The gun clicked and he automatically released the empty cartridge. His left hand was useless, so he held the pistol between his legs while he fumbled for the spare cartridge with his right hand.
Molnar stumbled toward him and fired a shot that passed just above Sarac’s head. Sarac managed to get hold of the cartridge and pushed it into his pistol. He spun the weapon around, aimed it straight at Molnar’s body, and released the safety catch. He pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
He hit the butt against his thigh and felt the cartridge click into place. He repeated the bolt action by pressing the top of the gun against his belt.
Molnar shot him from just ten feet away. The bullet hit him in the neck. His head fell to one side and blood gushed into his throat, leaving him gurgling for air.
Molnar was standing right above him.
“And where do you think you’re going, little David?” he slurred as he kicked Sarac’s gun away.
Half of Molnar’s top lip seemed to have been torn off in the explosion, transforming his expression into a macabre grin of perfect white teeth. Sarac spat out a mouthful of blood and tried not to glance toward the edge of the forest. He failed.
Molnar saw him looking. At first he stared up at the tall trees, then realized what Sarac had been looking at.
“Toward the exit!” he slurred triumphantly. “Of course!”
He walked past Sarac, toward the old concrete gateposts that marked the end of the garden. He squatted down between them with an effort and scraped away the snow. At the bottom of one of them a small, barely visible symbol was carved into the old concrete. Two ornate Js facing each other, forming two faces looking away from each other. Molnar pushed the snow aside and found a canvas flap that the cold had pushed up from the ground. He pulled at it, then started to laugh out loud.
“You followed the rules, David,” he said. “Obviously I should have realized. Hell, I’ve stood down here for hours keeping watch on you. And the answer was right under my nose the whole time. Janus, the god of transitions. Of doors, gates, portals.” Molnar leaned his head back and laughed again. A disconcertingly shrill sound that echoed between the trees.
The god who starts and ends all wars, Sarac thought. His head and body were aching, and his throat kept filling up, making it hard to breathe. He really ought to try to get to his feet and make a last attempt to stop Molnar.
But he realized that he’d never make it. Instead he slowly pulled himself up into a sitting position and leaned his back against one of the old apple trees, spitting out yet more blood. The exertion made his vision blur.
In just a few minutes he would be dead. Oddly enough, the thought made him feel something like relief. But he had one last thing to do. A mission to complete.
He clenched his right hand a couple of times, then carefully felt down his trouser leg.
Molnar was scraping the snow away between the gateposts and uncovering more black canvas. Then something that looked like a handle.
“You and the Duke and your fucking Roman gods.” He grinned. “Shall we place bets on whether I’m going to find a bank account number in the bag? Maybe even a card reader?”
• • •
Atif was walking slowly across the grass. He was treading carefully, as if he was trying to make sure he didn’t fall. He was following the tracks through the snow, just like Adnan had done when he was little.
His clothes were wet and he could feel blood running down one side.
“Nearly there, Adnan,” he muttered.
He saw David Sarac leaning against a tree. His face was white, his head was hanging at an odd angle. There were patches of red in the snow around him.
The other man was standing about thirty feet away. Atif recognized him now; it was the man he’d seen coming out of the door of Sarac’s building. Was he Janus? If Sasha was right, he wasn’t guilty of Adnan’s death. But Atif wasn’t about to take any risks. A psychopath like Sasha was capable of saying anything and making it sound believable. He hadn’t come this far only to abandon his mission.
Atif raised his pistol, feeling the pain getting steadily worse. An eight, close to a nine now.
The first bullet missed Atif by three feet or so. He carried on walking, waiting to shoot until he was sure of hitting his target. The man fired again, using one of the gateposts as a support. Another miss, but this time so close that Atif could feel the rush of air as it passed. He raised his gun and aimed.
The third bullet hit him below his ribs, making him stagger. Atif kept walking, forcing himself to hold his pistol hand up. The man’s weapon clicked and Atif saw him fumbling desperately for a fresh cartridge. He took a step, then another. The man clicked the new cartridge into place and raised his arm.
Atif shot him twice, in the center of his body. The man dropped his gun and slumped beside the gatepost. Atif carried on staggering forward and didn’t stop until he was holding the barrel of the pistol against the man’s head. He realized too late that it was a mistake. A millisecond before the blow hit him he noticed that the man was wearing a bulletproof vest.
Atif tumbled backward but managed to grab hold of a branch at the last minute and stay on his feet. The man kicked him in the thigh, making his leg buckle. Then he aimed a rock-hard right hook at Atif’s ear that brought him to his knees, and followed through with an elbow to his shoulder. Atif fell forward and ended up on all fours. He felt the ground lurch.
An arm tightened around his throat as a hand pushed hard at the back of his neck. He tried to break free and keep his airway open.
But it was too late. The man already had him in a stranglehold. Atif could hear the other man’s breath panting in his ear. He could almost smell the adrenaline coursing through his body. The scent of victory.
Atif twisted his head, trying to buy himself a few more seconds. His fingers felt along the outside of his shin, and he reached into the back of his boot. His fingers closed around the switchblade he had taken from Bakshi, and he pulled it out and opened the blade. At that moment his field of vision began to shrink and turn black. He tried to raise his arm but realized he didn’t have enough strength left.
• • •
Sarac rested his right hand against his knee. He drew as much air as he could into his lungs and closed his left eye before he squeezed the trigger of the revolver Bergh had given him.
There was still a bit of insulating tape stuck to its side, but that didn’t bother him. He waited until the bead was right in the middle of the notch, then pulled the trigger the rest of the way and shot Peter in the middle of his triumphant, mocking grin.
For a moment Molnar stood there with his arms around Atif’s neck. A hole had appeared in his perfect row of teeth. His eyes stared blankly at Sarac, as if he still couldn’t take in what had happened. Then he collapsed without a sound.
After a few moments Atif straightened up slightly. He took several gasping breaths, then slumped back against a tree, in the same posture as Sarac. On the ground beside him he found his pistol. He picked it up and closed his fingers around the butt. He found that it had got very heavy.
“Is that him?” Atif gestured with the barrel toward Molnar’s body. “Janus?”
Sarac shook his head, then cleared his throat and spat another mouthful of blood onto the white snow.
“So where is he, then?” Atif’s voice sounded weary.
“Everywhere.” Sarac waved his revolver in the air, then back toward the house.
Atif raised his pistol and aimed it at Sarac. Sarac immediately did the same to Atif. For a little while they just sat there, staring at each other above the barrels of their guns.
“One of the others,” Atif mumbled. “Which one?”
“You don’t get it.” Sarac coughed and spat out even more blood. “Janus isn’t one of them.”
“Who is he then? Tell me, for fuck’s sake!” Atif waved his pistol angrily. He noticed it was getting harder to hold. He stared at Sarac, then looked over toward the wrecked
house; the flames were leaping from the roof. High above them the clouds had eased slightly. Leaving a gap through which the stars were visible.
The god who starts and ends all wars, a voice said in his head. It sounded like Adnan’s.
And suddenly he understood, he understood how it all fit together. He realized to his own surprise that he was smiling. So smart, so utterly ingenious. And, at the same time—so incredibly cruel.
“You,” he muttered. “Y-you’re Janus. You, them, all of you—everyone. Together . . .”
Sarac smiled wryly. Blood was seeping from one corner of his mouth, forming little bubbles. The arm holding the revolver sank to the ground.
Atif lowered his gun, leaned his head back against the tree trunk, and started to laugh. A couple of seconds later Sarac joined in.
They were still laughing when Natalie found them. Hoarse, rattling laughter that had nothing at all to do with joy. They didn’t stop until she told them to shut up.
EPILOGUE
“So, how do we handle this, Minister?” Wallin was sitting in the armchair on the other side of Stenberg’s desk.
“Nine dead, another ten wounded, several of them police officers. The worst underworld shootout in Swedish history,” he said.
“We turn it to our advantage,” Stenberg said. “A sign of how organized crime is getting out of control. The police can’t handle it, they need more resources, better leadership.”
“And the police officers who were there, what about their involvement?” Wallin said.
“Well.” Stenberg made a small gesture with his hand. “That’s primarily the district commissioner’s problem. After all, they were her staff. At a guess, Eva Swensk will do what she usually does: blame everything on a few individuals and wash her lily-white hands of the whole business. I’d say her chances of succeeding are fairly high. Bergh has already had to resign, and David Sarac looks like an excellent candidate for the vacant role of scapegoat. Besides, he’d have trouble defending himself, wouldn’t he?”
“But Minister, surely you’re not thinking of letting Swensk get off that lightly?” Wallin sounded anxious.
Stenberg smiled and gave a little shrug of his shoulders. “Sometimes one has to reevaluate one’s position, Oscar. It’s all about alliances. I had a good meeting with Carina LeMoine this morning. Eva Swensk has strong support inside the party. Besides, as Carina pointed out, a female National Police Chief would undeniably make us look forward-thinking and progressive. In many ways it would make everything simpler. Favors given, favors received, that’s how things work.”
Wallin nodded and appeared to think hard for a few moments. Then he opened the folder he had placed on the desk between them. It contained two apparently identical forms with official-looking logos at the top.
“Speaking of which, Minister,” he said. “We’ve had the test results back from the National Forensics Lab. The blood found in Sophie Thorning’s apartment.”
“Oh,” Stenberg said, trying to keep his voice calm.
Wallin looked at his boss. Waited until the other man’s gaze wavered slightly. That told him all he needed to know. He took one of the forms out of the folder and pushed it across to Stenberg.
“The blood was hers,” he said. “So there’s no evidence at all to prove that anyone else was in the apartment when Sophie Thorning died.”
He paused and looked down at the almost identical form that was still in the folder. He waited long enough for Stenberg to look at it before slowly closing the folder.
“You’re quite right, Minister,” Wallin said. “Alliances are important. But one should never forget who one’s real friends are.”
Stenberg sat and looked at Wallin in silence for a few moments, then looked up at the Kennedy quote above the man’s head, the one his wife had given him. Finally he cast a quick glance at his Patek Philippe. For a brief instant he got the impression that the second hand was stuck.
“I understand,” he said in a toneless voice. “Thank you, Oscar.”
“Don’t mention it, Minister.”
Wallin stood up and walked toward the door.
“Oh, one more thing,” Stenberg said, trying to sound unconcerned. “What happened about that infiltrator? Did we ever find out who he really was?”
Wallin shook his head.
“No one we’ve questioned admits to knowing anything about Janus’s true identity. Nor anyone else, for that matter. He seems to have gone up in smoke. Almost as if he never existed . . .”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are always a lot of people involved in the creation of a book. Some are easy to thank: my family, editor, and agent. Or all the brilliant people who translate my stories into so many different languages. Others are more difficult to thank publicly, because I am unable for various reasons to identify them by their real names. But that doesn’t in any way diminish my gratitude for their help.
I would like to say a special thank-you to the popular psychologist Henrik Fexeus, who has taught me a lot about how easy it is to fool the human mind. For someone who knows its secrets, at least.
Anders de la Motte
New York, 2014
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