The Swimmer by Joakim Zander Read Free Book Online Page A

politics, the important decisions, the money, the power.
    The first six months with Eva-Karin had been wonderful. Klara had indulged her boss’s whims and demands. And the world seemed full of men with good shoulders, acceptable taste in music, and freshly cut hair. Guys that, just a few months ago, she wouldn’t even have noticed. It was exciting, fun, sometimes even really hot.
    But what was happening with Cyril was different. Although it too had started out as a game, now she could feel herself teetering on the edge of losing control. Maybe she’d already lost it. She smoothed down her skirt and sighed. She thought of Mahmoud involuntarily. Maybe it was the e-mail he’d sent her almost two weeks ago which she still hadn’t replied to. She shook her head.
    ‘Moody, Moody,’ she whispered. ‘What is going on?’

8
December 19, 2013
    Brussels, Belgium
    ‘Mr Shammosh? Do you have anything to add? I’m referring specifically to the last part of Professor Lefarque’s argument; that is, to the effects of the continuing persecution and radicalization of resistance fighters in Iraq and Afghanistan.’
    The former ambassador, Sir Benjamin Batton, moderator extraordinaire for the International Crisis Group Conference on the role of private contractors in war zones, leaned over the table with his kind, vigilant gaze.
    Mahmoud looked up from his notebook calmly. A smile played on his lips. He was in his element. He hardly remembered the almost paralyzing nervousness he had experienced earlier in the morning, when he took his seat in front of the audience of fifty or so policy makers, journalists, and assorted dignitaries.
    ‘Absolutely,’ he nodded. ‘I think there’s no doubt that gruesome acts like the ones we saw at Abu Ghraib, for example, lead to radicalization. To put it plainly…’
    He didn’t even have to think about what he was going say. The words formed themselves and floated out of his mouth, calmly and precisely, in an articulate stream. Just like on those rare occasions when he was lecturing in Uppsala on a subject that truly interested him.
    He could see faces in the audience turn to him with newfound interest; the yawning ended and pens bounced over notebooks taking down his comments. And everything he saw, everything he heard from his own voice, filled him with energy and pride. He was almost moved by his own professionalism and ability to deliver. Mahmoud Shammosh: academic superstar.
    When Sir Benjamin, with the leisurely elegance of a seasoned moderator, took advantage of one of Mahmoud’s rhetorical pauses to suggest they continue this discussion over the lunch laid out for them in the foyer, Mahmoud felt offended. Sure, he’d seen something glassy creep into the previously admiring glances, but still. It was his moment. His time in the limelight. Well, he’d have the chance to continue talking during lunch. Research in all its glory: this was the real reward.
    As he stood up he fished the cell phone and the battery out of his backpack. The moment he turned it on, it started vibrating in his hand. Two missed calls from a number he didn’t recognize. Mahmoud felt himself tense up. The phone rang again, and his heart skipped a beat.
    He excused himself as quickly as possible and moved toward one of the side doors that he suspected led to the toilets. As he pushed open the door, he answered the phone. He was on edge. The adrenaline from the lecture mixed with the suspense of the incoming call. The horrific photograph flickered before his eyes.
    ‘This is Mahmoud Shammosh,’ he whispered into the phone.
    ‘How were the letters you received signed?’
    The voice in Mahmoud’s ear was deep and muffled, as if it was filtered through some device that distorted the speaker’s voice.
    Mahmoud’s mouth suddenly went dry.
    ‘Determination, courage, and endurance,’ he said as he walked through the doors into the men’s room.
    A urinal and a stall. Empty.
    ‘Where are you now?’
    ‘The