The Swimmer by Joakim Zander Page A

to himself.
    ‘Excuse me?’
    Josh looked up from his cell phone. He was sitting in the leather chair by the window that faced the park. George watched the raindrops beat against the windowpane and run down toward the windowsill. Yesterday’s chill had given way, and a powerful storm seemed to be moving in over Brussels. The room had suddenly become dim, as if the sun were setting.
    ‘Klara Walldéen,’ George said again.
    George knew who she was. He kept an eye on most of the Swedes in Brussels. And he’d kept an especially close eye on Klara. Not that she had an especially important position. Her member of parliament, Boman, was a classic leftie dragon of the old school, mostly focused on foreign affairs. Not something George was usually interested in. No, he’d kept an eye on Klara for purely personal reasons. She was on his top-five list of the hottest assistants in Parliament.
    ‘She works in the European Parliament,’ he said.
    ‘Exactly,’ Josh replied calmly. ‘Reiper wants you to keep an eye on her. There are indications that she’s had dealings with the terrorist we’re after.’
    Terrorist. The word seemed to echo in the room.
    ‘Keep an eye on? What do you mean by that?’
    George felt uncomfortable. Terrorist. Säpo. ‘Keep an eye on.’ The almost euphoric experience of having classified information in front of him started to give way to the feeling that he might be in over his head.
    ‘No big deal. Just start by following her on social media. That sort of thing. We’d do it ourselves, but our Swedish isn’t so good. As you may have noticed.’
    George sat down again and continued working. The rest of the documents consisted of ‘intelligence reports.’ Brief descriptions of what the person did during the day. Damn, thought George, some poor bastard had had the dreary job of hanging out in front of a building all day long.
    A couple of things bothered him about the report. First of all, it contained precise descriptions and even photographs from inside the subject’s apartment and office. There was something uncomfortable and intrusive about Säpo, or whoever they were, having been inside this person’s room.
    Moreover, there were excerpts from the person’s e-mails. Two messages were from a Hotmail address of someone who wanted to meet this person in Iraq and Brussels. The man under surveillance had sent a short e-mail to Klara Walldéen. The latter was sent only eleven days ago and had been flagged, presumably by Reiper or Josh. George, not normally a man of principle, now started to feel uneasy. But he was just a cog in the machine.
    ‘I expect this will take me most of the afternoon,’ he told Josh, and opened up a new document in his word processor.
    ‘You’d better get started then,’ replied Josh, and he leaned back in his chair with a small smile.

10
December 19, 2013
    Brussels, Belgium
    Mahmoud spent an hour on the Brussels metro. Changing directions and trains, just like the voice on the phone had told him to. When he reached Gare du Midi, he took the escalator to an empty platform. A low cloud hung over southern Brussels, making it seem like dusk. Drizzle swept across the cracked concrete. Everything was gray. Dreary. The only color in sight was the rust on the tracks and the flaking graffiti on the small sheltered waiting area on the platform.
    He half-hid behind a pillar and then put the battery into the phone. From here he’d be able to see if anyone came up the stairs. He felt his pulse quicken, his throat tighten. The platform, the rain, it all felt more tangible, more real. In a way it was exciting. A game.
    Mahmoud scanned the platform once more, even though he knew it was empty, and clicked on the only number stored in the phone. Someone answered before the first ring had sounded.
    ‘Take a taxi to the Gare du Nord,’ said the muffled voice. ‘Change taxis and drive to the Africa Museum in Tervuren. You should be there in an hour. Okay?’
    ‘Okay,’ Mahmoud