The Black Path (43 page)

A cold fist clutched at Rebecka’s heart.

She made an effort to keep her voice cheerful. Cheerful and normal. Cheerful and casual. Only interested out of politeness.

“Malin Norell,” she said. “Who’s she?”

“Deals with company law. Moved over from Winge’s eighteen months ago. She’s a bit older than us, thirty-seven or -eight, something like that. Divorced. Six-year-old daughter. I think there was something going on between her and Måns just after she started, but I don’t know…Are you coming up tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? No, I…there’s just so much going on at work right now…and I’m not feeling too good…I think I might be getting a cold.”

She swore to herself. Two lies is always one too many. You should only have one excuse if you’re trying to lie your way out of something.

“Oh no, that’s terrible,” said Maria. “I was really looking forward to seeing you.”

Rebecka nodded. She had to finish this conversation. Now.

“See you,” she managed to get out.

“What’s the matter?” asked Maria, suddenly sounding worried. “Has something happened?”

“No, no. It’s okay…I just…”

Rebecka stopped. Her throat was hurting. There was a lump there, getting in the way of the words.

“We’ll talk more another time,” she whispered. “I’ll call you.”

“No, wait,” said Maria Taube. “Rebecka?”

But she got no reply. Rebecka had hung up.

Rebecka was standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom. She was looking at the scar that ran between her lip and her nose.

“What were you thinking?” she said to herself. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Måns Wenngren was sitting in the bar of the Riksgränsen Hotel. Malin Norell was sitting next to him. He’d just said something and she’d laughed and her hand had landed on his knee, then she’d pulled it back. A brief sign. She was his if he wanted her.

He really wished he did want her. Malin Norell was pretty and smart and funny. When she’d started working with the firm, she’d made her interest very clear. And he’d allowed himself to be captured, to be chosen. It had worked for a little while. They’d celebrated New Year’s in Barcelona together.

But he’d been thinking about Rebecka the whole time. Rebecka had been discharged from the hospital. When she was in there he’d phoned, but she hadn’t wanted to speak to him. And during his short relationship with Malin Norell, he’d thought that was for the best. He’d thought that Rebecka was too complicated, too depressed, too much like bloody hard work.

But he’d been thinking about her the whole time. While he and Malin were celebrating New Year’s in Barcelona, he’d called Rebecka. Taken the opportunity when Malin had gone out for a while.

Malin was fantastic. She hadn’t cried or played hell when their relationship ended. He’d come up with a few excuses. And she’d left him in peace.

And she was there if he wanted her. Her hand had landed on his knee.

But Rebecka was coming tomorrow.

The firm were really meant to have gone to Åre. But he’d made sure it was the Riksgränsen resort instead.

He thought about Rebecka the whole time. He couldn’t help it.

“Help me,” said Diddi to the nanny.

He was sitting at the kitchen table looking completely lost as she picked up the broken cough medicine bottle from the floor, threw the pieces in the trash can and wiped the floor with kitchen roll.

He realized he was just an old guy in her eyes. She was so wrong, but how could he make her see that?

“Maybe you ought to go back to bed,” she said.

He shook his head. Shook it because he was starting to hear voices inside it. They weren’t imaginary voices, nor fantasies, but memories. The memory of his own voice, shrill and urgent. Breathless and upset. And the memory of the soft but firm voice of an African woman. The Ugandan Minister for Industry.

He hated Mauri. Hated that smug little shit. He knew Mauri had killed Inna. He’d realized it straightaway. What could he do? He couldn’t prove it. And even if he could turn Mauri in for financial misdemeanors, he himself was in it up to his neck as well. Mauri had been clever enough to make sure of that. And Diddi also had a family to take into account.

He had nowhere to go. That had been the most powerful feeling when Inna died. Sure, there was grief. But mostly the panic-stricken feeling that he couldn’t get out. The
Estonia
on her way down. All the exits are blocked, the world tilts on its side and the water rushes in.

He’d partied for three days. He’d run from one bar to the next, one person to the next, one party to the next. The realization hot on his heels. The realization that Inna was dead.

He was beginning to remember more and more about those days.

“I can’t avenge you,” he’d said to the dead Inna. Even though he’d thought of a thousand ways to kill and torture Mauri, he’d known he’d never be able to do it. “I’m just a waste of space,” he’d said to her.

But now he was beginning to remember something in particular. It began with the voice of the Ugandan Minister for Industry.

He’d wanted to get to Mauri. And he’d done something insane. And very dangerous.

He’d called the Ugandan Minister for Industry. It must have been yesterday. Or was it?

It wasn’t difficult to get through. The Kallis Mining company name could still open doors. And Diddi told her Mauri was financing Kadaga’s operation.

She hadn’t believed him.

“These are bizarre claims,” she’d said. “We have complete faith in Kallis Mining. We have good relationships with all the investors in our country.”

He remembers his voice becoming shrill. Agitated because she didn’t believe him. Desperate for her to take him seriously, he started babbling, and everything he knew just came pouring out.

“They want to bring about a coup. Or they want President Museveni murdered. They’re making payments into a protected bank account. The money is paid out from there. I know this for a fact. He killed my sister. He’s capable of anything.”

“A coup? Who are ‘they,’ these people who want to bring about a coup? This is all just loose talk.”

“I don’t know who they are. Gerhart Sneyers! He and Kallis and some others. They’re going to have a meeting. They’re going to discuss the problems in northern Uganda.”

“Who else is there besides Sneyers? I don’t believe a word you’re saying! Where’s this meeting supposed to be taking place? In which country? Which city? You’re just making it up to blacken the name of Kallis Mining. How can you expect me to take you seriously! And when? When is this alleged meeting supposed to be taking place?”

Diddi Wattrang pressed his fingertips against his closed eyelids. The nanny took his arm tentatively.

“Shall I help you upstairs?” she asked.

He jerked his arm away impatiently.

Oh God, he thought. Did I tell her the meeting was here? Did I say it was tonight? What did I tell her?

Uganda’s Minister for Industry, Mrs. Florence Kwesiga, President Museveni and General Joseph Muinde are sitting in a meeting which has been called at a moment’s notice.

The minister has reported on her conversation with Diddi Wattrang.

She’s pouring tea with lots of milk and sugar from a fine porcelain teapot. The president holds up his hand to refuse. General Muinde accepts a second cup. It amuses her to see her delicate little cups in his huge hands. He can’t get his finger through the handle, but balances the cup on the palm of his hand instead.

“What was your impression of Wattrang?” asks the president.

“That he was desperate and confused,” says Mrs. Kwesiga.

“Crazy?”

“No, not crazy.”

“I’ve managed to confirm two things,” says General Muinde. “One: Mr. Wattrang’s sister has been murdered. It’s been in the Swedish press. Two: Gerhart Sneyers’s plane has permission to land at Schiphol and Arlanda tomorrow.”

“Less than twenty-four hours left,” says Mrs. Kwesiga. “What can we do?”

“We’ll do what’s absolutely necessary,” says the president. “We don’t know who’s involved in this, apart from Sneyers and Kallis. This might be our only chance. In order to defend oneself, one must sometimes conduct a war on the other person’s territory. If we’ve learned anything from the Israelis, that’s it. Or the Americans.”

“Different rules apply to them,” says Mrs. Kwesiga.

“Not this time.”

“I made Mr. Wattrang think I didn’t believe him,” Mrs. Kwesiga says to the general. “I even laughed. He felt he wasn’t being taken seriously. So he can’t possibly be expecting us to take any kind of action. I thought if he regrets what he’s done and tells somebody he’s contacted us, they won’t change their plans if he says I didn’t believe him.”

“You did absolutely the right thing,” says General Muinde. “Well done.”

He puts his teacup down carefully.

“Less than twenty-four hours,” he says. “It’s not much time. There will be a group of five. Not my own men. It’s for the best, just in case of complications. We have guns at the embassy in Copenhagen. They can land there and travel to Sweden by car. That particular border crossing is completely risk-free.”

He gets up with a slight bow.

“I have a number of things to organize, so if you’ll excuse me…”

He salutes. The president nods thoughtfully.

And the general leaves the room.

Diddi comes into dinner at Regla right in the middle of dessert. Suddenly he’s standing there in the doorway of the dining room. His tie like a loose piece of rag around his neck, his shirt half hanging out of his trousers, his jacket dangling from his index finger; perhaps he was intending to put it on but he forgot, and now he’s dragging it along behind him like an injured tail. The whole room falls silent, and everybody looks at him.

“Sorry,” he says. “Forgive me.”

Mauri gets up. He’s furious, but controlled.

“I want you out of here right now,” he says in Swedish, but in an extremely friendly tone of voice.

And Diddi stands there in the doorway like a child who’s woken from a bad dream and comes to disturb his parents in the middle of dinner. He’s quite touching as he asks, in careful English, if he might speak to his wife for a moment.

Then he adds in Swedish, in the same soft tone:

“Otherwise I’ll make a scene, Mauri. And Inna’s name will be mentioned, do you understand?”

With a brief nod Mauri indicates that Ulrika should go to her husband. She excuses herself and leaves the table. Ebba gives her a quick sympathetic smile.

“Domestic problems,” says Mauri by way of apology to his guests around the table.

The men smile. This sort of thing happens everywhere, after all.

“At least let me change my shoes,” Ulrika complains as Diddi sets off across the yard with her.

She can feel the dampness striking up through her sparkly strappy Jimmy Choo sandals.

Then she starts to cry. She doesn’t care about the fact that Mikael Wiik is sitting on the veranda in front of her house, and can hear her. Diddi drags her away from the yard, away from the illumination from the outside light.

She’s crying because Diddi is in the process of destroying their lives. But she doesn’t say anything. There’s no point, she’s stopped trying. Mauri will kick him out of the company. Then they won’t have anything to live on, or anywhere to live.

I have to leave him, she thinks. And that makes her cry even more. Because she still loves him, but this can’t carry on, it’s just impossible. And what’s he saying now?

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Diddi says to her when they’re a little way from the house.

“Please, Diddi,” Ulrika begs him, trying to pull herself together. “We’ll talk about all this tomorrow. I’m going to go back and have my dessert and—”

“No, you don’t understand,” he says, grabbing her wrists. “I don’t mean we’ve got to move house. I mean we’ve got to get out of here. Now!”

Ulrika has seen Diddi stressed before, but now he’s frightening her.

“I can’t explain,” he says with such despair in his voice that she starts crying again.

Their life was so perfect. She loves Regla. She loves their beautiful house. She and Ebba have become good friends. They know lots of nice people and do lots of fun things together. Ulrika was the one who landed Diddi Wattrang; God knows lots of girls had tried before her. It was like winning a gold medal at the Olympics.

And he’s just letting it all go, destroying everything.

He’s mumbling in her hair now. Holding her in his arms.

“Please, please,” he says. “Just trust me. We’ll leave now, we’ll check into a hotel. You can ask me why tomorrow.”

He looks around. Everywhere dark and silent. But a sense of unease is crawling inside his body.

“You need to get some help,” she sobs.

And he promises that he will, if only she’ll come with him now. Quickly. They’ll collect the boy and then they’ll take the car and get the hell out of here.

And Ulrika doesn’t have the strength to resist him. She’ll do as he says now, and perhaps it will be possible to talk to him tomorrow. Dinner is ruined as far as she’s concerned anyway. Just as well to avoid the look on Mauri’s face when she comes back mumbling her apologies.