Anders Roslund - Three Seconds

Three Seconds

Anders Roslund and Borge Hellstrom

Translated from the Swedish by Kari Dickson

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Originally published in Sweden as Tre Sekunder;

English translation published in Great Britain

by Quercus, London, in 2010.

Published by arrangement with Quercus Publishing PLC (UK).

Published by Sterling Publishing Co., Inc.

387 Park Avenue South, New York, NY 10016

Copyright 2009 by Anders Roslund and Borge Hellstrom

English translation 2010 by Kari Dickson

Distributed in Canada by Sterling Publishing

C/o. Canadian Manda Group,

165 Dufferin Street, Toronto,

Ontario, Canada M6K 3H6

Manufactured in the United States of America

All rights reserved

ISBN 978-1-4027-8592-4

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Table of Contents

PART ONE

Sunday

An hour to midnight.

It was late spring, but darker than he thought it would be. Probably because of the water down below, almost black, a membrane covering what seemed to be bottomless.

He didn't like boats, or perhaps it was the sea he couldn't fathom. He always shivered when the wind blew as it did now and winoujcie slowly disappeared. He would stand with his hands gripped tightly round the handrail until the houses were no longer houses, just small squares that disintegrated into the darkness that grew around him.

He was twenty-nine years old and frightened.

He heard people moving around behind him, on their way somewhere, too; just one night and a few hours' sleep, then they would wake in another country.

He leaned forward and closed his eyes. Each journey seemed to be worse than the last, his mind and heart as aware of the risk as his body; shaking hands, sweating brow, and burning cheeks, despite the fact that he was actually freezing in the cutting, bitter wind. Two days. In two days he'd be standing here again, on his way back, and he would already have forgotten that he'd sworn never to do it again.

He let go of the railing and opened the door that swapped the cold for warmth and led onto one of the main staircases where unknown faces moved toward their cabins.

He didn't want to sleep, he couldn't sleep-not yet.

There wasn't much of a bar. M/S Wawel was one of the biggest ferries between northern Poland and southern Sweden, but all the same; tables with crumbs on them, and chairs with such flimsy backs that it was obvious you weren't supposed to sit there for long.

He was still sweating. Staring straight ahead, his hands chased the sandwich around the plate and lunged for the glass of beer, trying not to let his fear show. A couple of swigs of beer, some cheese-he still felt sick and hoped that the new tastes would overwhelm the others: the big, fatty piece of pork he'd been forced to eat until his stomach was soft and ready, then the yellow stuff concealed in brown rubber. They counted each time he swallowed, two hundred times, until the rubber balls had shredded his throat.

"Czy poda panu cos jeszcze?"

The young waitress looked at him. He shook his head, not tonight, nothing more.

His burning cheeks were now numb. He looked at the pale face in the mirror beside the till as he nudged the untouched sandwich and full glass of beer as far down the bar as he could. He pointed at them until the waitress understood and moved them to the dirty dishes shelf.

"Postawk ci piwo?" A man his own age, slightly drunk, the kind who just wants to talk to someone, doesn't matter who, to avoid being alone. He kept staring straight ahead at the white face in the mirror, didn't even turn around. It was hard to know for sure who was asking and why. Someone sitting nearby pretending to be drunk, who offered him a drink, might also be someone who knew the reason for his journey. He put twenty euros down on the silver plate with the bill and left the deserted room with its empty tables and meaningless music.

He wanted to scream with thirst and his tongue searched for some saliva to ease the dryness. He didn't dare drink anything, too frightened of being sick, of not being able to keep down everything that he'd swallowed.

He had to do it, keep it all down, or else-he knew the way things worked-he was a dead man.

He listened to the birds, as he often did in the late afternoon when the warm air that came from somewhere in the Atlantic retreated reluctantly in advance of another cool spring evening. It was the time of day he liked best, when he had finished what he had to do and was anything but tired and so had a good few hours before he would have to lie down on the narrow hotel bed and try to sleep in the room that was still only filled with loneliness.

Erik Wilson felt the chill brush his face, and for a brief moment closed his eyes against the strong floodlights that drenched everything in a glare that was too white. He tilted his head back and peered warily up at the great knots of sharp barbed wire that made the high fence even higher, and had to fight the bizarre feeling that they were toppling toward him.

From a few hundred meters away, the sound of a group of people moving across the vast floodlit area of hard asphalt.

A line of men dressed in black, six across, with a seventh behind. An equally black vehicle shadowed them.

Wilson followed each step with interest.

Transport of a protected object. Transport across an open space.

Suddenly another sound cut through. Gunfire. Someone firing rapid single shots at the people on foot. Erik Wilson stood completely still and watched as the two people in black closest to the protected person threw themselves over said person and pushed them to the ground, and the four others turned toward the line of fire.

They did the same as Wilson, identified the weapon by sound. A Kalashnikov.

From an alleyway between two low buildings about forty, maybe fifty meters away.

The birds that had been singing a moment ago were silent; even the warm wind that would soon become cool, was still.

Erik Wilson could see every movement through the fence, hear every arrested silence. The men in black returned the fire and the vehicle accelerated sharply, then stopped right by the protected person in the line of fire that continued at regular intervals from the low buildings. A couple of seconds later, no more, the protected body had been bundled into the back seat of the vehicle through an open door and disappeared into the dark.

"Good."

The voice came from above.

"That's us done for this evening."

The loudspeakers were positioned just below the huge floodlights. The president had survived this evening, once again. Wilson stretched, listened. The birds had returned. A strange place. It was the third time he had visited the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center, or the FLETC, as it was called. It was as far south in the state of Georgia as it was possible to go; a military base owned by the American state, a training ground for American police organizations-the DEA, ATF, U.S. Marshals, Border Patrol, and the people who had just saved the nation once more: the Secret Service. He was sure of it as he studied the floodlit asphalt: it was their vehicle, their people and they often practiced here at this time of day.