Vanished (45 page)

He sat down across from her again.

‘You didn’t know?’

Annika shook her head.

‘How—?’ She swallowed and said, ‘How did she end up here? In Stockholm?’

The colonel rubbed his eyes.

‘She was injured, and she was carried out through the tunnel in Sarajevo and taken up Mount Igman. There she arranged to accompany a group of women and children that the Red Cross had rounded up. They encountered problems leaving Bosnia. At some point the transport was stopped and some of the younger women were dragged from the bus by drunken soldiers, barbarians. We don’t know what happened, but after the bus had moved on, two soldiers were found dead in their guard posts, shot in the mouth with their own guns. It could only have been Aida.’

Misic hung his head. Annika felt nauseated.

‘Why did she want to go to Sweden?’ she asked in a whisper.

‘She had heard that Ratko was here. She had sworn to get revenge. It was the only thing that mattered to her. He had taken her family, her life. I didn’t hear from her for years. It is a cause of constant pain to me. I was wrong. I should have kept in touch. You cannot make it alone. Aida would have needed me.’

Suddenly, the chain around Annika neck felt red-hot and heavy, a display of gratitude from a murderer.

‘This is what she wrote,’ the man said in a muffled voice, ‘on 3 November this year. Her mission was nearly complete, she wrote. She had contacted Ratko and arranged a meeting; one of them would die.’

‘She contacted Ratko?’ Annika asked. ‘Are you certain that she contacted Ratko? That she took the initiative? That no one betrayed her?’

The colonel bowed his head.

‘She wanted to have a showdown with Ratko,’ he said softly. ‘She asked me to finish the job if she failed. I have survived every purge: Milosevic still has confidence in me so I had the power to destroy Ratko’s life.’

His shoulders shook again and he covered his eyes with his hands.

‘Go now,’ he commanded.

Annika swallowed again. ‘But . . .’

‘Go.’

She bent down and put away her pad and her pen. After a moment’s hesitation she stuffed the TIR seals from the Yugoslav Embassy into her bag as well.

‘Thank you, for everything,’ she whispered.

Misic didn’t reply.

Annika left him, headed for the hall in silence, opened the door and stepped out into the hotel corridor.

The elderly officer remained seated on the bed while darkness fell. His shoulders ached, his back, his hands. His feet went cold and numb.
The young journalist took the seals with her. Good.
They would never be able to prove that Misic had stolen them, even if they guessed that it was his doing.

He decided to take a bath. Went into the bathroom, turned on the light, put in the plug and turned on the water, very hot water. While the tub was filling, he sat on the toilet seat, letting the chill of the tiled floor work its way into his legs. He welcomed the pain. When the water ran over the side of the bath and reached his toes, he turned off the taps. He went into the bedroom, into the dark, undressed and placed his carefully folded clothes on a chair.

Then the colonel sank down into the hot water up to his neck, closed his eyes for a long time, and let his body dissolve.

When the water had cooled, he got up, dried himself carefully, shaved, combed his hair, and got out his dress uniform with all its decorations and the medals for services beyond the call of duty. He put on his clothes slowly and painstakingly, smoothing his hands over the lapels of his uniform and adjusting his cap. Then he went over to the safe and got out his service pistol.

He saw his reflection in the window. His hotel room floated on top of the cement triangles of Sergelstorg. A calm, determined gaze met his. He shifted the blurred focus of his vision to the plaza down below, fixing his stare on the site where Aida had died.

We’ll be together
, Colonel Misic thought. Then he placed the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

Eleonor swiped at her forehead with the back of her hand.

‘The roast is done,’ she said. ‘How are the potatoes au gratin doing?’

Thomas opened the oven door and tested the centre of the dish.

‘They need a little more time.’

‘Should we cover the dish with foil so the potatoes don’t get burnt?’

‘I think they’ll be okay,’ Thomas said.

Eleonor rinsed her hands under the kitchen tap, wiped them on her apron, and exhaled slowly.

‘Are my cheeks all flushed from cooking?’ she asked with a smile.

He swallowed and smiled back.

‘It makes you look sweet,’ he said.

She untied her apron, hung it on its peg and went to the bedroom to switch into a different pair of shoes. Thomas went into the dining room with the salad bowl and placed it on the table set with crystal, English bone china and fine silverware. He quickly assessed the table: the cold antipasto for starters, the napkins, the mineral water, the salad – apart from the wine, everything was in place.

He sighed; he was tired and would rather have spent the evening watching TV and thinking about his assignment. All afternoon he had gone through the statements made by people on welfare: how always living on the brink wore them down, how uncomfortable it was to have to justify why your kid needed new sneakers, how the social workers always seemed rushed and how claimants were left feeling humiliated and on the receiving end of charity. How they had to choose between having their teeth fixed or buying the prescription medicine they needed. Never being able to afford to put meat on the table. Their children’s pleas for skates or a bicycle.

The despair these people felt had burrowed into his consciousness. It wouldn’t let go, remaining as ever-present as a wound.

If I had the power to change things
. . . he thought, closing his eyes, just breathing for a while.

Then he heard car doors closing in the drive and waited for the crunching and creaking of feet on gravel and ice.

‘Here they come,’ he called to the bedroom.

The doorbell chimed its cheerful melody. Thomas dried his hands and went into the hall to open the door.

‘Welcome, please come in, may I take your fur . . .?’

Nisse from the local bank, the managers of the bank offices in Täby and Djursholm, and the regional manager from Stockholm: three men, one woman.

Eleonor, cool, smiling and beautiful, walked towards them as he was serving the drinks.

‘How nice to see you,’ she exclaimed. ‘Welcome.’

‘We have a great deal to celebrate,’ the regional manager said. ‘What a lovely house you have.’

He kissed her soundly on both cheeks. Thomas noticed that Eleonor blushed and he felt irritated.

‘How nice of you to say so. We certainly like it here.’

She glanced at Thomas and he managed a forced smile.

They sipped their drinks and Eleonor said: ‘How about a grand tour of the house?’

Enthusiastically they trooped off, leaving Thomas on his own in the living room. The bell-like tones of his wife’s voice reached him.

‘We’ve been thinking of remodelling the kitchen,’ she chirped, ‘and putting in a gas range, since we’re so fond of cooking, and you can’t beat an open flame . . . We’re going to install heated floors: marble, preferably green, it’s such a relaxing colour . . . And this is our den, we’ve been thinking about putting in a wine cellar, we really should take better care of our collection . . .’

Thomas put down his drink and saw that his hand was shaking.
What damn wine collection would that be?
Eleonor’s parents had a nice wine cellar out in the country, filled with high-quality vintages, but he and Eleonor hadn’t started collecting anything, they hadn’t had the time.

Suddenly he felt panic creeping up on him and went cold.

No
, he begged,
not now, let me keep it together for the evening, this is so important to Eleonor.

Thomas went into the kitchen, uncorked a bottle of red wine to allow it to breathe and popped open a bottle of sparkling wine. He filled the champagne flutes.

‘What a lovely home!’ the regional manager said as they came upstairs again. ‘Split-level houses are so nice.’

Thomas tried to smile without quite pulling it off.

‘Shall we have dinner?’ he said.

Eleonor smiled nervously.

‘A simple meal,’ she said. ‘Thomas and I are both so very busy – Thomas is the financial manager for the city of Vaxholm.’

‘I work for Social Services.’

Eleonor went into the dining room and pointed out her seating arrangement.

‘Nisse, you’re over there; Leopold, you’re next to me; Gunvor . . .’

The guests appreciated the food and the wine and the atmosphere quickly became animated. Thomas heard portions of different conversations about profits, results, and markets. He tried to eat, but the food wouldn’t go down. He felt limp and dizzy. The regional manager called everyone to attention by tapping his glass.

‘I would like to propose a toast to Eleonor,’ he said solemnly, ‘our lovely hostess, in honour of her fantastic achievements this year. I want you to know, Eleonor, that management has taken note of your achievements, your drive and your enthusiasm. Cheers!’

Thomas looked at his wife. The praise had left Eleonor’s cheeks pink.

‘And to top it off, I plan to reveal just how our management intends to express their gratitude.’

The four bank managers sat up straighter. Thomas realized that this was the high point of the evening – it was time to throw the doggies their bones.

‘You represent the branch offices with the top results in the province of Svealand,’ the regional manager said. ‘The capital returns are up this year as well and our polls show that both our private and our corporate customers are very pleased.’

He paused for effect. ‘I am also at liberty to inform you that the evaluation of the office managers by their staff has been concluded, and that you have done excellently in that respect as well. Therefore, it gives me great pleasure,’ he said with satisfaction, ‘to inform you that the bank has decided to raise your bonuses and your share in the profits.’

Eleonor gasped, her eyes shining with rapture.

‘And,’ the regional manager said, leaning over the table, ‘you will have the opportunity to join the management option programme next year!’

At this point, the four bank managers could no longer remain silent; squeals of joy escaped their lips.

‘In addition to all this,’ the regional manager said, ‘the bank will provide you with a very advantageous package of health-care benefits. This will allow you, and your spouse, to bypass any waiting lists within the public health-care system.’

Wildly exhilarated, Eleonor looked at Thomas.

‘Did you hear that, darling? Isn’t it fantastic?’

Then she turned to the regional manager again.

‘Oh, Leopold, how are we ever going to live up to an acknowledgement like this? What a responsibility.’

The regional manager got to his feet.

‘To a successful collaboration!’

The others chimed in: ‘A successful collaboration!’

Suddenly, Thomas felt like throwing up. He ran out of the dining room, down the hallway and into the bathroom, then locked the door and flung himself over the toilet bowl, breathing heavily. Sweat was pouring down his forehead and he thought he might pass out.

Concerned, Eleonor knocked on the door.

‘Are you all right, honey? What’s wrong?’

He couldn’t reply; all he wanted to do was cry.

‘Thomas!’

‘I feel sick,’ he said. ‘Go back in, I’ll go lie down.’

‘But I wanted you to make coffee.’

Thomas closed his eyes, his throat burning with suppressed acid.

‘I can’t,’ he whispered. ‘I can’t go on.’

FRIDAY 7 DECEMBER

A
nnika woke up at three minutes to six, thirsty and starving. Outside her window, the winter night was still impenetrable, black and cold. She lay on her side and looked at the illuminated face of the alarm clock: it would go off in eighteen minutes.

She was expected at the hospital at seven o’clock. Due to the anaesthesia, she wasn’t supposed to eat or drink. A suppository would be inserted into her vagina to open her cervix so that they could extract the contents of her womb.

A boy
, she thought.
With fair hair, just like his daddy.

Annika rolled over on her back and looked up at the ceiling, unable to detect any patterns in the dark.

There’s no hurry. I’ll make it.

She closed her eyes and listened to the newborn day as it began to draw breath. At six a.m. the fan at the back of the building started up, the brakes on the 48 bus squealed, and she heard the theme song of the radio news programme
Morgonekot
waft up through the walls from a neighbour’s flat down below. Familiar sounds, comforting and friendly. She stretched, raising her arms, then put them behind her head and stared out into the darkness.

The image of the elderly Serbian officer flashed before her eyes: so burdened, bitter and alone. He had no faith in mankind, only in the state – he chose that outlook.
You always have a choice.

Aida had been a sniper, a killer: she had chosen to become one.
Circumstances shape us, but the choice remains our own.

Annika suddenly felt oppressed by the heavy gold chain around her neck and sat up, found the clasp, undid it and placed the necklace on the night-stand in front of the alarm clock. Green flashes from the illuminated hands of the clock glinted on the yellow metal surface.

She didn’t want a murderer’s gratitude.

She switched off the bell of the alarm clock, flung the covers to one side, put on her robe and her boots, grabbed the bag containing her toiletries and raced downstairs to the bathroom on the other side of the courtyard. She washed her hair and brushed her teeth, taking care to not ingest any water before the procedure.

As she walked upstairs again she considered getting a subscription to a morning paper: it might be nice to read one every day at breakfast time. A glance in the fridge revealed juice, yogurt, eggs, bacon, fresh garlic cheese, Parma-style Italian ham – she had shopped at the crummy ICA store the night before. She stared at the contents of her fridge, keeping one hand on the door handle while the other drifted down to rest on her stomach.