The floodlights blinded him. They cast an intense white light, as if he had got too close to the sun.
He shut his eyes, turned his head and tried to make out his old friend in the darkness behind the light. When he squinted he could make out small windows with the curtains drawn at the back of the room. The walls were painted black and his nostrils were filled with a sweet scent – of sweat and something else, something unpleasant.
Leather straps held him to a bunk with a mattress on it – they were cutting into his wrists. And the bunk wouldn’t budge. It seemed bolted to the floor.
‘Otto?’
No reply.
‘Otto? Let me go. Message received. I won’t say anything. I promise.’
‘Message? I have no message.’
‘Warning, then. Call it what you like.’
‘Warning?’
The voice now came from behind Bo Enberg, but he could only turn his head a little and the rest of the room was in darkness.
‘The people’s court is convened in the trial of the traitor Hans Gerlach under his revisionist alias of Bo Enberg. Deliberations shall commence. Where did you call?’
Rau’s voice was now directly by his right ear.
‘I haven’t called,’ said Enberg, while turning his head as far as he could.
‘Your first lie! The accused has called the police. The tool of the oppressor. What was the purpose of your call?’
Enberg sighed. Rau had apparently been bugging his phone. He might as well show his hand.
‘I called Säpo. But it wasn’t to tell them about you. Only me. I promise.’
‘What were you going to tell them about yourself?’
‘What we did. What I did, I mean. Nothing about anyone else.’
‘And why were you going to tell them that?’
‘Because I can’t carry this burden any longer.’
‘You shouldn’t have to do that.’
‘Otto! I would never say anything about you.’
‘What would you be able to say?’
Bo Enberg paused for thought. What did he actually know about Rau? What they had done back in the day . . . But now? Nothing.
‘Nothing. I don’t know anything about you. What you do, where you live, what you’re called.’
‘Do you want to know that?’
‘No! And I can take responsibility for what we did.’
‘You’re going to claim the credit?’
‘No, the punishment.’
‘You’re not proud?’
‘Of what we did? No.’
‘Of our struggle for a better world. What did you tell Sara Nowak?’
‘Who?’
A sharp pain at his cheek followed by the taste of blood. He shuddered and felt a long thin metal object against his tongue, stuck into his mouth from the side. It was so sharp that when he grazed it with his tongue, he cut himself. Blood poured from his mouth and down his front. He hadn’t even noticed that Rau was close to him.
‘Otto!’
‘What did you tell Sara Nowak?’
‘Nothing! I promise! Otto, I’m bleeding.’
‘Tell me what you said.’
‘Nothing!’
A shadow flashed past and then a quick cut to his throat. He felt the blood pouring out, down onto his clothes.
‘Otto, stop before it’s too late. I haven’t said anything. You have to believe me. I know full well what you would do to me if I talked.’
‘This is exactly what I would do.’
‘Otto . . .’
‘Did you mention Wahasha?’
‘No! Absolutely not!’
‘Why not? You wanted to unburden your mind,’ said Rau, sounding quizzical.
‘That was completely separate from the other things we did. No one can know!’
‘You’re right about that. Hans?’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you swear that you haven’t told Sara Nowak anything else?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I’m going to free you.’
The immediate relief that Bo Enberg felt was immediately replaced by chilling horror when he realised what Rau really meant.
‘No! Please . . .’ Enberg pleaded.
But he got no answer.
He knew Rau.
‘OK,’ he said with a sob. ‘Get it over with.’
‘There’s no rush. Is there anyone you’d like me to send the video to?’
‘What?’
Enberg’s voice was thick with terror.
‘I’m just joking. It’s private.’
Otto Rau turned on the music. ‘Open the Gates’ by Dark Funeral – thundering hell music as far as he was concerned, something he would never otherwise listen to. But it was a good fit for this. A very good fit. He cranked up the volume. He checked the frame, adjusted the camera slightly and when he was satisfied he started recording.
Then he went over to the small adjacent table, opened the hard plastic container and pulled out his Makita HR2630J – a drill that could go through concrete without any trouble. And it went through soft objects even more easily.
Before long, Bo Enberg was drowning out ‘Dark Funeral’.