MemoRandom

by Anders de la Motte

  Sarac opened his mouth and swallowed a couple of times. Then slowly shook his head.

  “Try the first page, then,” Molnar said. “Look at that symbol, those Js must mean Janus, surely?”

  Sarac leafed back to the first page. The same symbol he had seen on the wall of his apartment, then on the whiteboard in his dream. Two Js, the first one reversed so that the tails were facing each other. This version was even more ornate than the one on the wall. And at last he realized what it meant. The letters formed a two-headed symbol—two faces looking in opposite directions. A Janus face. The god who could see both the past and the future. The realization almost made him cry out in delight.

  Instead he just nodded eagerly at Molnar as he ran his index finger down the page. Beneath the symbol there were five ten-digit numbers spread out across the lined paper.

  The first one was 9728444477.

  Sarac stared at the number and realized that he and Molnar were both holding their breath. The numbers and letters drifted together, briefly forming a pattern. Then they broke apart again.

  “I . . . ID numbers,” he said.

  “Are you sure?” Molnar sounded disappointed.

  Sarac nodded. “Fairly sure.”

  “We’ve already checked that, of course,” Molnar said. “Only one of the numbers works. It belongs to a woman in Umeå, a librarian. She’s not in any of our databases, and she hasn’t got any relatives or anything else linking her to either you or Stockholm. Kristina Svensson, does that name mean anything to you?” Molnar was pointing at the number at the bottom of the page. Sarac shook his head. It wasn’t ringing any bells at all.

  “What about the other four?” he said.

  “They don’t work,” Molnar said. “Just look at the first one, 9728444477. Ninety-seven is okay as a year of birth, but the forty-fourth day of the twenty-eighth month?”

  Sarac saw the problem and couldn’t understand how something so basic had escaped him.

  “I think they’re bank accounts,” Molnar said. “And that they tie in with how you paid Janus. If you could just remember which bank it is, maybe we could get hold of a bit more information. A bank card that he’s using, maybe even security camera footage that could give us a face. Can you remember anything to do with banks or account numbers?”

  Sarac was still shaking his head. For a few seconds it had felt as if things were shifting, that everything was about to become clear. But instead he was just feeling even more confused. The disappointment was on the point of sinking him altogether. Molnar seemed to notice.

  “Don’t worry, David. It’ll turn out all right. We’re going to find him, I promise.” He put his hand on Sarac’s shoulder. “Sleep on it, then have a proper look at the notebook tomorrow. The pieces are bound to fall into place sooner or later.”

  “Okay,” Sarac mumbled. “T-thanks, Peter. Thanks for all you’re doing for me. For being so patient,” he added.

  “Don’t mention it. We’re friends, you’d have done the same for me, wouldn’t you?”

  Sarac nodded. “H-how are things at work? With Wallin and the Internal Investigation team?”

  Molnar gave a crooked smile. “Well, they all want to get hold of you. They keep turning up at your apartment at regular intervals. They don’t seem too happy about the fact that you’re not home. But so far they’ve got their hands full with other stuff. The internal investigators need to question loads of people before they can work out what’s been going on and can formulate any sort of formal suspicions. And that’s proving to be rather difficult, because half of Bergh’s department are away on an equality course. Wallin’s boys have also been afflicted by unexpected absences, so I imagine we’ve got a couple of weeks before everyone figures out exactly what they think they’re going to get you on.”

  He patted Sarac’s shoulder.

  “Get some rest now, David, your memory’s bound to improve. We’ve still got enough time to get things sorted out and tie up all the loose ends. Try to concentrate on those bank accounts, and call me if you think of anything, okay?”

  “What about Bergh, what do we do with him? He seemed a bit paranoid up at the hospital. Wanted me to hand over anything to do with Janus to him.”

  Molnar bit his lip gently.

  “Leave Bergh to me. He’s not quite—”

  A sound from the hall interrupted him. A faint squeak, as if someone was cautiously trying a door handle to see if a door was locked. Molnar stood up fast, pushed his shirt away from the holster on his belt, and took a few quick steps out into the hall. Sarac got to his feet as well.

  “Are you expecting anyone?” Molnar hissed over his shoulder.

  Sarac shook his head. There was a dark shadow through the porch window. Molnar put one hand on his pistol, the other on the lock on the door.

  “Ready?” Sarac whispered. Sarac nodded. He was thinking about the patch of trampled snow down among the trees. The feeling that someone was watching him.

  Suddenly there was a loud knock on the door.

  “It’s me, David, open up,” a woman’s voice called.

  Molnar looked at him quizzically.

  “M-my care assistant,” Sarac muttered.

  Molnar pulled a face. “I thought you were going to lie low?”

  Sarac opened his mouth to explain that it was Natalie who had found him but realized it would take too long.

  “I needed my medication,” he said instead. “I thought it would be okay. She’s hardly going to tell anyone where I am, she’s probably under oath not to. Besides, I need her help.”

  There was another knock. Molnar took his hand off his gun.

  “Of course, David, no problem. I should have thought of that myself.” He looked at Sarac for a few seconds, then slapped him on the shoulder and opened the front door.

  “Hello!” Natalie gave Molnar a long glance. “I was wondering whose car it was out in the driveway.”

  “Hi! I’m Peter Molnar. Work colleague, and a good friend of David’s.” Molnar smiled his broadest smile.

  She shook his hand. “Natalie,” she mumbled. “Care assistant.”

  “Of course,” Molnar said, without letting go of her hand. “Say what you like about the Swedish health service, but sometimes it really does work. Do you work for the council, then?”

  “Adelfi Care,” Natalie said.

  Molnar nodded, still holding her hand. “And you come all the way out here, to Vaxholm archipelago, to pay a home visit? Not bad.”

  Natalie shrugged her shoulders. “We go where our patients are.”

  She pulled her hand away and picked up the bag of groceries she had put down on the steps.

  “I’ll put these in the fridge, David,” she said over her shoulder as she undid her jacket. Molnar watched her for a few moments, then looked at his chunky diver’s watch.

  “I’ve got to go, I’m going to try to catch the six o’clock ferry. We’ve got a job on tonight. It’s a relief to see that you’re in good hands.”

  He pulled his padded jacket on and lowered his voice slightly.

  “Call me at once if you remember anything about those account numbers! And keep that notebook to yourself.”

  “Of course, Peter.”

  “Good, speak soon, David!”

  Molnar winked at Sarac, then pulled his car key from his pocket and went out the front door.

  “Nice to meet you, Natalie,” he called toward the kitchen. She flashed him a brief smile, almost as if she was pleased to see him. But of course that could have been wishful thinking. A bit of old-fashioned projection.

  As soon as the door closed Natalie came back out into the hall.

  “Food will be ready in a bit. I’m just going to have a quick cigarette first,” she said, digging in her coat pockets.

  • • •

  The old garage was almost completely burned out. The roof was gone, along with the windows, internal walls, and doors. All that remained were the white, soot-stained outer walls and piles of charred wreckage.
Even though two months had passed, the place still smelled of smoke.

  Atif stopped in the doorway, shading the sun with his hand and glancing toward the roofs of the run-down buildings opposite. It wasn’t hard to imagine what had happened.

  The place where they hold up the security van is only a two-thirds of a mile or so away. The drive here takes four minutes at most. Adnan and his two men pull into the garage in the getaway car and close the door behind them. Inside is car number two, clean, one that hasn’t been reported stolen. They transfer the takings to the new car, probably in a couple of big sports bags, something like that. Then they take off their overalls, gloves, and bulletproof vests and throw everything into the first car. One or more of them pours gasoline all over the seats and sets fire to it. The car would be ablaze in less than a minute.

  The boys jump into the new car. They’re all grinning with relief; they feel as if they’ve won as the door opens again. The money’s in the trunk, all the evidence is going up in flames in the other car, and all they have to do is drive home nice and quietly. Adnan is sitting in the front. Maybe he’s thinking that everything might work out after all. Soon he’ll be part owner of a successful gym. He can offer his family a normal life.

  The car pulls out onto the road. The cops are up on the rooftops. The snipers have already identified their targets. No one knows who fires the first shot. According to the cops it’s Adnan, but what else are they going to say? No matter who starts it, the whole thing is over in thirty seconds. Adnan and Juha dead, Tommy seriously injured.

  And all because someone ratted. Someone on the inside. Abu Hamsa had said the tip-off came from Janus, which ruled out Bakshi. The little rat definitely wasn’t a master infiltrator, and everyone knew he talked too much. But Abu Hamsa had also said that Janus’s tip-offs were smart, they could never be traced back to one particular person. So there had to be more links in the chain, links that weren’t necessarily aware of one another. Pitbull Pasi appeared to have an indisputable connection to the gym. Maybe he had heard about the secret deal between Dino and Adnan that Hamsa had negotiated, and then blabbed about it? And Janus had been listening . . .

  Then, once the men had been mown down in the alleyway, Pitbull had worked out what was going on. He realized what he was caught up in, got scared, and fled the country, terrified of being uncovered as a traitor working in league with Janus. He had lain low in Thailand, until Erik J.’s mysterious friend called to tell him things were okay and that no one was blaming him. Just to be on the safe side, Pitbull e-mailed his old friend Bakshi, a man with ears as big as his mouth, to get confirmation.

  Pitbull had been back in the country no more than a matter of hours before someone shot him. No sign that anyone put him under any pressure and tried to squeeze information out of him. Two shots to the middle of his chest and, to judge by the look of surprise on his face, Pitbull hadn’t even had time to work out what was going on. That he had become a risk factor, evidence that had to be got rid of.

  For a while Atif had toyed with the idea that Erik J. was Janus. But that seemed far too simple. Janus would never have been in direct contact with people like Pitbull or Bakshi. Erik J. was really just a sort of go-between, someone whose role he hadn’t quite managed to work out yet. Janus was further in, deeper inside the web.

  But he had made some progress. If his theory was correct, it ought to have been Janus who got rid of Pitbull down in the cellar, to wipe out the evidence behind him. In which case Atif had missed him by just thirty seconds or so. He had even heard the outside door closing behind him. But there the trail had gone cold.

  Bakshi had vanished, Erik J.’s phone was still switched off, and coming out here to this burned-out garage hadn’t exactly given him any new leads. There was one way to make life easier for himself. He could accept Frank Hunter’s offer, then sit back and wait until Janus was delivered, sooner or later, straight into his hands. The only question was, was he prepared to do what Hunter required of him? The quick, short answer was no. Sorting out Janus was something he needed to do for himself, not something to be dealt with for someone else. Those days were long gone.

  Atif was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t hear them coming, not until the slightly shorter one stumbled over some debris. Three men, all heavily built. Two the same height as he, the third, the one with a beard, a bit shorter. Atif put his hands in his pockets, then realized that the switchblade was in the door compartment in the car.

  “Atif Kassab?” the beard asked.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “We’ve got a little message for you.” The man grinned.

  The other two men had split up, trying to cut off his escape routes. The beard grinned again, then extended a telescopic baton with one hand. Atif took a deep breath and lowered his shoulders. If the men had been professionals, they would be all over him already. Making the most of the element of surprise, as well as their numerical advantage, to inflict maximum damage. Which meant that they were just three tough guys, presumably not particularly used to working in a team.

  One of the two taller men took a couple of quick paces forward. The kick was hard and surprisingly high considering the man’s size, but Atif had no trouble dodging it. The other, slightly heavier man realized that the fight had started without him. He lowered his head and charged like a bull straight at Atif.

  Atif knocked the man’s arms away, pushed back against the wall, then, at the precise moment of collision, he pushed the fingers of his left hand into the man’s face and let him impale himself. He felt something soft give way beneath his middle finger and heard the man roar with pain.

  The other man, who was holding his arms in front of him, Muay Thai style, raised his leg for another kick. Atif shoved the heavier man straight at him.

  The kick struck Atif on the shoulder, then slid up and hit his left ear. Something white exploded inside his head.

  He heard the sound of bodies hitting the ground and staggered forward, blinking hard to get his sight back. He saw movement on the ground and stamped on it with full force. He felt something crunch beneath him.

  The baton hit him across his left shoulder blade. The pain rose to a six. Hard, but not enough to knock him out of the game. Atif angled his arm up to protect his head. The second blow came lower but hit his back and ribs rather than his kidneys. A weak seven. Atif moved out of range of the baton.

  The Thai boxer was getting to his feet. Atif aimed a kick at the man’s temple. He misjudged the distance and hit his nose instead. The man fell backward, pulled his legs up, and rolled out of the way.

  For a couple of seconds everything stopped as they all looked at one another. The only sounds were heavy breathing and the sniffs and groans of the fattest one as he tried to crawl away. One down, two left.

  Atif decided to switch strategy. Instead of waiting for another attack he charged straight at the man with the beard. The maneuver took the man by surprise, and he couldn’t decide whether to use the baton or jump out of the way before Atif rammed him in the chest.

  They fell to the floor. Atif felt hands clawing at his face, trying to get at his eyes. He grabbed the man’s hair, pulled his head up, then slammed it down against the ground as hard as he could. Once, twice. He felt the man’s body go limp.

  He didn’t see the kick coming, just felt it as it hit his head. He fell to the side, the room lurched, the sky and concrete floor changed places. Atif curled into a ball, protecting his head as best he could. He made sure he rolled to the right, toward the wall. That bought him a couple of seconds’ breathing space. He saw the Thai boxer raise his leg, then pushed off against the wall, rolling straight at the man’s foot. His leg buckled and he fell backward.

  Atif got to his feet. His left arm was practically useless, and he was still seeing double. The pain was rising to an eight. He needed to bring this to a conclusion.

  He felt something round under his foot and thought at first that he was standing on someone’s finger, then saw that it was
something else entirely. The Thai boxer was wiping his face with the back of his hand to get rid of the blood pouring from his nose, and Atif seized the chance to bend down and pick up the object behind his back.

  He clutched the handle, then let his useless left hand hang down by his body as he raised his chin.

  The Thai boxer took the bait. He stood up on his toes, then gracefully raised his right leg. Atif was waiting for the kick. When it came he swung the baton around in his right hand and brought it down as hard as he could on the man’s shinbone. The Thai boxer fell flat on the floor. Atif was already halfway toward the door when the man started to scream.

  THIRTY

  “Minister, how good of you to come. And so nice to meet you again, Mrs. Stenberg.”

  “Your Excellency,” Stenberg said to the ambassador as they shook hands.

  “I hope we can dispense with formalities. After all, we have known each other a long time now, even if it’s been a while.” The tall, thin-haired man in a dinner jacket smiled warmly.

  “Of course.” Stenberg smiled. And now you’re going to babble about what a talented colleague I was.”

  “As you know, Mrs. Stenberg, Jesper was one of my very best prosecutors at the tribunal. It was already very obvious that he was going to go far.”

  “That’s lovely to hear.” Karolina took the elderly man under the arm. “Do tell me more, Your Excellency. Jesper and I really do miss those days in the Hague. The Netherlands is a wonderful country. Perhaps we could start by getting something to drink?”

  Stenberg gave his wife a grateful look as she carefully steered the talkative old man toward the bar. He was good at this sort of occasion. He could do the small talk, he knew all the little codes, how to work a room. But Karolina was in a different league altogether; she was a full-blooded professional. He had learned all he knew from her. Her grandfather had been foreign minister, after all, and no doubt her dad, Karl-Erik, would end up as an ambassador, just like all the other loyal old servants of the party.

  Stenberg looked toward the door and received a short nod from the Security Police officer who had accompanied him to the embassy, but didn’t bother to respond.