The Swimmer (22 page)

I nod, my eyes still closed. There is no difference. We’re all the same.

‘And now it’s over for both of us. Life as we had imagined it. Maybe it’s time to stop lying to ourselves too?’

He lifts the folder and drops it in my lap. It weighs almost nothing. The truth weighs almost nothing. I don’t open my eyes until I hear the car door close behind him, until I hear the echo of his footsteps through the empty garage. I don’t need to open the folder. I already know what it contains.

Paris, France

Mahmoud was absolutely certain. When he’d turned around quickly on the platform, he’d caught a glimpse of the girl from the Brussels airport. She had been walking calmly among the other passengers twenty yards behind them.

He led them, his hand still on Klara’s elbow, away from the platform. At the entrance to the terminal, he saw a sign with an arrow leading to the storage lockers. One floor down. Next to the rental cars. Mahmoud felt the adrenaline mixing with his blood, but tried hard not to let it show that he’d discovered his pursuers.

‘How did you pay for the tickets in Brussels?’ he whispered to Klara.

‘Um, with my debit card, I think.’

He nodded.

‘Shit. I should have warned you. Fuck. It seems like they’re able to follow everything we do. They must have seen that you bought the tickets and followed us onto the train.’

Klara said nothing. Just nodded. She didn’t look scared, only focused.

‘You have the phone we bought in Brussels?’ Mahmoud said.

After Klara had returned with the train tickets, Mahmoud had bought two cheap burner phones, so that if they had to split up they’d still be able to stay in contact.

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘In my purse.’

‘Good. We’re going to have to take a huge risk. I think our best chance is to split up.’

Mahmoud turned his head and looked straight into her eyes. She met his gaze.

‘Okay,’ she said.

In the first few weeks of his ranger training Mahmoud had learned that you never know exactly how a person might react to extreme stress. Some become unreasonable, irrational, lose their self-control. Those who seemed to be natural leaders might suddenly become paralyzed. For others, their calm and focus increased with the degree of stress. Somehow he’d probably always known he wouldn’t have to worry about Klara. Still, the realization left him feeling relieved and strangely moved.

‘And you have the locker ticket too?’ Mahmoud said.

‘In my wallet,’ she said.

‘Good. Here’s what we’re going to do. We’ll walk out to the taxi stand, like everything is normal. If there’s a line, we’ll just wait calmly in it. When we get a taxi, you’ll jump in first. As soon as you get into the car, you’ll scoot right through the backseat and out the other side. Okay?’

Klara’s eyes darted around nervously. She swallowed hard. She too was feeling the adrenaline.

‘Okay.’

‘I’ll drive away in the taxi and draw off our pursuers. You stay out of the way for a while, then hopefully you’ll be able to empty the storage locker and take the subway as far away from here as you possibly can. I’ll call you in a few hours, and we’ll meet up again.’

‘And if I can’t shake them? What do we do?’

‘Then we’ll figure something else out. But this is the plan. Right now, it’s all we’ve got.’

‘Remind me never to travel with you again,’ Klara said.

Mahmoud stopped, turned toward her, took her face in his hands and pulled it toward him, pretending to kiss her tenderly on the cheek.

‘You can do this, Klara,’ he whispered. ‘We can do this, okay? What was it your grandfather used to say again? Rock and salt? That’s what you’re made of, right?’

They’d nearly reached the taxi stand. Mahmoud felt his pulse racing even faster. It was a crucial moment. Sink or swim.

‘Wait,’ he said to Klara.

He took off his backpack, bent down, and pretended to rummage in it while looking over his shoulder. The blond girl was moving in a wide arc in the same direction as them. On the opposite wall, he saw a man of about thirty-five moving in a similar pattern. He seemed to fit the profile. Physically fit, loose cargo pants. Ski jacket and a duffel bag. Bluetooth headset in his ear. Most likely an American. So there were two at least. He couldn’t see any more.

‘There are two of them at least,’ he whispered to Klara without looking at her.

‘A blond girl with a ponytail in a dark blue Canada Goose jacket. And a guy wearing cargo pants and a grayish red ski jacket. Baseball cap. Both of them have headsets in their ears. Pretend you’re stretching, while I fiddle with the backpack.’

Klara did as he said. Stretched, and took the opportunity to scout the terminal.

‘I see them,’ she said. ‘I recognize the girl. She was in my apartment.’

Her voice was strained. Her face tightened.

‘Focus, Klara,’ whispered Mahmoud. ‘Focus. It’s all about technique. There is no emotion here, you understand? No feelings. In and out of the taxi. That’s the plan.’

Klara nodded calmly, collecting herself.

‘Good. Here we go,’ Mahmoud said, and stood up.

The street outside the station was chaotic: full of smoke and cars and business travelers crossing at random pulling suitcases and families with backpacks and maps and crying children. At least there was no queue for the taxis. They walked up to the first one with determined steps.

‘You know what you’re supposed to do?’ he hissed.

‘Don’t worry. Just do your part, and I’ll do mine,’ she replied.

Mahmoud opened the car door, and Klara jumped into the backseat of the taxi. She glided across the worn and cracked leather seat, slightly hunched over, and opened the door on the other side just enough to be able slip out into the street. She didn’t even turn around to look at Mahmoud.

‘Louvre,’ Mahmoud said to the taxi driver.

It was the only thing he could come up with in the heat of the moment. The driver turned and looked over his shoulder, obviously confused by the young woman first jumping out into the street and now crouching behind his left rear wheel.

‘Drive! Now!’ Mahmoud said in English.

The driver shrugged and put the car into gear. They rolled out into the Parisian traffic. Mahmoud turned around in his seat and saw the guy in the cargo pants jumping into a small dark blue Volkswagen Golf, which must have been waiting for him across the street. So there are more than two, thought Mahmoud. The airport girl was standing in the taxi queue with a finger pressed against her headset. Mahmoud couldn’t see Klara, but unless the airport girl had seen her—and there was no indication she had—Klara had probably made it.

Paris, France

Klara ran, crouching along the line of taxis until she felt like she must be outside the field of vision of her pursuers. From the corner of her eye, she could see Cargo Pants jogging across the street. Klara snuck between two parked cars, so he wouldn’t see her. Her heart was racing. A dark blue Golf came rolling up the street, and the man jumped into the passenger side, then the car seemed to take off in pursuit of Mahmoud’s taxi.

Cautiously, Klara peeked between the cars. Ponytail was still standing in front of the side entrance to the station. It looked like she was talking to someone on her headset while scouting the surroundings. It was definitely the girl in running clothes that she’d seen come out of her front door. Klara felt sick, as if she might vomit. How long had they been spying on her? She took control of her breathing. Forcing herself to breathe deeply and evenly. No feelings. Shove aside your emotions. Shove away your thoughts.

She knew she had to make her way into the station again to access the luggage lockers. Still crouching slightly, she started moving down the street behind the cars. When she got to the corner of the station, she peered back along the sidewalk. Ponytail had disappeared. Klara took a red knitted hat out of her purse and pulled it down over her ears. She carefully tucked all of her dark hair under its edges. When she was done, she took off her dark blue coat and hung it over her bag. She shivered. Her gray cardigan, which had cost her a fortune in Antwerp, was not primarily designed for warmth. Paris was as cold as Brussels, but it couldn’t hurt to alter her appearance as much as possible.

She gathered herself and started walking toward the main entrance. A steady stream of Friday commuters was flowing through the station, and Klara let herself be swept along by the wave. She followed the signs to the storage lockers and took the escalator down one floor.

In order to enter the lockers area she had to pass through a security screening. All bags were X-rayed by a grim-faced guard. A short line had formed behind the turnstiles. When it was Klara’s turn, she put her shoulder bag and coat on the belt.

‘Excuse me,’ she said and turned to the guard, ‘could you tell me where I can find C193?’

She had to make an effort to breathe normally. The guard looked attentively at her before answering.

‘Section C is over there, mademoiselle.’

Klara thanked him and retrieved her things from the conveyor belt. Maybe, just maybe, luck was on their side.

It took her no more than a minute to locate the locker. It was small, the smallest kind available, and square. Maybe two foot by two foot.

She leaned forward and entered the code that was on the receipt. She held her breath. A red light shone beside the locker door. A short message in French appeared on the display. Wrong code. Klara felt the floor sway beneath her feet. Wrong code. She took out the receipt again, slowly pressing the six digits once more.

It took a few seconds for a green light to come on, another few seconds for the door to swing open with a mechanical click. Klara bent forward and peered into the small space.

A slim nylon bag was the only thing inside the locker. Squatting, she gently pulled it out into the bright light and unzipped it. The bag contained a small, aluminum-colored Apple computer. A MacBook Air. The smallest available. Klara zippered the bag again and closed her eyes for a second. Beautiful, beautiful luck. She stood up and started walking back toward the exit. Something at the periphery of her vision suddenly caught her attention. A movement outside the glass wall separating the rental car counters from the baggage room. She turned her head and caught what was possibly Ponytail’s silhouette.

‘Shit,’ she hissed.

But there was no turning back now. Rock and salt. She pressed her way through a group of travelers checking their bags and backpacks, and kept her eyes fixed on the glass wall. Nothing there. Maybe she’d imagined it. She threw the nylon bag over her shoulder as she walked out of the luggage room. No feelings, she thought. Get up to street level and take a taxi. Call Mahmoud. One thing at a time.

It was at that moment that she smelt it. At first only faintly. But it was unmistakable. Artificial cherry. American chewing gum. She spun around. And there, only a few feet away from her stood Ponytail.

She knew instinctively that it was the wrong thing to do, but she couldn’t help herself. Adrenaline rushing through her, she pushed her way through a group of Japanese tourists and ran, panicked, toward the escalators. She didn’t turn around, just ran as fast as she could up the stairs, through the waiting room. Away, away, away.

Paris, France

It was nearing rush hour. Both Mahmoud’s taxi and the Golf, a few cars behind them, were stuck in the bumper-to-bumper Parisian Christmas traffic. Mahmoud was trying to hold his stress at bay. There was nothing worse than having no control over your situation, being at the mercy of other people’s choices. In his head he went through his options. He could disappear down into the metro again. In the long run, he’d be able to shake off his pursuers there. But it was a time-consuming task. And he was worried about Klara. Why had he given her the assignment of checking the locker?

He hadn’t counted on Ponytail from the airport staying behind. His plan had been impulsive. It filled him with anxiety. Maybe they had seen Klara sneaking out of the taxi and regrouped? He tried to call her again, but got an automated message in French. Probably she was busy with the storage locker and hadn’t heard the signal. But he couldn’t help imagining far worse scenarios.

Mahmoud turned around. The traffic inched forward. The Golf remained about eighty feet behind them. It was time to make a decision. He had to shake off his pursuers and find Klara. Take a chance. It was the only way.

‘What street are we on?’ Mahmoud said to the taxi driver.

The driver turned around and looked at him with his hangdog eyes.

‘Rue La Fayette,’ he said.

‘Where? Which intersection?’

‘Almost at rue de Châteaudun. But in this traffic it’ll take us twenty minutes to get there,’ the driver said.

He sounded defeated. Mahmoud turned around again. Traffic was at a complete standstill. He glimpsed the Golf behind them. He took out his prepaid phone, dialed three digits, and waited for the signal to go through.

It took less than seven minutes before Mahmoud heard the sirens of two police motorcycles. He turned around to look out the rear window. They were driving between the gridlocked lanes and stopped a car’s length behind the dark blue Golf. The cabdriver rolled down the window and stuck his head out to see what was going on. Cold air filled the car. Around them bored drivers turned their heads toward the Golf. Mahmoud leaned forward to the taxi driver and tapped him on the shoulder. The man turned around irritably.

‘I’m getting out here,’ Mahmoud said.

He handed a ten-euro bill to the surprised driver.

‘Keep the change.’

Mahmoud glanced over his shoulder. A police officer in graphite blue Kevlar armor had climbed off his motorcycle and was walking calmly, his hand on his gun, toward the Golf.

This was his chance. Mahmoud opened the door of the taxi and slid gently onto the cracked concrete. The air smelled of exhaust and winter. He crawled among the cars until he got to the sidewalk. The sky was low and gray. As if it hadn’t yet decided what kind of storm to unleash. It must be a little above freezing; rain was almost as likely as snow. Before running down the stairs to the metro station Cadet, he turned around one last time. Traffic was moving, but the Golf was still there, with its hazard lights flashing. The police had forced Cargo Pants and his driver out on the street, and they seemed to be arguing heatedly. Cargo Pants craned his neck, trying to keep an eye on the taxi. Had he seen Mahmoud leaving it? It didn’t matter, the Americans would have their hands full for a few minutes convincing the police that they hadn’t threatened another vehicle with a gun. By the time they succeeded, it would be too late. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Klara.