After the Monsoon

by Robert Karjel

  The hangar door opened, and Hansson came out again. Grip surprised him, standing perfectly still just a few meters away, but Hansson didn’t even flinch. He just stopped and stood there, eyeing him, shaking and breathless. He was soaked in sweat, looking like a man who’d just lost $142,000 that he owed someone. Money that now lay tightly packed in the safe of a hotel room at the Kempinski.

  “Sweating out all the water you drank in Mickels’s office?” asked Grip.

  Hansson made a face but didn’t go back to his car. He stood there and tried to make sense of the coincidence.

  Exhausted, lips cracked. Every thought and feeling showing on the surface. He turned and looked toward the hangar door.

  “Whatever is in there will be fine overnight,” said Grip.

  Hansson couldn’t put his thoughts and doubts together.

  “What time do you have to report to Mickels tomorrow?”

  “Ten, I think,” Hansson said.

  “You think?”

  “Ten.” He nodded.

  “Now, let’s move on to another matter,” Grip continued. “You and Khalid Delmar share an apartment in Kungsholmen. Yeah, it’s in your name, but you own it together. Three parking spots in the garage, and a car each sitting there.”

  Direct hit. He watched it sink in.

  “The money that Customs seized in Uppsala would have been picked up by Swiftclean. The company owned by Delmar’s uncle. Does he even know that you launder your money there?”

  That look again, lonely as much as desperate. Hansson had one second left before detonation. Did he understand that Grip had been there, while he sat chained on the stone floor? Had he seen him, after all?

  Grip had the knife he’d got from Simon Stark in his hand, hidden and ready, but he remained completely cool on the surface, as if he’d just asked about the weather. An ounce of contempt in his eyes or his tone, and Hansson would have ticked the last thousandth down to zero.

  “Ten o’clock, you say. So let’s you and I meet at eight tomorrow. Eight o’clock. I’ll come to the Sheraton, and we’ll have a chat there.”

  Hansson turned again toward the hangar door.

  “You need to get some sleep,” Grip continued, in a voice that could easily have been mistaken for caring. “Head back to the hotel, and go to bed. That’s what you need to do right now.” That was the plan, a night without chains for Hansson, still prisoner of his own anxiety. In the morning, he’d confess to the murder, to distract Grip from Delmar and whatever else he was up to. At least, that was what Fredrik Hansson thought he could get away with. Grip had already asked about a small conference room at the Sheraton. They’d sit there, and this time it would all be recorded. He’d made a checklist of what would follow, starting with the call to the prosecutor in Sweden, so the arrest would be done right. Mickels, who didn’t know it yet, would have a real criminal to deal with, while the National Police sent down a couple of men for quick transport home.

  “Eight o’clock,” Grip repeated. “Set your alarm, to make sure you wake up.”

  Maybe it was a nod he got back. Hansson got into his car and drove away. Grip closed the blade and put the knife back in his pocket.

  As Hansson’s car disappeared, Grip heard the engine throttle of a drone taking off on the American side. A barely discernible silhouette that rose up under the lights of the runway. A red navigation light at the wing tip, an anticollision light flicking angrily somewhere at the back. First the engine noise died away, then the lights faded, and finally the pilotless craft disappeared into the night.

  It was an evening with a very special schedule. Grip’s first ball was in the pocket, and the next was rolling in. Ayanna had landed half an hour earlier, on her Ethiopian Air flight back from Mombasa. Late at night, there’d be no massage room available at the Kempinski, but they wanted to meet as soon as possible.

  Grip had just received the address from her in a text, but he had no idea where the place was or what kind of a place it was. It turned out to be on the outskirts of town, in a crowded residential area. Behind the walls and tall iron fences leading from the street were views of small courtyards and low houses. Everything was run-down; the car’s wheels rattled over the rocks and potholes, despite its low speed. Grip tried to find the street number among the scattered lights and randomly lit entrances, when an elderly man stepped out into the street and waved him in.

  “Here,” he said, when Grip stopped, motioning for him to leave the car where it stood.

  The man led the way in through the wooden door in a wall, and then down a wide path past a house where the light of a television flickered inside a window. They turned the corner, and the space opened onto a small paved terrace. A handful of trees obscured the surrounding walls, and their branches formed a sparse archway against the night sky. A gas lamp hung from a branch, above a table made of stone. There were a couple of chairs, and Ayanna sat on one of them. Her hair was gathered in a bun, so that her neck was bare, and she was wearing a loose, comfortable cotton dress. The man who led the way made a gesture of delivery and disappeared again.

  “Who . . . ?” Grip said, as he sat down.

  “These are just some acquaintances of mine.”

  “Of course.” Grip watched a moth bump against the glass of the gas lamp. “So, what did you find out?” he asked. There was a pitcher of something on the table. Seeing that Ayanna’s glass was already half empty, Grip poured one for himself.

  “You already know that I met the negotiator at a hotel,” Ayanna began.

  Grip drank; it tasted of mint and citrus. “What did he look like?” he asked.

  “Clean-shaven, well-dressed, good English.”

  “You didn’t sneak a picture of him?”

  “He asked me to turn off the phone as soon as we said hello.”

  Grip nodded. “Was he relaxed or stressed?”

  “He was eager, if you understand what I mean.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “He gave me these.” She handed over a pair of paper tabs torn from packages. Grip read the few printed words on them but didn’t understand. “The medications,” Ayanna explained, “two different types, for the boy.”

  “The ones that have run out?”

  Ayanna nodded. “The pirates do not care, and even if they did, there is no way for them to obtain them.”

  Grip twisted and turned the pieces of paper. “The idea is to supply the drugs, which he will bring to the family?”

  “Yes.”

  “A nice gesture, but what does he want in return?”

  “He said that your Swedish family will not survive much longer, and he sees a way to get the hostages released.”

  “That’s what we want. And what did he want?”

  “He said that in return, he wants immunity from prosecution.”

  “What?”

  “If the hostages go free, then afterward there will be no investigation and no charges filed against him.”

  “But he wasn’t there when they were kidnapped, right? He’s not the one out there in the desert, pointing at them with a Kalashnikov. He is their negotiator.”

  “He said that the West is resentful, and that they will find and kill scapegoats at any cost.”

  “So he said that,” replied Grip. “Well, who can blame him?”

  “Do you think it sounds too good to be true?”

  “Freeing the hostages without paying any ransom? Yes, I’d say so.” Grip fiddled with the pieces of paper.

  “But you cannot simply dismiss him.”

  “No, I can’t. He’s in direct contact with the pirates.” Grip leaned back, trying to think. He emptied the glass in a few gulps. “A phone number and the vague promise of an impossible plan, that’s what I have.”

  “Everyone wants that little boy to survive,” said Ayanna.

  “In that case, he needs to get the drugs immediately.”

  “I can go back tomorrow.” She didn’t look at him when she said it, trying to make her own wishes sound
like an offer to him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It is clear that you are busy here in Djibouti, but you are the one who must obtain the medicines. That I cannot do. Only white men have access to proper medications in this town. But I can take them down to Mombasa tomorrow.”

  “You’d go straight back?”

  “The negotiator said he would remain for a day or so. You can call him to schedule a meeting. Another text message, a new meeting place. This will show your goodwill and also prove that you can get things done. This way, you will keep in touch with him.”

  “What about the Kempinski. Isn’t there an empty grand piano at the bar?”

  “I said that my mother has become very ill, that things must be arranged. That it might take a while.”

  “Was that the lie that got you time off?”

  “Yes. Timur, the Russian manager of the casino, put in a good word for me.” She closed her eyes and turned her face up toward the trees. “So have we agreed that I will go?”

  Grip put the paper tabs in his breast pocket. “I’ll try to contact him tonight. But you should arrange the plane ticket and the hotel, as I’m busy with other things.”

  She nodded. Grip leaned forward and pulled an envelope out of his pocket—a withdrawal from the war chest in his hotel-room safe. “You asked for six thousand for this trip. How much were expenses?”

  “Another three?”

  “For a hotel room and food?” He sounded dubious, and she nodded. “Dollars?” A nod again. He laughed and began to count the notes.

  “Here are ten.” He handed over the stack.

  “So I do get a tip, after all?”

  “You’ve got a sick mother in Kiev, don’t you?” She smiled.

  “Anyway. From now on, the rate is a thousand dollars a day, plus five hundred for expenses. Do what you want, that’s what you’re working with, but make sure that this man keeps talking to us. Then there’s this matter, too.” Ayanna looked bewildered at a new bundle of banknotes, thick as a paperback. “It’s fifteen thousand,” he explained. “For the police officers you persuaded to work with me, here in Djibouti. They should be paid for extra night shifts, the cost of chains, and whatever else. I’m sure they will bitch and moan, trying to squeeze more out of me. What’s here”—he pointed to the pile in her hand—“is more than we agreed on. You’re going to make sure that they’re satisfied with what they get. I don’t want to hear a word back from them. Do me that favor, in exchange for all your extra expenses and your tip. Agreed?” She hesitated.

  “So are you going to Mombasa or not?” he asked.

  She absentmindedly played a few piano notes on her thigh, before she looked up at him and said, “The police in Djibouti thank you in advance for your generosity. I will be leaving tomorrow, and they will be more than satisfied before I do.”

  41

  TRANSCRIPT OF RECORDED PHONE CALL, TS 233:9965

  Recording requestor: Bureau Director Thor Didricksen

  * * *

  TOP SECRET UNDER CHAPTER 2, SECTION 2 OF THE SECRECY ACT (1980:100)

  OF HIGHEST IMPORTANCE TO NATIONAL SECURITY

  * * *

  Persons present: Thor Didricksen (TD) and police officer Ernst Grip (EG)

  EG: I’m sorry, Boss, it’s already past midnight, but I thought . . .

  TD: No problem. The problem is what’s in the newspapers here at home—have you been keeping up?

  EG: I’ve had other . . .

  TD: The media are like vultures. Some government secretary calls me from Rosenbad at least once an hour, and I’m the one expected to come up with a solution. People think the government is doing nothing. Basically, that’s right—but the photos of the Bergenskjölds looking miserable shook everyone up. The prime minister can hardly go anywhere without being called cold and heartless.

  EG: And just because I happen to be down here, I’m supposed to solve this?

  TD: Something like that.

  EG: They shouldn’t expect a major miracle.

  TD: What counts as a miracle is no longer determined by our government. It’s mob rule. What have you got?

  EG: Contact with the negotiator has been established.

  TD: What happens next?

  EG: He wants to be granted immunity from prosecution if he brokers a solution.

  TD: But what can I tell the government? Granting immunity to a pirate isn’t much of an opening move if we want to show decisiveness.

  EG: It’s the negotiator, not the pirates, who’d be granted immunity.

  TD: Never mind who. I need something that looks like a victory for the prime minister, even in the tabloids. That boy, for example. Finding something to keep him from dying.

  EG: His drugs are on their way. The doctor on the Sveaborg handled the prescriptions, and I just went to pick up the package.

  TD: Never mind the details. How are you going to get the pills to them?

  EG: The negotiator assures us they’ll be delivered to the family.

  TD: When did you last speak with him?

  EG: An hour ago.

  TD: But you haven’t met face-to-face?

  EG: The Boss wanted me to keep out of it, remember?

  TD: Okay, very good.

  EG: Delivering drugs to the boy makes everyone look good, but I still have to ask. What is my real position in the negotiations?

  TD: The government won’t pay a single krona. We’re just like any other country, refusing to put an official price on the heads of our citizens. No one would be safe if we did.

  EG: So . . . ?

  TD: So what?

  EG: I’ve got to have something.

  TD: It sounds as if you’re fishing, to put it bluntly.

  EG: We have no reason to go after the man who contacted us, and immunity from prosecution costs us nothing.

  TD: Then he’ll have to prove he has something to offer. He’s pulled you in, but he’ll need to lay some cards on the table before you say anything about a guarantee. Make sure you get the man’s name. After all, you’re working in intelligence here.

  EG: I’ll do what I can.

  TD: You might have to do a little more than that. Good night.

  42

  “Don’t tell me . . . ?”

  When things don’t go the way you expect, sometimes the hardest part is believing that what happened really happened.

  At just past eight in the morning, Grip stood with Philippa Ekman in the Sheraton and discovered that Fredrik Hansson had thrown in the towel. But not exactly the way Grip had imagined.

  “He went to bed early last night. That’s what we thought, anyway,” she said. Ernst Grip had a sinking feeling.

  He found a maid to open Hansson’s room. Most of his military stuff seemed to be there, but his civilian things were gone, as Grip discovered when he pulled open the drawers and searched the closets. The maid stood with her arms crossed. When Grip handed her a twenty-dollar bill, she reluctantly agreed to wait in the hallway. Once he was alone, he gathered up all the papers, magazines, and notes he could find, stuffing them into an empty gym bag. He even grabbed the half-full trash bag and took everything with him.

  Then he sat in the lobby, his thoughts spinning. At ten, Hansson was supposed to meet with Mickels. At quarter past, the MP barged into the hotel, shouting Hansson’s name and barking orders at any Swedish uniform he ran into. The search for the missing sergeant was on. Fredrik Hansson hadn’t just left Grip up shit creek without a paddle, he’d fled from everyone.

  Barely two hours later, Grip walked through the tall gates of the US embassy. Judy Drexler had called him. He was relieved that she’d made the first move, as it seemed to give him an advantage. He’d asked if they’d be meeting at La Mer Rouge, but she replied that waiters and other curious ears were an unnecessary risk, considering what they had to say to each other. It sounded promising. And unlike him, Drexler had an office. With its bulletproof glass, Marine Corps guards, and marble floors, the Americans’ newly built complex was as
much fortress as embassy. Once Grip had picked up his watch and wallet and put his belt back through the loops, past the metal detector, he heard Drexler’s heels hitting the floor. Dressed in black like the last time, she greeted him with open arms and an expression intended to excuse the initial indignities. Above all, she was welcoming. An ambassador sat somewhere in that complex, but this was Judy Drexler’s castle.

  They walked along, chatting. She pointed and said a few words about the artwork, made from thousands of ceramic tiles, that covered a vast wall. Drexler’s own office was drabber, filled with bookshelves but very few personal effects. She was what defined the room, not some object on the desk or walls. There were no distractions—perhaps it was deliberate. She provided the energy.

  “It sounds like you were also planning to call me,” she began. “But I blinked first, so I’ll start. You seem to be facing a problematic situation, involving MovCon?”

  Grip wasn’t going to play games; he needed all the help he could get. “Yes, things have deteriorated.”

  “Let me see if I have the situation clear in my mind. It all began when a man died at the shooting range. That led to a soldier being sent home, right?”

  “Radovanović. Once he knew that the evidence against the Djiboutian was nonsense, he got the idea that he’d fumbled and fired an accidental shot. And I fell for it.”

  “Colonel Frères’s military police were helping out?”

  “Yes, but I can’t blame them.”

  “Blame them for what?”

  “I pushed too hard. And once he’d written his confession, it couldn’t be taken back. I underestimated the military’s need for a scapegoat.”

  “It’s in their nature. There isn’t much glory to go around among the men and women in uniform these days, so they mostly focus on keeping things clean.”

  Grip hesitated, then said, “Radovanović was sent home anyway. They left it at that.”

  “But you remain here in the sand.”

  “They found a lot of money getting smuggled out in MovCon’s shipments, and my partner . . .” He was interrupted.