Vanished (47 page)

The second piece was an inventory of how the Yugo Mafia operated in Sweden, detailing the addresses of bases for rings that smuggled drugs, cigarettes and illegal liquor, and then there was illegal immigration and prostitution as well . . .

The third piece was similar, only it omitted the addresses.

‘Aren’t you on sick leave?’ Schyman asked.

‘I happened to come across a good story,’ she said.

He read the articles again and sighed.

‘We can’t publish this,’ he said.

‘What part?’ Annika asked.

Another sigh.

‘This bit about the TIR seals,’ he said. ‘Claiming that the embassy has access to something like that – it’s absurd, how on earth are we going to verify it?’

She bent down, rummaged through her bag and set down a stack of documents on his desk.

‘Two TIR seals,’ she said. ‘Stolen from the Yugoslav Embassy.’

He felt his jaw drop as she continued to dig in her bag.

‘When it comes to the Swedish end of their operations,’ she said, ‘I know that the police are in the process of arranging a massive coordinated sweep of all these different addresses throughout the country. It will take place one day soon at six a.m.’

‘How do you know that?’ Schyman asked.

Annika looked him in the eye.

‘Because I handed a copy of the list over to the police,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to coordinate our publication with their sweep.’

He shook his head.

‘What are you doing? What have you got involved in?’

‘A dependable source gave me the information, but it’s only one person. I know we can’t run the articles verbatim right now, because I need to verify the facts beforehand. Only the police can give me the confirmation I need, so in order to get it I had to go to them, right?’

Schyman shook his head in disbelief again.

‘On day one we can run articles one and three,’ she said, ‘the general description of the Mafia set-up abroad and the one about Sweden that doesn’t go into detail. While we go to press that day, we will cover the police clean-up. That will give us our stuff for day two: ‘Hot on the heels of the
Kvällspressen
exposé, blah, blah, blah’ – you know the drill. Day three is for reactions and comments, both from Serbia and here at home. The official embassy response will be to welcome the purge. Any suggestion of embassy involvement in criminal activities will be dismissed as malicious propaganda. They’ll claim that the seals are forgeries.’

Schyman stared at her.

‘How on Earth did you hatch all that?’

The young woman shrugged.

‘It’s your call. I wrote this on my own time and I don’t expect to be paid for these articles. The police will do their clean-up whether we have our photographers there or not. You decide if the paper is going to be where the action is or not. I’m on sick leave.’

Annika got up.

‘You know where to find me,’ she said.

‘Wait,’ he said.

‘No,’ she responded. ‘I’m sick of being palmed off with hints of things to come. I don’t want to waste my time on the night shift any longer. I bought myself a computer and I can work at home, freelance, if I don’t have what it takes to be a reporter at this paper. You’re the deputy editor, for God’s sake – you should be able to take a stand.’

She closed the door behind her as she left.

Schyman watched her go, saw her pass through the newsroom without talking to anyone, not even to say hello. She was an oddball, a loner, and she meant business. She had what it took to be a reporter, but the paper had a recruitment freeze. Still, it would be stupid to let her go. To top it off, compared to the other reporters her salary was peanuts.

He picked up the phone and dialled the direct line of the front desk. Since this obviously was his lucky day, Tore Brand was on duty.

‘Annika Bengtzon is on her way down,’ he said. ‘Could you catch her for me?’

‘Do I look like a fisherman?’ Brand grumbled.

‘It’s important,’ Schyman emphasized.

‘You’re all so damn important upstairs, aren’t you . . .’

Schyman sat there, the phone in his hand and his mind reeling. The Yugo story was up in the air, but it was damn good stuff. The police tie-in was controversial, but it was the quickest and most reliable way to verify the facts. The approach would certainly be challenged, but that was no problem. He relished the thought of going to
Publicist-klubben
, the National Press Club of Sweden, to defend the paper and the freedom of the press. It was time to take his place in the public eye.

Sink or swim, it’s time to test the waters
, Anders Schyman decided.

‘Bengtzon, you’re wanted on the phone.’

There was a lot of scraping and rustling as Tore Brand handed the phone to Annika Bengtzon through the front-desk window.

‘What is it?’ Annika said.

‘As of 1 January, you will be a reporter,’ Anders Schyman said. ‘You can choose your beat, the one p.m. report, night coverage, crime, or whatever.’

Apart from the mutterings of Tore Brand the line was silent.

‘Hello?’ Schyman said.

‘Crime,’ Annika said. ‘I want to work the crime beat.’

THEY HAVE CONFRONTED ME.

T
hey’ve caught up with me. Together, they dictate the charges, the verdict against me, my punishment.

Violence, guilt and shame. My comrades-in-arms, my driving forces, my guiding lights.

Welcome!

Violence, you were the first, you shaped my destiny, I took you to heart and made you my own.

That spring day it had rained all morning, it was grey and wet. It cleared up in the afternoon, a show of feeble sunshine.

I ran to the square to do some shopping, the vegetables were sorry-looking, I took my time.

I saw the men in between the houses: black outfits, black berets.

I didn’t know that you had arrived. Didn’t recognize the face of violence.

I was standing outside Stoyilikovic’s café when the man, Ratko, dragged my father from his bakery. I saw him point his gun at my father’s temple and pull the trigger. I saw Papi collapse on the street, I heard my mother’s screams. Another man in black shot my mother in the chest. My sister-in-law, my brother’s wife Miriam, was only a year older than me: they shot her in the stomach, repeatedly. She was pregnant.

Then they brought out my brother Petar, my baby brother, my sunshine, only nine years old. He screamed, oh, how he screamed, and he caught sight of me over by Stoyilikovic’s café and brake loose. He ran, screaming: ‘Aida, Aida, help me, Aida!’ His outstretched arms, his boundless terror.

And I hid.

I curled up behind the fence by Stoyilikovic’s café, and saw through the chinks how Ratko raised his gun. I saw him take aim and fire.

My Petar, my baby brother, how will I ever be absolved?

You were lying there in the mud, calling out my name: ‘Aida, Aida, help me, dear Aida!’ And I didn’t dare go to you, I didn’t have the guts, I cried behind the fence there by Stoyilikovic’s café and saw Ratko approach you, saw you turn your face towards him, saw the man take aim and fire.

Forgive me, Petar, forgive me.

You should never have had to die alone.

Forgive me for failing you: welcome, guilt; welcome, shame.

It was your turn to take over.

And I used violence to keep you at bay.

I cured my guilt with death, the right kind of death, the death of Serbs. It didn’t help. Each death gave birth to even more guilt, more hatred, brought shame to others who had failed their loved ones.

My shame was eternal, it lived in my every breath, pervading every moment of my life, because my shame was due to my being alive.

Then I heard that Ratko, the leader of the Panthers, was in Sweden. When I was wounded, the time had come.

I had to be strong to wield violence against its very source, the man who had planted its seeds in my heart. I infiltrated his circle, slept with his men, slept with him, but death was not enough, he would have to experience guilt and shame too, as I brought about the downfall of his operations, crushed his life.

I feel sorry for the young men from Kosovo, the poor fools I tricked into joining me. All they were supposed to do was drive off with the trailer and I would take care of everything else, and then they went and stole the wrong vehicle. The trailer loaded with cigarettes is still parked at the free port in Stockholm – now, isn’t that ironic?

But violence failed me, it wouldn’t comply.

It all started with the storm, so punishing, whipping at buildings and people alike.

I had to be so very careful, climbing the roof and opening my bag.

The stock and the action were one section. The other section contained the barrel, the telescopic sight, the muzzle bell and the rifle bolt. I screwed the barrel on to the stock. Attached the base plate and a chin rest for the scope. Then I screwed on the muzzle bell. At this close range, a stand wouldn’t be necessary.

I steadied myself by holding on to the ridge of the roof and angled the rifle, a Remington Sniper with a carbon-fibre stock.

They came into sight: there were three of them, standing out black against the golden light, Ratko trailing slightly behind the others as they struggled against the ocean winds. I picked off the first one with a clean shot to the head, the entry wound high on one side. A second later and the next one fell. Another second and Ratko had disappeared, swallowed up by the storm.

I slithered down the rooftop, my rifle stuffed in my bag, and hurried to avoid getting trapped.

But violence failed me. I had to run. Illness drained me.

When I had bided my time long enough to get on my feet again, I contacted him. Made a date.

Knowing he would come.

But violence failed me.

The square was full of people. The location I’d singled out on the roof of the culture centre was useless.

I had to get him on the ground.

When he shoved the muzzle against my neck, I knew I had won, no matter what happened.

‘Game over,’ he whispered. ‘You lose.’

He was wrong. He hissed something else, something pathetic.

‘Bijelina,’ he whispered, ‘do you remember Bijelina?’

I broke free and whipped out my gun but a baby buggy got in the way and I dropped my gun when he hit me. It skittered out of reach on the pavement. I saw my chance evaporate, felt the hard cold metal at the base of my neck.

Spelling out my verdict, the wages of violence, guilt and shame.

‘You won’t win,’ I whispered. ‘I’ve destroyed your life.’

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him.

And I smiled.

Indictment, judgement, punishment.

Absolution.

EPILOGUE

Once more, snow had begun to fall, soft fluffy flakes that drifted slowly down onto the asphalt below. Annika walked towards Rålambhovsvägen, calm and heavy; she had been eating all day long. Her lower back hurt and she felt slightly nauseated – it was the baby’s doing: her son, the fair-haired boy. She went to the taxi stand by the hotdog place, got in the back seat and told the driver to take her to Vaxholm.

‘We’ll be headed for gridlock,’ he said.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Annika said. ‘I have all the time in the world.’

It took them forty minutes to get out of town. Annika sat in the warm back seat; the radio was on low, playing old Madonna hits, the storefronts with their Christmas shopping displays slipped past, excited children pointed enthusiastically at mechanical figures of Santa Claus and his elves and plastic toys. She tried to look up at the sky, but it was obscured by the falling snow and the strings of coloured lights.

I wonder if they celebrate something like Christmas on other planets.

Once they reached the highway, traffic thinned out. Route 274 to the coast was practically empty. The fields were white, lighting up the dark afternoon, and the trees were wrapped in heavy skirts of snow that weighed their branches down.

‘Where can I drop you?’

‘Östra Ekuddsgatan,’ she said. ‘Could you drive past it first? I want to see if there’s anyone home.’

Annika showed the driver where to turn off. When the cab turned right and started climbing uphill, her nerves started to act up. Her mouth went dry, her palms went damp and her heart started pounding. She craned her neck to see where she was: which house was it?

That one. She saw it. White brick – his green Toyota was parked out front. The lights were on, so someone was home.

‘Like me to pull up here?’ the driver asked.

‘No!’ she exclaimed. ‘Keep driving!’

She flung herself back in the seat and looked away when they passed the house, trying to make herself invisible.

The street came to an end. They were back on the main thoroughfare again.

‘So,’ the driver said. ‘Are we heading back to Stockholm, or what?’

Annika closed her eyes, holding her tightly clenched fists over her mouth. Her pulse was roaring and she was completely out of breath.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Drive past the house again.’

The taxi driver sighed and glanced at the metre. Well, it wasn’t his money.

They drove past the house again. Annika studied it closely – it was ugly. Sure, the garden went down to the waterfront, but the house was boxy, so 1960s.

‘Pull over at the next corner,’ she said. The ride had been expensive and she paid with a credit card. She remained at the side of the road while the cab disappeared into the darkness as the snow fell; the brake lights lit up and the indicators flashed, showing that the driver was heading back to Stockholm. Annika took a deep breath to get her breathing and her heart rate under control, to no avail. She jammed her hands, slick with nervous sweat, deep into her pockets. Headed for the house, slowly. The residence of Thomas and his wife, Östra Ekuddsgatan, in the fancy part of town.