The Swimmer (39 page)

Wiman raised his eyebrows and made a gesture, offering Gabriella some saffron buns. He himself took a small sip of the hot coffee.

‘What’s happened?’ he said.

He leaned forward and looked into her eyes. There was a different expression in them than Gabriella had ever seen before. A note of warmth, something that looked like genuine sympathy. Gabriella had been so sure. It had seemed so obvious that Wiman had somehow betrayed her. Now she felt that certainty slowly dissipate.

‘Klara came back yesterday,’ she began quietly. ‘We went to Arkösund and then farther out in the archipelago.’

It was as if she couldn’t stop herself. As if she had to tell him, to put what had just happened into words. Matter-of-factly and as accurately as possible, she let the last twenty-four hours flow out of her.

‘I wish you had called me,’ said Wiman when she finally fell silent.

He leaned forward and refilled Gabriella’s coffee cup.

‘Would that have changed anything?’ she said.

Wiman shrugged.

‘Probably not,’ he said. ‘I don’t know much more about this than you. All I know is that the Cardigans at Säpo don’t think your friend is a terrorist. After you were here, I did a little research. I contacted a few of my friends in intelligence but also in—how shall I put this?—more influential circles.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Gabriella.

‘The political leadership. The government. It doesn’t matter. Your friend has landed herself in a real mess. Not her fault, not at all. There’s some data that your friend apparently got a hold of and that some Americans want to get back, if I’ve understood correctly?’

Gabriella slurped the hot coffee and nodded gently in response.

‘And your friend has this information?’ continued Wiman.

Gabriella took a deep breath and leaned back.

‘You might say that,’ she said.

‘And do you have some kind of plan? For what you’re going to do? There are extremely powerful interests involved here, as I’m sure I don’t need to tell you.’

‘We have a plan,’ said Gabriella. ‘But a pretty flimsy one.’

Gabriella woke up from the sound of the library door being opened.

She sat up in her chair and instinctively ran her hands through her hair. Oh God, had she fallen asleep? In the middle of all this? The fire had almost burned out. How long had she been asleep?

In the doorway stood Wiman’s granddaughter, Maria.

‘Are you going to celebrate Christmas with us?’ she said. ‘You can if you want to. My cousins are coming. They have a horse. One time I got to—’

‘Maria.’

It was Wiman’s voice.

‘I told you to let Gabriella sleep.’

‘But she was awake!’ Maria said.

The girl crossed her arms and pursed her lips. Wiman bent down and whispered something in her ear that made her shout in delight and run out of the room. It occurred to Gabriella there was something docile about this domestic version of Wiman that was entirely incompatible with the stone cold lawyer image he cultivated at the office.

He stepped into the library and sat down in the chair next to her.

‘You fell asleep,’ he said. ‘After the night you had, it didn’t seem right to wake you. Besides, you’re going to need your rest.’

‘What do you mean?’

When Gabriella had told him about Klara’s plan, Wiman had seemed skeptical at first. But he offered to do everything he could, using all his contacts to try to make it work. It was the last thing Gabriella had expected. That Wiman would prove to be loyal.

‘While you were sleeping, I did some work. Called in a few favors and racked up some debts, to be honest. But you’re going to get your chance, it seems. A plane is on its way across the Atlantic. Someone with decision-making power is on board. Someone from the CIA. They’ll be here…’

Wiman paused and turned his wrist to consult his watch.

‘In seven hours.’

Northern Rimnö, Sweden

Finally Klara laid the photo in her lap and looked up. Inside the boathouse, the darkness had started to give way to a slow, gray dawn. Klara’s grandmother squatted in front of the stove, carefully laying one more log on the dying embers. The bark crackled before the wood started to blaze.

‘So he brought the photo too?’ said Klara.

Grandma got up slowly and brushed the imaginary dust from her worn corduroy pants before turning to Klara.

‘No,’ she said.

She looked sad. Guilty. Completely lost.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Klara. ‘Where did you get this picture?’

Grandma sat down on the very edge of the sofa where Klara was still reclining. As far away from her as possible. She looked searchingly at her granddaughter. As if trying to register every slight movement of her face.

‘Your grandpa and I have had the picture all these years,’ she said at last. ‘It’s been in that envelope in my underwear drawer, since it was sent to us by the Ministry for Foreign Affairs along with all of your mother’s other belongings a few months after she passed away.’

Klara was doing her best to follow along but couldn’t make sense of it. Maybe the past week had simply been too much for her. It was as if she couldn’t make the pieces fit together.

‘You mean you’ve had this picture all this time?’ she said. ‘That it’s just been lying in a drawer? A picture of my father? All this time?’

Klara’s grandmother nodded without looking away.

‘I’m afraid so,’ she said.

‘And you never thought to show it to me? Didn’t you think I’d be interested? You’ve seen me sitting with the pictures in the attic. Didn’t you think I’d want to know?’

She felt the words stick in her throat. She couldn’t take any more of this.

‘I’m sorry,’ said her grandmother. ‘I didn’t know what was right. You were so small, so very, very alone. And we, your grandpa and I, have never thought of you as anything other than ours. As our child.’

A lone tear made its way down her cheek. She made no move to wipe it away. Klara looked up at her. She’d never seen her cry.

‘I just didn’t know when to show the picture to you. When you were five? Ten? Fifteen? Twenty? First, you were too little, and then I was so afraid you’d be confused, that you’d feel let down. By him. By us for not trying to find him.’

‘So it was easier to lie?’

Klara regretted her tone before the words had even left her mouth. Her grandmother didn’t look away. Her eyes sparkled blue in the gray morning light.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It was easier to lie. I didn’t know where the truth would lead.’

Stockholm, Sweden

In the lobby of the Radisson Blu Waterfront the holiday atmosphere was restrained. On the light wood benches there was a scattering of expectant families, from different countries but from the same world: the Ralph Lauren-wearing upper middle class. An enormous Christmas tree decorated with ornaments in discreet shades of gray blended in with the businesslike slate color scheme. In the background, someone sang ‘Baby, It’s Cold Outside’ at a perfectly calibrated volume.

Gabriella hadn’t even made it halfway to the reception desk when, from the corner of her eye, she saw Anton Bronzelius rising from a chair and approaching her. He was unshaven but otherwise looked exactly as he had a couple of days ago.

He met Gabriella’s gaze and nodded almost imperceptibly, first left, then right, as if to indicate that he wasn’t alone in the lobby. Gabriella looked cautiously around the room, and it dawned on her that some of the affluent middle-class guests were in fact Bronzelius’s colleagues. She swallowed. Oh my God, she thought, we have almost nothing to bargain with.

‘Merry Christmas,’ he said.

He leaned forward and gave Gabriella a hug as he whispered in her ear.

‘Give me the phone in the elevator.’

‘Merry Christmas,’ replied Gabriella and pulled away so the hug wouldn’t seem unnaturally long.

The adrenaline rushed through her, almost blindingly. She barely noticed Bronzelius leading her toward the elevators. He wanted her phone, just as Wiman had said. That might mean that the first part of the plan had gone off without a hitch. Or that Wiman had deceived her. She couldn’t think about that now. They had no choice.

She realized Bronzelius was speaking again. Using another, clearer, more formal voice. A voice meant for microphones.

‘We’re going up to the seventh floor. You’ll be meeting my American colleagues there. The floor is cordoned off, and you’ll be frisked before you’re allowed into the suite.’

They stepped into the elevator. As soon as the doors closed, Bronzelius indicated to Gabriella that she should give him the phone. She did as he told her. Do or die.

When the elevator stopped on the seventh floor, Bronzelius mumbled something into his headset and the elevator doors opened silently. The thick carpet muffled the sound of their footsteps, and the lack of windows was disorienting. It was like stepping into another dimension.

Outside a door at the end of the hall stood two large men, both with short hair and wearing dark suits. It took no more than a quick glance for Gabriella to see they were Americans.

‘Give me your purse and turn toward the wall,’ said one of the guards in English as Gabriella and Bronzelius approached.

Gabriella glanced at Bronzelius, who shrugged and nodded. The man gave her bag to his colleague and frisked Gabriella meticulously.

‘You’re okay,’ he said, and withdrew.

His colleague pulled the MacBook out of the bag and gave it to her.

‘I’ll keep the rest until you’re done,’ he said.

Then he muttered something into his headset, took out a white card, and swiped it through the lock on the door. With a metallic beep it unlocked and the man pushed down the handle to let Gabriella in.

Inside the suite’s well-proportioned living room a woman was sitting in a modern, red swivel chair. Behind her a stunning view of a winter Stockholm stretched out through the panes of a spectacular glass wall. Gabriella felt as if she could reach out and touch city hall, where it lay under a layer of powdery snow just outside the window.

The woman looked to be in her sixties, perhaps slightly older. She was small and thin, wearing a somber, navy blue jacket, matching blue pants, and a white top. Her makeup was subtle, and her dyed blond hair was cut in a short and unmemorable style. There was something forgettable about her in general. She was a civil servant, an agency director. Someone you ride the subway with every day for ten years and never notice.

As Gabriella walked slowly toward the small sofa, the woman examined her closely. Her gray eyes were inquisitive and surprisingly youthful. A glimmer of curiosity could be discerned in her pupils. Gabriella heard the mechanical click of the hotel door locking behind her.

The woman stood up gracefully in a slow, fluid motion. She went to the window and stood with her back to Gabriella.

‘Stockholm is beautiful,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe I’ve never been here before.’

‘Are you Susan?’ said Gabriella.

Gabriella shifted her weight and held the computer tightly in her hands. Everything was happening so fast, and this meeting had been arranged so quickly and was so crucial.

‘Yes,’ said the woman. ‘I’m the director of the Department for Middle Eastern Affairs at the CIA. I’m responsible for what you and your client have been through. I’m very sorry. It’s truly unfortunate that you’ve landed in the middle of all this.’

Gabriella said nothing, just sat down gently on one of the sofas. Susan turned her back on the view of city hall and inspected Gabriella again.

‘I guess that’s the computer all this is about?’ she said.

Gabriella leaned forward toward the glass coffee table and reached for one of the bottles standing there. Her mouth was suddenly incredibly dry. She opened a Fanta and took a deep swig directly from the bottle.

Northern Rimnö, Sweden

So much gray. The never-ending winter dawn and winter dusk of the archipelago. Waves still crashed against the rocks beside the boathouse’s new, sturdy dock, but the storm had passed, heading farther east, leaving Klara with only its aftermath. The consequences. Large snowflakes continued to fall on her as she sat hunched over, with her back against the newly painted house. Nothing remained of what she’d once believed was true. Nothing left of who she’d believed she was. She didn’t hear George until he was standing right beside her.

‘Merry Christmas, I guess,’ he said.

Klara turned toward him. His face still looked terrible. Swollen, covered with cuts that were starting to scab over.

‘Merry Christmas,’ she whispered.

He held a blanket out to her. One of the newly purchased, colorful Klippan blankets with which the boathouse seemed to be fully stocked. She took it and wrapped it around her shoulders.

‘Won’t you come in now?’ he said. ‘Your grandmother seems pretty inconsolable in there.’

She buried her face in the soft wool of the blanket.

‘I just can’t take any more,’ she murmured.

‘It’s been a long night,’ he said. ‘A long week. A really fucking long week. But you’ll freeze to death out here. I don’t know what happened between you and your grandmother. And I don’t know how much time we have, but wouldn’t a ham sandwich be pretty damn good right about now?’

‘I’m not hungry,’ she said.

‘Fair enough,’ he muttered and made himself comfortable on the dock next to her.

She felt George’s arm gently snake around her shoulders with increasing confidence, finally grabbing hold and pulling her against his warm body. She let herself be held. Let her head fall against his neck. The sound of the waves. The snowflakes. She didn’t even try to stop the tears.

When Klara finally broke away, they were both almost completely covered by a thin layer of fresh snow. She brushed it from her hair and stood up. George followed her example. She saw that his teeth were chattering from the cold.

‘What happens now?’ he said.

Klara shook her head.

‘Who knows?’ she said. ‘Gabriella is going to meet her contact at Säpo. She’ll call Bosse when she knows something. Then he’ll call us.’