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Authors: Anders de La Motte

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BOOK: MemoRandom: A Thriller
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“No, no, I know how the game works. This is when you pull out your trump card, and threaten to tell Karolina or your dad. Maybe even both of them?”

She turned her head slightly and her face cracked into a mocking grimace.

“But you don’t seem to have realized that the game has changed,” he went on. “You’re quite right, other people have helped elevate me. I accepted that a long time ago, and realized it was the only way to get where I wanted to be. And now I’m there.” He paused for a moment, collecting himself.

“Sophie,” he began, adjusting his tone of voice to show a hint of regret. “A few months ago you really could have spoiled everything. You could have ruined my life. But your trump card lost all its value the moment I was asked the Question.”

He gestured toward the telephone on the table.

“Call Karolina if you want. She’d never leave me now, just as my father-in-law would never advise her to.”

Sophie’s smile had stiffened somewhat, but she still didn’t seem to have quite understood.

“John,” she said, “Daddy would—”

“Come on, Sophie.” His tone was perfect now, a cocktail made up of equal parts concern and condescension. “Do you
seriously believe that John would sacrifice me for your sake? Now that his investment is finally about to pay off?”

He nodded toward the phone.

“Please, call Daddy and cry on the phone to him. Tell him everything, be my guest.” He smiled, copying her mocking grimace.

Sophie glanced at the phone. She licked her lips once, then several more times. Then she looked down. Stenberg breathed out. The match was over, he had won. All of a sudden he felt almost sorry for her.

“Smart decision, Sophie,” he said. “It would have been a shame if you’d had to spend Christmas in the clinic again.”

He regretted saying it the moment he heard the words leave his mouth. Bloody hell! The glass missed his head by a whisker, hitting the wall behind him and sending a shower of crystal shards across the oak floor.

“You fucking bastard!” She took a couple of quick strides toward him, her fingernails reaching toward his face. Her knee missed his crotch by a matter of a fraction of an inch.

“For God’s sake, Sophie.” Stenberg twisted aside and grabbed hold of her wrists.

She went on trying to kick him, wriggling frantically in an effort to break free. He dumped her on the sofa, but Sophie bounced up instantly and attacked him again. She was growling like a dog, and her eyes were black. Her lips were pulled back, as if she were planning to bite him.

The blow was a purely instinctive reaction. Right-handed, with an open palm, but still hard enough to make her head snap back and her body crumple onto the sofa. Shit, he’d never hit a woman before. Not like that, anyway.

Sophie lay motionless on the sofa. Her arms and legs were hanging limp. Something wet was running down one of Stenberg’s earlobes and he felt his ear without really thinking about it. Not blood, as he suspected, but a golden-brown drop of whiskey that must have flown out of the glass.

“Sophie,” he said in a tremulous voice. She still wasn’t moving.

In the oppressive silence he could hear his own pulse thundering on his eardrums. He glanced quickly toward the elevator, then at the inert body. Sophie’s eyelids fluttered a couple of times and Stenberg breathed out.

He turned around and was about to go into the kitchen to get some water. But the floor was covered with broken glass. So he went to the bathroom instead and moistened a towel. On the way back he picked up her white terry-cloth robe from the floor.

She was sitting up when he got back, and he passed her both the towel and the dressing gown.

“Sophie, I’m—”

“Get out!” She snatched the towel and pressed it to her cheek. He stood motionless for a few seconds, unsure of what to do. “Didn’t you hear me, get the fuck out of here!” Sophie hissed, covering herself with the dressing gown.

He backed away a couple of steps and tried to think of something to say.

“Sophie, I mean—”

Sudden pain interrupted him. A sliver of glass had cut into his left heel and he swore as he hopped on the other leg and tried to pull it out.

Her laughter was shrill and far too loud.

“God, you’re so fucking pathetic, Jesper, can’t you see it? Pathetic . . .”

He straightened up, tossing the sliver of glass toward the sink. He gave her one last glance before limping toward the elevator, without saying another word.

“I’ll do it!” she screamed after him. “I’ll kill myself!”

He pressed the elevator button, resisting the impulse to turn around.

“I’ll go to the media, do you hear me, little Jeppe!” She carried on yelling as the elevator doors opened. “I’ll tell them
everything! Everything, yeah? You’re finished, your whole fucking family’s finished! I’m going to—”

Her voice rose to a falsetto as the doors cut her off midsentence. He heard running footsteps, then the sound of her fists on the elevator doors. He pressed the button for the garage several times, but it wouldn’t light up. The hammering went on, growing louder and echoing off the metal walls of the elevator.

Boom, boom, boom, boom . . .

He kept jabbing at the button, until eventually the little light behind it came on. Then he covered his ears with his hands and the elevator slowly nudged its way down toward the basement.

•  •  •

Atif took a deep breath and then looked up. The night sky was so different here compared to Sweden. Higher, clearer somehow. Yet at the same time it also felt strangely closer. But of course that wasn’t true. Obviously the sky and the stars were exactly the same, it was just that he was looking at them from a different place. A distance of more than two thousand miles had simply given him a different perspective on things. And now he was going to have to switch perspective again.

“Something’s happened, Mom,” he said, without looking away.

She didn’t answer; she hardly ever did. She just sat still in her wheelchair with a blanket over her thin legs as she looked at the stars. But Atif knew she was listening. She really ought to have gone to bed a long time ago. But on starry nights like this the nurses let her stay up. They knew it made her calmer.

He took a deep breath. Time to spit it out.

“I have to go back to Sweden. It’s to do with Adnan,” he went on. He tried to force his mouth to form the words. But to his surprise his mother spoke instead.

“A-Adnan . . .” Her voice was weak, thin, almost like a child’s. “Adnan isn’t home from school yet.”

Atif opened his mouth again.
Say it, get it over and done with. Tell her what’s happened
. But he hesitated a few seconds too long. One of the nurses was heading toward them across the cracked paving.

“Adnan’s a good boy,” his mother went on. “He’s got a good head for learning, he could be anything he likes. An engineer, or a doctor. You must help him, make sure he doesn’t end up like, like . . .” She fell silent and looked up at the night sky. Atif bit his lip.

“It’s time for bed now, Mom.” He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll call you from Sweden. Khalti will come and see you the day after tomorrow. She says she’ll bring some of those dates you like.”

His mother nodded distantly. Her gaze was fixed on the stars again. Atif straightened up and began to walk away. He’d tell her when he got back. That would have to do.

“You’ve got a good son, to come and see you so often, Dalia,” she heard the nurse say. “You must be very proud of him.”

Atif quickened his pace. And tried to convince himself that it was the distance that meant he couldn’t hear her reply.

•  •  •

Jesper Stenberg limped toward his car, got in, and then sat behind the wheel for a few moments. His hands were shaking, and his left shoe felt warm and wet.

Fucking psycho bitch. Why the hell hadn’t he stuck to the plan, said what he had to say and then left? Fucking her and then dumping her wasn’t a very smart thing to do. Not to mention that stupid remark about the private clinic in Switzerland, a subject he should have avoided at all costs. But, as usual, Sophie had managed to unsettle him. To get beneath the skin of his bespoke self-confident image.

Stenberg took a few deep breaths as he tried to pull himself together. It was only ten o’clock. Karolina wouldn’t be home before two. Plenty of time to go home, patch himself
up, then settle back on the sofa with a whiskey and do his best to forget this sordid little episode. He was pretty good at that. Forgetting, leaving things behind, and setting off toward new goals.

He started the engine and slid the car out of its parking space. The pain in his left foot had turned into a dull throb. At the exit he stopped at the barrier. His pass card was in one of the inside pockets of his wallet, an anonymous white plastic card, obviously not issued in his name. He put the gearshift in neutral and opened the window. The Eco-Drive function instantly shut off the big engine and everything went silent. In the distance he could hear the garage’s ventilation system. A dull, ominous sound that made him feel badly ill at ease. The feeling came out of nowhere, and for a few seconds it took over his whole being and made his hands shake.

He had to get out of there, right away!

Stenberg touched his wallet to the card reader. The machine made a vague clicking sound. But the barrier didn’t move.

Cannot read card.

He swore silently to himself and tried again. “Come on, come on . . .”

He thought he could hear a noise, something that sounded like a distant scream, and glanced quickly in the rearview mirror. Everything seemed okay behind him. The sound must have come from out in the street.

The barrier started to move, slowly and jerkily. Just an inch at a time, as if it didn’t really want to let him go.

Stenberg turned the stereo on and tried to find something to lift his mood. The intro kicked in and the stereo began to count the seconds.

0.01.

0.02.

0.03.

As soon as the gap under the barrier was big enough he sent the car rolling. Relief radiated through his body. He slowed
down just before the ramp reached street level. His hands were still shaking, making it hard for him to fasten his seat belt.

The music stopped abruptly, making Stenberg raise his head. The timer had stopped but the play symbol was still illuminated. Odd. Something white fluttered at the corner of his eye, hovering in the air just above the hood of the car.

A plastic bag,
he found himself thinking. But the object was far too large. The stereo was still silent, the time on the display static. And all of a sudden Stenberg realized what was happening. He realized where the car was, and what the large, white, fluttering object in the air actually was.

He shut his eyes, clutched the steering wheel, and felt an icy chill spread from his stomach and up through his chest. The timer on the stereo suddenly came back to life and the music carried on. It was only drowned out by the sound of Sophie Thorning’s body as it thudded into the hood of the car.

ONE

Atif leaned back in the uncomfortable chair. In spite of the snow and cold outside, the air in the windowless little room felt stuffy. The smell of burned coffee, various bodily excretions, and general hopelessness was very familiar. You could probably find the same thing in police stations all over the world.

He was hungry, and his neck and shoulders were stiff after the long journey. He hated flying, hated putting his life in other people’s hands.

“Name?” the policeman sitting opposite him asked.

“It says in there.” Atif nodded toward the red passport on the table between them. The policeman, a fleshy little man in his sixties with thinning hair, who had introduced himself as Bengtsson, didn’t reply. In fact he didn’t even look up, just went on leafing through the folder he had in his lap.

Atif sighed.

“Atif Mohammed Kassab,” he said.

“Age?”

“I’m forty-six, born June nineteenth. Midsummer’s Eve . . .” He wasn’t really sure why he added this last remark. But the policeman looked up at last.

“What?”

“June nineteenth,” Atif said. It had been several years since he had last spoken Swedish. The words felt clumsy, his pronunciation seemed out of synch, like all the dubbed films on television back home. “Once every seven years it’s Midsummer’s Eve.”

The policeman stared at him through his small reading
glasses. The smell of polyester, sweat, and coffee breath was slowly creeping across the table. Atif sighed again.

“Okay, Bengtsson, it’s been over an hour since you stopped me at passport control. I flew in from Iraq so you suspect my passport is fake, or that it’s genuine but not mine.”

He paused, thinking how much he’d like a hamburger right now. The look on the policeman’s face remained impassive.

“I’m tired and hungry, so maybe we could do the quick version?” Atif went on. His voice felt less out of synch already, the words coming more easily.

“My name is Atif Kassab, and I was born in Iraq. My dad died when I was little and my mom brought me to Sweden. She got married again, to a relative. When I was twelve he went off to the USA, leaving me, Mom, and my newborn younger brother. But by then at least we were Swedish citizens so we didn’t get thrown out.”

“So you say.” The policeman was looking down at his file again. “According to the National ID database, Atif Mohammed Kassab has emigrated.”

“That’s right. About seven years ago,” Atif said.

“And since then you’ve been living . . . ?” Bengtsson raised his eyebrows slightly.

“In Iraq.”

“Where in Iraq?”

Atif frowned. “How do you mean?”

The policeman slowly raised one hand and took off his glasses.

“Because the Atif Mohammed Kassab who you claim to be has a pretty impressive criminal record.” He gestured toward the file with his glasses.

“And?” Atif shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, if you really are Atif Mohammed Kassab, it’s in the interests of the police to find out a bit more about you. Where you’ve been living, what you’ve been doing, whom you’ve spent time with.”

BOOK: MemoRandom: A Thriller
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