A Death in Sweden(17)

Dan didn’t move, an unexpected inertia rendering him immobile, perhaps because of finding himself embedded in this depth of peace when, in truth, his life was in turmoil. He stood in the middle of that big room, acutely aware of the hollowness in the air, of the underlying silence, of time paused.

For some reason it made him think of Ramon Martinez again, of him ambling along that sunny Spanish street with his boy. That in turn made him think of his own son, but that was where the daydream broke down. And Martinez now knew what Dan had known for years, that it could all be snatched away in a moment.

The sudden appearance of Inger in the doorway brought him back slowly, and he smiled at her as if from a long way away. She was carrying a tray with coffee pot and mugs, but hesitated when she saw him.

“I’m sorry, are you tired? I guess you’ve had a long journey.”

“No, I’m fine, a little out of it, that’s all.”

“You prefer to get some sleep?”

“No, seriously, I’m good.” He moved over to the sitting area and she followed, putting the tray on the coffee table. They sat down opposite each other and she leaned forward and poured the coffee as he said, “The last few weeks have been pretty hectic, the last few days particularly so. Being here is just a bit of a . . . well, it’s a bit like an out-of-body experience.”

She laughed a little and handed him his coffee, saying, “Sugar, cream?”

“No, this is fine, thanks.”

“You were hectic on a job?”

He studied her face. Did she not know what had been happening? She knew about his background, he was now certain of that, but it was quite possible the other intelligence agencies hadn’t fully caught up with what had been going on these last few weeks or months.

“Yeah, I was on a job, but . . . there are other things too.” He paused, and said, “Just how much do you know about me, Inger?”

She put her own coffee mug down and said, “I know you were in MI6 for a few years. I was curious about that, why you applied there and not CIA.”

“SIS approached me, that’s the only reason. I’m not the applying kind.”

“So why did you leave?”

“Well, I guess for me the key things were the money, the glamor, the excitement, and once I realized there wasn’t any, I got out.”

She laughed again, but said, “So you went to Blackwater . . .” The laughter had seemed genuine, and the curiosity personal as much as professional, as if she’d read his file and was trying to see how it fit with the person in front of her.

“And others, but for some years I’ve worked for myself. And I’m sure you know that for most of that time I contracted primarily for the CIA.”

“Yet now you’re working against them?”

“I work for whoever’s paying.”

He noticed a hardness creep into her expression in response to that—so she didn’t like the mercenary aspect of his career. She picked up her coffee and sipped at it, looking down to her cup rather than meeting his gaze. He’d met a lot of people over the years who disapproved of the way he earned a living and it had never much mattered to him in the past—he wasn’t sure why it bothered him with Inger, but he wanted her to at least see the full picture before judging him.

“Inger, you may not know about this yet, but a CIA office in Berlin is overseeing the liquidation of a lot of the specialists who’ve worked for them this last decade. I’ve lost five friends recently, nearly lost another a few days back. They want me dead too. So yes, I am now working against the CIA.”

She finally looked up at him again, but didn’t give away how much of that had been news to her. Her thoughts appeared to snag, though, and she said, “The guy who came to look at Jacques Fillon’s house, he came from Berlin.”

“From the same office. That’s why I’m here. Patrick White ran people like me before his move to the ODNI. He doesn’t like what’s happening, doesn’t like this Berlin outfit or the person running it. He’s hoping Jacques Fillon’s story might be the material he needs to undermine them. That’s why I’m here. I need to find out who he was, why he disappeared and what, if anything, he had on these people.”

She nodded and said, “Thank you for being candid.”

He smiled, touched in some way by the odd choice of words, then said, “How about you being straight with me?” She looked confused. “First off, are you keeping the CIA informed about this?”

“Not as far as I know. The order to offer every assistance to Patrick White came from very high up.” He didn’t respond. “There was something else?”

“Yeah, I was wondering why they sent someone from head office, instead of from Ume?. And I was thinking that you knew I was lying when I said I’d never been to Sweden before. And then I was thinking I’m maybe not the only one with a mixed motive for being here.”

She stared at him for a few seconds before finally saying, “It’s a priority for us to identify Jacques Fillon, and the involvement of the ODNI is quite unusual.” He didn’t acknowledge the point, just stared back, and eventually she said, “You’re right. Or partly right. I assume you’ve been to Sweden before because we believe you’re responsible for the disappearance of Ahmad Habibi a few years ago. And Jacques Fillon is the reason I’m here, but it’s a bonus if I come away from this with information about Habibi.”