The Swede: A Novel

by Robert Karjel

  N. looked nervous. Mary fiddled with her cigarette.

  The food arrived. The TV news was switched to sports. A basketball player shot a free throw before a cheering mob. In the street outside the restaurant, a jackhammer started pounding.

  “This is good,” said Mary mechanically after a few bites. Vladislav was lost in thought.

  “To Cancun,” she said, and laughed sharply.

  “What?” said N.

  “Where did they get Cancun from? People will fall for anything.”

  But N. wasn’t listening; his question was aimed at Vladislav.

  “Just going to get a little fresh air,” said Vladislav, putting down his silverware. “Back in a minute.”

  He went out in the street and disappeared.

  Mary kept going on about Cancun. “Is that what Turnbull told them?” She fiddled with her unlit cigarette, cut the steak, took a bite.

  “Imagine, there he sits with a bullet hole in his leg and a sweaty lawyer by his side begging him to cooperate. He’ll say everything, anything at all. Then maybe he’ll avoid the gas chamber.” The bloody juices made a red film on her plate.

  She smiled again. N. had finished his beer; the last drops settled in his glass. He was watching TV. Images without sound: flashing blue lights, a reporter interviewing Chief Oldenhall, anonymous gray-brown city blocks viewed from above by a news helicopter.

  “Obviously a mistake,” said N. listlessly. “Cancun, the airport, all that. The police had an idea, someone ran through security control, a suitcase went astray.” He saw one of the Lebanese open and shut a freezer in the kitchen. “Charles-Ray has nothing to say. He’s just wondering what nightmare he woke up in.”

  They both turned around at the sound of the jackhammer when the front door opened. Vladislav came in and sat down.

  “You feeling okay?” asked Mary.

  He dismissed the question with a flip of his hand. “Do they often do street jobs like that around here?”

  “I guess so. Why?”

  “I went around the block and saw three gangs drilling. Awfully busy.” He took a quick look out the window. “Removing old asphalt. Saw no lines marked for what they’re doing. You know—sprayed. Seems pretty random.”

  “A gas leak, these neighborhoods, you know,” said Mary, removing the cigarette from her mouth.

  Vladislav bit his lip. “If you drew a circle on a map around the drillings, the factory would be right in the middle.”

  “Gas, sewer, there are always leaks around here,” said Mary. “Eat!”

  Vladislav took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. N. glanced at the TV.

  “Damn it,” he said, getting up so fast that the plates jumped. Mary dropped her fork and recoiled. N. ran to the door and looked up at the sky through the glass. He glanced at the TV again, his gaze moving back and forth: TV, sky, TV.

  Then he saw it. A news helicopter slowly circling above. The drilling outside the door had deadened the sound.

  “Helicopter,” he said, pointing at the TV. They could see their block from the air. Mary picked up her knife and fork as if nothing was happening.

  “There you go,” said Vladislav slowly.

  N. continued looking out; the helicopter was out of sight. He twisted and turned and caught sight of it again. Lost it.

  Then two black streaks passed overhead. So close that the muffled beats of the rotors broke through the drilling. The TV image shifted to the newsroom.

  “I think there are two. Two black ones,” said N.

  Vladislav understood exactly.

  N.’s cell phone rang. He looked at the TV before answering. It was Reza. At first N. heard only breathing.

  “Someone’s here.”

  “Reza . . . ,” said N.

  “Make sure he gets out,” Vladislav hissed from the table. “He has to get out.”

  “Reza, you have to . . .”

  But Reza had already hung up. Vladislav went for the door.

  Inside the factory, Reza had heard the helicopters but didn’t understand. Their roar was lost in the din of jackhammers that had begun long before. It was the footsteps that scared him, the distant boots on metal stairs and wooden floors. Inside the empty factory, sounds carried far—echoes and resonances revealed every movement. People were coming.

  At first the signs were small, vibrations from a door shut a bit carelessly, a banister’s far-off shaking. But soon this rose to an audible tramping. Finally, as the response teams poured into the building, the sounds rose into a stampede. Down they came from helicopters on the roof, in through doors, smoke hatches and entryways in the street, smashing the windows for faster access.

  A surgical intervention, striking with precision. But the bowels of the factory were far too treacherous and confusing for them to actually get where they wanted. Walls had been demolished and others added later, doors welded shut and corridors made dead ends. The police couldn’t know any of this from the city’s outdated blueprints.

  Reza heard them, like hordes of rats forcing their way inside. He stood in the open space above the stairway, the steel door on one side, the endless hallway on the other. A few guns were stashed at the bottom of the stairs, along with the money. In a few seconds, he could be armed. He looked at the bags, the instinct to defend himself surging inside. He stood and considered; the sounds approaching. Alone and abandoned, amid the machinery of hidden agendas. A futile resistance—wasn’t that what they wanted, the slightest excuse to fire at him? In a rage, he crushed his cell phone against the brick wall.

  He would not arm himself. Simply stand, take it. He would explain. Someone would understand. He would never be given a chance to talk if he armed himself. The ones who came rushing in would set him free.

  Reza thought they’d bust in through the metal door, so he was surprised to hear sounds coming from the hallway. Past the row of rooms that ended who-knows-where. The yellow-white beams of a few flashlights moved in the darkness, dancing in step to the same swaying tempo of the stampeding boots. First sound and light, then figures. Reza took a step—they would understand.

  Someone was shouting.

  Reza raised his hand to show he was unarmed and at the same time hold back anyone approaching too urgently.

  A force of six men arrived first. Like all other units, they’d been lost too long inside the factory’s labyrinth. “The terrorists” would get their guns, prime, arm, and wait in ambush. The element of surprise was gone—now they themselves were potential victims. Weighed down by equipment, numbed by lactic acid, they ran blindly down a never-ending hallway. The commanders broke radio silence and screamed into their earpieces. Everyone knew that at any moment one of their own would fall. Adrenaline-drained resignation took over. Everyone ran, just ran. In tight, drilled groups they swept the darkness.

  Then one of them was standing there.

  Shouts into the earpieces. At any moment an ambush would strike or the whole building explode. Was he alone, was he carrying? Two or three police officers screamed for him to lie down. Six men and an entire arsenal came running: weapons, shock grenades, helmets, body armor. The man before them did not appear to have anything, only a gaze that never wavered.

  And then he raised his hand. Just as they screamed. Just before they threw themselves on him. The second-in-command’s view was blocked by an elbow. Or so he said afterward, anyway. “I thought he was lifting a . . .”

  He had already drawn his pistol. From the moment he entered the building, he’d seen everything through the red point in his sight. His legs were stiff, his shoulders aching from holding the weapon in front of him.

  Perhaps he didn’t even mean to, only an unfortunate reflex that traveled straight to the trigger.

  Reza Khan got a 9mm bullet through his frontal lobe. A pink mist shot out of his head upon impact. Mostly skin and bone, but not only.

  He never closed his eyes. From the floor, on his back, he looked at them, at the man who had shot him and at those who were trying to stop the p
ool of blood that was flowing from his head.

  Inside the Lebanese restaurant, N. caught the onrushing Vladislav in a rough embrace.

  “No.” N. snorted. “They’d like nothing better.”

  Vladislav stepped back, then pressed his fingers to his temple as if his head was about to explode. “The passport . . . damn it!”

  “Here, it’s cool!” said N., patting his coat pocket. “I forgot to tell you.”

  N. had been the last to leave the factory. Vladislav, half dressed when they decided to go for lunch, had dug around for his clothes, debated, thrown aside a tracksuit, then grabbed his jacket instead. And when N. was about to leave, he saw Vladislav’s wallet on a table. He stuffed it in his pocket and ran after the others.

  Vladislav took the wallet in both hands and pulled out the edge of his passport to make sure that it was still there. He closed his eyes and nodded.

  Back in the kitchen someone had noticed the running and agitation. One of the brothers looked out from the doorway.

  Vladislav smiled broadly, gave a clueless look. “Yes?”

  “Is everything all right?” said the Lebanese, nervously drying one hand on his apron.

  “Absolutely,” Vladislav replied.

  “We should pay,” said N., returning to the table. The Lebanese nodded but stayed put. N. pulled out some bills. Mary sat motionless, while the TV showed photos from above: the two black helicopters flew out of the picture, and a swarm of red and blue lights flashed in the streets.

  Then the sound of the jackhammers stopped. There was a moment of silence.

  “I’ll call Adderloy,” said Mary, reaching for her phone.

  “Wait,” said Vladislav like a thunderclap, without taking his gaze off the Lebanese. The tone of his voice, Vladislav’s relentless expression. The Lebanese excused himself with a hand over his heart and returned to the kitchen.

  An ambulance raced past the restaurant with sirens wailing.

  “Reza, or one of them,” said Vladislav. He stood straight-backed with his creaking leather jacket wide open. “No one calls anybody. Let’s go.”

  N. changed the TV channel before placing a salt shaker over the bills on the table.

  They walked toward downtown Topeka, avoiding the busy streets. Heard sirens in waves. N. made them turn their cell phones off: “They’ve got Reza’s, they can check and start tracking us.”

  At the first ATM machine Vladislav said, “Make a couple of substantial withdrawals, then we won’t touch the cards again.”

  Several news helicopters were moving in a restless swarm over the city. Each time the helicopters picked up something new and moved in their direction, Mary stared at her toes and Vladislav muttered oaths. Downtown, more people were around, and there were more ways to disappear. But there were also more lingering glances and cars passing too slowly.

  N. observed Vladislav, his long, wavy hair and sturdy eyeglasses, the gaze that caused people on the sidewalk to avoid him. If someone who saw him had heard a police description, there would be no doubt. And Mary, still black from head to toe.

  N. was afraid now, truly afraid. He wanted them to take seats in the back of an empty café and wait for dark.

  “No!” said Vladislav, uneasy. Mary said nothing.

  “So meaningless,” Vladislav repeated at regular intervals. Then, “Wait here,” and ducked into a hardware store. He came out five minutes later with a couple of screwdrivers and pliers in a bag.

  N. understood immediately. They continued walking. Vladislav was searching the cross streets.

  “We’ll go this way, just a sec,” he said. After a few blocks, he took off alone again.

  N. pulled Mary inside a Laundromat and waited, watching for him through the steamed-up windows.

  Half an hour later, Vladislav pulled up in a stolen Ford, honked, and drove halfway onto the sidewalk. Mary and N. ran out and threw themselves into the backseat as if it were the only taxi in a rainstorm.

  On the highway they settled down a notch. Being on the road, with the factory and helicopters behind them, was enough for N.

  Mary was still searching for helicopters, pressing her cheek against the window so she could look straight up and then turning to see the saw-toothed skyline through the rear window’s gray haze.

  “We can’t leave Topeka quite yet,” said Vladislav all of a sudden.

  “So when?” Mary asked.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Not tonight?”

  “No, tomorrow.” Vladislav drummed a screwdriver against the dashboard. From the broken ignition switch, cables hung like colored spaghetti. “You should never flee in haste.”

  “Overnight at a motel then?”

  N. caught his gaze in the rearview mirror. Looked at him for a while. “One night,” he said. “Cash payment, but only if I get to choose the motel.”

  “Sure.”

  “Good.” N. sat up. They passed a few exits before he pointed to the side at an orange sign on a pole. “There! Looks like the kind of place that prefers cash.”

  TUMBLEWEED MOTEL. Not the tallest in the forest of signs standing beside the exit ramp. A few bulbs framing the name blinked uncertainly, as if they would fail at any moment. Vladislav braked and took the exit. Mary looked at N. in disbelief.

  They rented two rooms, made a mess of the linens in one, and then all three of them settled into the other. A quiet agreement was made to do everything together. Two queen-size beds. N. and Mary would share the bed farthest in.

  Mary went into the bathroom.

  “One more night in Topeka?” N. asked Vladislav. “Give me one good reason.”

  “We won’t get anywhere without money.”

  N. glared at him.

  Vladislav weighed his wallet in his hand. “What do we have, a couple of thousand? We have to disappear again, completely disappear. It’s not enough.”

  The toilet flushed.

  “For Christ’s sake Vladislav, didn’t you see—helicopters and God knows what, a whole fucking posse. This is Kansas. They hang people from trees here. And we stay another night to, to do . . . what? To rob another bank?”

  “No more robberies,” said Vladislav.

  The bathroom door opened again. Mary had been crying; she didn’t try to hide it. “I hate this place, but if we have to stay one more night, I want clean clothes. I want to feel clean when I leave.”

  They drove to a shopping center, bought clothes. Mary found more black. Vladislav stood a long time, feeling the sleeves of silk shirts between his fingers. N. bought everything he needed in fifteen minutes in a jeans store. Then they raided Walmart for shampoo and toothbrushes. As they closed the trunk, Vladislav decided he wanted something to read.

  They stopped at the mall bookstore, and Vladislav headed to the back. Mary searched the headlines in the daily papers, while N. scanned the shiny faces on the magazine covers. Row upon row in racks—a grandstand of smiles. Time had a special issue on Pakistan. Vladislav approached from the checkout counter with a couple of travel guides under his arm.

  They drove back to the motel, showered. The sun went down and died, deep red at the horizon. Car headlights and neon lights dimmed the stars.

  It was impossible to resist TV: yet another person arrested, a massive effort, gunfire. Yet another person held in isolation at a hospital. They saw the factory from every conceivable angle, police cars, breathless reporters. Someone shouted accusingly on a street corner: “Why are all the suspects being shot?”

  Vladislav browsed through his travel guides. Mary ate the beef jerky she’d bought, while N. made instant coffee and tore the labels off his new clothes.

  Police Chief Oldenhall called another press conference. For the first time, they saw his gray eyes and pockmarked cheeks up close. Oldenhall confirmed the arrest—a foreign citizen—and said they now believed the crime involved religious terrorism.

  “An unholy alliance here in the heart of Kansas.”

  Vladislav looked up from a guide to Hong Kong. “Ma
sterful, isn’t it?”

  N. couldn’t make sense of the police chief’s statement. “What the—”

  “It’s brilliant, throwing in a Pakistani.”

  “No . . . Reza.” N. moaned as the idea sank in. As if it were a death notice.

  A Muslim in a factory full of firearms and money from a robbery. Turnbull already linked to the deed. Westhill Baptist Church and the Pakistani hordes. This was the unholy alliance Adderloy had created. If enough people bought it, there were no rules anymore. Not for anything.

  Mary was already asleep. N. lay next to her, watching a black-and-white movie on TV: Cary Grant in sunglasses, winding roads on the Riviera, a beautiful actress at his side with wavy curls. N. watched the scenery, unable to follow the plot, too preoccupied by other thoughts. He got up and filled the electric kettle for a cup of instant coffee he didn’t really want. Vladislav lay with his arms across his face, sleeping deeply with his mouth wide open, hissing. It was long past midnight.

  N. got hit with the stale coffee odor of his own breath as he lifted the blanket to lie back down on the bed. He felt hot. He pulled back the blanket again and saw Mary’s bare back. Lying down on his side behind her, he felt carefully with his fingertips across one of her vertebrae. She was motionless. In the dark he could sense the black cat staring back. He tried to touch its bushy tail.

  At St. Francis Health Center, as federal agents filled the hallways, Reza Khan spent the whole night in surgery. An impatient, red-eyed senior doctor kept telling the dark suits that he still didn’t know. It was possible the patient might make it.

  CHAPTER 26

  Diego Garcia, 2008

  MAYBE IT BOTHERS you?”

  Grip sat as before, in the cell opposite the man who called himself N., at the small table. He’d told N. that not only were the Americans likely recording their conversations, but they might also be getting them translated. Grip had asked if it bothered him.

  N. hadn’t responded, and they began to talk about other things. Only much later did he lean forward to Grip and say, “Maybe it bothers you?”

  It was his eyes that made Grip react, because the look was direct and immediate. Their meetings in the cell had passed through different stages: pure fear, compliance, outbursts of defiance alternating with moments of obsequiousness. But never anything followed by a look of understanding, of insight into Grip. Suddenly the situation was reversed—N. held a split-second advantage.