He straightened up and was just about to raise his hand to request a refill when the bartender placed another drink in front of him.
“Thanks, Noa,” he mumbled. He surprised himself by managing to remember the bartender’s name.
His mind was in a state of total confusion. Pretty much like his life. The more he dug about for the person he had been, the less he liked the results. The list of people he had betrayed was getting longer and longer. Bergh, Molnar, the guys on the team, himself, his sources, even Janus. Why the hell couldn’t he have lost his memory completely? A total reformat, like the laptop in the desk drawer? Or, possibly even better, why hadn’t he died on the spot. Both alternatives felt more appealing than the inferno in which he found himself right now.
What the fuck had he been up to? Had he started the whole Janus project simply in order to sell out his infiltrator to the highest bidder when the price rose high enough? In the end it always comes down to money, doesn’t it, David? Or was his name really Erik these days?
The room was gradually filling with people. Most of them were men, and apart from him there wasn’t a single one under forty. But more and more women started to appear, all of them in their twenties, which seemed to suggest that they worked for the club.
He recognized several of the men. Business leaders, politicians, even a television presenter. A couple of them nodded in his direction and he returned the greeting. The music that had been whispering in the background was turned up. Club jazz of some sort. Soporific hypnotic tunes that were making him sleepy.
The woman who had met him at the elevator appeared at his table.
“Excuse me, Mr. Johansson, but I just wanted to let you know that we have a free massage session available, if you’re interested. Rio has had a cancellation, and you usually . . .”
Without knowing why, Sarac nodded mutely. He allowed himself to be led through the room to a row of doors on the far side of the elevators. He stepped through one of them and found himself in a room with heavy velvet curtains covering the window. Scented candles were spreading a smell of sandalwood around the room. Sarac took off his clothes and sat down on the massage table in the middle of the floor. He wrapped a thick white towel around his waist.
He hadn’t drunk any alcohol since the crash. The smell, the music, the subdued lighting, everything merged together to form a pleasant, numb daze. He lay down on his stomach and closed his eyes. He heard the door open gently.
“I was starting to think you’d forgotten me, Erik.” The voice was soft, familiar, in a vaguely erotic way.
The warm oil made him start. Her hands were soft but firm at the same time. They soon found the tension in his neck and shoulders. And eased it, little by little. She seemed to know exactly how much he could take, skillfully keeping him balanced on the boundary between pleasure and pain.
He gulped and tried to gather his thoughts. He failed. He felt his erection creeping up on him. The music continued, then formed familiar words.
Odds for a christening, and evens, a wedding day . . .
He realized that he was groaning with pleasure, gently pressing his hips into the table.
“Turn over,” she said in a low voice.
He did as he was asked but kept his eyes closed. He only opened them when she gently ran her hands over the scars on his chest. She was beautiful, more beautiful than he had remembered. His erection was straining under the towel, uncontrollably.
I owe everything
Debts I can’t escape till the day I die.
“I . . .” he murmured, making a halfhearted attempt to lift himself up.
“Shh . . .” she whispered, pushing him back down. “You know the rules, Erik, no talking.” Her fingers were moving in slow, teasing circles over his stomach. Getting closer to the edge of the white towel.
He shut his eyes again, and the alcohol and music gradually encouraged his mind to slow down. He focused on enjoying the sensation of her touch, almost as if he were in a trance.
I am Erik Johansson, he thought as she slowly loosened the towel. He noted how the voice inside his head changed tone.
Erik I. Johansson, the man who doesn’t exist. Suspected murderer, corrupt police officer, treacherous friend. Junkie, liar, john.
I live on the edge, balancing on the high wire. And I love it.
• • •
“John, it’s Jesper Stenberg.”
“Jesper, how nice of you to find time for me at last.”
Stenberg considered maintaining the mask, going through the usual pleasantries before approaching the subject. Then he decided to abandon protocol.
“What the hell are you playing at, John?”
“You mean my informal little chat with Carina LeMoine? Yes, I thought that might get your attention. She’s a smart woman, she’ll go far. And she’s a lawyer.”
Stenberg could almost see John Thorning’s self-satisfied smile at the other end of the line.
“You’ve been avoiding me, Jesper. You haven’t returned my calls.”
“Well, John, I did explain to you how sensitive this is.”
“Exactly, Jesper. It’s all very sensitive, and that’s why the easiest option for you is to lie low. Wait a few months and hope that I get tired. So I thought I’d save us both time and energy by letting you know in simple, unequivocal terms that that isn’t going to happen. In fact I’m actually starting to doubt that you’ve done anything at all for me and Sophie. That your promises aren’t worth very much, and that I might have actually backed the wrong horse.”
John Thorning paused, leaving his words hanging in the air. Stenberg didn’t imagine he was serious. That he would sacrifice his own Minister of Justice just like that. The problem was that Stenberg couldn’t afford to call his bluff. Sure, he could carry on regardless. Ignore the opinion of the Bar Association. But that would make everything much more difficult. The Association would pull all the strings at its disposal to stop his ideas, write articles, put pressure on its contacts in parliament, not to mention when the proposal was put out to review. There was no doubt that John Thorning had enough muscle to make his life seriously difficult. And the old man seemed to be back on form now.
“John, you’ve got the wrong end of the stick entirely.” Stenberg shut his eyes, trying to make his voice sound calm. “Like I said, we put one of our best detectives on the case. Trained by the FBI—she’s done service abroad. We chose her to get an entirely fresh pair of eyes.”
He pursed his lips. Realized he shouldn’t really be saying any of this but that he didn’t exactly have much choice.
“She identified a few things that seemed strange. Among other things she found a tiny fragment of glass with blood on it. We’re still waiting for the test results.”
Stenberg took a deep breath.
“The reason I haven’t wanted to say anything is that I didn’t want to raise your hopes. In all likelihood the blood is Sophie’s own.” He fell silent and realized he was holding his breath.
“Where?” John Thorning said after a brief pause.
“Sorry?”
“Where was the piece of glass found, Jesper?”
“Under the island unit in the kitchen. It had got stuck in one of the cracks in the floor.”
Stenberg could see it all before him. The way he had stood on the piece of glass, then pulled it out of his foot. The way it had bounced a couple of times, sliding over the shiny floor, under the kitchen unit, and finally slipping into the crack. He took a deep breath and started again. He put Sophie in his place. Imagined that she was the one who stood on the glass as she rushed after him. That helped a bit.
“How long?” John Thorning said. His voice was milder now, less aggressive.
“The glass fragment is at the National Forensics Laboratory now, and we have to wait for them to follow their usual procedures,” Stenberg said. “If we put pressure on them to prioritise this particular sample . . .”
“We’d arouse unnecessary curiosity,” Thorning concluded.
“Exactly.” Stenberg did his best to sound detached. “A week or so more, John, I can’t imagine we’re talking about any longer than that. But I promise to get in touch as soon as we hear anything.”
There was silence on the line, and for a moment Stenberg wondered whether the old man had hung up. Then he heard noise again.
“Okay. Let’s say that, Jesper.”
The call ended. Stenberg put the phone down and resisted the urge to go and wash his hands.
John Thorning wasn’t going to give up until he saw a written report about the new investigation. Proof that they really had tried to do as he wanted. The forensic test was actually perfect, because it showed that they really had looked under every stone. The problem was that the result had to prove with one hundred percent certainty that the blood was Sophie’s. But, as with so much else, it was all a matter of focusing on the ultimate goal. Not letting thoughts of failure enter your head.
The test result wasn’t a problem. It would come back with a clear indication that the blood belonged to Sophie, and then his old mentor would owe him a large favor in return. Speaking of which . . .
He leaned across the desk and pressed the intercom. “Jeanette, can you send Wallin in, please?”
• • •
Stenberg leaned back in his chair and looked up at the Bobby Kennedy quote. He thought about Karolina, and all the sacrifices she had made in order for him to be sitting behind this desk.
“I can’t shake the feeling that Stockholm is trying to get one over on us,” he said as soon as Wallin had shut the door. “That all this business with David Sarac and his memory loss is just a smokescreen. A way for them to sweep things under the carpet. To send their infiltrator abroad and get rid of all the evidence before either we or the internal investigators manage to find anything.”
Wallin nodded. “Yes, I’ve been thinking much the same thing. There are rumors suggesting that District Commissioner Swensk is prepared to sacrifice Bergh, and probably Sarac as well, in order to limit the damage. Of course you know that she and Carina LeMoine are close. They studied law together, and they’re both on the board of the Women’s Network in Stockholm.”
Stenberg stood up and went over to the window.
“What do you think about the chances of bugging Sarac’s phone?” he said.
Wallin shrugged his shoulders. “His official cell phone’s gone, and we haven’t got a current number for him.” He thought for a moment. “But Sarac’s very close to his former boss, a man called Molnar. If anything were to happen, he’d probably get in touch with him.”
Stenberg said nothing, just raised his eyebrows in a pointed way.
“Phone tapping would require authorization by a prosecutor. We’d have to set up a preliminary investigation,” Wallin said.
“But of course there are always less formal solutions to that problem,” he added. “Although of course those involve an element of risk.”
Stenberg looked out the window, his eyes resting on a seagull that was hovering against the backdrop of gray cloud. The bird was using the wind to hang almost motionless between heaven and earth.
“Have you tried tightrope walking, Oscar?” he said, without turning around. “The trick is not to look down. Not to even entertain the possibility that you might fall.”
FORTY-SIX
“Hello, it’s Atif.”
“Atif, how nice to hear from you.”
“Is this line secure, Hunter?”
“Of course.”
“Two things,” Atif said. “One: I accept your proposal. I’ll take care of everything as soon as you’ve questioned Janus. Make sure he disappears for good.”
“Excellent! And the second thing?”
“I need a car, and a gun,” Atif said.
“We’ve actually already thought of that,” Hunter said.
• • •
When Sarac slipped out the door night had long since fallen. The traffic on Kungsgatan was sparse and there were only a few people about. A sudden impulse made him turn right and head up the flight of steps leading to Malmskillnadsgatan. He kept stopping to catch his breath but found he could move more easily than he expected. His right leg felt almost completely okay. As if the alcohol, massage, and what had happened after that had changed him. Turned him into someone else.
He felt ashamed, of course, but considerably less than he ought to. Part of his brain was still enjoying the fleeting sensation he had experienced up there. The feeling that he could do almost anything, without having to worry about the consequences.
He could recall much more now. He remembered plenty of nights spent up there among the clientele of the exclusive club. Friendship through secrets, invisible contracts. Life as Erik I. Johansson had been a game, a balancing act on a high wire that he had mastered for months, possibly even years. Until he had looked down and become aware of the abyss awaiting him beneath his feet.
The role had suited him perfectly, he just had to look at the bank statement to see that. Going through money like water. Drinks, dinners, and the other more discreet pleasures available in the private parts of the club.
There must have been a purpose to the role-playing at first. Recruiting new sources, key people in senior positions who could be useful—if not now, then at some point in the future. But as time went on he had lost his focus. Gradually erased the lines between right and wrong. Teamed up with Crispin so he could carry on living as Erik Johansson. Presumably he had started small, handing over discreet tips about people and addresses that were under surveillance. Then he had found himself on a slippery slope. He had become a mole, an infiltrator with conflicting loyalties. The handler who was being handled.
Police officer, snitch, mole, junkie, and evidently also a john. What a fantastic combination! It was hardly surprising that he kept feeling guilty, in spite of the chasm running through his brain.
Was that why drugs had come into the picture, to subdue his conscience? Or had the drugs been the reason why he needed more money? If Crispin was right, he had been prepared to commit the ultimate betrayal. Giving them Janus, his very best source. Could he have been that desperate?
Reality and performance, truth and lies—everything was blurring. Forming a web he didn’t seem able to escape from. And right at its center the spider was waiting for him. Nursing its secret.
Sarac reached St. Johannes Church and began to cut across the churchyard. He followed the snow-cleared path between the graves without really knowing where he was going. He needed air, he needed to clear his head before he returned to his lair.
The sound of a car door made him start. Probably a curb crawler dropping off one of the few prostitutes who hadn’t yet migrated to the Internet and was therefore still hanging around Malmskillnadsgatan. He turned around and saw the rear lights of a car as it drove off.
A faint movement off to the right caught his attention. It looked as if there was someone standing among the trees about three hundred feet away. Sarac felt his heart start to beat faster. The figure was standing there motionless and could easily have been a statue or a tall headstone that his brain had turned into something else.
But then he saw a tiny point of light. It vanished as soon as it appeared, but Sarac was still sure he had seen correctly. The glow of a cigarette.
Sarac turned around and started to walk toward the steps leading up to the church. He had to make an effort not to run. A new sound, a bird crowing. Sarac glanced back over his shoulder. The figure among the trees was gone.
He pricked his ears, trying to make out any other sounds. But apart from the distant rumble of traffic all he could hear was his own labored breathing as he struggled up the steps. The big, gothic brick church rose up in front of him. It had to be at least a hundred feet high, more like a cathedral than an ordinary church. Or a Carpathian castle from a vampire film.
He reached the top of the steps, stopped, and turned around. The churchyard seemed deserted. But he was still convinced there was someone t
here among the shadows. Someone who was watching him.
Fear was clenching his stomach and he forced himself to take some deep breaths. Then he started to jog toward the far corner of the churchyard.
Only when he emerged into the little street did he realize that he was in a dead end. To both right and left his way was blocked by tall buildings, and behind him was the dark churchyard.
But right in front of him a narrow path led between the buildings and ought to lead him down to the considerably busier Regeringsgatan. He’d be able to get a taxi there.
He glanced quickly over his shoulder, then set off as fast as he could. He was aiming for the light of the streetlamps some three hundred away. He turned around again. A shadowy figure with a hood over its head was emerging from the darkness of the churchyard behind him.
Sarac began to run. His body protested at once. He couldn’t stretch his right leg out properly and his breathing felt strained after just a dozen steps. He looked back again. The hooded man was gaining on him. Running with steady strides, just fast enough to avoid the risk of slipping on the icy ground. Sarac sped up, forcing his arms to help. His brain was trying to find a logical explanation for his panic. He tried to get his flight instinct under control but failed.
The little path came to an abrupt end. In its place was a sixty-five-foot drop, down which a flight of steps zigzagged toward Regeringsgatan.
Sarac tried taking two steps at a time. He felt tempted to jump the last of the first flight of steps but stopped himself at the last second. His shoes slipped on the loose grit on top of the ice and he almost lost his balance. He grabbed one of the iron railings, swung himself around to the right, and set off down the next flight.
The hooded man was about one flight behind him. Sarac lengthened his stride, taking three steps at a time. His right leg was wobbling badly, forcing him to keep one hand on the railing. He swung left and set off down the next set of steps. Not far to go now. But the hooded man was getting closer. Just before the last flight Sarac slipped, his right leg buckled, and his knee hit the ground.
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