Ask No Mercy

by Martin Österdahl

  Max closed his eyes.

  “Thanks. I see her all the time, Sarah. On the streets, in cars that drive past me. On the stairs of the university.”

  “I understand that,” said Sarah. “We can only hope she’s okay.”

  30

  Max nibbled her ear and she giggled. He lay so close to her, it was as if they were one body. His tongue continued down toward her throat. He knew exactly how to make her body react.

  The gurgling of the water reached her ears, but she hardly thought about it; all she could think about was this man’s kisses. The kisses of the man who loved her and knew her body so well.

  Max looked at her, his face close to hers. His eyes were worried.

  “Does it hurt much?” he asked.

  It was only then that she became conscious of the pain.

  The darkness that surrounded her was compact. Had she opened her eyes? Pashie didn’t know; all she was conscious of was the pain. Her hands were in chains; she could move them only a few centimeters. Her shoulders and elbows hurt. The pain had spread to her back while she had slept, when the muscles in her stomach had relaxed and her body had been held up only by the chains attached to her hands.

  Her head hung. It was as though she were not made of the same material as before, as though she were of porcelain or glass. Am I no longer a human being of flesh and blood? She was cold and hard. So heavy. What had he done to her? What had happened to her mouth?

  It was a plastic tube. As cold and hard as the handcuffs around her wrists. She remembered being struck in the stomach. With the memory, the pain washed over her like a hot wave. Her body jerked just as it had done then. Her screams drowned out the rattling sound of the chains. When she finally stopped screaming, it was as though the stale air in the small space had swallowed the sound. The throbbing in her temples and the pain in her throat were all that told her she really had screamed.

  There was no one who could hear her.

  Will anyone find me here? Dead or alive?

  The last thing she could remember was how she had sunk to the ground and complied with the old man’s order. Then everything had gone black and she had woken up here, chained.

  Who was he, the man who had stuffed the plastic tube in her mouth?

  Again, she thought of the journalist’s warning. “Don’t get too close to that company.” The old man had mentioned the questions she had asked. Was he somehow connected to the company? Had they hired him?

  The message on the answering machine. The anonymous tip. A male voice speaking formal and broken Russian with some kind of foreign accent. He had mentioned St. Petersburg GSM.

  Who was he, the man behind the anonymous tip?

  Pashie had tried to call him back, but he hadn’t answered. She hadn’t gotten hold of Max, either.

  Are you here in Saint Petersburg, Max?

  She knew he would look for her day and night until he found her.

  She needed to be strong. She focused her thoughts on the summer. After the election. Then they would take time off and just be together. Sail among the islands of the Stockholm archipelago. Just like last summer. In the sailboat from her dream. Now it was dry-docked at his parents’ house on Arholma. In the little boat, two people lay so close together that they might as well share a sleeping bag. Again, Pashie imagined the gurgling of the water as the boat rocked them to sleep.

  The dream of Max and the summer disappeared when she heard a sound from the radiator. What was it? She twisted her body; she felt the pain from her fingertips all the way to her sore shoulders.

  He’s going to come back. He’s going to try to get me to tell him about you, Max. But I won’t say anything.

  Stockholm, August 1943

  Tatyana had been in Moscow, and they hadn’t seen each other in over a month. Longing had eaten at Carl, and he trembled when he entered the church. Soon he would meet her again, kiss her, smell her scent. His back was sticky with sweat, and not only from arousal; it was already a warm summer day even though it was still early in the morning.

  During the time that had passed between their meetings, Carl had devoted himself to preparations. From some friends at the foreign ministry, he had gotten official information regarding the work at the embassy. Tatyana was in Sweden as a cultural attaché, but she was never seen alone at official functions. In fact, she was rarely seen at all, apart from a few visits to the concert hall and the opera with her husband.

  Her husband was named Viktor Gusin; he was a representative of Russian trade and industry. He, too, led a secretive life in Sweden, and neither the foreign ministry nor Swedish intelligence had collected much information on him at all, except that it was speculated that his privileged position in Moscow represented a threat to Madame Kollontai, whose sympathies the Soviet leadership sometimes questioned. Madame Kollontai, who was often called simply Madame, had been the Soviet Union’s envoy since 1930 and was the country’s first female envoy in Europe. She had a good understanding of Swedish society, and it was well known that she had a good relationship with the Swedish foreign minister.

  The break between Gusin and Kollontai had inspired the development of Carl’s plan. He hoped he would be able to establish a relationship with the foreign minister via his contacts within the justice system, particularly his friend the minister of justice, and then somehow help Tatyana defect.

  But good relations with the foreign minister and possible tension between Tatyana’s husband and his boss would not be enough. They, Tatyana and Carl themselves, would have to come up with a strong reason why the Swedish authorities should risk making an enemy of a Russian spy who enjoyed the favor of the central government in Moscow.

  Inside the church, Tatyana was sitting in one of the front rows with her coat and hat on. Carl could tell immediately that something was wrong. When he laid a hand on her cheek, she jerked. She was very cold.

  She turned toward him, gazed at him with a broken look. Her face was blotchy, and the thin light-colored hairs, the ones you could see only if the light fell on them in a certain way, were damp from tears.

  He sat down at her side.

  “Tatyana?”

  She said nothing. Her breathing was irregular.

  “What’s happened?” asked Carl.

  “I don’t know if I can do this.”

  She trembled again.

  “It . . . it happened in the residence in Kuntsevo. I wake up every night and see that door in front of me, the dark wood, the shining knob. I see my face mirrored in it, how twisted and tortured it is. The door was closed after me. I was alone and helpless. Then he tore off my clothes.”

  She sobbed as she went on talking. Her whole body was shaking.

  Carl fought back his rage and embraced her. First she stiffened. Then she let Carl hold her.

  “You don’t need to tell me any more. I will make sure it never happens again. I will never let you out of the country again.”

  “No, you don’t understand. The power these men have—”

  “We’ll get your husband convicted and see to it that your marriage is annulled.”

  She looked at him. “How will we do that?”

  “We have to find something, Tatyana. Something that will get the authorities to lock him up so he can never hurt you again.”

  SATURDAY, MARCH 2

  31

  Before Gabbi had managed to clear the table, the children had rushed into the living room and left her alone in the kitchen. She went over to the dishwasher and started filling it with dirty plates.

  David came into the kitchen, sat down heavily on one of the chairs without saying anything. He had come home late; she had already gone to bed when she heard the front door opening. David had been completely exhausted and had fallen asleep almost immediately after lying down next to her.

  This morning she’d seen the handle of a racket sticking out of a duffel bag. Had he started exercising again? She hoped that was what was making him so tired.

  The chair creaked behind her.


  “You never replied to my text yesterday,” said David.

  Gabbi carefully closed the dishwasher, tried to ignore the chill that spread from her tailbone to her neck.

  “Who is Sarah Hansen?”

  She hadn’t known what to reply. She couldn’t lie; she thought lying was the worst thing a person could do.

  “Good morning, dear,” she said.

  “It’s not that fucking difficult to reply to a text. Or maybe you get so many, you don’t have time to answer mine?”

  David was grinding his jaws. He looked completely finished, as if something was eating him up from within.

  “What was it you wrote?”

  “I asked who Sarah Hansen was,” David hissed.

  How the hell do you know about her? Gabbi wanted to ask. Are you going through my things? My phone? My bag?

  She tried to laugh. “Oh, that! That’s Sarah from the stables.”

  “Stables? What fucking stables?”

  “I rode with her during my first year at the gymnasium. Maybe that was before we met?”

  David moved his hands to his temples, massaged them. When he looked at her, his eyes were completely blank. As if he had been reset. Or as if he knew everything.

  For a moment, she held her breath. What would happen if he knew? What kind of rage would he fly into here in the kitchen? Would he jump in the car and disappear? Or would he throw her out?

  “Did you run into her in town recently, or what?”

  “Yes, I saw her in Östermalm when I was there to look at those curtains we’ve been thinking about for the guest room.”

  “You did?”

  Maybe she was better at this than she had thought? David got up and adjusted the knot in the belt of his robe. Gabbi could see that he wasn’t wearing anything under it. He was probably on his way to the shower.

  “That must have been before my time,” he said, and turned and left the kitchen.

  32

  The reception area at Brice & Stadthaller in Saint Petersburg was empty except for the woman behind the counter. The number Pashie had called had connected her directly to the head of the branch, a man named Marcel Rousseau, but when Max called the number his call was immediately transferred to the reception desk. The woman with whom he had spoken had said they would see potential clients on Saturdays, and in order to arrange a meeting Max had had to say that he was in the process of starting up a new business that was in need of Brice & Stadthaller’s services in accounting and tax consultancy. He had decided to start using his alter ego, the love name Pashie had given him, and had booked the meeting as Paul Olsen.

  In impeccable English, the receptionist said, “He can see you now.”

  She rose with a smile. She wore a dark tailored outfit, and Max supposed she made an excellent impression on clients.

  The receptionist showed Max to a bright meeting room.

  “Mr. Rousseau receives new clients here,” she said. She poured water into one of the glasses on the table.

  Her hair swung against Max’s shoulder when she turned and left the room.

  He sat down at the table and reached for the glass. Shortly thereafter, Marcel Rousseau entered the room. He wore a well-tailored light-blue suit and a checked tie. No wedding band, but a large, flashy gold ring on the ring finger of his right hand. He was about forty years old, with dark eyes and red hair that showed signs of fading at the temples.

  “You must be Paul Olsen,” he said.

  His accent revealed a non-Russian background. Max observed him for a few seconds and decided to be forthright.

  “I’m not a potential new client,” he said. “I’m here because you met with a friend of mine.”

  Rousseau’s expression darkened somewhat. But he said nothing; he just poured tea from an elegant teapot. He took his time.

  “I’m sorry I had to come up with a pretense,” Max continued. “But it was the only way to see you.”

  He nodded toward the reception area, attempted a smile.

  “They do as they’re told and never deviate from that,” said Rousseau. “That’s the big advantage but also the big disadvantage of hiring Russian personnel.”

  He placed a cup of tea in front of Max and poured one for himself as well. “But never mind that now. Who is this friend we’re talking about?”

  “Her name is Pashie Kovalenko. She works with me.”

  “And who are you?” Rousseau smiled broadly and sat at the table. “I know you’re not from a company called . . .” He flipped through the papers in front of him. “Sidenvägen. Smart name, by the way.”

  “I come from a think tank in Stockholm. We work with developing markets, along with questions related to security policy and the reestablishment of democracy in the East.”

  “The reestablishment?” said Rousseau, raising his eyebrows. “I didn’t know democracy had ever existed here.”

  Again the broad smile. Rousseau wasn’t dumb.

  “Pashie called you not long ago. Could you tell me what that was about?”

  “I assume you would have asked her about this if that had been a possibility,” said Rousseau. “Has something happened to her?”

  “She’s disappeared.”

  Rousseau grimaced, barely visibly. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “So you have met her?”

  Rousseau spread his hands. “Yes. I liked her. She had—how should I put this? An air of independence about her.”

  “Did you meet her more than once?”

  “Well, we had only one meeting as such. Then I encountered her outside our offices here a few times, and she tried to engage me in further conversations. She never gave up.”

  “Why couldn’t you talk to her? Do you have something to hide?”

  “Something to hide? No. Was I busy? Yes.” Rousseau took another sip of his tea. “I actually considered stealing her from you.”

  He smiled his broad smile again.

  Max looked at him calmly, took a first sip of his tea. It was strong but not bitter at all.

  “I apologize,” said Rousseau. “I mean I considered recruiting her. I could use some independent thinkers here.”

  “What did she want to talk to you about?”

  “She asked me about a company. When I explained the requirements of client confidentiality, the conversation moved on and covered accounting principles, taxes, constitutional limitations, and so on.”

  “Constitutional limitations?”

  Rousseau nodded intensely.

  “Yes. A number of things people would like to see happen here are constrained by the fact that five years after the fall of the Soviet Union, we’re still living with its constitution. There’s no other constitution we can turn to!”

  Rousseau laughed and shook his head.

  Max sensed that while this situation might have created some headaches, it also represented opportunities for Rousseau’s company to charge high fees.

  “With all due respect for client confidentiality,” he said, “isn’t a certain openness with regard to a company’s activities the whole point of auditing?”

  Rousseau’s smile faded a little. “Where are you going with this?”

  “I think Pashie asked questions about St. Petersburg GSM. Is that true?”

  “I can confirm that St. Petersburg GSM is one of our clients. That is what I told Pashie, too, and I assume you had already concluded it was the case. She understood that I couldn’t give her information about them.”

  “You don’t have to give me any answers, but there isn’t anything stopping you from telling me what questions she asked, is there?”

  Rousseau poured more tea into his cup, lifted the pot, and looked questioningly at Max.

  Max shook his head. “I need to know what she was working on so I can find her.”

  “And you think there’s a connection between the questions she asked me and her disappearance?” Rousseau asked.

  “I don’t know where the connections are. All I want is to find
her.”

  “People disappear all the time. Under the strangest circumstances.”

  Rousseau was playing a game with him. He was acting accommodating but providing no help.

  “I saw the blood dripping from the walls in her bathroom.” Max couldn’t keep his voice from trembling.

  Rousseau opened his mouth but quickly closed it again.

  “That sounds horrible, but there’s nevertheless nothing I can do.”

  “Who are the owners of St. Petersburg GSM?”

  Rousseau shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you that.”

  “Then maybe you can tell me about the infusions of millions of dollars into St. Petersburg GSM and why Pashie, who came here to ask you about those infusions, has disappeared without a trace.”

  Rousseau rose.

  “I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Max pushed his chair back and leaned across the table.

  “I don’t think you have any idea what kind of beast you’re protecting,” he said. “One day it may turn against you.”

  33

  The prison director coughed and then grinned at Nestor Lazarev as if apologizing for his appearance.

  Since he had taken over Kresty Prison, his gut had grown huge. His lucrative side deals made it possible for him to treat himself to more and more pâté de foie gras and champagne. His stomach didn’t suit him, as he was otherwise thin as a pencil. Lazarev wondered how he managed to acquire clothes that fit. Did he get his gray-blue corrections officer’s uniform tailor-made, or did it come in a standard size for bloated toads?

  The prison director’s office appeared to have been cared for no more than the rest of the building. Concrete and steel set the tone. Paint was only something one smeared on rebar so rust would not weaken the walls that protected Saint Petersburg from some of its most lost children. Prisoners lived in corridors so cold and damp that condensation dripped from the ceiling the entire time.

  The director drank vodka as if it were water—all day, every day—but he showed no sign of not being present. He was simply “fully lubricated,” as he put it, and open to all kinds of proposals. Proposals that usually involved something getting out, past the concrete of the prison, in exchange for cash or the sexual services of minors.