Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

Originally published as Efter monsunen in Sweden in 2016 by Partners in Stories

Copyright © Robert Karjel 2018

Translation copyright © Nancy Pick and Robert Karjel 2018

Cover design by Dominic Forbes © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Cover photograph © David et Myrtille/ Arcangel.com

Robert Karjel asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007586080

Ebook Edition © July 2018 ISBN: 9780007586073

Version: 2018-05-31

Dedication

For Josefin and Elvira

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Robert Karjel

About the Publisher

1

Mortal fear. Not anger, not surprise. Fear. He jerked so violently that he knocked the machine gun out of the sailboat’s cockpit, before he could get ahold of it again.

The sea was glassy, without so much as a ripple. The sails on the MaryAnn II hung limp. The boat sat motionless, the nearest land five thousand meters below. A nameless position in the middle of the Indian Ocean.

He picked up the gun and stood in a crouch, holding it to his chest. The safety still engaged. He hesitated. A feeble, half-conscious hope: what if they saw that he was armed, the way he saw that they were? But it was useless. They kept closing in.

The fast motorboats—skiffs—had come out of nowhere. They were speeding toward him at the stern. Someone shouted from there, he couldn’t make out the words. He turned toward the hatch, where his family was still unaware, below deck, spending the day out of the heat. He was just about to warn them, when he heard even louder shouts from the skiffs, and his protective instincts took over. They had to be kept down there. Not a chance in hell he’d let them set foot on deck. He cocked his rifle and glanced at the spare magazine lying on the cockpit floor. The only thing he knew was bottomless dread.

The first shot was his, fired straight up into the sky. More a hopeless plea than a warning. A few seconds later, the pirates answered with a volley that hit like whips around the stern, the bullets raising white jets in the water, tall and slender as spears. The last shot tore a trail through the wooden deck, splinters flying.

In that moment, his world was reduced to the men maneuvering their boats and his own gun sights, which at first he found impossible to control. He fired shot after shot, driven by his instinct to keep them away, unable to focus, much less correct his aim. They moved in fast, so close that he could now see their faces. He saw how the recoil threw them backward when they fired. Yet he was completely oblivious to the white trails their shots made in the water around him, or to the dull thuds in the canvas behind. In the battle frenzy, they all shot wildly, and despite the short distance, no one had hit his mark.

But then one boat made a slight change of course, so that he could see not just the bow but also down along the side, and he fixed his eyes on the man steering the outboard motor. A clear target—one that might actually stop them. After a few long seconds, he paused and aimed.

The shot hit the man’s shoulder, the bullet’s power at short range shattering the bone as it burst inside his body, nearly severing his arm. It hung by skin and tendons, while his torso was thrown sideways. In the shock of the moment, a very brief moment, the man sat there, expressionless. The throttle also got thrown to one side, and the boat made a violent turn. The second shot was luckier, hitting the man in the middle of his chest. Just a tremor before he collapsed, dead.

Sailing around the world. A family that dreamed of going to the Great Barrier Reef and back. But this wasn’t just an adventure, it was a new beginning in a life that would otherwise have fallen to pieces. They’d passed through Gibraltar in February and spent a few months in the Mediterranean. It wasn’t hard to find destinations: the Riviera, Sicily, the Messina Strait, and then the whole odyssey of the Greek islands. Outside Rhodes, for the first time they saw dolphins playing by the bow. Near the Balearic Islands there’d been a few days of sun and Jenny had gotten some color, and with her tan came the bright lines around her eyes, the ones she hadn’t had since she sailed as a professional. Her hair was thick and wavy; she’d worn it down past her shoulders as long as anyone could remember. She was the type that, if she felt pressured or uncomfortable, quickly turned defiant, and in school, she often got blamed for starting fights. But here on the boat she felt at home; she felt strong now. For the first time in ages, she liked how her husband looked at her. Carl-Adam, who could win over almost anyone. He was not yet forty, and the first thing people always said about him was that he made you laugh. Yet beyond his joking, there was something larger-than-life about him, and not just because he was a big man. The years of overwork, red-eye flights, five-course meals, and sauternes had gone straight to his waistline. He’d stopped playing golf several years ago, and tennis was out of the question. But he still needed the competition, so instead he’d pushed to become ever more well-informed, quick with the numbers, convincing in arguments. With his brusque smile, he was the one who closed the deals. It became a kind of relentlessness, his trademark, getting things his way in the end, driven to always be the best. Yet out here, he accepted that he’d never come close to Jenny’s level as a sailor. He’d started to lose weight, and he no longer made a nasty comment if she smoked a cigarette in the evening breeze. In Porto Salvo, they’d even left the children on board overnight and gone to a small hotel near the harbor.

“They have the cell phone if they need us,” Carl-Adam said, when she hesitated for a moment. They hadn’t felt this kind of fire in a long time, and they didn’t just make love at night but were also surprised by their desire for each other at dawn. Not sleepy caresses, but instead a force that took ahold of them. This wasn’t dutiful lovemaking, it was pure sex for the first time in years. Back on the boat, Alexandra asked about the bite mark on Carl-Adam’s neck.

They’d talked about it before, but not until they left Crete heading south did Jenny begin to worry. The Suez Canal and the Red Sea lay ahead—no dangers there—but then came the Gulf of Aden. They’d read about it. The pirates. Checklists in the sailing magazines, websites listing the latest attacks. Experts saying: keep away from the obvious trouble spots and stay in close communication with navy ships. Still. Reading about it from far away was one thing; sailing straight into it, another. Carl-Adam dealt with it in his own way. As usual, he preferred action, not just vague advice and relying on others. Alexandria was their last port stop in a big city. They tied up for a few days in the empty cruise-ship harbor not far from the center. A little sightseeing for the whole family, a trip to the pyramids of Giza, and Carl-Adam made his own little excursions in the city.

He returned to the boat one evening carrying something slender wrapped in burlap. He glanced at the port guards through the windows before cutting the strings and taking it out. A Kalashnikov, with two magazines and four hundred cartridges. “Arab Spring,” he snorted with contempt. “They’re losing their grip. Would you believe it, this cost me only two hundred dollars. Two hundred.”

The object lying on the dining-room table didn’t convey the slightest sense of security. Dented wood and dirty metal. With a flimsy bayonet attached below the barrel, and reeking of gun grease. It had to be hidden going through the Suez. Carl-Adam didn’t want trouble from the inspectors sent aboard by the canal company to take bribes, or to give them any excuses. But in the Red Sea, he took it out. Carl-Adam emptied a magazine into a plastic jug he towed behind the boat.

Afterward, he rubbed his shoulder with his thumb. “If they come too close, they’ll eat it.” Sebastian, the boy, played with the empty shells, while his big sister, Alexandra, was quieter than usual that evening.

They passed through Bab el Mandeb, at the southernmost point of the Red Sea, and continued into the Gulf of Aden. The fishing was good here, and Yemeni fishermen steered their skiffs in small fast-moving clusters. The same open boats that the pirates sat in, from those photos online. The same thin, dark figures. Although the fishermen often waved as they passed, Jenny grew uneasy. The Somali coast lay no more than a few days’ sail away.

Moving on, they passed by Djibouti, where convoys of ships seeking protection from Somali lawlessness were organized. The convoys required a speed of twelve knots, but that was impossible for the MaryAnn, as she would have to rely solely on her engine to keep her place in line. Carl-Adam and Jenny took down the sails and joined a convoy for slow-moving vessels. A collection of the lame and crippled. Freighters and tankers, real tubs, flying the flags of East Africa, Pakistan, and North Korea. Twenty merchant ships—and the MaryAnn. Radar showed them in a formation of two lines, with a few Japanese and Chinese naval ships making a weak show of power on either side. On the common radio frequency, there was constant chatter. Strange languages and obscenities in broken English. “Fuck you, Pakistani monkey.” One night they heard strange moaning and wet sounds on the frequency. Finally they figured out that the night watchman on some ship thought he’d cheer up the convoy by playing the soundtrack to a porn movie. For hours it continued, you could turn down the volume but had to leave it on. Because all of a sudden, things would change into terrified shouts and uncomfortable silences. “They are shooting, shooting …” “Where, where …?” It always sounded confusing. “Who is calling?” Chaos. “Pirates, pirates …!”

They knew the navy ships didn’t scare off the pirates. Ships were getting hijacked even within the convoys. Jenny and Carl-Adam tried, but they couldn’t both stay up all night. They had to take shifts, sleeping badly in between. It wasn’t for this that they’d left home, Jenny thought at some point, but said nothing. Old patterns repeated themselves; they shared shifts up on deck, but she still cooked all the meals below. The children were listless, often seeming downright spoiled, and Jenny got angry when they complained about helping with chores or started fights. Often, it felt crowded on board.

In the Gulf of Aden also came the heat. With the sails down and the engine running, there was almost no shade on deck. Only the black finger of the mast, moving through the hours like the shadow of a huge sundial. The air was thick and hot with every breath, and the children stayed below. Jenny and Carl-Adam took four-hour shifts under the canvas roof of the cockpit. On the digital nautical chart, the northern Somali coast passed by too slowly. Their eyes fixed on what lay ahead: a timber freighter burning coal, its dense smoke rising in a black plume. A couple of ship silhouettes to starboard, and now and then a navy ship speeding past them, making sweeps that seemed mostly random.

“Jenny! Jenny!” It was always Carl-Adam who sounded the alarm. Sometimes he was already carrying the Kalashnikov when she came up on deck, sometimes he nodded with only a “There!” while he followed through the binoculars. A lone freighter in the distance, or a group of fishermen that navy ships had already checked out and reported on over the radio. He didn’t have Jenny’s ear for languages and still had a hard time deciphering what was said over the airwaves. Yet whenever he shouted, her heart would pound. The kids exchanged frightened glances whenever their mother raced up on deck. The seconds it took to understand what was happening, their temples aching before the danger could be dismissed.

They passed the Horn of Africa, and the convoy broke up where the Indian Ocean opened out. The MaryAnn returned to good form and set sail again. They continued east—following the advice of Yachting World—to get beyond the pirates’ range. Nearly to the Arabian Gulf, before turning south to head down through the middle of the Indian Ocean. They were on their way to Mombasa to refill both diesel fuel (the tank nearly empty after the Gulf of Aden) and their food supplies. Even better, they’d spend a week at a hotel and live at the beach. Jenny looked forward to taking walks, to the smell and feel of leaves, and to sitting at tables already set, with someone else cooking the food.

But somewhere out there, the wind died. Mornings, the sea was often glassy, despite their being in mid-ocean. They moved slowly, while the heavy gray storm clouds passed by, always missing them. Jenny longed to get drenched and cool off. At best, the clouds brought a few minutes of teasing, a few barely cool gusts of wind, without the sun’s burning flame being obscured for even a second in the sapphire blue sky.

They didn’t see a single ship for more than a week. Only a gray military helicopter heading straight on its course, far away. A brief crackle on the radio, and the sound of the distant rotor fading out. Then gone. Jenny was the one who saw it, hearing the crackle. Everything so still that she saw no reason to mention it to Carl-Adam.

Jenny was down in the children’s cabin, distractedly helping Alexandra with her math homework, when she heard her husband’s clattering on deck. She listened. A shout in the distance. It wasn’t Carl-Adam’s voice. And then a shot, followed by silence.

And suddenly, all hell broke loose. A bullet tore through the deck, whistling just above their heads. Jenny shouted at the children to lie down on the floor and ran as she’d never run before, like an arrow, to get her head up into the cockpit. She saw Carl-Adam standing at the rail, holding the Kalashnikov in front of him. And there beyond him, a fast little skiff. Full speed in a wide arc around them, not even a hundred meters away. Dark figures, flapping T-shirts. Weapons in hand, a couple of them raised in some kind of gesture. Threat, victory? Her thoughts stuttered as she tried to understand—not here, nobody would come here, there was nothing here. A shout again, a strange voice from somewhere behind her, at the bow, her view blocked by the cabin roof in front of her. All her impressions converged in a split second, while she was still on her way up to the deck.

The instant she took the final leap, there was a series of quick shots. She flinched, and in the same instant the vicious bullets hit the water at the stern. Carl-Adam followed the skiff with fear in his eyes, raising and lowering his arms a few times.

Jenny sensed something at the bow. She turned around, and now with a clear view, she saw a second skiff. “Carl-Adam,” she cried. They were close, heading straight at the MaryAnn. “Turn around!” He didn’t react, was overwhelmed, unreachable. Only watching the one boat he could see. “There are two!” Not even ten meters left, before the other one would reach the bow.

New shots came from the boat farther out, throwing up spray at the stern, where Carl-Adam stood. Jenny’s gaze wandered from the bow to her husband. He raised his arms at last and fired a few shots. He must have hit something, she didn’t know what, but the boat veered away sharply, out of control.

She shouted: “Bow! The bow!” And watched the man who sat at the front of the skiff, the one her husband couldn’t see, stand up and take aim. Straight at her, it seemed. She crouched behind the cabin roof in fear. A shot.

Carl-Adam twitched as if he’d been punched. His weapon was tossed aside, and he fell to his knees. Blood. Something thudded into the MaryAnn. Jenny ran to the stern, grabbed Carl-Adam with both hands, got a confused look in response.

“I shot,” he said. “I shot one.”

Blood covered her hands. Behind her, she heard steps running. In the bow, they’d already come on board. She tried to say something to Carl-Adam, and he said something back that she didn’t understand. There was something wrong with his leg. The man who came on first was tall and gangly, with bloodshot eyes. Barefoot. Without a word, he pulled back his gun and rammed it into Carl-Adam’s back. Jenny lost her grip on him when he collapsed. Two other men pushed past. They disappeared with their machine guns leading, down below deck. She thought about the children and was overwhelmed by the feeling that something had come to an end.

2

The helicopter pilot on the HMS Sveaborg shoved the magazine into his pistol, pushed the pistol into his shoulder holster, and pulled on his flight helmet. All the other shit, he was already wearing. It was time to take off, again.

He’d lost count of how many times he had taken off from the ship. Had lost count of most things now. No longer kept track of how long they’d been out on their mission off the Somali coast, or even when they’d return home again. Mission, the word alone—whose salvation were they seeking here? His flight suit had salt stripes from old sweat, like the rings on a tree. He hadn’t washed it as often as he should. There were so many shoulds. He shaved at most once a week, something so unlike him that at least he noticed. There was also the creeping feeling that maybe he’d stopped caring about real things. That idea bothered him more than his stubble when he looked in the mirror. In his emails home, he didn’t think there was anything to say, nothing to talk about in a stream of identical days. His wife sent pictures of the house, of the flower beds and bushes turning green again in spring, and of the kids’ sports practices. They struck him as familiar and so terribly distant at the same time. He sent no more than a smiley face or a thumbs-up in reply. The last time they’d escorted a ship into Mogadishu, he’d stood on deck and watched the shelling around the port while he ate a packet of biscuits. Were there two bloated corpses floating past him as he took out the last one, or was it three?

Now he sat strapped into the cockpit and waited for final preparations to be completed on the helicopter deck. He leaned forward and squinted up through the glass canopy at the aft mast. A peregrine falcon was sitting there, despite the noise from the engines and the spinning rotor. For a week, he’d seen it following the ship, mostly perched there, watching, or gliding on the winds around the ship. Now it had prey in its beak, Christ knows where it’d been caught, because it was not a fish.

A fresh splash of seawater hit the rotor, spotting the glass. The ship rocked in the rough seas of the southwest monsoon. Newly arrived, it had brought strong winds over the past few days. The pilot tried to get comfortable, but he couldn’t, not with his bulky vest bursting with all the survival equipment someone else had decided he needed. The worst, comfort-wise, was the bulletproof vest beneath his flight suit, with its heavy protective plates front and rear. It weighed almost twenty kilos. But he wanted that vest, even though it would drown him if he crashed into the sea. Stray bullets were what scared him the most, beyond the fear of being taken hostage by any of the insane militias based in the Horn of Africa. The flight crews no longer joked about why they’d save one last bullet in their gun.

The ship lurched again, and the helicopter’s shock absorbers reluctantly responded. The copilot rattled off the final checklist items, and the gunner in the rear, after swearing about something, announced: “Cabin check complete.” Outside, the flight deck crew stumbled off, carrying the lashings they’d removed from the helicopter. Already, big flowers of sweat darkened the pale blue fabric of their jumpsuits. Even in the strong wind, it was impossible to defend against the heat.

They had an extra passenger in the helicopter. An hour before takeoff, the ship’s first officer had told the pilot: “You know, we’ll have Lieutenant Slunga aboard, the head of MovCon.”

MovCon, the logistics unit, normally kept to their unloading duties in Djibouti. The HMS Sveaborg had made a brief stopover in Salalah a few days before, when the ship’s air-conditioning had broken, and they’d quickly arranged a delivery of spare parts to the nearest port. It was Slunga himself who’d organized it, then stayed on board when they cast off again. “MovCon performs miracles, but they work their asses off, especially Slunga,” said the commander. “He’d probably appreciate a ride.” One of the few rewards the brass on board could give their men was a trip in a helo, if the pilot in command didn’t object.

“Of course we’ll take him.”

Before takeoff, the pilot helped Slunga put on his gear, a slimmed-down version of what the others wore, and they’d introduced themselves. The lieutenant, with his white-blond hair, projected something both friendly and preoccupied. He chatted about his family, especially his son whom he clearly missed a lot, and never stopped asking questions. But as soon as Slunga’s attention wasn’t required, his thoughts drifted away, and he seemed startled when the conversation started up again. He grabbed a cup of coffee before takeoff but took only a sip.

Now Slunga was in the aft of the cabin with the gunner. Amid all the commotion around him, he seemed finally to have forgotten what was bugging him, and he sat down looking expectant as the engines roared.

A gust ruffled the falcon’s feathers up on the mast, while on the helicopter deck, the pilot tried to get a feel for the motion of the ship, looking for the sweet spot in the erratic rhythm. The deck light turned from red to green, and he got his chance as the aft heaved upward. The helicopter lifted off through the gusty winds in one long sweep over the starboard side.

They flew under radio silence at low altitude toward the coast. After the tension of takeoff, they got a half hour of peace. The sea always seemed calmer and bluer from the air than when you stood on deck. The short period of calm invited conversation, sometimes even confidences.

“So …,” asked the pilot, “how’s it going?”

The gunner knew exactly what he was talking about. “I was in her cabin yesterday, but she said that now that we’re on duty, everything’s off. But the next time we’re in port, she wants to go out.”

“And you want to go in,” laughed the copilot. The gunner said nothing.

“Are you serious about her?” asked Slunga, the extra passenger.

“Yes, he is,” replied the pilot for the young gunner.

“Do something special, then, don’t just take her out for a few beers.”

“It’s hard,” replied the gunner, sounding blue. “You know, you only get one day ashore.”

“Not beer and a disco ball,” continued Slunga, “not with the life you live out here. Give her peace every minute of those twenty-four hours. Take her away from it all, to the beach, where it’s only her and you, with no one from the ship around.”

“That’s a sweet dream, but how can I make it happen from here?”

“Not you. I’ll do it, and I know just the place. If you say she’s worth it.”

“Are you serious?”

“Doesn’t MovCon have anything better to do than arrange love nests?” the copilot tried to joke.

“What could be more important?” said Slunga. There wasn’t a trace of irony.

They flew in silence for a minute, before the pilot broke it. “The first officer says you’re working hard these days.”

“Did he mention me specifically?” replied Slunga.

“Why?”

“No, nothing. We have enough to do, sure, we work around the clock. But I have all the people I need. I’ve even managed to hire a crew of locals on the base in Djibouti. It’s just that you’re on the ship out here, while I’m ashore with my little gang. Strong personalities, and lots of distractions near the base and in town.”

“Discipline problems?”

“Sometimes.”

“You’ve got to keep them on a short leash.”

“I try to.”

For the last few days, the Swedish patrol vessel HMS Sveaborg had been skulking outside a known pirates’ nest not far from Bosaso.

As they reached the beach, the helicopter climbed to a few hundred feet, and then the cabin door opened wide and the machine gun emerged, ready in case of trouble. With their powerful cameras, the crew started taking videos and stills. The beach was more than a kilometer wide, but what interested them stood by the water’s edge: a half-dozen open boats, their hulls resting wearily on their sides, right on the sand where the tides came up, along with some improvised shelters built from rubble, and the fuel storage, with oil barrels covered by orange tarps.

“Not many awake,” said one of the pilots, about the stillness below.

“Sleeping off their khat highs.” With the cabin door wide open, they had to half-shout to make themselves heard over the wind and the rotor’s roar.

“There, at two o’clock,” yelled the copilot. The gunner turned the high-magnification camera sitting in a gimbal under the fuselage, the movement making the TV screen flicker. Then it stopped and came into focus.

“Weren’t there some oil drums here before?”

“Nothing left but marks in the sand.”

The camera moved again. “And I can’t find that pile of RPG grenades we saw yesterday.”

“High tide was just after sunset.”

“Seems a few snuck out at night.”

On the second lap around the camp, the radio crackled. They couldn’t hear a thing but figured it was the ship. Distance was a problem, and the pilot had to corkscrew up to a higher altitude before they got a voice.

“Snowman from Mother, do you read us?” It was the combat control officer on the Sveaborg.

“Not even a half hour out. Always something,” said the copilot in a tired voice, as he pressed the transmit button. “Snowman here.”

The Sveaborg had received a distress call from a merchant ship. The helicopter was given a position, and the pilot turned around and picked up speed toward the sea. While the copilot went over the adjustments on the radar screen, the gunner pulled in his machine gun and closed the cabin door. Instantly, the wind noise died down in the helmet headphones.

Soon afterward, an agitated voice came on the radio, heard through constant interruptions in the transmission. It was the skipper of the MV Sevastopol, a Russian freighter. If there was anything you learned in the Gulf of Aden, it was how to understand all the world’s accents in English, shouted over Channel 16. “Calm down, calm down … Please, say again … Who is shooting?”

But they got the gist. “Shit!” swore the gunner, who felt tricked by the pirates sneaking out at night. It took a while to get more out of the skipper than “Two boats, two boats” and “Please hurry up!” The pirates were shelling the bridge with bursts from their automatic weapons, and it seemed the ship had also taken some grenade hits. The men in skiffs had tried more than once to hook ladders onto the sides, and one of the freighter’s crew members was badly hurt. But so far, no pirates had gotten on board, and the captain was maneuvering his ship as well as he could to keep them off. “Please hurry up!”

The MV Sevastopol had grown into a fat cigar-shaped blip on the radar screen, matching its swelling dot on the horizon, and now had a clear wake.

Only in the last few hundred meters did the helicopter slow down. The same routine as before: door open, machine gun out. Although they weren’t taken by surprise, the men in the motorboats hesitated for a moment. The pirates had been so close, the prey almost in hand, just one more minute and … Even if you looked right into their faces, you’d never see disappointment. The skipper kept yelling over the radio, and on another channel, the Sveaborg kept asking what was happening, but the helicopter crew couldn’t care less about that. They had a single focus: the men in the boats, and what they did with their hands. The only one actually aiming with a weapon was their own gunner. The MV Sevastopol had stopped zigzagging and held a steady course, with one pirate boat just a few meters from her side, and a man still holding on to the long, hooked boarding ladder. The other boat was farther out. Five men in each—bare feet, skinny arms, T-shirts and shorts. A few moments to decide who was strong and who was weak. “Shoot! Shoot the monkeys!” shouted the Sevastopol’s captain.

As if on cue, the two pirate boats revved to full throttle, spraying arcs behind their outboard engines. The Russian freighter remained on course, a tired old dinosaur, while both skiffs disappeared, leaving white streaks.

The pilot had already caught up. He could see how the men below shook as their boats hit the waves, even though their speed was child’s play for the helicopter. He felt a shameful wave of satisfaction, for in that instant, it was all just a game. An interlude between the pirates’ firing on defenseless people and the consequences that would bring. Now they were trying to escape, but escape was impossible.

“Give them a few rounds, see what happens.”

The gunner, who already had them in his sights, pulled the trigger. Twenty meters in front of the first boat, the water leapt up in white columns. The skiffs didn’t slow down. But the second boat, which had been following the first, made a wide arc and took off on its own. One helicopter, two boats; they’d certainly lose half their catch. The pilot continued straight ahead, a hundred feet up, just behind the remaining boat. The copilot updated the Sveaborg over the radio about what was happening. They needed no further orders or permission to pursue. It was obvious what they were facing, and what the people in the boats had done—piracy, no small thing; someone had been seriously wounded on a merchant ship. They were to be stopped at any cost.

“Fire again.”

The second volley hit just in front of the bow, so that water from the impact splashed into the boat. Some of the men ducked, as if the splashes were shrapnel. A chink in their armor, revealing that they were afraid. “We’ll give them a chance.” The pilot had dropped closer, less than a hundred meters between them now. Here the helicopter was at its most vulnerable, given that the pirates had more firepower: four or five Kalashnikovs and at least one rocket-propelled grenade. But these wouldn’t be an option now. The language of power was spoken through shiny technology, thundering rotors, and targeted firepower. Had anyone so much as reached for a weapon on the floor, the gunner would have instantly opened fire on the boat, without even an order from the commander on board. It would have been self-defense, clear and simple. And the men in the boat knew it. They might have been too high on khat or too afraid, but mostly they held their fire because of the balance of power. They had to accept their futility first.

One last chance, the pilot had said. The third volley sprayed from bow to stern next to the rail of the skiff. Impossible to shoot any closer without hurting someone, and none of the pirates wanted to risk a challenge. They just wanted to survive, and maybe get back home again. The boat stopped abruptly, and all five raised their hands. The helicopter pulled away and began circling. There was an intense burst of radio traffic, and they calculated their fuel reserves.

“How much time?” asked the pilot.

“Keep us at just below sixty knots, and we might have enough for an hour.” The HMS Sveaborg had been traveling at top speed for a while. Down below, the pirates had lowered their hands and sat bobbing in the boat, while the gunner kept them centered in the viewfinder of his TV camera. “Now they’re dumping the ladder,” he said. That was also part of the game. The Somalis were trying to get rid of evidence: they lowered the ladder into the sea while the gunner filmed.

“And there go the guns.”

Five nameless men in an empty boat somewhere in the Gulf of Aden.

The helicopter circled. They’d done this before. But then the radio crackled—an unexpected surprise.

“Snowman, Snowman, this is Russian Federation warship Admiral Chabanenko.”

“Shit,” swore the copilot. The Russians had a handful of warships in the region that didn’t belong to any task force. Instead, they ran their own show. Well-armed and aggressive, their approach to Africans with flip-flops and Kalashnikovs was: gloves off. The Russian destroyer Admiral Chabanenko was moving in like an arrow. And the fact that she could be heard over the VHF radio meant she couldn’t be very far off.

“Snowman, confirm you have the Somali pirates under your control.” The Russian combat controllers had a distinct accent, and their tone was never polite.

“Answer them,” said the pilot.

“You know what they’ll demand?”

“Answer them.”

The copilot replied to the Chabanenko, telling them where things stood. Then he radioed the Sveaborg: “Following the traffic?”

“We follow.”

“What’s happening?” asked Slunga, who’d been sitting silently in the cabin.

“We’ll explain later,” said the pilot.

“Just make sure to get a video of that damn boat down there,” the copilot reminded the gunner.

“Confirming your position,” said the Russians.

“They already see us on their radar,” the pilot explained to Slunga, and then added, resigned: “They’re taking over.”

“Mother, what are our orders?” radioed the copilot to the HMS Sveaborg.

“Wait,” said the Swedish combat controller.

It was obvious. The Russians had contacted their own military headquarters through other channels. Made their demands. Asserted their rights. Somewhere a Swedish admiral was sitting down with a lawyer, reading the fat paragraphs of rules and conventions: a Russian merchant ship attacked in international waters, a sailor seriously injured. Rights and wrongs—and politics. And keeping his hands clean. Chasing pirates was less about battle operations than about mastering these paragraphs.

The helicopter circled while the five men in the boat sat dazed and unsuspecting. A destroyer was on its way, doing at least forty knots. Somewhere in the Russian hull, weapons were being loaded and grenades readied.

“Snowman from Mother,” the Swedish ship radioed, “hand over the suspects.”

The copilot was silent for a second, letting it sink in before he answered. “Mother, we are handing over five men to the Russians. You are fully aware of this?”

“Drop it,” snapped the pilot, over the intercom. But the copilot had scored his point and wouldn’t do any more grumbling. The admiral had decided that he couldn’t put up a fight. Who knew what he really wanted? Certainly he realized what was happening. But Legad, the military lawyer, had pointed to some lines in the rule book and showed the admiral that, even though he was cornered, he could come out with his hands clean.

“Hand over the object and document your actions,” repeated the combat control on the HMS Sveaborg.

“You bet your ass we will,” muttered the copilot, and called out, “Confirmed.” Then he asked the gunner: “You noted the time of the order, right?”

“Of course.”

Then the Russian destroyer arrived, first a blip on the radar, then a dark gray shape through the haze. A warship on the open seas—for the Russians in the twenty-first century, everything was still about flexing their muscles: huge spinning antennas and guns in every direction. A death star.

Now it was their show.

“Snowman, stand by, boarding team on the way,” said a voice that no human being would want judging his fate. Two rubber boats shot out from the destroyer carrying the boarding team: black boats, with men dressed entirely in black. On the helicopter’s TV, the men in the pirate boat looked vaguely anxious—they’d probably seen the destroyer and the rubber boats coming. They raised their arms again, straight up like exclamation points, all five.

“You still filming?” asked the copilot.

“Yes,” replied the gunner.

“Turn it off now and put away the camera,” commanded the pilot.

Hands clean.

The rubber boats had barely another two hundred meters to go. The pilot turned, leaving the pirate boat and the whole scene behind them, while the copilot announced: “Admiral Chabanenko, we are handing over pirate suspects to you.”

“Affirmative,” answered the voice of doom. “Good hunting.”

The pilot looked at his wristwatch. “Note that when we left them at zero seven fifty-three, all five were still alive.”

The silence in the machine was palpable. The logistics officer must have been feeling some kind of internal moral struggle. They’d gone without a word for more than ten minutes when Slunga finally asked: “What will happen to …?”

“You don’t want to know,” replied the pilot.

And then, silence again.

They’d seen nothing. Hands clean.

3

Jenny never said it, could never stand to think it, but the MaryAnn II had been hijacked. Seven pirates on board, their two skiffs towed behind. They waved their guns around impatiently, everywhere, always a finger on the trigger. The first hour, they’d been full of victory and rage. Searching and looting, dragging Jenny along to open lockers, cabinets, and bulkheads. Mostly, they seemed to be looking for food, or racing to find valuables to stuff in their pockets. They’d wolf down a chocolate bar, clear out a bathroom cabinet, nab a little knife with nail scissors, and push on to the next cabin. The slightest misunderstanding was seen as defiance, and then the muzzle was up against Jenny’s face again. Worst was the crushing feeling of powerlessness, every time they grabbed or shouted at the children.

In one of the skiffs lay a dead man—the one Carl-Adam had shot. Carl-Adam himself had been shot in the hand, and there was a long gash in his thigh. But all in all he’d been fortunate, given the number of shots they’d fired. His luck had only held out so far, however, and now it was over. He’d armed himself, killed one of their own, and now he was the pirates’ defeated enemy. They forced him into one end of the cockpit. He was guarded the whole time, by the unlucky bastard who got back at his prisoner for missing out on all the looting. Random bursts of kicking, rifle-butting, and yelling. Carl-Adam tried to defend himself, barely noticing his wounds, but soon the cockpit was covered in long streaks of blood where he’d braced himself, crawled, and slipped as he was being beaten. His corner looked like a pen where some animal was slowly being slaughtered.

The whole time, the MaryAnn’s autopilot kept the boat on the same steady heading it was on before the pirate skiffs appeared.

Jenny managed to keep the children with her while she was being dragged around the ship. Only one thing mattered as long as she had them with her: preventing them from seeing what was happening to their father out on deck. When the first numbing terror subsided, her head spun with one recurring thought: it’s all on me! The thought didn’t exactly make her stronger, but it did make her more wary.

One face among the pirates, with his narrow almond-shaped eyes and henna-dyed beard, etched itself early in her consciousness. He ransacked the cabinets and ate like the others, but carried his rifle on his back, not in front, and the other pirates were careful never to get in his way. Seeing the way he observed his surroundings, Jenny always made sure to stand between him and Alexandra whenever he looked at her. Despite the looting, he kept the others from stealing the radio and the navigation equipment on the chart table.

When the thieves had gotten what they wanted and given in to the drowsiness of victory, their leader went up on deck. His rust-red beard shone intensely in the sun. It took Jenny a while to realize that the man was kicking Carl-Adam like the others, but he wanted something specific. “Here!” he shouted, waiting a few seconds for the prisoner’s reaction, and then starting in again. “Here!” Then Jenny got a glimpse of the man’s handheld GPS and understood.

It would take several days before the pirates grasped that Jenny was the skipper of the MaryAnn. But this time, when Redbeard kicked, she managed to go up on deck and get his attention. With a final kick to his side, bringing Carl-Adam down once again, the pirate leader turned around.

“Here!” he repeated, reaching out his arm with the GPS right in front of her. The display showed a point on the Somali coast, just south of Harardhere.

Jenny set the course with the autopilot. They veered to starboard, a gentle turn in the breeze. A new course to the west, toward a place everyone had been told to avoid. Redbeard watched her quietly during the entire maneuver, then checked the course on his own GPS. After that, she was allowed to take care of Carl-Adam.

The shot had gone straight through his hand. She picked out bone chips, then washed the wound and bandaged it. At least one bone in there was shattered. The gash in his thigh was inches long and deep; she did what she could with a first-aid kit. She had a hard time getting a hold around Carl-Adam’s heavy thigh, and the wound started to bleed badly again, while her arms got shaky before she finally managed to squeeze so hard that it stopped. Her hands were shiny with her husband’s blood, so much of it on herself and her clothes that she could smell the iron. Carl-Adam was panting from exhaustion, and at times his gaze went blank. She started to take off his stained shirt but stopped when she saw all the big bruises forming and the lump rising on his back from the first blow with the rifle butt. How much more, for how long?

“They’ll miss us” was the first thing he said, when she was nearly done. Carl-Adam was leaning back, and she put an arm around his head in an attempt to comfort him and get close. She thought he meant the kids, that he was already thinking of himself and her as dead.

“I’m all right,” she said, and tried to smile. Not a second passed without her thinking about Alexandra and Sebastian, left alone in their cabin below deck.

But Carl-Adam had seen a glimmer of hope, knowing that they’d turned west toward the Somali coast. “The link,” he explained, his voice a whisper. “Everyone will see.”

On their blog, which they kept so friends and family could follow their trip, their location was automatically updated every ten nautical miles with a small red dot on a map. They probably wouldn’t be able to write another word, but their dotted trail now went counter to all their previous posts about where they were heading. “They’ll sound the alarm.” Even in his weakened state, this was Carl-Adam’s way of relating to what had happened, maintaining his distance, shunning the blood and vulnerability with his hope that someone would see the conflicting data. Jenny didn’t know what to think. He was busy finding a logical solution, while she was doing everything to keep them alive. Below deck, the children were still alone, with at least five pirates.

“Of course,” she said, kissing Carl-Adam’s forehead. “Someone will get worried, and they’ll find us.”

The days went by. A sixty-two-foot sailboat towing two skiffs close behind. Westward went the dotted trail on both the MaryAnn’s GPS and the family’s sailing blog. The corpse, left exposed in one of the skiffs, had begun to swell. There were only a few meters between the boats, and from the quarterdeck they could clearly see his face, the teeth shining white in an unnatural grin. Starting from the mangled shoulder, the flesh was turning a bad color and slowly cracking. Whenever they went up on deck, it was impossible not to look, and the weak wind blew the stench at them.

Below deck, Jenny tried to restore order, unwilling to give in. She kept picking up, even though the floor was soon covered with trash again. Wads of paper and food packaging lay everywhere. She gave up on the toilets, which reeked ever more strongly of urine. But for her own sake and for the dignity of the children, she tried to keep their regular routines. She got up at the same time every morning, tried to cook at least one meal a day in an orderly way, kept busy, supervised Alexandra’s schoolwork. Her efforts were often blocked, as sometimes activities would be forbidden, or stuff would disappear, or someone would take away their food, but still—she’d try again. Jenny’s patience was all that kept the creeping resignation at bay, creating a sense of safety and keeping them from giving up: they are there, and we are here. Before the pirates, on board she’d always worn shorts and gone barefoot, but now she covered her legs and wore shoes. And as a mother she was forced to choose: the children or Carl-Adam? So their shared cabin had become his infirmary, and she slept with Alexandra and Sebastian. She didn’t leave them alone for a moment, unless absolutely necessary. On board, she and the children moved as a pack. For an hour or so every evening, she tried to make sure all four were together, although her injured husband mostly slept.

The second time the pirates went after Carl-Adam was when they wanted to go faster; the weak wind was making Redbeard impatient. They shook Carl-Adam and landed a couple of decent punches before Jenny understood and started up the engine. She didn’t try to explain that the tank would soon be empty. They ran out of diesel two days later, and then there was more shouting and a few kicks before they were powered only by the wind again. Carl-Adam recovered somewhat, but he had trouble putting weight on his injured leg, and his hand was an ominous red. He mostly just sipped water and lay on his bunk, and Jenny washed and dressed his wounds every day. They’d run out of bandages, so ripped sheets had to do. When she asked him to move his fingers, only his thumb twitched.

It wasn’t long before Alexandra made an innocent mistake. One afternoon, on her own initiative, she sat down at the computer on the chart table, to send an essay in for school. Despite all the chaos on board, she still wanted to do well in her last semester of junior high. Jenny couldn’t stop her, and Redbeard saw and understood what a satellite link could lead to. He yelled, Alexandra glared, a loud slap was heard, and she cursed in defiance before Jenny stepped between them, and then he furiously snatched all the cables out of the computer. The link was broken; there was no more dotted trail. Later that evening, when she and the children were below with Carl-Adam, he asked about the commotion. Alexandra shrugged, and Jenny said Redbeard had gotten upset when she’d opened some cans. She held his hand in bed, and in his eyes, saw that he didn’t completely believe her.

“Someone will notice?” he said.

“Of course,” she replied. “Someone will miss us.”

Her lie in front of the children, her own sense of hopelessness while needing to keep up an appearance of strength. It was the loneliest moment she had ever known on the boat.

Redbeard was called Darwiish by the other pirates, and after the incident at the chart table, Alexandra kept a close eye on him. She’d slip past Jenny and say: “We have to watch out, Redbeard is drunk.” The liquor bottles on board had disappeared from the cabinet on day one. No one saw when he drank, but after nightfall, they sometimes saw his awkward movements and moist lips. From time to time, he’d fire shots into the night, but mostly he kept to the cockpit at the stern, or the middle of the cabin below deck, sitting up straight and thin, and watching everything and everyone through narrow eyes.

The slowness, the heat, and the weak wind that kept them at a crawl took their toll. Fights broke out among the pirates, and there were new outbreaks of looting to relieve the boredom. When Darwiish roared at or hit one of his own, it was impossible to say if he was settling a dispute or simply acting on impulse. Once, he forced one of the younger pirates, not much more than a boy, to sit at the bow for the whole afternoon without shelter from the sun. Only when he fainted did someone go up on the deck and pull him away.

Finally, the situation with the bloated corpse became unbearable. Three pirates stepped into the skiff with handkerchiefs tied over their noses and mouths, and they rolled the body over the side. They’d wrapped a chain they’d found on board around his feet as a sinker, but the dead man was so bloated with gas that he floated anyway, with one arm strangely sticking up above the surface. He looked like someone in distress who’d been frozen in his plea for help, as he slowly drifted away, disappearing into the mist.

Only once was Darwiish caught in a moment of indecision. When a military helicopter crossed the horizon, the pirates came to a standstill on deck, all eyes focused on the same point in the sky. A burst of static on the radio. Darwiish looked at the speaker as if it were a weapon aiming at him. Suddenly there was a chance. The emergency flares, Jenny thought. They were right there in a box next to the cockpit, still intact, she knew it for a fact. She could do it. She had time; they were two steps away. Just tear off the tape and pull. Poof—a red light rising into the sky. What a sight, what defiance. It would have cost them, maybe a life. But still.

Then she thought of the children, especially Sebastian. She hesitated. The sound of the helicopter died away.

She should have fired that flare. It was the first thing she thought of two days later when she saw land before the bow of the MaryAnn.

4

Annoyingly, he felt himself breathing hard, although he hadn’t moved a muscle. His adrenaline hadn’t yet kicked in, not like for the others. But he could feel the fatigue behind his eyes. As usual, he hadn’t slept.

Ernst Grip stood outside an apartment door in the Stockholm district of Husby, eyeing the second hand on his watch. In front of him stood a handful of SWAT guys, way overequipped as usual. They’d even brought a battering ram, though they called it something else. At the briefing beforehand, someone had suggested they could just pick the lock—but no, they wanted shock and awe. They’d use “the big master key,” as they called it. No one even laughed when it was said, just a few quick and knowing nods, then the matter was settled. Shock and awe.

Two men, one on either side, took hold of the bars. Arms out, they clenched their gloved hands into fists, like overtrained athletes winding up to throw something extremely heavy as far as possible. In Grip’s row, lined up behind the strike force, stood the two others from Säpo, the security police. They were the ones in charge, the ones who’d received the order, who wielded the power. The atmosphere was both serious and amped up, as if they were facing something decisive, something at once important and extremely dangerous. And Grip didn’t like it. From where he stood, there were too many murky agendas. Of course, there was fear, but also a kind of unchecked enthusiasm before they’d even begun. What was it they were actually about to do? He looked at his second hand—fifty-five. Just seconds to go.

Ernst Grip had only a vague idea about the men standing around him. Within Säpo, he worked in the bodyguard detachment. Official visit to Dubai one day; the next, standing by the queen as she cut a blue-and-yellow ribbon for a hospital in Skövde. Working for the royals had no cred among the bodyguards, who saw it as a place for newbies needing to prove themselves or old guys who’d lost their touch. The ones who were for real got to accompany the foreign minister to some refugee camp on the Syrian border, despite all threat analyses flashing red. There were a few among Grip’s colleagues who thought he’d been shunted aside, but those who’d been there longer and had heard the rumors guessed at the real reason behind Grip’s job. He had a reputation for being good with his fists, among those who’d seen him. Maybe that was why he’d gotten called in so fast for this apartment raid. At least, that was what he hoped. Nothing more than that.

Now it was late Sunday afternoon, and already Grip had taken the royal couple to a fund-raiser at Stockholm Concert Hall. He’d driven them back to Drottningholm Palace, then returned to Säpo headquarters in Solna to drop off his equipment, planning to head home.

Everything at headquarters was dead, except in a room full of people where the phones and printers were going crazy. Grip hadn’t paid attention, only walked by. But then while he sat alone in the echoing locker room, a face that had nothing to do with bodyguards looked in: “Come on, we need you too.” So Grip had stood up.

The operations room was in chaos, with more information coming in than the staff could handle. The people around Grip were barely familiar to him, by either face or name. The instructions were unclear. “You know, on a Sunday you can’t fucking reach anyone, and we need at least one more to tag along.”

They passed him some papers with signatures. “The boss has given you clearance.” There were dozens of bosses in the building, but Grip didn’t ask questions. He saw it as a simple matter: they were shorthanded and needed extra muscle. Besides, a Sunday afternoon alone in his apartment wasn’t something he looked forward to. “Can’t just rely on SWAT for this.” Someone winked at him. A forced entry apparently, but then what? People were so stressed that they were dropping things. Someone spoke nonstop in English on an encrypted phone, mostly obedient strings of: “Yes, yes,” and “Please say again.” Body armor and firearms began to appear on a large table. An apartment blueprint was taped to one wall.

And then SWAT sauntered in.

Already dressed for action, they sat down, while the security police officers quickly took their equipment from the table and improvised a briefing. Stress and loose ends, sure, that’s what they had to deal with at times, Grip had seen it before. But it was during the briefing that Grip felt his first wave of uneasiness. The thing with the lock, for one. Not so much the battering ram itself, as the sense that they were going in full force. A piece of the larger world would play itself out in an immigrant neighborhood of Stockholm on a Sunday. They were facing a suspected terrorist cell linked to ISIS, and they had to strike now.

Obviously, they were acting on foreign intelligence, though no one said that out loud. The jargon always sounded a certain way, whenever Washington and Paris were involved. There was talk of weapons caches and suicide bombers. Sweden had long been dismissed as a backwater that didn’t take matters seriously enough. A safe haven for the naive. No one could remember the name of the guy who blew himself up a few years before near Queen Street, and there’d been some change in attitudes afterward, but still. They’d never gotten wind of something big, always been relegated to the B team. Then suddenly, this active cell. Apparently, there were people in that apartment right now. Hands in jam jars: money, weapons, bombs. It was like a perfect hand in poker. You could take the whole pot. “Now, you little fuckers!” There was no limit to ambition, and that was precisely what gave Grip the sense that something was wrong.

Two seconds to go. Grip pressed the button on the little voice recorder in the pocket of his bulletproof vest.

The battering ram was swung back, on the second, like a freight train picking up speed toward a pile of boards … “Now, you fuckers!”

The entire door collapsed in a shower of splinters. And then they went at it.

Two dark men were in the first room—at the briefing, someone had said Somalis—and a third ran back through the apartment as the wave of police and weapons swept in. When one of the overtaken men raised his arm, probably just for protection, the blow that followed knocked him flat on his back. The officers yelled, nonstop, and one drove his knee into the back of the other man who was already down on his stomach. Grip looked for weapons or suspicious devices with electrical wires. As he moved past, he noticed a table with a few stacks of foreign bills. He hadn’t lost speed, hadn’t stopped for a second. He and two of the SWAT officers rushed ahead to find the third man. A bedroom door slammed shut in front of them, but it was ripped right off its hinges by two flying shoulders. The Somali, if that’s what he was, had been pushing from behind and was thrown back into the room. The two SWAT guys dressed in black were on him in an instant. Grip saw a trail of blood spatter on the carpet. It was impossible to determine if the man on the floor was just whimpering in pain or still resisting.

“I got this,” Grip said, moving in quickly between them. He’d already holstered his pistol; the other two struggled to hold the man while they fumbled with their equipment. Grip approached, taking control. He was bigger than the two police officers, despite wearing only body armor, while they were dressed for two weeks of rioting.

“You check the bathroom.”

No one would be in there, he was certain of it. He trusted his instincts. He thought it was enough now, with all the punches, knees, and shouting. There were only three, and their hands were under control. No one would be able to press a detonator. The SWAT men left to check. The man beneath Grip had a bad nosebleed, dark blood running over dark skin, and stared at him wide-eyed and confused. Grip hadn’t even brought along handcuffs, but that wouldn’t be a problem. He pulled the skinny young man to his feet with a single move, the man’s arms hanging like fragile pendulums.

The two SWAT officers came out of the bathroom, the first giving a quick shake of his head, and then they hurried out with heavy steps. There was another bedroom somewhere. Grip heard loud voices and commotion behind him—they were ransacking every inch of the place. Just a few more seconds, before the others would also realize that they’d gotten all of the men. Then it all would wind down. Grip held the African with one hand wrapped in the front of his loose shirt. Blood was dripping on his fist—at least he’d brought gloves. With his other hand, Grip reached for a hand towel slung over a chair and gave it to the young man for his nosebleed. He took the towel but left it dangling from his hand.

Grip was alone in the room at the back of the apartment. Still all that noise and struggle behind him. What the hell were they doing? Everything in the operation had gone as it should, and now they were done. A feeling of vulnerability came over him. He looked around, both ways, but no one else was there. The man in his hold gasped and trembled. A creeping sense of unease. Something was going on. Grip scanned the face of the man standing in front of him but got back only a blank stare. No, the world could not be read so easily. Matchstick arms and frightened eyes revealed nothing about the people they were facing: petty criminals or hardened terrorists. But wasn’t it enough now? What the hell were they doing? Just a few more seconds, then it would all wind down.

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