Into a Raging Blaze (34 page)

Mikael met her gaze: he understood.

After the meeting had ended, Bente shut herself in her office. It was night; outside the window, the lights of Brussels city center glittered. She turned on the desk lamp and sat down to briefly gather her thoughts. She needed to think. Roland Hamrén trusted the British completely—he wouldn't see any disinformation. There was also no safe way to convey what she had just arrived at without the British finding out. She put her hand on the phone and, after a slight hesitation, dialed the number.

It took a moment for the ring to start. It was that tiny second of silence, that small latency in the connection that, back in the day, before digital connections, might have meant someone was listening to your telephone line. Perhaps they had already been exposed, she thought with a grim smile. Perhaps the British had managed to put clamps on the phone lines, connect to their servers. So let them hear this. She waited while it rang.

Hamrén answered as if he knew she was going to call.

“She's in Brussels,” Bente said.

“We know.”

“Roland.”

“Yes?”

She stopped herself. She wanted to tell it as it was, but knew that would be madness. She would destroy the small, almost microscopic chances they still had of influencing the situation. If she told Hamrén what they had discovered, he would, firstly, not believe her, and secondly, the British would find out and launch a full counterattack. She would probably have to close SSI, and Swedish intelligence would be carved up with a cleaver.

“Bente? Hello?”

“Sorry, I was distracted. Do the Brits have anything more on Dymek?”

“They're bugging her hotel. She's on the move.”

“What do the Brits say?”

“She's carrying out reconnaissance.”

“Okay. Before an attack?”

“Yes. She's calling her contacts. Presumably, the final preparations.” A lie that came so easily out of the mouth of he who thought it was true. Hamrén was completely convinced by everything the British had said.

“Good that you've gotten things under control,” she said.

“We've gotten things under control,” he said tersely.

“But do you have sufficient cause?” She couldn't help but say it. “I mean, for a prosecution?”

Hamrén was immediately pointed, defensive. “That's not for me to decide, Bente. I have a terrorist threat against the government and against an EU summit meeting, and we're acting based on that. Quite honestly, I don't give a shit whether there are grounds for a prosecution right now. We can work that out later, right?”

“Of course,” she said guardedly. She hated it when people were vulgar. “When do you go in?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Against Badawi?”

“Against Badawi, and against Dymek. The British will take care of Dymek. Bente”—he stopped himself—“I can't talk now. We need to keep going. Call me tomorrow, at nine.”

Hamrén hung up.

She got out the annex. She understood what it was all about now. An operation against Jamal Badawi would take place tomorrow, whether she wanted it to or not. An operation against Carina Dymek was going to happen, and she couldn't stop it. A network of actions had been set in motion and—once it had started, the decision had been made—it couldn't be stopped.

36

Brussels, Friday, October 7

It wasn't hard to work out when Jean Bernier ought to be at home. The life of a normal civil servant at the EU Commission followed a regular pattern. He got to work at nine in the morning and worked until seven, or perhaps sometimes eight in the evening. Jean Bernier was married, Carina remembered, so he probably rarely ate out—possibly he stopped for a quick beer with colleagues before the journey home to Waterloo and dinner with his wife. Since it was Friday, he might have been invited out. But he might just as well be on a business trip or on vacation. There were many reasons why Jean Bernier might not be at home, but she had to try.

She leaned back in the dark back seat of the taxi and tried to think through what she would say to Jean Bernier, because, on closer reflection, she only had a vague hope that he would understand the situation and help her. She hadn't thought any further than that, not in any detail. Should she ask him to contact the Ministry? Write an e-mail and explain what had happened? And then . . . What would happen then? Should she ask him to come to Stockholm to testify? To whom? She had assumed it would all work itself out as long as they met again. Perhaps it would; perhaps things would solve themselves when she met him. He would probably have some idea of how to solve the situation. She took a deep breath and watched the evening rush-hour traffic racing by.

After traveling south for twenty-five minutes on the N5 toward Charleroi, the taxi left the freeway and turned into Waterloo.

They rolled through a leafy neighborhood filled with villas. Rows of large houses were visible, discreetly hidden behind shrubberies and whitewashed walls. This was where the Brussels elite lived, at a comfortable distance from the city. Waterloo was known as a calm and child-friendly area with large green spaces, good schools, reliable neighbors and high security. She knew that several of the bosses from the Swedish representation in Brussels lived here.

The taxi stopped at the bottom of the drive of a house that looked like a large Tyrolean villa. This was Avenue Wellington 15, said the taxi driver. She was so nervous that she fumbled as she tried to open the door to get out. Calm down, she said to herself. He'll recognize you; he'll understand. When the taxi had disappeared from sight, she was the only person on the street. Around her, the villas brooded.

She had hoped that at least someone would be home, but she immediately realized that was a mistake. The lights inside the house were off, the windows dark. Standing at the foot of the wide stone path that led between two large fir trees to the front door, she felt uncertain about what she should do. Perhaps they were at a dinner, or—worse—away.

She went up the path to the front door and listened, before crouching and pressing her face against the dark glass bricks in the wall beside the door. A dark hall and possibly a room further inside the house were just about discernible.

She rang the bell, waited, and then rang again, but there was no movement on the other side of the warped glass; no lights came on.

Between the house and the drive there was a gravel path that ran around the side in the shelter of an enormous bougainvillea bush. She went around the corner and discovered a surprisingly large garden that spread out before her in the evening darkness like a silver-gray rectangle. The lawn was surrounded by tall hedges and some large fir trees, which effectively prevented anyone from overlooking the terrace that ran along the length of the back of the house, neatly furnished with garden furniture and a barbecue. She was right outside Jean Bernier's house and yet she had gotten nowhere. It annoyed her. She couldn't just leave, not yet.

There were sliding doors into the house from the terrace and she pressed her face against the glass, screening off light with her hands. She could just about see a darkened living room on the other side.

The sliding door was unlocked. Someone had apparently just pulled it shut and forgotten to turn the small key that was still in the lock. She gripped the frame of the door and opened it a meter or so. It emitted a low squeak and slid open, offering a dark gap, sufficiently wide for her to step through. She poked her head in.

“Hello?”

No answer. The silence immediately enveloped the alien sound.

She had come here to get answers; she wasn't going to leave until she had them. She wiped her feet and took a step in, held her breath, and listened. She carefully entered the living room, rounded a flowery sofa suite and peeked into a narrow hall. There was the front door at the other end. There were two doors and stairs to the floor above. She looked up the stairs.

“Hello?” she shouted again, a little louder. The silence struck against her. No, definitely no one at home.

She ought to leave now; she had no right to be here. She went back to the living room and was about to step out through the terrace door when she spotted another door at the far end of the room and stopped. Perhaps it was stupid, but she couldn't help herself. She moved quickly to the door and discovered what appeared to be a study behind it. She looked along the shelves filled with books and files. Abstract paintings hung on the dark walls. By the window, with a garden view, was a large, beautiful desk. It was more or less cleared, apart from a few tidily stacked pieces of paper. On a whim, she turned on the desk lamp and caught sight of the framed photograph next to it. The picture was of a dark-haired woman standing on a lawn. There was a lake in the background. She was middle-aged and suntanned, laughing at the camera. Her hair had a careless elegance, held back by a white hairband. Next to her, with an arm around her waist, was Jean Bernier.

Next to the lamp was a Rolodex of business cards. She flipped through a few. There were hundreds of cards from EU civil servants,
ambassadors, ministers—even a few names that she recognized. Many of the cards were from people at a high level:
DIRECTEUR
 
.
 
.
 
.
PRESIDENT
OF
 
.
 
.
 
.
H.
E.
AMBASSADOR
 . . . Many bore the logo of the EU Commission, other flags, state emblems. The usual assortment of contacts for someone who moved through the upper echelons of Brussels.

On top of the pile of papers was a small book with tabs in worn, green leather: an address book. She glanced quickly through the pages filled with scribbled handwriting and put it in her inside pocket.

The muffled sound of a car engine outside the house startled her. She turned off the light and moved back into the dark living room. She listened. Now she could hear the sound of a car door being shut and, shortly afterward, a faint, rasping sound at the front door. A key was put into the lock.

She squeezed out of the terrace door and rushed across the yard. Panic took over. She ran across the grass, threw herself over the hedge, and found herself on a small side street off Avenue Wellington, before veering off and carrying on until she reached a larger street, where she forced herself to walk while she caught her breath.

She could go back and ring the doorbell; it occurred to her that it could have been Jean Bernier returning home. But she didn't know if she could keep her composure; she needed to calm down. This hadn't gone exactly the way she had expected—it was best she acknowledged that. Better to try again the next day, when she was a little more composed.

In a small park with a fenced tennis court, she sat down on a bench and brushed her hair, straightened her clothes, and breathed out. She had a vague sense of which way the city was. She had been here on one occasion a long time ago, at some reception at the home of the Polish ambassador, but she didn't remember what the area looked like and she spent a while wandering around the winding streets before reaching a small, picturesque square on which there lay a hotel and a large supermarket, and finally she found the suburban railway station.

When she got back, her hotel room had been cleaned; the bed was perfectly made. She sank down into the soft mattress and lay completely still for a while. But the anxiety wouldn't let go. She sat up and saw herself in the mirror above the desk. She looked pale and tense. She leaned toward the minibar and took out one of the small bottles of whiskey and drank it. She showered and then watched TV, trying to switch off all her thoughts so she could drift into an empty present.

37

Brussels, Saturday, October 8

A narrow beam of daylight cut between the curtains. Carina remained lying down while a dream slowly dispersed. Then she remembered what had happened yesterday and gave an involuntary shudder. She cast off the duvet, got up, and drew apart the thick curtains in an attempt to shake the sticky sensation of anxiety that made her entire body ache. She shouldn't have done it—it was burglary. But Jean Bernier could only blame himself; it was his fault; if he hadn't given her the report then she wouldn't even be here.

The anger reinvigorated her. It felt good to be angry; it gave clarity to her thoughts. She called reception and ordered an English breakfast, and had just finished showering and dressing when there was a knock at the door. A man wearing the grayish beige hotel uniform wished her good morning and rolled a cart into the room, bearing a plate of scrambled eggs, fried tomatoes, and small sausages. She ate voraciously while she watched the TV news. The headlines were about Greece and the latest Euro crisis, the upcoming elections in Tunisia, and an Indonesian storm.

After breakfast, she pulled out the address book. She fingered the worn tabs and thumbed through it with a feeling of shame. She was not proud of having stolen something from a stranger's home, especially something as private as an address book, but it couldn't be helped now.

The book was full of names and numbers, written in angular handwriting. Some had then been struck out, names had gotten new addresses and numbers, and some pages were so closely written
that the lines became minimal scrawls that were impossible to decipher; large parts of the book were completely filled. She turned to the letter
E
. Next to lines of unfamiliar names, she found certain series of numbers that she recognized—internal numbers from the EU Commission. Perhaps she could try calling some of them later. Throughout the book, she noticed, all the names were recorded by surname, apart from two. Those two names had only first names, and were listed under their corresponding letter: Suzanna and Sylvie. Probably people that Jean Bernier knew well.

The number that belonged to Suzanna had a French prefix—a Paris number, if Carina had guessed correctly. A woman answered breathlessly, lively: “
Oui
?”

“Madame Bernier?”

The woman laughed and at once sounded as if she was on her guard. “It's a long time since anyone called me that. Who's calling?”

Carina said she was a colleague of Monsieur Bernier. “I need to speak to him on an urgent matter, but I haven't managed to get hold of him.”

“Oh,” she said with uninterest. “Why are you calling here, then?”

Carina cleared her throat; she could hear the barbed undertone in the voice at the other end. Did she possibly know how Jean Bernier could be reached? she began, but the woman interrupted her.

“Is this about André again?”

“No, I'm—”

“Why are you calling here?” said the woman, tersely. The voice had a sharp edge to it. Carina tried to say that she was looking for Jean Bernier in connection with a work-related matter, but the woman wasn't listening.

“I'm not going to play this game with Jean any longer. We've sorted it out, and if he wants to see his son—or whatever this is about—then he can call himself. Are you his lawyer, or what?” She did not pause, carrying on before Carina could answer. “You can tell him from me that there's nothing else to discuss, and I don't want you to call here again.”

The line went dead.

Carina lay on the bed and groaned loudly; this was so embarrassing. She waited a few minutes, went into the bathroom, and drank some cold water to build her courage.

The second number, which belonged to Sylvie, was a Brussels number. An address was noted in minimalist handwriting. She fingered her cell and finally dialed the number and waited. It rang four times, and she was beginning to think there was no one home when a woman answered: “
Halo
?”

Carina introduced herself, said she was looking for Sylvie.

“That's me.”

She hurried to say that she needed to speak to Jean Bernier, but that he was apparently absent from work, and she had been looking for him for several days. “It's important.”

“Jean?” Silence fell at the other end of the line. For a moment she thought the line had been cut off, but then she heard a long, deep sigh at the other end. The silence grew. “I'm sorry, but—”

“I really need to speak to him,” she interrupted. “I met him a couple of weeks ago and he gave me some material that”—she didn't know what to say; she didn't actually know who she was speaking to—“which I need to discuss with him.”

“I'm afraid that won't be possible. I'm sorry.” An abrupt silence fell again. Carina listened to the receiver and heard a weak, whispering sound. Was she crying? Then the line went dead. The woman had hung up.

This Sylvie had reacted completely differently; she knew something. She knew Jean Bernier, but who was she? Maybe a lover, or a relative. There was a Brussels address listed in the book: Avenue Saint-Augustin 8, Forest. Carina put on her shoes, grabbed her coat and hurried out of the hotel.

A crisp, elegant ringing sounded from what seemed like deep within the house when she pressed the doorbell. Avenue Saint-Augustin was a peaceful street and number eight was in a lovely red-brick residential building facing the monumental Saint-Augustin church. Heavy curtains prevented any glimpses through the house's
crisscrossed windows. There was a brass plaque by the front door that said
REIGNAULT
.

Just half an hour earlier, someone named Sylvie had answered the phone at this address, so someone ought to be at home—if not her then perhaps someone else, if she didn't live alone. Carina rang the bell again and waited for a long time; when nothing happened, she had an almost unstoppable desire to start banging on the door. It wouldn't be that easy to shake her off; she had decided to talk to Jean Bernier and no one was going to stop her now. The doorbell's trill rang throughout the inside of the house; if no one opened this time, she would find a café nearby and wait there, she decided, and she would come back in a few hours' time.

A narrow face appeared in a gap between the curtains in an upstairs window; she only just saw the fluttering movement and a face, hovering momentarily behind the window, before it vanished.

Shortly after that, she heard steps and then the rattling of a bolt. A thin, elegant, middle-aged woman with red hair appeared in the doorway.

“Bonjour?”
said the woman, making it sound like a question. She looked at Carina expectantly.

“Madame Reignault?”

“Yes?”

“Hello. It was me who called earlier,” she said quickly. “I really do need to speak to Jean Bernier. Perhaps you can—”

“And who are you?” exclaimed the woman.

“I'm a . . . colleague. From Stockholm. It is of the utmost importance that I meet Monsieur Bernier. As I said on the phone, he contacted me at the end of September and gave me a document that has led to some problems.”

The woman made no move to let her in. Indeed, it was quite the opposite; she remained standing in the doorway, looking at Carina, puzzled.

“So you met him. When, more precisely?”

“The 22nd of September, here in Brussels.”

Madame Reignault nodded and seemed to decide something. “Wait here.” She pushed the door shut and disappeared.

Carina could hear voices from inside the apartment. Carefully, she pushed open the front door a few centimeters and saw a large, light apartment and a hall with a checkered floor and an attractive wooden staircase leading to an upper floor. The woman was talking to someone in a low voice. Then there were steps again and the woman reappeared.

“Come in.”

She was let into the hall. It was a lovely apartment, spread across three floors in typical Belgian fashion, with steep stairs and long, narrow rooms. The woman led her up the stairs to a light, airy room with a large, panoramic window to the rear of the building, and told Carina to take a seat. She sat down in the corner of the large, soft sofa in front of the window, still wearing her coat. Being in this quiet, unfamiliar home put her ill at ease. She said nothing and tried not to blink as she met the woman's gaze.

“So you know my brother?”

Her brother? “I . . .” Nerves tangled her French; the words wouldn't come out the way she wanted them to. “No, not really. We met in Brussels. He contacted me,” she managed to splutter.

“Oh.”

Carina was grateful when the oppressive silence was broken as the door to an adjoining room opened and another woman entered, also in her fifties. Carina vaguely recognized her—from the photograph in the Berniers' home, it struck her. She looked down at the floor. Madame Bernier greeted her cautiously and turned questioningly to the other woman, Sylvie, who shrugged her shoulders.

“She's one of Jean's colleagues, apparently. She met him in September.”

“That's right, Madame,” Carina added quickly. “I met him a couple of weeks ago, and . . .” She hesitated, uncertain about how to continue, before saying, clumsily, “It caused problems.”

Madame Bernier nodded absentmindedly and slowly sat down on the sofa opposite Carina and lit a cigarette with small, smooth movements. She looked haggard.

“So you don't know what's happened,” she said in a low voice, a statement of regret. “My husband,” she blew smoke toward the ceiling, “passed away recently.”

Dead?

Carina tried to form a sentence, but the words wouldn't come. Her French came to a sudden end. Jean Bernier was dead? Her mouth was dry; she sat there quietly trying to swallow.

“I'm sorry,” she finally squeezed out, and felt everything within her sinking.

Madame Bernier nodded curtly, dragged on the cigarette again, and looked out the large window for a long time while she and Sylvie sat silently. Then she turned back to Carina. Her eyes were moist. With a slightly over-cheerful tone of voice she said, “So you said you met my husband?”

“Yes, in September—the 22nd. He contacted me in connection with a meeting and gave me a report. It was sensitive material that—well—it caused problems,” she added, before falling silent again.

“The 22nd of September.” Madame Bernier looked at her. “You're sure about that?”

“Yes.”

“How did he seem?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, when you met?”

“He was . . .” Carina tried to find the right words in French. She wasn't used to this kind of situation; she usually took part in negotiations and used diplomatic French, negotiation French—she didn't normally have to describe a dead civil servant to his widow. “He seemed stressed. He really wanted to talk to me about a report he didn't like.”

“I understand,” said Madame Bernier, who seemed lost in her own thoughts.

Carina got up. “I'm sorry for your loss. I'm very sorry, I probably ought to—”

“No, no—sit.” Madame Bernier made a vague gesture.

Carina sat down again, on the edge of the sofa.

“So you talked?”

“Yes, we went to a restaurant near the EU Commission. We were there for about half an hour, then he left.”

“And you don't know where he went?”

“No.”

“Jean disappeared that day,” Sylvie added. “They found him a few days later at Marie and Jean's place in the country. It's close to Assenede. He didn't mention Assenede? That he was going to meet someone there?”

“Not that I remember.”

Madame Bernier stubbed out her cigarette with a rapid movement and promptly lit another. “You're sure that he didn't mention Assenede to you?” she said and looked straight at Carina.

Yes, she was sure. She couldn't remember him mentioning it. She shook her head and carefully tried to stand up.

“He didn't tell Marie that he was going there. We think he met someone there,” said Sylvie seriously, and she turned quickly to Marie and put a hand on her knee, as if to calm her. Madame Bernier had turned away. “We don't know. These are just guesses.”

Madame Bernier nodded silently.

“They found him out by the house four days later. The police said it was insulin shock. They say he must have died on the 22nd or 23rd of September.”

“Jean was careful with his medication,” Madame Bernier hissed angrily. Her mascara had streaked a little. “Jean would never have made a mistake like that. Do you know how much insulin you have to take to cause a shock?” She didn't wait for a reply, because it was clear she didn't need one. She merely shook her head and reached for the cigarette packet. “The police say that he killed himself, but that's just wrong,” she continued. “I know my husband.” She fumbled with the lighter and blew out smoke in a hard exhalation.

Carina nodded without knowing why. She felt numb. There was no longer a Jean Bernier to solve the situation for her. That possibility had never existed, because Jean Bernier had died, perhaps just hours after they had met.

“Do you think that someone killed him?”

“I spoke to the neighbor's wife out there. She's certain that she saw people in the garden. But the police didn't care about that,” said Madame Bernier coolly, with a piercing gaze toward her.

“I understand,” Carina said quietly and stood up again. Madame Bernier was sitting with her back turned, smoking, and seemed to have lost all interest in Carina. It was probably time to leave.

“I hope it works out for you,” said Sylvie, without moving an inch.

“I'm sure it will,” she replied.

She went down the stairs and, after the front door had closed behind her, she hurried as fast as she could to get away from that gloomy, suffocating apartment and the two women wrapped up in their grief. She reached a large crossroads and continued along a boulevard, gradually calming down and walking slower. She was alone in Brussels; there was no reason for her to stay here. She brushed a hand across her face and tried to stand up in the face of the soft hopelessness that had found its way into her thoughts. Jean Bernier was dead. And someone had killed him? Every step she put between herself and that crypt of an apartment made it seem more unlikely. He had probably committed suicide. He was stressed, had crossed the line. She swore aloud. What was
she
meant to do now? No one would ever believe her; no one would listen to her. Without a plan, she wandered from block to block, surrounded by a sunny Brussels, full of people having lunch and hectic traffic, while dismal thoughts whirled within her.