MemoRandom: A Thriller (12 page)

Kollander looked at Bergh. Molnar noticed that the older man’s eyes seemed slightly unsteady. Shit, he had been wrong. Operation Clean Threshold was actually already under way, and Sarac was going to be its first victim.

“Well then, gentlemen!” The head of Regional Crime patted his desk gently a couple of times to indicate that the meeting was over. Molnar took a deep breath, then straightened up and made an effort to appear as calm as possible.

“There’s one other possible explanation for why we can’t get hold of Janus. A scenario that we certainly ought to consider,” he said.

“And what’s that, Peter?” Kollander leaned across his desk.

“Janus hasn’t heard from Sarac for three weeks, so he must have realized something’s happened. He may even have pieced things together after reading in the papers about a police officer being badly injured in a car crash. Either way, he’ll have worked out what’s going on by now.”

“I’m not sure I follow, Peter,” Kollander said. “Worked what out?”

“That there’s no backup. Sarac’s his only contact in the police. The only person who knows his secrets.” Molnar ran his tongue over his perfect teeth. “Think about it,” he said. “Janus is high up in the criminal hierarchy, we know that much. The information he’s given us has led to the biggest seizures we’ve made in the last ten years, which have done serious damage to organized crime. In other words, there are plenty of people who’d like to see him dead. Everyone around him, basically.” He paused for a couple of seconds to let what he was saying sink in.

“I know from experience that you don’t recruit that sort of CI with the crap money the force will pay, so the only way Sarac could have recruited him is by getting some sort of hold over him. A secret that Janus would do anything to hide. Something that means he’d rather risk his life as a CI for the police than have the secret revealed.”

A light lit up on Kollander’s desk telephone, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“But whatever Janus’s secret is, Sarac has kept it to himself,” Molnar went on. “He hasn’t shared it with anyone, hasn’t even written it down anywhere. Not as far as we know, anyway. I think Janus might have worked that out, and has decided to exploit the situation. Maybe he was doing just that before Sarac’s car crash.”

“You mean . . . ?” Kollander frowned.

Molnar nodded, and Bergh joined in.

“We have to consider the possibility that Janus simply doesn’t want to be found. That he’s prepared to go to great lengths to protect his secret. He might even be prepared to walk over dead bodies.”

Sarac opened the door cautiously. The guard was hanging around by the reception desk over by the elevators, at the other end of the corridor. He was talking to one of the nurses, saying something that made her laugh. Gray-green uniform, a Securitas beret on his head. Radio, baton, and handcuffs in his belt. Presumably there to protect him. But, if so, from what? From whom?

He unfolded the crumpled note again and read the new message on the back.

YOU’RE NOT SAFE HERE!!!

Just as with the earlier message, he couldn’t remember writing it. The past few days were hazy; he had been slipping in and out of consciousness. He had vague memories of being out of bed to go to the toilet, and of someone giving him an injection. But the rest was foggy.

He had dreamed about the snow-covered car again, and the man with the snake tattoo. He had felt the man’s fear, heard his voice and then seen him die, over and over again as the bullet hit the back of his head. But no new details had emerged, nothing that could help him understand what the hell was happening. Or who the man with the pistol was. The devil in the backseat.

Was it the same man who had been sitting in his darkened room, whispering about agreements and smelling of tobacco? Had that even actually happened, or was it just a migraine-fueled hallucination? He was inclined to think it was, but he couldn’t be sure. Not here.

Sarac looked at the note again. His migraine attack, absurdly, seemed to have helped a bit. He felt better, his head clearer than before. He had taken off the sling and freed his left arm. His shoulder was still tender but usable. His right leg, on the other hand, slid about of its own accord, and he couldn’t rely a hundred percent on his right arm either. But at least he could move about with the help of the aluminium crutch someone had left beside his bed.

He opened the tall, narrow wardrobe and pulled on the clothes he found inside. The jeans had been washed, no sign of the accident. The same with his socks and boots. There was no sign of his top or jacket, and he guessed the paramedics had been forced to cut them to shreds, so he had to keep the white hospital shirt on. He tucked it into his trousers in an effort to make himself look less like an escaped patient.

His keys and wallet were on the little shelf at the top, but not his police ID. One of his colleagues was probably looking after it for him—Bergh, perhaps? That seemed logical.

He couldn’t find his cell phone either, which actually troubled him more than his police ID. His phone contained all his contacts. Information that could help him remember. He would have to ask Molnar about it, call him as soon as he got home and had safely locked the door behind him.

Sarac heard the elevator ping and looked out into the corridor again. Two men in dark suits got out, and one of them started talking to the guard.

Somber faces, neither of them remotely familiar, but he still guessed they were talking about him. Sure enough, the guard pointed toward his door. Sarac felt his pulse quicken. He didn’t know who the men were, who they worked for, or what they wanted with him. Nor why their appearance should make his heart race.

The only thing he knew for certain, the only clarity that had emerged from the wretched haze of the past few days, was that somewhere inside his ravaged brain lay the answers
to all his questions. Why he was here, what had happened in the hours leading up to the accident, and the reason for the ever-more-tangible feeling that he was in danger. Imminent danger.

I collect secrets
 . . . The question was, whose secrets?

The men in suits started walking straight toward his door, with the guard right behind them. Sarac took a deep breath. The message on the note had been right, he needed to get out of there, immediately!

He looked around the room, then stared at the window. There was a fire escape outside, he’d already spotted that. Six stories down on steep, snow-covered metal steps and frozen railings, leading down to a narrow alleyway.

He could hear the voices getting closer in the corridor. Realized he had to make a decision. He grabbed one of the sheets from the bed and opened the window. Ice-cold night air hit his face, making him gasp with shock. He glanced down quickly into the darkness. It was just about possible. It had to be possible!

•  •  •

The door flew open and the two suited men walked into the room, closely followed by the uniformed guard. The men looked around, saw the empty bed, then the wide-open window.

“Shit!” the shorter one hissed. “He got out.”

The man ran over to the window and stuck his head out. Far below he could see something white flapping in the darkness.

“The fire escape,” he shouted over his shoulder. “I’ll go this way. Cut him off down in the alley!”

He swung his leg over the windowsill and climbed out as the guard and the other man spun around and started to run toward the elevators.

A minute or so later Sarac carefully opened the wardrobe door and laboriously slid out. He stifled a groan as his body protested. He grabbed the crutch, forcing the fingers of his
right hand to grasp the plastic handle, then peered cautiously out into the corridor.

Empty, apart from one nurse at the far end by the reception desk. She had her back to him and seemed to be busy on the phone.

He crept out slowly and set off toward a glass door farther along the corridor.

Ward temporarily closed,
a handwritten sign announced.

Sarac felt the door: unlocked—probably in case of an emergency evacuation. Thank God for Swedish health and safety regulations! He slipped quickly inside and limped along a narrow passageway that led to another, similar glass door.

The next ward looked much like his own, with the only difference that the lights were all switched off. The only light in the corridor leaked in through the windows or came from the emergency exit signs. It was also completely quiet. No voices, no telephones ringing, no machines humming, no alarms ringing. Just a ghostly silence that was broken a few seconds later by an ambulance siren. He needed to hurry; by now the men must have found the sheet on the fire escape and realized he’d tricked them.

Sarac limped off toward the elevators as fast as he could, struggling to get his body to cooperate. Sweat was already pouring down his back. Strange how something as easy as walking in a straight line could suddenly become so fucking difficult.

When he was just a few yards from the elevators one of them pinged. The up arrow on the wall lit up and a narrow strip of light rose up between the doors. Someone was about to get out. Someone who would wonder what he was doing there, who would probably ask questions he couldn’t answer. Sarac looked around, saw the nurses’ little reception desk, and ducked down behind it. He pulled the crutch closer and tried to ignore his body’s protests. On the floor of the corridor just a few feet or so away he saw a rapidly growing rectangle of light as the
elevator doors opened. In the middle of the patch of light was the dark silhouette of a man.

Sarac held his breath and waited.

The man got out of the elevator and stood still for a few seconds, as if to get his bearings. His shadow covered most of the rectangle of light from the elevator, making him look enormous. Sarac felt a stab of pain and his pulse rocketed. He pushed back against the reception desk. His body ached, his head was thudding. A memory flickered past and vanished before he could grab it. Flashing blue lights, shadows playing on a tunnel wall.

He heard footsteps as the man went past. Sarac caught a glimpse of a green operating gown and a pair of broad shoulders. Most of the man’s head was obscured by a little green cap and a breathing mask.

Sarac leaned out carefully into the corridor and watched the man as he walked away, heading toward the door that led to his own ward. A doctor taking a shortcut. Nothing strange about that. But his gown was stretched tight across his back, as if it didn’t really fit. His sleeves and trousers looked too short as well. It could have been an illusion, caused by the shadows and the poor lighting, but would a doctor really wear black boots when he was visiting a ward?

The man seemed familiar, his smooth, measured movements, the creeping way he walked. All of a sudden he was convinced. Just like the men in suits, this man was after him. But why? Who was he?

The memory was back. Voices, flickering shadows. A dark silhouette right at the edge of his field of vision.

Sarac gulped unconsciously. It sounded louder than he had expected, as if his gullet had got hold of his larynx. The man stopped just before the door. He turned his head slightly in Sarac’s direction and seemed to be listening. Sarac quickly pulled his head back. He pressed against the reception desk and tried to blend into the darkness. He bit his top lip to help him hold his breath.

Silence. The lack of oxygen was threatening to make Sarac black out. His heartbeat pounded against his eardrums. Between its beats he could suddenly hear voices.

Your secrets are mine.

Get this fucking mess cleaned up!

The devil himself . . .

A heavy sole squeaked against the plastic floor. Then he heard the door at the other end of the corridor slowly open.

Naturally, Atif could have rung. Could have booked a meeting and they could have sat down like old friends. But the element of surprise was always better, especially if you were after the truth. If that was even possible.

The fact was that he had met plenty of people who thought they knew the truth. But when it came down to it, and no matter what means of persuasion were applied, all they ever managed to deliver was a subjective interpretation. The truth, objective truth, remained unattainable. The best you could hope for was to get as close to it as possible.

Abu Hamsa was sitting at his usual table, reading a newspaper. A thickset man with cauliflower ears was sitting a few tables away, fiddling with his cell phone, but the moment he caught sight of Atif the man stood up and blocked his way.

“What do you want?” he growled.

The man was a head shorter than Atif, five nine or so, but he puffed himself up as much as possible to seem bigger. Lowered his head, tensed his thick neck. Waited for Atif to say something, either back down or give him a reason to attack.

But Atif had played this game plenty of times. Instead of saying or doing anything, he ignored the man and carried on toward Abu Hamsa. The gorilla’s eyes flickered; Atif could almost hear the cogs turning in his head as he tried to work out what to do.

“Didn’t you have a plane to catch, my friend?” Abu Hamsa croaked, lowering the paper. The little man shook his head toward the gorilla, who, red-faced, had begun fumbling inside the back of the waistband of his trousers.

Atif carried on walking toward Abu Hamsa’s table, pulled out a chair, and sat down.

“You never used to need a bodyguard,” Atif said.

Abu Hamsa shrugged. “Times have changed. It’s not so easy to know who you can trust.” He paused for a moment as he gave Atif a long look. “So, what can I do for you, my friend? I don’t suppose this is a courtesy call?”

“Janus,” Atif said. “How is Janus connected to my brother’s death?”

Abu Hamsa did his best to maintain his mask and actually almost succeeded. Thirty or forty years in gambling dens had given him a good poker face. A little twitch at one corner of his mouth that made his mustache quiver, that was all. He folded his paper, then looked around slowly.

“My dear Atif,” he then said, grimacing as if the words he was about to say tasted unpleasant. “If you really want to talk about that subject, I must first take certain . . . precautions, if you understand my meaning?”