They roll over the bridge into Stockholm just before eleven. Below them, the city sparkles in the autumn morning sun.
Klara is in the passenger seat, and Gabriella has just finished a phone call with her boss, Göran Wiman, who asked her to go by the office on Skeppsbron. Immediately.
Gabriella puts up a good show during the call, says things like ‘of course’ and ‘no problem’, maintaining an attitude that Klara recognizes quite well from her own past life as an ambitious political adviser in the European Parliament. It’s not a life that she misses.
‘Back to the salt mines?’ she says now, looking at Gabriella, who smiles tiredly without taking her eyes off the road.
‘What the hell choice do I have?’ she mutters.
‘I thought you’d have it easier now that you made partner?’ Klara continues.
Gabriella sighs again. ‘I’m the most junior partner,’ she says. ‘Apparently there’s a fucking hierarchy among us as well. You can’t win at this game.’
‘Doesn’t it help that you’re famous now?’ Klara says. ‘After last summer, I mean?’
‘Fame,’ Gabriella mutters. ‘Seems to create more problems than it solves.’
‘Why?’
But she doesn’t answer, just keeps driving in silence.
*
‘One strange thing…’ Klara begins when she finally tires of the silence in the car.
‘Yes?’
‘You promise not to give me shit now?’ she says. ‘And please remember, I buried my grandfather yesterday, so I’m obviously a basket case.’
‘Now I’m curious,’ Gabriella says, glancing at her. ‘Tell me.’
‘You know George Lööw?’ As soon as she says his name her face gets warm. Why is she even bringing this up?
‘George from Brussels, the PR guy?’ Gabriella says. ‘Who somehow managed to first represent a client that was a front for the CIA and then another that was a front for the Kremlin?’
‘Forget it,’ Klara says. ‘It’s nothing.’ She leans back in her seat.
‘Not a chance!’ Gabriella says, glancing over again. ‘What about George?’
‘I know he’s a douche bag; you don’t have to tell me that, okay?’ Klara takes a deep breath. ‘But…’
‘Stop it!’ Gabriella turns away from the road completely to stare at Klara with her eyes wide. ‘I knew it! I knew it this summer! Have you been in touch? Met? Tell me everything!’
Klara’s cheeks still feel hot, her mouth is dry. ‘Please stop!’ she says. ‘And no, we haven’t met or even been in touch. We’re friends on Facebook, that’s it. And it’s so stupid, he’s… Well, you know what he’s like. But still. I think of him pretty often. Too often.’
Gabriella drums her fists on the wheel. ‘Yes!’ she says. ‘Finally back in the game.’ Then she stops, puts a hand on Klara’s thigh. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not the right day to tease you about this. And honestly,’ – she turns to Klara again – ‘it’s a good thing. He’s hot, and he’ll grow into himself. You two are going to have the most beautiful little babies.’
‘I barely know him, Gabi. And I have no idea where this comes from? It’ll pass. I hope.’
Gabriella glances at her again. ‘We’ll see,’ she says. ‘We’ll see.’
‘Ha ha,’ Klara says. ‘I don’t think we’ll see anything at all.’
She turns her head and looks out over Stockholm. She asked Gabriella to take this route via Essingeleden, even though it’s a bit longer and more complicated, just for this very view. The city looks so grand from here, so promising and undeniably beautiful. The silver, sparkling water of Riddarfjärden contrasting with Kungsholmen’s yellow and pink buildings.
She runs her eyes along Söder Mälarstrand, past the brick walls of Münchenbryggeriet and towards Mariaberget where Gabriella lives. The bare trees seem so lonely in the bright morning light.
She leans back in her seat, allowing herself to feel this blend of calm and expectation that Stockholm always evokes in her, pushing away the sadness and emptiness of the past few months. Even though she’s never lived in Stockholm, she feels at home here. In Stockholm and on Aspöja. In East London sometimes. In Ixelles and Saint-Gilles in Brussels. Home can be many places, she thinks, gently turning her head back, glancing over her shoulder.
There’s another reason she asked Gabriella to take this way. On Sunday mornings the traffic here is sparse, and the bridge feels extra long and straight. It’s a good place to check if someone is following you. She thought she saw a Volvo take off from the rest stop at Sille-Krog right behind them. Thought the driver was a man she saw smoking outside the kiosk.
Now there’s a truck behind them blocking her view and before she can get a good look they’re on Kungsholmen making their way towards the inner city and Gamla Stan. On these city streets it’s impossible to see if you’re being followed.
Gabriella gives her a furtive glance. ‘Klara,’ she begins, exhaustedly. ‘Are you looking for that car again?’
She turns back towards the front, looks out at the cream-coloured buildings instead. She shrugs. ‘Just wanted to check,’ she mumbles.
‘Paranoia,’ Gabriella says, but her smile isn’t convincing, and it quickly dies on her lips.
Gabriella slows outside the law firm Lindblad & Wiman on Skeppsbron 28. Klara looks up at the Art Nouveau building. A flag with the company’s logo hangs above the entrance, flapping in the wind.
‘When are they going to add Seichelmann to the company name?’ she asks.
‘One thing at a time, Klara,’ Gabriella warns her. ‘I have to start with partnership.’
‘I’m serious,’ Klara says. ‘You should push them a little. By the way, you can’t park your car here, you know that, right?’
Gabriella gives her a tired look. ‘Sunday morning, and I’m working? The company can pay the fine. I’d say it’s the least they can do if they won’t put my name on the flag.’
‘Hell, yes, girl,’ Klara says.
She smiles and glances down the street in search of mysterious cars, but sees nothing. The Volvo seems to be gone now. All she sees is a police car and a black Volkswagen van slowly driving past them and turning onto one of the narrow side streets of the Gamla Stan. Klara points to them through the windshield.
‘Listen,’ she says. ‘I can drive around the block. Doesn’t it feel a little provocative to park here right in front of the police, when they’re circling the block? I can take a few laps and wait.’
Gabriella looks up, following the short motorcade with worried eyes and a furrow on her brow.
‘What the hell?’ she mutters. ‘A SWAT van? At Skeppsbron on a Sunday?’
She puts the car keys in Klara’s lap.
‘Okay, I’ll call you. I think he just wants to give me a few documents. Shouldn’t take long.’
She jumps out onto the street, her eyes on the police cars. Klara follows her example and walks around the car to sit in the driver’s seat. She turns the key, then makes a slow turn onto a deserted street.
A SWAT van, she thinks with a crooked smile. It just takes one glance, and Gabriella knows what’s up. Klara often forgets how many years she spent as a defence attorney, and all the knowledge that entails.
*
It’s a little tricky to make her way around this neighbourhood. She can’t remember if she’s ever driven through the narrow, cobblestone streets of the Old Town before, and it takes her at least ten minutes to find her way back to Gabi’s office, though she enters at a point much closer to the city, near the royal palace.
The traffic is still sparse, so she finds it puzzling when the cars in front of her slow down and then stop completely. She stretches up in her seat, trying to see what’s happening. There are only two cars in front of her, and in front of them stands a police officer in a black helmet with an automatic weapon hanging across his chest.
Her heart starts to pound. The SWAT team she saw earlier. Some kind of crackdown. The other drivers open their doors and step out to get a better look, and Klara does the same.
Further down the street she sees a black Volkswagen van and at least two regular police vehicles. Around them stand dozens of police officers, all heavily armed. They don’t have their weapons raised yet, but they’re dressed in black, with helmets and Kevlar, and they seem prepared for a face-off at one of the buildings. Klara raises her eyes slightly and sees the Lindblad & Wiman flag they just joked about waving outside Gabriella’s office.
It takes a moment to make the connection, but when she does, her blood runs cold. No, it’s too surreal, too crazy. The police are at the door of the Lindblad & Wiman office.