Joseph had long ago realised that his glory days were over. He would need to find something else soon. The worst thing was that many of his potential employers had disappeared in recent years. Gaddafi was gone, so was Mubarak. The Libyans had been the best, better than all the western powers put together. They were totally paranoid, and willing to pay for information that was so easy to come by.
Ali was meeting exiled Libyans.
Tarek had shown an interest in this group or that group.
Mahmed had spoken about Gaddafi’s sons in negative terms.
He had been able to exchange such banal nonsense for cash. He used to think that once upon a time he had had his very own sea, where he fished for people and information and sold them in his very own fish market.
Most of those he sold were guilty.
Hamid and Said were not.
They had been sold because he needed to deliver, and because they had humiliated him. He had been struggling; it had been difficult to come up with new names. Charles already knew about everyone he mentioned. The money dried up. He needed someone to sell, preferably someone really dangerous.
It had seemed like the perfect solution.
He told Charles that Hamid and Said were involved in the planning of a fresh attack on American soil. Charles had never heard of them. He had new names to work on, and Joseph had his revenge.
Hamid and Said had come to his home and humiliated him. Stolen from him. They didn’t seem to understand who he was, what kind of contacts he had. But he had shown them.
Afterwards he realised it had been a stupid thing to do. Those who paid him began to doubt him. Hamid and Said led nowhere. Of course. But he learned from his mistake; he didn’t do it again. He had thought it was forgotten, until the boy turned up.
Another mistake to correct, he thought. He got out of the car and walked round to the boot. Perhaps he should leave the boy where he was until Charles arrived. Just hand him over and drive away. That was how it worked; he never got blood on his hands. He simply delivered.
He lit a cigarette and looked over towards what had once been a firing range. Now it was an overgrown field, but the rusty metal stands to which the targets had once been attached were still there.
The boy should have come round by now. He moved closer and listened. Nothing. Joseph was a little concerned; he didn’t want to deliver a dead body. He opened the boot to see if the boy was all right.
The bullet hit his right shoulder just below the collarbone, and he fell backwards, completely taken by surprise. It didn’t hurt as much as he expected it to, but he could feel the blood soaking through his shirt. The boy jumped out and stood over him, waving something that looked like a toy gun. He fired another shot, but Joseph threw himself to one side and it missed. He hurled himself forward and grabbed hold of the boy with his left hand; his right hand didn’t seem to be working. He wrenched the gun from his grasp and it fell to the ground. The boy managed to kick Joseph’s wounded shoulder. It was incredibly painful, and he collapsed, screaming. With the last of his strength he grabbed the gun and pulled it towards him. He heard the sound of running feet, and when he managed to get to his knees, he saw the boy racing across the field towards the firing range.
‘I’ll get you, you little bastard!’ Joseph bellowed. ‘Just like I got your father!’
He pulled himself to his feet. The pain in his shoulder was much worse now, and he was finding it difficult to move his right hand at all. He picked up the little gun with his left hand; it didn’t look like much, but it would have to do. Suddenly he heard footsteps in the gravel and broken glass behind him. He raised the gun and turned around. It was Charles. He lowered the gun and pointed in the direction of the field.
‘He ran away.’
‘I saw him.’
Charles didn’t move. Joseph couldn’t understand it.
‘He’s getting away.’ He pointed to his bleeding shoulder. ‘You have to help me.’
Charles nodded and took a large black automatic pistol out of his waistband. It looked considerably more useful than the one Joseph was holding.
‘Of course I’ll help you,’ he said as he slipped off the safety catch. He set off towards the field, and Joseph let out a grateful sigh. Just as Charles was walking past, he paused.
‘But just so you know – this is the last time.’
He pressed the pistol against Mohammed Al Baasim’s head and fired. Twice.
The body had barely hit the ground before Charles was on his way, following Mehran.
He couldn’t have got very far.
They got stuck in traffic just before the Södertälje bridge. Roadworks had reduced the carriageway to one lane, and it took Jennifer several minutes to zigzag between the cars and get through. However, that wasn’t their biggest problem. Billy had lost the signal from Mehran’s mobile. Torkel was starting to get stressed.
‘Where did you last see it?’ he snapped.
‘On the E20, but either someone’s switched off the phone, or they’re in an area with poor coverage. I don’t know.’
‘Fuck!’
Torkel knew it wasn’t Billy’s fault, but it was a disaster; they were so close, and they had lost the trail. Jennifer was able to pick up speed again, and she glanced at him uncertainly.
‘Where am I going?’
‘Carry on towards the E20.’ He turned to Billy. ‘Show me the map; where was he when you lost him?’
Billy turned the screen around and pointed.
‘If the mobile’s dead and they’ve stayed on the E20, we’ve had it. Let’s hope they’ve turned off,’ Torkel said.
Billy understood his reasoning.
‘OK, so do we just guess where they’ve come off?’
‘Almnäs is around here somewhere,’ Jennifer said without taking her eyes off the road. ‘Where Charles did his military service,’ she clarified.
Torkel nodded and looked at the map again. Forest, lakes, and the odd place name. Almnäs. Just a few kilometres from the spot Billy had just indicated.
‘Worth a try,’ Billy said. ‘It’s the best we’ve got.’
‘Send for the helicopter,’ Torkel said. ‘It’s a big area; we’re going to need some help.’
‘I’m on it,’ Billy said, still focusing on the screen. No blue dot. They could only hope they had guessed right, and that they would get there in time.
Mehran heard the two shots and threw himself into a muddy ditch. At first he thought someone was firing at him, but when he cautiously raised his head to look, he saw another man striding towards him through the undergrowth in the fading twilight. He was wearing dark clothes and had cropped blond hair; he looked fit and muscular. A Swede, presumably. Mehran had never seen him before. He seemed to be carrying something – a gun? Mehran knew it couldn’t be anything else when he caught sight of Joseph’s motionless, contorted body lying next to the black car.
He slid back down into the ditch in a panic. The cold from the earth and mud quickly penetrated his clothes, but he had more important things to think about. He had to get out of there. Fast. There was a clump of trees a short distance away, and the forest took over perhaps fifty metres beyond that. It was his only chance; he had to get away from this open area and in among the trees, where there would be a lot more places to hide. He didn’t dare check to see how far the man had got; he simply started crawling, hoping he would be able to get close to the trees before he had to leave the protection of the ditch. The water was slimy and it stank, and the parts of the ground that weren’t wet were overgrown with long grass that was as sharp as a blade, making it difficult for him to make progress. He couldn’t get a grip; his feet kept slipping in the mud, and the struggle was exhausting. Suddenly he realised it wouldn’t be a good idea to move quickly anyway, because the long grass would sway, showing the man exactly where he was. Trapped. The man was bound to reach the ditch before Mehran reached the trees. He would be lying there among all the crap, and the man would find him. He had to take a bigger risk
if he was going to make it. He had to get up and run, hoping it would take a while for the man to spot him in the semi-darkness. He straightened up a fraction, got ready to go. Then he heard the man calling, much closer than Mehran had expected. And what was worse, he knew Mehran’s name.
‘Come on out, Mehran!’ he shouted, so loud that it echoed across the field. ‘I’m from the police!’
Mehran flattened himself, made himself as small as he possibly could.
‘It’s OK, Mehran. I want to help you.’
Mehran’s head was spinning. He didn’t understand this at all. How come the man knew who he was? Was that what Shibeka had meant when she mentioned the police? Had they come to help him? But how could they have found him here, in the middle of a field? Even he didn’t know where he was.
It couldn’t be true.
It was impossible.
Besides which, why would a police officer shoot Joseph twice?
He started crawling again, trying to use his legs to push himself forward. It was incredibly difficult. The mud sank down, giving him no purchase. His body was aching and his head was throbbing. The man was still shouting, getting closer and closer. Mehran tried to ignore the voice, block it out. Use it to gauge how far he was from the man, nothing more. He kept on going, but it was getting harder and harder. He hadn’t really recovered from the blow Joseph had delivered, and he felt dizzy, weak and sick. But he couldn’t give up; he had to find the strength, the adrenaline. The survival instinct.
Suddenly the shouting grew fainter; the man was moving away. It gave him a fresh burst of energy. Mehran went on, crawling, creeping; using his fingers and nails to drag himself along, pushing with his legs, his whole body screaming with pain. He was making progress, metre by metre. He hadn’t heard the man for a while; hopefully he was still moving in the other direction. He didn’t even have the strength to listen any more.
At last he saw the clump of trees straight in front of him. Just a little bit further. He decided to run the last few metres, in among the trees then on to the safety of the forest. He would run and run and never stop, away from this stinking ditch, from the grass that had torn his body to shreds. Just a little bit further, he said to himself. Just a tiny, tiny bit further.
You can do it, Mehran. You can do it.
He leapt out of the ditch; his legs didn’t give way, which surprised him. However, he was still feeling dizzy, and he soon lost his balance. Fell, got back up again. Kept on going. Gained control of his body. At least he didn’t need to use his aching arms any more, and as he picked up speed he felt as if there was more power in his legs than he had first thought. He heard the man shouting at him to stop, but Mehran didn’t turn around. He just ran and ran, as he had promised himself. He passed the clump of trees and kept on going, crossing the field beyond them, not far now. The forest was perhaps thirty metres away.
Still no sound of gunfire.
He might just make it.
He might just make it.
He didn’t see the hole until it was too late. Some kind of military defence, a trench or a rampart perhaps. He tried to jump over it, but lost his balance again on the other side and fell in. He landed awkwardly on one foot, and screamed in pain as it bent and snapped with a horrible noise. He collapsed in the bottom of the trench, trying not to cry out again. He didn’t want to make a sound, but he couldn’t help it. He was crying even though he didn’t want to, whimpering with pain even though he knew he mustn’t.
* * *
Charles saw the boy go down. He had been out here on exercises many times, and knew how difficult it was to see the trench when you were running; in the dark it was virtually impossible. Which was the whole idea, really; the enemy weren’t supposed to see it. One of his men had once made the same mistake when he was leading a platoon; those days felt like a different life, when the worst that could happen was someone getting injured during training.
He increased his speed; he could hear the boy crying. He seemed to be hurt, and would probably still be down there when Charles reached the ditch, but there were no guarantees. The boy seemed to be made of stern stuff. Just like his father.
* * *
He felt as if he was already lying in a grave. The rough moss-covered cement walls of the trench formed a rectangle, and up above he could see the black sky, dotted with the odd star now the sun had gone. Mehran almost felt the man’s shadow fall on him as he silently stepped forward. He could just make out a silhouette, a denser patch of darkness, standing up there looking down on him. Mehran watched as he slowly raised his gun.
This was his opportunity to find out the truth. Not all the details, perhaps, but the key points. His father’s death was linked to things he didn’t understand at all, but there was a connection. The inexplicable had been logical all along; it was just that he and Shibeka hadn’t had access to all the pieces of the puzzle. Now he had the most important piece. His father had died; he had been murdered for some reason. He hadn’t walked away from his family; he hadn’t stopped loving them and disappeared.
Mehran almost felt contented. That was the strange thing about death, he thought. You expected to be afraid of it, but instead it brought the knowledge of how things really were.
It would be very difficult for his mother. She would blame herself. He had the easy option. That was another truth: being left behind was the hardest thing of all. He knew that already.
He would be following in his father’s footsteps earlier than he had hoped. They would soon be reunited, he and Hamid. He wanted that and yet he didn’t, but it was no longer his choice.
However, Mehran had no intention of dying in tears. He didn’t want to give the man the satisfaction, but no matter how hard he tried to hold back those tears, he just couldn’t do it. He was sobbing with fear, but he wasn’t ashamed. Courage meant acting even though you were afraid.
‘What happened to my father?’ he yelled up into the darkness. The man didn’t answer.
He didn’t want to.
He couldn’t.
Charles looked down at the boy, lying amongst the stones and branches. It looked as if he had broken his leg, but still he refused to give up. He was crying, yet at the same time he was staring up at Charles with undisguised hostility. Strength. It always impressed him. The boy was so young, no more than a child really, and yet he was showing such fighting spirit.
He took aim, but suddenly hesitated.
Was he going to kill a child? Was that really where he had ended up?
This boy had been six years old when his father disappeared. And Simon had been six when he died.
Had Patricia Wellton hesitated before she shot him? Probably not; professionals like her never hesitated.
He was also a professional, but this time he wasn’t sure.
He was no common killer, he was just trying to close doors. Protect secrets. The boy asked about his father again; he deserved to know.
‘I’m afraid he’s dead. But you already knew that.’
The boy nodded, his expression even more hostile, if that were possible.
It could just as easily be Simon down there, Charles thought. He would be about the same age now as this boy. Fifteen, almost sixteen. Simon’s birthday was in November, 18 November. He wondered when Mehran’s birthday was.
Perhaps it wasn’t a coincidence that they were the same age. Perhaps that was what this was all about.
Seeing the consequences of one’s actions.
Realising at last that it was impossible to close any more doors. That the price was too high.
Suddenly Charles heard the sound of a helicopter, approaching fast. He could tell it was a Eurocopter EC135, a police chopper. It would be right above him in less than two minutes.
It was over. They were going to catch him, so what did it matter if the boy was dead or alive? It mattered to him.
Killing a child when everything was already lost.
That didn’t make him a protector.
That didn’t make him a s
oldier.
That made him a monster.
He lowered the gun, jumped over the trench and ran towards the forest. He would follow it back to the car in a wide circle, remaining outside the police’s sphere of operations with a bit of luck. There was a chance. But if they caught him . . . if they talked about him afterwards they would say how evil he was, what a terrible person. They would call him a psychopath. Charles didn’t care. He had done what he had done for the things he believed in. War was war; sacrifices were necessary. Everyone wanted a good, free society, but no one was prepared to pay for it.
Would they remember that he had let the boy live? Would they see a spark of goodness in that? Probably not.
But it didn’t matter.
He would know that he wasn’t a monster.
* * *
Torkel, Billy and Jennifer jumped out of the car and drew their guns. It was Jennifer’s first time. She gripped it with two hands and kept it pointed at the ground. Between the barracks, in the far corner of the yard, they could see uniformed officers examining the body of a man who couldn’t possibly be Charles Cederkvist, judging by his appearance. There was no trace of Charles or the boy. They started searching the area around the nearest buildings, but soon realised they would have to call for backup. The helicopter was circling, its powerful searchlights constantly sweeping across the ground.
‘Spread out,’ Torkel instructed Billy and Jennifer. They started to move along the dark, dilapidated buildings on the right, with the forest on their left. Jennifer could see Billy up ahead, then he turned left and disappeared. She kept going; the darkness seemed somehow thicker in front of her. More buildings – old ammunition stores, if she remembered rightly from the map. The beam of her torch lit the way as she crept along the stony track, listening hard. She could hear the voices of the uniformed officers behind her, growing fainter as she got closer to the stores. Then she heard something else, from the forest on her right. She stopped and swung around, shining her torch among the trees. The sound came again, slightly further away this time; definitely someone or something on the move. Jennifer followed the line of the trees with the light and picked out a figure dressed in black just metres away.
The Man Who Wasn't There Page 42