Mattias Berg - The Carrier

“Edelweiss, for sure. Probably Zafirah. Presumably Kurt-or-John.”

She drummed her fingers against the edge of the bench, desperate for a cigarette or driven by those inner demons of hers.

“To hell with it… I’m in. When’s the flight?”

She had been drugged to the eyeballs. It was surprisingly easy for us to make our way, with Ingrid in the borrowed wheelchair, through Zaventem airport, where Edelweiss had been pulling strings. The key word was “narcolepsy”, that strange epidemic throughout Sweden which Ingrid had mentioned. According to some, the side effect of the mass vaccinations against swine flu some years ago.

Those who were curious and knew what the word meant needed no further explanation—gave me a compassionate look, some succinct words of advice, a medical tip or two. Those who did not, did not need one either. They avoided Ingrid’s ghost-like sleeping figure: assumed a case of substance abuse.

That was of course Jesús María’s specialty. But on the way to Zaventem, and so far as I could tell during the subsequent flight, she did not smoke a single cigarette. Made not the slightest attempt to break the rules, no quick puff in the restrooms, no risk of everything for the sake of the drug’s temporary solace. So for her, too, the stakes appeared to have been raised dramatically.

For my own part, I was suffering from existential vertigo, the floor swayed, my worlds were colliding. I had made a pact with the Evil One. I was playing for high stakes with the grand master himself—and even kidded myself I could win. Or at least that he would keep to the rules, let me and my family loose in the way we had agreed.

That after they had been given their freedom again, or whatever situation they found themselves in—I hardly dared to think about it—I should be granted safe conduct to the destination of my choosing, and might sink deep under the continental ice. Quite simply let the world of nuclear weapons take its course. Allow you to pass your judgments, should you ever get the chance.

Edelweiss had worked quickly after my call, set up the necessary logistics. When the staff at the check-in desk for the night flight to Washington saw my passport, we were immediately shown to the last counter in Terminal D. From there further underground to Terminal X, that secret domain where we were given first-class tickets and new identity documents, each set within its own padded envelope.

According to my new passport I was now Desmond Kern. Yet another witticism from the grand master. He had so often spoken about this during our strategy classes: that we should always identify the main character in the intelligence tangle we were to unravel. Only when all the roles had been assigned would we be able to choose an effective strategy. You have to identify the core of the poodle , he said over and over again.

And the name on my new passport left no room for doubt. What Edelweiss was saying, in coded form, was that Ingrid no longer had the lead role in the complex drama that had been playing out since our escape—rather that it was me. Out on the street Desmond Kern was Des Kern. But it came from the German expression des Pudels Kern , The Core of the Poodle. From Goethe’s “Faust”.

Once our flight had taken off, Jesús María ordered three shots of tequila straight up, no ice, no lime. We had yet to reach cruising altitude. Here in first class nothing seemed impossible. I did the same, hoping to be able to sleep a while, disappear for an hour or two, not have to think. A momentary escape.

Ingrid continued to sleep as deeply as before, and according to Jesús María her pulse would not start to climb until we were closer to landing. So it was the perfect opportunity for Jesús María and myself to rest, stretch our legs in the space the first row afforded—or for me to ask questions.

“What actually happened at Kleine Brogel?” I began.

“Well, whatever it was, it sure as hell wasn’t what Ingrid said. For a while I felt like leaving her stuck down in there, in the collapsed store room: let the Witch burn on her pyre… but then I changed my mind. I’ve got some unfinished business. It’d be fucking hard to do it without her.”

Jesús María fell silent, took another mouthful to finish her first shot.

“Twisted, all the same,” she said.

I looked across at her, this opaque woman with a burn on her forehead, now that I looked, as I took my first sip. We had put Ingrid in the window seat, leaning her against the wall—and the cabin crew seemed sufficiently well informed not to ask questions.

“I always thought I’d take John out first. But that’s not how it turned out.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

“That it was Kurt on the slope there? For real, Erasmo? Don’t you think I’ve known who was who, ever since this whole shit started, however hard I tried to make them look the same? Seen their birthmarks there before me last thing at night and first thing in the morning. All fucking night long. Each and every day.”

As she paused I glanced at Ingrid’s watch. A little more than seven hours until landing. So I had time to wait.

“Can you imagine, Erasmo, that it was Kurt’s mentor who once saved my life?”

I think I shook my head.

“He killed my boyfriend Enrique in the most grotesque way you can imagine, I swear to you.”

She took a big gulp from her second shot.

“That man was the very best security guard at the base, outstanding and brutal. Then he took two gifted young men under his wing and turned them into something even better, or worse, than himself, their mentor. They stepped into his shoes completely when he retired.”

Silence again while she emptied the glass and started on the third.

“Including the handling of me. Did fucking everything that their mentor had done, just as Enrique once had. Only better—and worse. Even hell has its nuances.”

I stared at her.

“That’s an awful story,” I said.

Jesús María stared back. “Don’t pity me, Erasmo.

Don’t ever do that.”

I shook my head, or did I nod? Waited for the rest—and then it came, almost in one long breath.

“My first job was in some shithole beauty salon at the back of nowhere. The worst kind you can imagine: eyebrows and cuticles, verrucas, the pits. Then a friend from school joined me and used her inheritance to buy the woman out. We shifted the direction of the whole damn business, changed all the signs and the interior, started offering body modification. My friend had been a textile artist too, gifted as hell. So we knew how to sew—and skin was no more difficult than leather or canvas. We were young and pretentious, massively inspired by ORLAN, that French artist. Money came in from people who started to travel to our little place to redo themselves: rich suckers wanting to look like movie stars. We exploited them so we could work at the other end of the scale. Stitch together those who were already in pieces, who’d been blown inside out, I swear to you, Erasmo…”

Jesús María gave me a searching look, considering my new blond beard. Trying to gauge if I believed a word.

“Then Enrique got wind of what we were doing. I had to leave my friend there, run for my life. Finally managed to get over the border to the army base—just as they dumped Ingrid there, ripped up after her violent delivery. So I fixed her. Did about the same thing I had always done: mended torn women. After that, Ingrid wanted to become my fucking blood sister and they couldn’t very well let me go. Someone who was so useful to have around, in such a number of different ways. But I had to stay behind the scenes even at the base. Enrique could still sniff me out anywhere. He’s a bastard, I swear to you, Erasmo.”