Free The Swimmer by Joakim Zander Page A

it not been for the Volvo in Uppsala, he would have found it difficult to even imagine he was being followed. Now it was a real possibility.
    Somewhere behind them on the rue Belliard sirens began to wail. Blue light bounced off of the shining concrete and glass windows, coloring the gloom inside the car. From the corner of his eye Mahmoud saw the police approaching on motorcycles at breakneck speed down the closed lane. They were followed by a police car and a fleet of black Mercedes that were much newer models than the one Mahmoud was riding in. An EU flag and what might be an Afghan flag were fastened on the front. They fluttered dramatically in the storm. Maybe they were on their way to preparatory meetings for the large summit on Afghanistan this spring? The Marshall Plan was being prepared. The one that would bring peace to the mountains. Or maybe it was just some lonely ambassador being driven to the airport.
    Just when he’d given up hope of ever leaving the European Quarter, they were out of Brussels, driving on a straight road through a sparse deciduous forest. He felt his heart start to beat faster, and his mouth went dry. He started to regret that he hadn’t told anyone where he was going. Maybe he should have contacted Klara after all? But how the hell would that have sounded, after years of silence: ‘Hi, Klara, I think I’m being followed, and I’m headed to meet somebody in Tervuren who would like to hand over sensitive information to me. Paranoid schizophrenia? Well, now that you mention it.’ Way too crazy. And he’d given his word he wouldn’t tell anybody. He was alone. Might as well realize that. Breathe calmly.
    It took no more than five minutes for Mahmoud to get to the museum from the roundabout, where he’d asked the taxi driver to drop him off. It was almost six o’clock. The parking lot on the side of the museum had turned into a mud puddle, and Mahmoud tiptoed to avoid getting completely filthy. When he rounded the corner of the massive museum building, he glimpsed a large, well-planned park with gravel paths, manicured bushes, and gray lawns. It was poorly lit, but Mahmoud stopped to try to figure out where he was supposed to be an hour from now. It was easy enough to identify the large pond in front of the entrance stairs. But to the right of that he couldn’t see much more in the dusk. When the time came, he would have to rely on his intuition.
    After a few tedious hours spent idling around the dusty exhibitions, he could only conclude how odd it was that a country with such a controversial colonial history hadn’t tried harder to establish a more interesting museum. The best part was actually the building. Other than that, it seemed to consist of flea-bitten giraffes, weary display cases of smaller animals, and some obligatory Central African spears and shields. Your typical natural history museum, long past its prime. But he wasn’t here to learn more about Belgium’s colonial history.
    It was almost ten to seven, and Mahmoud slowly made his way back to the room where the door was supposed to be. He took a deep breath. The time had come. He pushed down on the handle with resolve.
    The door swung open, and Mahmoud had to hold tight to keep the wind from ripping it out of his hands. It had stopped raining, and to judge by how his breath turned to smoke, the temperature must have dropped a few degrees while he was inside the museum. He shivered and climbed down some steel steps to the muddy gravel path. The pond in front of the museum was dimly lit but the park, which stretched out down a slight slope behind it, was impossible to make out in the dark. Mahmoud stayed in the shadows on the right side of the pond, just to be on the safe side. He cursed himself for bringing only his dress shoes to Brussels; his socks were already soaked by freezing rain. It was imperative to keep your feet dry. There wasn’t a soldier in the world who didn’t know that. But Mahmoud had thought his