“And from now on, you will stop leaking details or photos to the Swedish press,” Grip warned.
“I have your word. And from me, you now have the exact location. This is what we have agreed on. What I ultimately care about is how blame will be assigned, if you choose to do nothing. Is it me or the Swedish government who is truly acting in the family’s best interests?”
“You represent pirates who kidnap innocent people and let them die.”
“And now you have the exact coordinates. All opportunities lie with you, Mr. Grip.”
Judy Drexler came walking across the marble floor of the piano bar at the Kempinski, where Grip sat with a drink. She and Grip hadn’t set up a meeting. There was a new woman at the white grand piano, but Drexler didn’t comment on that. She did, however, mention Grip’s appearance when they met: “I see you’ve let your beard grow since you arrived in Djibouti. But you’re still dressing well.” Grip looked down at his own shirtfront. He’d even put on a jacket.
“One could mistake you for a sharp type from the Middle East,” she continued. Her manner was unexpectedly lighthearted, and she laughed. “Straight out of Lebanon, even. Easy to imagine your background, your father a businessman who hit on a Scandinavian model in Paris in the mid-1970s. Barely forty years later, and here you are, with some Swedish in you anyway.”
“Is that what you’re doing at the consulate, inventing people’s backgrounds?”
“Not just that. But you must agree that you Swedes often let yourselves go a little too much when you arrive in warmer countries.”
“Another lecture on iced tea?”
“Under the hot sun, your appearance deteriorates. You don’t think it matters anymore. How many of your aid workers and second-tier officers have I seen at the embassy wearing wrinkled shirts and unpolished shoes?”
“What can I say? We’re basically a nation of peasants sitting with our backs to the sea. We’ll always be insecure about the world south of Copenhagen.”
“But you do dress well. I just wanted to mention that.” She looked around without lowering her voice as a precaution when she said: “And speaking of insecurity, you were invited just an hour ago to talk to someone who understands Somalia.”
“I didn’t think you showing up here was a coincidence.”
“You asked me to keep track of his phone, and obviously we listen in.”
“So why did the negotiator drop that line about doing something on a Friday?”
“For the simple reason that there are Friday prayers, and for those who don’t take minarets too seriously, it’s party time. My guess is that late on a Friday night is when the pirates are at their most trigger-happy, but also their least accurate.”
Grip spun the ice in his glass, looked at her, and then dropped his eyes to the ice again.
“Well, what?” said Judy.
The ice made one more lap inside Grip’s glass. “I haven’t yet told people at home that we know where the family is being held. There will be a lot to digest in Stockholm, especially for the politicians.”
“Is this about you being peasants with your backs to the sea?”
“More or less. Sooner or later, the matter will come down to you having special forces here in Djibouti and us having a ship that sorts trash and chases after pirates. You do this kind of thing every day.”
“Not as often as you might think. We often eliminate targets, but this is about getting the hostages out alive. Nine times out of ten, it will be messy. You can promise us twenty years of unconditional support for our resolutions at the United Nations, and we still won’t do it for you. The hostages’ home country has to take responsibility. The risks, and the headlines. Ask the French, they’ll give the same answer. That is how the world looks south of Copenhagen.”
“You don’t owe me anything?”
“Plenty, I’m sure—remind me?”
“Khalid Delmar—a Swedish citizen who’s implicated in the murder of a Swedish officer, and again in a hit man’s attack on a police investigator. And you want me to lay off.”
“I’m willing to go far to protect him. But there are only so many resources I can mobilize. Rescuing the Swedish family would require a decision by the president, personally, and that you will never get. Drop it—don’t waste your time. You can get any other kind of support you need: high-resolution satellite imagery, signals intelligence, transports. But if you want to get them out, you must take responsibility for the part that hurts.”
“Is that what protecting Delmar buys us—support?”
“Something like that.”
Grip took a long look at her, then at the new pianist. She played the theme from The Godfather, and Grip smiled. “I know how Delmar and Hansson made all their money,” he began, “and in that business, they also hide the money they earn from giving you tips.”
“I don’t know that,” replied Judy.
“And I have an eye on Hansson now—he’s in hiding in a safe house down in Kenya. Delmar seems to be on the way there.”
“I’m impressed. Ayanna’s handiwork?” Grip nodded. “She’s become more yours than mine now.”
Grip ignored the comment and asked instead: “You’ve never met him, huh?”
“Who?”
“Delmar.”
“No, he gives me the names and places, and I make sure that he gets paid.” It was as if she was about to say more but suddenly changed her mind. “Hey, just so that we have our ducks in a row here. Hansson”—she made a dismissive gesture—“we’ve been successful with our drone attacks, but they create a thirst for revenge. Now we’ve received reports that informants are being ruthlessly pursued in Somalia. I’m worried about Delmar, who’s deep into this—that he might disappear or suddenly decide to quit.”
“You want me to just turn around and let Hansson off the hook?”
“I don’t want anything special. I’m just saying everything is so damn volatile down here.”
“Should I proceed with caution?”
“We have different agendas. You do what you need to do.” Drexler started walking away.
“Wait,” said Grip. “The Swedish family, if we do the part that hurts, going there and carrying out the attack, running the actual mission, can you . . . polish up the story?”
“Now you’re talking in riddles again, but as long as you assume all the physical risks, everything else is possible. Just take care of my best interests.”
“I’ll let you know.”
49
TRANSCRIPT OF RECORDED PHONE CALL, TS 233:10123
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)
TD: Don’t say anything yet. If you’re calling, that means you were in touch with our negotiator yesterday?
EG: That’s right, Boss.
TD: Is the news good or bad?
EG: Depends on how you look at it.
TD: Let’s view this through the government’s eyes, and then I’ll decide what they get to see. Well?
EG: The family received the meds.
TD: That’s a victory we already won in the media, and while it may be true, it’s already old news. How’s the boy?
EG: I have no idea.
TD: In that case, the boy is fine. How did this negotiator seem when you saw him?
EG: We didn’t meet, we talked on the phone.
TD: At first he wanted a meeting, but now the phone is good enough?
EG: I think he feels pressured, and he doesn’t want to waste time.
TD: Then time is on our side.
EG: He doesn’t think so.
TD: Don’t forget whose side you’re on.
EG: Not for a moment, Boss. But he was supposed to give us something concrete, in exchange for us agreeing not to pro
secute, and now he’s given us the exact location of where the family is being held.
TD: I see.
EG: Sometimes when you open a door, it can’t be shut again.
TD: The government doesn’t know anything about this yet, so for now it’s just you and me. Every nation practices self-deception. We deploy Swedish soldiers so that little girls can get to school and food aid can get to ports, not for any other reason. It’s only soldiers from other countries who kick down doors.
EG: So we’ll just let things be?
TD: The medications have been delivered, the money’s pouring in, everybody’s happy.
EG: And if someone dies, the pirates will be the only ones who get blamed?
TD: There you go again, Grip. Your tone.
EG: With all due respect, Boss, I don’t think the negotiator will be satisfied with that decision.
TD: It’s our decision to make.
EG: He’s the one who got the Swedish public to pay attention, with those pictures of the family. He was the one who sent them. He’s the one pushing the government to act.
TD: What are you trying to say?
EG: My guess is that he’ll wait a reasonable amount of time, maybe a week, maybe two, and then he’ll call the newspapers again. These days, he’s seen as the most reliable source.
TD: And what will he say to them?
EG: He’ll send worse images, probably when everyone is dead. And then he’ll reveal that the government knew exactly where the family was being held but chose to do nothing.
TD: That’s unacceptable. You have to stop him.
EG: I’ve just promised him that he’ll go free.
TD: Only words.
EG: Whatever was said, he knows exactly what he started, and now he won’t reply if I try to contact him. For him, this is about how blame will be assigned—those were his own words.
TD: But that’s not what this is about. He simply wants to force the government to pay the entire ransom, which isn’t going to happen.
EG: It’s not our only option.
TD: You mean, special forces.
EG: For example.
TD: The pirates are poor fishermen, and we’d be shooting them to save a venture capitalist. This is Sweden—we don’t believe in violence.
EG: But we have special forces.
TD: We have bombs on our Saab Gripen fighter jets too, but they’re not supposed to be dropped.
EG: The family will die, and it will come out that we knew exactly where they were being held.
TD: I haven’t said anything yet to the government. They know nothing.
EG: So they can continue their little show, and Sweden will at best pursue quiet diplomacy?
TD: That’s the picture we need to preserve. We’ll see how things develop.
EG: Damn it, Boss! I can’t do any more, I won’t do any more for this family. I have my hands full just keeping track of Hansson and dealing with the Americans down here.
TD: Clearly, we’re done with this game. Call me when you have something else.
EG: No, nothing is done. And for the Bergenskjölds, there won’t be another chance. Now it’s in your hands—it’s up to the government. I’m in a good position with the Americans. I have something they care about.
TD: I don’t need the details. But besides knowing where the family is being held, there’s also a third party who’s willing to help create . . . ?
EG: . . . a smoke screen. But this isn’t some shadowy third party—we’re talking about the Americans here. Our people have to kick down the door. Then the Americans can make it look like something else. But first, you and the government have to respond through your channels. And no matter what the answer is—I’m done.
50
“Damn, you grew a beard,” said Stark, when Grip picked him up early in the morning at the gangway. The Sveaborg had come into port, the gangway had descended, and Simon Stark had stepped ashore as the first bags of sorted trash hit the dock.
Grip felt relieved to see him. The feeling of being two again, he needed that. And Stark didn’t seem to harbor any bitterness; he was mostly quiet in the car on the way to the Kempinski. Not without pride, he held up a red folder: “A complete report from the old doc.” The surgeon on board had given them everything they needed to exonerate Radovanović.
“I think I’ll lie down for a while,” Stark said when they arrived. “They started early in the morning, making a big fuss about getting the ship ready to return to port.”
“Let’s talk after lunch, then?”
A nod. There was time; this was no emergency. Grip could relax and do a few laps in the pool. Right at that moment, everything was looking pretty good.
The phone rang just as Grip was about to leave his room for lunch. He couldn’t understand what she was saying. He knew it was Ayanna, and he understood individual words, but he couldn’t get the context because the words said one thing and the voice another. She was terrified. While he calmed her down and tried to sort of whisper, the devil’s advocate played in his head: She’s not trained . . . Drexler had it right, after all, saying she needed a different kind of rein—it was you and no one else who pretended otherwise.
On Lamu Island, it had been a slow morning. After lunch, Ayanna had gone to the bar where she’d met Hansson the night before. She wasn’t entirely clear on the details, and when he didn’t show up, she took it as a sign that she’d misunderstood the meeting place.
Fifteen minutes later, she was back up at the sand-colored house with the gate in the wall. You couldn’t hear the bell from the street when you pressed the button. If there was one thing that defined Ayanna, it was that she gazed straight ahead, Grip thought, once she’d calmed down enough for him to understand her story. She looked for opportunities and followed up on them, but she wasn’t the type to have a plan B. He didn’t blame himself, not yet, he thought, as he braced himself for whatever news would come over the phone. She had Hansson’s key ring; she seemed to see that as an invitation to use it.
The gate had been easy to open and close. Behind it, a paved path led up to the terrace. If Grip had called her there, if he’d gotten ahold of her, instead of vice versa, everything would still have looked promising. If he’d just gone ahead with the plan he’d had for Ayanna ever since he’d met with Judy Drexler: Turn back, we’ll let Hansson go. Leave Lamu and come back to Djibouti again. But she had walked up onto the terrace and looked at the pool. It was from there that she’d called. After she’d seen.
“Hansson is in the pool.”
“Yes . . . ?”
“He is floating on his stomach, and a large black bird is sitting on his back.”
“Is there blood in the pool?”
“Not that I can see. I want to get out of here.”
“Wait just a minute. What else do you see?”
“What do you mean?”
“Does it look the same as last time?” There were some long seconds of silence.
“There is a chair in the pool as well.” New silence. “And yes, there is a little confusion among the tables and chairs on the terrace.”
“As if there was trouble?”
“Perhaps.”
“Get out of there, and try not to be seen. You’ve moved from the bungalow to your new place?”
“Yes.”
“Buy food and water on the way, enough so that you can stay inside for a few days.”
“I have not done anything!” She was upset.
Grip had to raise his voice. “Go, and call me when you get to your room.”
When Simon Stark knocked on the hotel room door to meet for lunch, Grip ushered him into the room instead.
“Sit down!”
“So serious, all of a sudden.”
“Look. Hansson confessed, but it wasn’t pretty.” On his desk, Grip had set up his computer with a USB stick in one of the ports. “And listen, too.”
Fredrik Hansson, in chains on a stone floor, writhing like a worm and screaming when a police off
icer forced him into a uniform. A moment later, the police chief voice said: “Would you like something to drink?” Then the horse trading, the broken gaze, and, not least, the confession: “I fired the shot.” Fredrik Hansson, naked and completely exposed.
Simon Stark watched the video without a single comment or glance at Grip. He was like a sponge, sucking up every impression and every word, until the frame went black. A quiet moment, the silent confirmation of who’d been behind the events in Djibouti, and what Grip had been involved in, while he’d been at sea.
“Shit,” Stark nodded, looking at the floor. “I had it wrong. I never thought you could get him to that point.” He pointed to the computer screen.
“Because I called it a robbery?”
“Among other things. But now, fuck, I’ve got you breathing down my neck.” Simon Stark looked up. “But regardless. You got him, so now we’re even. Where is he now?”
“In Kenya,” said Grip.
“What’s he doing?”
“It’s complicated.”
“So, he’s dead.”
“You understand,” Grip broke off, and then began again. “I had two assignments: to rescue the hostages and bring home Hansson with an airtight confession in the bag. You and I can’t do anything more for the family, but now Hansson is lying dead in a pool, and I’ve sent in an innocent civilian who needs help getting out of there in one piece. And I need to ask you something.”
“It sounds like I’m taking a trip again.”
“Even if it’s just the two of us down here, I need you in Stockholm. Officially, to go see the generals at HQ and explain the contents of your little red folder so Radovanović can start breathing again. You’ll have that meeting, but you can do that afterward. The real emergency is that I need you to meet face-to-face with someone in Immigration.”
“So there’s a catch.”
“There always is, when decisions should be untraceable.”
“Decisions about what?”
“A permanent residence permit. The right to move freely and live in Europe.”
“I can’t do that. I don’t know a thing about it.”
After the Monsoon Page 30