They wake me up at dawn, and we’re sitting in the Toyota again before I have time to wipe the sleep from my eyes, before my dreams of mountains have been replaced by real mountains. We drive in silence through the orange canyons, through gravel and sand; an early winter without snow. This war is over. Politics is the only thing delaying David’s victory over Goliath. A small victory in the eternal quest for the status quo. My time here is coming to an end, and I’ve asked to be replaced by someone who speaks Farsi or Pashtun. But my wishes are whispers in the wind. No one remembers the languages spoken in Afghanistan once the Red Dragon is on the run. We’ve gotten what we wanted, our goal has been achieved.
Maybe I’ll be rewarded in Washington for my invaluable work in the field. The future scares me as much as the past. A desk job while I wait for everything to start over. Lonely nights in the bungalow with the silent echo of Annie’s footsteps against the thick carpeting. Polite phone calls that end in tears. Explanations that I don’t have. Thoughts of how I lost two families, two children. Thoughts of smoke and sirens. Boredom and then fatigue. The monotonous waiting for my next opportunity to forget, to disappear into a present without context.
Outside the car window, mountains are replaced by mountains, gravel by gravel. We’re moving forward, but we remain in the same place.
19
December 19, 2013
Brussels, Belgium
George wrestled his way to the bar at Ralph’s, waving his American Express card. He dove skillfully through a group of red-cheeked, blue-eyed interns, surfacing at the front of the bar next to a loud Irishman, his tie askew, who was trying to get the bartender’s attention with very muddled French verbs.
Ralph’s wasn’t much larger than two normal-size living rooms, but for the last few years, because of its perfect blend of hot interns, younger people from the EU institutions, lobbyists, and lawyers, it was the only bar in the EU Quarter to be at if you wanted to be seen. The perfect place to mix networking, partying, and hitting on young Italians with admiring eyes and low-cut tops under their tailored jackets.
It took no more than a minute before George had two glasses of champagne in his hands, much to the irritated surprise of the Irishman. Paid and done. George shrugged his shoulders at the Irishman and his renewed campaign for the bartender’s attention.
He stretched a little in order to find the tall table he’d just left. Good, she was still there. Mette? That was her name, right? Danish. Intern for the Danish EU commissioner. Perfect. A good contact and super-hot. Sometimes this job was just too amazing. Business and pleasure. He already had her business card, so now there was just pleasure left.
The only annoying thing was that it was impossible to understand what she was saying. Her Danish blended with the background noise at Ralph’s—a mess of at least six other languages with a score by Lady Gaga—was more than he could handle. Danish was hard enough as it was. But switching to English was entirely out of the question. You had to pretend you understood the other Nordic languages. And she seemed to understand his Swedish without any problem.
Well, soon enough, he’d be taking her out of here anyway. Suggest they pick up some sushi and bring it back to his place. Pop a bottle of bubbly. After that, language wouldn’t matter anymore. That was the advantage of living just a few steps from Place du Luxembourg.
He’d made it halfway across the room, when he felt his phone vibrating in his inside pocket. Holding the two champagne glasses in his left hand, he used his right to fish out the phone. Who the hell would call this late on a Thursday? digital solutions was flashing on the screen. Fucking hell. His good mood evaporated like mist out of the room. After his dinner with Appleby it made him nervous to even think about Digital Solutions. The phone stopped flashing before he could reply. For a moment he considered blowing it off. Pretending he hadn’t heard the phone. But then he saw Appleby’s shark eyes in front of him. He shuddered as he placed one of the glasses on the high table in front of Mette.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
He held up the phone and pointed meaningfully toward the door.
‘Duty calls.’
Mette smiled and said something incomprehensible that George interpreted as understanding. He gestured to her that he’d be right back, took his champagne glass, and started forcing his way through the well-dressed wall of meat toward the only door that led out to the square.
It was dark when he got outside, bitterly cold, and for once almost deserted. The only life George could see was the taxi queue outside the sports bar Fat Boy’s on the opposite side of the square and a few frozen souls hurrying between bars in their too thin coats. At the bottom of the square the European Parliament, now closed for the evening, was also completely silent and dark. Nevertheless, its presence seemed almost organic. George thought he could hear it breathing.
Freezing drizzle hung in the air. He unbuttoned his coat, lit a Marlboro Red, and inhaled deeply. Before he had time to call Reiper, the phone started vibrating again. George put the hands-free in his ear while noting the time, 9:55 p.m., in order to bill Digital Solutions for the time the conversation took.
‘Mr Reiper,’ he answered, ‘what can I do for you tonight?’
‘Good evening, Mr Lööw,’ Reiper said. ‘Sorry to bother you. I assume you’re not at the office?’
‘No, that’s correct. I just left. But as I said on Tuesday, at Merchant and Taylor we’re always on duty. What can I do for you?’
George took a sip of champagne as he bent down, trying to peek through the glass door into Ralph’s. In the dim light, he couldn’t see if Mette was still standing where he left her.
‘Good, good. Well, Mr Lööw, I’m sorry to intrude on your evening, but it would be great if we could meet. Now.’
George pressed down on the gas pedal of his Audi, even though he’d have to slam the brakes at the next traffic lights, just down the street. He usually found it soothing to sink into the leather racing seats with Avicii blasting on the stereo. But that wasn’t working right now. Not at all.
He turned off the music. He couldn’t handle the pounding of the bass line. The evening’s champagne buzz was already giving way to a headache. He squeezed two aspirins from a package he kept in the right pocket of his pants and swallowed them without water.
Normally, he loved this stuff, being called in during the evening like a consigliere. Feeling like he was indispensable. Damn, he’d seen it in Mette’s eyes, or whatever her name was, when he’d said that he was leaving to advise a client. Admiration. Excitement.
And if this had been a regular client, it’d be no problem. He’d have called Mette on his way home. Picked up another bottle of Bollinger from a late night kiosk. But with Digital Solutions it was different. There was something about Reiper. Something about that Josh who’d showed up at his office. Something that turned his stomach. And those classified documents on top of it. And Appleby’s dinner tonight. For the first time in a very long time George felt like he might be out of his depth.
Fifteen minutes later, George turned off Avenue Brugman and onto Avenue Molière in the district of Ixelles. He wasn’t out here that often. Sure, he’d eaten brunch at some point at the haute bourgeoisie Caudron or, hungover, had eaten lunch around the corner, at that American diner on Place Brugman, but otherwise he mostly hung out around the European Quarter or downtown.
Nevertheless, it was pretty sweet around here. There were a bunch of embassies along the Avenue Molière, and the street was elegant, with its art nouveau maisons de maître and the tall trees lining the sidewalks. He’d read somewhere that properties here were the most expensive in Brussels.
The GPS beeped and informed George that he’d reached number 222, the address Reiper had given him. He parked his Audi in front of the entrance to a magnificent three-story house. Like so many art nouveau houses, it made George uncomfortable. There was something so Gothic about the plantlike facade, with its soft angles and circular windows. All that vaulting ornamentation and thi
n steel embellishments seemed to be creeping all over the building. The front of the house was dominated by an enormous bay window, which almost reached to the street. The steel-framed windows must have been almost eight feet tall. Heavy curtains were drawn and made it impossible to see inside.
George felt his courage slipping further. The house suited Reiper perfectly. It projected the same feeling of intense uneasiness as its resident. He climbed out of the car, locked it automatically with a reassuring beep, and walked up the four steps to the gate. digital solutions stood on an A4-size brass plate next to the door. It looked brand-new. As if it had been put up yesterday.
George rang the doorbell. He was surprised to hear a modern riiinnng, instead of a muffled ding-dong. A camera was mounted on the door’s upper right corner. It seemed to be moving. As if someone inside was directing it with a joystick.
‘George. Come in.’
Josh opened the door, wearing what looked like a pair of black combat pants made from some type of advanced Gore-Tex. A sweatshirt with navy printed across the chest. There was something heated about him. Stressed. He was oozing endorphins, and his face was red, as if he’d just come back from a run.
‘Uh, thanks,’ replied George.
‘Come in, come in. Reiper is waiting for you in the office.’
Josh glanced out the door toward George’s car.
‘Nice car. Leasing? They take good care of you at Merchant and Taylor.’
He didn’t wait for George to respond, just turned and slanted across the hall.
George nodded and slunk after him. He felt uncomfortable. He didn’t feel in charge of the situation. Not at all.
Josh opened an enormous oak door that led into a room resembling the library in an English country estate. The floor was covered by a worn red carpet, and the walls were covered with wall-mounted, empty bookshelves or dark wood paneling. Large French windows looked onto what George assumed was a garden at the back of the house. It was too dark outside to see properly. The room was completely unfurnished, apart from a brand-new sofa group that looked like it was from IKEA, and a huge table in the middle of the room. An impressive collection of computers, monitors, and other electronic equipment was spread out on the table. Reiper rose from his place in front of a black laptop.
‘Mr Lööw! Welcome to Digital Solutions. You’ll have to forgive us.’
He threw open his arms in what was supposed to resemble an apologetic gesture. He was wearing Gore-Tex trousers similar to Josh’s. A black T-shirt on top. He had a bad case of hat head; the slush gray wreath of hair was glued to his scalp.
‘We haven’t really settled in yet, and interior design isn’t my specialty.’
George nodded and looked around.
‘How many people work at Digital Solutions, anyway?’ he said.
‘Well, it’s a little hard to say exactly. Some of us work on a contract basis, more as freelancers.’
‘But how many of you are working in Brussels right now?’
George felt his irritation growing. His headache. All this fucking secrecy.
‘Right now, I guess we have five or six people in Brussels. That said, there are others who’re on the road, so to speak. Involved in other projects, and so on. Let’s have a seat. I have a couple of things I’d like to discuss with you.’
Josh quietly turned around and slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him. Reiper and George sat opposite each other on two hard, cream-colored sofas. Between them stood a worn, old coffee table. It had started raining again. Sleet pattered against the French doors. It was pitch-black outside.
‘First and foremost: thanks for the translation,’ Reiper said. ‘Quick and competent work.’
George shrugged, trying to smile through his headache. When would those damn pills kick in? Reiper straightened up, put his hands behind his head, and gazed into the darkness, deeply engrossed by the sleet outside the window.
‘Unnecessary, of course. But surely you understood that?’
George involuntarily shook his head, blinked.
‘Excuse me? What did you say was unnecessary?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Reiper waved his hand dismissively.
‘You’re not stupid. On the contrary. No genius, perhaps, but definitely above average. You realized the papers were classified, that handling them constituted some type of crime. Still that didn’t stop you. That’s interesting.’
‘I…’ George began again.
But he fell silent. His pulse began to race. It felt like he was sliding down a slippery rock. As if his feet were struggling for a foothold but continuing to slide.
Reiper rose with unexpected grace, walked over to the computer table, and lifted a thin yellow folder, which he began to flip through absently. After a few seconds, he turned to George and stared at him with blank eyes. In the dimly lit room they looked green. Luminous. Like a cat’s.
‘But if we’re going to continue working together, I have to be absolutely certain of your loyalty. One hundred per cent sure. So, I’ve taken out what you might call an insurance policy on you.’
He walked back to his couch and laid the yellow folder down gently in front of George.
20
December 19, 2013
Brussels, Belgium
The vibrating phone deep in Klara’s coat pocket cut through her fatigue like a laser. The week—full of reports, team meetings, endless hours in airless meeting rooms, lunches on her feet, and late nights at the computer—fell to the side. The only bright spot this week had been the hours spent today with Cyril in her apartment. She was still tingling.
This wasn’t the first time they’d stolen a couple of hours in the middle of the day and taken separate taxis to her place to have sex. No need to deny it. That’s how it was. And in the beginning, that had been the whole point. The forbidden. Sneaking off from her high-performance life, getting him to sneak off from his. A little shabby somehow, a little dirty, but still harmless. A game where no one got hurt. And it paid off to be cautious. Gossip was devastating in the European Parliament. A Swedish adviser and a French parliamentarian would be gossip gold.
Her heart racing, she grabbed hold of the phone in her pocket. Maybe his dinner ended early? Maybe he was on his way over? But her hopes died as soon as she saw the screen. jörgen apelbom. Shit. She’d completely forgotten about him.
‘Sorry, Jörgen!’ she answered.
Her voice was as sweet and sincere as she could make it. She held the phone in place against her shoulder while rooting through her bag for the keys to the front door of her building.
‘I’m so sorry. I had so much—’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ interrupted Jörgen. ‘You had a lot to do. Blah blah blah. As usual. You canceled on Tuesday as well.’
He babbled on, trying to sound ironically hurt. But it was a bad show. Behind the irony, Klara glimpsed his real disappointment.
Sure, she’d let Jörgen get her to promise to have a drink with him in the press bar after work to talk over some report on Internet anonymity that the Swedish Pirate Party was evidently over the moon about. She owed it to him for all the help he gave her every time a question about the Internet or computer security popped up in the European Parliament. He undoubtedly wanted to convince the Social Democrats to vote with the Pirate Party on this issue. That was how it worked. A favor for a favor. They helped each other out as much as possible.
But recently Jörgen had started maneuvering their monthly meetings so they took place weekly and later in the day in more and more informal settings. Klara suspected Jörgen’s interest might not be purely professional. And now this whiny, feigned martyrdom.
‘Well, what do you want me to say?’ she interrupted him.
She was surprised by the irritation in her own voice as she pushed open the door to the narrow stairwell and took a deep breath.
‘Seriously, Jörgen, I forgot. It sucks, but it happens. It’s nine-thirty. Why didn’t you call before now, if i
t was so important?’
The staircase was dark. She hit the light switch. But nothing happened. The bulb in the stairs must have burned out. A gust of wind pulled the door shut behind her. She suddenly got the feeling that something wasn’t right.
‘I was in a meeting,’ Jorgen said in her ear.
A meeting with World of Warcraft, Klara thought, but said nothing. The stairs creaked under her as she began to walk up the four flights in the dark.
‘Here’s what we’re going to do,’ he continued. ‘Since you’ve canceled two times in a row, you have to buy me dinner next week.’
Somewhere above she heard the creak of a door gently opening. A lock clicked as it was cautiously closed again. Creaking wood, like echoes of her own footsteps. She stopped on the landing between the second and third floor. The footsteps were coming from farther above. The creaking sounds. She was the only one who lived on the fourth floor. Her brain was so slow, so unprepared for something like this. The door that had been closed. It could only have been her own.
She turned around, heart pounding, threw herself down the stairs, stumbling over the next landing in the dark. Spinning a half turn, taking the stairs two at a time, not even listening for footsteps behind her. It took a few seconds. It took an eternity. She twisted her ankle when her foot landed on the cracked mosaic tiles of the ground floor. Ignored it. Staggered to the front door, fiddled with the ancient lock. She heard only silence behind her now. Nothing. Somehow it scared her even more. She turned the lock and opened the door into the rain-soaked Brussels night.
And fell out into a completely ordinary world. The streetlights in front of the park, the young people dressed up and on their way to a bar or a late dinner, the light from the small Spanish tapas place next door. She ran over to the restaurant. The safety of the half-full wine glasses inside, the small plates of cured ham, tortillas, olives. The loosened ties and glittering earrings. She stopped in front of the window, let its yellow, warm light envelop her. She turned toward her door. Nothing.
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