Into a Raging Blaze

by Andreas Norman

  There was a scrape on the other side of the fence. One of them seemed to be climbing over. She stumbled across the plot and ran along a tumbledown wall with reinforcing iron sprawling above her in the air. At the other end of the site there was a new fence. She had just managed to climb over the palisade when she heard panting on the other side. She didn’t know where it was coming from, but she felt how the fear receded when she saw the pursuer’s face: an ugly, oblong face, which appeared at the top of the fence. A violent rage rushed through her. Before she had time to think, she had picked up a large, sharp rock that filled the palm of her hand and had thrown herself up at the fence with a roar, brandishing the stone toward the face of the pursuer, striking him in a sweeping, crunching movement, right on the nose. He screamed and tumbled backward.

  In the dirty, enclosed backyard she had ended up in, there was a door standing ajar. She stepped into a kitchenette and then into a narrow corridor. Adrenaline made her feel nauseous, and she leaned against the wall for a second, gasping. At the end of the corridor she could discern a woman’s curvaceous silhouette, surrounded by a glowing aura of red light, and then the woman’s alarmed face.

  “Putain!” she screamed. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “Pardon, pardon,” Carina mumbled. Sorry, sorry. That was all she could say as she forced her way past the woman and discovered she was in a sex shop. It was hard to get her bearings in the purple-red light and she knocked over a stand filled with pornographic magazines and bumped into a customer who was reading. Then she found the way out and threw herself into the street, crossed over, and began to run as fast as she could up a new side street.

  All around her, there were people moving. She no longer had any idea where she was, only that it was somewhere in the northern part of Brussels city center. If she was right, she ought to head south to reach a subway station. Without dropping pace, she ran several blocks through a rundown residential district. The crowds on the pavement began to increase. She had reached a lively area with small, ordinary shops, cafés, and takeout places. The streets here were clogged with traffic; the throng of people forced her to slow down.

  On the corner of two streets, in a small building, was a grocery store with garishly illuminated sign on its façade: ALIMENTATION GÉNÉRALE. She forced her way through the piles of fruit and vegetables to the back, where she could hide among the shelves. The shop was not large. If they thought to come in and look, they would find her right away, but she didn’t have the strength to run anymore. She withdrew into the rear of the shop and stood there, panting, her hands on her knees, next to a shelf filled with canned food. An elderly Arab couple looked at her suspiciously and quickly pushed each other to the other half of the shop.

  They were still out there; through the murmur and the French folk music blaring inside the shop, she could now hear the clatter of the motorbikes in the distance. They were presumably circling the area and searching. Then she heard another sound; she didn’t understand what it was until she felt her cell in her pocket. It was ringing.

  38

  Brussels, Saturday, October 8

  Bente grabbed a headset. “Call her,” she ordered abruptly. “Now. Give me her position.”

  One of the technicians shouted across the room: Dymek was one hundred meters east of Rue Royale.

  The cell team had been at Midi station, just ten or so meters behind Dymek, but had still been taken by surprise when a group of six people had thrown themselves forward and tried to apprehend Dymek. It had gone so fast, they hadn’t been able to follow, but had had to wait and watch them disappear toward one of the platforms. Wilson’s people specialized in this kind of hunt: manhunts. One of the pursuers had been identified as the British elite soldier from Dymek’s hotel. Minutes had passed during which they had no idea what was going on. Then: Noordstation; Dymek on foot, alive, in flight. The Section’s other cell team was en route, but would arrive too late. Bente knew the next few minutes were critical. It was hard to melt away into the streets around Noordstation. The pursuers would find Dymek, if they didn’t already have her in their sights, and, if that was the case, she only had minutes left to live—if the Section couldn’t bring her in first, make her disappear off the street.

  Mikael ordered silence. The command room went dead quiet. Gazes turned to Bente. The phone rang clearly through the speakers, then another ring.

  “Hello?” Noise, rustling. Dymek panting.

  “Carina. My name is Bente Jensen. I can help you.”

  “Who?” she said through the gasps. “Who are you?”

  “Bente Jensen. You’re in danger. Listen to me.”

  “Who the hell are you?” screamed Dymek.

  “Listen to me.” She raised her voice, turned it into a steel blade. She gripped the microphone between her fingers. “Your only chance to get away is to listen to me.”

  The speakers were filled with Dymek’s gasping. “Okay,” she panted.

  “Good. Two hundred meters straight ahead is Rue Royale. A tram, the number ninety-four, will stop there in two minutes; it’s coming down Rue Royale now. Take it. You have to catch it. Sit at the very back. A woman will pick you up. She’s blond—her name is Beatrice. Two minutes. Can you do that?”

  “I don’t know if I’ll make it. They have motorbikes.”

  “Try. Run.”

  “Okay.”

  Bente met Mikael’s gaze and saw that he was thinking the same thing she was: this could all go very wrong. She looked at the time. Rodriguez’s group would soon be there.

  A fierce noise penetrated through the speakers. Then the sound of traffic, distant voices, and the wind whistling, and through all of that the quick, rhythmic sound of steps on the pavement. Dymek was running.

  Everyone in the Section’s command room sat in complete silence, listening to the speakers. A technician pointed at the screen. Dymek ought to be there by now. It was taking time. Perhaps she was having trouble crossing the road; Rue Royale was packed with traffic at this time of day. All they could here was noise, fragments of voices, and the city at large. After waiting for what seemed an eternity, Dymek reemerged.

  “I’m here,” she shouted. “Where’s the tram?”

  “It should be there now.” Bente looked at the technician, who nodded emphatically. “Number ninety-four.”

  “No, no. Where is it?” Her voice cracked. Dymek’s panicked breathing filled the speakers.

  “It’s there. The platform closest to you.”

  Bente made an effort to remain calm. People in stressful situations often lost the ability to read their surroundings. The ability to comprehend was reduced; all one saw was basic structures—buildings, roads, light, dark.

  “Number ninety-four.”

  They heard Dymek’s agitated breaths, the sound of the wind, a passing motorbike. She shuddered. That could have been it. Dymek’s pursuers were probably very close by. She couldn’t stay at the tram stop; she was completely in the open there. Now they heard her moving again.

  Dymek returned. “I’m on the tram.”

  “Good. Very good.”

  The background noise had indeed changed. The sound of the wind was gone. Now Dymek’s voice was quite audible against a background of other voices and the characteristic clattering and squeaking of the tram.

  “Okay, I’m sitting here.”

  “Good. Stay there. Look around. Is there anyone looking at you?”

  There was a pause. “No, no one.”

  “The motorbikes—do you see them? Look out of the window carefully.”

  Another pause. A pinging sound was audible, followed by a recorded voice announcing the next station: Botanique.

  “No.”

  “Good. Stay there. We’re sending someone in to bring you to safety.” She made a sign at Mikael. “Do nothing before that. Do you understand?”

  “Okay,” they heard Dymek say.

  Dymek was now just following orders. She sounded a little numb. Her voice was muted, as if she
was in a room filled with fabric. The tram was probably busy, other people standing close by her. That was good. Bente told Dymek to breathe and just listen to her. She was Bente Jensen, she said. She was from the Swedish Security Service—Säpo. They had spoken once before. That time, Dymek had hung up, but this time she should listen to her and trust her. They would help her out of this situation. She was in danger. But, if she remained calm and did exactly as Bente said, everything would be fine. She said nothing about terrorism, nothing about the summit meeting, nothing that would agitate Dymek. Dymek listened.

  Mikael held up a hand with three fingers raised.

  “Okay. In three stops’ time, one of our people will get off the tram—at Treurenberg. A blond woman, wearing a red leather jacket. You will follow her. Just take it easy and be ready to move. Don’t hang up; keep listening to me. It’ll all be okay.”

  Everyone in the command room listened breathlessly. Dymek was quiet. They could hear the muffled sounds of the inside of the tram. Voices and individual words from people who were presumably right next to Dymek were audible, conversations in French blended into a buzz. It was evening; people were on the way home from work. They heard the tram begin to brake before it stopped completely. The doors opened with a hiss and let in the sound of the evening rush-hour traffic. Then there was a long tone as the doors closed, followed by the rising, humming sound of the tram accelerating. Two stops to go.

  Dymek’s voice came back. She whispered, “There’s a man here. He’s looking at me.”

  “Ignore him,” said Bente calmly, as if it was nothing out of ordinary. Dymek was jittery; all that mattered now was that they kept her calm until the pickup was complete.

  “He’s shaven”—She didn’t finish the sentence. She sounded breathless.

  “Carina,” Bente said. “Breathe in and out. Only two more stops to go.”

  She stared straight at Mikael, who bent down and spoke into his headset before turning to her and nodding: next stop. Beatrice would get on at the next stop.

  “He’s getting up,” Carina said in a suppressed exclamation. “I think he’s coming toward me.”

  “Take it easy, Carina. You’re worried and I understand that. But he isn’t an enemy. Don’t look at him. Breathe and listen to me. Don’t hang up. We’re almost with you.”

  Where the hell was the team? She gesticulated at Mikael; he made a silent grimace and spread his arms out. All they could do was wait for the tram to arrive at the next stop.

  “It’s them.” Dymek gasped. “They’re coming.”

  “Carina,” she said loudly and clearly, with an emphasis on each word, as if by the power of words alone she might get Dymek to listen. “Wait. Calm down.”

  Silence.

  “Hello?”

  They heard the tram braking for the next stop. The sounds changed. Thumps, noise, unclear fizz. Traffic. The sound of wind was coming out of the speakers; the city. She was getting off.

  “No, Carina!” Bente shouted at the room in general.

  But it was too late. There was no one at the other end.

  Carina got off the tram and turned around. The man was there, watching her from inside the tram. Or perhaps he was looking at his cell, she couldn’t tell. The tram glided away over the crossroads.

  She was at Rogier, the glittering center of the city. In front of her flowed a slow river of evening traffic heading down Rue Rogier. She looked around: no motorbikes. But they could appear again, she was certain. She hurried toward the wide pedestrian crossing and stood, surrounded by traffic for a moment, before spotting a gap between two cars and throwing herself across to the other side, joining the stream of people crossing the main road.

  She was in the shopping district just north of the central station. Less than a kilometer away was Grote Markt and the Parc du Bruxelles, and her hotel couldn’t be more than fifteen, twenty minutes’ walk from here. Perhaps she should go back, get her things, and disappear. But they were probably watching her hotel. How would she get to the airport? she thought as she choked on a sob. How would she leave the country? A group of guys in suits walked around her; they probably worked in one of the skyscrapers in the financial quarter and were heading for some after-work drinks. She kept close to them and calmed down a little. Perhaps she could ask the hotel to send her luggage to the airport. She could leave quickly using a minor airline; some of them didn’t always manage their passenger lists properly. Or she could travel by bus to Holland and then fly from Schiphol. If she was wanted, it might only be in Belgium. Good God, this was completely absurd! Two dressed-up couples got out of a taxi and crossed the pavement so close in front of her that one of women brushed her arm without even noticing her.

  The Security Service. She looked around and stopped in front of the large shop window of an American designer label. Where were they? Maybe one of the many people passing her on the pavement was an agent, or one of those standing at the bus stop further away. The people chasing her weren’t Belgian police; they were from a different kind of organization. But what the hell was going on, in that case? Were they trying to kill her? It was as if she only now realized what she had gotten caught up in, and the weight of it almost made her sink into the pavement. It was incomprehensible. She began to jog, fear driving her forward; she moved through the crowd on the street and had never before felt so alone.

  She had gotten as far as Place de Brouckère when she heard the sharp sound of a motorbike. She stopped and looked across the intersection. At first she saw nothing apart from the gleaming lines of cars at a red light, then a dark figure shot across the crossroads and was followed a second later by another. Two motorbikes turned on to the avenue in amongst a mass of cars and accelerated.

  The glass façade of the Finance Tower vanished up toward the cloudy evening sky before coming to life and pulsing in purple, blue, and red neon. Carina pressed herself into the side of the building. For a moment, she thought of trying to cross the street—running across the middle, to the other pavement—but there was too much traffic; she might get stuck in the middle—an easy target. She rushed behind the skyscraper.

  An expanse opened up in front of her. The city had withdrawn and left a dead and deserted area the size of a runway. She tripped over the cracked concrete flagstones and continued between scrubby, low bushes and rows of streetlights. Around the open space lay large, dilapidated office buildings. She couldn’t stop here; she was far too visible.

  Halfway across the open space, she heard the growl of the motorbikes bouncing between the buildings. She ducked into a bush and looked around. The white light from their headlights flickered between the buildings, up at the Finance Tower. They would find her. They would find her and kill her. This insight flew through her in an ice-cold sensation, like plasma through blood. How did they know where she was all the time? They circled on a ramp and then rolled down on to the expanse of asphalt. They stopped, turned off their engines and dismounted.

  In the shelter of a low stone wall, Carina ran toward the far end of the area and crept under a bush in the shrubbery.

  A sharp ping came from her pocket. The small, everyday sound was like an explosion in the silence; for a moment, she was convinced that her pursuers had also heard it. She swore silently and pulled out her cell. A text message: Best Western Hotel, Rue Royale 160. Room 513. Go to it. You will be safe there.

  Then it occurred to her—it was so obvious—they were tracking her via her phone. The whole time she had been walking around with it and they had been able to see exactly what she was doing. That was how they had found her; that was how they had followed her. She caught sight of a drain about a meter away and, when the two bikers were out of sight, she stretched toward it and dropped the cell through the grate.

  Now she could see them. Three figures had appeared from between the buildings, then more: five—six. They came out of the dark from a side street and spread wordlessly across the open space. She could see them clearly now—see their alert faces, hear the rustle of t
heir windbreakers. Something in their behavior and way of moving told her they were trained for this. She shuddered. They were hunting, moving like a pack across the area to the place where she had just been hiding. A lanky man in a cap appeared.

  Further away, to the right, an SUV came to a stop on a side street. She hardly dared to move, but still managed to see a large man step out of the car. The man spoke to several of the others in a low voice; she couldn’t hear what he said, but he spoke English. They began looking among the trees, the benches, toward the Finance Tower. They moved calmly and methodically across the space, as if looking for a lost object. Some of them had flashlights and shone them into bushes, before switching them off again. She shook. The bush she had crawled into was dense and thorny; she could feel the small barbs on the branches pricking her back. She was lying on her front, so she wouldn’t be able to escape quickly if they found her. She could only wait. For a short, dangerous second, she felt panicked, and a wild impulse to just stand up and scream took hold of her. She bit her lip until she could feel the sweet taste of copper in her mouth.

  A man in a cap came walking toward the place where she was lying. The cone of light from his flashlight pierced through the bush. He moved a few steps closer, shone the light at the shrubs and surrounding ground. Adrenaline was coursing through her entire body as she braced herself against the ground and prepared to fling herself up and flee. She knew that if he caught sight of her now it was over. Perhaps she could strike him to one side and escape from the square before they caught up with her . . . But they would catch her.

  Please, go. For God’s sake, go. Go. Go!

  The man lowered his flashlight and shone it straight into the shrubbery, just a few meters from her face. She could see his white sneakers.