‘We had to open the safe,’ Bergh said in a low voice. ‘It’s standard procedure when a handler … I mean, we weren’t sure if you were going to make it.’
Sarac nodded, trying to work out why he didn’t want to tell his boss the truth about the gaps in his memory. His sense of unease began to grow again. It made him clutch the piece of paper even tighter.
‘Kollander was there, as head of Regional Crime. He and I used our codes, all according to protocol,’ Bergh went on, pulling a face. Sarac’s heart immediately began to beat faster. ‘Your envelope was empty, David.’ Bergh’s voice was so low now that it was almost a whisper. ‘No backup list, no names, nothing.’
Sarac slowly shook his head. He could feel the headache gathering strength in his temples. Suddenly there was the sound of voices out in the corridor and Bergh glanced quickly over his shoulder. Then he leaned even closer to Sarac, so close that it was possible to smell the garlic on his breath.
‘I managed to get the head of Regional Crime to hold back on filing an official complaint. Or at least wait a few days, until we’d had a chance to talk to you. None of us want Dreyer and the Internal Investigation team snooping about the department again.’ Bergh licked his lips. ‘Kollander’s wetting himself. Says we might have a mole in the department. Someone selling information. It’s only a matter of time before he goes running to the district commissioner, and you know what that would lead to.’
Sarac gulped again and tried to moisten his lips. But his tongue felt as if it were glued to the roof of his mouth.
‘Forty years in the force, only three left to retirement. None of that would count for anything when it comes to Operation Clean Threshold. Just look at what they did with the Duke. The district commissioner has set her sights on becoming the next national police chief, and nothing’s allowed to spoil her pitch. Nothing!’ Bergh’s face was now bright red, and his tired eyes looked worried. Almost frightened.
‘Well, I, er …’ Sarac tried to say something but his voice cracked. He cleared his throat, once, then several more times. He suddenly noticed that his right hand was cramping. He slowly forced it open and glanced down at the crumpled piece of paper.
‘I trusted you, David,’ Bergh said. ‘I didn’t ask any questions, I let you run your own race.’ A little drop of saliva flew out of his mouth and landed in front of Sarac. ‘Up to now the results have been fantastic, but now you’ve got to explain what’s going on. The missing list, and your crash. That can’t be a coincidence. Someone’s after you, David. And after your informant.’
Sarac swallowed again, trying in vain to moisten his mouth and lips.
‘Do you remember what job you were working on?’ Bergh hissed. ‘Was it weapons, drugs? What instructions had you given your informant? Who was he targeting? For Christ sake, you must remember something!’
More voices in the corridor, closer this time. Bergh spun around toward the door.
The scrap of paper in Sarac’s hand gradually unfurled. He could see some of the writing. But it wasn’t the nurse’s even handwriting he could see. There was something written on the back of the paper. Jagged capitals that looked as if they had been written with a lot of effort.
EVERYONE IS LYING
DON’T TRUST ANYONE!
Bergh turned back to Sarac, who quickly slid his hand back under the covers. The voices in the corridor were clearly audible now. One of them belonged to Dr Vestman.
‘You have to hand him over, David,’ Bergh hissed in his ear. ‘I can protect him, you – the whole department. But you have to give me Janus!’
The smell of perfume lay heavy in the little entrance hall to the chapel. About fifty people in total, Atif estimated. Considerably more than he had thought at first. A seventy-thirty split between men and women. Almost all of them were younger than he was; a few of them didn’t look like they were even twenty-five. More than half the men had gym-pumped bodies and a swaggering walk. They were also relatively smart and well turned out. There were a couple in tracksuits and a few more in jeans and hoodies, with T-shirts underneath with gang symbols on them. But most of them were, like him, dressed in cheap black suits from Dressman. Diamond earrings, gold necklaces and bracelets – all the predictable gangster accessories. Atif didn’t recognize any of the men, but he still knew exactly who they were. Or rather, who they were trying to be.
Did I used to be like that? Did you, Adnan? Silly question …
They had all shaken his hand, fixing their eyes on him and giving it a good squeeze. To show that they didn’t back down for anything, never showed any cowardice. But at least half of them had had sweaty palms and not even their overwhelming aftershave could hide the smell of fear. The first of them had made the mistake of attempting some sort of ghetto hug. But Atif had been prepared, locked his lower arm, and stopped the man halfway. He had given him a quick look, which the man had been smart enough to pick up. The rest of them figured out the rules, even the women.
It was different with Cassandra; she hugged them all and took her time over it. She let them kiss her on both cheeks and seemed to enjoy being the centre of attention in her role as the grieving widow.
He had exchanged a few words with Cassandra’s parents and some of the older guests. Naturally they had all said nice things about Adnan. How pleasant and considerate he was, how much he loved his family. Atif had listened, knowing full well that they weren’t just the usual funeral clichés. Adnan had been an easy person to like, he always had been. Open, cheerful, funny, loyal. He could think of a whole heap of adjectives.
Atif slid over to the coffee machine in one corner of the hall, put in a ten-kronor coin, and waited as the machine set to work. He tried to force his mind to change track. Soon he would be sitting on the plane.
A plastic mug slid out, then the machine squeezed out a thin brown trickle. The mug filled slowly, as if the huge machine were really doing its best to produce some liquid.
‘Atif, my friend.’
With the plastic mug in his hand he turned around. He had identified the hoarse, rasping voice before he saw the familiar face. He couldn’t help smiling.
‘Abu Hamsa!’
He leaned forward and let the fat little man kiss him on both cheeks. Abu Hamsa was an old friend. Atif’s mother had worked in one of his bars a long time ago. Atif, and later Adnan, used to hang out there after school. Running small errands in exchange for the occasional bar of chocolate or can of cola. Hamsa was one of the old guard. He owned a couple of neighbourhood bars, a few exchange bureaus, and loaned out money – no champagne orgies or luxury villas, no overblown signs of success. Nothing to attract the attention of the police, or anyone else, for that matter.
‘Envy, boys …’ he used to say in his hoarse but simultaneously slightly shrill voice. ‘Envy is fatal. If you make too much of a show of success, people will want to take it from you!’
Hamsa was content with what he had, the status quo suited him, calmness and balance. For that reason he was also a popular mediator, someone everyone trusted. He must be close to seventy now, yet there wasn’t a single grey hair on his head. He probably dyed both his hair and his little mustache. The rug on his head looked suspiciously thick: Abu Hamsa had always been rather vain.
‘I’m truly sorry for your loss, my friend,’ he hissed in Arabic. ‘Your brother was a fine young man. He deserved a far better fate than this.’
‘Thank you, Abu Hamsa,’ Atif said as he blew on the scalding-hot coffee.
‘How long are you staying, my friend?’
‘I’m going back the day after tomorrow.’
‘Ah,