MemoRandom: A Thriller (23 page)

There was a cracking sound, like a tree branch snapping. Then the pressure on his arm eased.

Atif shook the dog off and saw its legs twitching much as Bakshi’s had done. The dog was gurgling, and a steady stream of shit was dribbling out of its rear end. The smell seemed to spur the other dog on. It started to bark loudly as froth dripped
from its mouth. It lowered its head, getting ready to attack. It was staring at the no-longer-white bundle of T-shirts around Atif’s left arm.

“Nice doggy,” Atif hissed through his teeth. Then he slowly raised the table leg.

Sarac was back on his feet and actually felt pretty okay. The migraine medication was doing its thing, although the improvement was probably just as much due to the fact that he was moving about again. Short goes on the exercise bike in the basement. Very slowly, with the lowest resistance. Yesterday he had tried a few push-ups for the first time. He had managed five before his arms buckled. Sit-ups were only marginally better. But doing a bit of exercise was already beginning to show results; he could now spend up to half an hour at a time on the bike. He could give his brain a rest while he concentrated on getting his feet to push down on the correct pedals.

But it was only a temporary respite. As soon as he got off the bike the questions were back. Who was Janus? Where was he at the moment? Was he hiding somewhere, waiting to hear from his handler? Or was he so cool that he was pretending nothing had happened, trying to maintain his facade in spite of the anxiety that must be gnawing away inside him? That his secret might no longer be safe. If that was the case, it really wasn’t difficult to imagine that it actually was Janus who had been in the hospital, and who later showed up at the door of his apartment. The man wanted to get hold of him, to make sure that his secret was still in safe hands.

Sarac only had a vague recollection of what Janus looked like. A dark shape, a glimpse of a pair of eyes in a rearview mirror, an unshaven face hidden by a pulled-up hood. Little more than that.

And the rest of it: the man with the snake tattoo, the
missing backup list, his car crash? The man who stank of tobacco, the one with the gold tooth up at the hospital who had talked about an agreement. Was that Janus in another disguise? Somehow it all fit together, he just didn’t know how. All he knew for certain was that he had far more questions than answers. And the only person who could help redress the balance was a man whose face he couldn’t remember.

As he showered Sarac took the chance to check his body. His left arm felt pretty okay now, apart from a slight stiffness. His collarbone seemed to have healed as it should. The wound across his stomach had already grown some pink scar tissue. His right leg was still a bit unresponsive, making him limp. But he had swapped the clumsy crutch for a neat little stick with a silver handle that had belonged to his grandfather, which made him feel less like an invalid. And the last time he had felt anything of the migraine was several days ago now. Natalie had left a red box with little compartments containing his doses of medication. She had even marked what time of day he needed to take them.

All in all, he felt better than ever. Or at least better than he could remember feeling. It was time to get going, to start finding a few answers instead of just collecting even more questions.

Out on the porch the air was bright and clear, and the first few breaths stabbed at his chest until his airways got used to the temperature. He went down the steps and walked slowly along the wall of the building. Natalie had cleared a path, which made progress easier. But when he went around the corner things immediately got more difficult. There was a path leading to the woodshed that Josef had cleared the day they left him here, but something like eight inches of snow must have fallen since then.

Sarac struggled on, trying to raise his feet as high as possible in order to not have to push through any more snow than was strictly necessary. But his right leg didn’t seem to want to
cooperate. In places he was forced to drag it through the snow, which quickly used up his energy. By the time he had reached the woodshed his T-shirt was drenched with sweat and his heart was pounding. He had to lean against the wall for a while to catch his breath.

There were at least another one hundred fifty feet to the edge of the forest, one hundred fifty feet where he would have to plow through far deeper snow. It might even be a foot and a half deep in places. But he wasn’t about to give up, not when he’d got this far. The feeling that there was something important over there, something that could help him remember, was getting stronger and stronger.

He waited until his heart rate had settled down again before going on, trying to take small, tentative steps in order not to tire himself out as he crossed the lawn. Obviously, in hindsight, he should have skipped his exercises and saved all his energy for this. And he should have stuck with the tried-and-tested crutch rather than relying on the damn stick. But he hadn’t imagined how hard it could actually be to push his way through the snow. It was far deeper than he had expected, knee-deep in places.

He reached the base of the old flagpole in the middle of the lawn and stopped for a while, leaning against the peeling metal. His jeans were soaked now, like his T-shirt. In spite of the sunshine it had to be fifteen degrees. If he stopped for too long he’d start to get a serious chill.

He looked behind him. The snow had already collapsed into the trail he had made, and all he could see was a long, unsteady line of uneven snow running across the lawn. Not much use for the walk back.

About sixty feet left, then he’d be in among the fruit trees. From there it was roughly the same distance again to the edge of the forest. Maybe it would be sensible to turn back. Make a fresh attempt in a couple of days, better equipped and better prepared?

He had just persuaded himself that this was the thing to
do when he noticed something on the ground in among the fruit trees. The shadows must have prevented him from seeing it before. He took a couple of deep breaths and carried on. His wet trousers had already started to go stiff.

Thirty feet left, fifteen feet . . . Made it!

He stopped and leaned against a gnarled old apple tree as he caught his breath. Ten feet in front of him was an area of about ten square feet where the snow had been trodden down. Beyond it was a pronounced dip that led away through the trees, passed between the two abandoned cement gateposts that marked the end of the garden, and then continued on up the slope and into the forest.

Deer, perhaps, looking for frozen windfalls? It was a possibility. He leaned forward, trying to clear some of the snow. He tried to find an area where the snow was so tightly compacted that there might be prints on it, but he failed. Just as with his own footprints, the snow had collapsed and covered any tracks.

A sudden chill made him shiver. He turned and looked up at the glass veranda. The shadows and overhanging branches of the old trees made the spot he was standing in difficult to see clearly from the house. But from the old orchard, on the other hand, you had a good view up toward the house. An excellent view, in fact.

The idea came out of nowhere, strong enough to convince him it was right instantly. Someone had stood here watching him. A dark, hooded figure, someone who wanted to know whether his secret was still safe.

A sudden gust of wind made the tall trees on the hillock beyond the gateposts sigh. Sarac shivered again. The cold spread through his body. The conviction had passed and now felt almost ridiculous. The tracks must have been made by deer.

It took him almost an hour to get back up to the house. His outing had been a big failure. He still hadn’t managed to work out what it was about that particular place that kept catching his interest. But he simply didn’t have the energy to carry on
beyond the old gateposts and head up the steep slope. Besides, the weather had turned and the sun had disappeared.

By the time he reached the corner of the house he was both exhausted and frozen. The sky was covered by heavy clouds, and a few wayward little exploratory snowflakes had started to fall. Soon there’d be many more, erasing all tracks left by man and beast alike.

Sarac squatted down cautiously and rested his back against the wooden wall as he tried to muster his remaining strength. He half closed his eyes.

Suddenly he thought he could see a figure out of the corner of his eye. He snapped his eyes open at once and tried to get to his feet. A man in a dark military jacket and heavy boots was approaching. Sarac’s stomach clenched in fear. Then he suddenly recognized the man. It was Josef, Molnar’s right-hand man, the one who had driven him out here.

“There you are!” the man said. “We were starting to get worried.”

“Hi, Josef,” Sarac said, as nonchalantly as he could. He managed surprisingly well, considering the way his heart was pounding. “Just taking a walk. I needed to stretch my legs.”

More people came around the corner of the house. Molnar and a couple of other men, whose faces also looked familiar. Something shifted in Sarac’s head, unleashing a torrent of information. Names, ranks, and serial numbers.

“David, holy shit!” someone exclaimed. “So you’re up and about. God, that’s quite a relief!”

Sarac grinned and shook his head a couple of times to get his brain to calm down. He could remember them, he remembered them all. Not just their names but what sort of food they liked, the names of wives, girlfriends, lovers, everything. His team, his men. Several hands were slapping him on the back. Broad smiles in all directions.

“Good to see you, guys.” Sarac grinned. And for a brief, fleeting moment, he felt genuinely happy.

Atif was back in roughly the same place as before. The battered old car was parked among the trucks in the neighboring plot with its front bumper nudging the fence, facing the gym. He had a pair of binoculars in his lap and Mr. Pitbull’s cell phone on the seat beside him.

For what had to be at least the fifth time in an hour, he pulled up his left sleeve and inspected his injuries. The pain was okay, something like a two now. The bruises made by the dog’s bite had already spread, forming yellowish-green patterns on his lower arm, and the wound where one of the teeth had broken the skin was itching in a slightly alarming way. If it didn’t get better within a couple of days, he’d have to find a doctor and get a tetanus injection, which was hardly an attractive idea.

He had made a mistake; it had been a stupid idea to give his real surname to Mrs. Strömgren in Roslagsgatan. Not to mention leaving a set of fingerprints all over her best china, so presumably there was already a warrant out for him. Two mistakes out of two. But, in his defense, even an oracle would have had trouble predicting that things would turn out the way they had. One man shot, the name and fingerprints of a known thug, and a witness tying him neatly to the scene at the time of the murder. To the police it must look like a straightforward case. Solved the moment they got hold of him.

It had cost him five hundred kronor to crack the code of the cell phone, but it had been worth it. Cell phone logs were an excellent tool when it came to mapping out a person’s movements, and Pitbull Pasi was no exception. He had used his
phone sparingly over the past month. He had probably picked up a cheap cell phone in Thailand to avoid the roaming charges. But, in contrast to Bakshi’s phone, the phone book in this one included first names and sometimes even surnames, which made things much easier.

Atif found a record of a call received from Erik Johansson’s number, late in the evening of Saturday, November 23. The conversation had lasted about a minute. Immediately afterward Pitbull had made a call to Thai Airways, so whatever Erik J. had told him had made Pitbull run for his life.

On November 24, 25, and 26, Pitbull had called Erik J. a total of eleven times. All the calls were around twenty seconds long, suggesting that they had gone straight to voice mail. After that Pitbull’s cell had been completely dead for almost three weeks, until the day he received Bakshi’s e-mail. Then he started making calls again. First Thai Airways, to book a flight home. Then a boarding kennel in Frescati. A third call to an unlisted number that, according to the cell phone, belonged to someone called Rico. Then, finally, he had called here, to the gym. Adnan’s old place.

Barely a day later someone executed Pitbull with two shots to the chest and left him as dog food, so presumably they hadn’t just been discussing the price of protein powder. At least that was what Atif was hoping, because he was running out of leads.

The mysterious Erik J. wasn’t answering his phone, and Bakshi was still in hiding somewhere. But Atif’s gut feeling had brought him out here, and it was usually right. He raised the binoculars and looked at the back of the gym. No cars this time. No gangster conference as far as the eye could see.

He thought about Cassandra, hoping she had taken his advice not to tell Abu Hamsa where she and Tindra were. But he wasn’t confident. For Cassandra, Abu Hamsa probably signified security. Financial stability. Someone who could look after both her and Tindra. But Hamsa hadn’t got where he was by being some cozy old uncle. He may prefer to avoid conflict because
it wasn’t good for business, but when it was necessary the little man could be even more ruthless than most of the others.

A movement by the back door of the building made him raise the binoculars again. But it was just the protein junkie, Dino, probably coming out to have a cigarette. Atif watched the man for a few seconds as he shivered and pulled out his lighter. A cigarette would have been nice right now, would have helped him stay sharp.

The knock made him jump.

The man he recognized as the consultant was leaning over and peering in through the window of the passenger door. He was grinning and looking at the door handle with a questioning expression.

Atif glanced quickly in the rearview mirror. A black Range Rover glided slowly up behind his car, blocking his escape. He put the binoculars down and tucked Pitbull’s cell phone out of the way. He slid Bakshi’s switchblade into the door pocket as he opened the passenger door.