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

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      “Right, you’re the one from the police,” he said.

      “Security police,” Grip corrected him. That little addition was rarely a disadvantage, when it came to balance of power.

      “Yes, this is tragic,” continued the first officer. “We’re still … shaken.” He seemed to mean it.

      The captain drummed impatiently on the leather sofa. “Tragic, but completely out of bounds.”

      The first officer followed his lead. “We didn’t know anything beforehand about the excursion to the shooting range.” The captain’s career had to be protected, no blotches on his record. “You’ve got everything there, in our report about the incident.” The first officer nodded toward a printout on the coffee table, which was otherwise bare.

      “Thanks, I already received a copy from Mickels.”

      The captain stopped himself, just as he was sliding the report over.

      Mickels would catch hell for that, Grip thought, for upstaging his boss with an outsider.

      “By the way, where are you holding Slunga’s remains?”

      The captain looked vacantly at Grip, who’d directed the question his way.

      “Where’s the body?” Still that same look, and Grip realized that he didn’t know. The captain only waited, hoping to be rescued.

      “We’re keeping it on board,” said the first officer. “In the cold room. We have a couple of mortuary compartments, just in case.”

      “How convenient. Autopsy?”

      “We’re a combat unit, not a forensics clinic. He’s down there, in the same condition as when he came in.”

      “Excellent, then at least there’s one thing that’s been left untouched.”

      “Excuse me, what are you driving at?”

      “Just that everything seems to keep rolling along, even though a person has just been shot to death.”

      “Yes, it probably looks that way,” replied the first officer, “but that’s because we have other problems to deal with. It’s real here. Every extra hour in port is an hour lost at sea. Out there, ships are getting hijacked and people are being shot all the time.”

      “And a dead Swede …”

      “An accident at a shooting range in Djibouti is tragic, but the world doesn’t stop for it. So what do you want us to do differently?”

      Well, what the hell did he want? They couldn’t have isolated all the Swedes in the MovCon unit, he realized that. Was it the report that annoyed him, slapped together and approved so quickly? No, it wasn’t that either. Or not that alone, but the way it all added up: the atmosphere of arrogance. Expecting that he’d made the journey simply to sign off on their version. He had no other theory than the one they were feeding him, but it all seemed so simple, the slightest question met by a perfectly reasonable answer. What did he want? He didn’t want to feel stupid, but he did now, because he had nothing else to go on.

      Before Grip answered, the captain, who seemed uncomfortable with the tone, cut in. “Everyone under my command has received an explicit order from me to cooperate with your police investigation. Your inquiry, that is.”

      “And you think you need to give an order,” Grip said, “for that to happen, I mean?” Now he was being rude, and he knew it.

      Silence.

      “When do you head back out to sea?” Grip asked instead.

      “Two days from now.” It was the first officer, stepping in once again. He held Grip in his gaze. “MovCon will be busy transporting matériel to the ship until then, but of course you can question anyone, anytime. I think Mickels has given you background on who they are and how they work.”

      “He has.”

      “And what about the Djiboutians?”

      “Only that the local police have arrested the man accused of firing the shot.”

      “What goes on there is completely beyond our control,” said the captain.

      “And where can I find the rest of the Africans?” Grip asked.

      “I spoke with Sergeant Hansson, who took over the unit after Slunga,” said the first officer. “Apparently, most of the locals quit after this incident, and I’m afraid they’ll be difficult to track down.”

      “It is what it is. But the Swedes are all back at work?”

      “Of course.”

      “Well then, I’ll want to question them tomorrow, the whole gang at once.”

      “Question them? You mean you already have suspicions?”

      “Journalists interview, and police question, that’s all.”

      The first officer shrugged.

      “We …” The captain sounded conciliatory. “We’re thinking of holding a small dinner tomorrow, here on board, and we’d like you to come. At seven, that was the idea.”

      “Dinner, thank you. And I guess MovCon is busy during the day, so I’ll meet with them at five. That should leave them enough time to do what they need to.”

      “Think jacket.”

      Grip didn’t understand.

      “For dinner tomorrow. If that works.”

      Grip, who hadn’t changed since he landed, stood there without a tie, looking rumpled. What was this about, he wondered, some sort of game, giving him a dress code?

      “Jacket, of course,” Grip replied with a nod. “And my questioning?”

      “I’ll take it up with Mickels,” replied the first officer.

      Then there was silence again.

      “For me, there’s just one detail left before I call it a day,” Grip said. “Where am I staying?”

      “Hm,” said the first officer, taking a moment to remember. “The Sheraton was completely booked, so it must be the Kempinski. A night there costs a bloody fortune, but that’s what’s available, from what I understand.”

      “The Kempinski?”

      “The best Djibouti has to offer.”

      Grip had done his homework. The Kempinski. Not just the best in Djibouti, but possibly the best anywhere in Africa. Did they want to smoke him out, get him to stay as short a time as possible, fearing what some police chief would say about his travel expenses?

      “That will be perfect.” The navy men were apparently accustomed to a different kind of boss.

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