He stood up, pulled the phone out of his underwear, and poked the Sudoku out from its hiding place behind the radiator. After having ascertained as best as he could that Kirsten really had disappeared down the stairs, he sat on the bed and unlocked the phone. With trembling fingers, he pushed the numbers 112.
It rang four times. George’s pulse raced as he waited while simultaneously trying to hear if Kirsten had decided to come back up the stairs. Finally he heard a calm, female voice.
‘112. What is your emergency?’
George felt light-headed, his mouth dry. Why hadn’t he contacted the police in Brussels, long before everything got derailed?
‘My name is George Lööw,’ he said. ‘And I’m kidnapped. I guess.’
‘Where are you right now?’
The voice was calm, apparently unmoved by the inherent drama of the word
kidnapped
.
‘In Arkösund, I think. Is there a place called Arkösund? In the archipelago outside Norrköping somewhere. I’ve been locked up in a yellow house by some Americans—’
‘Help is on the way,’ interrupted the voice. ‘Stay on the line. I’m connecting you further, you understand? Do not hang up.’
There was a click and the voice was replaced by empty, atmospheric noise. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. George listened at the door. Still nothing. Then there was a voice on the other end. A man. A calm, confident Swedish man.
‘My name’s Roger,’ the voice said.
‘Umm, hello,’ replied George somewhat uncertain.
‘I’m part of Säpo’s antiterror unit. Where are you?’
Säpo. That’s more like it, thought George. He repeated everything he knew. That he was imprisoned in a yellow house in Arkösund. He tried to explain where the house was in relation to the harbor.
‘Stay there. Don’t try to escape or flee. We’ll take care of this. How many people are guarding you?’
‘Right now, just one person,’ answered George. ‘I’m locked in. Everyone else is out on a boat looking for Klara Walldéen. You know, she’s the one who’s… wanted?’
‘How many people are there?’
‘Five, I think.’
‘You said you knew where they were? That you knew where Walldéen was?’
There was something tense in his voice. Something that George couldn’t put his finger on. With the phone wedged between shoulder and cheek, he grabbed hold of the Sudoku with his shackled hands. He read out the coordinates.
‘Good,’ the man said. ‘Have the phone nearby in case we need to contact you again. But don’t endanger yourself by making any more calls. It’s possible that they might be able to trace it.’
‘Of course,’ said George. ‘What happens now? You have to help me!’
‘We’ll take care of this,’ said the dry, confident voice.
Sankt Anna’s Outer Archipelago, Sweden
‘What is that?’
Gabriella’s voice could barely be heard above the squalls.
‘A flashlight?’
Klara felt her body tense. The adrenaline was rushing through her.
‘It looks like a flashlight, right?’ she said again. ‘Is it Bosse?’
Klara shrugged.
‘He wasn’t coming back until tomorrow. And he knows better than to be out in this storm.’
‘What should we do?’ Gabriella said.
Klara turned toward her. Saw her own terror reflected in Gabriella’s eyes.
‘I don’t know.’
She grabbed the barrel of the shotgun with one hand while releasing the safety with the other. She took a deep breath. A few minutes passed. Life narrowed to her trembling fingers and throbbing temples. To waiting and tense muscles, ready for flight.
Then someone knocked violently at the door. Fast, heavy blows. The beam from a flashlight shone in the window. The cone of light traveled across the floor. Somewhere a voice was drowned out by the storm, impossible to make out. Klara braced herself against the wall and gestured to Gabriella to crouch beside her. Her index finger trembled as she wrapped it around the trigger. The pounding on the door resumed. And when the storm quieted for a moment, she heard the voice again.
Arkösund, Sweden
George flinched as he heard the lock turning in his prison door. When he looked up, Kirsten was standing in the doorway. He raised his eyes, genuinely terrified. How was it possible that he hadn’t heard her on the stairs? In the gloom her face looked grim, focused. Whatever solidarity and goodwill might have been there before had completely vanished. The way she looked at him was so ice-cold that George had to look away. His hands were shaking. What the hell had he done? From the corner of his eye he could see that Kirsten was holding the large, gray gun in her hand. A long, narrow cylinder attached to the tip. A silencer.
‘Give it to me,’ said Kirsten.
Her voice low and very calm as she walked slowly across the room toward George.
‘Give what to you?’ he said.
His voice sounded so small. Kirsten stopped a few yards away from him.
‘The phone, you idiot,’ she said. ‘Surely you didn’t think it was going to be that easy. Just steal a phone and call the police? Haven’t you understood anything?’
She raised the gun at him. The silencer nearly touched George’s forehead. The hole in the barrel looked enormous.
‘It’s too late,’ said George. ‘I’ve already called the police. They’re on their way. Whatever you do to me, it’s too late for you.’
His voice was no more than a whisper. Kirsten swallowed.
‘What made you go and do that?’ she said. ‘What did you think? That we were goofing around out here in the archipelago on our own, without any protection? Did you really believe that? Are you truly that fucking naive?’
She shook her head. As if the scope of his ignorance was impossible for her to grasp.
‘Our operation is sanctioned on the highest levels, and the Swedish police have instructions not to intervene out here. The only thing your call led to was a phone call from the Swedish Security Service to us. Sorry to disappoint you, George. This is how the war on terror is fought on the ground. So give me that fucking phone. Now.’
All of his hope evaporated instantly to be replaced by an almost paralyzing despair. But simultaneously something else took root in him. A fury, a frenzy as unexpected as it was liberating.
All of these layers of lies and secrets. All he had suffered in the past week. Was it really possible that these bastards could just do whatever they wanted? That there were absolutely no rules they had to abide by? No one to hold them accountable or ask what the hell they were doing?
Kirsten waved her hand impatiently.
‘Give it to me,’ she said.
‘No,’ he said and shook his head. His mouth was so dry the words almost stuck to his tongue.
‘What?’ said Kirsten. ‘What do you mean no?’
‘I will not give you the phone.’
He could barely breathe. She was going to kill him. One of them was going to kill him no matter what. Suddenly it felt extremely important not to play along anymore. To quit cooperating. Whether it made a difference or not.
George tried to swallow and forced his gaze away from the huge muzzle of the gun, up toward Kirsten’s face. A muscle twitched, barely noticeable under her left eye. The big mouth was no more than a line. The eyes small and focused.
‘Do you think that phone even matters anymore? You really are a bigger idiot than I imagined. Don’t you get it? Your death sentence has already been signed.’
Her voice trembled and slid. She blinked several times in succession. George braced himself. The adrenaline surged through him when he saw her grip tighten on the gun. Her index finger hooked around the trigger. The steel of the barrel was cold and heavy against his cheek. Something warm was spreading across his crotch; he had wet himself.
‘Close your eyes,’ she said.
Her voice cracked and a small trickle of sweat ran down her temple. George kept his eyes locked with hers. There was something there. Something he discerned through his haze of adrenaline, through his mortal terror. Something that wasn’t there before. A crack, a fracture, a hesitation. Even a seasoned hunter doesn’t like putting down a pet.
‘Shut your eyes, for fuck’s sake!’ she shouted.
‘No,’ whispered George.
A second, infinitely long. The only sound came from the storm. And George’s heart. Then a crackling in Kirsten’s earpiece. They both awoke from their shared trance, and she grabbed the earpiece to press the answer button.
She looked away from George for a split second.
What happened then was a result of mechanics. Of a desperate, inborn, overwhelming will to survive.
George threw himself to the side on the bed while simultaneously grabbing the barrel of the gun with his handcuffed hands and spinning it away from himself. Felt the blast of wind and the stinging pain of a bullet tearing off the outer tip of his right earlobe. There was a whistling inside his head, as if someone had turned the sound of his pulse up to max. Somewhere beside or below him he could hear Kirsten shrieking. They crashed down onto the floor. It felt like wrestling underwater, in zero gravity. George no longer knew what was up or down. What was thought and what was instinct. All he cared about was the barrel of the gun. All he saw was the muzzle.
He bent and pulled, twisted and punched. Another silent shot went off, the barrel warm from the explosion. George slapped the hand holding the gun toward what he assumed was the floor. It could just as well be the ceiling. Or the wall. The world was helter-skelter. A kaleidoscope.
Again: coughing. And then the hand holding the pistol let go. A drawn-out scream, somewhere beside him. Hands clawing him across the face, arms, and chest. Nails searching for his eyes. George managed to free his arms and raised them over his head. The barrel was still warm when he brought the butt down on what he assumed was Kirsten’s face. As hard as he could. First one time, and then another. Then a third time. The crunch of facial bones breaking. Like biting into gristle.
The attack against him subsided. Those strong arms lost their resolve. George raised the butt again. It was as if he were blind. Deaf. An organism focused solely on destroying its enemy. But the fog, the paralysis, gave way before he struck again. He was sitting on Kirsten’s chest. Her battered face. That slurping sound as she drew breath through broken bones, through blood. He looked away, and pushed himself up to his knees. His hand trembling, he rested the barrel of the gun against Kirsten’s forehead.
‘The keys,’ he said. ‘The keys to the handcuffs.’
Kirsten fumbled in the pocket of her cargo pants and a small bunch of keys fell with a jingle onto the wooden floor.
‘The keys to the other boat at the dock?’
Kirsten shook her head. ‘What the hell are you going to do? Rescue your princess? Who do you think you are? Rambo?’
Her voice was thick with strain, blood, defeat.
George didn’t hesitate a moment before turning the barrel away from Kirsten’s face and firing a shot into her thigh. He was surprised by the kickback and nearly fell backward. Kirsten screamed.
‘The keys to the boat,’ said George again.
Kirsten snorted, shook her head, growled like an animal.
‘In the cabinet beside the front door,’ she hissed. ‘You’d probably find them anyway.’
George got up and managed to remove the handcuffs. He didn’t dare to look at Kirsten, moaning on the floor. Was it really possible that he was responsible for all of this damage? He was filled with shame and anxiety. A woman. He had beaten a woman. A woman that he, until a few minutes ago, had at times almost had an amicable relationship with. With extreme effort, he forced those thoughts away and pulled the sheet off the bed. He methodically tore it into long, four-inch thick strips. Without looking at Kirsten, he laid them on the floor beside her.
‘You can wrap those around your wounds,’ he said.
Then he stood up, walked out the door, and locked it behind him.
Sankt Anna’s Outer Archipelago, Sweden
The persistent pounding on the door. The voice outside, torn apart by the wind. At first impossible to understand. Then, quite suddenly, completely clear. Klara felt her paralyzing terror ease.
‘Grandpa!’ she cried.
She turned to Gabriella with relief in her eyes.
‘It’s Grandpa! Oh my God!’
She put the gun on the floor and ran her hands over her face.
‘Holy shit, that was close,’ said Gabriella. ‘I thought we were going to… I don’t know what I thought.’
Klara had already jumped up and taken a few steps toward the door.
When she opened it, the wind caught it, and she had to fight to not be pulled out into the cold. The snow whipped in through the opening.
‘Grandpa!’ she screamed over the wind. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
Her grandfather was wearing his neon orange storm gear. A southwester that was so worn-out that it was almost black hung down over his eyes. Something flashed behind him. A second flashlight. Klara peered over his shoulder and glimpsed a dark silhouette in the darkness. Her grandfather grabbed hold of her elbow and gently led her back into the relative warmth of the cabin.
‘Klara,’ he said, calmly. ‘I was hoping you’d come visit us for Christmas.’
He gave her a tired, small smile as he took off his southwester and led them toward the stove. Christmas. Klara had completely repressed the fact that it was even December.
‘What?’ she said. ‘What day is it?’
‘The day before Christmas eve,’ said Grandpa. ‘Klara, sit down.’
She turned her head and saw that the other man—the silhouette—was moving, cautious and unsure, over the threshold. He, too, was dressed in storm gear, considerably more modern and technologically advanced than her grandfather’s. He sat a dark duffel bag down on the floor inside the door and remained standing.
‘Who is that?’ she said.
Her knuckles whitened around the butt of the rifle, her index finger resting on the trigger.
Grandpa unbuttoned his raincoat and let it fall onto the wooden floor.
‘To be honest, I don’t really know,’ he said. ‘But I’ve got my suspicions.’