A Death in Sweden(12)

But still he said, “If you’d paid me not to find him, I wouldn’t have found him. I’m a business, not a charity.”

“Which, of course, is why I’m here. I need help, specialist help, and even before the recent . . . Well, what I mean is I know commissions from the CIA dried up with the Arab Spring.”

“I’m not sure how much help I could be. It seems I’m on a list, and I’m guessing I’m pretty well near the top by now.” Patrick nodded, his expression grim, as if the current situation grieved him. “What’s going on, Patrick? What happened?”

“WikiLeaks happened. Edward Snowden happened. The paradigm shifted. The reason they used you—I used you—in the past is the very reason they want to shut you down now—deniability.”

“They’re taking down everyone who worked on the dark side? That’s a lot of people.”

“Not everyone, but a lot. In my view, it’s insane, but I know all too well how things like this happen—call it a concerted attempt to future-proof what’s left of the agency’s reputation.”

Dan nodded, sipped at his coffee, and said, “Makes sense.”

Patrick laughed in response, saying, “That’s it? No moral outrage?”

Dan shrugged.

“I’d probably do the same if I were them. Doesn’t mean I’ll let them do it, but I think I lost any right to moral outrage a long time ago.” Patrick looked ready to object, but Dan said, “Patrick, you paid me to track people down and make them disappear, either to a country and facility of your choice or off the face of the earth.”

“Yes, dangerous people, people who’d done despicable things.”

“Maybe, but that description applies to us too—if it didn’t they wouldn’t need to silence us now.” Patrick leaned back in his chair, conceding the point. “So, you said you need my help.”

“I’m hoping we can help each other.”

He took a newspaper from his overcoat and opened it out. It was an old International Herald Tribune, a few weeks old. Patrick turned the pages and folded it, placing the paper in front of Dan.

It was a story he vaguely remembered seeing himself, a story of unusual heroism. The two pictures said it all really. One showed the mangled wreckage of a bus and a timber truck in northern Sweden, barely recognizable as the vehicles they’d once been. The other showed the face of a pretty teenager, a girl who, almost miraculously, had been saved by a fellow passenger and had walked out of that wreckage unscathed.





Chapter Seven


Having brought the story to Dan’s attention, Patrick seemed to ignore it now and said, “The operation that’s targeting you is being run out of an office in Berlin. Not an office I was ever familiar with. It seems autonomous; we’re struggling to get information on them and even people I used to count as friends are being evasive about its activities. What I do know is that it’s headed up by someone called Bill Brabham.”

“Yeah, that much I already know.”

Patrick looked puzzled, perhaps impressed, but continued, “He was the Paris station chief for years. I never liked him, always thought he was a bad apple.”

“I’m guessing other people don’t share your view.”

“Not the right people.” Dan understood the implication—Brabham was clearly well connected. “I want to put a stop to what Brabham’s doing, and the ODNI sees it as a priority to rein in this kind of program, but it isn’t easy. That’s where I’m hoping you might come in, and this . . .” He tapped his hand on the newspaper story. “This could be the way to get at them. You might have seen it in the news a couple of weeks back. A bus crashed into a timber truck in northern Sweden—both drivers were killed, and four passengers on the bus, including three school kids.”

“Yeah, I remember it. The girl in the picture survived, saved by one of the other passengers.”

“That’s right, a guy in his late forties or early fifties. He was killed, of course, and he was carrying ID marking him as a French national, Jacques Fillon. Trouble is, there’s no such person. He’s been living in a house in the woods up there for the last twelve years, but no one knows who he is. Apparently he spoke pretty good Swedish, but the guy in the local store said that when he first arrived he spoke English with an American accent.”

“Doesn’t mean he was an American. Nothing in the house to suggest his true identity?”

“Nothing—he was living a pretty simple life.”

Dan thought about it, then said, “Okay, you’ve got me—a guy who might or might not be an American, who’s now dead, has been living under an assumed name in the middle of nowhere for twelve years, and you want me to find out who he was. Why? How does this connect to Bill Brabham? More importantly, how does it get Bill Brabham and his team off my back?”

Patrick finished his coffee in a single gulp, and said, “Bear with me.” He seemed to be relishing this now, as if he didn’t enjoy his new role in the ODNI as much as he’d hoped he would, and this was reminding him of more interesting times. “Both the CIA and FBI were sent pictures of the guy and all the markers. The FBI ran it but didn’t come up with anything. The CIA said the same, but then one of their guys flew up there and took a look around the house. And this place isn’t easy to get to—it’s up north of R?ne?. What really piqued our interest is that the guy who went up there wasn’t based in Stockholm . . .”