MemoRandom: A Thriller (40 page)

“And I have a stroke and crash,” Sarac muttered. His headache had been quiet for a while, but now it hit him like a sledgehammer. His vision started to flicker.

“Hansen was already one of the living dead,” Molnar went on. “His so-called brothers would have got rid of him if they found out he was informing on them. Not to mention his disgusting sexual preferences.” He pulled a revolted face. “You don’t have to worry, David. In my team we take care of one another. The test results of the blood sample are gone, as is your list of calls. We’ve just got a couple of more loose ends to sort out, then everything will be under control.”

Sarac slowly shook his head. Back and forth, as if the movement could help keep Molnar’s words at bay. Everything made sense, the details matched up with his memories. But there were still plenty of pieces missing.

“Hansen, Markovic, Lehtonen, Sabatini . . .”

He was about to say Erik Johansson’s name as well but stopped himself at the last moment. He wasn’t ready to talk about his base, let alone the money he had been receiving from Crispin.

“What’s the connection between them?”

“We don’t know yet,” Molnar said. “Markovic had been in the water for about a month. I knew him, he was small potatoes, the sort who liked to shoot his mouth off about nothing. Someone strangled him with a piece of wire, then dumped him in Lake Mälaren sometime over the days following Hansen’s death.”

Molnar’s mouth narrowed.

“Lehtonen took off to Thailand the day after your crash. He got back the day he was shot. His duty-free bags were just inside the door, so it looks like someone was waiting for him. He did a bit of dealing in performance-enhancing drugs, gave us a few tip-offs about his competitors. Which leaves Sabatini, but we’ve already talked about him. Four dead men, pretty much four different types of death.”

He shrugged.

“With the exception of Hansen, they were all small-time crooks. They may have moved in the same circles to an extent, but there’s no direct connection between them apart from the fact that all worked for you.”

“You mean apart from the fact that they’re all dead?” Sarac said somberly.

Molnar ran his tongue over his front teeth. “Here’s what I think, David. The pay-as-you-go cell numbers you called just before you crashed—my guess is that they belonged to Markovic, Lehtonen, and Sabatini. You were probably trying to warn them about something, or someone.”

Molnar paused, as if he was waiting for Sarac to take over. But when Sarac didn’t say anything he carried on.

“Lehtonen bought his plane tickets that same evening, and one of Sabatini’s credit cards was used in Italy a few days later, so he probably went by car or possibly train. Markovic, on the other hand, never made it. We found a filled-in passport application form on his computer.”

Sarac was trying to gather his thoughts. But it was almost impossible. Flashes of memories, fragments of conversations, faces. It was all flying around inside his head, a wildly spinning maelstrom.

“Leave, get out of here! Right away!”

“But I’ve got the dogs, I can’t just . . .”

“Fuck, Erik, I haven’t got a passport.”

“I’ll go and stay with my family in Italy for a while until this blows over.”

It all fit. He had told them to run for their lives. But why? Who did they have to run from? There was something else, one last secret. Something conclusive that he still couldn’t get hold of. Something to do with Janus.

Something that meant that all of them . . .

Without exception . . .

Had to die.

“You asked me the other day if we were watching you. The answer to that question is yes,” Molnar said in a low voice.

“But not for the same reason as Wallin’s gang,” he added. “They’re using you as bait. Hoping that Janus is going to show up at your door so they can pick him up.”

Molnar shook his head.

“Wallin was on the right track when he said you were in danger, David. But what he hasn’t worked out, what no one seemed to have worked out”—he looked at Josef in the rearview mirror again—“is that Janus has an entirely different plan. He’s watching you, trying to work out if you’re likely to keep his secret. If the answer is no, he’ll disappear for good. And get rid of all the evidence.”

Sarac looked up. He realized what Molnar was about to say.

“Including you, David.”

Molnar went with him up to his apartment. He even asked whether Sarac wanted the spare keys he had to the new locks. Of course Sarac ought to have laid all his cards on the table. His secret lair, the gun, the bank accounts, the whiteboard with all the pictures. He probably would have done so if it hadn’t been for that visit to Club Babel. Molnar and his team weren’t the enemy, as Dreyer had almost managed to have him believe, but his friends. Loyal friends at that, who were looking out for him. They were prepared to overlook his shortcomings and were taking risks for his sake. Protecting him from Wallin, Dreyer, and Janus.

But all that would change if they found out the true source of the money in those accounts. That he himself was in the pay of organized crime. Erik I. Johansson, a corrupt police officer, a CI. A rat.

So he had to go on keeping his mouth shut. Pretend he couldn’t remember anything while he tried to figure out some way of escaping from the infernal labyrinth he found himself in. If there was a way out, of course. He was beginning to doubt that more and more. The pieces of the puzzle were starting to fit into place, but the problem was that he was finding the pattern they were forming increasingly unappealing.

“We’re right across the street,” Molnar said. “Press the alarm once if you want us to be discreet. Twice if it’s urgent, okay?” He handed Sarac a small gray box with a button on it.

“Sure, no problem.”

“And don’t hesitate to call, David. No matter what the reason, okay?”

He nodded and attempted a smile. It worked better than he expected it to.

“Thanks for everything, Peter. I really am . . .” Sarac was momentarily lost for words, then couldn’t bring himself to say them.

“Like I said, you’d have done the same for me, David. We’re almost there now. All we have to do is get hold of Janus, and this whole nightmare will be over.”

And what do we do then, once we’ve found him?
Sarac thought. He realized that he already knew the answer. Bergh had given it to him along with the bulletproof vest and the revolver with the filed-off serial number.

•  •  •

Atif discovered the police officers almost immediately. All he had to do was work out where the perfect place to park would be if you wanted to keep an eye on the door, and then look for an anonymous Volvo. He walked closely past the car, chewing some gum very obviously and swinging the Nordic walking sticks he had bought from Stadium. Inside the car sat a man and a woman, both wearing dark clothing. The red diodes of the police radio in the middle of the dashboard removed any lingering doubts. The police officers in the car gave him no more than a cursory glance. They assumed he was yet another of the early-bird, sourdough-kneading spandex phantoms that seemed to have taken over the whole inner city.

Atif estimated the distance from their car to the door, trying to work out how much the van would block the view if he parked right in front of the door. He realized that it might work.

When he went around the corner of the street beyond the Volvo he spat out the chewing gum and stabbed it with the point of one of the walking sticks. He pulled a little cluster of spikes he had cut from a barbed-wire fence from his pocket and fixed it firmly to the chewing gum. When he walked back
past the unmarked police car he carefully held out the walking stick and attached the spikes to the grooved pattern of the rear tire. He gave them thirty feet max before the spikes punctured the tire.

Atif carried on down the road toward his parked van. He saw the front door open and quickly slipped out of sight into another doorway, so he could watch what happened without being noticed. A large, blond man emerged onto the street, reeking of cop.

The man crossed the street and went around the corner without so much as glancing at the Volvo. He looked back over his shoulder briefly before going into the building on the corner. Atif waited for him to come out again, and stood there for almost half an hour before he was reluctantly forced to admit that he had a problem. The cops in the Volvo weren’t on their own. There were others there too, and they’d been smart enough to conceal themselves properly. That meant he’d have to change his plan.

•  •  •

The man on the roof was standing perfectly still. Below him on the other side of the street he could see the dark windows of the apartment. If he took a couple of steps forward, stepped out of the shadows, and looked over the edge, he would see the police officers down there. For a moment he toyed with the idea of doing just that. Neither of them would see him, they were too busy focusing on the apartment. Hoping that the man asleep inside was going to reveal his secret at last. Their secret.

For a while he had been worried, actually more worried than he was prepared to admit. But he had done what was required and had got rid of all the risk factors. All but one.

The man turned around and pulled a half-smoked cigar from his inside pocket. He lit it between his cupped hands and took a deep puff. He was going to stop, he promised himself once again. But not just yet.

•  •  •

Sarac is dreaming he’s back in the car. Hansen is in the front passenger seat, and he himself is behind the steering wheel. But there is someone else there too. A figure in the backseat wearing a hood, someone whose face Sarac can’t see. A man, he’s sure of that. Roughly his height and age. He knows who it is, but he still can’t bring himself to say the man’s name. Hansen is talking, trying to sound tough. But the anxiety in his voice is clearly audible even though he’s trying to drown it with words.

“I was thinking of suggesting a deal,” he says. He turns to look at Sarac and grins, trying to keep both his gaze and voice steady. But Hansen has sat in the front passenger seat for a reason. He’s scared, he wants a backup plan. A quick escape route.

“We’ll part as friends, no hard feelings.” Hansen is still grinning, revealing a nicotine-stained row of teeth. Sarac looks at the man’s pudgy hands and thinks about the girls in the pictures, no more than ten years old.

“So, what do you say, Erik? Have we got a deal or what?”

Sarac looks in the rearview mirror and meets the gaze of the man in the hood. Pale eyes, like his own. They’re very similar, he and Janus, more similar that he likes to admit. They’re both balancing on a high wire. They’ve chosen that for themselves, live for it. Love it.

The connection between handler and CI can sometimes become too strong. Is that what’s happened with him and Janus? Have they grown too close?

“Well, what’s it to be, Erik?” Hansen grins uncertainly.

Sarac goes on looking in the rearview mirror. He can see the other man smiling. Realizes what it means. He opens the door and gets out into the road. Takes out a cigarette and cups his hands around it to protect the flame of the lighter from the snow. Takes a deep drag.

A flash of light inside the car, then a bang.

The sound woke Sarac up, making him sit bolt upright in
bed. His heart was pounding in his chest, and his T-shirt was wet with sweat. His bladder was full, but he didn’t bother to turn on the light and walked through the apartment toward the toilet in silence. As he passed the living room he glanced at the building opposite. The window was dark, but he knew that Molnar’s men were in there. He wondered whether they would be so keen to protect him if they knew he was actually a lousy rat. And somewhere out there was Janus, perhaps waiting for the right moment to cut the last ties. Was Janus really prepared to go that far, after everything they had been through together? Had he actually created a monster, someone who would be the death of him? Was it now a matter of finding him before he himself was found?

Sarac shook off the feeling, turned, and took a step toward the toilet. He suddenly imagined he could see movement from the corner of his eye. He turned back and looked at the building opposite, then up at the dark rooftop.

But of course there was no one there.

Natalie went up the stairs a bit too quickly. She stopped on the last landing for a minute or so to catch her breath. Didn’t want to seem too keen. She fingered her cell phone. Hoped he was home this time.

Once she had collected herself she went up to the door and rang the bell. No answer. She tried again, with the same result. She opened the mail slot and called into the apartment.

“David, it’s Natalie. Open up!”

She heard noises, shuffling steps. She glimpsed a pair of slippers and the bottom of a threadbare dressing gown. She quickly let go of the mail slot. The door opened slightly, with the security chain still on.

He looked terrible. Black bags under his eyes, his beard straggly and greasy, and the little woolly hat he was wearing could have done with a wash a long time ago. His shabby dressing gown was at least one size too big and hardly helped the overall impression.

“Are you going to let me in, then?”

He didn’t answer, and just shut the door. A few seconds later she heard the chain rattle.

“Come in. Lock the door behind you.” He shuffled into the living room ahead of her and slumped down on the sofa.

Natalie took a quick look in the kitchen. Clean and tidy, not so much as a dirty glass in the sink. She opened the fridge door. Full of unopened packets.

“When did you last eat? Properly, I mean?”

He muttered something she didn’t hear. He was a complete
wreck, could hardly keep his eyes focused. Natalie took a deep breath.

“Okay, this is what we do,” she said. “First, you need to have breakfast, or lunch, to be more accurate.” She nodded toward the clock on the wall, which said half past eleven. “Then you need a shower, and then I’m going to give you a shave and cut your hair. Have you got the things here or shall I go down to the 7-Eleven?”