The Swede Read Online Free Page A

on the way. I have a car waiting. I’ll make sure your bags get loaded.”
    Grip followed Shauna Friedman out, where she handed her assistant a stack of papers. “For the final signatures,” she said, and then gave instructions about the luggage.
    “When will you—”
    “Don’t know,” Friedman said, cutting her off.
    The assistant arranged some papers on her desk, exposing for a moment a manila folder marked “Ernst Grip.” The folder vanished again, but Grip had seen it. He wasn’t sure if the assistant had made a mistake, or if she wanted to observe his reaction.
    “The name is Grip,” he said, reaching out his hand.
    “Norah,” replied the assistant uncomfortably.
    “Please, sit down,” said Grip, and continued: “I work for the Swedish security police. You must forgive me, Norah, but do you work for Ms. Friedman?” He released her hand.
    “Of course.” She was nervous, but Grip held her gaze.
    “May I ask who you are employed by?”
    “It’s—”
    “Justice Department,” Friedman shot in, from somewhere just behind Grip.
    He didn’t move, still looking at the assistant. “Justice Department, in the general sense, or . . .”
    “No need to be rude, Mr. Grip. I’m just doing my job.”
    “I don’t want to be rude, Norah, but since I landed in Newark hours ago, I have been . . . pushed around.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Thank you. Maybe this isn’t important, but a few days ago I received a note saying ‘Topeka.’ Beyond that, I have no clue. Maybe you can tell me whether we’re headed to Topeka. Do you even know?”
    Getting the expected reaction, Grip turned around with a “No, not again,” as soon as Friedman tried to speak. She said nothing, but didn’t look particularly disarmed.
    “Mr. Grip,” said the assistant acidly, “I know exactly where you’re going. But I have no intention of telling you. That is Agent Friedman’s job.”
    End of the road.
    “Finally an honest answer.” He smiled.
    Saber-rattling. Grip didn’t know if he had scored a point, or if his insolence had set him back.
    “Can we go now?” said Friedman, walking away without waiting for his reply.
    They rode the elevator down in silence, but by the time they reached the parking garage, Friedman seemed to have completely forgotten their little spat.
    “What do you think?” she said, twisting and turning a car key. “I asked for a full-size.”
    “Sorry?” said Grip, who was waiting for another shot.
    “What do you think we’ll get?” she repeated, pointing at the row of cars in front of them. One squeaked, and some lights started flashing.
    “White Cadillac, apparently.”
    She nodded at him. “A pimp car. I guess you get what you ask for. Do you have these too, in the security police? You said security police, right? Or do you just drive around in a Volvo?”
    “That’s the safest way.”
    “Safest way . . .” The trunk swung open when she pushed the key again. His bag was already there, next to the ones that were probably hers—two bags, both larger than his. “Believe it or not,” she said, “there’s more paper in them than clothes,” and slammed the trunk.
    They pulled out of the garage into the afternoon light. Again, rows of streets and highway ramps. The buildings shrank as they headed out of the city. Shauna Friedman snapped off her earrings and put them in her pocket, made a few attempts to find a radio station and eventually chose one playing solo guitar. Acoustic, old-fashioned, crackling—revealed by the announcer to be a recording of Django Reinhardt.
    Friedman cleared her throat. “I know what you’re thinking. We invite you here and treat you like this. Not the best way to make friends, right?” She glanced at Grip. He shrugged. Thought he’d played a part.
    “It’s my fault,” she continued. “This thing was my idea.”
    “No kidding,” he replied, making an effort to say something. He felt tired, his thoughts chased around among the melancholy guitar