MemoRandom: A Thriller (37 page)

He pushed the sheet of paper away and went and stood by the whiteboard.

The laptop had been a disappointment. The browsing history had been deleted, all the document folders were empty, and the desktop showed nothing but a default blue background. The hard drive seemed to have been reformatted, so if there were any secrets left in the computer, they were buried so deep in its memory that he could no longer find them, which felt pretty fucking ironic.

He poked about in the drawers for a bit, more or less at random. Apart from the pistol and bullets, he also found the gun’s belt holster and two other small leather pouches, one containing a spare cartridge and the other a pair of handcuffs. Right at the bottom he also found the little wallet containing his police ID. Why had he left it there? Another question lacking any sort of answer.

He was actually starting to get cabin fever. He longed to have someone to talk to. Someone he could trust, someone
who—unlike Wallin, Bergh, Molnar, and Dreyer—had no agenda of her own and didn’t manipulate the facts and mix up truth and lies to suit herself.

Someone like Natalie. Sarac realized that he was missing her, while simultaneously feeling guilty about dragging her into this whole business. On one level he was pleased she hadn’t turned up at his apartment. On another he actually felt quite disappointed.

He slipped his ID into his pocket and pulled out the top drawer again. A few loose sheets of paper, a collection of pens, a dog-eared phone book, and, beneath it, a half-full pack of Marlboros. He tapped a couple of the cigarettes out onto the desk to check that there was nothing hidden inside the packet. Then he discovered a little red matchbook squeezed between the cellophane and the card. The words
Club Babel
were printed on the front. He seemed to recognize the name and pulled out the bank statement again. He found a number of payments marked
Babel Restaurant, Kungsgatan 30
. Fairly large amounts as well.

He pulled out the phone book and tried to find the restaurant’s phone number, but without success. Perhaps the book was too old, and anyway, who used phone books these days when everyone had smartphones?

He thought about the discussion he had had with Molnar, about where he might have chosen to meet Janus.
Somewhere that appealed to his ego. Showed how important he was to us. A good restaurant or a club.

•  •  •

Number 30 Kungsgatan turned out to be one of the pair of tall towers, the one on the north side of the imposing street. The entrance was on one corner of the tower, five stone steps up from the sidewalk of Kungsgatan, and guarded by two enormous statues that seemed to bear the whole of the grand 1920s building on their shoulders.

Once he was inside, Sarac only needed to walk ten feet
across the stone floor of the lobby before the sound of the evening traffic faded away. He stopped in front of the elevators and read the sign. He found Club Babel on the sixteenth floor and pressed the button to summon an elevator.

The carpet inside the elevator was thick, and his sneakers sank into it. The restaurant consisted of a long bar and a few chairs, all in art deco style. A weary-looking bartender dressed in a shirt, waistcoat, and sleeve garters was polishing glasses, but otherwise the place was almost empty, except for a few Japanese tourists posing in front of the impressive view over by the big windows.

Sarac sat down on one of the chairs at the bar.

“How can I be of service, sir?” The bartender’s voice and his slightly stiff phrasing made something click inside Sarac’s head.

“I’m a member,” he said, without really knowing why. His voice sounded different. As if he weren’t quite himself.

“And your name is . . . ?”

“Johansson,” he said. “Erik I. Johansson.”

The man tapped at a screen that was hidden behind the bar.

“Of course,” he said. “I didn’t recognize you in your hat, Mr. Johansson. Welcome back.” The man put a metal token on the bar in front of Sarac and gestured lightly toward a red velvet curtain in the far corner.

Another elevator. This one was smaller, with room for no more than four people. On one wall was a little metal screen with a slot in it, below a small makeup mirror. Sarac put the token in the slot and briefly caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. He noticed that he looked different. It was something about his eyes.

The woman who met him outside the elevator doors was beautiful. Short, dark hair cut in a 1920s style, dark eye makeup, a small headband with feathers in it, and a straight, silk dress that stopped just above her knees. The little catches of her suspenders were faintly visible through the fabric. The spacious premises on the top floor matched her outfit perfectly. A
check-patterned floor, with thick rugs here and there. Chrome, leather, and hardwood furniture, whose straight lines were picked up in the square patterns that had been painted on the walls just below the ceiling.

The tall windows faced south and east and showed a magnificent view of Stockholm, only interrupted by the equivalent floor of the south tower some sixty feet away. It was so close that the Roman statuary on its facade was clearly visible.

Roman gods,
Sarac thought. Hardly a coincidence.

Just like the floor below, the bar and decor exuded the style of the 1920s, down to the smallest details. It was an art deco fantasy.

“Good evening, Mr. Johansson,” the woman said. “We haven’t seen you here for a while. Your usual table is already taken by another regular client, but of course you’re good friends.”

She gestured toward the far end of the room, where there were a number of separate booths. Sarac walked slowly toward them. He could feel his pulse getting faster. Who was sitting at the table? Could it be the man he was looking for? He glanced once more at the statues outside the windows, thinking about Roman gods.

But for the second time that day he was disappointed. The suited man in the cubicle wasn’t Janus, he was sure of that the moment their eyes met. This man was in his fifties and had long, back-combed gray hair that was thinning on top. A pair of round glasses was perched on the end of his nose, and as Sarac approached he pushed the newspaper he had been reading to one side.

“Ah, there you are, Erik!” The man stood up and held out his hand. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you for weeks, but all I get is your voice mail.” He took off his reading glasses and waved them in the air. “Sit yourself down!”

Sarac nodded and did as the man suggested. He recognized him very well and was searching frantically for a name.

“I was just reading about our new Minister of Justice.” The
man moved his hand toward the newspaper. “He’s going to be making some fairly comprehensive proposals, at least if the papers are to be believed. That’s going to make my work more difficult. But fortunately there are ways around most problems, aren’t there, Erik?”

The man smiled, showing a row of chalk-white crowned teeth.

Lawyer,
Sarac was thinking. This man was a lawyer, and his name was . . .

“So, how have you been getting on?” the man asked, leaning forward across the table. “As you know, my clients are extremely eager and would like news of your progress.”

Sarac didn’t answer.

“Since we last met the situation has become more tense. Some of their business contacts abroad have chosen to start up an independent investigation. They’ve even sent over an external consultant whose presence has aroused a degree of anxiety.”

He smiled again, the same crocodile smile as before.

“But I’ve told my clients to calm down. Assured them that you’ll be able to deliver what they want.”

Sarac nodded stiffly. He was trying to take in what the man was saying at the same time that his brain was working at top gear.

“So, how is it going?” the man said, then raised his hands. “I mean, of course I don’t want to know any details, only anything that might serve to reassure my clients a little. Make them feel comfortable about what was, after all, a fairly considerable investment.”

“Fine,” Sarac muttered. “Well . . .” He looked around, then took a deep breath.

“You see, I haven’t really . . .” He pulled his hat off and pointed at the plaster on his head. “I was involved in an accident. Things are a little confused.”

The man was looking at him, and all of a sudden he didn’t look so friendly.

“I mean,” Sarac went on. “Could you just remind me about the terms of our agreement?”

The man straightened up slightly. He was staring at Sarac as if he were trying to work out whether he was joking.

“You’re not trying to trick me, are you, Erik?” he finally said. “That would be extremely unwise, considering our previous dealings.”

“No, of course not!” Sarac shook his head. “I just need to get things sorted out a bit.”

He was making an effort to sound convincing. He suddenly discovered a little metal plaque along one edge of the table. Presumably the names of the regulars who had priority at that table.
Erik I. Johansson
was at the top. Below was another name he had heard Dreyer mention only a day or so before.

Someone up in your department has been selling information to the underworld, David. Everything’s done through an intermediary, a lawyer called Bengt Crispin.

Sarac felt his stomach tighten.

“We’ve been working together for almost a year now, Erik,” Crispin went on. “The results have been most satisfactory up to now.”

Sarac nodded and ventured a smile even though the room seemed to be swaying. The statues on the other side of the street seemed to be hanging in midair, firing accusing stares at him.

He read the ornate lettering once more, trying to absorb what it meant. The true identity of the mole Dreyer was hunting, and whom he had been forcibly recruited to reveal.

“But what we’ve been paying you handsomely for, Erik,” Crispin went on, “is to reveal the true identity of the person behind the code name Janus.”

“Hello?”

“Good evening, Abu Hamsa. This is Bengt Crispin.”

“Ah, our legal friend, how nice.”

“I thought I should let you know that I have met my contact, just now, in fact. I’m afraid the situation is as I feared. It seems highly likely that he won’t be able to deliver. At least not for the foreseeable future.”

“I see. That’s a great shame.”

“So what do we do now?”

“Well, fortunately we have a plan B. An offer from a new player. Or an old friend, depending on how you choose to look at it.”

“Do I want to know the details?”

“No, Mr. Crispin, I don’t think you do.”

•  •  •

Sarac remained where he was for a good while after Crispin had left. Drank the drink that had been brought over without his having ordered anything. Then another. One mystery had at least been solved. Now he knew where all the money had come from. Earlier during the evening he had started to suspect that he himself might be a murderer. Now he could add corrupt police officer to the list as well.

He straightened up and was just about to raise his hand to request a refill when the bartender placed another drink in front of him.

“Thanks, Noa,” he mumbled. He surprised himself by managing to remember the bartender’s name.

His mind was in a state of total confusion. Pretty much like his life. The more he dug about for the person he had been, the less he liked the results. The list of people he had betrayed was getting longer and longer. Bergh, Molnar, the guys on the team, himself, his sources, even Janus. Why the hell couldn’t he have lost his memory completely? A total reformat, like the laptop in the desk drawer? Or, possibly even better, why hadn’t he died on the spot? Both alternatives felt more appealing than the inferno in which he found himself right now.

What the fuck had he been up to? Had he started the whole Janus project simply in order to sell out his infiltrator to the highest bidder when the price rose high enough?
In the end it always comes down to money, doesn’t it, David?
Or was his name really Erik these days?

The room was gradually filling with people. Most of them were men, and apart from him there wasn’t a single one under forty. But more and more women started to appear, all of them in their twenties, which seemed to suggest that they worked for the club.

He recognized several of the men. Business leaders, politicians, even a television presenter. A couple of them nodded in his direction and he returned the greeting. The music that had been whispering in the background was turned up. Club jazz of some sort. Soporific hypnotic tunes that were making him sleepy.

The woman who had met him at the elevator appeared at his table.

“Excuse me, Mr. Johansson, I just wanted to let you know that we have a free massage session available, if you’re interested. Rio has had a cancellation, and you usually . . .”

Without knowing why, Sarac nodded mutely. He allowed himself to be led through the room to a row of doors on the
far side of the elevators. He stepped through one of them and found himself in a room with heavy velvet curtains covering the window. Scented candles were spreading a smell of sandalwood around the room. Sarac took off his clothes and sat down on the massage table in the middle of the floor. He wrapped a thick white towel around his waist.

He hadn’t drunk any alcohol since the crash. The smell, the music, the subdued lighting, everything merged together to form a pleasant, numb daze. He lay down on his stomach and closed his eyes. He heard the door open gently.

“I was starting to think you’d forgotten me, Erik.” The voice was soft, familiar, in a vaguely erotic way.

The warm oil made him start. Her hands were soft but firm at the same time. They soon found the tension in his neck and shoulders. And eased it, little by little. She seemed to know exactly how much he could take, skillfully keeping him balanced on the boundary between pleasure and pain.

He gulped and tried to gather his thoughts. He failed. He felt his erection creeping up on him. The music continued, then formed familiar words.

I owe everything