Хеннинг Манкелль - The Man from Beijing

He made a few notes in his diary, switched off the lamp and soon fell asleep.

The next day London was enveloped in thick cloud. Ya Ru got up as usual at five o’clock and listened to the Chinese news on his shortwave radio. Then he checked the world stock markets on a computer, spoke to two of his managing directors about various ongoing projects, and made himself a simple breakfast of fruit.

At seven he left the flat with the silk bag in his pocket. There was one potential shortcoming in his plan. He didn’t know what time Birgitta Roslin usually ate breakfast. If she was already in the dining room when he got there, he would have to wait until the following day.

He walked up towards Trafalgar Square, paused for a couple of minutes to listen to a lone cellist playing on the pavement with an upturned hat at his feet. He donated a few coins and continued north. He turned off Tottenham Court Road and came to the hotel. There was a man at the reception desk he hadn’t seen before. He went up to the counter and took one of the hotel’s business cards. As he did so he noticed that the sheet of paper had disappeared from Birgitta Roslin’s mail slot.

The door to the dining room was standing open. He saw Birgitta Roslin right away. She was sitting at a table by the window, evidently just beginning her breakfast, and was being served coffee by a waiter.

Ya Ru held his breath and thought for a second. He decided not to wait after all. This was his moment. He took off his overcoat and approached the head waiter. He explained that he wasn’t a guest but would like to have breakfast. The head waiter was from South Korea. He led Ya Ru to a table diagonally behind the one where Birgitta Roslin was leaning over her plate.

Ya Ru looked around the restaurant. There was an emergency exit in the wall closest to his table. As he went to collect a newspaper, he tried the door and discovered it was unlocked. He returned to his table, ordered tea and waited. Many of the tables were still empty, but Ya Ru had noted that most of the keys were not behind the desk at reception. The hotel was almost full.

He took out his mobile phone and the business card he had picked up. Then he dialled the number and waited. When the receptionist answered, he said he had an important message for one of the guests, Birgitta Roslin.

‘I’ll put you through to her room.’

‘She’ll be in the dining room,’ said Ya Ru. ‘She always has breakfast at this time. I’d be grateful if you could find her. She usually sits at a window table. She’ll be wearing a blue dress; her hair is dark and cut short.’

‘I’ll ask her to come and take the call.’

Ya Ru held the phone in his hand with the line open until he saw the receptionist enter the dining room. Then he hung up, slipped it into his pocket and at the same time took out the silk bag of ground glass. As Birgitta Roslin stood up and accompanied the receptionist out through the door, Ya Ru walked over to her table. He picked up her newspaper and looked around, as if making sure that the guest sitting there really had left. He waited while a waiter topped up cups of coffee at a neighbouring table, all the time keeping a close eye on the door to reception. When the waiter had moved on, Ya Ru opened the bag and tipped the contents into the half-empty cup of coffee. Birgitta Roslin came back into the dining room. Ya Ru had already turned round and was about to return to his own table.

At that moment the windowpane shattered, and the sound of a rifle shot combined with the noise of falling glass. Ya Ru had no time to realise that something had gone wrong, catastrophically wrong. The bullet hit him in his right temple and killed him instantly. All his important bodily functions had already ceased when his body fell onto a table and knocked over a vase of flowers.

Birgitta Roslin stood there motionless, just like all the other guests in the dining room, the waiters and waitresses and a head waiter clutching a dish of hard-boiled eggs. The silence was broken by somebody screaming.

Birgitta stared at the dead body lying on the white tablecloth. It still hadn’t dawned on her that it had anything to do with her. A vague thought that London was being subjected to a terrorist attack flew through her head.

Then she felt a hand grabbing hold of her arm. She tried to pull herself free as she turned round.

It was Ho standing behind her.

‘Don’t say a word,’ said Ho. ‘Just follow me. We can’t stay here.’

Ho ushered Birgitta out into the lobby.

‘Give me your key. I’ll pack your bag while you pay your bill.’

‘What’s going on?’

‘Don’t ask any questions. Just do as I say.’

Ho was gripping her arm so tightly that it hurt. Chaos had broken out in the hotel. People were screaming and yelling, running back and forth.

‘Insist on paying,’ said Ho. ‘We have to get out of here.’

Birgitta understood. Not what had happened, but what Ho said. She stood at the desk and bellowed at one of the bewildered receptionists that she wanted to settle her bill. Ho disappeared into one of the lifts and returned ten minutes later with Birgitta’s suitcase. By then the hotel lobby was teeming with police officers and paramedics.

Birgitta had paid her bill.

‘Now we’re going to walk calmly out of the door,’ said Ho. ‘If anybody tries to stop you, just say that you have a plane to catch.’

They elbowed their way out into the street without anybody hindering them. Birgitta paused and looked back. Ho dragged at her arm once again.

‘Don’t turn round. Just walk normally. We’ll talk later.’

They came to where Ho lived and went up to her flat on the second floor. There was a man there, in his twenties. He was very pale and talked excitedly to Ho. Birgitta could see that Ho was trying to calm him down. She took him into an adjacent room where the agitated conversation continued. When they returned, the man was carrying a bundle that looked like it might contain a pool cue. He left the flat. Ho stood by the window, looking down into the street. Birgitta slumped onto a chair. She had only just realised that the man who died had fallen onto the table next to the one where she’d been sitting.

She looked at Ho, who had now left the window. She was very pale. Birgitta could see that she was trembling.

‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘You were the one who was supposed to die,’ said Ho. ‘He was going to kill you. I must tell it exactly as it is.’

Birgitta shook her head.

‘You have to be clear,’ she said. ‘Otherwise I don’t know what I’ll do.’

‘The man who died was Ya Ru. Hong Qiu’s brother.’

‘What happened?’

‘He tried to kill you. We managed to stop him at the very last moment.’

‘We?’

‘You could have died because you gave me false information about the hotel you were staying at. Why did you do that? Did you think you couldn’t trust me? Are you so confused that you can’t distinguish between friends and people who are anything but?’

Birgitta raised her hand. ‘You’re going too fast. I can’t keep up. Hong Qiu’s brother? Why would he want to kill me?’

‘Because you knew too much about what happened in your country. All those people who died. Ya Ru was presumably behind it all — that’s what Hong Qiu thought, at least.’

‘But why?’

‘I can’t say. I don’t know.’

Birgitta was thinking. When Ho was about to speak again, Birgitta raised her hand to stop her.

‘You said “we,” ’ said Birgitta after a while. ‘The man who just left your flat was carrying something. Was it a rifle?’

‘Yes. I had decided that San should keep an eye on you. But there was nobody with your name at the hotel you told me you were staying at. It was San who realised that this hotel was closest. We saw you through the window. When Ya Ru came up to your table after you’d been called away, I realised that he was going to kill you. San took out his rifle and shot him. It all happened so quickly that nobody in the street caught on. Most people probably thought it was a motorbike backfiring. San had the rifle hidden in a raincoat.’