The Swimmer (26 page)

‘It wasn’t supposed to go like that, of course. But I didn’t know that. Not then. None of us did. Our operation in Damascus was a Russian nested doll, and you were just the outer layer. I was so new, so inexperienced. You were my first responsibility, my first agent to coordinate. I hadn’t even been in the field except in Paris, and that hardly counts. And I have no idea why no one informed me that we were supplying weapons to the Syrians. It was so naive of me not to make the connection. But I didn’t know then that there would always be other levels, always other decisions made by someone else, in another context. Mistakes are made and have to be atoned for. Debts have to be repaid. The weapons we supplied to the regime were a down payment on another deal we’d made long ago. Someone else’s empty, poorly devised compromise. That was how the cold war worked. One hand never knew what the other was doing. I learned, over time.’

I straighten up, gently, afraid to disturb her story, her confession. I sit down on the bench beside her.

‘And then you found out who was supplying the arms, and I knew it was true, that it was for real. I took it up with Daniels, who was the chief operating officer. All he said was: “Good job, darlin’, we’ll take it from here.” That’s when you know it’s really bad. When they say “we’ll take it from here.” And now I’m the one who says that.’

She smiles wryly and shakes her head slightly, letting her eyes wander over the black water to the cold, white columns on the other side.

‘It wasn’t my decision to eliminate you to protect the bigger secret. Those weren’t my orders. Not that it matters, but no one told me until afterward. Honestly, I don’t know where it came from. Daniels maybe. Or even higher up. And I don’t know who placed the bomb. But I know it was us.’

Finally, here we are, encircled by what I always knew, what was always right in front of me. What I chose not to see. Finally we find ourselves in the middle of what I spent half a lifetime trying to escape. A wave of dizziness hits and I lean against the bench for support. My own cowardice is so palpable, so terrible in the light of what might be the truth. But I force my self-hatred aside. We have to go further, all the way up to the surface.

‘Why did you let me live after you knew the bomb had failed?’

Why did you let me live? It’s such a strange thing to say. The words almost stick in my throat. Susan shrugs.

‘What were we supposed to do? Execute you in Langley? A car accident in Delaware? It would have been too obvious, of course. If you’d died like that, after the bomb? It would have come out. And we weren’t sure if you understood the connection. If you’d taken some kind of precautions after the bomb. At the same time there was surely someone higher up who must have realized that we couldn’t just go around killing our own agents for doing their job. The whole thing was a mistake from beginning to end. A terrible mistake. And then it turned out you were loyal. More than loyal.’

My heart stands absolutely still. The heat and the concrete, shards of glass. Your tired eyes, your greasy hair in my car. The baby’s barely perceptible breath against my chest. A mistake. The banality of it. The banality of having avoided that thought for my whole life. I feel the outlines of a horrible anger. Meanwhile, time is escaping me. This is just one part. History is only one part. Perhaps there’s still room for a future.

‘And Beirut?’ I say. ‘Who did I kill in Beirut?’

‘A bomb maker for Hezbollah. Just like we told you. We’d been looking for him for a long time and had just received new intel that he was in Beirut. We fabricated the information that he was behind the murder of your girlfriend. It was an opportunity to achieve our operational goals and rewrite history. It solved our problems. And it gave you what you wanted, right? It gave you your revenge. It was a win-win situation. Except from a moral perspective. But, well, you understand?’

She smiles halfheartedly again, sadly. Maybe she thinks like I do, that we weigh evil against evil; it’s the equation that led us here. Relativity guided us here. An equation that makes perfect sense until the veil is pulled back, and all we see is the madness. She turns to me.

‘Why now?’ she says. ‘Why suddenly decide to see what’s been right in front of you all this time?’

All I feel is an immense emptiness. All I know is that I want a drink.

‘I need a drink,’ I say.

‘I didn’t think you were drinking anymore?’ Susan says.

There’s nothing they don’t know about me.

Stockholm, Sweden

‘That’ll be two hundred seventy-five kronor,’ the taxi driver said, leaning forward to get a better look at the impressive 1920s mansion glistening in soft floodlighting.

‘It looks like a castle,’ he said.

Gabriella fished out her wallet and handed him her company credit card. Klara had called her a couple of hours ago. Terrified and in shock. A small, pitiful voice. It was a nightmare, a strange, perverted fantasy. Mahmoud shot in front of her eyes in Paris. Klara now wanted by the police, her picture on the front of all the tabloids. Doctor Death and the beautiful political secretary.

‘Will you represent me?’ Klara had asked. ‘Tell me what to do.’

Thoughts had flashed through Gabriella’s head. Confusion and fear. The feeling she might be out of her depth. Way out of her depth. She thought of what Bronzelius had said. That what happened to Mahmoud had been a misunderstanding, that Säpo seemed to know that. But who had been hunting Mahmoud and was now out to get Klara?

‘Come home,’ she said at last. ‘Come home, and we’ll solve this. Somehow.’

She had no idea if that was the right decision. Maybe she should have told Klara to contact the French police? According to the media, she was only wanted for questioning. But Gabriella didn’t dare take the chance. She’d called Wiman as soon as she’d hung up.

She took back her card and jumped out of the cab. The clock on her cell phone showed 00:12 a.m. An unusual time to visit your boss at his home. But it was Wiman who’d suggested it. It felt good somehow. That Wiman cared about this.

His house was undeniably magnificent, she reflected as she walked up the beautifully laid cobblestone path that led to the entrance. Gabriella had heard the stories. The house was legendary among the young lawyers at the firm who’d been honored with an invitation. It was a perfect, cream-colored cube, two stories, maybe three thousand square feet. The house sat on a small hill, which made it feel somewhat secluded, as if it were too exclusive even for Djursholm, Stockholm’s most upscale suburb. The wind howled through the bare oaks.

The doorbell emitted a deep
ding-dong
when she pressed the little white button next to the double doors. It didn’t take more than a few seconds for them to open.

‘Gabriella, welcome. Come in,’ Wiman said.

He was, despite the hour, dressed impeccably in his usual style. A dark suit with a red handkerchief in the breast pocket. White shirt. The only compromise was his lack of tie. He was holding a whiskey glass with a rounded bottom. The amber liquid seemed to glow in the dull light from inside.

‘Sorry to bother you so late,’ Gabriella said. ‘It certainly wasn’t my intention, we could have discussed this tomorrow. I just wanted to keep you informed.’

Wiman waved impatiently with his hand and led the way across the marble floor of the hall.

‘I invited you here, Gabriella. If I had wanted to wait until tomorrow, I would have said so.’

He led her into what seemed to be an office or library. Did people still have private libraries? Gabriella looked around in wonder. Three tall windows, facing the water, took up the long side of the room. In the darkness, she could only imagine the water, but she assumed the house was on a seafront property. A window on the short side also presumably looked out over the water. The rest of the walls were covered from floor to ceiling with books. A fire was burning in the fireplace next to the door they’d just come through. How much did a house like this cost? Twenty million kronor? More? Is this what you could expect if you became a partner?

‘Wow, what a fantastic house,’ she said.

‘It’s from the turn of the century,’ Wiman said, completely unfazed by the compliment. ‘But it was rebuilt in the twenties in the Italian style. And I’ve done some renovations, of course. Can I offer you something? A cognac? Red wine?’

He gestured toward a small, but well-stocked mahogany cart that stood in the corner by the windows.

‘I’ll have a whiskey,’ Gabriella said.

She suddenly felt that a drink was just what she needed.

Wiman went over to the cart and poured a hefty amount of whiskey in a glass similar to his own. Before putting the bottle back, he refilled his own glass.

‘Water?’ he asked.

Gabriella shook her head, and Wiman handed her the glass before they sat down across from each other in the Bruno Mathsson armchairs in front of the fireplace. The room was dark, lit only by the fire and the subdued floor lamp beside the bar cart.

‘I was sad to hear about your friend. I’m sorry,’ Wiman said and took a small sip of whiskey.

Gabriella took a much larger sip and leaned back against the sheepskin of the armchair. She wasn’t going to cry, not here, not now.

‘Yes,’ she said instead. ‘It’s terrible. Shocking. I don’t think I’ve really grasped it yet.’

She couldn’t help it. A tear escaped the corner of her eye and ran down her cheek. It was still so fresh, so utterly incomprehensible.

Wiman said nothing, just stared into the fire. He looked older. Haggard. As if something was weighing on him. Klara had never seen him like this. Usually his face seemed made of Teflon, completely resistant to emotions.

‘And now you’ve been in touch with Ms Walldéen? Who, according to the media, was with Mr Shammosh when he was shot in Paris?’

Wiman got up and put a birch log onto the fire, which crackled as the bark started to burn. Gabriella heard the wind whistling through the ancient trees outside. She wiped the tear from her cheek and ran her hands through her hair. She nodded.

‘Klara called me a little while ago and asked me to represent her. And I intend to do so, of course. That is, if she even needs representation. She’s not suspected of anything, as far as I know.’

‘And where is she now?’ Wiman said.

‘I don’t know. She didn’t want to tell me over the phone. But I asked her to come back to Sweden. It felt like the right thing to do. So that we can sit down and go over what happened before she contacts the police. She’s in shock, of course. Completely in shock.’

‘What is this about?’ Wiman’s tone bordered on impatience. ‘Why were Shammosh and that other Swede murdered? It’s extremely important that we find out what’s behind all this.’

‘I don’t know,’ Gabriella said. ‘I honestly have no idea. And I’m not sure if Klara knows either.’

‘Is that the impression you got? That she didn’t know why they were being hunted?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Or no. I don’t think she knows what’s going on. Or at least she didn’t tell me.’

Wiman nodded slowly.

‘Exactly what did she say on the phone? Try to remember verbatim.’

Gabriella reconstructed their short conversation as best she could. It was soothing to be questioned by Wiman. Safe, somehow. A lawyer’s icy focus on details. It helped her to achieve some distance.

‘And when she comes to Sweden?’ Wiman said, after she’d finished describing the call. ‘If she comes to Sweden, that is. What’s the plan then?’

‘She mentioned that she knows someplace in the archipelago where she can hide while we figure out what’s going on. Outside Arkösund. And I guess that was really the reason I wanted to talk to you. What should I do? What should I say? The media will probably have their own version of the story by tomorrow.’

Gabriella downed the last drink of her whiskey and felt it warming her from the inside.

‘Forget the media for now,’ Wiman said.

He took Gabriella’s empty glass and went to the bar to refill it.

‘The only thing you need to focus on right now is getting her to Sweden. Keep her hidden while we figure things out. Keep me informed of exactly where you are, okay? It’s important that we stay connected.’

Wiman handed the whiskey glass to Gabriella.

‘Give me all the details as soon as you have them,’ he said. ‘No fucking solo flights now. I mean that.’

Gabriella nodded and gulped down the whiskey in a single burning mouthful.

‘I should really call a cab,’ she said and picked up her phone.

Washington, DC, USA

Twenty minutes later we’re sitting in a hazy bar in Georgetown, in a booth near the back, the burgundy vinyl seats slippery against my chinos. It’s a place for those of us who are serious about our alcohol. My first Rusty Nail tastes smooth and nostalgic against my lips. The second plants my feet firmly on the ground, makes history fade temporarily. I set the glass down on the dark, well-worn table.

Susan is sipping on her club soda. Spinning her highball glass so the ice clinks against the edges. The sound blends together with a song I vaguely recognize. That warm guitar, those lines about the mist-covered mountains. In the dim light she looks translucent, almost ghostly. She’s followed me here. How much further?

‘So why now?’ she says.

We have arrived. We have followed the complicated tentacles of history all the way here. All the way to the surface. To a point where everything is about forgetting, forgiving, saving what can be saved.

‘My daughter,’ I say. ‘It’s about my daughter.’

Her expression doesn’t change. She takes a small sip of her drink.

‘Klara Walldéen,’ I say. ‘She’s in our register. I want access to everything about her. All of our reports, all real-time data, everything. And I want it now. Immediately. Tonight.’

Susan just looks at me. The neutrality of her look is paralyzing.

‘And if you were to get it?’ she says. ‘If you were to gain access to what you want? What would that change?’

I drink what’s left of my drink in one gulp, until the ice cubes hit my teeth. I lean back and feel how the room is shrinking around me. How the world outside is growing. I feel the warmth of the alcohol and the grief from my past. I feel the anxiety and the thrill of the hunt. I feel the power of every wrong decision outweighed by the power of a single possibility to set something right. At a certain point relativism can no longer save a person’s soul. I have so much to make amends for.