So, Tom’s best friend, David, could be David Hammar, right? They looked roughly the same age. When she Googled David Hammar, she saw that he was born in the same year as Tom, though that didn’t necessarily mean a thing. She sat there with the picture of Tom on her screen. He had a beard there, too, but it was shorter, neater. Wearing a dark suit and a discreet earpiece. Well built. That had to be an advantage in certain contexts; people respected you. But it must also be difficult to blend in, she guessed. She started to close the tabs and images open on her screen, and was just about to close the entire browser when her eyes fell on the pictures of Alexander again. In one of them, he was standing next to a red-haired woman. They were posing on a red carpet, at the premiere of what looked like a kids film. Isobel Sørensen, she read beneath the image. She was incredibly beautiful, too. Two tall, beautiful, glamorous humans, they looked as if they were from another planet. But what caught Ambra’s attention was the child they had with them. A serious boy, standing between them, with Alexander’s hand on one shoulder. Marius, she read. He looked about seven or eight. She read the text, and the hairs on the back of her arms started to stand on end, a clear signal that she was onto something. The couple married last fall. They have also begun proceedings to adopt Marius, originally from Chad.
There it was.
The connection.
Chad.
Ambra quickly glanced up from her computer and then delved back into the depths of Google. Could it be a coincidence? She read about the red-haired woman. Isobel Sørensen, now De la Grip, was a doctor. She specialized in general medicine and was a researcher at the Karolinska Institute. Before Isobel began her research post, she worked for Doctors Without Borders and the nonprofit Medpax organization (Ambra couldn’t stop herself from rolling her eyes here; Isobel sounded like some kind of superwoman), which ran a pediatric hospital in Chad.
Aha. Chad again.
She leaned back in her chair and stared into space. Suppose Tom’s best friend really was David Hammar. David had a brother-in-law, Alexander, who was married to a woman who had not only worked in Chad but was also in the process of adopting a child from there, and all around the same time that Tom was apparently being held prisoner. Was there a story here? Or was she letting her imagination run away with her? Why would a former elite soldier from Sweden travel to Chad? What exactly was he doing there? And why was he taken prisoner? How did he get free? The more she thought about it, the more the questions stacked up. What was the story here, and where could she find more information? Imagine if there was a scoop here, a real revelation?
She read through her notes again. The natural thing would have been to ask Tom, of course. But what if he wasn’t being quite so straight with her after all? It was clear the man had plenty of secrets, and there was an occasional hardness in his eyes that sent chills through her. Plus, she was sure he wouldn’t appreciate her snooping around, so she would need a good explanation. She decided to wait before she talked to him, but something was still bugging her. She was genuinely curious, and there were huge gaps here, gaps she would love to fill in. After a moment’s deliberation, she sent an e-mail to the paper’s security expert, Karsten. No harm in that. She would talk to him first, then . . .
“Ambra.” She heard Grace’s voice from her desk.
Ambra tore herself from her thoughts. “Yeah?”
“Ten-year-old hurt by New Year’s fireworks. Could you call up and get confirmation?”
Ambra nodded. Two minutes later, she was completely consumed by her work again.
* * *
Late that evening, Ambra wandered home. She had done an hour’s overtime, always found it difficult to tear herself away from the action. She lived on Västerlånggatan in the Old Town, the medieval heart of Stockholm, and she loved to walk, people watch, and window-shop. When she looked up, she saw rockets and fireworks lighting up the dark sky. They spread their white, yellow, and blue light for a moment and then disappeared. Jill was doing a show at Skansen tonight, in the open-air museum’s huge, live-streamed New Year’s celebrations. Ambra knew she could go over there if she wanted to. But Jill would be preoccupied, and Ambra had no desire to freeze by standing outside until twelve. She sent her sister a message, wished her a happy new year and good luck, and decided not to say anything about her forgotten birthday. Jill was who she was.
A few of her colleagues from the office were going out, and one of the girls had invited her along, but she didn’t know them well and said no, which might have been stupid. Next year, she would be better at saying yes. Their main TV anchor, Parvin, a woman Ambra respected immensely, was throwing a dinner party. But everyone would be in pairs, sophisticated people, and Ambra knew she would feel just as lost there, and so she had mumbled something about how she would love to next year and said no. She regretted that slightly now. There had been some talk of meeting up with a girl from Crime, but then she went and got herself a boyfriend and gradually disappeared into thin air. The curse of a single life: being dumped the moment a potential partner came along.
She heard the sound of a text from her pocket and fished out her phone. It was from Elsa. Decorated with fireworks and champagne emojis: Happy New Year, my dear.
She sent a reply, shoved her phone back into her pocket, and felt a warm sensation in her chest. She liked Elsa. It would be fine. This was just one day like any other.
Chapter 26
The loud crack of the gunshot sent Tom’s body from 1 to 100 in a fraction of a second. Pulse, heart, lungs; all were working to full capacity. Another shot. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. Where’s it coming from? Can I see the shooter? Where can I take cover? And then another shot. He tried to orient himself, but he couldn’t see a thing.
Need to breathe, need to stabilize myself, need to take cover.
His head was pounding, and he was having trouble controlling his breathing. The surplus of oxygen made him dizzy. He forced himself to hold his breath, breathe out, wait. His heart was racing. He always tried to keep his heart rate in check during battle, to control his breathing and calm his nerves, but this time he didn’t quite manage.
Take it easy. Focus. Locate the enemy.
He blinked rapidly. He couldn’t see, and for a moment his sense of panic increased, but then he realized it was only sweat clouding his vision. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He didn’t hear any more shots. His back was against something. A wall? Different noises now. What were they? Barking. A dog barking. Freja. He could see the dog now. She was jumping up and down in front of him. Her barking reached him as though through a tunnel. He got up, into a sitting position, hadn’t even realized he was lying down, that it was the ground he’d felt against his shoulders and back. He leaned against the wall and glanced around. He was inside the storeroom, but he had no memory of how he got there. He’d been going to fetch something and heard the shots.
No, not shots, he realized now that his body was calmer. They were fireworks. He breathed out, felt his pulse slow further. Jesus Christ. It was fireworks he was hearing.
He had been on the way out, someone set off some firecrackers or rockets in the forest, the noise echoed between the trees, and his body had immediately switched to autopilot and reacted as though it was under attack. He wiped his forehead, got up on shaking legs. Freja wagged her tail.
“Were you scared?” he asked. “I was scared as hell.” His heart was beating at something like one hundred beats a minute now. He brushed snow from his pants, happy no one had witnessed what had just happened. So damn embarrassing.
He was used to shots being fired, had spent years of his life on shooting ranges, in drills, and in war zones. There were many nights where he had slept through the sound of guns being fired without a problem. You just got used to it. There was no way he should react to the sound of fireworks like that. Those bangs weren’t even all that similar to the short, dry sound of real shots. But something had gone wrong and it seemed like a memory, a flashback—he was suddenly ther
e again, in the heat, in hell.
He shook his legs, rolled his shoulders and neck. Looked out at the treetops. When the next round of bangs started, he was better prepared, but he still felt his body tense. Another crack and his heart started to pound. Damn it, on an intellectual level he knew the situation wasn’t dangerous. Yet more noise, this time a series of sharp bangs that thundered above the trees.
Freja barked agitatedly.
He returned to the house and took a firm grip of the snow shovel. “Come on,” he grimly said to the dog. “Let’s try this whole exercise thing.”
He started to shovel snow with powerful movements. Freja leaped around him, ran off and returned, dug like crazy in the snow, and barked encouragingly at his shoveling. After twenty minutes of determined work, Tom was drenched in sweat and his chest was heaving. But he no longer felt afraid; he was no longer anxious. When he heard the next bang, he barely reacted.
He drove the spade into a snowdrift, leaned against it with one arm, and glanced around.
I’ll be damned. It actually worked.
By the time he’d cleared the entire yard and went back inside, his body was exhausted but calm, and after he took a shower he felt almost normal again.
He poured a glass of water, stood with one hip against the counter, and gazed out the kitchen window. His cell phone was on the worktop. David Hammar had called while he was out, then sent a message, a New Year’s greeting and a few words about how Tom was welcome to come over, at as short notice as he liked. He really did need to get in touch with David. The two men went way back. Lodestar was responsible for Hammar Capital’s security, and he and David used to go out and drink beer together. After Chad, David had been a rock. They were friends, but Tom knew that over the years he had distanced himself from David. His line of work made it easy to separate yourself from those you cared about. But David was a good man, a real friend. He really should call back.
He stood there with the phone in one hand, a glass of water in the other, hesitating. Eventually, he put down the glass and dialed the number before he had time to change his mind. Not David’s number, not yet. But still, one step in the right direction.
“Hey, Johanna, this is Tom Lexington,” he said when the receptionist answered.
“Tom,” she said. She sounded astounded, almost reverential.
Johanna was a former special forces officer whom he’d recruited a few years earlier. She had been out in the field on a number of operations, but she was currently pregnant with her first child and was manning reception. Tom would never send a pregnant operative out on a dangerous mission. It was that simple.
“Hi. How are things?”
“Good, boss,” she said, and her surprise was replaced by friendly efficiency. Johanna was one of the best operatives Tom had ever worked with—quick-thinking, invisible when she needed to be, reliable.
“How’s everything at the office?” he asked. It was New Year’s Eve, but Lodestar was always open, always working.
Over the past few weeks, just the thought of work had made him anxious. He was incredibly ashamed of that fact, but it wasn’t something he could control. He still felt a sense of unease now, but it was good to hear Johanna’s voice, to hear that everything seemed fine. He had abandoned his men, but they were coping, and that was reassuring. They were a good group.
“It’s really quiet here today,” she replied.
“I wanted to ask someone to forward my mail. I’m in Kiruna right now. I’ll send the address.”
“I’ll do that right away. Do you need anything else?”
“Sorry I haven’t been in touch before now.”
Johanna was silent for a moment, as though she didn’t know how to reply. “We were a little worried,” she eventually said.
It was never his intention to worry people. It was just that he felt like an enormous burden on the entire company. People outside of the field always thought that dying was an operative’s worst fear, but what they really feared most was letting down their colleagues and others, doing a bad job, putting others in danger. Embarrassing themselves by not doing what they were meant to. It was that feeling that had eventually overwhelmed him last fall, that he was a burden on his team.
“I’m sorry about that, Johanna,” he said truthfully. He had allowed himself to deteriorate, both physically and mentally. Those men in Chad hadn’t just taken control of him while he was there. They’d stolen part of his life back home, too. But he would try to change that now. He would regain control of himself. “I’ll send instructions,” he said.
“I’ll organize everything ASAP, boss. Just send me the address.”
* * *
After he ended the call, Tom went out into the study. He paused in the doorway. Before he’d left Stockholm, he’d quickly filled a box with things. It contained the picture of Ellinor—the one on the refrigerator—plus a few reference books; a well-thumbed copy of The Art of War, which Mattias had once given him; and a load of papers, above all documents and pictures from the Chad operation. So far, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to look at them, but it was finally time.
Slowly, and with a growing sense of unease, he started to go through the various folders, reading and sorting them into piles. He knew better than anyone that he had done things he should pay for. He had killed people. During operations and in battle. But those he killed were participants in a war, and in war both sides always suffered losses. That said, the world of private security was full of gray zones and deviants. Psychopaths and sadists often sought out jobs that would give them the ability to murder, abuse, and rape. He knew plenty of terrifying instances when private security forces had murdered and tortured innocent people. Tom never tolerated that kind of thing, of course; as far as he knew, he never hired those kinds of men. Inflicting violence was never really the primary task in his role; it was more a tool to be able to carry out his work. The aim was always to cause as little damage as possible.
The raid on the tiny desert village in Chad last summer had turned into a real battle. It was wildly chaotic. They’d attacked in the dead of night, aiming to rescue Isobel Sørensen, a field doctor whom they had managed to localize to the village through their surveillance. Tom flew in with the helicopter from one side while the men on the ground advanced using night vision goggles. Conflict at night, in a built-up area, was the most difficult type of battle. Bad vision and split-second decisions could easily result in bloodbaths and civilian losses.
He didn’t think any innocents were killed, but it was hard to know for certain. The minute he was back on his feet once he returned to Sweden, he contacted all of the men involved in the operation, gathered all of the material and pictures they had. Everyone he spoke to said that the rescue of the doctor had taken place without civilian losses. But you never knew. One stray bullet could have killed a villager—worst-case scenario a woman or a child—and that thought was hard to live with.
The whole rescue had been an illegal operation, carried out on foreign territory, and not sanctioned by any authorities. Yes, they’d rescued a civilian doctor from the hands of bandits, but still. Guilt and doubt gnawed away at him. He took out the photographs and studied them closely. They had been thorough with their documentation, before, during, and after. They’d carried out surveillance to establish who was in the area. During the attack, the soldiers wore cameras that sent images to a computer, and then one of the men documented the aftermath of the attack. Destroyed houses and other objects, dead and injured people. The whole thing looked professional, no civilian casualties. But had he made any mistakes? Had he given the wrong orders at any point?
When Freja came in and looked up at him with pleading eyes, he realized he had been sitting with the documents for several hours. They went out into the kitchen together. He fed her, made a sandwich for himself, and then glanced around the room as Freja emptied her bowl in less than thirty seconds.
“You want to go out?” he asked, swallowing the last of his sandwich. Freja gave
a quick bark, and he pulled on his coat again. The odd firework lit up the sky, but the noise no longer bothered him. As he trudged through the snow, keeping one eye on the dog, he thought back to when he and Ambra rode the snowmobile. He’d forgotten to mention the top when they’d spoken yesterday. Their conversation was so good that he’d completely forgotten why he’d called her in the first place.
He glanced at Freja. “What do you think? Should we go back in and give her a call?” Freja barked loudly, and they returned to the house.
“Ambra Vinter,” she answered on the second ring. She had a trustworthy voice. Calmer and softer on the phone than in real life.
“Hey, it’s Tom.”
“Yeah, I saw that.” Her end of the line went quiet, and he suddenly felt stupid; was he bothering her in the middle of some festive New Year’s meal? He glanced at his watch, hadn’t realized it was so late.
“Are you out?” he asked.
She laughed quietly, and the sound sent a slight jolt through him. He went to the couch, lay down, and closed his eyes; he could just see her in front of him, those deep dimples, those guarded eyes, and that soft mouth curling into a smile at one side. The kisses. He remembered them, every single one. The unexpected, drunken kiss on Christmas Eve. The warm sauna kiss here in the house. And then the super-erotic kiss at the airport. He had cupped her breast then, could still remember its soft, warm weight in his palm, held on to it as a fantastic private memory.
High Risk Page 24