LITMIR.BIZ

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Things aren’t what they used to be. The consultants are taking over, even in our business. Everything is being opened up to competition, there’s no honour anymore, no loyalty. High time for people like me to get out. Let younger talents take over, inshallah.’

      Abu Hamsa made a small gesture toward the ceiling. Atif couldn’t help looking over at the young men who were still flocking around Cassandra. A couple of them were glaring in his direction. He drank some coffee without looking away.

      ‘You can hardly blame them.’ Abu Hamsa seemed to have read his mind.

      ‘How so?’

      ‘You still have a certain … reputation, my friend. There was a lot of talk when you left. Some people really weren’t happy, and even suggested that you were letting everyone down.’

      ‘Like I said, I’m going back first thing next week,’ Atif said, still without looking away from the young men. ‘And whatever a load of snotty kids think about that, well—’ He broke off, realizing that his tone of voice was getting harder. ‘You must forgive me, I didn’t mean to sound unpleasant,’ he said, and looked back at the little man.

      ‘No problem, my friend. I understand. Not an easy situation, this. Your brother, his little girl. What’s her name again? I’m starting to get old, I was at her naming ceremony and everything …’

      ‘Tindra,’ Atif said, noting how his voice softened as he said it.

      ‘Little Tindra, yes, that was it. Losing your father so young, in that way …’ Something in Abu Hamsa’s voice made Atif frown, and the little man noticed. ‘I … I assume you know what happened?’

      Atif nodded. ‘Cassandra told me.’

      ‘And you know the details?’

      ‘The boys were unlucky,’ Atif said. ‘An unmarked cop car saw them driving away from the security van. Evidently one of them hadn’t taken his balaclava off in time, so the cops followed them and called in backup. The rapid response unit went in just as they were changing cars, and shots were fired. Adnan and Juha were killed, and Tommy was left a vegetable.’

      ‘Sadly that’s all true.’ Abu Hamsa nodded. ‘I just wanted to be sure that you knew all the details. Sometimes stories take on a life of their own, people talk so much. You know how it is.’ The little man held out his hands. ‘By the way, you don’t have to worry about Adnan’s family.’ Hamsa tilted his head toward Cassandra. ‘There are a lot of people supporting them, people who are angry with the police. Perhaps you heard that the rapid response unit was cleared of any suspicion of using excessive force, and that the whole thing was regarded as self-defense seeing as Adnan fired first? Things looked very unsettled for a while afterward. Cars set on fire, stone throwing, all the usual.’

      Atif nodded slowly and drank his cooling coffee.

      ‘And I myself will keep an eye on Tindra and her mother. For the sake of old friendship,’ Abu Hamsa added. The little man glanced at Atif, evidently expecting some sort of reaction.

      ‘Thank you, Abu Hamsa. I know Adnan would have appreciated that,’ Atif said.

      Abu Hamsa went on looking at him, then broke into a smile.

      ‘You seem different, my friend. Calmer, nowhere near as angry as you were before. You look much healthier, and your Arabic is much improved. You did the right thing in leaving. If your brother had done the same, or me too, for that matter, who knows how things might have turned out? But it takes great courage to do what you did, leaving everything behind. Starting again from scratch. Courage that most of us don’t have.’ Abu Hamsa gestured toward the ceiling again.

      ‘Well, my friend, I shall let you finish your coffee,’ he said. ‘It was lovely to see you again, even if the circumstances could obviously have been better. Please, convey my condolences to your mother. How is Dalia, by the way?’

      ‘Alzheimer’s,’ Atif said quietly. ‘She’s living in a nursing home. But I promise I’ll tell her. She remembers things from the past fairly well. The present is more of a problem.’

      ‘I understand.’ Abu Hamsa nodded. ‘I myself have come to the painful conclusion that I have forgotten considerably more things than I remember. My doctor says that it’s all there in my head, and that I’ve just forgotten how to find it. Like a path in the forest getting overgrown. Maybe she’s right, unless she’s just saying that to cheer me up.’ The little man patted Atif on the shoulder. Tenderly, almost cautiously, in a way that made Atif smile slightly without knowing he was doing it.

      ‘Farewell, dear friend. Now I must convey my condolences to the beautiful young widow,’ Abu Hamsa said. ‘But if there’s anything you need, I hope you’ll be in touch. Cassandra has my number, you only have to call. No matter what.’ Abu Hamsa gave him an emphatic wink.

      ‘Really, I thought you were going to retire?’ Atif said.

      ‘Inshallah!’ the little man said, bursting into a hoarse laugh. ‘If it is God’s will. Have a safe journey home, my friend!’

       7

      He had to make sense of things. Get his weak, pathetic body out of this damn hospital bed and force his head to make the right connections. Try to work out what was going on. Why he had lied to his boss about the gaps in his memory, why he was scribbling cryptic warnings to himself, and why that name made his pulse race out of control.

      Janus. Clearly a code name for an informant, and a very important one, to judge by Bergh’s questions and paranoid behavior. The problem was that he couldn’t remember any code names, he couldn’t actually remember a bloody thing. Well, that wasn’t quite true, he wasn’t Jason Bourne. He could remember loads of things, just nothing that could help him make sense of what had happened. It was as if the stroke had sliced through his brain, cutting off all connections to the part where events of the past few years were kept. The only thing that seemed to bridge the gap was an indefinable, creeping sense of unease. Something was wrong, considerably more wrong than just a weak body trying to recover from an accident, or even a gash in his brain and migraines from hell. What was it Bergh had said about his crash? The words hadn’t wanted to fall into place properly.

      Sarac snorted and tried to hold his breath for a moment to stifle a sob. The mood swings were hard to get used to. He was being tossed between anger, grief, and fear, and occasionally a euphoric sensation that felt almost like happiness. The whole process made it much harder to make sense of everything.

      Damn it! He grabbed a couple of tissues from the bedside table and blew his nose. It would get better, it had to get better.

      One of the nurses put her head around the door.

      ‘Can you handle another visitor, David? It’s the man with the beard,’ she whispered with a smile.

      ‘Hmm.’ Sarac tried to sound as if he knew who she was talking about, but didn’t succeed.

      ‘About forty, one metre ninety, suntanned, very fit. He’s been to see you most days.’

      ‘Sure.’ Sarac nodded, feeling relieved. He recognized the description and his mood improved at once.

      The nurse walked into his room, followed by the man with the neatly trimmed beard.

      ‘Hi, David!’ The man smiled broadly as he pressed Sarac’s hand between both of his. He went on holding it in a way that made a lump start to grow in Sarac’s chest. ‘Good to see you looking brighter today.’

      Sarac nodded, then held his breath for a few seconds to get this new surge of emotion under control. Peter Molnar was one of his best friends, and also something of a mentor to him, but bursting into tears the moment he saw him was definitely not Sarac’s usual reaction. What the hell was happening to him? He swallowed a couple of times and managed to force a smile.

      ‘Fucking

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