Read Online The Swede by Robert Karjel - Free Book Online

the heavy-bottomed glasses of Jack Daniel’s, he’d be lucky to do five. The type who thought he knew the Middle East, who liked to drown out everyone else by saying what his Arab friends thought whenever he heard arguments he didn’t like. Friends who in fact were mostly businessmen from Beirut and Riyadh, whose sons already went to private schools in the United States and who hoped their useful American contacts would help them get out when everything collapsed and the jihadists took over. These days, you bumped into Stackhouse types all over the world. A dime a dozen.
    All three were back in the room. Stackhouse sat on the table next to the television screen, holding a cup of iced coffee. He called Grip by his first name and talked about the food that the man in the cell could soon look forward to. How the prisoner would be able to shower the next day. It gave Grip the feeling that someone had captured a rare animal and got stuck taking care of it.
    “He answers when spoken to?” asked Grip.
    “That was a long time ago, Ernst.”
    “When?”
    “Several months ago.” Stackhouse looked down at the TV picturewhenever sounds of movement broke the silence through the speaker. Only when the picture was still and the sound had stopped did he look up again. “He spoke English, in case you’re wondering.”
    “With an accent, any accent?”
    “No one who attended the sessions was trained to determine that.”
    “Trained to determine . . .” Grip let it go. “Is he a Muslim?” he asked instead.
    “We haven’t noticed anything that would suggest that.”
    “So what have you noticed?”
    Stackhouse looked at him blankly.
    “What do you know about him?” Grip repeated.
    “He has dark hair.”
    “Colombian, perhaps,” suggested Grip. He gestured toward the photographs on the table. “No one can tell anything about him, not from these.” Neither Stackhouse nor Friedman looked at the images. “Half his face is bruised. He was still bloody when those pictures were taken. He could be Portuguese or he could damn well be Japanese. Christ!”
    Stackhouse spun his cup so that the ice cubes rattled around in the coffee. “We have very reliable intelligence, Ernst—”
    “That may be true,” interrupted Grip. “And I look forward to receiving it.”
    Stackhouse continued to spin his cup. The man on the bunk lay motionless with his back to the camera. A cautious silence filled the room.
    “You want me to interrogate him?” said Grip eventually.
    Shauna responded first. “We are offering you the chance to find out if he is one of yours.”
    “Mine?”
    “If he is Swedish.”
    Grip humphed.
    “Shouldn’t you take the opportunity to go in to him?” asked Stackhouse, chewing on a piece of ice.
    “Not today.”
    Stackhouse shrugged.
    A moaning sigh could be heard through the speaker. As Friedman signaled that they were leaving, Grip noticed cool air blowing in through a vent behind him. That and the prisoner’s moan made him ask, “How hot is it in there?”
    “Hot enough,” said Stackhouse.
    Friedman turned, her hand on the door handle, and Grip felt her gaze from the side.
    “Is the air-conditioning even on?” he asked.
    “He refuses to talk.” Stackhouse looked at the last ice cube, which spun on the bottom of his cup. Then he glanced up again, satisfied at having given the perfect response.
    “Brilliant,” said Grip. “His mind is frying. It’s unbearable in there.”
    “Not unbearable enough, apparently. All privileges are available to him, it’s a simple question of cooperation.” Stackhouse crumpled his paper cup and tossed it over the top of the desk. “There’s water in there. He can drink as much as he wants.”
    Grip looked at him and then turned to Friedman. “If you want me to cooperate at all, turn on the air-conditioning.” He opened the door and went out.
    Friedman lingered in the doorway. The door swung closed again, but it was too thin to block out her short “Damn it!”
    A