That intensity. She was the one who’d gotten him to decide to seek out Borgenstierna, to speak with him face-to-face.

  Max counted the shops on the trip in from the airport; there were nine in all. A bookstore; a hole-in-the-wall that sold pirated CDs; an electronics store; a couple of kiosks that sold various kinds of vodka; three food stores, two featuring local goods on mostly empty shelves; and a Finnish dealer in imported products, which looked as if it had just opened.

  The few people who were out were dressed in thick, warm clothing and hurrying along. It was colder here than in Stockholm. The winter lasted longer, and the spring that eventually came would be raw and damp thanks to the cold waters of the Baltic.

  The car passed the Corinthia Hotel, the luxury hotel where gunfire had claimed the life of an innocent English businessman only a few days prior. If the Englishman had paid his bill in time to get out of the line of fire, there would have been very little discussion of the episode in international media. In that case the bullets would have struck the two Russian toughs who had been sitting behind him, and this would have been viewed as just one more contract killing of Saint Petersburg gangsters.

  Now a few days had gone by and everything was back to normal. The tables at the windows were all taken, and there was no sign of the shots.

  Griboyedov Canal, where the university area began, crossed the main artery of the city center, Nevsky Prospekt. At the corner where the Griboyedov Canal embankment crossed Nevsky, the famous Kazan Cathedral stood like a dead brown lobster with its claws out in front of its body. Its flesh had been ripped out; the old church had been turned into a museum of history and atheism. The cathedral had served the purposes of anti-religious propaganda for forty years, but it was now so dilapidated that it could no longer be kept open.

  On the square that Kazan Cathedral flanked with its majestic columns stood a man with a megaphone. He was surrounded by hundreds of people holding red flags and posters bearing Lenin’s portrait. Max could see only some of the masses between the columns, but he knew who they were. People whose lives had been dramatically worsened. Before, they had been able to use government-issued coupons to travel to vacation spots on the Black Sea coast. Now that they were free, they could no longer even afford to keep living in their apartments. Freedom had no value when they lived like slaves.

  9

  The first thing Sarah Hansen noticed was the warm weight. She slowly opened her eyes and smiled when she saw Gabbi’s arm lying across her stomach. The thin hairs on the arm were tickling Sarah’s bare skin. Was that what had awakened her?

  Cautiously, Sarah loosened Gabbi’s grip on her. She picked up her blue kimono, which was patterned with Sweden’s Three Crowns emblem, put her glasses on, and sneaked quietly out onto the purple wall-to-wall wool rug in the hall leading to the children’s rooms. As usual, Lisa was sleeping in her sea of stuffed animals. Sarah felt warm all over when she saw her daughter lying there, surrounded by security. Björn, wrapped in a blanket featuring characters from Pocahontas, was also sleeping deeply. On the floor below him, the plastic figures of Woody and Buzz Lightyear from Toy Story waited for the little Indian to open his eyes.

  Lisa and Björn Hansen.

  Sarah had taken Lisette’s last name when they got married. She had been Sarah Balcerak for almost a quarter of a century, and then she had been Sarah Hansen for nearly ten years. And now? Should she become Sarah Balcerak again, or would that confuse the children?

  The water down at the dock glittered in the sun. It was wonderful to wake up early on such a pretty winter morning. Sarah would treat herself to watching the morning shows with a big cup of strong coffee before the others woke up.

  In the kitchen, she switched on the TV with the remote control that lay on the island. She measured fresh-ground coffee into the coffee machine while her thoughts involuntarily turned to Max. What time had his flight to Saint Petersburg left? What was he doing now?

  The morning’s big news captured her attention. On the interview sofa sat Frank Ståhl, the media-relations director of the telecom company Telia, who often appeared at Vektor’s events. He apologized for the problems caused when a signal was accidentally sent to the company’s three hundred thousand cellular service customers—a signal that had deleted all the personal data on the telephones belonging to these three hundred thousand customers.

  Frank guaranteed that the situation was under control and that nothing similar would happen in the future. As a sign of the company’s willingness to accept responsibility and desire to show respect for its customers, Telia would offer current subscribers a free extra month of service, but not a cash refund.

  A little too self-confident and a little too cheap, Sarah thought as the coffee machine’s gurgling announced that the coffee could soon be poured. Did Frank really know how the users’ private information could be protected? In the sixties Frank had been one of the young people who had called themselves revolutionaries. He was one of the men who had later embarked on careers and made a lot of money. And mo
ved in—up—from the suburbs to Stockholm’s tony Stureplan neighborhood. The worst kind.

  The previous night, Sarah’s phone had suddenly started behaving strangely, and she hadn’t been able to use it. Not to make calls, not to go through old texts, not for anything. She’d restarted it, but the phone had been stone dead.

  Now this self-confident asshole was saying she’d lost her personal data?

  What exactly had she lost? She still had the information for her business contacts in an old-fashioned bound address book at the office. But her personal contacts? Her phone contained numbers for parents of children Lisa had met in Ivar Los Park in Stockholm and invited to her fourth birthday party. It contained the number for the woman Sarah had met at a Midsummer Eve celebration on an island in the archipelago the previous year, the woman who had been wearing a traditional Swedish folk costume and had led the dance around the maypole.

  Where were those numbers now? Were they in someone else’s hands, or had they simply disappeared into cyberspace?

  Sarah poured coffee into a worn mug from the White Company.

  Her thoughts returned to Max. If only she had her phone so she could see what was happening with him. He had displayed his usual self-confidence, had put on a brave face and said he would take care of the situation with Pashie, whatever that situation turned out to be. But Sarah had sensed his worry.

  “Someone’s thinking heavy thoughts here,” said a voice behind her.

  Sarah turned around; she hadn’t noticed Gabbi approaching. She was fully dressed and had her overnight bag in her hand. She wore no makeup whatsoever; nevertheless, she was one of the most beautiful women Sarah had ever seen.

  “Good morning,” Sarah managed to say. “Sleep well?”

  Gabbi smiled, broke eye contact with Sarah, and looked up at the TV.

  “That happened to me, too,” she said, nodding at the screen. “My phone was completely trashed.”

  “They seem to have no idea what happened,” said Sarah.