The Swimmer (35 page)

‘Klara,’ I say.

It’s the first time I say her name.

‘It’s extremely important that you’re honest with me. That you tell the truth. We, you, are in grave danger, as you know. Maybe we’ll find a way to survive this, but only if you tell me everything you know.’

She looks at me without blinking, without affect or one iota of recognition. But her restless hands betray her stress. Her jerks and tics.

‘Why? Why should I trust you?’

‘Because I’ve come a very long way to help you. There are several, very powerful interests at stake, and right now I’m the only one who cares about you.’

‘Why?’ she says again. ‘Why do you care about me?’

I hold my breath. We don’t have time. There is no time.

‘I knew your mother,’ I say. ‘Something happened a long, long time ago, and I want to make it right. Or I can’t make it right. But I want to do something to pay off my debt.’

She says nothing. Her eyes continue to jump around the room. She fiddles with her hands. Her friend has sat down beside her. Taken her hand. From the corner of my eye, I see the old man squinting out through the dark windowpanes.

‘Ask your grandfather to keep away from the window,’ I say.

She says something short in the language I don’t speak and turns to me again.

‘Do you have the computer?’ I say.

The two young women exchange a quick, almost imperceptible glance. Klara nods.

‘We have it,’ she says.

‘What’s on it?’ I say. ‘Have you seen what’s on it?’

Something is growing in her ice blue eyes. Something hard and completely indifferent. She has no reason to trust me. Still, it hurts.

‘What do you think is on it?’ she says. ‘You, if anyone, ought to know. Why else are all of you trying to kill us?’

‘What do I think?’ I say. ‘I can start by telling you what I know.’

I see their concentration intensify. Maybe they really know nothing at all. So I tell them what Susan told me. The truth. Or what might be the truth.

‘Mahmoud Shammosh’s friend,’ I begin. ‘Lindman. He worked for a contractor of the US government in Afghanistan. A company hired to take suspected terrorists and interrogate them using what we call unconventional methods.’

I’m disgusted by myself. By my choice of words. I start over.

‘What I mean is that this Lindman worked for a company that was acting indirectly on behalf of US intelligence. Digital Solutions, we called it. Nothing strange in and of itself. It’s a necessary part of our work, in order to avoid leaving our fingerprints everywhere. These companies usually consist of old, discarded field operatives and are controlled by shell corporations we create. This company…’

I stop, thinking how to phrase this next part, so that it’s accurate. As accurate as it can get.

‘Digital Solutions would interrogate terrorists that we tracked down. They were instructed to use harsher methods. Dogs and mock executions. Water. Methods that don’t do lasting harm. Methods that are torture, no matter what we call it officially. The kind of methods the CIA used before Abu Ghraib. But something went wrong with this company. We don’t know what exactly, but they started going beyond what was originally intended. Far beyond. It took a while before we found out about it. Electric shocks, deaths. Awful things. Indescribable cruelty.’

‘Why?’ interrupts Klara. ‘If they hadn’t been asked to do it, why did they do it then?’

Her eyes flash. Swinging between stress and doubt and something else. Something darker. I shrug my shoulders. How much can I tell her? How many more lies before my quota is finally full? Something cuts through me, like a metal blade, a physical urge to be completely honest. Still when I open my mouth all that emerges are half-truths.

‘I don’t know. Maybe they were numbed by the methods they were already using? Maybe they thought they could get more information… faster? And there are some people who don’t need orders. Some people are just sadists.’

Memories of Iraq and Afghanistan. The car battery and the shattered Iraqi prisoners in Kurdistan. Improvised interrogations in Beirut and Kabul. There are so many examples, so many justifications and explanations, so much suffering. So much to answer for.

‘What I know is that we immediately shut this operation down when we found out what was going on. That was a few weeks ago. But some of the people responsible for the operation have a long history in American intelligence. They have contacts. Contacts and leverage. They know too much about too many processes. They know too much about too many people, high up in the organization. So instead of taking these agents home immediately, they were given the assignment of cleaning things up afterward. And that’s when everything went to hell. We believe the Swedish soldier Lindman came across some kind of data on this operation, which he intended to make public. We know that he worked for Digital Solutions in Afghanistan. I have no idea why he contacted Shammosh. But you asked what I think is on the computer? I think your computer is full of evidence of an operation which, if made public, would lead to irreparable harm.’

The storm outside—maybe it’s abated somewhat now. Perhaps there’s less power, less determination in the gusts that shake the windows, roll over the roof, and push the water up over the rocks.

‘Surely I don’t need to tell you what would happen if this information were to become public?’ I say. ‘What the consequences would be? When the US is just about to leave Afghanistan? If this information comes out it would result in chaos again.’

But there is more. There is always more. What Susan didn’t tell me, but the scent of which, the trace of which, is obvious to me. The torture, the black-ops and psychopaths, all carefully placed within the realm of deniability. All meticulously arranged at arm’s length, distraught statements already prepared and polished on somebody’s hard drive. For us to be willing to pay this price for silence? There is something else on that computer. Something more. Always something more.

‘But you haven’t seen what the computer really contains?’ she says.

‘I’ve been told what it likely contains,’ I reply.

‘You say it will lead to chaos,’ she says. ‘If it’s made public. Well, then it will lead to chaos.’

She’s not blinking anymore. No jerks or tics. She’s completely still.

‘Maybe chaos is justified,’ she says.

‘Is that what your friend Mahmoud would have wanted?’ I say.

I don’t have time to react before she hits me with all her might, with what must be a clenched fist, right above my left eye. A flash of pain, tears. I blink and put up my hands in defense, catching her other hand before she can hit me again. She’s surprisingly strong.

‘Klara,’ I say. ‘Calm down! Calm down. What are you doing?’

Her friend has stood up and caught Klara’s arms. The old man strokes her hair, whispering to her.

‘Do not say his name,’ she says. ‘If you say his name one more time, I’ll kill you. Do you understand? I’ll kill you. It’s you, your friends, your fucking people who are responsible for all this shit! You! You fucking murderers! You have no right to say his name. You do not have permission to use his name. Do you understand?’

Her voice is a hiss, low like an animal. Her eyes are so full of pure, undiluted hatred that once again I have to look away. I hold up my hands.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ I say. ‘I understand that you’re under extreme stress.’

‘This has nothing to do with fucking stress,’ she sputters. ‘Do you get that! It has to do with the fact that you people murdered him. You shot him in front of my eyes. While I held his hand. He died in a pool of cheap fucking wine, in a fucking mall. And I just left him there. Do you understand that? Stress?
Fuck off!
’

‘I just want to help you,’ I say.

‘I don’t care about Afghanistan,’ she says. ‘I don’t care. I don’t care how many die. How many Americans die. How many schools are never built. Hospitals or whatever the fuck. I don’t care! Will that take away the moment when he died? When you people shot him like a dog? Will it change anything for him? For me? Will it?’

I shake my head.

‘But you can minimize the suffering,’ I say.

She’s silent for a moment. Locking her eyes with mine. It requires superhuman effort not to look away. When she speaks, she’s completely calm.

‘But I want there to be more suffering,’ she says. ‘Right now all I want is to detonate a bomb in the middle of all this shit. I want to see all of you suffer. I want to see you die. Do you understand that?’

Sankt Anna’s Outer Archipelago, Sweden

It had taken ten minutes for George’s eyes to adjust to the darkness, still he was blinded again every time he looked at the glowing map on the phone, so he did his best to limit how much he looked at it. Instead he tried to map out his path on some old laminated charts he’d found stuffed under the steering console. He was squatting, propping the chart up against the steering wheel. The boat lurched and shuddered. The storm drowned out the sound of the engine.

He maintained a steady speed. Fast enough so that the boat glided and bounced across the waves, but not so fast that he lost control. Wet snow and brackish water poured over him, drenching him, freezing him to the bone. But it didn’t bother him. It was as if he were in another world where neither weather nor wind could touch him.

He had no plan. Yet strangely he felt more relieved and less anxious than he’d felt since first meeting Reiper. It was only a few days ago, but it felt like a year. A lifetime. He held his fate in his own hands. He’d switched sides. He was no longer a mercenary in Reiper’s army of assassins. He was going to strike back.

‘Yippee Ki-yay, motherfucker!’ he yelled as loud as he could, straight into the storm.

After about a half hour George slowed and steered the small boat into the relative shelter of a small, juniper-covered cliff. In a hatch under the rear seat was a small, rusty anchor, which he heaved overboard so he wouldn’t drift away. He huddled up as best he could and took out the phone. The boat rocked in the waves. The snow melted and ran down his face. There was only a sliver of cell coverage. A little farther out, and he wouldn’t be able to use it anymore.

He compared the satellite image with the chart and felt his pulse start to race. If he was reading it correctly, he was less than one nautical mile from the island where Klara, according to Reiper, was hiding. Reiper’s gang must be somewhere nearby. He quickly typed in the reference numbers they’d given for their own position, and the needle on the digital map moved slightly eastward.

George heaved a deep sigh. He’d been so focused on his own actions he hadn’t even thought of the risk of running straight into Reiper and his minions.

And now what? What should he do now? He heard Kirsten’s rattling voice, saw her mocking smile before him.

Who do you think you are? Rambo?

He pushed away the image of her battered face. But her voice stuck fast. He was no Rambo. Of course not. He held the phone in his frozen hands and considered calling someone again. But his last call had led to disaster. And if the police weren’t on his side, whom could he call?

George’s only advantage was that he was absolutely sure Reiper hadn’t considered him a threat. By now they must wonder why they weren’t hearing from Kirsten, though he doubted they’d ever suspect George was behind it. In their eyes he was a suit, a wimp, a useful idiot. And that was his only possible advantage. It was sink or swim.

He took Kirsten’s gun out of the deep pocket of his oilskin coat. It was so black it seemed to absorb what little light reflected off the newly fallen snow. He found the small catch that opened the magazine and reloaded it with the full magazine he’d found in the house. Then he slid the gun back into his pocket and turned off the phone. It was time.

Sankt Anna’s Outer Archipelago, Sweden

‘We don’t have time for this,’ said the man.

There was something almost pleading in his voice. A trace of hopelessness in a tone that until just now had been sensible, sober.

Klara didn’t drop her gaze. The emptiness within her refused to go away, but for a moment it had been overshadowed by the adrenaline, the phosphorescent rage. The knuckles on her right hand ached where they’d met his temple. Everything she’d kept inside since Mahmoud’s murder had suddenly overwhelmed her, sent her spiraling out of control.

But now she felt the fury start to recede; the world around her began to regain its contours. She tried to hold on to that wonderful anger, tried to focus on it to keep it from slipping away, back into the depths, leaving her alone with her emptiness and grief. But she couldn’t catch it. Like sand through her fingers.

She sat back down on the couch. Her head was suddenly so heavy; she had to rest it in her hands. Somewhere next to her, she sensed Gabriella. She felt her grandpa’s rough hands on her neck. After what seemed like an eternity, she looked back up at the man.

‘So,’ she said. ‘You say you’re going to get us out of this alive. Then you’d probably better tell us how.’

The man crouched down in front of her. There was a livid red mark on his cheek.

‘You have a pretty mean right hook,’ he said.

A smile on his lips. Something in that smile was so familiar. So absolutely familiar. There were so many questions that couldn’t be asked. So many thoughts that had to be postponed. Later.

‘What should we do?’ said Klara.

‘I have to see what’s on that computer,’ he said. ‘What’s there is what you have to negotiate with.’

He stopped for a moment before continuing. It seemed as if he was hesitating.

‘My assignment is to get that computer and make sure you haven’t made any copies of what’s on it. My boss has given me the authority to promise that will be the end. That everything will be over when you hand over the computer and the information.’

There was something about the way he said it. Some doubt or hesitation. Something that chafed.

‘But I don’t trust my boss,’ he said at last. ‘I don’t trust anyone. If you give them the computer, you have nothing to bargain with. And if you have nothing to bargain with, you have no protection. So many have already died. It won’t matter to them if you die too. Or, it will matter. They’re not animals. But the risks posed by this information are obviously deemed too great. If you give up your only bargaining chip after all you’ve seen, all you know…’