“Thank you, Astrid. You’ve done what you can.”
“But? Shouldn’t we . . .”
“That’s fine, thank you.”
“And this thing about the Jew?”
“I don’t know, the name doesn’t ring a bell. And whatever’s happening in Stockholm, it’s a major hassle to work on that when I’m in Djibouti.”
“That sounds kind of thin, you know. But I guess you have your reasons.”
“See ya.”
Grip sat quietly, thinking about Radovanović. The sad figure sitting in his room at the Hotel Mirage—it got Grip in the gut. The fatal shooting of the lieutenant in Djibouti might be another way in. The excuse he needed to look under rocks, search houses, and bring people in for questioning. But he’d lost that justification, thanks to none other than himself. The report had been written. Radovanović would go down. The case was closed.
Fredrik Hansson and Khalid Delmar? Grip didn’t have a clue. But he’d come up against something, and it didn’t give him a good feeling. He was solo here, on the brink of a much bigger game. The image of that man being interrogated in Uppsala, not just some hardened type who sat stony-faced, but a man in a cold sweat, terrified of what would happen if he said a word. To be able to create that kind of fear in someone. All Grip could think was: Give them as good as they gave. And he’d give them so damn much, so damn fast, that they wouldn’t have a chance to pull their knives on him before he made his move.
“Could I get a massage this afternoon? One hour, full body?”
The spa receptionist scrolled through her computer.
“You’ll book this for me? I want it with Sarah.” The woman looked at a list.
“It’s important that it be Sarah.”
“I’m afraid she is fully booked.”
Grip already had a hundred-euro bill in his hand. He pushed it forward, with one finger, across the counter.
“But I can change you to another treatment, here,” she said, pushing the bill back toward him.
Grip backed off, realizing the associations were all wrong: Kempinski, women, money. “Sarah helped me last week. My back . . .”
The woman at the front desk nodded. “It must have been painful. One must ask for help.”
Grip crumpled up the note in his hand.
“Come at four o’clock. I will tell her.”
The day went by, and soon enough he was lying in that room again. On the low table. The sounds of the sea, the lit candles, the scents.
“Does this hurt?” For lack of anything better, he’d gone on about his imaginary bad back, and Sarah felt cautiously.
“That’s good, right there.” The charade made him impatient. But it was still a real massage: pulling, kneading, knuckles going in deep. And soon Sarah found where the real tension had set in—his neck and shoulders. As if at the push of a button, and despite his resistance, he grew drowsy. But he didn’t fall asleep, or at least he thought he didn’t.
Now she softened up his legs. Thighs, calves, cautious on one side where the knee bore old surgical scars.
“What happened here?”
It was the voice he responded to. Caught by surprise, he flinched and turned around. The fingers slipped off the back of his knee. Ayanna.
Sarah was no longer there. Whose hands had those actually been, massaging him?
“Just relax. This is not terribly dangerous.” Ayanna, feeling the back of his knee with one hand, turned and looked at him. “Do people often come after you?”
“It was my partner who got cut. That scar is from a soccer thing, a long time ago. I had some bad luck.”
“Bad luck? Do you even believe that yourself?” She seemed to be in a good mood, as she took a towel from a high shelf and rubbed the massage oil from her hands. “So . . . ?”
“So what?” Grip asked. This time he was not as confident, unnerved that she could so effortlessly get to him, and that he had only a towel around his hips, while she was fully clothed.
“The scars on your knee and now this back pain, does it say something about who you are and where you come from?”
“I played soccer, that explains the knee. And the back, well, I had to come up with something to get a last-minute appointment.”
“So that is how it works.” Ayanna tossed down the hand towel. “You concoct a lie, and through it we meet again.” She sat down in one of the armchairs.
“I am sorry,” she said then. “I meant no harm. You wanted to meet, and that is good.”
Despite his desire to talk to her again, the atmosphere in the massage room made him feel insecure. He had the sense that they were hiding from someone. Ayanna carried herself with obvious self-assurance, but she still gave him the sense that her loyalties were unclear.
“How’s Judy?” he began.
“Judy Drexler? She is doing wonderfully, I am sure. Did I not say that the last time? It was she who suggested I contact you, but that is all. What is it that you are so worried about her discovering?”
“Nothing, for now.”
“But . . . ?” she asked, and got no response. She wiped something imaginary off her cheek, as if his uncertainty had spread to her. “Because this is not about Judy,” she said then, “it is about me. You are wondering where you really have me?”
“We find ourselves more in your world than in mine, yet it is difficult to define what you are actually doing here. I’m trying to investigate a murder, while you, yes, do more than play the piano . . .”
She looked away for a moment. She was about to say something but changed her mind. “The first time you came to this town,” she said then, “what did you see?” He shrugged, and she continued: “The first thing you noticed was the khat stalls, and men chewing with clouded eyes. Admit that you felt contempt. You only had to look at them, to take in the musty smells and the drunken eyes, and you could distance yourself from the misery. It became obvious to you that the way people live here is partly their own fault. Then you don’t have to feel the guilty conscience of staying in a place like the Kempinski.
“Here I am, I share this world with you. Night after night, I dress up and sit behind the piano. But I cannot just turn my back on what is out there, not because I think differently than you, but because I am always in danger of ending up there. My life can fit in two suitcases, and I go from job to job. I can make the rounds of luxury hotels in Africa and the Middle East, because I play the way I do, and I look the way I do. But it is just jumping on icebergs, and ultimately . . . I call it the curse of passports. I have two, one from Ukraine and one from Somalia. When I can no longer sit at the piano bar, where will I go? If I have a family, where will my children grow up? Returning to Kiev would be impossible, and living in the real Somalia or Djibouti would be my downfall. I would not survive it, the daily life would destroy me.”
She was quiet, still looking at him.
“Have we reached the point where you’ve let me know exactly where I have you?” he asked.
“I, myself alone, I am truly the only one who cares about me, and I have to do what I can with what I have. Just as the pirates, they also want a different life. They are trying to grab a piece of the world that they see floating by . . . that dream. But they do it by trying to make their own rules, and then they are met by warships and armed helicopters. My idea is to swim with the current, be an ally, end up on the right side, and offer what no one else can. As you said, this here, it is more my world than yours, and I can move freely. I can be Judy Drexler’s eyes and ears, because when people see me, they do not think of the CIA and Washington, or Moscow, or even Stockholm, for that matter. I charge for my services, and once in a while I get a stamp in my passport that allows me to go somewhere a person from Somalia or Ukraine cannot otherwise go.”
She smiled again. “You see, it is not dangerous to talk about yourself. The last time we met, you played at being surprised when I explained my background, but when one is a black among whites, one must always explain where you come from and where y
ou eventually intend to go. You never have to, even when you are alone among blacks. And there you have me. I am not just playing the piano, because I cannot afford to wait for what the world might possibly give me. On that score, I have nothing to hope for.”
Grip felt ashamed. In five minutes, he’d been told more about her essential self than he’d learned after years spent side by side with his colleagues. Still, there was a part of him that wasn’t satisfied, that felt she was hiding something, and that sensed something was missing. What could he expect, what else could she say that would move them forward? Sometimes, real trust can only be built on action. After all, he was the one who badly needed to move forward.
“Black or white,” he said, “you say you can’t afford to wait. Right now, I can’t either. You told me about the French lieutenant, at the casino.”
“The Legionnaire who was taught a lesson?”
“Yes, you could call it that.”
“And you want to make something happen?”
“I need help with my investigation.”
“What do you need: a chauffeur, or a bartender who can listen to a conversation?”
“I want to get in touch with the police officers who arrested Abdoul Ghermat.”
“Abdoul Ghermat?” She sounded surprised.
“He worked for the Swedes on the base, probably loading and unloading the planes that landed there. He was accused of killing the officer at the shooting range.”
She laughed. “I happen to know who Ghermat is. About a month ago, Judy Drexler asked me to check him out. There were no leads, and I did not have much to tell. I think he turned out to be an ordinary Djiboutian who occasionally had a beer with that lieutenant. But who is this Ghermat to you? You would hardly need to try to bribe someone for a massage appointment at the Kempinski regarding him. Now you would like to talk to the men who questioned him?”
“Something like that.” Grip stood up, put a rolled towel around his neck, and held on to the ends.
“Why do you not just go to the police station? Can that be so difficult?”
He shrugged. “As Judy knows, it’s not always an advantage to be seen. And you speak Djiboutian better than me.”
“Do you need an intermediary?” She was quick, she got it, and she didn’t need more than a second to fill in the blanks. “. . . For the local police to twist the arm of a white person?”
“If they accept my proposal, it won’t be so much about arm-twisting as about conjuring up a very unpleasant memory. I need to scare someone, and the best way to do that is to use someone’s own demons.”
They met twice more, in the room with piles of towels, Moorish mosaics, and the sound of the sea. One day between each meeting. Ayanna spoke to the local police officers, brought him their questions, and Grip supplied the answers. She came by with an offer, and he gave a counteroffer. He knew it wouldn’t be cheap. Finally, he passed her one evening at the piano. She nodded.
35
Grip had to stay agile. Not so much physically as in decision and thought. He didn’t want to watch over anyone when it was hard enough to protect himself. Besides, he knew that the rules of morality could be bent more easily when there were no witnesses.
“What’s up?” said Stark, when Grip came into his room the next morning at six a.m.
“Pack your bag. The Sveaborg leaves in a little over an hour.”
“Are we going with her?”
“Not we. You.”
Stark was still drowsy. “You’re kidding.”
“No, you’re going with.”
“Why the . . .”
“You’re going to sit down with the doc to figure out the angles and math, so we’ll have crystal-clear evidence to prove Radovanović’s innocence.”
“We can do that at the next port stop.”
“We owe him this, clearing his name. You’re going.”
Stark looked at Grip. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“We need to get this wrapped up.”
Stark raised his voice. “Why are you getting rid of me?” Grip didn’t answer, and Stark continued: “You said the knife thing was a robbery, not me. Yeah, I’m scared, but I’m no coward.”
“Pack up.”
“Is this Didricksen’s idea?”
“The Boss has nothing to do with it, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to him.”
“What the hell are you planning to do?”
“Don’t tell the Boss. That’s important, okay? Just focus on getting an airtight explanation from the doctor.”
“It’s Hansson, isn’t it?”
“You’ll get your own cabin on the Sveaborg. It’s all arranged,” said Grip.
“You want to be alone with Hansson, and you don’t think that I . . .” Stark stopped himself. He walked to the dresser and yanked out a drawer. Stood with his back to Grip.
“I get it.”
“We both know I was the one who caved,” Grip said.
“Yeah, you need to do something.” Stark picked up socks and T-shirts at random and threw them in. “And you want ten days on your own?”
“The Sveaborg will be out for twelve days this time.”
“Twelve then.” Stark opened the closet and pulled out a bag.
“The Boss . . .” Grip began.
“I know,” Stark snapped, “not a word. But promise me one thing, if I’m going to be humiliated on a ship for two weeks, make damn sure you get revenge on that asshole.”
Grip kept silent. Stark still had his back to him. “Hansson isn’t working alone, that much is obvious, but you want to be alone with him.” Stark yanked some shirts from their hangers in the closet. He turned and reached for something.
“Do me a favor,” he said. “Take this.” He held out the knife that had slashed him. “It only gives me nightmares.”
Grip took it. He spun it slowly around in his hand and put it in his pocket. “Pack up.”
36
The sun had set long before, but Friday-night anticipation still hung in the air. A few new warships had arrived in the port of Djibouti. Khat-fueled taxi drivers and drunken sailors came together in symbiosis: choppy conversations, loud laughter, crumpled bills, and impatient hands waving for more.
Fredrik Hansson had primed the pumps with pre-party whiskey and was now shepherding the flocks between the bars and clubs. Bullshitting with the bouncers, high-fiving, and ordering the first round on the house. He was the man who knew everyone, had all the contacts, and was everybody’s golden boy.
Himself, he stayed sober.
He’d just left a bunch of Germans determined to see some nudity, and checked for texts from other hunting parties who’d been sent the wrong way. He jeered at Mickels when he drove by in his white Land Cruiser looking grim—he and the MP were polar opposites. Mickels sat in his field uniform and chased sinners, while Hansson found sin for them, wearing an untucked shirt and jeans.
Hansson turned the corner and checked his messages again. He headed behind a bar, where he’d parked the VW van he used for rescuing those who’d gone astray and, in their excitement, ended up outside the city limits.
A taxi drove up. “Sir!” Hansson shook his head as he typed a new message. The driver leaned across his seat and hit the latch, making the passenger door slide open. Fredrik Hansson, still looking at his screen, kneed the door to make it close again. He pressed send, looked up, and gave a wolf whistle. There were a bunch of small boys at the back who always guarded the van for him. The van was there, but the boys he’d spoken to a moment before were gone.
“Hey!” he shouted. They were probably sitting in a corner somewhere, a little stoned. He only got an echo back; the back lot was strangely still. As if abandoned. But the taxi remained there, idling in front of him.
The passenger door swung open again, forcefully.
“I told you—no!” Hansson said impatiently. His phone pinged again. He leaned down to look inside the taxi, saw the driver’s empty gaze, looked at his phone, and t
hen saw something move when someone who’d been crouching farther away rose to his feet. Hansson turned around to pay the boys, but then two men came at him in the stillness, knowing exactly what they wanted.
Hansson had dropped the ball. He’d never imagined it would be like this. Not here.
At first, there was only exhausted breathing, but eventually he made out, despite the poor image quality, a figure sitting on a stone floor with his arms extended. The shape held a strange pose, balanced there, as if constantly struggling not to fall over to one side. He had some kind of cloth hood over his head. One foot was bare, and on the cement a meter away lay the other shoe, which had fallen off. The camera was filming from behind. A man’s shape came into the image and stood in front of the figure on the floor.
“Can you hear me?” the man said in English. He was wearing a police uniform. He got no noticeable reaction back. He took a step forward and grabbed the man’s shoulder, and the figure winced as if he’d been woken up in the middle of a dream. They heard the sound of chains rattling; those hadn’t been visible before.
The hood was pulled off.
It had been three days since Fredrik Hansson tried to turn down a taxi, behind a bar in Djibouti.
The police officer waited until the man’s eyes could focus on him.
“Yes, it is hot as hell, and everything stinks,” he said. “But this is how it is, when you are sent to a place where no one can see or hear you.”
Once again, he heard the sound of metal being pulled up and falling back down onto the stone floor. Now he could see that each arm was held by a chain that ran a few meters out, to a ring in middle of the floor.
“You cannot stand up and you cannot lie down. I have heard people say that despite the terrible pain and fatigue, the worst is when you are unable to scratch insect bites. Perhaps you have found a thought that helps you bear it, but that does not matter, because that is not the point. You are estimating how long you can endure, but you must let that go. You know, we have been acquainted with you since you tried to make Abdoul Ghermat into a murderer. Surely, we went at him hard, but in return he gave us a lot of useful information. So this is not about how long you can hold out but about what we are going to get from you now.”
After the Monsoon Page 22