A Death in Sweden(6)

He handed his gun to Charlie, opened the door and climbed out. The boy immediately stepped back in fear but, once again, his father’s voice came cheerily, telling him to go with the man.

Dan started along the street and the boy fell in with him and put his hand in Dan’s. The touch of his warm little hand sent a jolt through him. Maybe it was because of what Charlie had said the day before, or because of the boy using that word, papa. Maybe it had just been playing on his mind since following them the previous morning.

He was younger than Dan’s boy would have been, maybe only five or six but, whether or not, the memory was as raw as ever. And just as raw, his anger with himself for feeling like this, certain in some way that he had not earned it. He pushed the thoughts away, smothered them, and thought only of the job, the here and now.

The boy let go of his hand as they reached the building, perhaps feeling he was on familiar ground again. And he pressed the buttons in the elevator and knocked on his own apartment door when they got there.

Dan rang the bell too, out of the kid’s reach, and was about to walk away, but the door opened instantly and the nanny was standing there looking at them. She said something to the boy, confused and surprised, then looked up at Dan and said something else—again, he knew enough to know that she was asking what was going on.

Their eyes met, and he wasn’t sure whether she knew the truth of her employer’s identity, or if it was something about Dan that told her all she needed to know. Either way, she said no more, but kept her big dark eyes fixed on him as she shepherded the boy back inside, edged backwards herself, and closed the door.

Dan headed down the stairs and back around the corner. As he climbed into the car, Charlie handed his gun back, but Dan was aware of Martinez looking at him expectantly.

Dan turned and said, “He’s fine. I left him with the nanny.”

“Thank you. He’s not streetwise.” He looked mournful and resigned as the car pulled away, and a few minutes elapsed before he said, “Are you CIA? Or working for the CIA?”

Dan looked at him and said, “No, Mr. Martinez, you’re going home.”

“I see. The government or . . .”

“The government.”

He looked surprised, and perhaps relieved. It seemed that, out of the three possible scenarios for what had just happened to him, the CIA was the worst, private concerns second, and the Venezuelan government the most preferable. Dan wasn’t sure why that might be and didn’t really care—he was just being paid for tracking the man down and handing him over.

The airfield was quite a way out of town and Martinez seemed happy to sit in silence, staring out of the window at a city that had been home but that he would probably never see again. Dan thought of the way he’d looked walking with his son and imagined he was thinking of that too, of the years that he would lose with his family. It was too bad.

When they arrived, Dan left Charlie with the car and walked Martinez into the small office. The three Venezuelan intelligence officers had been sitting drinking coffee, but all stood when they came in and seemed to treat Martinez with a degree of respect. Dan guessed the man had been right to see this as the most favorable option, no matter what happened from here on in.

Martinez turned and offered his hand to Dan, saying, “Thank you, Mr . . .?”

Dan shook his hand, but said, “Dan. You don’t need to know my other name.”

“I thank you anyway, for making sure my son got home, and for not making it . . . difficult.” He looked curious then, and said, “How did you find me?”

“You left a trail, everyone does, very faint in your case, but still there. I just followed it.”

Martinez nodded understanding, and said, “So that makes me wonder if your other name is Hendricks.”

“Like I said, you don’t need to know who I am. I didn’t do this. Have a safe journey.”

As he came back through the office door, he could see Charlie was out of the car and on the phone. He strolled over, enjoying the warmth on his skin now that the job was done, but then he saw Charlie’s face fall, saw him lean back against the car, almost as if he needed it for support. This could only be about Benoit, and Dan knew it had to be the worst possible news.

Charlie hung up as Dan reached him and looked ashen as he shook his head and said, “They found Benoit in the trunk of his car at the airport, bullet in the head.”

The news created a strange disconnect, between what Dan thought he ought to be feeling and what he actually felt. Benoit had been a good friend, perhaps as good a friend as Karl, more so than Mike Naismith, but he hadn’t seen him much in the last year and couldn’t quite find the right emotional response.

Charlie looked as if he’d been physically weakened by the news, his huge shoulders slumped, his face leeched of color. They’d been closer, of course, spending a lot of time with each other even after Benoit had become a family man.

“Was that Isabelle on the phone?”

It took a moment for the question to register, and he said, “Her mother. Isabelle’s sedated.” Charlie looked at his phone, as if it might provide some answers or guidance, then said, “This wasn’t meant to happen.”

Dan said, “Turn your phone off.” Charlie did as he said, automatically, but he looked cut up, his mind elsewhere. “I know you’re upset, Charlie, but we’re as dead as he is unless we move fast.”