MemoRandom: A Thriller (26 page)

Atif knocked the man’s arms away, pushed back against the
wall, then, at the precise moment of collision, he pushed the fingers of his left hand into the man’s face and let him impale himself. He felt something soft give way beneath his middle finger and heard the man roar with pain.

The other man, who was holding his arms in front of him, Muay Thai style, raised his leg for another kick. Atif shoved the heavier man straight at him.

The kick struck Atif on the shoulder, then slid up and hit his left ear. Something white exploded inside his head.

He heard the sound of bodies hitting the ground and staggered forward, blinking hard to get his sight back. He saw movement on the ground and stamped on it with full force. He felt something crunch beneath him.

The baton hit him across his left shoulder blade. The pain rose to a six. Hard, but not enough to knock him out of the game. Atif angled his arm up to protect his head. The second blow came lower but hit his back and ribs rather than his kidneys. A weak seven. Atif moved out of range of the baton.

The Thai boxer was getting to his feet. Atif aimed a kick at the man’s temple. He misjudged the distance and hit his nose instead. The man fell backward, pulled his legs up, and rolled out of the way.

For a couple of seconds everything stopped as they all looked at one another. The only sounds were heavy breathing and the sniffs and groans of the fattest one as he tried to crawl away. One down, two left.

Atif decided to switch strategy. Instead of waiting for another attack he charged straight at the man with the beard. The maneuver took the man by surprise, and he couldn’t decide whether to use the baton or jump out of the way before Atif rammed him in the chest.

They fell to the floor. Atif felt hands clawing at his face, trying to get at his eyes. He grabbed the man’s hair, pulled his head up, then slammed it down against the ground as hard as he could. Once, twice. He felt the man’s body go limp.

He didn’t see the kick coming, just felt it as it hit his head. He fell to the side, the room lurched, the sky and concrete floor changed places. Atif curled into a ball, protecting his head as best he could. He made sure he rolled to the right, toward the wall. That bought him a couple of seconds’ breathing space. He saw the Thai boxer raise his leg, then pushed off against the wall, rolling straight at the man’s foot. His leg buckled and he fell backward.

Atif got to his feet. His left arm was practically useless, and he was still seeing double. The pain was rising to an eight. He needed to bring this to a conclusion.

He felt something round under his foot and thought at first that he was standing on someone’s finger, then saw that it was something else entirely. The Thai boxer was wiping his face with the back of his hand to get rid of the blood pouring from his nose, and Atif seized the chance to bend down and pick up the object behind his back.

He clutched the handle, then let his useless left hand hang down by his body as he raised his chin.

The Thai boxer took the bait. He stood up on his toes, then gracefully raised his right leg. Atif was waiting for the kick. When it came he swung the baton around in his right hand and brought it down as hard as he could on the man’s shinbone. The Thai boxer fell flat on the floor. Atif was already halfway toward the door when the man started to scream.

“Minister, how good of you to come. And so nice to meet you again, Mrs. Stenberg.”

“Your Excellency,” Stenberg said to the ambassador as they shook hands.

“I hope we can dispense with formalities. After all, we have known each other a long time now, even if it’s been a while.” The tall, thin-haired man in a dinner jacket smiled warmly.

“Of course.” Stenberg smiled. And now you’re going to babble about what a talented colleague I was.”

“As you know, Mrs. Stenberg, Jesper was one of my very best prosecutors at the tribunal. It was already very obvious that he was going to go far.”

“That’s lovely to hear.” Karolina took the elderly man under the arm. “Do tell me more, Your Excellency. Jesper and I really do miss those days in the Hague. The Netherlands is a wonderful country. Perhaps we could start by getting something to drink?”

Stenberg gave his wife a grateful look as she carefully steered the talkative old man toward the bar. He was good at this sort of occasion. He could do the small talk, he knew all the little codes, how to work a room. But Karolina was in a different league altogether; she was a full-blooded professional. He had learned all he knew from her. Her grandfather had been foreign minister, after all, and no doubt her dad, Karl-Erik, would end up as an ambassador, just like all the other loyal old servants of the party.

Stenberg looked toward the door and received a short nod
from the Security Police officer who had accompanied him to the embassy, but didn’t bother to respond.

“Minister?” He moved forward, shaking hands, nodding amiably at passing faces. He threw in one of his patented Stenberg smiles, but without making the slightest move to stop. The trick was to keep moving the whole time, and not get bogged down in nonsense discussions that didn’t lead anywhere.

Wallin ought to be here somewhere. The embassy usually invited people who had served at the War Crimes Tribunal to its New Year cocktail party. Stenberg looked around and thought he could see a glimpse of a familiar profile in one corner. But just as he started to move in that direction someone took hold of his elbow.

“Jesper!” It was John Thorning.

“John, good to see you. Are you on your own?”

“Margareta stayed at home. She wasn’t feeling very well. This sort of thing”—he indicated the overcrowded room—“tires her out.”

And evidently not just her,
Stenberg thought. John Thorning looked worn-out. The bags under his eyes were even bigger than last time, and his face now had a couple of red patches on it.

“I understand, do give her my very best, John. I’m afraid I must . . .” He released his grip of Thorning’s hand, but the old man kept hold of his.

“How are you getting on, Jesper?”

“How do you mean?” Stenberg glanced around quickly for Karolina.

“With the investigation. It’s been over two weeks now. You said—”

“I said you’d hear more after the holidays. But probably not until someway into January.”

“But you must have heard something?!” John Thorning was still clutching his hand. His voice was a little too loud, making the people around them look in their direction. Jesper
went on smiling as he smelled the alcohol on the other man’s breath.

“This isn’t the right place for this sort of discussion, John.”

“Please, Jesper!”

More and more faces were turning toward them. Far too many for comfort.

“Come with me to the bar, John, and I’ll tell you.” He pulled the older man after him, and after a couple of paces Thorning finally let go of Stenberg’s hand. The old man padded obediently after him like a puppy, and the expression on his face was just like their little dog, Tubbe, when it wasn’t allowed out with them. Old John certainly wasn’t his usual self. Stenberg had to say something, anything, just to get rid of him.

Stenberg stopped and waited until everyone else turned away. He took a deep breath. John Thorning looked as if he might collapse at any moment. He had to give him some crumb of comfort, something that at least sounded encouraging.

“It’s like this, John,” he said close to the man’s ear. “We’ve found certain . . . things. The sort of thing that requires a closer look. I mean, nothing conclusive,” he added quickly when he saw the man’s reaction. “But we’re doing what we can. Wallin has put one of his best . . .” Stenberg bit his tongue. Fuck! He should have kept Wallin’s name out of this. “Like I said before, John, you’ll get a better idea early in January. We’ll speak then.”

John Thorning nodded eagerly. “Of course, Jesper, I understand! I really do appreciate . . .”

Stenberg smiled his sufficiently modest smile.

“Don’t mention it, John. And remember, we’re just taking a closer look at a couple of things. That sort of thing happens all the time, it doesn’t necessarily mean there’s anything wrong.”

John Thorning didn’t seem to be listening and was squeezing Stenberg’s arm instead. The expression on his face suddenly looked almost happy.

“Thanks, Jesper, thanks a million. You’ve no idea.”

When Stenberg glanced over his old mentor’s shoulder he noticed his wife looking at them curiously.

•  •  •

Sarac noticed the smell on the stairs. Cigarette smoke. He had slept soundly, dreaming an awful lot of things, none of which he could remember when he woke up. The only exception was that song.

I owe everything,

Debts I can’t escape till the day I die . . .

“Odds and Evens,” he thought it was called. He’d have to google the lyrics when he got a chance.

He came down into the hall, followed the smell into the living room and out into the glazed veranda. Natalie was standing just outside the door. The cigarette smoke was swirling around her head, seeping back into the house through the drafty windows. Sarac realized he was pleased to see her.

He tapped gently on the glass. She turned and smiled at him, then took a last drag before flicking the butt out across the snow-covered lawn.

“Have you been here long?” he said as Natalie closed the glass door behind her.

“About an hour. I really do like this place. How far does the plot extend?” She gestured down toward the forest.

“All the way down to the water on the other side of the hill,” he said.

“Nice. Is there a jetty?”

“A jetty and a boathouse, but they’re both pretty run-down. Like the rest of the place.” Sarac threw his hand out. “I was planning to do it up, but a few other things seem to have got in the way.”

Natalie nodded, pulled her ChapStick from her pocket, and ran it over her lips.

“Yes, I saw the tarpaulins and building materials upstairs. So you’re the DIY type, David?”

“Not really.” Sarac shrugged. “But the alternative is selling up. Getting builders in would cost too much. Neither my sister nor I have got the money.”

Natalie pulled a face that was hard to interpret.

“By the way, there was something I wanted to ask you,” Sarac said. “When you cleaned up my apartment, did you notice if there was anything written on the bedroom wall?”

“Like what?”

“Well . . .” Sarac looked for the right words. “Some sort of message. Something about a secret?”

Natalie shook her head. “It looked like a war zone. But the walls were okay. Why?”

Sarac nodded, then looked out toward the orchard. “Oh, it was just something I got into my head. I must have imagined it. Maybe I dreamed it.”

Natalie was studying him and looked as if she wanted to ask something.

“Do you want something to eat?” she said instead. “I can make you some bacon and eggs.”

“Sure.”

He stayed on the veranda while Natalie went into the kitchen. He peered down toward the fruit trees again and for a brief moment thought he could see movement down among the trees. But then he realized that it was just the wind, making the shadows down there move.

“
Debts I can’t escape till the day I die,
” the voice in his head sang. The song was back again, and all of a sudden he remembered the group’s name. The High Wire.

“David, I found this in the hall. Are you keeping a diary or something?”

“Er, what?”

Natalie was standing in the doorway. She was holding his notebook in her hand.

Damn!

“Oh, i-it’s nothing special,” he said, taking a few quick steps toward her. “Just a few things I jotted down.”

He held out his hand. He had left the book in his bedroom, he was sure of that. He’d put it under . . . under . . . ? Fuck!

Natalie handed him the notebook.

“Did your friend Peter bring it? Has it got something to do with your work in the police? Secret sources?”

Sarac clenched his jaw. Natalie noticed his reaction.

“Don’t worry. I don’t want to pry. It was he who told me.”

“Who, Peter?”

Natalie nodded.

“He bummed a cigarette off me the other evening before he left. Nice guy, maybe a bit too self-aware for my taste. Besides, I don’t really like men who have those neat little goatees. Anyway, he told me what line of work you were both in. No details, nothing like that, just that it was important that you got your memory back soon. Very important, even.”

She smiled, and once again that uncomfortable feeling crept up on Sarac. That nothing was the way it seemed.

•  •  •

The man down in the orchard was barely moving. He stood still as he watched the house through his binoculars. He saw the man and woman talk for a while out on the veranda, then she went back inside the house. For a moment he thought the man had seen him, that their eyes had met in spite of the distance and the shadows hiding him. But obviously that was just paranoia. He was a phantom, a figment of the imagination, impossible to see.

The man lowered the binoculars, took a half-smoked cigar from one of his jacket pockets, and turned away as he lit it. Then he held it inside his cupped hand to hide the angry red glow at its tip. He ought to stop, he knew that. Just not quite
yet. Not until he knew that the secret was safe. That
he
was safe . . .

He looked up. The man had gone back inside the house. He took another puff on the cigar. Then turned around, slid back out between the two snow-covered old gateposts, and vanished into the forest.

Five sets of numbers, spread out across the page. Four of them written in the same black felt-tip pen. But the top one had been scribbled using what looked like a fairly useless standard-issue ballpoint. Molnar was right, only one of the numbers worked as a possible ID number. The rest were clearly something different.

He had at least worked out that there were two distinct sections in the notebook. The majority of it was full of what looked a bit like a diary. Dates followed by code names, and a code that presumably indicated a location. The first date was almost two years old, the most recent dated October 3, involving a CI named Bacchus. None of it meant anything to him.