MemoRandom: A Thriller (51 page)

“Everywhere.” Sarac waved his revolver in the air, then back toward the house.

Atif raised his pistol and aimed it at Sarac. Sarac immediately did the same to Atif. For a little while they just sat there, staring at each other above the barrels of their guns.

“One of the others,” Atif mumbled. “Which one?”

“You don’t get it.” Sarac coughed and spat out even more blood. “Janus isn’t
one
of them.”

“Who is he then? Tell me, for fuck’s sake!” Atif waved his pistol angrily. He noticed it was getting harder to hold. He stared at Sarac, then looked over toward the wrecked house; the flames were leaping from the roof. High above them the clouds had eased slightly. Leaving a gap through which the stars were visible.

The god who starts and ends all wars,
a voice said in his head. It sounded like Adnan’s.

And suddenly he understood, he understood how it all fit together. He realized to his own surprise that he was smiling. So smart, so utterly ingenious. And, at the same time—so incredibly cruel.

“You,” he muttered. “Y-you’re Janus. You, them, all of you—everyone. Together . . .”

Sarac smiled wryly. Blood was seeping from one corner of his mouth, forming little bubbles. The arm holding the revolver sank to the ground.

Atif lowered his gun, leaned his head back against the tree trunk, and started to laugh. A couple of seconds later Sarac joined in.

They were still laughing when Natalie found them. Hoarse, rattling laughter that had nothing at all to do with joy. They didn’t stop until she told them to shut up.

“So, how do we handle this, Minister?” Wallin was sitting in the armchair on the other side of Stenberg’s desk.

“Nine dead, another ten wounded, several of them police officers. The worst underworld shoot-out in Swedish history,” he said.

“We turn it to our advantage,” Stenberg said. “A sign of how organized crime is getting out of control. The police can’t handle it, they need more resources, better leadership.”

“And the police officers who were there, what about their involvement?” Wallin said.

“Well.” Stenberg made a small gesture with his hand. “That’s primarily the district commissioner’s problem. After all, they were her staff. At a guess, Eva Swensk will do what she usually does: blame everything on a few individuals and wash her lily-white hands of the whole business. I’d say her chances of succeeding are fairly high. Bergh has already had to resign, and David Sarac looks like an excellent candidate for the vacant role of scapegoat. Besides, he’d have trouble defending himself, wouldn’t he?”

“But Minister, surely you’re not thinking of letting Swensk get off that lightly?” Wallin sounded anxious.

Stenberg smiled and gave a little shrug of his shoulders. “Sometimes one has to reevaluate one’s position, Oscar. It’s all about alliances. I had a good meeting with Carina LeMoine this morning. Eva Swensk has strong support inside the party. Besides, as Carina pointed out, a female National Police Chief would undeniably make us look forward-thinking and
progressive. In many ways it would make everything simpler. Favors given, favors received, that’s how things work.”

Wallin nodded and appeared to think hard for a few moments. Then he opened the folder he had placed on the desk between them. It contained two apparently identical forms with official-looking logos at the top.

“Speaking of which, Minister,” he said. “We’ve had the test results back from the National Forensics Lab. The blood found in Sophie Thorning’s apartment.”

“Oh,” Stenberg said, trying to keep his voice calm.

Wallin looked at his boss. Waited until the other man’s gaze wavered slightly. That told him all he needed to know. He took one of the forms out of the folder and pushed it across to Stenberg.

“The blood was hers,” he said. “So there’s no evidence at all to prove that anyone else was in the apartment when Sophie Thorning died.”

He paused and looked down at the almost identical form that was still in the folder. He waited long enough for Stenberg to look at it before slowly closing the folder.

“You’re quite right, Minister,” Wallin said. “Alliances are important. But one should never forget who one’s real friends are.”

Stenberg sat and looked at Wallin in silence for a few moments, then looked up at the Kennedy quote above the man’s head, the one his wife had given him. Finally he cast a quick glance at his Patek Philippe. For a brief instant he got the impression that the second hand was stuck.

“I understand,” he said in a toneless voice. “Thank you, Oscar.”

“Don’t mention it, Minister.”

Wallin stood up and walked toward the door.

“Oh, one more thing,” Stenberg said, trying to sound unconcerned. “What happened with that infiltrator? Did we ever find out who he really was?”

Wallin shook his head.

“No one we’ve questioned admits to knowing anything about Janus’s true identity. Nor anyone else, for that matter. He seems to have gone up in smoke. Almost as if he never existed . . .”

There are always a lot of people involved in the creation of a book. Some are easy to thank: my family, editor, and agent. Or all the brilliant people who translate my stories into so many different languages. Others are more difficult to thank publicly, because I am unable to identify them by their real names for various reasons. But that doesn’t in any way diminish my gratitude for their help.

I would like to say a special thank-you to the popular psychologist Henrik Fexeus, who has taught me a lot about how easy it is to fool the human mind. For someone who knows its secrets, at least.

Anders de la Motte

New York, 2014

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