A Death in Sweden(18)

Dan nodded subliminally, not sure how safe it was to admit to anything. She said they wanted information, but he had no way of knowing what the Swedes would do with it. Would they come after him if he admitted to it, would Patrick’s influence be enough to keep him in the clear?

His tone measured, he said, “I was under the impression Habibi disappeared on a visit to Paris, so surely not a Swedish problem?”

“He was a Swedish national.”

“On paper. This was a Swedish national who planned the firebombing of Jewish centers, who was planning a string of car bombs, all for the country that gave him refuge. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not taking a moral position but, secretly, your government must be a little bit happy he disappeared.”

“That’s not really the issue.” She looked perplexed for a moment, then said, “Look, we don’t intend to pursue you or make it a public matter if that’s what you’re worried about. We simply want to know what happened to him; if he’s still alive and, if so, where.”

Dan thought back to the hours he’d spent with Ahmad Habibi. A lot of the time he’d been calm and they’d talked about the state of affairs in the Middle East and elsewhere, about politics and history and religion. He’d had periods, though, coming on in waves, of getting emotional, even hysterical, pleading and crying, usually in the name of his children. It was amazing how many of the people he’d taken had pleaded on behalf of their children, usually men who’d shown a completely callous disregard for the children of others.

“I’m not admitting anything. In every sense, the disappearance of Ahmad Habibi was nothing to do with me. But I’ll tell you what I know to be true. The original plan was to take him in Stockholm. When he flew to France it was decided that would be easier. So he was picked up in Paris. He was flown from a private airstrip to a military airfield in Romania. From there he was taken to . . . a facility, to be interrogated. My understanding is he died of a heart attack on the second day.”

“What happened to the body?”

“Probably cremated,” said Dan, shrugging. “They did an autopsy, because having someone die like that isn’t what they want to happen, and it turned out he had a weak valve or something, that he would have dropped dead one day soon anyway.”

“Did you torture him?” It seemed to matter to her, and oddly he took some encouragement from that—an indication, perhaps, that she liked him?

“Interrogation isn’t my thing. And remember, I’m not admitting to involvement in any of this, but if I had been involved, my job would have ended when he was handed over to the facility.”

She sighed, and looked slightly thrown that he’d been so forthcoming, but said, “Thank you.”

He nodded, not entirely sure what he was being thanked for, or what this did to the dynamic between them. He was at least under the impression that she believed him, and she seemed more relaxed as a result, perhaps not yet seeing him entirely as a fellow traveler, but perhaps accepting that they were on the same side.

He tested the water by saying, “The guy who came here from Berlin, do you know how long he spent at the house?”

“Yes, Per went with him. He said maybe only forty minutes, quite a quick inspection, and he didn’t take anything away with him.”

“A long way to come for that.” He looked out of the window, trying to work out how many hours of daylight they had left. “We should get back over there, I suppose.”

She didn’t answer at first, but after a couple of beats, she said, “You don’t think we’ll find anything, do you?”

“Yeah, I do. It may not be what we’re looking for, but we’ll find something. No one can disappear completely.”

She smiled and said, “He did a pretty good job.”

And Dan had to concede that. It had been his mantra; no one could disappear completely, but the man who was not Jacques Fillon had done a pretty good job of it.





Chapter Eleven


Approaching through the woods, little more than a five-minute walk, the deserted property looked even more forlorn. Apart from being in good order, it was as if it had been empty for years, not just a couple of weeks. It somehow looked both aesthetically perfect and yet totally devoid of personality. Even their little cabin seemed to have more to say for itself than this house.

They stopped at the top of the wooden steps and turned to look out at the small clearing in which the house was set, the woods beyond already gathering up the darkness of the evening ahead. The stillness had an intensity about it that was unsettling, as if it was unsustainable, as if something dramatic or violent would surely have to happen here before long.

“I guess he didn’t get lonely,” said Inger as she looked up at the bleached-out blue of the sky.

“I hope not,” said Dan, knowing he’d go insane himself living in a place like this, no matter how strong the motive for running away from everyone.

Inger opened the door and they stepped into the even more profound silence of the house. Dan looked around, then opened a door down into the cellar.

“Okay, I guess we need to do our own search. How about I start in the cellar, you start upstairs, meet back on this floor?”

“It’s a good idea.”

He looked into the room that doubled as a library and said, “You think Per and his colleagues looked through all of those books?”