Sarac limped off toward the elevators as fast as he could, struggling to get his body to cooperate. Sweat was already pouring down his back. Strange how something as easy as walking in a straight line could suddenly become so fucking difficult.
When he was just a few yards from the elevators one of them pinged. The up arrow on the wall lit up and a narrow strip of light rose up between the doors. Someone was about to get out. Someone who would wonder what he was doing there, who would probably ask questions he couldn’t answer. Sarac looked around, saw the nurses’ little reception desk, and ducked down behind it. He pulled the crutch closer and tried to ignore his body’s protests. On the floor of the corridor just a few feet or so away he saw a rapidly growing rectangle of light as the elevator doors opened. In the middle of the patch of light was the dark silhouette of a man.
Sarac held his breath and waited.
The man got out of the elevator and stood still for a few seconds, as if to get his bearings. His shadow covered most of the rectangle of light from the elevator, making him look enormous. Sarac felt a stab of pain and his pulse rocketed. He pushed back against the reception desk. His body ached, his head was thudding. A memory flickered past and vanished before he could grab it. Flashing blue lights, shadows playing on a tunnel wall.
He heard footsteps as the man went past. Sarac caught a glimpse of a green operating gown and a pair of broad shoulders. Most of the man’s head was obscured by a little green cap and a breathing mask.
Sarac leaned out carefully into the corridor and watched the man as he walked away, heading toward the door that led to his own ward. A doctor taking a shortcut. Nothing strange about that. But his gown was stretched tight across his back, as if it didn’t really fit. His sleeves and trousers looked too short as well. It could have been an illusion, caused by the shadows and the poor lighting, but would a doctor really wear black boots when he was visiting a ward?
The man seemed familiar, his smooth, measured movements, the creeping way he walked. All of a sudden he was convinced. Just like the men in suits, this man was after him. But why? Who was he?
The memory was back. Voices, flickering shadows. A dark silhouette right at the edge of his field of vision.
Sarac gulped unconsciously. It sounded louder than he had expected, as if his gullet had got hold of his larynx. The man stopped just before the door. He turned his head slightly in Sarac’s direction and seemed to be listening. Sarac quickly pulled his head back. He pressed against the reception desk and tried to blend into the darkness. He bit his top lip to help him hold his breath.
Silence. The lack of oxygen was threatening to make Sarac black out. His heartbeat pounded against his eardrums. Between its beats he could suddenly hear voices.
Your secrets are mine.
Get this fucking mess cleaned up!
The devil himself . . .
A heavy sole squeaked against the plastic floor. Then he heard the door at the other end of the corridor slowly open.
THIRTEEN
Naturally, Atif could have rung. Could have booked a meeting and they could have sat down like old friends. But the element of surprise was always better, especially if you were after the truth. If that was even possible.
The fact was that he had met plenty of people who thought they knew the truth. But when it came down to it, and no matter what means of persuasion were applied, all they ever managed to deliver was a subjective interpretation. The truth, objective truth, remained unattainable. The best you could hope for was to get as close to it as possible.
Abu Hamsa was sitting at his usual table, reading a newspaper. A thickset man with cauliflower ears was sitting a few tables away, fiddling with his cell phone, but the moment he caught sight of Atif the man stood up and blocked his way.
“What do you want?” he growled.
The man was a head shorter than Atif, five nine or so, but he puffed himself up as much as possible to seem bigger. Lowered his head, tensed his thick neck. Waited for Atif to say something, either back down or give him a reason to attack.
But Atif had played this game plenty of times. Instead of saying or doing anything, he ignored the man and carried on toward Abu Hamsa. The gorilla’s eyes flickered; Atif could almost hear the cogs turning in his head as he tried to work out what to do.
“Didn’t you have a plane to catch, my friend?” Abu Hamsa croaked, lowering the paper. The little man shook his head toward the gorilla, who, red-faced, had begun fumbling inside the back of the waistband of his trousers.
Atif carried on walking toward Abu Hamsa’s table, pulled out a chair, and sat down.
“You never used to need a bodyguard,” Atif said.
Abu Hamsa shrugged. “Times have changed. It’s not so easy to know who you can trust.” He paused for a moment as he gave Atif a long look. “So, what can I do for you, my friend? I don’t suppose this is a courtesy call?”
“Janus,” Atif said. “How is Janus connected to my brother’s death?”
Abu Hamsa did his best to maintain his mask and actually almost succeeded. Thirty or forty years in gambling dens had given him a good poker face. A little twitch at one corner of his mouth that made his mustache quiver, that was all. He folded his paper, then looked around slowly.
“My dear Atif,” he then said, grimacing as if the words he was about to say tasted unpleasant. “If you really want to talk about that subject, I must first take certain . . . precautions, if you understand my meaning?”
“You think I’m wearing a microphone?” Atif said.
“I didn’t say that,” the little man said. “But you appear out of nowhere after seven years and start asking questions. Questions about very serious things, things you definitely shouldn’t know about. Besides, as you know, there are a number of rumors about you in circulation. Some suggest that your loyalty”—Abu Hamsa made a little gesture with one hand, as if he were searching for the right words—“is open to question.”
Atif sat still. If anyone had spoken to him in that way seven or eight years ago . . . But that way of thinking was purely hypothetical—no one had dared talk to him in that way back then. Not even Abu Hamsa.
Atif stood up and took his jacket off. “Okay, go ahead!”
Hamsa went on looking at him for a few seconds, then turned to the bodyguard.
“Eldar, please search our guest. And do it nicely,” he added.
The bodyguard took his task very seriously. Checked every pocket, peered under Atif’s T-shirt, even pulled his trouser legs up, the whole time trying his luck in a staring contest. He glared angrily at Atif, trying to get a reaction out of him. Get him to say or do something that would give him the chance to redeem himself in front of his boss.
But Atif just ignored him, pretending he was one of the little lizards that used to stare at him in his bedroom back home. A little reptile who didn’t deserve his attention.
“He’s clean,” the bodyguard eventually grunted.
“Thank you, Eldar,” Abu Hamsa said. “Could you fetch us some coffee, please?”
The bodyguard gave Atif one last glare, then lumbered off.
Abu Hamsa gestured to Atif to sit down again, then leaned over the table.
“You should have gone home, my friend. That’s what a wise man in your position would have done.”
Atif shrugged his shoulders. The old man was right. But he wasn’t wise. He was who he was.
“What you’re asking of me is no small thing, my friend,” Abu Hamsa went on.
Atif didn’t respond.
“But, for the sake of old friendship, and out of respect for your brother’s death, I shall do my best to oblige you. You should know, however, that this sort of knowledge has a price.”
Atif made a small movement with his head that could be interpreted as a nod.
“Good, then I’ll get straight to the point.” Abu Hamsa took a deep breath and appeared to think before going on. “For the past year or so, I and many of my business contacts have had a growing p
roblem. It looks as if someone we trust, someone in our immediate vicinity, is actually working for the police.”
“A rat?” Atif shrugged his shoulders. “It can’t be the first time?”
“No, that’s true.” Abu Hamsa stroked his mustache. “But this time it’s different. We’re not talking about some ordinary little rat, but a senior associate. Someone we all know and trust. An infiltrator who is exploiting his position and knowledge to cause us serious damage. Extremely serious . . .”
Abu Hamsa leaned even further across the table. “The police are extremely protective of their infiltrator and have never acted in haste. The last thing they want is for him to become known and have to stand witness in court, so they lie in their reports. Hide the true source of their information and cover it up so well that we can’t trace it back to any specific individual.”
He paused for a moment.
“Obviously it’s all illegal, Swedish law forbids the use of infiltrators. We’ve put our lawyers on the case, but unfortunately nothing can be proved as long as we don’t know the infiltrator’s identity. All we’ve managed to find out is his code name.”
“Janus,” Atif said.
Abu Hamsa nodded.
“That’s more or less all we know. Janus really is top secret. His true identity is known only by a very small number of people. Our usual sources in the police are no use at all. Most of them have never even heard of him.”
Abu Hamsa frowned.
“This cancer has cost us a lot of money, as a result of police raids, but even more so because of lost opportunities. Anxiety is spreading, and hardly anyone dares to do business. Even old friends no longer trust each other, and you only have to mention Janus for people to get cold feet. No one wants to take the risk of being in any way associated with him; that would be fatal.”
Atif thought for a few moments.
“Was it Janus who told the police about Adnan?” he finally asked.
Abu Hamsa ran the back of his forefinger over his mustache. “What do you think? The idea that experienced guys like Adnan and his gang would have forgotten to take off their balaclavas during the getaway doesn’t sound particularly credible. Besides, the pattern of events doesn’t match the police description.”
“No, that’s what I thought too,” Atif added. “The suggestion that plainclothes cops could get a heavily armed rapid response unit in place within ten minutes doesn’t make any sense.”
Eldar returned with a tray, which he put down on the table between Atif and Abu Hamsa before returning to his previous post.
“Janus has a great deal on his conscience,” Abu Hamsa said. “Far worse things than your brother’s tragic death. He is basically a threat to our entire operation, which is why we are devoting a lot of resources to finding him. We are unanimous on this. All means are permissible, and no cost or sacrifice too high.”
The little man sipped his coffee cautiously.
“I understand,” Atif said.
Abu Hamsa shook his head slowly. “No, I’m rather afraid that you don’t, at least not completely. But now that you know what this is all about, it’s my turn to ask you for a favor.”
“What?”
“You need to keep out of the way, don’t ask any more questions, and, above all, don’t mention that name to anyone else.”
Abu Hamsa paused and seemed to be waiting for a response. But Atif just sat there in silence.
“We have an opening,” Abu Hamsa went on in a low voice. “A very good chance of solving the problem once and for all. But right now the situation is sensitive. Extremely sensitive. There’s far too much at stake to . . .”
The little man gestured with his coffee cup.
“. . . take any unnecessary risks,” Atif concluded.
“I’m glad we understand each other, my friend.” Abu Hamsa nodded.
“Was that why you didn’t tell me? At the funeral?”
Abu Hamsa shrugged.
“I didn’t think I had a choice. Like I said, where the search for Janus is concerned, no sacrifice is too small. The truth would hardly have made your loss any smaller, or brought Adnan back to life. But naturally I regret that I was forced to keep anything from you.”
Atif turned his coffee cup as he reflected.
“So now you want me to go home to Iraq?” he said. “And forget about all this? The man who betrayed my brother and sent him into a trap. The man who basically caused his death.”
“I’m all too aware that my request might be difficult to swallow.” Abu Hamsa grimaced gently. “But, like I said earlier, this sort of knowledge has a price. I have told you everything you wanted to know, without even asking where you heard that name. What you do now is obviously up to you.”
The little man leaned forward over the table and lowered his voice until it was almost a croak. “But you must understand, my friend. A man with your reputation who starts asking questions about things he shouldn’t know about causes anxiety and attracts unnecessary attention. A man like that would constitute a risk. A risk that we sadly can’t afford.”
FOURTEEN
Sarac got no farther than the hall before he realized that something wasn’t right. As if the whole energy of the apartment was wrong. There was a stale smell, a mixture of garbage, decay, and something else. Something familiar but simultaneously troubling.
He fumbled across the wall and found the light switch, but for some reason decided not to turn it on. Instead he waited until his eyes had got used to the gloom. The floor was covered with mail. Newspapers, letters, and advertising leaflets, all mixed up.
How long had he been gone? About three weeks, give or take. But a lot of this mess seemed older than that. There was probably a logical way to find out how much older. But right now logic wasn’t his strong point. He felt exhausted. Getting all the way down to the ground floor of the hospital, then into a taxi and up into his apartment, had pretty much used up his reserves. His breathing was labored, the headache was still thudding away, and his hospital shirt was like a wet sail on his back.
He shuffled slowly into the living room, still not turning on any lights. Only a bit later did it dawn on him that this was exactly the right move if he didn’t want to let the entire street know that he was home.
He stood in the middle of the room for almost a minute, letting his eyes get used to the darkness, while his brain tried to absorb what he was looking at. The blinds were closed, the floor covered with pizza boxes, newspapers, and clothes. All the sofa cushions were standing on end and it looked as if someone had split them open with a knife. The same went for the frame of the sofa, where foam rubber and sawdust were spilling out of the long gashes. The coffee table was covered with bottles of spirits and overflowing ashtrays, and in the middle of the table was a transparent glass pipe containing a sticky black substance. Methamphetamine, his brain concluded happily, as if it were pleased with its achievement and didn’t actually realize what the discovery meant.
The stench was even worse in the kitchen. The draining board was overflowing with dirty dishes, and on the stove was a plastic container with the remains of a ready meal that was furry with mold. There were more improvised ashtrays in there, and a bucket that stank like hell. But he didn’t smoke, did he? Unless perhaps he did?
His head was pounding like mad and he was having trouble keeping his eyes open.
In the bedroom the mattress had been dragged onto the floor and he saw from the long cuts in it that it had received the same treatment as the sofa. All the drawers in his bureau had been pulled out and their contents scattered over the floor. The same thing with the clothes in the wardrobe. Sarac sat down on the edge of the bed, trying in vain to take it all in. It took him several minutes to see the message that had been scrawled on the bedroom wall in jagged, bloodred letters. And beneath it a symbol, two Js turned to face each other.
PROTECT THE SECRET!
W
• • •
The men weren’t even trying to hide. Atif only had
to peer through the blinds of his spartan hotel room to see their car. A dark 4x4 parked a little way down the street. One of them was standing on the pavement ten feet away from it, smoking. Jeans and a military jacket, the sort with loads of pockets that plainclothes police officers tended to like. The man had a Palestinian scarf wound around his neck a few times, and a woolly commando hat pulled down to his eyebrows. He was stamping his feet in the cold.
Atif wondered who they were. The car and the man’s clothing reeked of the cops. He remembered Bengtsson, the fat little policeman who had questioned him when he arrived. He’d probably made some sort of notes after their conversation and made sure they found their way into the police database.
Even if the airport hotel was shabby, they had still demanded some form of ID, and he had obediently handed over his passport and waited while the receptionist tapped his details into the computer. Perhaps that had been enough?
But it was more likely that the men had been sent by Abu Hamsa. The bodyguard had taken plenty of time to get their coffee. All he had to do was make a quick call. Make sure someone was tailing the rental car when Atif left the restaurant.
He hadn’t noticed anything, so presumably the guys out there were rather better at surveillance than they were pretending to be right now. The alternative was that they had attached something to his car, a little GPS tracker or something like that; you could probably buy them from Clas Ohlson these days.
Cops or gangsters? Maybe both?
The man outside the gym, the one they’d called the consultant, had definitely had an air of police about him. The others at the gangster conference were pretty representative of their business. A couple of bikers, Eastern Europeans, his old sociopathic friend Sasha, and Abu Hamsa himself, who as usual was probably representing one or more groups. They had all been playing it cool, as if they were in complete control. But he had still detected the fear in their voices and seen it in their hasty, wary glances out in the parking lot.
MemoRandom: A Thriller Page 10