A Death in Sweden(31)

They’d reached the landing point and a little white ferry was slowly working its way across the harbor towards them. Dan looked around as they stood there, but there was no one else about.

“What happened to him?”

“Dead. He had a place in Paris. About fifteen years ago he went missing, and maybe two weeks later they found his body floating in the Seine.”

“Murdered?”

“There were all kinds of rumors at the time. One was that he’d been asked to infiltrate the DGSE headquarters in Paris for us, that he’d been caught, that the French killed him. The French denied there’d been a breakin, understandably, and if we sanctioned an operation like that, I never met anyone who knew about it. I was in Moscow at the time.”

“And Bill Brabham was in Paris.”

Patrick looked at him in response, intrigued, but neither of them said any more for the time being because the ferry was maneuvering into position. Once they were on the deck and it pulled away again, Patrick looked at Dan, his expression alone inviting him to explain.

Dan nodded, looking out across the harbor as he said, “I don’t know whose body they fished out of the Seine, but it wasn’t Jack Redford’s and someone must have known that.” As an aside he added, “What happened to the body?”

Patrick shrugged and said, “He didn’t have any family. I don’t know what they did with it.”

“Just as well. Because the real Jack Redford changed his name to Jacques Fillon and moved to northern Sweden, where a few weeks ago he died in a bus crash.”

For a good few seconds, Patrick stared at him in complete silence, the ferry rocking over the choppy water, the wind buffeting them. But although Patrick wasn’t speaking, he was obviously thinking, and the pieces were falling together quickly.

“So the DGSE story could be true, or at least, he did some kind of job for Brabham, realized he was in danger. That’s why Brabham sent someone up there.”

“I don’t know if he was working for Brabham or if Brabham was the subject. But we discovered that Redford’s been working for the last twelve years to find evidence that would bring down Brabham, and his family. It seems he believed Bill was responsible for something, and I’m guessing he was right—the guy who went up there obviously went to see if there was any evidence.”

“But there wasn’t?”

“No. What we did get were some leads. It might help if you can get me some of the details for the people on this list.”

He handed a piece of paper over which Patrick studied before putting it in his inside pocket, quickly pulling his overcoat back around him.

“The parents of a Sabine Merel in Limoges. Brabham’s home and office. It all seems very eclectic.”

“It is, and I don’t even know how much of it’ll be useful. See, around the same time that Redford went missing, an art student living in Paris was murdered. Her name was Sabine Merel, and we’re working on the assumption that Redford believed Bill Brabham to be responsible for her death.”

Patrick nodded, deep in thought, assimilating everything he’d heard. What was most striking to Dan, though, was his response to hearing what should have been an outlandish suggestion, that the CIA’s Paris station chief might have been involved in the murder of an innocent nineteen-year-old student. Patrick knew Bill Brabham, had known him for years, and he hadn’t objected to the theory. Far from it—he hadn’t even seemed surprised.





Chapter Nineteen


By the time the ferry was heading back to Skeppsholmen, Dan could feel the cold getting through to his bones and Patrick was stamping about and bracing himself in a good-natured way, as if the cold were something that had to be endured for sport.

They were still some way off the island when Dan thought he spotted a guy in a padded jacket and a beanie hat, watching them from the path that ran around the shore. It could have just been someone watching the ferry, but something about him had caught Dan’s attention.

And at the same time, as if being aware that he’d been spotted himself, the guy turned and walked away. Somehow, the speed with which he disappeared from view also suggested more intent than Dan might have expected from a sightseer. Patrick didn’t appear to have noticed anything, though that didn’t mean he hadn’t.

As the ferry made its final approach, Patrick said, “So what’s next?”

“Help out with some of those details if you can. And if there’s anyone from the DGSE who you think might be able to help . . .”

Patrick frowned, but said, “There might be one person from around that time. He’s a former Legionnaire, so I might be able to use Benoit Claudel’s murder to make him play ball.”

“Good,” said Dan, liking the way he was thinking. “I aim to prove a link, and if I can get evidence, all the better. You staying in Europe for the time being?”

“I’ll be around.” He thought for a second and said, “How did you get along with Inger Bengtsson?”

“Okay. She’s smart, focused. Apart from the fact I’m not her type, what’s not to like?”

Patrick laughed, but then looked distracted for a moment before saying, “So you wouldn’t mind her remaining involved in some way?” Dan looked askance, wanting to know what this was about. “The complexities of alliances and old friends, favors. The Swedes feel they have a stake in this. I can’t really deny them that—they’ve been very helpful—but if you can live with Inger being your point of contact . . .”