replied.
‘Take your time when you arrive. Look at the exhibitions. There is an emergency exit at the far end of the room with the giraffe. At six-fifty go through that door and down to the park. The door will be open and the alarm off. Walk around the pond in front of the museum on the right-hand side. On the other side of the hedge, opposite the museum, there will be a statue. You’ll see it. On the right side of it, at the edge of the forest, is a bench hidden by some bushes. I’ll be sitting there at seven o’clock. Don’t be late.’
11
January 1985
Stockholm, Sweden
The snow extinguishes all sound. If I close my eyes, I’m no longer in a city. The crunch under my rubber soles, wind rushing across my face. I’m on ice. Alone on a frozen lake where the sky and the snow flow into each other and become part of the same mass. If I ever allowed myself to miss anything, I’d miss the Michigan winters.
The streets here are wide, reminiscent of another time. A time of armies and parades, battlefields, banners flapping in the wind. The simplicity of it makes me sad. The city is as beautiful and solemn as a funeral. The cars keep their lights on, even now during those few confusing hours between dawn and dusk. I’m dressed too lightly, despite the blue down coat that I’ve barely worn since college.
They’re waiting for me at the US embassy. My new papers are ready. Nobody here knows who I am. Nobody knows where I’m going. But they have their instructions, and they know better than to ask. I lock my bag in a safe in the military attaché’s office and decline his friendly invitation to dinner. I can feel his interest, his curiosity. Behind every secret is another one. Behind every lie, a bigger lie.
It takes me a moment to make up my mind whether or not to ask. There is a risk, but one that I’m willing to take. This might be my only chance.
‘I need the assistance of one of your local staff,’ I say. ‘Someone who speaks Swedish and knows how the Swedish system works.’
‘Sure, absolutely,’ he says and seems genuinely happy to be able to help in some way.
He’s a decent man. A man suited for Irish pubs and the telling of war stories.
‘But, of course, we don’t have anyone with sufficiently high security clearance.’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ I say. ‘This is purely personal. I just need help finding a friend who I believe is back in Sweden now.’
‘I understand. I think the press department has a couple of local researchers on staff. I’ll ask my secretary to make sure you get the help you need.’
I follow the route that I drew on a map in my room and memorized. Through winding alleys next to the other tourists until I’m sure my shadows have disappeared down in the subway. They say it’s easier here in Stockholm. That Helsinki is worse. Maybe that’s so.
There’s one hour left. I take a taxi from the castle and ask to be taken to Djurgården. The taxi driver doesn’t understand what I mean, so I show him on the map. This worries me. He’ll remember an American passenger. A trace. I don’t leave traces. But now it’s too late. I ask him to drop me off at the bridge. He speaks terrible English, so I have to show him again. He looks like an Arab, but I can’t change languages. Then the trace would become fluorescent. It doesn’t matter. My shadows have lost me anyway.
In the bathroom, behind the gates of the Skansen zoo, I change from my blue jacket into a beige coat. Remove my red hat. Carefully take the light yellow folder out of the briefcase and place it in a dark blue nylon backpack. I leave the briefcase, empty and without fingerprints, under a trash can in one of the stalls. Then I leave the zoo, walk down the road to the ferry. Darkness is already falling.
At three-fifteen I board the ferry. He’s standing alone near the stern. As agreed. Tinted glasses and a tan winter coat. His mustache rivals his leader’s. It’s a face worthy of a long career in the
‘Take your time when you arrive. Look at the exhibitions. There is an emergency exit at the far end of the room with the giraffe. At six-fifty go through that door and down to the park. The door will be open and the alarm off. Walk around the pond in front of the museum on the right-hand side. On the other side of the hedge, opposite the museum, there will be a statue. You’ll see it. On the right side of it, at the edge of the forest, is a bench hidden by some bushes. I’ll be sitting there at seven o’clock. Don’t be late.’
11
January 1985
Stockholm, Sweden
The snow extinguishes all sound. If I close my eyes, I’m no longer in a city. The crunch under my rubber soles, wind rushing across my face. I’m on ice. Alone on a frozen lake where the sky and the snow flow into each other and become part of the same mass. If I ever allowed myself to miss anything, I’d miss the Michigan winters.
The streets here are wide, reminiscent of another time. A time of armies and parades, battlefields, banners flapping in the wind. The simplicity of it makes me sad. The city is as beautiful and solemn as a funeral. The cars keep their lights on, even now during those few confusing hours between dawn and dusk. I’m dressed too lightly, despite the blue down coat that I’ve barely worn since college.
They’re waiting for me at the US embassy. My new papers are ready. Nobody here knows who I am. Nobody knows where I’m going. But they have their instructions, and they know better than to ask. I lock my bag in a safe in the military attaché’s office and decline his friendly invitation to dinner. I can feel his interest, his curiosity. Behind every secret is another one. Behind every lie, a bigger lie.
It takes me a moment to make up my mind whether or not to ask. There is a risk, but one that I’m willing to take. This might be my only chance.
‘I need the assistance of one of your local staff,’ I say. ‘Someone who speaks Swedish and knows how the Swedish system works.’
‘Sure, absolutely,’ he says and seems genuinely happy to be able to help in some way.
He’s a decent man. A man suited for Irish pubs and the telling of war stories.
‘But, of course, we don’t have anyone with sufficiently high security clearance.’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ I say. ‘This is purely personal. I just need help finding a friend who I believe is back in Sweden now.’
‘I understand. I think the press department has a couple of local researchers on staff. I’ll ask my secretary to make sure you get the help you need.’
I follow the route that I drew on a map in my room and memorized. Through winding alleys next to the other tourists until I’m sure my shadows have disappeared down in the subway. They say it’s easier here in Stockholm. That Helsinki is worse. Maybe that’s so.
There’s one hour left. I take a taxi from the castle and ask to be taken to Djurgården. The taxi driver doesn’t understand what I mean, so I show him on the map. This worries me. He’ll remember an American passenger. A trace. I don’t leave traces. But now it’s too late. I ask him to drop me off at the bridge. He speaks terrible English, so I have to show him again. He looks like an Arab, but I can’t change languages. Then the trace would become fluorescent. It doesn’t matter. My shadows have lost me anyway.
In the bathroom, behind the gates of the Skansen zoo, I change from my blue jacket into a beige coat. Remove my red hat. Carefully take the light yellow folder out of the briefcase and place it in a dark blue nylon backpack. I leave the briefcase, empty and without fingerprints, under a trash can in one of the stalls. Then I leave the zoo, walk down the road to the ferry. Darkness is already falling.
At three-fifteen I board the ferry. He’s standing alone near the stern. As agreed. Tinted glasses and a tan winter coat. His mustache rivals his leader’s. It’s a face worthy of a long career in the
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