After the Monsoon

by Robert Karjel

  “All arrests must be sanctioned by a prosecutor.” The captain had found his phrase and pointed to it on the page. Mickels moved behind Grip’s back, as if he’d gladly add something to the accusation.

  “Are we talking about Radovanović?” Grip asked.

  There was a moment’s pause, seeing he’d gone straight to the heart of things.

  “The law says this is criminal,” replied the first officer.

  “Yes, and that’s why I’m here, to determine whether a crime has been committed.”

  Silence.

  “It is a criminal act to arrest someone on a whim.”

  “Who was arrested?” Grip asked. The captain was red in the face, but he stopped short.

  “Radovanović, for Christ’s sake,” the first officer broke in. “He has . . .”

  “Radovanović is sitting in a taxi on his way back to the Sheraton, if he’s not there already.” Grip smiled mechanically. “I took him in for questioning,” he said, as if explaining a common misunderstanding. “That’s all. If he was away from his duties during this process, that is my fault. I’m sorry.” It was hollow, hollow as hell. “It’s complicated, what took place at the shooting range. Swedes and foreigners, and an awful lot of weapons.” Grip nodded to Mickels, who moved dejectedly. “It took a few days to sort things out. But now I think we have a clearer picture.”

  “So Radovanović has been released?” asked the captain.

  “He’s been returned,” Grip corrected. “If you have concerns, take them up with Colonel Frères. Djibouti and the base are first and foremost under French military jurisdiction.” In reality, the relationship between Grip and Frères was about as solid as whipped cream, but the captain would never impose on a high-ranking French officer. Not this sailor. “Call the French base and they’ll transfer you to him.”

  The captain’s expression didn’t change.

  “So what is your assessment now?” the captain said, taking a different tack. “Mickels here says this Abdoul Ghermat person was released a few days ago. Was that necessary?”

  “Yes. He was innocent.”

  It was apparent that the captain was considering his options, as someone still had to take the blame.

  “Mickels also tells me that Radovanović has confessed. Is this true?”

  Grip felt the ice beneath him get thinner again.

  “Apparently there’s a written statement from him,” the captain continued.

  “We don’t think he did it,” Grip replied.

  “This has gone on long enough now, this fiasco with Ghermat and Radovanović. You seem to keep inventing procedures and legal maneuvers out of thin air. An officer is dead, obviously someone has done something—why else would you be here? Has he confessed or not?”

  “He has acknowledged an accidental discharge, nothing intentional. An accident. He’s not in good shape, and you need to get him some help.”

  “An accidental discharge,” said the first officer in a confident voice. The captain leaned back in his chair like a judge.

  “I’m afraid that Radovanović might harm himself,” Grip tried.

  “You see, an accidental discharge, that is no accident,” said the first officer, “it’s a violation. We have rules, after all.”

  Mickels chimed in: “Treat every weapon as if it were loaded. Keep your finger off the trigger.”

  And Grip saw how the grenade he’d hoped to keep the pin in had already exploded. Too fast, too soon. The uncontrollable force, triggered by someone’s death.

  “We’ll need to see Radovanović’s statement,” said the captain, with renewed confidence.

  An accidental discharge. It was a godsend for the trio in the room. At first, it seemed a Djiboutian had shot a Swedish officer, a sad story under the circumstances, and no officer with any ambition wanted that blot on his files. But now the African was released, so who did the deed? This new situation was not only tragic, it reeked of scandal. But a stray bullet—that meant no conspiracy, no larger implications, no debt that might cross legal and geographic boundaries. No one could be held responsible. Well, one man could be, but after all, Radovanović had broken the one rule carved in stone: Treat every weapon as if it were loaded. The train had left the station—and it was heading straight for the poor bastard.

  “It’s manslaughter,” said Mickels.

  “You could look at it that way,” Grip said.

  “Could?” Now the captain had a plan. Nothing would stand in his way. “Has anyone else confessed?”

  Grip could probably refuse to hand over the confession, claiming it was part of an ongoing investigation. But Milan Radovanović was already a quivering mass of self-loathing, and now the mob smelled blood. It was Grip who’d dragged him into this mess. At the very least, he’d try to spare him a hearing with Mickels bending over him, yelling and threatening.

  “I’ll get you a copy,” Grip said, nodding.

  “Well then.”

  “But he needs help,” Grip repeated.

  “He gets to stay at the fucking Sheraton,” said Mickels. “That’s good enough.”

  Ernst Grip was struggling.

  “So we’ll be getting a copy later today,” said the first officer.

  “As you know, the foreign minister will be here soon,” added the captain, “and it would be best for everyone involved to get this wrapped up by then. Nice and neat, right?”

  They wanted the investigation and the visiting police officers gone. They couldn’t get rid of him fast enough. Grip felt he’d been badly beaten, but he wasn’t going to just take it anymore.

  He nodded, some kind of assent. And then Grip changed tacks. “I was at the air base last night. When the Hercules landed.”

  The captain looked pleased; they could move on to other topics. “I couldn’t get there myself,” he said, “as we were still out at sea. But do you think it was handled well?”

  “I only watched from a distance. I didn’t want to interfere. There were some other things getting loaded as well, but a coffin draped with a flag, everyone paid attention. They loaded it last. Six soldiers carrying it up the ramp, very dignified. They did a good job.”

  “We got the message a while ago that the family would be meeting the transport plane at the base in Uppsala,” said the first officer. “A nice, short ceremony, and the media can be kept out.”

  “That’s one of the benefits,” Grip said. The first officer looked blank.

  “Of a military compound, I mean. You can shut out the world.”

  “You make it sound like . . .”

  “No, no, I think it’s good,” Grip said. “That they landed there, I mean, on the base. Because you can keep track of what’s coming and going.”

  The first officer had a cat’s instincts. His look said something was wrong. Grip went on.

  “Things like letters to families back home, broken equipment, and everything else that gets flown back on a Hercules. Just now, I received a message from Uppsala. From the Customs Enforcement office. When the ceremony was over, they went in and searched the cargo hold. I was the one who sent them. No, no one had tried to send home a smoke grenade or hashish from when you stopped in Salalah. They did, however, find a package containing fifty thousand dollars in cash. Fifty thousand. It wasn’t in the mail, it was marked as spare parts. Someone had thought about it. It’s virtually risk-free to send something by military transport—only this time it wasn’t.”

  Grip looked over his shoulder toward Mickels. “People who don’t treat every gun as loaded aren’t the only problem on this mission.”

  “One thing at a time,” said the captain. “First, we’ll close the file on this accidental discharge and tie up everything with Radovanović. Then we can deal with the money changers, down the road.”

  27

  Ernst Grip and Simon Stark spent the afternoon by the pool at the Kempinski. Grip swam laps in the chilled water and then went down for a stroll along the hotel beach, which always looked empty, far from the sun worship
pers and the well-watered lawns by the pool. Down there, he found a shed with snorkels and masks for rent, along with posters of diving trips to the reef, and a couple of catamarans whose wires chimed gently against the masts in the breeze. The outbuilding was dirty and bare; the Kempinski’s elegance hadn’t made it out that far.

  That night, he and Stark would meet with MovCon, questioning the whole group once again. Grip stood by the water’s edge, stayed there a long time, but saw not a single sign of life. Too close to the industrial port? For the first time, he felt it might be best to go home. He could finish up his assignment from there. Something had happened in Uppsala, and that package of cash was real. Shouldn’t he be there instead? Here, the heat and his fucking insomnia would continue to destroy him. The intimate conversation with Simon Stark the night before had stirred up long-buried feelings, and suddenly the slightest glimmer—an unshaven face with a crooked smile, or noisy groups drinking champagne at tables, or a painting in the lobby—reminded him of Ben. The old pain had returned. Contrary to what Didricksen had said before he left, he couldn’t escape from himself, he never could. Shouldn’t he just go home?

  Then he was back in the pool chair, after getting beers for Stark and himself, letting his feet poke out in the merciless sun beyond the shade of the umbrella. Stark sat and typed Radovanović’s handwritten confession into his laptop. He was struggling, trying to find a comfortable position, irritated that it was too bright not to wear sunglasses—but then when he put them on, he couldn’t see the screen. Annoyed, he got a grease stain on one of the lenses, but when he tried to wipe it off with the corner of his towel, he only smeared it more. Fumbling angrily with the towel, the documents, and the computer, he dropped his sunglasses on the ground. They didn’t break on the grooved concrete, but now there was a scratch across the middle of one lens. Although they were just a cheap pair, now he swore as he put them on and discovered the damage. His reaction seemed out of proportion. He sat for a moment, writing with the sunglasses perched on his forehead, but then he stood up, snapped them in half, and threw them in the trash.

  “I’m going up to my room to take a shower,” he told Grip, and off he went.

  Half an hour later he was back again, with damp hair combed back, wearing long pants and a shirt. He sat on the end of his deck chair.

  “Going somewhere?” Grip asked.

  “I’ll finish writing that shit later, I can’t relax. And since I felt only semi-human after taking a shower, I was thinking about taking the car to get a new pair of sunglasses.”

  “Give me five minutes, and I’ll tag along. I can fill up the tank while you do your thing.”

  At the market in the city center, vendors were selling knickknacks, fresh fruit, and counterfeit goods. There were whole tables covered with watches, sunglasses, and Louis Vuittons. They stopped the car on a vacant lot beside the market, where it was crowded with people. A boy who wanted to guard the car claimed it by grabbing the antenna, but Grip waved him away.

  “I’ll go get gas and call you when I’m done.”

  “Sure,” said Stark, putting two fingers on his chest-pocket office, where he kept a wad of bills and his phone. “Later.” He got out and, looking purposeful, disappeared into the maze.

  Grip backed out and was about to turn onto the road when something smacked against the car. There was a crowd around him, so it took a few seconds before he realized that someone was pulling on the back-door handle, trying to get in. Out of habit, Grip had pushed the power lock when Stark got out to go shopping. He hit the accelerator, and the man disappeared without Grip seeing his face. But then something hit the car again—a rock, which left a web of cracks the size of an apple on the side window. Grip flinched behind the wheel, and people turned around to see what was happening. The crowd was looking at something, but Grip couldn’t tell where the rock had come from or who had thrown it.

  Simon Stark passed tables covered with little bananas, dried fish, and household odds and ends. He bumped into someone and mumbled an excuse. The crowds moved in unpredictable waves. On one table stood a mountain of Lacoste and Tommy Hilfiger shirts with crooked seams. He found a table with sunglasses, but they had oversized frames and too much gold, the kind only Russians would bring home. He tried on a pair, looked in the mirror—no way. The salesman pretended to be upset when he didn’t try on any others. Stark kept going.

  Someone came toward him walking fast, then he stepped aside as Stark moved out of the way, so that they only bumped shoulders. It was hard to see more than a few stalls away because of all the people. Stark stood on his toes and looked for reflections from the glittering sun. He stretched up again and saw what he wanted, a couple of tables away.

  Heading there, he felt a vague wave of vulnerability wash over him, maybe because the crowd had opened up more than usual, as if people wanted to avoid him or had seen something coming.

  A movement in the corner of his eye made him turn. Someone passed him, close by, and an empty space opened up around Stark in the crush. The man, wearing a baggy brown shirt, came back toward Stark. Wrinkled pants and leather sandals. The knife in his hand said something, but his eyes said more. This was a man who knew exactly where he was and who had chosen his moment. He controlled the space, and he didn’t worry for even a second about anyone in the crowd. He stood with his legs apart and held the knife low. With his mouth half-open, he took a couple of breaths, and then he struck. Stark made an awkward swipe that broke the path of the hand wielding the razor-sharp blade.

  And again, like an arrow, but Stark was saved by his reflexes, meeting elbow against elbow. The score was 2–0, brute strength beating malice and agility. Or almost. Stark’s entire back stung. The knife had sliced through more than air when it swept behind him the first time.

  The man moved sideways, keeping away from the foreigner’s powerful reach. A moment of hesitation, but then a new dodge, and a strike from the side. Stark was ready this time, but he winced from the pain in his back and didn’t have time to get his leg out of the way. He felt the knife slash through the fabric of his pants, and tried to grab it, but could only get a hold of the arm that held it. He gave it a sharp twist, but overcome by another stab of pain from his back, he lost his grip—still, the knife fell to the ground. The man grabbed the knife again, yet the look in his eyes revealed that he’d lost faith in a good outcome. He turned and backed off a few steps, and Stark went after him. Now Stark felt an explosion of rage. He’d give this story a whole new ending.

  But Simon Stark had those bad legs he’d brought home from Afghanistan. No one thinks about that, not when rage is flowing through his veins, and although the man’s first steps were slowed by fear, then he turned on the speed. The white man behind him couldn’t throw the switch the same way. He only saw the running man’s back, and his dusty steps that landed like drumbeats. Stark tried to follow the baggy shirt into the crowd. He felt his steps falter. The stab wound in his knee ached. And something about his back didn’t feel right. He tried again. He could still see the shirt, through the tunnel of anonymous bodies.

  Everything hurt, everywhere. He fell to the ground and saw his money and his phone slide across the dirt in front of him. His vision darkened.

  A few moments with clouded senses. A humiliated giant, lying in the dust. Blank, strange faces looking down at him. His mouth tasted of gravel and iron. He groaned and tried to get his phone, but it was out of reach.

  28

  “It’s just a game,” said Carl-Adam without looking at Jenny, as he sat slumped in his corner. “Just a game.”

  “I still think we can trust him,” she said. They were back to arguing about the negotiator, whether their hopes were rational or irrational.

  “Fine. I’d say they found some random guy who speaks decent English,” Carl-Adam snorted, still not looking at her.

  In the back room, the late afternoon brought some relief, as the worst of the heat began to die down. Jenny got up to give Sebastian a drink, while Alexandra read he
r daily ration of novel.

  “I don’t know,” said Carl-Adam, after a moment. The question of trusting the negotiator hung like sticky flypaper between them. “But Scandinavian Capital will help . . . They have people.”

  “Those greedy trolls, won’t they do the bare minimum? You were like that yourself. Everything was about mine and yours, and what was written in ink. Never a penny more.”

  “They . . .”

  “No, Carl, they won’t. Despite all the money you made for them. They used you for years—we’ve talked about this a thousand times. You always thought you were next, but then they picked someone else, never made you partner. And now that you’ve quit your job—it’s over.”

  Carl-Adam replied with a shrug. Was he disagreeing, or simply resigned? Jenny didn’t care anymore. She filled the bottle from the bucket for Sebastian.

  “That negotiator you think so highly of says Darwiish still wants ten million,” Carl-Adam began again, after a moment.

  Jenny coaxed Sebastian, lifting his head and getting him to drink.

  “What if we could get it down to seven.”

  What Sebastian couldn’t finish, she poured back into the bucket.

  “Seven million dollars,” repeated Carl-Adam. Alexandra made a dog-ear and put down her book.

  “The house back home and the yacht,” continued Carl-Adam.

  “Whether they’re worth seven million?” Jenny asked with forced calm.

  “Six, guaranteed.”

  “And how exactly would they get sold?” Jenny touched the last half-empty compartment of Sebastian’s pills. She got another shrug in response. Her fingers trembling with anger, she flattened the plastic of every little empty bubble.

  It was Friday, the only day of the week they could reliably keep track of. The guards delayed their khat-chewing by an hour, abstaining while a few gathered for simple Friday prayers over at the other house. Jenny couldn’t see much, only that the men who usually stayed in the outer room disappeared, sometimes followed by a quiet call and what sounded like perfunctory prayers.