LITMIR.BIZ

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      “C’mon, you stood next to each other on the shooting range. I’ve seen the sketches. It was you who instructed him—was he a good shot?”

      “I don’t know, the idea was just that they’d give it a try. We taped over the targets as they went.” Radovanović tore a little sliver off his cuticle.

      “But did he hit the target at least?”

      “I guess so.”

      “You guess? It was only three days ago. Did he hit the cardboard soldiers or not?”

      “Yes, he did.”

      “And then he shot Slunga?”

      Radovanović didn’t know what to say.

      “Let it go,” said Fredrik Hansson at last. “I was standing in the back as well, when the others walked up to the targets. The shot, when it happened, fuck, it wasn’t something you were expecting. Whether he aimed before or not …” Hansson shrugged. “In any case, it was Abdoul Ghermat who fired the shot.”

      Radovanović nodded. Saved by Hansson.

      “Ghermat,” mumbled Grip. He glanced at the clock and stood up. “I’m sure you also took a lot of photos with your phones. That goes along with doing something so goddamn stupid.” No one denied it. “Exactly. And I want to see pictures, enough pictures so I can see the faces of everyone there. Email them to me. I want them by ten tonight.” Still no one said anything, and Grip tossed some business cards on a table, nodded, and left.

      The next time Grip stopped, he was out on deck. Alone in the late dusk, he looked out over the water and the lights on the other side of the harbor. Behind him, the ship’s funnel whirred, towering behind him.

      Already he’d found the weak link.

      The whole MovCon unit stayed at the Sheraton, with the other Swedes and foreigners who didn’t serve aboard the ships. They’d go back to their rooms now, on the same hallway. They’d have a few beers, trying to come up with a new strategy, because the pig wouldn’t just go away. What photos had they taken last Sunday, and which would they send? Some would be for, and some against. They didn’t agree, only pretended to, and pretty 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

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