After the Monsoon

by Robert Karjel

  At least Abdoul Ghermat remained alive. For now.

  Grip didn’t even say good-bye when he left the cell. Here he had absolutely nothing to gain. Maybe Ghermat would receive a few extra blows to the kidneys in the next round, simply from his having been there.

  His legs almost gave out, as Grip walked the last few steps to his rental car. Abdoul Ghermat’s gaze had struck a nerve. Grip suddenly felt he’d tossed too many balls in the air over the past twenty-four hours. Was this really the best approach, making everyone his enemy? Was this what a real homicide detective would do? Grip was something else. He made knots magically disappear; he wasn’t the guy who untied them.

  Grip drove absentmindedly from the outskirts of town toward the roundabouts in the center, with the bad sculptures of dolphins and the garish national monument made of crumbling concrete. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was responsible for the prisoner, that he’d done something wrong. An ugly clock had begun ticking. How long before they’d beat him to death? One thought rose above his churning emotions and his mounting self-loathing: play the game anyway. Impossible to back down, now that the die had been cast. If Grip had no easy way to save Abdoul Ghermat’s life, he was still in the lead, and the others would have to chase him. His cell phone rang and rang, while Milan Radovanović licked his lips nervously. The circles cracked. The clock ticked. He had to stay ahead.

  Grip exited between roundabouts and stopped in a dusty parking lot. He searched for Didricksen’s number in the contacts on his cell. Got his voice mail, as expected, but Grip left a message anyway. “Hey, it’s me—in Djibouti. Things heating up here, I need an extra. Send von Hoffsten or Skantz for backup. See ya.”

  Von Hoffsten and Skantz: people he knew well from his bodyguard days, the ones he knew had also investigated murders.

  The HMS Sveaborg would remain in port barely another twenty-four hours. Then it was time for another two-week stint hunting pirates.

  Grip found the surgeon he’d met over dinner down in the ship’s sick bay, with its green walls. The grizzled doc was arguing with a nurse standing next to an open medicine cabinet when Grip came down the hall. They seemed to be talking past each other about something. She was indulgent; he was annoyed. No more than that, before he said, “The police . . . yes,” and brightened up, as if this was just the excuse he’d been hoping for. His stubby bangs, the eyes that had peered into surgical openings for nearly half a century: Grip got the sense that the retired surgeon had been important in his day but now faced medical advances that he hadn’t fully mastered.

  “It’ll be fine,” the doctor said, already moving away from the nurse, who closed the cabinet with the same indulgent expression as before. “Grip, wasn’t it?” he continued, without looking back as he walked down the hallway. He was used to being the one who led the rounds, making the others keep up. “Here, you’ll see.”

  They left the sick bay’s well-scrubbed hallways and took a few ladders down to the harder-worn areas. Streaks and scratches marked the floors and the bulkheads, and the peeling paint seemed to have sustained heavy impacts. The air blew moist and thick, once they’d left the Sveaborg’s air-conditioned compartments. Again Grip sensed he was in a labyrinth; inside the large open bays, their views were blocked by crates and bulky equipment that didn’t require protection from moisture and heat. Cans of chemicals, spare parts for machines. Steel beams, planks, and buoys. A track ran above the floor left over from the Cold War, when the ship laid thousands of mines. They zigzagged quickly, the doctor sure of his steps. Grip felt the sweat dripping inside his shirt.

  “Here.”

  At the very back in the stern, beside one of the big mine gates. Like something from a spaceship, rather than an old vessel like this one, and made of stainless steel—a morgue.

  The doctor anticipated his question. “Brand-new, brought on board only a week before we cast off from Karlskrona. Mandatory, you know. Admirals and generals expect to lose a few men during a little adventure like this. It’s a matter of dignity, and preventing bad smells. Six compartments.” He opened one and pulled out the stretcher, which ran on rails.

  Goddamn, what a thing to send home, Grip thought, imagining the relatives seeing what he was seeing.

  “No, a shot through a skull is never tidy,” said the surgeon, sensing his reaction. “Especially when the exit hole is in front.

  “But,” continued the doctor, “maybe that’s not important. The key factor is the difference between left and right.”

  “Left and right?”

  “It’s his right eye that’s missing, among other things.”

  “Yes . . .” said Grip, who saw mostly a muddy hole.

  “You said you wanted angles, bullet angles,” continued the surgeon. “I’d been told that Slunga was shot from behind, and it’s true. Diagonally from the back, left, the entry hole is distinct. Here!” He took hold of the back of the head and twisted. “That means the bullet took out the right eye with everything behind, and projected it straight out onto the desert sand.”

  Grip only humphed in reply.

  “To give you a more precise answer, I’ll need to do some calculations. We cast off tomorrow, but as soon as we leave the dock, I’ll have more time. I made some notes, basically just a surgeon pressing a pen into a bullet hole and then calculating the sine and cosine, but that should be pretty accurate. Also, I took some samples and sent them to the French hospital. They’ll email me the answers, so I’ll compile everything and send it to you.”

  “You do the calculations,” Grip said. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Slunga. As if in a steam room, the humid air of the third deck had started to condense on the cold body. Water pooled in the wide-open wound, and drops had begun to flow in rivulets down over the dead lieutenant’s skin.

  “What happens to him now?” Grip asked.

  “The body will be removed tomorrow before we cast off, then loaded onto a Hercules that will fly him home to Sweden.” The surgeon pulled the stained white sheet over the dead man’s head and pushed the stretcher back in again.

  They were climbing back up through the ship, and the surgeon was talking, but Grip wasn’t listening. Impatient. All he’d seen was a dead body, and the clock was ticking. For Abdoul Ghermat and Milan Radovanović. Ideally, he wanted to let Radovanović stew in the loneliness of his soul one more day, but he might be running out of time. Grip was barely half a step behind the doctor, and now he was the one pushing to go faster. Per-Erik Slunga had been shot from behind, that much he knew. Meanwhile Abdoul Ghermat was probably hanging naked and once again losing control of himself, experiencing spasms and involuntary erections as the jolts shot through his body.

  Grip had come aboard the Sveaborg without running into the men who’d left messages on his phone, and now he walked back down the gangway. Just a short nod to the ship’s dock guard and then he disappeared again.

  Handing a dollar to the boy who’d guarded the car for him outside the port, he escaped to the other side of the city and found a new boy, and again left him squatting in the shade next to the car. Grip left his jacket in the backseat. He rubbed down his shirt and cast an eye over his surroundings.

  Almost two o’clock. Djibouti was, as usual, languishing in the afternoon heat. On the street, there was a little business being done in counterfeit clothing and knickknacks; women walked by, two by two, while the men sat. The Hotel Mirage rose a floor higher than the buildings around it. A family-owned place, not many rooms, even fewer guests. A European with a crew cut in sunglasses and a tight T-shirt sat under a parasol on the shared balcony that ran along the top floor. Still as a lizard on a wall, he looked down at the street, a bored but alert French military police officer.

  Grip got up, exchanged a few words, and went into the room.

  This time, Milan Radovanović didn’t gaze down at the floor but, frightened, stared straight at Grip as soon as the door opened. He sat on the sloppily made bed, with the other MP in an armchair opposite. Frenchman Number Two d
idn’t even nod, but just rose and walked out.

  It was cool, and the air-conditioning was on. Good. They could have tormented Radovanović with the heat, but this wasn’t about making him suffer, it was about amplifying his solitude. This kind of questioning always worked best without distractions, when basic needs were met: a pleasant temperature, a bed, enough food. Then the loneliness and doubts reigned undisturbed. On the latest tray from the hotel kitchen, the chicken curry sat practically untouched. The French never ate with him, taking their meals while off-duty. In the room, there would be only stillness and silence.

  If the treatment hadn’t gotten to him, Radovanović would have said something right away, as soon as he saw Grip. But he sat silent, looking self-conscious and caught.

  What did he think, that he’d been arrested? Grip wanted to keep up the illusion. Two uniformed MPs had arrived at Radovanović’s room at the Sheraton the night before, asked him to come with them immediately, and then paraded him past everyone in the hotel, one in front and one behind. They led him outside to the two other MPs in civilian clothes, who identified themselves and then drove off with him. A kind of ceremony, a ritual—perfect. The French were pragmatic, and they hadn’t asked Grip about the legalities. It was simple: there were none. There were no grounds for holding him. If Radovanović wished, he could have just gotten up from bed and left. Yes, the French would probably have given him a rough time if he tried the door handle because they didn’t know any better. Grip wouldn’t have any other choice than to step aside. But Radovanović wouldn’t try anything, because he was completely caught up in the illusion. He’d done what Grip wanted him to do, putting himself under the interrogation lamp. The gaze from the bed didn’t show defiance, it only asked anxiously how it could get out of there, when the door was not an option.

  At the meeting aboard the Sveaborg with the whole MovCon group, his purpose had only been for them to get to know each other. The group had tasted Grip and spat him out again.

  “Mickels’s report says you accused Abdoul Ghermat.”

  Radovanović stopped biting his lower lip and took a nervous breath. There was a little chess game that needed re-creating, one with just a few pieces. It was Radovanović, Abdoul Ghermat, and Fredrik Hansson. These were the three who’d been standing in the back, when everyone else walked up to tape over the holes in the paper targets.

  “Hansson says he fired,” began Radovanović. “Fredrik Hansson says he saw Ghermat fire the shot.”

  “And you confirmed it. And now Ghermat is in a cell at the police station just a few blocks away. What do you think they do to a man who murders a foreign soldier here in Djibouti?”

  No answer.

  “Ask him to finish his chicken curry . . . or attach car batteries to his balls?”

  Radovanović rubbed his mouth.

  “What were you doing before the bullet hit?”

  “I had my gun, and I was changing the magazine.”

  “And Ghermat?”

  “He was behind me. I had my back turned when it happened.”

  “Did he have a weapon?”

  “I’d just loaded one and put it on the ground in front of him.”

  “At his feet?”

  “More or less. Maybe a little in front.”

  “And then you turned around, to do something with your own weapon?”

  “I told you, I was switching the magazine.”

  “And the others went up to the targets and taped, while Ghermat waited for his turn to shoot.”

  “Yes, that sounds right.”

  “Sounds right?”

  “That’s how it was, I mean.”

  “So he hadn’t yet fired a shot.”

  “No, it was his turn.”

  “When I asked you on the Sveaborg yesterday, you said he’d already fired at the targets.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes. Definitely.”

  “Your questions were so confusing.”

  “Probably, if you have too many versions to keep track of. As you’ve probably figured out, you’re not here by accident.”

  Radovanović’s lie, if he even was aware of it, was insignificant. Yet he seemed to come unhinged.

  Grip had already moved closer to the bed. “So, the shot that killed the lieutenant, that was the only shot that Ghermat fired that day.”

  “He picked it up and fumbled with the weapon, what do I know?”

  “Well, what do you know?”

  “I heard the shot.”

  “So did everyone else at the shooting range. But did you actually see Ghermat holding a gun?”

  “I told you he was behind me.”

  “This room seems to have an echo.”

  “Okay, but the shot was fired, it was.” Radovanović was upset. “Slunga is dead, okay? I heard the shot, and Hansson saw Ghermat fire. What more do you want?” His voice had risen to a falsetto, as if he could start crying at any moment.

  “The report says you accused Ghermat.”

  “It was only reasonable.”

  “You saw nothing and guessed. It was only reasonable . . . ?”

  He broke. Radovanović’s eyes filled with tears as he gazed at the floor, utterly defenseless. A bubble popped when he opened his mouth. “I switched magazines. I squatted down and switched magazines. I don’t know . . . it could have been mine.”

  Absolute stillness.

  “It could have been your . . . you mean, your own shot?”

  Radovanović nodded, his face buried in his hands.

  Grip drew a mental picture. Radovanović, obviously an insecure young man, squatting and getting his gun ready, while Ghermat, high on khat, stands behind him with a loaded rifle at his feet. Too young, too impressionable, too many small blunders—bam. Hansson, that quick-witted bastard, standing alone some distance away, sees everything and thinks fast. Self-preservation mode. Check.

  “An accident?”

  He nodded again. Radovanović sniffled. “I think so.”

  The dam was bursting. There was only a trickle; he needed to force open the cracks to get the flood. He needed details, something clear, not just a sniffled “maybe.” Grip had to give the impression that he knew more than he did.

  “What’d you expect, that guys named Hansson, Jondelius, and Fritzell would protect a Bosnian Serb when the shit hit the fan? Once the lie about Ghermat was exposed?” Grip was running out of time, so he twisted the knife again. “What do you think your buddies have already confessed to me? Why do you think you’re sitting here? For God’s sake, think about your own version now, and think about it carefully.”

  Radovanović was at the bottom of his own pit, slumped and shaking silently next to the bed. Grip looked around the room, checking for ropes and knives. The kid was fragile, he’d spill everything now, but not if he killed himself first.

  Geometries. Two Swedes and a Djiboutian. Who was standing and who was sitting, who was holding a weapon and who wasn’t. Now there were two versions. Grip got impatient again. He couldn’t hold Radovanović indefinitely, and Abdoul Ghermat wouldn’t survive much longer. Grip opened the door, and a military police officer came over.

  “Be careful,” he said to the Frenchman. “We don’t need any more Swedish corpses right now. All it will take is a broken drinking glass in there, and he’ll slit his wrists. Make sure that he writes—writes down his version of what happened. A pad and a pen, can you take care of that?”

  Grip headed out, the street even quieter now, as he went back down to his car. The squatting boy, curled up against one of the tires in the shade, got his dollars. Grip started the engine, cranked up the air conditioner, and sat for a minute, sorting out his thoughts. He checked his phone, still on mute, and saw two missed calls from Mickels and the first officer. Then, feeling the air start to cool off, he turned into the street.

  He saw a taxi in his rearview mirror do the same, half a block behind him. White with green stripes, like all the taxis here, but this one with a blue flag on its antenna. Hadn’t
he seen the same one at the taxi stand outside the Kempinski, or was it just that one company put flags on all its antennas? Djibouti swarmed with taxis. He dropped the thought.

  Grip wanted to get ahold of Fredrik Hansson quickly. Not many places to look: aboard the Sveaborg, in the Swedish offices on the French base, and of course first, at the hotel.

  Direct hit. Grip found Hansson at the Sheraton, where they served drinks from the bar in the lobby, at low round tables. Early afternoon, a mix of uniforms who’d decided they were done for the day, beer glasses, a low murmur above black marble floors. Grip studied Hansson for a while at a distance. Relaxed and loose, alone with a few Germans he seemed to have met before. He gave them directions on a map, drew some lines. Then he caught sight of Grip, who nodded: Get over here! Hansson took a sip of beer before he stood up. He was in no hurry, without being flippant.

  “Yes?”

  “A quick question. Did you see Abdoul Ghermat fire the shot?”

  Hansson let a few seconds pass, without giving the impression he needed time to think. He smiled and didn’t even try to hide his own irony. “Yes, as clear as you’re standing there.”

  Then there was silence.

  “Anything else?”

  “No, nothing at all,” said Grip.

  “I think Mickels wants to get ahold of you.” He turned and walked back toward the Germans.

  Hansson hadn’t asked what had happened to Radovanović, what Grip was doing, or what would happen next. Grip stood there, watching Hansson sit down and slowly drink his beer, not even glancing over his shoulder. The man had no need to know, Grip thought, annoyed. Unflappable, he’d made the cold calculation that no matter what Radovanović had said, Hansson would be able to push his own version. Grip had seen it in his eyes, in the timing of his response. He didn’t even care that he’d given away the real answer—that Abdoul Ghermat hadn’t even fired. Hansson wouldn’t be affected in the slightest, while Radovanović was willing to confess to everything.