Grip was seated at the corner, with the woman from Addis to his left, but she was completely monopolized by the captain. Grip saw little besides the hair at the back of her neck. Across from him sat the grizzled ship’s surgeon, who ran the small hospital on board. Here, the conversation was better. A headstrong type, he’d just retired from general surgery at Sahlgrenska Hospital in Gothenburg, when he heard that the military was struggling to find doctors willing to go out on missions. His peers preferred sterile operating rooms, MRIs, and triple-digit hourly fees on call—not dealing with soldiers’ gunshot wounds and heatstroke, and in between, being quartered in a cabin so run-down you wouldn’t offer it to a drunken dance band on a Baltic ferry. He laughed at his own words. Still, the navy had its charms, and after a life of working all the time, he was scared by the thought of doing nothing. At sixty-six, he’d gone out to a shooting range for the first time since he’d done his military service at eighteen, brushed up on his military ranks, and a few weeks later boarded the HMS Sveaborg. He sometimes cupped one hand behind his ear and sang a bit too loud.
Somewhere in the middle of the filet mignon, when the conversation around the table had split into a few groups, Grip asked him about Per-Erik Slunga. About the body. Yes, the doctor had seen it and put it in the ship’s morgue himself.
“Autopsy?” Grip asked.
“No, no, that’s a job for pathologists, and we don’t have one on board. We’re here to sew people up and keep them alive. If everything goes south, the cause of death is usually pretty clear. That poor bastard Slunga was shot, as you’re probably aware.”
“Yes, of course, but beyond that.”
“In the head.”
Grip spun his index finger, in a gesture of wanting to know more.
“You know, pathologists, they’re peculiar people,” the doctor said, sipping his wine, “and they do a particular type of science. An autopsy, if it’s going to happen, will have to be done in Sweden.”
“Takes too long.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Whatever you can figure out. I don’t know, maybe the angle of the bullet.”
“There was just one shot, right?”
“If you say so.”
The captain raised his voice to get everyone’s attention. “As I mentioned, I received confirmation today that in little more than a month, the foreign minister will make an official visit.” He got a couple of satisfied nods in reply, and the male embassy official started talking about plans for the event, something about a motorcade, and soon the other guests at the table fell back into their little conversations.
“Shot angles, bruises, and whether he was under the influence when shot, that much I can handle,” said the doctor, who’d swallowed the bait during the break in conversation. “I can run some tests here, through the French hospital in the city.”
“When?”
The doctor didn’t hear Grip. “But no fine points. I can’t tell you the caliber of the bullet, or what he’s had for lunch. I don’t want to slice him up too much.”
“When can you start?” repeated Grip.
The doctor had stopped debating with himself. “Tomorrow. I can start in the morning.”
The women in white began to clear away the empty plates.
“And when exactly will you have the results?” It was the first officer, looking across the table at Grip.
“Sorry?”
“I mean, in terms of the foreign minister’s arrival.”
Grip understood exactly. The first officer couldn’t possibly have overheard his conversation with the doctor, but Grip was the bull in the china shop. Not even filet mignon and schnapps from Östgöta could disguise the disturbing fact that there was a dead man on board. The first officer needed to clean up the mess before his boss’s proud moment, when the big man was coming to visit, something no doubt planned months before. Long before Slunga’s group decided to have some fun on a shooting range, on the outskirts of Djibouti. Surely the bloodstain in the sand would be gone by then?
Closure.
Signed and sealed.
Perfectly reasonable.
The first officer smiled. But his self-assured gaze left little room for alternatives.
Grip looked at the clock. Half past nine. An hour to go. While MovCon argued about which pictures to send, the French military police were putting on their boots. “I can’t imagine there will be a problem,” he replied. “The formalities will certainly be over before the minister arrives.”
Cognac was served. The chief engineer’s eyes grew hazy. The first officer told the diplomats about hunting pirates, how it all worked, who did what. The attacks they’d thwarted, and the times they got away. How the ransom money was paid in cash, delivered by parachute from small planes leased from Kenya. Eventually, the woman from the embassy got up and smoothed out a few wrinkles in her skirt as she thanked the hosts. Then the whole contingent left, heading down to the car waiting dockside.
Ten thirty. Grip could make his exit, just as the other events were gearing up, but he’d rather wait it out in the captain’s cabin than sit at the bar of the Kempinski. Once again, it would be impossible to fall asleep.
At the Sheraton, two military police officers knocked at Milan Radovanović’s door. Friendly enough, but one on either side as they accompanied him out. Into the waiting car with two plainclothes MPs, disappearing into the night. Everyone would see it, and the rest was just a matter of waiting.
In the captain’s cabin, the officers were in a good mood. Some sat at the table, while others sprawled on the couch with their jackets unbuttoned. Grip’s pocket buzzed. A text. He didn’t even pick up the phone—he knew it was the French, saying the deed was done. If something had gone wrong, they would have called.
Despite their bloodshot eyes, among the naval officers there was more laughter than stifled yawns. Then came a knock, and a head appeared. As usual, the first officer went to meet the messenger. A glance at Grip, a few words with the captain.
Grip stood up. Both the captain and the first officer were coming toward him, but Grip beat them to it. “What’s the protocol for having a car drive up to the dock?”
“We . . .” For a moment, the captain fumbled for words. “They say that one of the soldiers in MovCon has been arrested. By the French.”
“The French military police, but that doesn’t mean that he’s been arrested. They’ve only taken him in for questioning, on my instructions. The car, what was it . . . ?”
“Radovanović.” The captain read aloud from the note he’d been handed, pronouncing the name as if it were the first time he’d ever seen it. “What are you trying to say,” he asked Grip, “that my own people have been lying to me?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Drop the false humility,” the first officer said. “What is your intent?”
“You’ve done your investigation, now I’m doing mine. Thanks for tonight.”
Grip had all eyes on his back as he walked out.
“That little bastard” was the last thing he heard behind him.
Grip didn’t bother to wait on the dock. Instead, he walked to the port’s guarded entrance and took a taxi from there to the Kempinski.
14
As the MaryAnn approached land, she anchored a few hundred meters out, on the outskirts of a village. Darwiish let Jenny go about her tasks, making sure everything on board was properly lashed, stowed, and shut tight. Half the pirates went ahead to shore in one of the skiffs they’d been towing. Jenny worked slowly, feeling that with every rope she coiled, she was digging another shovelful of her own grave. Alexandra stood by quietly and watched, while Sebastian stayed below deck with his injured father. But then when a few curious people appeared on the beach, Darwiish got annoyed and impatient. They barely had time to gather up their belongings, once the boat was secured. It went badly; they had to grab things at random, no more than what could fit in a few plastic bags and a canvas tote. Then, herded into the second ski
ff, they sped toward land.
Carl-Adam staggered ashore with only Alexandra to help him. It seemed that the pirates wouldn’t touch him, much less help, and Jenny had her hands full just carrying their plastic bags and keeping Sebastian calm. They were split up into two cars with four-wheel drive. The last thing Jenny saw, before the scarf was tied over her eyes, was Alexandra clutching the sleeve of her blindfolded father, while a pirate took out another twisted scarf for her too.
It was a bumpy ride. Sebastian trembled with fear and gripped Jenny’s arm and leg the whole way. She comforted him, trying to hide her own despair. Lacking any sense of time or distance, she simply prayed to God, really prayed to God, that Alexandra and Carl-Adam in the other car would at least be taken to the same place.
Something to be thankful for. Both cars stopped in front of two stone houses at the top of a gravelly hill, the sea barely visible at the horizon. It must have been a settlement once, even a fairly well-built one, but now it was a hideout. A haunt chosen for its isolated location and its perfect vantage point. Jenny realized this the instant they took off her blindfold: even if you managed to escape, there was nowhere to go, and the tracks in the sand would betray you, no matter how much of a lead you started with. The vast 360-degree view and the sandy expanses made you more powerless than barbed wire and walls ever could. Even the guards realized that the family’s situation was impossible. At sea aboard a hijacked yacht, the world was capricious, and they held tight to their Kalashnikovs to assure themselves and everyone around them that they were in control. Here at the two houses on the sand, at times they didn’t even bother to carry their weapons, knowing their power was absolute.
Even though the family was allowed to go outside, they preferred to stay indoors. Inside those four walls, they had a world that was predictable, keeping them from thinking too much about their situation and simply giving up. They had a room with two camp beds, a mattress on the floor, and two plastic chairs. That was it. There was a wooden door leading to an outer room, but it had to be kept open, and one or two guards were always posted there. In the second house, the men slept and ate, a force of usually five, sometimes six. They worked a week at a time, then a new gang came and they changed over. Most of the ones who hijacked the boat were here, along with a few new faces.
The biggest problem was water. Every day they were given a bucket. The first morning it had felt generous enough, but soon they understood. Four people, washing and drinking, and also trying to keep Carl-Adam’s wounds clean. Their only container—that bucket. If they washed in it, the rest became undrinkable; if they poured water over their hands after every trip to the toilet pit outside, they soon ran out. They were given enough to eat: a pile of flatbread every night, with rice and lentil stew—but only that one bucket of water.
And Jenny understood. Maybe this was why the people who first settled here had abandoned the place. There was no well. Only the water brought by car every afternoon. You could see the dot far out on its path along a distant ridge, as it turned and climbed the hills in their direction. Sometimes the guards changed; otherwise there was just food, water, and khat. The same procedure every time: one of the guards carried the new bucket to them, his cheek already bulging with green leaves. Jenny tried to explain, more indignant every day. Gesturing, yelling, right up in their faces. Whichever one it was, he’d shrug his shoulders or shove her out of the way, then take the old bucket away. It was important that they’d drunk the last drops before that happened.
From the outer room, Alexandra managed to get ahold of an empty bottle that the guards had left behind. With that, they could pour and measure. Their days were taken up with water rituals. Carl-Adam needed the most—the wound on his hip had started to heal, but the one in his hand looked bad, and although he didn’t have a fever, he was exhausted. Sebastian was the only one they had to force to drink. Jenny always accompanied the children to the toilet pit, partly to avoid the risk of them ending up alone with the guards and partly to make sure their urine hadn’t gotten too dark. She adapted her own ration accordingly. As the water in her own allotment fell, thirst began to eat its way into her emotions, magnifying her sense of powerlessness. When her sticky mouth screamed for more in the room’s dry heat, she blamed herself for what she’d done to the children. In her dark and twisted thoughts, Carl-Adam was completely innocent, because she was the one who’d pushed them to break free of their conventional lives and escape. The dream of the sea. A few days later, her ration level in the bottle dropped by yet a few more sips. She held back for her children but still felt the same shame and guilt. What kind of mother takes her children on a sailboat trip in the Indian Ocean?
They didn’t see Darwiish at first, but one day he showed up in their room. His beard was freshly dyed red, his eyes shining from khat. He looked at them as if they’d been taking liberties, like uninvited guests. Carl-Adam was asleep on one cot and hadn’t woken up. But he did, with a loud kick to one of the bed legs. Then Darwiish turned his beard toward Sebastian, who was slouched on the mattress in the corner. He made a motion with his head that the boy didn’t understand. A command, but Sebastian just sat there. Then he lifted up the mattress, dumping Sebastian onto the floor, and looked angrily underneath it, as if searching for something that had been hidden. Then he went out.
The second time, they saw through their little hole of a window that two cars had arrived in the evening. Two guards entered their room, forced Carl-Adam out of bed, and took him away. No one stopped Jenny when she followed.
Outside, a crowd of men: the familiar guards, Darwiish and a few others he’d brought with him. It got loud as soon as Carl-Adam emerged from the shadows of the house. One of the guards yanked on his shirt, as if he were showing off a thief. The matter seemed to involve an elderly man who’d come to see Carl-Adam. The man didn’t say much, but after looking him over, he turned to the red-bearded pirate with a short quick phrase and an extended finger, indicating that nothing more needed to be said. There was something both resigned and unforgiving about him. Darwiish nodded, as if he’d given in. Jenny sensed that the man walking back toward the cars was the father of the pirate that her husband had killed.
The third time, Jenny was looking from the inner room toward the outer one. There, the two chairs the guards normally used had been placed on either side of a small table. As if for a game of chess. Darwiish on one side, her husband on the other. Carl-Adam held his aching hand in his lap while Darwiish repeated, “How much?” Carl-Adam didn’t understand. The guard who was standing next to him jammed his rifle muzzle into his back.
“How much?” Darwiish held up a printout. A photo from the Internet, of Carl-Adam smiling in a suit and tie. The others around him just as clean-shaven and smiling as he. It was a picture from his time at Scandinavian Capital. All the lions were there, some sitting, others standing, and underneath appeared their name, age, and the titles that were part of that scene: Junior Partner, Founder, Chief Financial Officer . . .
“How much?”
Carl-Adam shrugged his shoulders uncertainly.
“Ask for more water,” Jenny yelled from inside.
Darwiish threw a cigarette lighter on the table and waved his hand toward the guard, who wasn’t visible from where Jenny sat. A couple of steps, and then the door closed with a bang.
The pirates, and not least Darwiish, had figured it out. Of course they reeked of money, the sailboat spoke for itself, and now they had Googled Carl-Adam.
The MaryAnn II, sixty-two feet long and forty tons’ displacement. She represented the kind of money that only a very successful forty-something could get his hands on. An elegant hull with teak decks that reeked of venture capitalist a mile away, when she slipped into Sandhamn or Smögen in the summertime. But just as much, a sailor’s dream in a gale in the North Sea. Carl-Adam had gotten looks of both approval and envy when friends who knew boats came on board the first time. In fact, Jenny was the one who’d made the decisions. Decided to buy a sailboat, and decide
d on the MaryAnn. “That one or no one,” she’d said. A matter of course. And how could Carl-Adam have argued? They’d bought it from a German, and then she was the one who got her ready. After all, it had been her dream, more than anyone’s. Roller sails, electric winches, satellite link. Her escape.
Yes, they’d cast off from posh Sandhamn, that had been Carl-Adam’s idea. Not hers. But she’d gone along with it. A final celebration, a send-off from the old world. One last time, she’d be nothing more than the wife of Carl-Adam Bergenskjöld. A weekend at the Sailor’s Hotel in Sandhamn and on the wide planks of the docks below. A three-day party, with Carl-Adam footing the bill: chartered boat from town, hotel, dinner, bar—everything. All his friends were there, which is to say, basically Carl-Adam’s colleagues with their wives and families. As if for a damn costume party, they’d shown up in Vineyard Vines polo shirts and Sperry shoes, like a bunch of New England preppies. A couple of them had actually raced in the Round Gotland. But those were in the minority, and the others were mere posers, there by virtue of being as rich as trolls. They’d even gotten ahold of a cannon, some sort of miniature version of one on the ship Vasa.
Finally, the late Sunday-morning brunch was over, and more than a few were red-eyed with hangovers from the night before. Time to go. The cannon was loaded and aimed, and the glasses of pink champagne raised by everyone on land.
“Keep in touch.” “We love you.” “Chin chin!”
The whole Bergenskjöld family was on the boat, held by a single rope. Carl-Adam stood quietly with a pained expression. Second thoughts? The entire Scandinavian Capital office was gathered there, and now he was no longer one of them. Everything associated with that place, his rise, all the good harvests. Dividends, bonuses, rhythms. Life. Confident Carl-Adam—King Carl, on the way up—that was his thing. A social über-machine, graced by God, never down for long, always with the killer line and the twinkle in his eye that made the obnoxious investors and cutthroat comptrollers start laughing again. Not a single accountant raised objections in his presence. But now—quiet. Jenny saw it, the umbilical cord stretched taut. All the faces on land. She stepped up and kissed him. He stood at the helm; she was still the wife. The conventions were powerful, she knew that part, had lived with it. He seemed unmoved. Her only thought—steer out and away. He was at the helm, and all she had to do was let go of the rope.
After the Monsoon Page 9