Free The Swimmer by Joakim Zander Page B

soldiering days were over.
    The luminous numbers on his G-shock watch read 18:53. Seven minutes left. Still in the shadows, he made his way through a thin hedge on the other side of the pond. He stopped to listen: the park was completely silent. The only sound was the distant hum of traffic. It was probably rush hour for the EU officials and diplomats living in Tervuren. From this position he had the entire museum within sight. It was deserted.
    When he turned around and gazed into the darkness, it didn’t take long for him to identify the sculpture from his instructions. The bronze glistened faintly in the light from the pond. He turned left and crossed a small, wet lawn. In front of him, he could make out a forest, or at least something that looked like a forest. He went on. And there, almost hidden among evergreen bushes, he could just make out a park bench. He stopped. On the right side of the bench was the clear silhouette of a man.

14
December 19, 2013
    Brussels, Belgium
    George stepped through the doors of Comme chez Soi at exactly seven o’clock on Thursday evening. It was part of his new life in Brussels; he was always on time. Previously, he had been so-so about punctuality. Not anymore. He tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile. After George had finished the translation, Appleby had come by his office and suggested they take George’s annual evaluation over dinner in the restaurant, which boasted two Michelin stars. It was just too fucking amazing. This was what he loved about his life. He’d wrestle with unintelligible tasks and stupid translations, if it meant he could live like this.
    A waiter met him as soon as he set foot inside the door.
    ‘Monsieur Lööw? Monsieur Appleby is waiting for you upstairs,’ he said in French.
    ‘Merci ,’ replied George, and he followed the waiter through the nearly empty public section of the restaurant—the restaurant had just opened for the evening. Starched white tablecloths. Painted windows. Quiet, yet lively, noise level. Ties and money. Small footstools for a lady’s handbag. George’s mood kept getting better and better. This was his style. Add a glass of champagne and maybe a tiny, tiny line of cocaine in the bathroom, and George would be on top form.
    When they reached the top of the narrow stairs, the waiter opened a high, mirrored door onto what seemed to be a private room.
    Appleby was sitting alone at a table set for two. He was busy writing something on his BlackBerry, but impatiently beckoned George inside. The room was paneled with light-colored wood. Heavy curtains framed the windows and a large, dark oil painting, a still life of some sort, hung on the wall behind Appleby. Two leather armchairs were placed near the window. That was probably where you sat when you were enjoying your cognac. The restaurant wasn’t George’s style. Too dusty and old-fashioned. George liked white walls, glass, and steel. Wallpaper* magazine style. But it was impossible to deny that this place had class.
    ‘Come in, come in, sit down, for God’s sake! How are you doing, old boy?’ Appleby liked using expressions like old boy . Probably they made him feel English. It wasn’t always easy to be American in Brussels.
    ‘Thank you. Excellent, really excellent!’ George said.
    ‘Garçon! We’ll take a bottle of the house champagne.’
    Appleby pushed the send button on his phone dramatically, then put it down on the table next to his plate.
    Garçon , George thought. Only a certain type of American addresses waiters like that nowadays.
    ‘So, George, what do you think of Comme chez Soi? Have you been here before?’
    ‘Yes, a few times, actually—’
    ‘Brilliant!’ Appleby interrupted.
    He seemed to have lost interest in his own question and started to wave the menu around instead.
    ‘You know what you want? I have my favorites ready here.’
    George opened the menu. Colchester oysters. Sole with lobster medallions. Appleby nodded approvingly.
    ‘That’s it.