A Death in Sweden(32)
Dan found himself oddly attracted to the idea, certainly more than the guy who’d met him at Arlanda, whose name he’d already forgotten, but he was acutely conscious that there was a lot more going on here than a benign investigation into the obsessions of Jack Redford.
“I could live with her being involved but, Patrick, this isn’t a collegiate thing, it’s not collaborative. I have things to do and my own timetable to work to, and if I think at any point I’m heading over to the dark side, I won’t want to be around anyone legitimate.”
“I should hope not. The aim is to build bridges, not cause diplomatic incidents.” The ferry jolted as they docked with a churning of water. They stepped ashore and Patrick said, “The guy watching the ferry from the shore, I presume you saw him.”
“One of yours?” Patrick shook his head and Dan said, “I’ll be fine. You walk on ahead—let’s find out who he’s following.”
Patrick shook Dan’s hand and walked off along the path. Dan held back for thirty seconds, then set off after him. They’d only walked a couple of hundred yards when Patrick stopped, seemed to admire a building off to his right, and sauntered towards it, into a more quiet area of an already quiet island.
Dan slowed a little more and immediately saw why Patrick had taken the diversion. The guy who’d watched them from the shore ran across the leaf-strewn road, as if he feared losing his target. So he was there for Patrick, and Patrick had headed into the quieter corners specifically to draw him out.
Dan picked up his own pace now. He looked around, making sure there was no one else on the street, no one watching him. He took his gun and attached the silencer, turned one corner just as the guy disappeared ahead of him, turned the second just as he was leveling his own gun at Patrick’s back. Patrick was either oblivious as to how imminent the danger was or had an absurd amount of faith in Dan’s abilities.
All the same, Dan didn’t wait. He fired, hitting the guy in the back of the right shoulder. The guy grunted with the impact, span and fell, his gun clattering to the floor. Patrick turned, as if surprised by the noise more than anything. And even down and hurt, the guy scrabbled to get hold of his gun again.
To his own astonishment, Dan recognized him, and wasn’t sure how he hadn’t identified him earlier.
“Matty?” All familiarity aside, Dan kept the gun on him. Matty froze, then glanced up at Dan with a look of awkward despair. As if suddenly too hot, he pulled the beanie hat off, his fair hair left tousled and unkempt.
Patrick was back with them now and appeared genuinely hurt as he looked down at the prone man and said, “Mattias?”
Matty shook his head, pushing himself up and back against the wall nearest him. He looked embarrassed, shamed even, and above all, resigned to what would happen now.
Patrick bent down and picked up Matty’s gun, looking at it with a keen professional eye. He still looked shocked and upset, maybe with good reason, given the amount of work he’d given Mattias Hellstr?m over the years.
Dan looked around, making sure no one had been attracted by the shot, which already silenced, had probably been distorted further in the windy conditions. He looked at Matty then.
“You weren’t following me?”
“I didn’t even realize it was you on the ferry. I was sent after Patrick.” He glanced up at Patrick and said, “Sorry.”
“Bill Brabham?”
“I didn’t like it, but I know what’s going on and, you know, he made clear how much safer it was to be on the inside. I didn’t allow for Dan.”
“Jesus, Matty, he was spinning you a line. You kill Patrick, I guarantee you’re dead in a week. Brabham’s getting rid of all of us. There is no inside, not anymore.” He heard someone laugh somewhere nearby, perhaps from inside one of the buildings. He looked at Matty then—the dark quilted jacket was covering up the injury pretty well. “We’ve got to get you off the street.”
“You’re not gonna kill me?” Dan felt a brief surge of anger, for all the jobs they’d worked together in the past, scrapes they’d been in, trusting each other completely. He stepped forward and cracked Matty on the head with his gun. “Ow. Fuck!”
“I should kill you for what you just did. Patrick should kill you.”
Matty looked back to Patrick, and said, “I’m sorry, man.”
“So am I, Mattias. It’ll be a long time before I can trust you again after this.”
Dan pulled him up to his feet, and said, “You owe me for this, Matty. Can you walk?” He nodded. “Get patched up, get off the grid.” He looked at Patrick too, as if to reinforce that the latter advice probably applied equally to him now.
It was Patrick who answered, saying, “Dan, you go on your way. I’ll call us a cab—he can’t go to a regular hospital.”
Matty, looking groggy now, said, “I can go to . . .”
“No,” said Patrick, cutting him off. “Not this time. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”
And with that, Patrick handed the gun back to him. Matty looked at it sitting there in his hand, its return somehow encapsulating the scope of his betrayal, and he started to sob then, quietly, as Dan turned and walked away.
Chapter Twenty
Later that afternoon Dan had a cab take him to the address Inger had given him for the café. He’d already received a couple of messages from Patrick and had decided to fly out the next day, to Paris, then on to Limoges by train. The fact that Brabham was now trying to shut down Patrick as well as his former operatives suggested none of them had time to waste.