Chris Loklinth was sitting in his requisitioned Porsche parked on Johan Enberg Road. The engine was turned off, and he was alone in the car. He had a good view, up about a hundred yards of the entrance to the condo complex where Nils Nilson, former Defense Radio SIGINT director, lived. He was keeping it under close surveillance, and he could make out some sporadic activity in Nilson’s apartment two stories up.
The window drapes were moving slightly but irregularly. A shadow passed by somewhere behind. Nilson was not asleep.
This man had dedicated his entire life to SIGINT to support Swedish foreign and security policy. And today it was all going to end. He would not be able to escape the fate that awaited him. He had put the GRU spy organization in danger. He also knew too much about the fate of the DC-3 crew imprisoned in a Soviet camp. By talking to Anton Modin, he had become a leak that had to be plugged. Those are the rules and Nilson knows that, Loklinth thought. Anderson did too. Dear old man.
The layout of the apartment, two bedrooms, a kitchen, and the narrow hallway—Loklinth had memorized it all, like a map in his head. Including the fact that the bathroom did not feature any windows. Nilson had nowhere to hide, nowhere to barricade oneself. Loklinth had passed all this information to one of the Bulgarian hit men, who should be up by the apartment door at just about this moment.
Without too much exertion, Loklinth was able to imagine the fear and horror the former Defense Radio director was likely experiencing at that very moment. It hadn’t been too long since he had experienced similar mortal fear. Premonition of looming death slithered through Nilson’s body, making it almost levitate. Not much though. But sufficient to spark a glimmer of hope that he’d be able to fly away from it all.
The early morning dew was covering the hood of the Porsche, giving the paint an almost silvery shimmer.
Chris Loklinth took a banana out of the glove compartment, peeled it, and split it into four even pieces before slowly and carefully chomping it down. He then grabbed a can of wet wipes between the seats, ripped one out to ceremoniously and vigilantly wipe his hands and face thoroughly.
I almost wish they were using poison, he thought, although he had made it clear that he did not want to know any of the details. His inner nature did not harbor any desire to revel in perversions, nor did he have any morbid wishes to be gloating in violence, blood, or mutilation either. He happened to have the best seat in the house, mainly because he had to supervise the endeavor, while at the same time keep his distance and be careful not to interject. The operation currently underway in the apartment was a foreign intelligence matter on Swedish soil—the second operation he was supervising in less than 24 hours. Nothing terribly uncommon and nothing Special Ops had any reason whatsoever to poke their noses into. Favors and counter-favors—that was the nature of the game. Next time it might be us who need to carry out an operation on someone else’s territory, he thought. That is how intelligence services operate the world over.
• • •
“Yes, who is it?” Nils Nilson did not seem to reflect on the ungodly hour as he answered the door. However, he made little attempt to disguise the fact that concurrently he was checking the staircase to see if there was anyone else out there.
He let the man in.
The former bureau director took the lead through the apartment, which clearly betrayed the absence of a female touch. There were a few pieces of artwork and sculptures with Asian themes, and the professional killer most likely also had time to spot a 1970s style leather couch with an accompanying swivel armchair in the living room before stepping over the threshold into the small kitchen.
Nils Nilson filled the coffee pot with water, put it on the stove, and turned the burner on high. He felt a pulsating nerve somewhere in the back of his neck and rubbed it absentmindedly as if it somehow was going to diminish the anxiety attack washing over him. He needed a bathroom.
Well settled in the bathroom, with the door closed and locked behind him, he could see how tiny pearls of sweat had formed on his forehead. He was scared, but not necessarily terrified for what was about to happen to him. Knowing all along that it would come to this one day, it was almost a relief. Eighty-seven years old, he had had a good run with money and friends in excess. He had no regrets. Now, at least, he did not have to worry about ending up in some crappy nursing home like many of his friends.
Nils recognized this man. He was of Bulgarian descent and somewhere in his fifties with thick black hair and stubble several days old, making an altogether sloppy and filthy impression. This guy had carried out wet assignments for the Bureau before. Nilson knew all too well that by the time he returned to the kitchen, his coffee would more than likely be spiked with some kind of toxin. Simple rat poison maybe. Best way to administer that is to mix it in with the instant coffee. It leaves almost no trace, and the victim could always have imbibed it by mistake. Rat poison is readily available and it is as deadly for humans as it is for rodents and other animals. Especially for elderly men with weak veins. Many strokes have been artificially induced using this method, he thought. Perhaps this was better than having to face a violent death. Would it be painful?
Through the bathroom door, he heard the kettle whistling on the stove.
He flushed the toilet, washed his hands, and went back to the kitchen. He sat down right across from the Bulgarian.
Through the window, he could see that this was going to turn into an absolutely gorgeous summer day. Probably just as hot as yesterday, when the high of the day had been an incredible 88 degrees.
He turned and looked at the Bulgarian again. Nilson stared at him for quite a while and then acknowledged him with a barely noticeable nod. He then grabbed the cup and emptied more than half of the contents in one gulp. While putting the cup down and clearing his throat, he noticed the tart aftertaste.
A thought from times gone by flew through Nilson’s head, something beautiful and pleasant. He had to try to hold onto it.
The Bulgarian distracted him by lowering his head and beneath bushy eyebrows pitching his eyes to the table. Absentmindedly, with his thumbnail he was rubbing a stain on the surface, which did not seem to go away.
Nils Nilson forced down the remaining contents of his coffee cup. Then he got up and with a shuffling gait stumbled into the living room. Passing a small statue depicting some ancient Asian God, he leaned lightly against the brown sideboard before sitting down in the swivel chair in the far corner of the living room. The way the chair tilted backwards almost made it look like he was lying down. He clasped his hands together and closed his eyes. The thought returned.
He was thinking of his old friends, the crew of the DC-3. Wonder what they are doing today?