Ларс Кеплер - The Rabbit Hunter

The area is calm. It seems almost asleep.

Joona hasn’t seen any sign of the response team, but he knows they’re there, waiting for a final command, nervous and impatient, full of the conflicting energy that comes from both longing for the timeless moment when everything happens, and fearing injury or death.

If they were to start firing they could perforate the entire row of houses in less than a minute.

Joona approaches the front door, thinking about the detailed map of the area that was hanging on the wall, which showed the danger zones on both sides of the house. The positions of all operational units and their individual approach trajectories had also been marked.

A tree rustles in the wind. Joona hears a car in the distance.

He reaches out and presses the doorbell.

He knows that snipers are watching the door.

A woman pushing a pushchair emerges from one of the houses down by the cul-de-sac. Her blonde ponytail bounces as she walks. She comes closer, then stops suddenly and answers her phone.

Joona rings the bell again.

A ventilation fan whirrs into action on a rooftop, then quiets almost immediately. The woman with the pushchair is still standing where she was, talking on her phone.

There’s a rumbling sound as a dustbin lorry turns into Gnestavägen and stops with a hiss at the end of the road.

Two men get out to collect the rubbish.

Joona hears footsteps inside the house and moves away from the window. Parisa Ratjen puts the safety-chain on the door before opening. She’s fully dressed again, the same pink hijab as before, and a thick sweater that reaches down to her thighs. She’s slightly built, not very tall. She’s wearing subtle make-up, just lipstick and eyeshadow.

‘I’ve got a message from da gawand halak ,’ Joona says.

Her gaze flutters for half a second. She looks past him, out at the street, then back to him again. She takes a deep breath and closes the door.

The woman with the pushchair ends her call and starts walking again. She approaches Parisa’s house just as the rubbish collectors return to their vehicle.

Joona moves aside so the snipers can aim at the crack in the door that will appear if it opens again.

The dustbin lorry rumbles past towards the cul-de-sac.

Parisa removes the safety-chain, opens the door again and asks him to come in. She closes the door behind him, locks it and looks through the spyhole.

The house looks exactly like the plan. On the left is a narrow, curving staircase leading to the bedroom.

Parisa leads him up a couple of steps to the living room, which faces the back of the house.

He follows her, watching the way her clothes hang as she walks.

She’s not carrying a gun or wearing a bomb.

The worn floor is partially covered by an attractive rug. The windows and half-glazed terrace door have lace curtains.

‘Please, have a seat,’ she says quietly. ‘Can I offer you some tea?’

‘Thank you,’ he says, sitting down on the brown leather sofa.

She walks past a brick fireplace with no ash or firewood in it and goes into the kitchen. He sees her glance through the window at the street, then take a pot out of a drawer.

Joona reminds himself of what he knows about the killer, the way the man moved across the floor in the Foreign Minister’s home, replacing the magazine in his pistol and feeding a bullet into the chamber without losing his line of fire.

Parisa returns with small glasses of tea on a silver tray, a bowl of sugar and two ornate spoons. She puts the tray on a round brass table, then sits down across from him. Her slender feet are bare and neat, and her toenails are painted dark gold.

‘Salim has been moved from Hall Prison to Kumla,’ Joona begins.

‘To Kumla?’ she asks, tugging gently at her sweater. ‘Why?’

Her face is lively and intelligent, and her eyes betray a gentle scepticism, as if she can’t conceal a weariness at the absurdity of everything that’s happened to her.

‘I don’t know. He didn’t explain the reason, but he wanted you to know that he can’t make outgoing calls any more, and that no one can contact him for the time being.’

Joona raises the slender glass to his lips as he thinks about what Salim Ratjen said, that he should wait until she served him bread and olives before passing on the real message.

‘So you know Salim?’ she asks, tilting her head slightly.

‘No,’ Joona admits frankly. ‘But he was put on my block... and it’s always good to look out for each other.’

‘I can understand that.’

‘I was granted a day’s leave, so you always try to help the others if you can.’

A scraping sound makes Parisa glance quickly towards the garden. The snipers at the back presumably have her in their sights right now.

‘So what was the message he wanted you to pass on?’ she asks.

‘He wanted me to let you know he’d been moved.’

Parisa spills a little tea, and when Joona leans over to pass her a napkin he feels his holster and pistol slip forward slightly.

‘Thanks,’ she says.

Joona realises that she’s seen the gun. Her dark eyes are glassier, and she looks down for a moment, pretends to blow on her tea. He understands that she’s trying to control her nerves.

The pistol hasn’t necessarily blown his cover. She believes he’s a criminal, but the situation has suddenly become more dangerous.

‘Let me get us something to eat,’ she says, and disappears back into the kitchen.

Joona sees small flakes of ash drifting down from the chimney and hears a dull thud from above.

The operational unit is moving across the roof.

The dustbin lorry stops in front of the house with a heavy wheezing sound.

Parisa comes back and puts a bowl of olives and two small forks on the table.

‘I was very young when we got married,’ she says quietly, looking Joona in the eye. ‘I’d only just arrived from Afghanistan. It was after the 2005 election.’

Joona isn’t sure if he should pass on the message. She’s offered olives, but no bread. Parisa glances anxiously towards the kitchen. There’s a shrieking sound as the dustbin lorry compresses the rubbish. A glass jar shatters with a crack. Parisa startles, then does her best to smile at Joona.

Parisa eats some of the olives herself and looks at him. Her pupils are dilated and her hands sink back onto her lap.

‘Would you like to send a message back to Salim?’ Joona says.

‘Yes,’ she replies hesitantly. ‘Tell him things are fine with me, and that I can’t wait for him to be free.’

Joona takes an olive and notices that the shadows of the branches on the wall above the television are suddenly moving to a different rhythm. Something’s happening. He imagines he can sense the team approaching from the woods. He doesn’t look towards the window overlooking the porch, knows he probably wouldn’t be able to see them anyway.

‘Afghanistan is so different... Yesterday I read an article I’d been saving, from The Telegraph , about the “international day of silliness”,’ Parisa says, smiling gently. ‘Suddenly everyone in London decided not to wear trousers on the underground. Does that happen in Stockholm too?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think so,’ he replies, and looks at the big olives.

A startled magpie suddenly lets out a chattering cry. There’s a creaking sound from below, as if someone is in the basement.

‘I once saw a group of girls get thrown out of the swimming pool because they refused to wear bikini tops,’ she says.

‘Yes, that’s become a bit of a thing,’ Joona replies calmly.

A reflected glint of sunlight moves across the wall behind Parisa. She picks up her phone, taps a message and sends it.