Read Online MemoRandom: A Thriller by Anders de La Motte - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anders de La Motte
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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 CI.”
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 CI? 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!”
SIX
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; he 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 andseemed to enjoy being the center 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
“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 CI.”
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 CI? 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!”
SIX
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; he 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 andseemed to enjoy being the center 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
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