The Swimmer (37 page)

Sankt Anna’s Outer Archipelago, Sweden

‘Put these rain clothes on,’ said Klara.

From a worn wooden crate standing just inside the door, she pulled a bundle of old turpentine-scented, yellow rubber and threw it to Gabriella. Klara had already put on some boots and a pair of rubber pants so big they made her look like a child. Gabriella unwrapped the bundle and started pulling on a pair of worn pants.

‘It’s definitely a boat,’ said Klara’s grandfather.

Despite the American’s advice, he was standing on his knees, peering out the window, into the night. The sound of the approaching boat grew louder.

‘Well I’ll be damned, what sorta lunatic would come in with the wind at his aft.’

Grandpa turned and scrutinized Klara, who was buttoning up her raincoat, the hood already pulled down far over her forehead.

‘What do you have in mind, Klara?’ he said. ‘You’re not gonna run after our American friend, are you?’

Klara adjusted the sleeves of her coat. When she was satisfied, she bent down and opened the cardboard box of shotgun shells. She took out a handful and stuffed them into her pockets.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But it’s good to be prepared. We need to be ready to get out of here on short notice.’

She cracked open the shotgun and checked to see that it was still loaded. Then she turned to her grandfather and hesitated for a second.

‘Grandpa,’ she said at last. ‘You said you were absolutely certain that this man knew my mother.’

Klara’s grandfather turned to her. He looked tired. Outside, the sound of the engine was growing louder and louder.

‘What was it that made you so sure?’

Before her grandpa could reply they heard a crashing, grinding sound below the house. Her grandfather turned back toward the window.

‘What was that?’ whispered Gabriella.

‘The boat’s gone aground on those rocks,’ said Klara’s grandfather.

Reflexively, Gabriella moved toward the window, crouching. She could just make out the snow falling, the contours of the nearest bushes. A cliff. There—a movement down by the waterline. But maybe it was her imagination. The subsiding wind was still howling. You could hear the sound of the boat crashing against the cliff. And maybe, in the distance, a voice. Before Gabriella could say anything, a muffled bang cut through the storm.

‘What was that?’ she said.

Somewhere a voice screamed and fell silent. Gabriella turned to Klara. But all she saw was the front door slamming shut.

Sankt Anna’s Outer Archipelago, Sweden

The wind had dropped slightly. And the snowfall had increased. Klara stood with her back against the cabin wall. The shotgun, cold in her hands. Thoughts racing as fast as her heart. What was happening? She gently lifted the small flashlight she had found in the kitchen.

That was when she heard it. Dampened by wind and snow: rapid footsteps. Then a scraping and a thud. As if someone ran and then stumbled and fell on the rock. She sank down on one knee. The shotgun against her shoulder. Both the flashlight and barrel in her left hand. Someone was coughing, wheezing, spitting. Something that sounded like a voice. Perhaps ten yards away. Not farther. On the other side of the house. Then another voice. Labored, whispering. Klara exhaled. Inhaled. It was all or nothing.

She turned on the flashlight and spun around the corner of the cabin. Still squatting, with her left knee on the snow, on the cliff. The butt of the rifle against her shoulder. The barrel and the beam from the flashlight pointing straight toward the place where the sounds were coming from. Time stood still.

The light caught three people. Two men dressed in black. One was squatting and one was standing up. On the ground lay the American. Dark blood on white snow.

Someone said something. All sounds seemed delayed, drawn out, impossible to connect or make sense of. The standing man held up a hand, blinded by the light from the flashlight. Everything moved slowly, as if under water. She focused on the man who was squatting beside the American. His face. The scar. The gray hair hidden under a black cap. Eyes that glittered in the light.

It took an eternity for the man with the scar to point the muzzle of his small machine gun at her. An eternity for the other man to raise his weapon. Klara squeezed the trigger and felt the recoil push her backward.

Then the world returned to normal speed. The bang from the gun was deafening. The man with the scar was thrown backward onto the snow-spotted rock and landed awkwardly at the foot of a barren and lone little juniper.

Behind her Klara heard a mechanical coughing. Three times, four, five. Then a clicking sound. When she turned to point the flashlight in that direction, she saw the man who had just been standing up lying on his back in the snow. Klara heard ragged breathing somewhere behind her. A faint moaning. Feet staggering over snow and rock. She turned cautiously in the direction of the sound, back toward the cabin. She ran the flashlight along the side of the cabin until the light finally landed on a strange apparition. The man was tall and slim. His face was full of wounds and peeling tape. His lips were blue with cold. In his hand he held a dark gray gun with a long cylinder attached to it. The man dropped the gun in the snow and slumped against the wall. Closed his eyes.

Klara fumbled with the shotgun, unsure where she should point it.

‘Who are you?’ she said.

She turned the shotgun on the man, took aim, hesitated. She leaned forward. There was something familiar about that broken face.

She took a step toward him. The man held up his hands in defense.

‘George,’ he said. ‘George Lööw.’

Klara stopped, shaking her head. Her ears were ringing from the shot. The wind whipped the snow into her face. George Lööw? Was that really what he’d said?

‘Where the hell did you come from?’ she said.

George just shrugged and stared dumbly in front of him. Klara hesitated and turned to the American lying in the snow.

‘Are you okay?’ she said to George while moving toward the American.

‘I’m okay. I think.’

George’s voice was hollow.

Klara leaned over the American, let the light from her flashlight move across his body. There was blood everywhere, too much blood. His eyes were closed but his lips were moving, barely. Blood was running out of the corner of his mouth. Klara put her ear to his mouth, smelled the scent of blood, the stench of death.

‘I couldn’t protect you.’

The man’s voice was so weak, so thick.

‘Don’t give them what they want.’

He fell silent. Closed his eyes and opened them again. Klara was quiet. Stroking him gently, hesitantly on his forehead.

‘Don’t give them what they want. You can’t trust them.’

Klara struggled to stay upright, fought to remain in control of her body. She felt her hands shaking and shivering, tears welling up in her eyes.

‘It’ll be okay.’

It was all she could say. It meant nothing. Nothing was going to be okay.

Suddenly the American opened his eyes wider. Klara felt him struggling to get up, to lean in closer. His eager voice was so thick with blood and death that Klara couldn’t make out what he was trying to say.

‘Ssh,’ she said. ‘Easy, easy…’

She leaned over him and placed his head back in the snow. She positioned her ear over his mouth, feeling the dryness of his lips against her earlobe.

‘There is more,’ he mumbled.

‘More of what?’ Klara whispered.

Blood was bubbling over the American’s lips. He tried to spit and then to swallow.

‘Not only…’

He lay back on cliff and, grappling for strength, closed his eyes.

‘Not only torture,’ he mumbled finally. ‘Too much… All this… It’s too much. Killings. Look for something more. Something that… they can’t explain away. Something undeniable.’

Klara didn’t know what to say. She just held his head, just stroked his cheek. And then he opened his eyes again. Saw right into her, right through her.

‘Your mother,’ whispered the American. ‘She loved you. More than anything.’

Then, only silence. Only the wind. Only snow. Klara took his hand in hers. His knotted fist. Frozen. His mouth opened. His eyes glassy, empty. Klara forced open the fist to hold his hand. Something fell out of his hand into the snow. She fumbled for it. The silver was unexpectedly warm. With frozen fingers she pried open the little locket.

Sankt Anna’s Outer Archipelago, Sweden

George sat on the foredeck of the small open boat and looked around. The night was still pitch-black. The storm had died down, but the boat heaved and jumped in the swells. He had only partial memories of how he got here. Impressions, a dream. After his boat crashed against the rocks, he had only scattered, fragmentary recollections of fear and cold. He noted that he had dry clothes on. Two huge blankets over his shoulders and legs. He was still shivering, but not in the uncontrollable way he had before.

‘So, you’re still alive.’

George turned his head. Klara was sitting next to him on the deck, leaning against the steering console. In the dark, it looked like she was wearing the same yellow rain gear he vaguely remembered from what seemed like several days ago. George nodded.

‘Where are we?’

George shouted to be heard over the wind and the boat’s engine. The snow swirled around them, mingling with the images flashing in front of his eyes. Muzzles. Kirsten’s battered face. The coldness of the cliff. The gun jerking in his hands. The hacking sound of the shots he fired. He pushed away any thought of the consequences of his actions. The falling bodies. He shook his head, as if to clear it.

‘My grandfather’s boat,’ replied Klara.

She leaned closer to him to avoid shouting.

‘You were really knocked out. Grandpa had an extra set of clothes for you. Then you fell asleep for a while here on the deck. You don’t remember?’

He shook his head.

‘What happens now?’ he said.

Klara shrugged.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘You’ve got quite a bit of explaining to do.’

George turned toward her, the unreality of the past week hitting him with full force. He buried his face in his hands.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Sorry?’ said Klara. ‘I think you saved my life. All of our lives. If you hadn’t shown up in the boat out there, we would’ve been executed, I guess.’

George shook his head. He pulled the blanket tighter around him and turned to Klara. He could barely make out her face in the darkness.

‘But there’s so much more than that,’ he said. ‘If it weren’t for me, you never would have ended up in the middle of all this. I was working for them, for the Americans. I was the one who installed the bug in your offices, it was me—’

‘Who sent me the text message in Paris, right?’ interrupted Klara.

George nodded. ‘Well, sure. But you have no idea what I exposed you to. What I exposed myself to.’

Klara spat over the rail.

‘It doesn’t matter now,’ she said. ‘What’s done is done. We still have to find a way to get ourselves out of this.’

A silhouette broke away from the darkness in the boat’s stern and came crouching over to them. Another girl in an oversize yellow raincoat. George turned around and saw an older man sitting at the steering console just behind him. The man raised his hand in greeting. In the dark, it looked like he was smiling.

‘So you’re awake?’ the girl said to George.

‘Guess so,’ he muttered.

She kept one hand on the railing and sat down on the deck in front of him.

‘My name is Gabriella,’ she said. ‘I’m Klara’s friend and for the moment also her lawyer. Before we continue, I’d like to suggest that you allow me to represent you as well.’

In spite of everything, George felt his lips curling into an approximation of a smile.

‘You lawyers. Fucking vultures,’ he said. ‘You never miss an opportunity to sell your wares.’

In the darkness, he couldn’t be sure, but it looked like Gabriella was smiling.

‘My rates are very affordable. Pro bono in fact,’ she said. ‘But you and Klara need someone to speak for you. If I’m your lawyer no one can force me to reveal where you are, and so on. Our plan now is to have Klara’s grandfather take you to another hideout. I have a contact at Säpo that I’ll try to sort this out with. Does that work for you?’

George nodded.

‘What choice do I have?’ he said.

‘Good,’ said Gabriella. ‘We’ll take care of the formalities later. I know it’s late and that what you’ve been through is insane, but I have to ask you to tell me everything you know about the people who’ve been hunting Klara. It’s likely that she, and maybe you too, will be prosecuted for a lot of things. They can threaten to extradite you to the US. Right now it feels like what you and Klara know is our only chance of getting you out of all this.’

George cleared his throat and turned to Klara again.

‘How much do you know, Klara?’ he said. ‘What is this all about?’

Gabriella put her hand on Klara’s shoulder before she could start telling him.

‘Believe me, George,’ said Gabriella. ‘Right now it’s better that you don’t know all the details. But if I’m going to fix this in some way I need to know everything.’

George nodded. He slipped a hand out of the blanket and wiped the melting snow off of his face before turning to Gabriella.

‘Okay,’ he said in a voice loud enough to drown out the engine and the sea. ‘So here’s the deal.’

And then he told them. About Reiper. About Merchant & Taylor and the dinner at Comme chez Soi. About the house on Avenue Molière and the night Reiper forced him to cooperate. He told them about his time at Gottlieb and the confidential agreements Reiper had shown him. He told them about breaking into Klara’s office and about Kirsten and Josh. About the private plane and Arkösund. About his emergency call. About how he’d almost been executed, but instead overpowered Kirsten. About his whole terrible night, which seemed so distant but wasn’t even over yet.