MemoRandom: A Thriller (47 page)

Sarac took a deep breath.

“So I started to ask myself, how come they’re so petrified? What do you think, Peter?”

Molnar just shrugged. He looked almost amused.

“How could senior figures in organized crime know that we have a secret infiltrator among them, how could they even know his name?” Sarac said, tapping his forefinger on the edge of the table to underline the importance of what he had just said.

“Presumably because someone told them,” Molnar said.

“Yes, presumably. So the question is, who? And, not least, why?”

“The police force is full of leaks, it could have been anyone,” Molnar said, throwing out his hands.

“You said yourself that Janus was a top-secret project,” Sarac said. “That I was running it entirely on my own, specifically to stop anyone leaking information.”

“Okay, but Bergh and Kollander both knew about Janus,” Molnar said. “Or at least they knew he existed. Kollander even told the district commissioner everything.”

“So you’re suggesting that someone sold us out?” Sarac said. “A mole?”

Molnar pulled a face that was difficult to interpret but seemed to mean yes. But Sarac merely shook his head.

“I know who leaked news of Janus’s existence,” he said. “And I also know why.”

•  •  •

The big man carefully put Natalie down on a mattress inside the van and closed the sliding door behind them.

He helped her take off the stiff, frozen scarf and then her cold gloves. He fiddled with something she couldn’t see, then passed her a cup of hot coffee from a flask.

“Drink this,” he said curtly.

Natalie did as she was told and felt warmth spread through her body.

“T-thanks,” she shivered.

“Don’t mention it,” The man sat down on the floor beside
her and leaned back against the side of the van. He seemed to be studying her intently.

“It was you who punctured the tire,” he said. A statement rather than a question. She didn’t reply and took refuge in the cup of coffee.

“You know him, don’t you? David Sarac?”

She looked up, then gave a short nod.

“Then you know where I can find him.” The man nodded slowly. “But naturally you won’t help me. After all, you were on the point of freezing to death for his sake.” He gestured toward the door. Natalie didn’t respond.

“You could at least tell me what your name is. I mean, I have just saved your life.”

“N-Natalie,” she said. “You?”

He pulled an amused little face, as if the question surprised him.

“My name’s Atif, Atif Kassab.”

“And what do you want with David, Atif Kassab?”

“Nothing, not anymore.”

“B-but yesterday, you tried to . . .”

Atif looked at her carefully, and a little smile crept into the corner of his mouth.

“It was you driving the red Golf, wasn’t it? That’s how you got that.” He nodded toward the surgical tape on her forehead and looked almost impressed.

Natalie didn’t say anything.

“Yesterday I thought David Sarac was the only way I was going to find someone else,” Atif said. “Today it’s different. I know they’re going to be meeting out here, I just don’t know where, exactly. Not yet. But I’m expecting to find out very soon.”

He got up and climbed through to the driver’s seat.

“But seeing as you were on your way toward Skarpö, it wouldn’t be too foolish an idea to drive a bit farther.”

He put the van in gear and slowly steered the van out onto the narrow bridge.

•  •  •

“To begin with, Janus was probably mostly just a rumor on the street,” Sarac said. “But as time went on, even the bosses would have started to see the signs. Arrests, seizures, plans that went wrong. But they couldn’t be completely sure, not until they got a second opinion. Someone whose information couldn’t be doubted. In short, they needed . . .” Sarac tapped his finger on the table again. “A bent police officer.

“So they turn to that lawyer, Crispin,” Sarac continued. “He finds a well-placed police officer who needs the money. Meets him by chance at a private club in one of the Kungsgatan towers. When the police officer confirms that Janus really does exist, paranoia spreads like wildfire. All their efforts are focused on finding the traitor, as they frantically try to cover their own backs. The flow of money up through the chain slows down and soon the bosses’ bosses start to complain, threatening all manner of things.”

Sarac paused for a couple of seconds, laced his fingers together in front of him, and swallowed.

“So they start showering more money at their bent policeman,” he went on. “Fill his foreign bank accounts with millions of kronor, to get him to reveal Janus’s true identity. Maybe some of them even give the policeman small tip-offs about their competitors’ activities. After all, everything can be blamed on Janus.”

The radio on the kitchen table crackled for a couple of seconds, then fell silent again.

“But the corrupt officer never had any intention of surrendering Janus,” Sarac continued. “In actual fact, he is exploiting Crispin for his own ends. All the policeman has done is confirm that Janus exists and pass on information about some relatively unimportant police operations, and he gets showered with money and tip-offs. Money that he uses to pay other CIs without having to go through any bureaucracy or checks. He
pays out large enough amounts that more and more people are prepared to consider becoming informants. Because almost all of us have a price, don’t we, Peter?”

Molnar didn’t answer, just stared hard at Sarac.

“In this way the police officer quickly builds up his own secret, self-financing organization,” Sarac went on. “He’s able to deliver more and more tip-offs, better and better, all of them ascribed to the astonishingly skillful infiltrator, Janus. His bosses and colleagues are delighted. They all want to share in the glory. The police officer knows what he’s doing is wrong. That the ends don’t justify the means. But he doesn’t care. The excitement is driving him on, the thrill of balancing on the high wire.”

Sarac fell silent for several seconds, loosening his laced fingers slightly.

“Up to that point, the whole thing has been an almost perfect intelligence operation,” he continued. “The enemy is busy destroying itself. The distrust among them is now almost total, and they’re all informing on one another. And the most elegant part of the whole scheme is that they’re actually funding their own demise.

“But then the policeman gets a new idea,” Sarac added. “Eventually the money starts to dry up, which perhaps isn’t too surprising. After all, despite his promises, the police officer hasn’t delivered Janus. But instead of winding down the operation, he decides to do something else. Something that strengthens his credibility and buys him a bit more time. Another couple of months on the tightrope.”

Sarac paused again and took a deep breath. Thunder was rumbling ominously in the distance.

“He picks out three CIs,” he said in a low voice. “Three small-time crooks who have never really delivered anything useful, people he can easily do without, and he leaks their identities. He sells them out for money, to raise his credibility as a mole. The police officer realizes he’s condemning the men to
death. They’re a small sacrifice for a greater cause, at least that’s what he tries to convince himself. An asymmetrical war against an asymmetrical enemy, as the Duke would have put it.”

The radio on the table crackled again, a static hiss from the approaching thunderstorm.

“But at roughly the same time the police officer encounters a problem,” Sarac went on. “Another CI has been stupid enough to try to blackmail him. Threatening to shake the wire, make him fall. In a moment of desperation, the policeman does something unforgivable. And suddenly, when he comes to his senses again, he realizes that he has actually already fallen off the tightrope, has fallen farther than he could ever have imagined. That he has transgressed against everything he once held sacred.”

Sarac shut his eyes and tried to keep his voice calm.

“So, in a moment of regret and clarity, the policeman calls to warn the three informants, tells them to leave the country at once if they want to live. Then he empties his accounts of the bribe money, moving it somewhere no one else can get at it. He decides to confess everything he’s done and take his punishment. But then he makes another mistake, a particularly fateful one.”

Sarac leaned forward toward Molnar. He could hear the sorrow in his voice.

“He calls his best friend, the only person apart from the police officer himself who knows all the details of the operation: the double-crossing, the bribes, the men who have been condemned to death, everything. The police officer wants to warn him, tell him that everything is about to collapse. But then the story takes an unexpected turn. A scenario that the police officer could never have imagined. His best friend tries to kill him.”

A powerful clap of thunder made the windowpanes rattle. A moment later all the lights in the house went out, plunging the room into darkness.

“Seeing as we’re telling stories,” Molnar said. His chair scraped as he stood up.

“Once upon a time I had a friend, maybe we could even call him my best friend.” He took a couple of steps out into the hall.

“He and I shared a secret. You know what secrets are like, David. Some of them bind people together, bind them very tightly. Our secret was one of those. It made us feel a bit smarter than everyone else.”

There was a faint creak as he opened the door at the top of the cellar stairs. Then the sound of the fuse box being opened.

“It was my friend who came up with it all,” Molnar went on. “His brilliant idea, and, if I’m honest, I was envious of his intelligence, his talent. Even though I was his mentor, I found myself admiring the skill with which he mastered the game. How he could get people to do exactly what he wanted.”

Only the light of a pocket flashlight was visible from the cellar stairs.

“But then something happened. My friend played the game too well. He lost his way, and eventually made an unfortunate decision that threatened to reveal our secret. At first I felt disappointed, and pretty miserable. Then I felt angry.”

A few seconds of silence followed.

“But then I started to think about what would have happened if our roles had been reversed. If it had been me who had lost my way.”

Molnar closed the fuse box, shut the cellar door, and came
back out into the hall. Apart from the light from the flashlight, the house was still in total darkness.

“So I decided to do everything I could to help my friend. Help him find his way back to himself. Help him to keep our secret.”

He shone the flashlight directly at where Sarac had been sitting. The kitchen chair was empty.

•  •  •

Atif had crossed the narrow bridge. Lights appeared on both sides of the van, outdoor lamps and light from windows. He carried on through the small settlement, following the road deeper onto the island.

Natalie sat silently in the back. Her chilled body was gradually warming up, making it ache much more than before. She had briefly considered pulling the side door open, jumping out, and running to the nearest house. But she could hardly stand up straight, let alone get her stiff fingers to work the lock.

Atif drove on for another thousand feet, then stopped the van at a point where the road was slightly wider. The snow didn’t seem to be falling so heavily now, as if the powerful thunderclap had marked the zenith of the storm.

He turned toward Natalie. Then he pulled out his cell phone. The screen was dark.

“You’re still not thinking of helping me, Natalie?”

She didn’t answer.

“See that house over there?” Atif pointed to some lights a short distance away. “All I have to do is go over and ask where David Sarac lives,” he said.

Natalie shrugged her shoulders. “Go ahead.”

Atif opened his door. “Don’t go anywhere, Natalie.”

•  •  •

“Come on, David.” Molnar turned the flashlight off. He walked slowly into the dark little library, then on into the living room.

“We haven’t got time for this sort of game. Janus . . .”

“Is on his way.” Sarac was standing over by the window, looking out at the garden. Outside it was still snowing, albeit not quite as heavily as before.

“Janus was the perfect intelligence operation,” Molnar said. “The sort people could write books about. But all you had accomplished wasn’t enough for you, you wanted to make the operation even better. Instead of winding it down as planned, you tried to surpass yourself. You lost contact with the ground. I tried to warn you, tried to get you to realize that once you go past a certain point there’s no way back. But you didn’t listen. You were high on a cocktail of drugs and your own abilities. You thought you could pretty much do anything. Hansen’s death brought you up short. Made you realize the cost of your actions. And all of a sudden you didn’t want to play anymore.

“But by then it was too late. Just as I’d tried to tell you, there was no way back . . .”

“So you tried to stop my car in the tunnel? Tried to kill me to stop me from meeting Dreyer?” Sarac said.

Molnar pulled a pained face.

“I just couldn’t let you do it, David. Hand over all the fantastic work you’d accomplished to someone like Dreyer.”

“That
we
’d accomplished, Peter,” Sarac said. “You and me. Janus was our project. Apart from Josef, we’re on our own out here, aren’t we?” Sarac pointed at the radio. “You must have let him in on the whole thing the moment I hung up that evening. Maybe you offered him a share of the bribes, unless he agreed out of loyalty alone? I’d guess it was a mixture of both. But no one else in the group knows what’s going on. I daresay they’re all sitting at home watching television right now?”

Molnar didn’t answer.

“You must have been seriously fucking surprised to find the bank accounts empty,” Sarac said. “Almost fourteen million, vanished without a trace. No clues at the office or in my apartment, even though you tore the furniture apart. You hadn’t
reckoned with the fact that I’d got so paranoid that I’d got hold of other premises. A secret base only I knew about.”