The Swimmer (9 page)

The conversation progressed smoothly. Appleby wanted to hear about George’s big clients and accounts. After a while the conversation drifted into office gossip and rumors. It was pleasant. Relaxed.

Still, George felt uncomfortable for some reason. Dinner at Comme chez Soi was too extravagant, even for Merchant & Taylor. It felt like something was hovering above them, a cloud, a fog. A premonition of something else, something murkier. Something George saw reflected in Appleby’s eyes. A glimpse of darkness or a stormy sea. And his movements were impatient, a hint that the dinner so far was a warm-up, preliminary. George downed the last of his champagne and smiled confidently at Appleby. Bring it on, he thought. I’m ready.

Brussels, Belgium

They must have caught sight of each other at the same time, because the person on the park bench stood up and took a few steps forward. Fewer than twenty feet separated him from Mahmoud. The man held up his hand. Mahmoud stopped.

‘Keep your hands at your sides and walk slowly toward me,’ the man next to the bench said calmly in Swedish.

It took a second for Mahmoud to recognize the voice. It was lower, rougher than he remembered. For a moment he froze midstep, suddenly flooded with conflicting emotions.

‘Lindman?’ he said.

‘Shammosh,’ the other man replied. ‘Damn nice of you to come.’

They stood silently facing each other for a moment without saying anything. Despite the darkness, it was clear that the years had been hard on Lindman. He was older, of course, it had been ten years, but it wasn’t just that. He was bigger. Bulkier. Steroid bulk. With a tattooed neck and harsh cheekbones. The blond hair that he still kept cropped and tight, military style, looked like it needed a wash. His face appeared furrowed and tired. The clothes—wide jeans and a camouflage M-60 jacket—were worn and wrinkled, as though he’d slept in them.

‘It’s been a long time,’ Mahmoud said.

His voice was quieter and shakier than he’d anticipated.

‘How did you know I was in Brussels?’

Lindman shrugged.

‘Googled your name and got a hit for your seminar. Called the Crisis Group, or whatever they’re called, and found out where you’d be staying. Simple.’

His eyes flickered over Mahmoud’s shoulder, across the park in search of something, anything.

‘You’re sure you weren’t followed?’

‘I did everything you asked me to do and more,’ said Mahmoud with a sliver of a smile on his lips, which lingered a moment, then disappeared. Lindman’s behavior made him nervous. The whole situation made him nervous.

Lindman didn’t answer. He seemed to be listening intensely. The only sound was the wind in the trees, the traffic in the background.

‘Things have been a bit fucked-up lately,’ he said at last.

‘Okay?’ Mahmoud said guardedly.

Lindman shook his head almost imperceptibly, fiddled with his hands.

‘I don’t know how much time we have.’

Again his restless eyes danced across the park, into the darkness. A deep breath. As if he was preparing himself.

‘You know, that thing that happened. It was a long time ago. We were young,’ began Lindman.

‘Not that young,’ interrupted Mahmoud. ‘We weren’t that fucking young.’

A flame flared up inside him. A new heat swept through his body. A wave of ripe, unresolved rage. It took a conscious effort to keep it in check, to not let it spill over the edges.

‘Why the hell did you lure me out here?’ he said. ‘And what’s up with all this secrecy?’

Finally Lindman’s eyes stopped roving. He looked at Shammosh as if seeing him for the first time, as if he hadn’t been fully aware of his presence until now. He licked his lips. There was something eager and greedy in his eyes. He continued to fiddle with his hands.

‘Well, it’s like this,’ he said.

He cleared his throat and stared straight at Mahmoud.

‘I’ve seen stuff you can’t fucking imagine. Been through stuff.’

He paused, shook his head. Manically scratched his cheek.

‘Sick fucking stuff, you know? And I have information, okay? Really sensitive stuff. Really fucking sensitive stuff! What I’ve seen. You just wouldn’t fucking believe it. Seriously.’

‘Like the picture you gave me?’

‘Yes, yes, the picture, right. The picture. You saw, right? Right? That kind of crazy shit. That kind.’

Lindman was moving back and forth, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His expression: first volatile, then intense and direct. He clenched and unclenched his jaw. He was on speed. High as a skyscraper, Mahmoud realized.

‘So, like, I’ve been working there, right? In Afghanistan. After the military academy and that shit. With the Americans. You wouldn’t fucking believe the shit I’ve seen! And I’ve got more proof.’

Mahmoud felt the air rush out of him. His excitement floated away into the darkness and was replaced by disappointment. How stupid he’d been. Not to figure out that the whole thing wasn’t for real. The messages had made him start imagining things. He couldn’t believe he’d even been convinced that someone was following him. That Volvo in Uppsala must belong to a neighbor who worked at the university just like him. A coincidence. The simplest, most obvious solution. Of course.

At the same time, he felt something close to pity for Lindman. The King of Karlsborg back in the days. Ranked first in their year. Reduced to the amphetamine-fueled steroid wreck standing in front of him now.

‘What kind of proof? What are you talking about?’ Mahmoud said wearily.

‘I went to Paris from Kabul, okay? After I lifted their fucking treasure trove of documentation. You understand me?’

Lindman looked away from Mahmoud, peering out into the darkness again.

‘No,’ said Mahmoud, exhausted. ‘I don’t understand a damn thing.’

Lindman turned to him once more. His gaze becoming intense and direct again.

‘Fuck that. I have a ton of pictures. Movies. Like the things you saw in the picture I sent you, okay? Torture, murder, call it whatever the hell you want. A whole fucking computer full. A crazy amount. And something else too. Something to connect the dots.’

Lindman moved his index finger in a pattern, as if actually connecting imaginary dots in the air in front of him, a knowing, smug smile on his lips.

‘Something to connect the dots?’ Mahmoud said.

Lindman nodded. ‘You’ll see.’

‘Where? Where do you have this information, Lindman?’

‘In a real safe place. A real safe place in Paris.’

Lindman took a wallet from his inside pocket, waved it in front of Mahmoud. ‘You bet your ass on it,’ he muttered. ‘It’s in a real safe place.’

‘Okay,’ Mahmoud said. ‘Sure. Let’s just say for a moment that you actually have some amazing scoop? Fine. What do you want with me?’

Lindman leaned toward him. His breath was rancid. The wind howled in the trees above them, carrying with it the sound of the highway.

‘Cash,’ he said. ‘I won’t let go of this shit without getting a fat stack. This is my pension. Do you understand? You help me get cash for the pictures. You know who to talk to, right? Who pays? You fix that. First the cash, then the pictures.’

‘Cash?’ Mahmoud said. ‘Cash? You think I’m going to pay you? Are you crazy?’

Lindman shook his head.

‘No, no!’ he said.

His voice a little higher now. Impatient. Restless. He took a breath, got himself under control before he continued.

‘Not you, goddamnit, but you can hook me up with someone. CNN or whatever. They’ll take you seriously. You’re a fucking professor or something now. They’ll talk to you. I want a million US dollars. And not a fucking penny less. Tell them that. And there’s one more thing. A small problem.’

He suddenly froze. His eyes roamed out over the park again. Mahmoud felt it simultaneously. A sixth sense he’d learned to use in the military kicked in. They were no longer alone in the park.

Brussels, Belgium

Dinner was over, and George and Appleby had moved to the leather chairs by the window. Calvados glittered in their glasses. George was feeling pure elation. Maybe he’d just imagined that there was a cloud hanging over this meeting?

‘I’ll be honest with you, George. I think you have what it takes to get all the way to the top. How long have you been with Merchant and Taylor? Three years?’

‘Yes, three years and a few months,’ George said. ‘It’s gone so damn fast.’

‘That’s for sure! You’ve risen quickly. I don’t think I had a private office after only three years.’ Appleby smiled. ‘You have at least 20 per cent more billable hours than anyone else in your generation at the Brussels office, which means you pull in 20 per cent more money. The clients like you. I like you.’

He paused and seemed to be thinking. George didn’t want to interrupt. This was good. Appleby leaned back in his leather chair and held up his glass of calvados to the candles on the dinner table, as if to analyze its contents.

‘In our industry, it’s all about bringing in the money, George,’ he said. ‘Bringing in the money while avoiding the problems that come with it. That’s how it is for everyone, I suppose, but our industry is special. Lobbying. People don’t understand what we do. The importance of what we do. Ignorant bastards continually attack us. They call us mercenaries and think we’re completely immoral. In every goddamn survey regular people say they don’t like us. That they don’t trust us!’

Appleby threw his hands wide in a gesture of helplessness. As if it was utterly impossible for him to understand why anyone wouldn’t trust him.

‘Politicians say they don’t like us. That our influence needs to be limited in every possible way. But the truth is that not a single one of them could survive a week without us whispering into their ears. Where would they be today if we didn’t procure contacts and mobilize their voters? We are the oil in this machine. We lubricate the gears. So they really shouldn’t mind if, now and then, when no one’s looking, we shift the gears in a direction that best suits our clients’ interests. It’s a small price to pay for what we contribute.’

Appleby took a small sip from his glass. George was craving a smoke, but he couldn’t just stand up and walk out now.

‘But what we do can’t always be done in the light. Some of our clients feel more comfortable in the shadows; some of our methods work better in the shadows. There’s nothing strange about that. Just part of the game. But sometimes we need protection. Backup.’

He paused and stared into the air in front of him. It occurred to George that Appleby might be drunk. He hadn’t seemed like it until now.

‘I’m not sure I understand,’ he said and lifted his glass to his lips. Appleby turned toward him.

‘You don’t? Well, I can’t blame you. What we’re talking about is above your pay grade. And I don’t really want to go into details. You’ll understand one day. Rather, you’ll be forced to understand if you stay in this business and continue down the path you’ve been on so far. In any case, what I’m trying to say is that we have what we like to call
protectors
at various stations in society. Or we protect each other, you might say. We scratch each other’s backs. And sometimes these protectors call in our debts. Honestly, it’s not always a pleasant business when it happens. But it’s necessary.’

Appleby turned to George and looked him straight in the eye. He was definitely not drunk. On the contrary. He seemed completely sober. George felt nervous. Damn it, this was what he’d suspected. You never eat for free. Never.

‘But it always pays to pay off your debts. Didn’t your prime minister write a book about that in the 1990s? That a person in debt isn’t free, or something like that?’ Appleby smiled gently.

‘Uh, yes, that’s right. I didn’t think it was translated into English. And he wasn’t
my
prime minister, if you know what I mean,’ George replied.

‘Yes, exactly,’ Appleby said and smiled wider. ‘Unlike the rest of your countrymen, you’re not a Social Democrat. Anyway, right now, Merchant and Taylor isn’t free. Merchant and Taylor has a debt to pay. More than one, to be completely honest. We’ve reached our credit limit, and now it’s time to pay back our debts. We’ve got quite good credit. The few things we’re asked to do, we get paid back for tenfold. And that applies not only to Merchant and Taylor at large, but also to the people who perform these services. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

George felt himself getting goose bumps. It felt like he was on the verge of being initiated into something big. A secret society, a brotherhood.

‘I don’t know,’ he said carefully. ‘Are you referring to something specific?’

Appleby didn’t answer, instead he glanced at his huge wristwatch.

‘Not all of our customers are what they appear to be, George,’ he said at last. ‘Just remember that. Make it easy on yourself. Don’t think too much. Keep doing what you’re doing. Do what you’re asked. Bill properly. That will make everything easier. Much easier for all of us. And remember, at Merchant and Taylor we don’t forget those who help us pay off our debts. You’ve already come a long way. It’s time to take the next step. And the next step is not just about being a skilled lobbyist. It’s about dedication. To the firm. To our clients. It’s about loyalty. Those who demonstrate it go far. Very far. But lack of loyalty—well, let’s just say it’s not appreciated. Not at all.’

Appleby looked at George, and something glinted from within his shark eyes. Something ruthless that George hoped he’d never become better acquainted with. He didn’t know what to say, so he took a sip of calvados. It tasted stale, yeasty. George hated Calvados. Digital Solutions, he thought. I knew there was something shady about that damn Reiper.

‘It’s late. I think it’s time for us to call it a night. Not even I can bill Philip Morris for a whole night.’

Appleby stretched and laughed drily, before he stood up. George followed his example. They walked together down the stairs and out into the street. George stumbled on the sidewalk; the cold air made him realize that he might be a little bit drunk after all. The first taxi pulled up and Appleby jumped in the backseat. Before he closed the door, he turned to George.