After the Monsoon: An unputdownable thriller that will get your pulse racing!. Robert Karjel

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ the little thumbnail of land sandwiched between Eritrea and Somalia, inside the Gulf of Aden.

      With the mention of Somalia, Grip felt a vague sense of anxiety overtake him again. The apartment, the bathroom. “Yesterday—I was in the apartment of the Somalis.”

      “Drop it, nothing to do with this. There’s a fleet chasing pirates down there, and one of our men is dead.”

      Grip struggled to shift gears. “A Swedish soldier?”

      “Yes. A Per-Erik Slunga, hometown of Gothenburg,” Didricksen read from a page, “lieutenant, in fact,” he said, as he looked up and leaned back. “You see, we had a little discussion …”

      And only now did Grip start to get it.

      “… about how this kind of thing can be tricky.”

      Grip assumed that “we” having the discussion meant the chief of security police, the commissioner of the National Police, and those involved from the government side.

      Someone was worried, that’s always the way things worked, and that’s why Grip found himself standing here. But he still had no clear idea what was involved. “And now a Swede is going to be stoned to death, by Sharia law?” A feeble attempt at a joke.

      But Didricksen smiled. “No, no. The military has agreements when they’re on foreign turf, country by country. Swedish law applies to Swedish soldiers, no matter what trouble they cause, fortunately. But that also means any investigation falls under Swedish jurisdiction.”

      Grip nodded. And let go of the apartment in Husby.

      “So it appears, in theory,” continued Didricksen. “In practice, things might get more or less complicated.”

      Grip understood a little more.

      Didricksen returned to the atlas. His gaze lingered there, before he said, without looking at Grip: “Swedish soldiers are national heroes.” Raising his eyes, he continued, “And our politicians sent them there to do good. If our soldiers make a mess, someone treacherous could start asking what they were doing there in the first place. At the same time”—Didricksen stopped himself in mid-thought—“At the same time, we need to find out what happened. A man is dead, after all.”

      Right.

      Didricksen continued. “Not just any police officer feels comfortable in this situation.” The old dog played with a pen. “But during our discussion, I said I had an idea about how to tackle this. And a suggestion for whom to send.”

      “Down to the desert uniforms?”

      “Exactly.”

      “So how much do we know?” asked Grip.

      “Nothing, beyond that a Swedish officer got shot in the head at a shooting range.”

      “An accident?”

      “The reports from down there are muddled, and the context of that shooting seems … somewhat unclear. But yes, maybe just a shooting accident. Still, you know, people worry about matters like this. The Foreign Ministry, the supreme commander, the minister of defense …”

      Obviously. That’s why Didricksen was involved, and why Grip stood swaying on the Afghan rug. The truth was one thing; what to do with it, another.

      “And you’re the right man for the job, for the simple reason that you need to get away, don’t you?” Didricksen didn’t wait for a reply. “Get away, go where it’s quiet, have your own world, your own investigation for a while, that doesn’t sound so bad, does it?” There was something close and confidential in his eyes. “It’s time for you to rediscover yourself, Ernst. After what, I’d guess almost a year. What was his name?”

      They’d never discussed anything personal, but of course Didricksen knew. He, if anyone.

      “His name was Ben,” Grip said.

      “A man must mourn properly, there’s no way around it. Otherwise you can get lost in missing a person, the way so many do. And sometimes a little privacy helps you find a way out.”

      “Maybe,” said Grip. He stood silent for a few seconds and added: “And when has the Boss decided I’m leaving?”

      “Tomorrow—via Paris.”

      “Djibouti?” Grip said, without hiding his skepticism.

      “Yes.”

      “An invented country?”

      “From what I understand.”

      “Like Monaco?”

      “Not exactly.”

       10

      Djibouti. Little more than a stretch of stony desert and oppressive heat. A colonial leftover, a shard of a country, and a city by the same name. A backwater with only one thing to offer the world: its location. At the crossroads of ship traffic to and from the Suez Canal, the pirate-infested Gulf of Aden, the turmoil of the Arab world, the tentacles of Al-Qaeda and ISIS, the civil wars of Sudan and Ethiopia to the west, and the total anarchy of Somali in the east—there lay Djibouti. An oasis of apparent order, for anyone willing to pay. South of the international airport, the Americans had thousands of troops stationed, in their ever-expanding and only permanent base on the African continent. North of the airport, the French kept their installations, while also housing half a brigade of Foreign Legion soldiers in another part of the city. A flurry of other uniforms came and went.

      Grip stepped out of the air-conditioned Air France plane straight into an oven. Africa. It had been a while. The air actually shimmered in the heat. Already, as he turned toward passport control and customs, the sweat was dripping down his back. Grip carried a stack of papers he’d been handed before he left and hadn’t really examined, but after a few stern glances, his passport got stamped with a visa. None of the officials asked questions, not to a single person in the line. Everyone who came to Djibouti obviously had a job to do. The posters advertising desert ruins and camel caravans were merely for show. Grip didn’t see anyone among the passengers who looked like a tourist. You arrived in Djibouti either as crew cut military, or with a briefcase and laptop for business.

      A dozen aggressive taxi drivers swarmed in the arrival hall, but they stopped when they saw that Grip had someone waiting. His eyes met the gaze of a tall, ruddy man with a cautious smile. Grip had no idea who’d be meeting him, but he’d spotted the small blue-and-yellow flag on the desert uniform.

      “Hej?” the man said in Swedish, more a question than greeting.

      “Yes, I’m the one,” Grip replied, and kept walking.

      The man, who introduced himself as Captain Tommy Mickels, wore the black armband of the military police on one bicep, marked with a big MP. “I have the car right out here,” he said, pointing through the glass doors.

      They loaded Grip’s bags into the white jeep and got in. Once the engine was running, it took a few more minutes for the air conditioner to cool things down. Grip sensed Mickels’s hesitation.

СКАЧАТЬ