The Nightmare (47 page)

Saga prowls through the kitchen to look into empty bedrooms before she makes her way back to a flight of stairs going down. Music comes from a room with a brass label marked
R&R
. She opens the door and can hear the music more clearly. It’s Verdi’s
La Traviata
with Joan Sutherland.

At the end of the tiled hallway shines the blue glimmer of a lighted pool.

Saga steps softly toward the pool, listening for anything else besides music. She thinks she can hear the padding of bare feet.

She keeps her weapon close to her body and continues on. There is comfortable-looking wicker furniture and some potted palm trees. The air is warm and humid. The odor of chlorine mixed with jasmine gets stronger. She comes up to a huge swimming pool made of light blue tiles and with a glass partition facing a garden and the waterway outside. A slim woman of about fifty is next to a bar with a glass of white wine in her hand. She’s wearing a golden swimsuit. She puts her glass down when she sees Saga approach and comes to greet her.

“Hi, I’m Saga Bauer.”

“Which agency?”

“Säpo.”

The woman laughs and leans forward to kiss Saga on each cheek. She then introduces herself as Marie-Louise Salman.

“Have you brought your swimsuit?” Marie-Louise asks on her way back to the bar.

Her long, narrow feet leave prints on the terra-cotta tiles. Her body is trim, and it appears she works to take good care of it. The way she walks is artificial, as if she is used to having people admire her.

Marie-Louise Salman picks up her glass and turns. She gives Saga a close once-over as if to make sure that Saga is really concentrating on her.

“A glass of Sancerre?” she asks, with her cool, modulated voice.

“No, thank you,” Saga says.

“I swim to keep my body in shape, although I don’t accept as many modeling jobs as I once did. It’s so easy to become ego-fixated in my field. Yes, I’m sure you know all about it. It feels like shit when no one remembers to hurry to light your cigarette any longer.”

Marie-Louise leans forward and whispers theatrically, “I had an affair with that youngest Chippendale dancer. Do you know him? Doesn’t matter, all those guys are gay anyway.”

“I came here to talk about a photograph that you sent—”

“Oh! I knew he couldn’t keep his mouth shut!” she exclaims with exaggerated indignation.

“Who?”

“Jean-Paul Gaultier.”

“The designer?” Saga asks.

“He’s the one, the designer who always wore striped shirts; he had deliciously golden beard stubble and a pouty little mouth. He still hates me. I knew it!”

Saga smiles patiently. She picks up a bathrobe and hands it to Marie-Louise as she notices Marie-Louise is covered in goose bumps.

“I love to freeze,” Marie-Louise says. “It makes me more desirable. At least, that’s what Depardieu said to me last spring … or … I don’t really remember, it might have been that sweetie pie Renaud who said that. Doesn’t matter.”

They hear new footsteps coming along the hall toward the pool. Marie-Louise looks nervous and seems to glance around for a way out.

“Hello?” a woman calls out.

“Saga?” It’s Joona’s voice.

Saga takes a step toward the hallway where she sees Joona and Penelope entering, escorting a woman with dark brown hair expensively cut into a pageboy.

“Marie-Louise,” the woman says with an exasperated smile. “What are you doing here?”

“I just thought I’d come for a swim,” Marie-Louise answers lightly. “Cool off between my legs, you know.”

“You know I wish you’d call ahead.”

“Oh, yes, sorry, I forgot.”

“Marie-Louise is Pontus’s sister, my sister-in-law,” the woman explains. Then she turns to Saga and introduces herself. “Veronique Salman.”

“Saga Bauer from Säpo.”

“Let’s go into the library,” Veronique says, and starts to walk back.

“Can I still swim, as long as I’m already here?” Marie-Louise calls behind them.

“Just not nude!” Veronique replies without looking back.

90

the photograph, again

Saga, Joona, and Penelope follow Veronique through several rooms on this lower level and into the library. It’s a small room with tiny windowpanes of yellow, sienna, and rose. Books are lined up behind glass in bookcases, and comfortable brown leather furniture is placed around an open fireplace. A polished brass samovar dominates a coffee table.

“Please excuse me for having no refreshments, but I’m hurrying to catch a flight in just an hour…”

Veronique looks very tense, and she wipes her hands over her skirt before she continues.

“I must … I have to tell you right away that I will never testify in court. I refuse,” she says, subdued. “If you force me, I will deny everything I’m about to tell you no matter what the consequences.”

She tries to straighten a tilted lampshade, but her fingers tremble so much it ends up just as crooked.

“I’m leaving without Pontus. He won’t be able to follow me,” she says. She looks at the floor. Her mouth twitches and she has to collect herself before she can continue.

“Penelope,” she says, looking at Penelope, “I understand you look down on Pontus as if he were pond scum. But he’s really not a bad person, he really isn’t.”

“I haven’t said—”

“Listen to me, please,” she says. “I just want to say that I love my husband very much, but I … his work … I don’t know what I think about his work. In the beginning I told myself people have always needed weapons to defend themselves. Arms have been traded as long as people have made them. And practically speaking, all countries must be armed for their own defense. But there’s defense and then there’s—”

She walks to the door, jerks it open, looks out, and then closes it again.

“Exporting weapons to fan flames in countries in the middle of a war … you shouldn’t be doing that.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” Penelope whispers.

“I understand my husband is a businessman,” Veronique continues. “Silencia really needs that contract. Sudan is a large country with an uncertain supply of ammunition for their automatic rifles. They use almost exclusively Fabrique Nationale, and Belgium is not sending them any. People keep an eye on Belgium, but since Sweden has never been a colonial power in Africa, we have an unsullied reputation in the region, and so on, and so forth. Pontus saw the possibilities and moved in quickly the minute civil war in Sudan ended. Raphael Guidi put the deal together. They were just about to sign the contract. Everything was ready to go when the arrest warrant for President al-Bashir was released.”

“Then it would break international law,” Saga says.

“Everyone knew that. But Raphael would not cancel the deal. He said only that he would find a new interested party. It took a few months, but then he declared that the army in Kenya would be the recipient for the Sudan arms. Same amount of ammunition, same price, and so on. I tried to talk Pontus out of it. I told him it was too apparent that this ammunition would go to Sudan, but Pontus said Kenya was just making a smart move. It was a good deal for them and they needed the ammunition. I don’t think he believed what he was saying, I really don’t, but he passed the whole thing over to Carl Palmcrona and the ISP. If Palmcrona signs it, it’ll be all right, was Pontus’s explanation and—”

“An easy way to wash your hands of it,” Penelope says.

“So that’s why I took that photograph. I just wanted you to know who met in that private box on that night. I walked in and told Pontus that I wasn’t feeling well and needed to call a taxi. While I prepared to do that, I simply snapped the picture on my cell phone.”

“Brave of you,” Penelope says.

“But I didn’t know how dangerous! Or I never would have done it,” Veronique cries. “I was angry at Pontus and wanted him to change his mind. I left the Alte Oper in the middle of the concert and looked at the picture in the taxi. It was crazy. The buyer was represented by Agathe al-Haji, who is the military adviser to Sudan’s president. I mean, that ammunition was going to be pumped into a civil war that no one wanted to acknowledge.”

“Genocide,” Penelope whispers.

“When we got back home in Sweden, I pleaded with Pontus to get out of that deal … I can’t forget the strange way he looked at me. He said it was impossible. He told me he’d signed a Paganini contract, and when I saw his expression, I was frightened. He was terrified. I didn’t dare keep that picture in my phone. I printed out only one copy and then erased it from my memory card and my hard drive. Then I sent the photograph to you.

“I had no idea what would happen,” Veronique says quietly. “How could I? I am so terribly sorry, I can’t tell you how…”

They are all silent now. Splashing noises come from the pool.

“What is a Paganini contract?” asks Joona.

“Raphael owns several priceless instruments,” Veronique says. “He collects ones played by Paganini himself, more than a hundred years ago. He keeps some of them in his home and others he loans to gifted musicians and…”

She runs her hands nervously over her neatly styled hair before she continues. “This business about Paganini, I’ve never really understood it. Pontus told me that Raphael connects Paganini to the contract. He says that Paganini contracts last forever, or that’s what Raphael says. Nothing is written on paper … Pontus told me that Raphael prepares everything precisely. He has all the numbers in his head; he knows all the logistics, and exactly how and when each deal will be carried out. He tells each one of them what is demanded of them and how much they will earn from the deal. Once you’ve kissed his hand, so to speak, there is no way out. You can’t escape, you can’t be protected, you can’t even die.”

“Why not?” asks Joona.

“Raphael is … I don’t know how to put it, he’s … he’s a horrible man,” she says, her lips trembling. “He manages to extract … he deceives them … everyone he works with … he gets them to tell him their worst nightmare.”

“How?” asks Saga.

“I don’t know. Pontus said it. He says Raphael has the ability,” she replies seriously.

“What does Raphael mean by ‘nightmare’?” asks Joona.

“I asked Pontus if he’d told Raphael his nightmare—of course I asked him that,” she said with a pained look. “But Pontus wouldn’t answer and I have no idea what to believe.”

They are silent again. Large, wet patches of sweat spread under the arms of Veronique Salman’s white blouse.

“You won’t be able to stop Raphael,” Veronique finally says. “But maybe you can prevent this ammunition from reaching Darfur.”

“We shall,” Saga promises.

“You must understand … it’s the lack of ammunition that keeps the lid on there after the election … I mean … if it heats up again, all aid organizations will flee Darfur.”

Veronique Salman glances at her watch and tells Joona that she has to head for the airport soon. She goes to the window. The multicolored light filtering in on her face reveals an almost dreamy expression, as if she’s shifted a heavy load.

“My boyfriend is dead,” Penelope says abruptly. She wipes her cheeks. “My sister is dead. I don’t even know how many others have died…”

Veronique Salman turns to face her again.

“Penelope, who could I turn to? I only had the photograph. I thought you, of all people, would be able to identify the people in the private box,” she explains. “You would have known the reason why Agathe al-Haji was there buying ammunition. You’ve been to Darfur, you have contacts there, and you’re a peace activist and—”

“You were wrong,” Penelope says. “I didn’t recognize Agathe al-Haji. I knew of her, of course, but I didn’t know what she looked like.”

“I couldn’t send it to the police or the newspapers. They wouldn’t understand what it meant, not without an explanation, and I couldn’t explain. How could I? One thing I did know was that I was afraid to have anything to do with it, so I sent it to you. I purged it completely. I knew I could never reveal my connection to any of this.”

“But now you have,” Joona points out.

“Yes, because I … I…”

“Why did you change your mind?”

“Because I’m leaving the country and must…”

She looks down at her hands.

“What happened?” Joona asks gently.

“Nothing,” she says, but she is holding back tears.

“You can tell us,” Joona says.

“No, it—”

“There’s no danger here,” Saga whispers.

Veronique rubs her cheeks and then looks up at Joona.

“Pontus just called from our summerhouse. He was crying and asked me to forgive him. I didn’t know what he was talking about, but he told me he would do anything he could to escape reaping his nightmare.”

91

one last escape

A rowboat of polished mahogany bobs on Malmsjö Lake. It’s floating on calm waters behind a large spit. A soft breeze blows from the east and brings the smell of manure from the farm on the other side of the water. Pontus Salman has pulled in the oars, but the boat hasn’t drifted more than ten meters during the past hour.

His rifle is lying across his lap.

The only thing he hears is the lapping of water against the hull and the slight rustle of wind through the leaves of the trees.

He closes his eyes for a moment. He breathes deeply, opens his eyes, sets the piston on the floor, and makes sure it is held by the wooden bar. His hand touches the barrel heated by the sun and then he aims the barrel at his forehead.

He feels ill at the thought of his entire head blowing off.

His hands shake so much that he has to pause. He decides to aim the barrel at his heart instead.

Swallows are flying lower over the lake as they hunt insects across the surface of the water.

It’s probably going to rain tonight
, he thinks.

A white streak from an airplane appears in the sky. Pontus begins to think about his nightmare.

It seems to him as if the entire lake turns dark, as if black ink were spread over it.

He turns his attention back to the rifle. He puts the barrel into his mouth and feels it scrape against his teeth. He tastes metal.