Ask No Mercy

by Martin Österdahl

  They had managed to destroy everything the great leader had built.

  Lazarev had kept all his hate and disgust inside. Soon he would let them know how he really felt.

  It was ten thirty when Dubchak suddenly appeared. He was barefoot and dressed in one of the hotel’s purple bathrobes. Something had been smeared in his hair; it looked like whipped or sour cream. He didn’t even bother to look in Lazarev’s direction; he walked over to the waiter and snatched a pen that was sticking out of the man’s breast pocket. Went over to the conference table without saying a word. He glanced through the document and signed each page in the lower right corner.

  When he finished, he dropped the pen, grabbed a bottle of vodka and a bottle of Shampanskoye, and left. Halfway to the elevator, he turned around. He lifted the bottle of Russian sparkling wine in a greeting, gave Lazarev a look that was both congratulations and farewell. Then he stepped into the elevator and out of Lazarev’s life. The following morning the hotel staff found him in bed with an entry wound in his forehead.

  Shot in his sleep.

  After Dubchak had disappeared into the elevator, Lazarev heard sounds from the hotel lobby. Running feet in the stairwell. The waiter went to the window and looked down at the street. Without turning around, he said, “He is here.”

  Lazarev felt warmth spreading through his chest.

  Security guards streamed out of the elevator and filled the little foyer between the elevators and the conference room. If one of them had been ordered to point a pistol at his head, no one would have been able to interfere and no one would ever have asked any questions. But Lazarev felt no fear. On the contrary, the warm feeling increased in intensity as he observed the security guards and the discipline with which they acted. He knew that things had progressed too far now, regardless of whether they were conscious of his true identity or not. If they had wanted to get rid of him, they would have done so long ago.

  The silence was broken by a soft pinging from the elevator. The doors opened, and a lone man appeared. He was short and bald, had a round little face, and wore a pin-striped suit, a white shirt, a red tie, and beautiful foreign-made leather shoes. Lazarev recognized him immediately. Psurtsev was a man who was well known all over Russia, a man who had focused his efforts on remaining in the absolute center of power longer than anyone else.

  The Soviet Union’s communications minister took his time studying his environment before he walked toward the conference room. When the minister approached him, Lazarev stepped forward, extended his hand, and said, “An honor, Minister Psurtsev.”

  Psurtsev nodded and walked on toward the conference table. He flipped to the last page in the document. Next to his name, Lazarev had daringly drawn a little figure. This figure had been a representation of his nickname. The name he had been known by during his childhood and within the most secret of circles in the military.

  The minister had looked up, and for a second or two he had held Lazarev’s gaze.

  So that’s you?

  During all his years in the shadows, that had been what he had missed most—being part of the Russian armed forces. Now that he had secured this valuable asset—and now that Khrushchev, Brezhnev, Dubchak, and all the other traitors would soon be dead—he could reassume the role the great leader had assigned him. He would invest the spoils of war he had amassed in the opportunity provided by the valuable license he had just acquired.

  Using the keyboard at the computer in the National Library, Lazarev now typed in his old nickname, together with the names of the towns and cities his special forces unit had infiltrated and destroyed.

  He looked at the results and absorbed everything. His conflicting feelings made his pulse pound.

  He shut down the computer by yanking out the power cord. He glanced around the room. Had his sudden, impulsive act attracted attention? The other people in the library looked almost drugged; they were completely absorbed in the flickering screens in front of them.

  Somehow, the Swedes had picked up the trail after all these years. It was likely that when they continued their search, they would come here and execute the simple search that Lazarev himself had just performed.

  He wrote a number of search terms on a slip of paper, words and names that could be used to get close to him and his most important secrets. Then he wrote down a telephone number at which one could always reach him.

  He got up and left the computer, walking over to the librarian, a young man with greasy hair in a faded wool cardigan.

  A young man who was going to get the offer of a lifetime.

  49

  Dinner was on the table. Tacos. Gabbi had let the children decide what they would have. She couldn’t understand how she’d gotten so angry at them earlier.

  But she was still furious with David for subjecting her to this humiliation. Everyone who lived in the neighborhood shopped at ICA Maxi in Danderyd. No doubt they were gossiping over dinner at this very moment. Guess what I saw at the store today. That’s right, Gabbi Julin. David’s wife. She had no money at all.

  Caspar got to the table first. He was running so fast that he didn’t manage to stop before he struck the table with his hip, and a bowl of diced tomatoes fell to the floor. Vilma staggered along after him with Teodor in her arms.

  “Teodor eat, too,” she said.

  Finally David sat down at the table. He looked at the food with a blank expression.

  He’d been acting so strangely recently, and their relationship seemed to have grown colder than ever. When had they last made love? Had David even complained, said it had been far too long since he had gotten to touch her? In the beginning he’d wanted her all the time; he’d been unable to get enough of her body.

  “So we’re having tacos?” he said.

  “Yes! Taco taco taco!” screamed Caspar.

  David smiled at him.

  “Okay, take it easy.”

  He started helping the boy fill his plate.

  Gabbi bent down and picked up the bowl that had fallen to the floor. She wiped up the mess of tomatoes with a few sheets of paper towel. Should she dice new tomatoes? She looked at her children, who were eating like pigs, and concluded that no one would miss the tomatoes.

  “Sour cream?” asked David. “Cheese?”

  Smiling, Caspar nodded.

  “Me, too!” screamed Vilma.

  David smiled at her. Now he was suddenly patience personified.

  “Charlie K says hello,” said Gabbi.

  David froze in the middle of a movement. “Where did you run into him?”

  “At ICA Maxi.”

  “In Danderyd?” David set the bowl on the table. “That’s odd. He lives on Värmdö, pretty far out in the country. Was he after you? I mean, had he been looking for you?”

  “What’s up with you? It’s not so strange that I ran into your old teacher, is it?”

  “As I said, he doesn’t live around here.”

  Gabbi sighed. Stop being so damned logical. Life isn’t a computer program.

  “Maybe he just happened to be in the area? Maybe he stopped off on the way home from somewhere?”

  “Okay. Sure. I was just wondering if he’d been looking for you.”

  “Why would he have been looking for me?”

  “Who knows?” David reached for Vilma’s plate. “Forget I asked.”

  He looked so satisfied and self-confident sitting there that the words just came out of Gabbi’s mouth.

  “He got us out of a jam, David. He paid for this food here that I’ve put on the table. The food your children are eating, the diaper Teodor is wearing, the damned hamburger sauce you wanted. Why isn’t there any money in our bank account? And why didn’t I hear about that before I’d embarrassed myself in front of half the neighborhood?”

  David set Vilma’s plate down.

  “He just happened to be there?” he said quietly. “To pay for the food?”

  Suddenly, he slammed his fist on the table. The jar of taco sauce fell over, and the
tablecloth soaked up the spill.

  “Fuck!”

  David got up so abruptly that his chair fell over. Before it had hit the floor, he had left the dining room. Teodor and Vilma started to cry. Caspar looked at Gabbi blankly; on autopilot, he kept on chewing a mouthful of hamburger.

  “This is David Julin,” Gabbi heard from the hall. “No, you listen to me. You stay damned far away from my family, you hear me? If I see you here again, if you come anywhere near my family, you’re going to regret it!”

  Gabbi laid a hand on her collarbone, felt the pounding of her heart.

  David? What in the world has gotten into you? Have you gone insane?

  David took off his headphones. The house was quiet now. No sounds came from the kitchen or the bedrooms. The children must be asleep. Was Gabbi even home? Or had she gone out? Gone to see her new/old friend, that Sarah Hansen?

  He closed the computer’s music player and opened the browser. Charlie Knutsson. Articles on how to transact business with the Japanese, how to be polite in accordance with Japanese customs, how to present and accept business cards. The book he had published, A Business Traveler’s Journey Through Africa. “Uganda, the most fertile country on earth, where plants practically spray from the ground.” The old fool. He was living a make-believe life in which he imagined himself some kind of colonial gentleman.

  David looked for a connection. There must be some kind of significant relationship. How else could he suddenly be standing there when Gabbi wasn’t able to pay? He couldn’t believe it was a coincidence.

  Charlie K was on his trail.

  They were on his trail.

  There must be a connection. There must be an explanation.

  When David tried new search terms, the explanation manifested itself. On the list of board members for the company he had helped Ray spy on was Charlie Knutsson, next to Sarah Hansen.

  Charlie belongs to Vektor, too. They’re on my trail. And Gabbi is with them.

  50

  The limousine came to a stop next to them, and Margarita shook his hand. A limousine and an afternoon flight to Prague, all paid for with Max’s credit card and ultimately an expense for Vektor. Sarah would no doubt have an opinion about that, but Max couldn’t worry about that now. He had to see to it that they reached a safe place.

  It would have been better to drive them himself, along with Ilya, but Ilya had still not shown up—something that was worrying Max more and more.

  He could have gone with them in the limousine, but as he booked it he’d heard that there was a message for Paul Olsen at the reception desk. Afanasy Mishin had called and said that he’d found something and would call again later. That was a call Max didn’t want to miss.

  If Mishin had found out something about Lazarev, it might mean a breakthrough in the search for Pashie. That was more important than everything else.

  He helped the children into the car and gave Margarita a card with his name and his Russian cell phone number on it.

  “Send me a text message when you’ve gotten to your uncle’s place in Prague,” he said. “So I know.”

  Margarita looked at the card and then put it in her pocket without displaying any sign of what she was feeling.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I hope you find your friend. That you get a happier ending.”

  When the limousine had turned the corner onto Nevsky Prospekt, Max went up to his hotel room. He stood in front of the diagram on the wall. Some things had become clearer, but he was still far from understanding how everything was connected. Next to Marcel Rousseau’s name, he wrote “Günther Baumann. East German. Dead.”

  To the slip of paper on which he had written “Board chairman,” he added “Stalin’s most beloved son.”

  He switched on the TV. The hotel got Swedish channels. The news program Aktuellt was on and featured a debate on personal data security and related potential problems with the security of Sweden’s systems for data storage; internet use, including e-mail; and cellular telephony.

  The Telia scandal was still making the news. There was an undercurrent of unease in Swedish society that wouldn’t go away. Max looked at his Swedish cell phone, the one with a Telia SIM card in it. It still couldn’t pick up a local network and was completely useless.

  He switched to CNN, which was showing video from the previous Friday, when Yeltsin had spoken to the Duma. The International Monetary Fund had threatened to stop all future aid to Moscow because of what was being called “the undemocratic developments in Russia.” Yeltsin was now about to respond to the IMF’s statement.

  In what condition would he be? Did people understand how much would be at stake when the president spoke?

  At the podium, Yeltsin opened with great determination and force. His face was red and his jaws snapped and chewed; he spit saliva and fired off accusations left and right. Exploited his dramatic talents to the utmost.

  After a series of accusations directed at corrupt forces within his own administration and the police force, he suddenly stopped and let his audience feel the energy in his well-known staring gaze, his eyebrows forming a wide arch.

  When he continued, it was with the same energy and passion, but he was now expressing self-criticism, and this unexpected shift was extremely effective. He spoke of his love for Russia and of the path to a bright future. He encouraged the population to look forward and not feel nostalgia for times past.

  Then his speech turned another corner; he went on the attack once more. This time he spoke out against the oligarchs. He raged against irresponsible entrepreneurship. But as he criticized the new entrepreneurs, he also stretched out a hand. He was willing to negotiate.

  He was also willing to negotiate with the generals of the army. Within the Russian military were many highly placed officers who had recently criticized the president openly. The generals were a group Yeltsin couldn’t criticize openly himself; they were too powerful. He said he opposed the expansion of NATO and promised increased funding for the armed forces.

  Then he once again shifted perspective, in the manner that was entirely his own. Russia, he said, couldn’t isolate itself from the world. Foreign investments were vital for continued growth and to enable ordinary Russians to experience the advantages of a more open society. For this reason it was necessary for Russia to satisfy the demands of the International Monetary Fund and the World Bank. And the president had encouraging news. At talks initiated at the World Economic Forum in Davos and concluded today, IMF representatives had been so impressed by the initiative and determination of Russian leaders that it had proved possible to reach an agreement guaranteeing Russia the biggest loan ever issued.

  Good news. A smart move by the World Bank and the IMF. Max imagined the conversations that had taken place and wondered who had recommended the deal—the American president or the British prime minister, or maybe the German chancellor?

  The West had invested heavily in a Russian free-market economy. But compared with the cost of a war with Russia, the amounts involved were negligible.

  Eventually, the address to the nation was transformed into a press conference, well-oiled and perfectly staged. The area in front of the president’s podium filled with photographers. A security guard led the executive director of the IMF to the podium to shake the hand of the Russian president. When the two men’s hands met, a burst of clicks from the cameras was triggered, and the whole Duma stood up and applauded.

  The viewers were taken back to the studio in Atlanta, where a political commentator characterized what had just happened.

  Max had to smile. The old boy could still pull it off once in a while.

  Max woke up on the sofa about an hour later. The TV was still on. What had awakened him? A noise? Something he had dreamed? He looked at the TV and remembered Yeltsin’s speech.

  Davos? Hadn’t they said that the talks about giving the world’s biggest loan to Russia had begun in Davos? Max thought about the communication between the Hotel Seehof and Pashie’s cell phone.


  Could Borgenstierna have been involved somehow?

  Someone was pounding on the door. That was probably what had woken him up.

  Max checked the peephole, let out a breath.

  Thank God. You’re okay.

  He opened the door and let Ilya in.

  “Where is she?” Ilya asked.

  “On a plane, on her way out of Russia.”

  “Good.”

  Ilya went over to the coffee table and turned off the TV. Then he closed the thick blackout curtains in front of the windows that looked out onto Nevsky Prospekt.

  “Did she talk?”

  Max told Ilya what Margarita had said. Then it was Ilya’s turn to talk. He had negotiated a deal to sell weapons to the vory. Russian thieves always wanted to buy handguns, and the Makarov was a sure card to play if you wanted to sell something or just create a distraction.

  But the deal had never been concluded, of course—that had never been Ilya’s intention. The vory had gotten nervous when they noticed that they had been standing there for a long time and Margarita hadn’t appeared. One of them ran up to the apartment and then shouted down from an open window that she was gone. His colleague had immediately run up after him.

  “You’re lucky he didn’t turn on you.”

  “I feel pretty safe with a loaded Makarov in my hand.”

  After the second vor had disappeared into the apartment building, Ilya had broken into a car, hot-wired it, and waited. When the two had finally driven off in the Mercedes, Ilya had followed them. They had driven to a deserted industrial area on the edge of the city.

  Ilya described the area.

  “Sounds like the place where they found Rousseau,” said Max.

  “It’s certainly a similar area. This is a little farther from central Saint Petersburg.”