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

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СКАЧАТЬ clumsily when Grip was in the room. Grip knew an inbred group when he saw one. Those smug little smiles, from spending way too much time together and playing entirely by their own rules. They were a world apart.

      Grip would be surprised if there weren’t something in his in-box before ten. They understood that much. It remained to be seen how useful the images would be. The really interesting part would come at ten thirty, when Grip figured he’d still be at the dinner aboard the ship, with the captain.

      He picked up the phone and covered his other ear to mask the noise from the chimney. Waited for someone to answer.

      When Grip met Mickels at the Kempinski earlier that day, Mickels had given him the business card of a French colonel. He’d explained that Colonel Frères was responsible for the security of all European military personnel stationed in Djibouti, and he knew that Grip was there. Apparently, he wanted Grip to contact him.

      Grip had called the Frenchman as soon as Mickels left. The colonel, who was well-informed and totally self-assured, brought up the difficulty of doing this kind of investigation alone. He suggested using a couple of his own military police. Not for the long term, but if there was some specific errand … Grip had gotten a phone number. “Just give my name, they’ll know it.”

      So Grip had started making arrangements. The concierge at the Kempinski recommended a small but well-run hotel on the outskirts of town. There, he booked two rooms. Then he called the French military police. A phone call, a name dropped. “Ah, Colonel Frères, no problem. When do you want them? … Well, two men plus two would be good enough … No, no, we won’t tell anyone about it.” Mickels and all other Swedes would be kept out of this.

      All set.

      Now the French were waiting for his signal. Two men in uniform would go into the Sheraton and knock on the door; two plainclothesmen would take over and stay a few days at the hotel that Grip had booked.

      The ringtone stopped. Grip pressed his hand harder against his ear to shut out the noise from the ship.

      “Oui?”

      “Yes, it’s me—the Swede. Milan Radovanović is the one.”

      “Milan …” repeated the voice. He’d already given them all the names and photos. A brief pause on the line. Perhaps the French military police officer was writing something down. “Still half past ten?”

      “Exactly.”

      “Good, then.”

      Grip hung up.

       13

      They’d set up a small bar in one corner of the captain’s spacious cabin. The ice rattled as a junior officer wielded a cocktail shaker. Daiquiris and martinis were it. The officers wore all-white uniforms, and even their shoes were white. Only their ties broke the rule—black stripes beneath their jackets. There were a few civilians too, visiting from the Swedish embassy in Addis Ababa, apparently the nearest Swedish legation in the Horn of Africa.

      The first officer ran interference as usual, overseeing political correctness between the sliced goat cheese hors d’oeuvres. He explained to the diplomats, and eventually to Grip, that liquor was rarely served on board—never at sea, only in port and on special occasions like tonight. So that they’d feel privileged. He rambled on about the keys to the liquor cabinet, some sort of complex system. The professional drinkers from the foreign office nodded politely, reminding Grip of the many times he’d observed the king getting lectured at a corporate event on some piece of trivia. The captain himself didn’t contribute much to the buzz, not until dinnertime, when he invited his guests to take their seats in such a loud voice that everyone winced.

      The captain’s table was set for ten: pressed linen tablecloths without the slightest ripple, heavy sterling-silver cutlery, and crystal. It was as if the captain had been waiting offstage, and now he came out, turned and gestured. Handwritten place cards—with the only woman at the table, one of the diplomats, of course seated on his right. He began his monologue as soon as they sat down, while the guests’ eyes wandered around the room, pausing at the framed foreign flag or the broken tip of an oar mounted on a plaque. There were many stories to tell, and the cabin provided props for well-rehearsed snippets and harmless anecdotes.

      A male chef came in to present the menu, describing at length what had been sautéed and reduced in the dishes that awaited. Otherwise, the waitstaff was entirely female, made up of a couple of nurses and some of the kitchen’s off-duty personnel, wearing white uniforms that were simpler but just as sharp as those worn by the officers they served.

      It was a nostalgic kind of theater, one that hadn’t changed in decades.

      Everyone already knew which appetizers would be served, since this was the week before Midsummer: cheese, butter, and herring. For the sake of argument, they debated which schnapps would go best. On a tray stood a few fogged-up bottles—Skåne, Östergötland, OP—“Take this one … no, not on your life … sure … fill it up.” The dock outside the porthole had disappeared in the darkness. They sang a Swedish drinking song, and most took sips, except for the chief engineer, who knocked his back in a single gulp. After another song and a couple pieces of herring, most of the glasses were empty. People gazed at the icy bottles, but despite the captain’s asking, the first officer’s glare made them think twice, and no one took him up on the offer.

      Grip was seated at the corner, with the woman from Addis to his left, but she was completely monopolized by the captain. Grip saw little besides the hair at the back of her neck. Across from him sat the grizzled ship’s surgeon, who ran the small hospital on board. Here, the conversation was better. A headstrong type, he’d just retired from general surgery at Sahlgrenska Hospital in Gothenburg, when he heard that the military was struggling to find doctors willing to go out on missions. His peers preferred sterile operating rooms, MRIs, and triple-digit hourly fees on call—not dealing with soldiers’ gunshot wounds and heatstroke, and in between, being quartered in a cabin so run-down you wouldn’t offer it to a drunken dance band on a Baltic ferry. He laughed at his own words. Still, the navy had its charms, and after a life of working all the time, he was scared by the thought of doing nothing. At sixty-six, he’d gone out to a shooting range for the first time since he’d done his military service at eighteen, brushed up on his military ranks, and a few weeks later boarded the HMS Sveaborg. He sometimes cupped one hand behind his ear and sang a bit too loud.

      Somewhere in the middle of the filet mignon, when the conversation around the table had split into a few groups, Grip asked him about Per-Erik Slunga. About the body. Yes, the doctor had seen it and put it in the ship’s morgue himself.

      “Autopsy?” Grip asked.

      “No, no, that’s a job for pathologists, and we don’t have one on board. We’re here to sew people up and keep them alive. If everything goes south, the cause of death is usually pretty clear. That poor bastard Slunga was shot, as you’re probably aware.”

      “Yes, of course, but beyond that.”

      “In the head.”

      Grip spun his index finger, in a gesture of wanting to know more.

      “You know, pathologists, they’re peculiar people,” the doctor said, sipping his wine, “and they do a particular type of science. An autopsy, if it’s going to happen, will have to be done in Sweden.”

      “Takes СКАЧАТЬ