He stopped. Turned his head. Something had caught his attention, and his eyes turned toward the window. He sat a second longer before getting up and crossing the room with surprising speed and grace. He took a camouflage-colored rifle out of the duffel bag. There was a metallic sound as he loaded the magazine. A click when he attached a telescopic sight to its top. He unbuttoned his jacket. Pulled up his hood.
‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘Whatever you do, stay away from the windows.’
And with those words he slipped out the door and disappeared into the darkness.
‘What’s going on?’ whispered Gabriella.
Her grip of Klara’s hand had stiffened.
‘He heard it too,’ said Klara’s grandfather. ‘A motor. It sounds like there’s a boat approaching.’
Sankt Anna’s Outer Archipelago, Sweden
The sea grew rougher as George swerved around the island where he’d sought shelter. The waves got bigger and more powerful. He increased his speed and felt the sea lifting his small boat. Heard the sound of the propeller spinning in midair before the boat plunged down into the next wave. The compact darkness.
George had the dizzying sensation that he was very close to losing control. With a desperate flick of his wrist, he put the engine in neutral. The water swept in over the foredeck. The boat tilted and was pushed back by the storm. His maneuver had only made things worse. His panic increased with each attack from new waves. George pushed the throttle forward, waiting for it to take effect, and moved the wheel in the right direction. Or in what he thought was the right direction. The boat lurched, but it didn’t move forward.
When he was on the top of the cresting waves, he could discern what might be the island Klara was on. A faint, almost invisible glow might be coming from the window of a small cabin. It came closer with each wave. He couldn’t make out any details in the darkness. Just a black mass, in the middle of all the blackness.
Until it was right in front of him. He put the engine in reverse, pulled the throttle as hard as he could. Heard the hull scrape against the rocks. He could feel how completely irrelevant the engine had become in the driving sea. The waves turned the boat sideways and pressed it up against the jet-black rocks.
‘Fuck!’ shouted George.
The boat banged and scraped against the rocks. The screech of the propeller’s steel on granite cut through the storm.
‘Fuck!’
He released the wheel and threw himself down on the deck. Crawled on all fours through the icy water on the foredeck. He could feel the rocks scraping and dragging at the fiberglass hull. It was only a matter of minutes before they’d cut right through the boat. Lying flat, George threw one leg over the boat’s low rail. Stuck his right foot into a foaming wave and felt the slippery rock against the sole of his shoe. An inhuman cold. Around him was only blackness, foamy water, and darkness. The waves sucked the boat out, and he lost his footing before they tossed the boat into the rocks again.
He put his foot onto the slick stones once more, slipped, lost his footing, yet somehow managed to twist his body overboard. With a desperate grip on the railing, he swung his other foot out of the boat and into the sea. He felt his soles gliding helplessly over the sloping rocks. The current snatched hold of the boat and pulled it out. George pushed himself out and down into the water, thrusting the boat away with his hands. The waves crashed around him, the storm whistling and howling. He finally got a foothold on a flat ledge. Clawed and pulled to grab hold with his numb hands. Felt the rock cut into his fingers.
He kicked with his left foot and found a crevice at the waterline. Flat on his stomach he pushed himself up, up. His hands fumbling for a grip. The boat thundered into the rocks, just a few inches away from him. He could hear the sound of rocks cutting through the hull, felt frothy water beat against his legs as he finally got a firm grasp on the rocks and managed to pull himself higher up the cliff. Just below him the boat, gashes in its hull from the rocks, was twisting around in the waves and already half-filled with seawater.
At the foot of a windswept juniper, George lay on his stomach, trying to catch his breath. He was alive. But not much more than that. He turned his head upward, toward the little cabin.
And once again the small flame of hope inside him died.
In front of him in the snow squatted two black-clad men. Dark clothes, black ski masks. They were holding small automatic rifles, the barrels pointed straight at him.
‘George,’ Josh said. ‘You look like shit.’
Sankt Anna’s Outer Archipelago, Sweden
The boat was coming in from the wrong direction. From the north, with the waves angled in front of it. Through the night-vision binoculars, I watch as it disappears into the troughs and then reappears on the crests of the waves. I can hear the sound of the motor through the storm. It’s amateurish. More than that. It’s insane, suicidal. When the boat reaches the cliff, it will be crushed. That can’t be our enemies. Klara’s friend? He knows these islands, this storm. He would never come from that direction.
I squat down. It all rushes through me. The good intentions and the devastating results. The fear. The void. Everything we plan. All our strategies and long-term goals. All barriers and defenses. Everything we do to minimize risk, to anticipate it. Ultimately, it’s the unexpected, the inexplicable, the completely unforeseeable that destroys us.
There’s something in the air. Something more than the snow and the storm. I turn the binoculars toward the cliffs where the old man landed his boat effortlessly in the middle of the worst of it. I see only its stern. The rest lies behind the rocks. But there’s something more. A shadow, a silhouette. Pontoons or a hull. Maybe another boat? Perhaps our enemies are already here?
My pulse quickens. I lie flat and slide along the cliff, away from the cabin. Hugging the machine gun with my right hand, I brush away the wet snow. Somewhere on the rocks, I hear the sound of a boat colliding with the granite. Hear someone shout twice. Like a bird crying through the storm.
I slither in a circle. If our enemies are already here, they too will be following the progress of this boat. Waiting to see what the unpredictable will mean for them. The small island is smooth and without mercy. Only a few stones, some shrubs, offer protection. I point my night-vision binoculars in the direction the sound came from. I see the boat, battered by the waves. Above it a figure is struggling to get up the cliff. Someone is climbing and slipping in the slushy snow.
‘Who are you?’ I whisper to myself.
The man grabs hold, pushing himself up from the waterline, up to safety. Lies flat on the mountain, perhaps catching his breath. He looks soaked. Frozen. Shipwrecked. After a moment, he turns his face upward and seems to stiffen. He’s only about twenty yards away from me. What can he see that I can’t? I move my binoculars up along the smooth rock. A couple of shrubs. A crevice in the rock. A movement, several movements. My hand cramps around the rifle.
Someone detaches himself from the shadows. A black figure. A hood over his head. Bent by the wind but with a gun at his shoulder. Behind him, another figure. No more? There must be another group.
But right now there are only two. That’s all I know. And a third, an unknown. Is this my chance? The only thing I have is the element of surprise. Were it not for the man from the boat, they’d have taken us inside the cabin. How do I make the best use of this chance? The never-ending estimations. Calculations. The probability.
I pull the gun closer. Prop it up against my shoulder. It’s been a long time since I found myself in a situation like this. I exhale. Blink to see more clearly in the snow. In front of me the black-clad man raises his weapon, pointing at the figure lying flat, helpless, on the cliff. The sound of the shot bounces off the rocks and disappears into the storm, into the snow.
Sankt Anna’s Outer Archipelago, Sweden
George closed his eyes. Laid his head against the rock, felt its cold wetness against his frozen cheek. Felt the snow swirling over him. It had all been in vain. Everything. It was too late.
‘Dear God,’ he whispered. ‘Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me.’
He saw Klara’s face in front of him. Saw Kirsten’s broken cheekbone and nose. Why hadn’t he acted sooner? From the corner of his eye he saw Josh get up and move toward him. The gun against his shoulder. Josh wouldn’t make the same mistake as Kirsten.
‘So you escaped the house?’ said Josh. ‘Unbelievable. I didn’t think you had it in you. What did you do with Kirsten?’
George said nothing. He barely even heard Josh’s voice. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing.
‘Never mind,’ said Josh. ‘We don’t have time for this right now. Bye, bye, George.’
The sound of the shot. Strangely muffled by the storm. Torn by the wind. There was a flash in front of George’s eyes. He waited for the pain. Waited for the light, the calm. For the world to cease to exist.
But the only thing he heard was the storm. All he felt was the snow against one cheek and the wet cliff against the other. Confused, he opened his eyes and turned his head toward Josh. But Josh wasn’t there.
Instead, a body lay on the cliff. Something dark seemed to be leaking out of its head onto the wet snow. Blood. The second black-clad person had thrown himself into the cover of the precipice, where they must have been hiding when George climbed over the cliff. The man was holding his hand to one ear and screaming something. Maybe he was making radio contact with Reiper.
What had happened? Someone else had fired the shot. George blinked his eyes, got up on all fours, rolled to the side. The world came to life around him.
The other man stood with his back to George, looking up toward the island, over the edge of the cliff. George fumbled around in the pocket of his oilskin coat. Finally he got hold of the gun. His hand was so cold he could barely move his fingers, and he had to force them around the silencer on Kirsten’s gun. It got stuck in the lining and George pulled so hard that part of it tore and came out with the gun. He fumbled with the gun, dropped it on the cliff, but grabbed hold of it again before it slid down into the waves. It felt big and clumsy in his hands. Surreal. Everything felt surreal.
In the darkness, George only sensed where the other man was, although he couldn’t be more than thirty feet away. Who was it? Chuck? Sean? Those weren’t their real names. The man seemed to turn his head, as unsure as George was about what had happened. The pistol was heavy in George’s hands. He was lying on his stomach and his fingers were frozen as they held up the pistol, aiming it at the dark silhouette. He forced away all thoughts of guilt, or consequences. Focused on survival. Only that. And then he pulled the trigger.
One, two, three barking shots. Barely audible in the storm. The man screamed, slumped behind the stone, behind the low bush.
Shaking with cold and shock, George crept up the hill. He made a wide arc around the stone the man lay behind. Up toward the little cabin.
Sankt Anna’s Outer Archipelago, Sweden
In the end it comes down to chance. The banality of battle. I sit on my haunches. Raise my night-vision binoculars toward the rocks. See the body in the snow. See the man from the sea lying on the cliff, fire a gun, get up on his knees. He’s armed. Friend or foe. Chance. I get up, but keep my back arched, make myself small. I can’t let him make it to the cottage. Can’t take the risk. I take a few quick steps. Worry makes me careless.
I know before I feel the pain. Like I always know. Like I have always known. That bonds are deadly. That it’s not the lies, but the truth that threatens our existence. Then suddenly the pain. Somewhere in the stomach region. Somewhere in the back. Intense and completely deadly. And I slip in the snow on the rocks. Spin and fall. Then pain again. In my shoulder, in my hand. Time ceases.
This is how it ends.
I lie on my back. The snow falls on my face. I open my eyes and see his shadow, crouching beside me. The pale scar on his cheek glows in the dark. The rifle rests on his lap. He doesn’t even look surprised.
‘I thought they gave you a desk job?’ he says.
I don’t say anything. Feel the blood filling my mouth. Spit it out to the side. I knew it was him. Even though Susan didn’t want to say his name, one of his names. We look at each other. We are still in Kurdistan, Afghanistan. This is how it ends.
‘Susan sent you?’ he asks.
I don’t say anything.
‘You shot one of my men,’ he says.
Nothing left to lose. Nothing to gain. I nod. Spit blood, but my mouth refills. I let it run over my lips.
‘It didn’t need to be this way,’ I say.
My voice is muffled, wheezy, so full of blood and death that I can hardly understand myself. But he’s used to listening to dying confessions. He leans closer.
‘What way?’ he says.
My body is so heavy. So heavy that it falls through the snow, through the cliff. At the same time it’s so light. So light that when I close my eyes, I swirl upward, becoming part of the snow, the storm. Disappearing. Lighter than the flakes, lighter than the wind. A body of helium. A body of lead. Above the clouds, the sky is pale blue. At every crossroads, I chose to run. And now it’s too late. There’s nothing left that can save my soul.
When I open my eyes, he’s starting to stand up. He is enormous in the darkness. I’m insignificant now. Not part of his mission. A coincidence. Something unpredictable that he’s handled and then left behind. I cough. Forcing the words through the blood.
‘She doesn’t have to die.’
It takes superhuman effort. I’m drowning in my own blood. Somewhere far away, I hear his voice.
‘You haven’t changed,’ he says. ‘That was always your problem. Your bleeding heart.’
I force my head to the side to be able to see him. It’s so incredibly difficult to open my eyes. At the same moment, I hear a crack. Dull and distinct like a controlled explosion. In a strange, cold light, I see him lift off the ground. Watch him fly, momentarily weightlessly, through the storm. I see him land in the snow. Spread out, still.