His phone started to ring, interrupting his thoughts. It made him think of Tindra and Cassandra. He rushed over to the door and dug his phone out from his jacket pocket. The pain was making his temples throb. But the screen was dark.
There was a second ring, and he realized that the sound wasn’t coming from his phone but Pitbull’s. He found the right pocket, opened the phone, and pressed Answer. Number withheld.
“Hello?” he said.
But the person at the other end had already hung up.
THIRTY-TWO
“Freddie’s typing the numbers in now.” Natalie held her hand over the phone as she turned toward Sarac.
The code was actually childishly simple. Deduct the line number from all the digits on even lines and add it to the digits on odd lines. And hey, presto, the numbers turned into ID numbers. People born between 1968 and 1981.
“Okay, are you ready, here comes the first result,” Natalie said in a tense voice. “Brian Hansen, born 1975 in Bromma. Details confidential.”
She wrote the name down, her pen scratching on the cheap paper. The scraping sound made him think of falling snow. Sarac’s eyes flashed. A face, a thickset man with cropped hair, a snake tattoo. A voice that was surprisingly high-pitched.
I was thinking of suggesting a deal.
The man in the snow-covered car. Brian Hansen! He felt his heart pound, pumping adrenaline faster and faster through his body.
“What exactly does ‘details confidential’ mean?” Natalie said into the phone. “That your records aren’t shown in public registers,” she repeated, looking at Sarac.
“Can anyone have that?” she asked.
There was a short pause while the man on the other end answered.
“On appeal, if there’s a clear threat. Abused women, politicians, some police officers,” Natalie summarized. “But most people whose records are confidential are—”
“Criminals,” Sarac said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“That’s right.” Natalie looked at him. She was frowning slightly.
“So that’s all? We can’t get anything but his name?” she said to the man on the other end. He said something that made her expression change. She looked much more serious. “Ah, okay. No. We won’t get much further there, then.”
“Why not?” Sarac said.
Natalie held the phone away from her mouth and looked at him before she replied.
“Because Brian Hansen’s dead. He died on November twenty-third. The same night you—”
“Crashed,” Sarac said. He shut his eyes again.
“Does it say how he died? He was only, what? Not quite forty,” Natalie said into the phone.
Sarac thought he knew the answer, but obviously he couldn’t say anything. Nor, apparently, could the Tax Office computer.
“Oh well, forget him then,” Natalie said impatiently. “Try the next number instead. Selim Markovic, born 1978 in Spånga.” She made a note of the name, giving Sarac a quick sideways glance.
He took a deep breath, then leaned his head in his hands. He could see a thick yellow padded jacket in front of him, and inside it a twitchy little man with a downy mustache, talking on a phone. The man from his dream.
Hey, Erik J., long time no see!
“And he’s dead too?” Natalie asked. “Just last week,” she added, looking at Sarac. “He was even younger. This seems bloody weird. Shame it doesn’t say how they died. Hang on a bit, Freddie, I’ll call you back!”
She ran out of the room, over to her rucksack by the door. She returned with her laptop.
“Let’s see. November twenty-third, criminal, man, dead, Stockholm.”
Natalie typed the information into the search engine and pressed Enter. She read the screen, then clicked on something with the mouse.
“Here,” she said. “It’s from the Aftonbladet website the same night.”
She turned the screen so Sarac could see.
Criminal found murdered in Gamla stan.
The picture showed a snow-covered car that he recognized instantly. The back window was covered in an orange health service blanket. A short distance away on the sidewalk he could make out the backs of what looked like a group of young people.
“It’s impossible to be certain, but all the details fit.”
Sarac said nothing. All he could think about was Brian Hansen. His high-pitched voice, the smell of his fear. The bullet throwing his head forward against the dashboard.
“Let’s try the other date.” Natalie typed the details in. It took considerably longer this time.
“Okay, this one’s harder. There’s nothing that resembles what happened in Gamla stan. But Freddie said it’s the day someone is declared dead that counts as the date of death. In which case this might fit.” Natalie turned the screen toward Sarac again.
Dead man found in water by Riddarholmen.
The picture showed a dark-colored van and some firemen lifting a bright yellow bundle onto a stretcher. One of the firemen seemed to be looking away, as if he’d rather not be there.
“Well, I don’t know,” Natalie said. “But at least the date fits.”
“It’s him,” Sarac said.
“Are you sure?” Natalie’s voice sounded excited. “How can you know?”
“I just do, okay,” he snapped.
They fell silent. Sarac massaged his temples, trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. And failed utterly.
How can you know? That was the million-dollar question.
“Shall I call Freddie about the other numbers?” Natalie was looking at him.
“Sure,” he muttered. He was trying to get rid of the mental image of Markovic’s downy face. He had to move on, get hold of more pieces of the puzzle, try to put them together. There was a bigger picture here, far bigger than two dead men. Something he couldn’t quite grasp yet. What he needed was a corner piece, something he could work outward from. But right now he couldn’t see anything like that.
“Hi, it’s me again. Can we run through the rest?” Natalie said into the phone.
Her pen scratched on the paper.
“Number three is a Pasi Arvo Lehtonen, born 1981. No protected address this time. Lives at number 62 Roslagsgatan.
“Or rather, lived,” she added, glancing at Sarac. Holding the phone between her ear and her shoulder, she typed something into her laptop. Then turned the screen toward Sarac without saying anything.
Man murdered in Vasastan
A 33-year-old man has been found murdered in a basement at number 62 Roslagsgatan. The man was already known to the police for a number of petty offenses. The police have not yet released any details, but a source close to the investigation has told Aftonbladet that they are looking for a large man in dark clothing who was seen leaving the scene.
Sarac shut his eyes and tried to conjure up an image of Lehtonen, but didn’t manage as well as with the other two. An image of a dragon came into his head. Then something about dogs. He leaned back into the sofa. His eyes wandered toward the veranda window. Out to the garden, across the snow-covered lawn, and down toward the shadows.
• • •
Atif woke up midbreath. The cheap sheets were sticking to his body, and his arm and chest were throbbing with pain. He had been dreaming about Adnan, and Tindra. He had dreamed that someone had taken her, snatching her out of Cassandra’s arms without his being able to do anything to stop it. A man with two faces . . .
“It’s all your fault!” Cassandra had screamed at him in the dream. Now, in hindsight, he realized that the voice wasn’t quite right. It sounded more like his mother’s voice.
He felt a wave of nausea rising through his body. He just made it into the little bathroom before he threw up.
Damn, he really shouldn’t have held back from getting medical treatment. He could have come up with some story and got a dose of penicillin, maybe a tetanus jab as well. He coughed and felt it stab in his chest. He cleared his throat and spat. Blood. Not much, but enough
to worry him. He needed to get hold of a doctor, and soon. He’d just have to risk it.
Pitbull’s cell phone was on the little desk in the hotel room, plugged into a pirate charger Atif had picked up cheaply. The screen was dark, but when he touched it a message appeared.
From: Rico
I’m on my way home. Green light?
Atif weighed the phone in his hand, thinking. Pitbull had called Rico from Thailand, just hours after Bakshi had given him the all-clear. Because the number belonged to a pay-as-you-go phone he hadn’t been able to trace it. Instead he had focused on the gym, but that hadn’t led him anywhere.
He looked at the screen again. And decided to set a trap.
Green light. Have you heard from Erik J’s mate?
He pressed Send. The answer popped up after something like thirty seconds.
Not since he rang.
Atif felt his pulse rate increase. Rico, whoever he was, knew both Erik J. and his mysterious friend. He could lead him deeper into the web, closer to Janus. All he had to do was get hold of Rico.
He fought the impulse to call the number. And did some more thinking instead.
Ok, call me when you’re back in the city, got more to tell you.
Rico’s response came even quicker this time.
OK c u soon!
THIRTY-THREE
“Okay, the Tax Office VPN has let him in again at last. Freddie’s dug up the last two numbers.”
Natalie waved her cell phone toward Sarac before returning to the conversation. They had been waiting almost three hours. Natalie had made lunch, but neither of them had been able to do it justice. Three names on the Janus list were ticked off, all of them dead, and none of them from natural causes. Two names remained, two people who, unlike the others on the list, might be able to provide some answers instead of just more questions. Maybe even the corner piece he needed to be able to make sense of the puzzle.
Natalie put her pen down and stood up. She took a few steps out into the hall as she muttered something that, to judge by her tone of voice, was private. She was probably thanking him for his help and promising some sort of favor in return. Sarac turned away and made an effort not to eavesdrop.
Natalie returned a minute or so later.
“They both seem to be alive,” she said, and Sarac found himself feeling relieved.
“The first ID number belongs to an Erik I. Johansson. Anyone you remember?”
Sarac sat in silence, waiting for his brain to find the right pathway. Show him a face. But nothing happened. What appeared instead was a strong sense of unease. He shook his head. “No address?”
“No, his details are protected as well. All that’s there is an ID number and a name. No other information, other than the fact that he was born in this country and hasn’t been declared dead. Can’t even find out what the I. of his middle name stands for. According to Freddie, Erik Johansson is a combination of two of the most common first and last names in Sweden, so this guy really is pretty anonymous.”
Sarac looked away. For a moment he thought he could feel that indistinct buzzing in his head. But Erik I. Johansson’s face remained hidden.
“What about the last name, then?” he muttered.
“Erico Sabatini, lives on Södermalm. Still alive and well, like Johansson, at least according to the computer.”
This time a face popped up straightaway. Thin hair, pointed nose, and alert eyes. But it didn’t stop there. Sarac realized that he knew Erico Sabatini fairly well. Family, leisure interests, private matters. All of a sudden Sarac was struck by a new realization, as if something important was close to revealing itself to him. Five names, three of them already dead. Two still alive. Erik I. Johansson and Erico Sabatini.
“I have to go over there. Right away. Can you give me a lift?” Sarac said.
“Shouldn’t you call someone? Your friend Peter?” Natalie said.
Sarac shook his head. “I need to go on my own. He only trusts me. Can you give me a lift or not?”
“Sure.” Natalie shrugged her shoulders. She was trying not to seem too enthusiastic. “There’s a ferry in ten minutes, we can make it if we hurry.”
• • •
“Okay, that’s that, then.” The doctor stood and held out his hand to Atif. “The injection I’ve given you ought to stop any infection, and you can pick up the prescription at the nearest drugstore. But if you start to feel worse, go to the emergency room at once.”
Atif cut across the little snow-covered parking lot. He hadn’t been followed, he was sure of that. Just to be sure, he had checked the car. In spite of the pain he was in, he had made himself crawl underneath it to make sure no one had attached a GPS tracker to it.
The acetaminophen was keeping his fever under control, the pain was hovering around a five, and the penicillin the doctor had prescribed would hopefully stop him from coughing up blood. All this—health center, doctor, and drugstore—was a risk. His ID number would show up in one or more computer systems. For that reason he had picked a health center a long way from the shabby hostel he had moved into. If he got everything out of the way quickly enough, no one would be able to spot him before he was back in bed. As soon as the medicine started to work and he had time to recover a bit, he was thinking of resuming the chase.
He heard his phone start to ring the moment he closed the car door. He fumbled through his coat pockets, but his feverish brain made him get out his own cell phone rather than Pitbull’s.
1 missed called from Rico, the screen said when he finally pulled it out. Damn!
Atif sat there for a few moments, considering his next move. Phoning back was a bad idea, he had no idea what Pitbull’s voice sounded like, and it was pretty likely he’d be uncovered before he managed to find out anything. Instead he wrote another text message.
Can’t talk now, are you back?
Atif pressed Send, then looked at the time. Almost forty minutes had passed since the nurse typed his ID number into the computer. High time he got away from there.
The cell phone buzzed. Rico was quick to reply.
Central Station. I’ll call when I get home.
Atif put his seat belt on. It was at least a thirty-minute drive to the Central Station, there was no way he’d get there in time. Besides, he had no idea what Rico looked like. Better to wait, pick up the prescription from the drugstore, and try to figure out where the guy lived. He was about to turn the key in the ignition when Pitbull’s cell phone began to ring noisily.
Rico calling.
Goddamn it, he’d only just texted!
Atif stared at the phone, then at the time. The fever was making his head throb and the tinny noise of the phone wasn’t helping. He picked it up to reject the call.
A large man in a beaver-skin hat and a thick winter coat was walking across the parking lot. He was holding a small boy by the hand, and something about the pair’s movements made Atif’s feverish brain click into action. The boy was struggling, trying to pull loose. Pitbull’s cell phone was still ringing, but the sound suddenly seemed very distant.
“But I don’t want to!” he thought he could hear the boy say.
“You’re not well, Adnan, and when you’re not well you have to go to the doctor’s,” Atif mumbled. “I promised Mom . . .”
The ringing stopped abruptly. The boy and man passed. Atif gulped, then looked down at his hand. The screen was illuminated, the line was open. He must have pressed the wrong button. Damn it!
He ought to hang up and go back to texting. But instead he put the phone to his ear. Waited.
No one said anything.
All he could hear was a faint scraping sound, then a heavy thud. Somewhere in the background was the rumbling sound of indistinct voices. It took a few seconds before Atif realized he was listening to a call made by mistake. Rico must have put his phone back in his pocket after the first call and managed to press the Redial button.
He pressed the phone to his ear, trying to make out as much as possible a
s he looked at the time once more. High time to get going. But he couldn’t drive off now. The sound of the engine would make it impossible to hear anything going on on the other end of the line. The muttered conversation at the other end was still going on, only interrupted by more scraping sounds, presumably as the phone bounced around in Rico’s pocket.
In the distance Atif could hear a siren, and at first he thought it was coming from the phone. Then he realized it was coming from outside and was getting louder. He put his hand back on the ignition key. His heart was pounding faster in his chest, making the fever feel even worse.
The sirens were getting closer. If he was the one they were after, they’d fall silent any moment. They never kept their sirens on all the way, because obviously they didn’t want to scare off whomever they were after. He looked around and discovered the entrance to a narrow bike lane at the other end of the parking lot. A loud crackle on the phone made him hold it away from his ear. The sirens were getting even closer.
Atif took a deep breath, then turned the key one notch. The voices over the phone were suddenly clearer, as if someone were taking the phone out of the pocket. He pressed the cell phone to his ear. He thought he could hear a car door closing.
“. . . ergsgatan 48,” he managed to catch. Then another voice repeating the address. He guessed it was a taxi driver. There was another scraping sound, and the line went dead. At that moment the sirens fell silent.
Atif started the engine, put the car in gear, and pressed his foot to the floor. There was a barrier blocking half the bike lane, a metal post bent into the shape of a large letter P. Atif had seen that sort of barrier before and had an idea that they were designed to give way if the fire brigade needed to get through. He clutched the steering wheel and hoped he was right.
The left wing of the car hit the barrier, the wheel jolted, and he was through. The bike lane led straight into a residential area and ran along a line of neatly trimmed hedges before emerging into a park. Beyond some trees he could see a main road.
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