Ларс Кеплер - The Rabbit Hunter

‘I understand that it’s about equality,’ she says, putting her phone down again. ‘But even so... why do they want to show their breasts to everyone?’

‘Swedes have a fairly relaxed attitude towards nakedness,’ he says, moving forward so that his pistol will be easier to reach.

‘Even if you don’t ride on the underground without trousers here,’ she smiles, and rubs her legs nervously.

‘That’ll probably come,’ Joona replies.

‘No,’ she laughs, and a tiny bead of sweat trickles down her cheek from her hair.

‘Swedes are very fond of swimming naked when they get out in the countryside.’

‘Maybe I’ll learn to do that too,’ she says, and looks out through the window at the forest.

She stares dreamily for a few seconds, then turns back towards the room. There’s a strange stiffness in her neck.

It looks almost intentional when she drops her teaspoon. It tinkles against the hardwood floor.

She picks it up carefully and puts it on the tray. When she looks up at him again, her eyes are frightened and her lips are pale.

Janus told Joona to make his way up to the crawl space via the cupboard and run across the rooftops towards the cul-de-sac, where a helicopter would get him.

‘Salim was a different man when we got married,’ she says, standing up. ‘I’ve got our wedding photograph in the hall.’

Joona stands up and follows her to the hall, which is one of the few places in the house where none of the snipers can see them.

The photograph is hanging on the wall by the stairs. Salim looks happy, in a white suit with a red rose in his buttonhole. Parisa is very young, in a white wedding dress and hijab. They’re surrounded by relatives and friends in long dresses and suits.

‘He doesn’t have as much hair now,’ Joona says.

‘No, he looks older,’ she sighs.

‘Unlike you.’

‘Do you think?’

‘Who’s that?’ Joona asks, pointing at the other man in a white suit.

‘That’s Absalon, Salim’s brother. He cut off all contact with Salim after Salim got caught up in drugs...’

They fall silent.

‘This is Salim’s team, FOC Farsta,’ she says after a pause, pointing at a picture of a football team, young men lined up in dark-red tracksuits.

‘Were they any good?’

‘No,’ she laughs.

A shadow flits past the window in the front door.

‘I’ve got more photographs in the basement,’ she says, and takes a deep, nervous breath. ‘You wait on the sofa, I’ll be right back.’

She turns away, leaning against the wall with one hand, then opens a narrow door and starts to go down a steep flight of steps.

‘Why don’t I come with you instead,’ he says, and follows her.

Joona finds himself in a cramped utility room, with a washing machine and a pile of laundry on the tiled floor. There’s an old-fashioned hand-wringer in one corner.

‘The storeroom’s through there,’ Parisa says in a tense voice, pulling on a pair of shoes. ‘You can wait here.’

She walks down a narrow passageway, past shelves of winter shoes and boxes, to a metal door.

If Parisa is hiding anyone in the house, it will be in the basement, Joona thinks as he follows her.

As she unlocks the door he slips his hand under his jacket, loosens the strap and takes hold of the pistol. The hairs at the back of his neck stand up as she pulls the heavy steel door open and turns the lights on.

A tunnel several hundred metres long flickers in the light before the fluorescent tubes settle down.

‘Do all the houses share this storage space?’ Joona asks, even though he doubts that any signal from his microphone can still be picked up.

He follows her along the cool passage, passing a couple of dozen closed metal doors before they turn left and find themselves in an even longer tunnel.

Parisa is walking as fast as she can, holding her hijab in place with her right hand.

They pass the closed armour-plated doors of an underground bomb-shelter, and ventilation drums clad in silvery foil.

Eventually Parisa opens another sturdy cellar door and together they climb up some stairs, go through a communal bin room and emerge into an entrance hall.

They walk out through the door.

The long tunnel has led them under the main road to an area full of blocks of flats.

Over by the edge of the forest are a small slide and some swings with broken chains. Wild roses shake in the gusty breeze and rubbish blows around.

Parisa goes over to a dirty Opel parked among a number of other cars. She unlocks it and Joona gets into the passenger seat beside her.

‘You know... I was only being polite when I said I wanted to see more photographs,’ Joona jokes, but doesn’t get even the slightest hint of a smile in response.

Parisa Ratjen slows down before pulling out onto highway 229. Without speaking, they drive past low industrial units and scrappy patches of woodland.

Her face is pale, her mouth tense. She’s sitting bolt upright, clutching the wheel with both hands.

Joona has given up asking where they’re going. They’re way beyond the range of his microphone now.

All he can do is try to keep his cover for as long as he possibly can. Maybe Parisa’s role is to take him to the terrorists’ hiding place.

She brakes behind a truck with a yellow tarp over its trailer. There’s a sharp crack as a stone hits the windshield.

‘I don’t know what side you’re on, but Salim wouldn’t ask you to give me a message if it wasn’t important,’ she suddenly says, changing lane. ‘Can you tell me why you haven’t passed on the real message?’

‘You didn’t offer me any bread.’

‘Good,’ she whispers.

They’re alongside the truck now, the steel railings on their left flicker past, as the trailer sways in a gust of wind.

‘Salim gave me a phone number,’ Joona says. ‘You need to phone 040 6893040 and ask for Amira.’

The car swerves as Parisa’s grip slips at the sound of the name. The front wheel of the truck looms large in Joona’s passenger window and the roar of its engine fills the car.

‘That was all,’ Joona says quietly.

She grips the wheel tightly, accelerates and pushes past the huge vehicle.

‘Say the number again,’ she says, swallowing hard.

‘040 6893040.’

Parisa pulls into the right-hand lane again and turns off the main road so sharply that a road atlas on the back seat falls to the floor.

They drive past a large, pale yellow industrial building and onto a large tarmacked area between a petrol station and a McDonald’s. She turns the car around, reverses back against the grass and stops.

The headlights shine dully over the asphalt towards the petrol pumps.

Off to the left a family emerges from the fast-food restaurant.

Parisa leaves the car in neutral and winds down the windows on both sides. Without saying a word she opens her door and gets out. She feels under the seat, pulls out a Glock, and points it at him through the open window.

‘Get out of the car very slowly,’ she says.

‘I’m not involved, I’m just passing on—’

‘Put your hands up,’ she snaps. ‘I know you’re armed.’

‘It’s just for protection.’

The pistol is shaking in her hands, but her finger is on the trigger and she would probably still hit him if she were to fire now.

‘I have no idea what this is all about,’ she says. ‘But I grew up in Afghanistan. I saw the sniper in the window on the other side of the street.’

‘I don’t know what you think you saw, but—’

‘Out of the car, or I’ll shoot,’ she says, raising her voice. ‘I don’t want to, but I’ll shoot you if I have to.’