A Death in Sweden(29)
He reached up without thinking and wiped the tear away, then immediately took a step backwards. “Sorry, I . . .”
She ignored the apology and said, “She would have been a year older than me, but I don’t know why I find it so sad. Maybe just the thought of her being in the studio, you know, working towards something, creating, and then that. It’s so cruel, unbearably so.”
He wasn’t sure what to say, but didn’t need to say anything, because they both turned in response to an indistinct sound and saw Mr. Eklund walking along the track, carrying the dinner tray with his effortless and loose-limbed gait.
Inger said something under her breath in Swedish, something affectionate, brought on by the sight of the old man. And Dan understood the sentiment even if he hadn’t understood or even heard the words properly, because it was reassuring after a day like they’d had, to be reminded that there were good things in the world, and good people, simple food cooked well, strangers sharing their kindness indiscriminately. Dan had been outside that virtuous circle himself for most of his adult life, but he was grateful to be inside it now.
It was only when they were sitting down over their meal that Inger went back to the story of Sabine Merel, though she’d put the poignancy of her death to one side and was business-like again, focusing on the case.
“Did you read anything at all that might have suggested a link with Brabham?”
“Nothing. She was from . . .” He struggled to remember the name of her home town. “Limoges, I think. I don’t know what her parents did, but I couldn’t see any suggestion that they moved in the kind of circles where they might have encountered the CIA’s Paris station chief.”
“So what will you do?”
“There has to be a connection. I’ll find out if Patrick can tell me anything about Redford, and if Sabine Merel’s murder means anything to him. Then I guess I need to do what both the Paris police and Jack Redford failed to do; find out who killed her and why.”
He laughed at the enormity of it, the suggestion that he could find truths in a couple of weeks that had eluded even Jack Redford in all his years of searching.
She laughed too, and said, “How much time did you say you had?”
He nodded, accepting the point, but said, “Look, first off, Redford undoubtedly knew more than he had up on those boards—he knew there was a link and was just looking for a way of proving it. Second, he was in hiding, and that limited what he could do.”
“You’re kind of in hiding too.”
“True, but I haven’t quite become Jacques Fillon yet. So I visit her parents, I visit the friends she lived with, the Algerian, anyone else I can find. Remember, I don’t have to prove anything, I don’t have to make it stand up in court, I just need to find the trail that leads back to Brabham, and I need to keep moving while I do it.”
“And if you fail? You must have some other option for escaping this . . . all these killings.”
All these killings. Just as with the murder of Sabine Merel, the mention of the killings did nothing to evoke the reality of what had happened to those people. But unlike Sabine, Dan and his colleagues had at least lived in that world and had done their own share of killing. It gave them choices, albeit limited.
“There are always options, but none as good as this, and the odds are no better either.” She took in what he said, and swigged at her beer, then Dan said, “So what about you? I guess this is essentially case closed for you? You found out about Habibi, you found out who Jacques Fillon was.”
“Habibi wasn’t important—we just wanted to know what happened to him.”
“And the rest?”
“I’m not sure. Our interest was more than the identity of Jacques Fillon, and given what we found . . . I don’t know. I’ll have to speak to my superior. Maybe I’m done after tomorrow.”
Dan nodded and said, “Well, it’s only been a couple of days, but I’ve enjoyed working with you.”
“Me too. It wasn’t . . .” She stopped herself. He raised his eyebrows, a little mock curiosity, and she said, “As you know already, I read a little about you before coming up here, and yes, it’s only been a couple of days, but you weren’t how I expected.”
Teasing, he said, “In a good way?”
She smiled, saying, “In a good way.”
She didn’t need to spell it out. Dan knew how he read on paper, and she probably hadn’t seen the half of it. He’d spent years working the edge, no rules of engagement, a ruthless focus on getting the job done, no matter what the cost. The only distinction between him and the monsters he’d taken down was the legitimacy of being paid by the winning side.
Or at least, he’d been part of the winning side back then—he had no idea which side he was on now. And he wouldn’t discover the answer to that question until he got back out into the world, to see how far Jack Redford would take him, and how much protection his secret afforded.
Chapter Eighteen
Per drove them to Lule? the following afternoon and they flew back to Stockholm. Patrick wasn’t flying in until early the following morning, so Dan thought Inger might suggest getting together for dinner, but instead she gave him the address of a café and suggested meeting the following afternoon to brief each other on developments.