a liter of blood from his torso, and patched up a number of less serious injuries. He had survived, and he knew whom he had to thank for that. He hoped he would be able to convey his thanks in person one day.
Atif stared blankly at the cards in front of him, then closed his eyes. He tried to conjure up an image of his house back home in Iraq. The scent of the almond tree in the back garden. The starry sky up above. But in spite of the fact that he regularly tried to keep the memory alive, it was getting hazier, losing its color, like the old pictures in his mother’s well-thumbed photo albums. Pale imitations of what had once been. Something that was now lost. He wondered how she was. If she was still in the nursing home in Najaf, or if his aunt had moved her farther south, away from the fighting in the north. He’d written a couple of times, hoping to hear if the money was arriving each month. But he hadn’t yet received a reply.
Atif turned the first card over. The seven of hearts. Tindra had turned seven three weeks ago. He’d sent her a card. He came close to writing that he missed her, that he’d do anything to hear her voice, no matter how briefly. But he didn’t want her to come here. To have to go through all the security checks just so they could sit on opposite sides of a table. He still wouldn’t be able to hold her.
Besides, her mother would never let her visit him. Cassandra needed to keep him as far away from her as possible, a decision he couldn’t blame her for. He had wounded and killed people last winter, people who had families, friends, and business acquaintances outside the prison walls. People who were waiting for a chance to get their revenge. But as long as Abu Hamsa was protecting Cassandra and Tindra, no one would dare do anything. Which was rather ironic, to put it mildly, given that the old man was his worst enemy. Abu Hamsa had manipulated him, commissioned him to track down a ghost when it was actually the old man himself who had had Adnan killed, leaving Tindra without a father.
Abu Hamsa had sent him a message via Cassandra. Don’t tell the police anything, serve your sentence, follow my instructions. She hadn’t needed to say more than that. Didn’t have to utter the words that were hanging in the air.
Or else …
So Atif had played along. He followed Abu Hamsa’s instructions obediently, played patience and waited to be dealt the right cards. Something that changed the field of play.
Atif moved his hand to the card next to the seven of hearts. But before he could turn it over, the door of the dayroom opened and the head screw, Blom, walked in. He looked like a cover boy from Men’s Health. High cheekbones, spray tan, and short, tinted hair in a gentle wave across his forehead. Right behind him, between another two gym-pumped screws, Atif could just make out a birdlike little man in prison clothes that were too big for him.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” the head screw said, as always slightly louder than necessary. “This is our latest resident. Perhaps you’d like to introduce yourself, Gilsén?”
Blom stepped aside. The little man remained where he was between the two guards, clutching the paper bag he was holding in his hands. The smell of his fear managed to overpower Blom’s body lotion.
The senior guard waited another few seconds. Exchanged a malicious glance with his colleagues.
“Well, I daresay you’ll all have time to chew the fat later on. Follow me, Gilsén, and we’ll get you installed in your suite. It’s probably not quite up to the standard you’re used to.”
The guards lumbered out of the dayroom with Gilsén between them. Atif watched the men over at Rosco’s table lean closer to each other, covering their mouths so that the cameras and microphones wouldn’t pick up what they were saying.
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