MemoRandom: A Thriller (11 page)

“Can you hear me, Sarac?” a low male voice asked.

He turned his head toward it as he searched his memory for something to match to the hoarse voice. A name, a place, anything at all. But he couldn’t find anything.

“You’re not an easy person to get a little chat with, Sarac. There are lots of people keeping an eye on you. A lot of people worried about what you might reveal.”

Sarac tried to raise himself to a sitting position, but got tangled in the tubes sticking out of his body.

“You know who I am, don’t you?” the man said.

“N-no . . .” Sarac said. But that wasn’t entirely true. They had met, he was almost certain of that. He just couldn’t remember where and when. His eyes were gradually getting used to the darkness, and the man began to appear as a dark shadow just ten feet away away from him.

“We had an agreement, you and me, remember?” the man said.

Sarac shook his head, once again without really managing to convince himself. Was this all a dream, a hallucination playing out in his head? He clenched his hands tightly under the covers. He felt the back of one hand touch something. A plastic object connected to a cable. The alarm button.

The man came closer and stopped right next to the bed. He smelled strongly of tobacco. Sarac could make out a furrowed face, the mouth a black hole in which a gold tooth glinted. His sense of unease slid into fear, making Sarac’s heart race. He fumbled for the alarm, but his hand slipped off it.

“An agreement is an agreement. You know what the consequences will be if you break it,” the man said.

Sarac shut his eyes, screwing them shut as hard as he could, and pressed the alarm button. Once, twice, again . . .

“Get out!” he roared. “Go to hell!”

There were voices in the distance. Then steps as someone approached along the corridor. Any moment now the door would open.

“You can’t hide forever,” the man hissed in his ear. “You’re going to stick to our agreement, do you hear?”

Sarac went on shouting, yelling out loud until the door opened and the light was switched on. He blinked against the sudden glare and saw the woman in white who was gently shaking his arm.

“David, how are you feeling?” she asked.

He blinked again, then rubbed his eyes in an effort to see better. Apart from the nurse, the room was empty. But in one corner was an empty chair. Its padded seat looked slightly compressed, as if someone heavy had recently been sitting on it.

•  •  •

The plane took off on time, at 8:35 p.m.. It climbed about seven hundred feet before retracting its landing gear and starting a long bank toward the east.

Atif leaned back in his seat and shut his eyes. He tried to fit the pieces together as best he could.

1. Adnan and his gang rob a security van.

2. By coincidence, they happen to encounter an unmarked police car.

3. The cops follow them and call in the rapid response unit, which strikes when the gangs are switching cars. Shots are fired. Adnan and Juha are killed. The third bloke, Tommy, is left a vegetable.

A perfectly consistent story. No matter how thorough your preparations, the odds weren’t always on your side. Adnan had been lucky up to then. This time the pendulum swung the other way.

Atif had made a conscious choice and accepted the chain of events exactly as it was explained to him before he had arrived in Sweden. He had decided not to ask any unnecessary questions. Not to find out any more than he had to. But he couldn’t shake off Abu Hamsa’s words:

Envy is fatal, boys . . .

Even though Adnan made his living the way he did, and even though his little brother had a remarkable ability to turn gold into shit, Atif had envied him. Envied him all the qualities that he himself didn’t have. His charm, his family, and their mother’s unconditional love.

Could someone else in Adnan’s vicinity have felt the same? And have wanted to take something or someone from Adnan? Was this about Cassandra? Atif seriously doubted it. No matter what the motive was, someone had ratted on Adnan and indirectly caused his death. Possibly the same person whom the gangsters in the gym were now terrified of.

Janus. The Roman god with two faces. The lord of beginnings, transitions, and conclusions, the god who started all wars and made sure that they all ended. Associated with doorways, gates, doors, time, and, not least, journeys.

Atif opened his eyes and looked up. The plane had become a tiny point of light that was slowly disappearing into the dark evening sky. In a minute or so it would be gone. He turned the key in the ignition, put the car in gear, and pulled out of the airport parking lot.

Peter Molnar looked out the window, down at the meticulously gritted yard of Police Headquarters. He put a piece of chewing gum in his mouth, then glanced at his expensive diver’s watch. That asshole Kollander was five minutes late, as usual.

The head of Regional Crime’s little power games were as predictable as they were irritating. He ought to do what Bergh did and take care always to arrive late himself, just to even things out. And stick a discreet finger up at Kollander.

“You can go in now, Peter,” Kollander’s secretary said, and at that moment the head of the Intelligence Unit appeared in the doorway.

“Morning, Peter!” Bergh exclaimed as he pushed his glasses up onto his forehead. “Do we know why?” Bergh said in a low voice as he nodded toward their boss’s door. Molnar shook his head.

“Not exactly, but I saw Oscar Wallin in the corridor a little while ago.”

“Oh shit,” Bergh muttered.

“Well, it was only a matter of time before Golden Boy showed up. Shall we find out what’s on his mind?”

As if we didn’t already know,
Molnar thought. Bergh knocked on the door and opened it without waiting. Staffan Kollander was seated behind his very large desk. As usual, he was impeccably dressed in a smart, well-pressed white shirt with heavy cuff links that matched the gold of his epaulets.

Molnar and Bergh exchanged a discreet glance. Neither of them was in uniform, nor was the fourth person in the room. A
fair-haired man with a boyish face, who was leaning with just the right amount of nonchalance against a low filing cabinet over by one wall.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Kollander said. “You both know Deputy Police Commissioner Wallin, don’t you?”

“Of course, absolutely. Hello, Oscar!” Both Molnar and Bergh nodded to Wallin.

Wet-combed hair, clean-shaven, wearing a three-piece suit, Molnar noted. A bit of a difference since they worked on patrol together. But that was, what, ten, twelve years ago? Shit, he was starting to get old. If he wasn’t careful he’d end up like Bergh, gray and overweight, with a beer belly so big he could hardly see his cock when he went for a piss. Molnar straightened up unconsciously and tensed his taut chest muscles. Well, there was no immediate danger.

Oscar Wallin had made good use of the intervening years. He had been through senior-officer training and had done some extra courses at university. Then a stint at the International Court of Justice in the Hague, before ending up in the Intelligence Unit of National Crime. It was hardly surprising that Minister of Justice Stenberg had handpicked him; they were cut from the same cloth. Ambitious high achievers, media-savvy, and sufficiently ruthless to get wherever they wanted.

Molnar already had an idea why Wallin was honoring them with his presence.

What goes around comes around . . .

“Sit yourselves down.” Kollander gestured to the armchairs opposite him. “Deputy Commissioner Wallin and I have been having a very rewarding discussion. His investigative task sounds very interesting, and I’ve told him that we here at Regional Crime in Stockholm are naturally looking forward to a fruitful collaboration.”

Kollander turned to Wallin, who was still leaning against the filing cabinet.

“Oscar, would you like to say a little more?”

“Of course, Staffan.”

Wallin straightened up, took a couple of steps forward, and then sat down on the corner of Kollander’s desk. The head of Regional Crime’s upper lip twitched, a fleeting microsecond of disapproval. Molnar had to make a real effort not to grin.

“Minister of Justice Stenberg has given me a very clear task,” Wallin began. “The idea is to gather all manner of key competencies under one shared roof. A national knowledge center where resources are exploited fully rather than being spread out around the country. We can’t afford to have several parallel organizations doing their own thing.”

“And what do you want from us, Wallin?” Bergh interrupted.

For the second time in less than a minute Molnar came close to breaking into a smile. Fucking Bergh! He may be a desk jockey these days, but every now and then the street cop in him still shone through. Bergh had been a tough bastard in his day. Seriously tough.

Wallin gathered his thoughts quickly.

“Intelligence management,” he said curtly. “You are doubtless aware that other departments in the county have their own CIs. Cityspan, the licensed premises division, the narcotics squad, and plenty more besides. Not to mention my own former workplace, the Intelligence Unit of National Crime.”

Wallin smiled toward Bergh, but the look in his eyes was icy. The older man squirmed slightly but was wise enough not to respond.

“Sometimes the same CI reports to a number of different handlers, without their being aware that this is the case. This means that erroneous information from one CI risks being accorded far too much attention because the information is confirmed by several different police units, when their source is actually one and the same. And our intelligence material becomes less reliable as a result, as I’m sure you would agree, Bergh?” Wallin went on staring at Bergh for another couple of seconds, waiting until he gave a curt nod before turning toward Molnar.

“Apart from this, it sometimes happens that certain handlers withhold valuable sources. Some of whom could be exploited more efficiently.”

This time it was Molnar’s turn to try to appear unconcerned. He adopted a different strategy than Bergh and met Wallin’s gaze head-on. Without giving any sign that he would back down.

“Two of my coworkers will be coming over tomorrow,” Wallin continued. “They have the highest security clearance and I expect you to cooperate fully with them. We need the names and contact details of all of your CIs, without any nonsense. All of them. I hope I’ve expressed myself sufficiently and clearly?”

He paused and seemed to be waiting for a response from Molnar, who still didn’t move a muscle. Instead it was Kollander who interjected.

“Of course,” the head of Regional Crime said, and cleared his throat before going on. “As I said earlier, we’re all looking forward to our upcoming collaboration, Oscar.”

•  •  •

“Well, that’s that,” Kollander said when Wallin had left the room. “What do you both make of all this?”

“Well,” Bergh said, casting a quick glance at Molnar. “We had a feeling that something like this was in the offing. Our work with our CIs is second to none, and our results speak for themselves. As you no doubt remember, Wallin tried to muscle in when he was up at National Crime. Now he’s got enough influence to demand things instead of having to beg for them, cap in hand.”

“Mmm, I was thinking roughly the same. Our new Minister of Justice appears to have a lot of new ideas. We’ll have to see how things develop in the future.” Kollander straightened up slightly. “District Commissioner Swensk and I agree that the best strategy for the time being is to cooperate. But we don’t have to give them everything on a plate. In advance of a big
holiday like this, perhaps now might be a good time to take a look at which members of staff have put in too much overtime, and give those who need it a few weeks off?” Kollander gave the two other men a pointed grimace.

Bergh nodded.

“I’ve got a few guys who need to go on a course. Ethics and Equality, the district commissioner’s favorite subject. What do we think?”

“Authorized,” Kollander said. “Get the papers sorted at once and backdate them a week or two and I’ll sign them.” He drummed his fingers on his blotter. “Now, on to our next subject: David Sarac. Have we heard anything from the hospital?”

“I spoke to his doctor this morning,” Molnar said. “Things are progressing, he’s up and moving about. But he still has big gaps in his memory. He doesn’t remember anything about the crash or what he’s been working on recently.”

“I see. Well, that’s unfortunate, to put it mildly.” Kollander laced his fingers together in front of him. “What does the doctor say?”

“That Sarac will certainly get better, but that there are no guarantees about how much better. Some memory gaps might well turn out to be permanent.” Molnar cast a quick glance at Bergh.

“And the CI? Janus?” Kollander turned to Bergh, who shook his head.

“We haven’t heard anything from him since the accident. He’s probably lying low, seeing as he can’t contact Sarac. Waiting for someone to get in touch via the usual channels. Those are certainly the instructions Sarac ought to have given him.”

“I understand.” Kollander drummed his fingers on the desk again. “So we don’t appear to know why Sarac’s envelope in the safe was empty? Nor why we have no information at all about the true identities of his CIs, either Janus or anyone else?”

“No, I’m afraid we don’t,” Bergh said.

Kollander went on tapping. “Then we don’t have much
choice. We shall have to make a formal report and hand the matter over to Internal Investigations. I daresay Dreyer will want to take charge of this case himself. But before we do that I have to inform the district commissioner about what’s happened.”

As if you haven’t already done that,
Molnar thought. Operation Clean Threshold was probably already on the starting blocks.

“Well, we’ll have to be prepared to be questioned about what we know about Sarac and his working methods,” Kollander added. “Which is, of course, very little in my case. The way I see it, Sarac appears to have ignored a large number of the rules governing our work. And chose to see his successful results as some sort of carte blanche to do pretty much as he liked. Perhaps we’ve already given some thought as to his suitability and future here at Regional Crime? Documentation that might support a discussion of that nature?”