22
The one indulgence Alix still had left was the hot, scented bath she liked to sink into before she went to work. It was the cheapest way she knew of feeling good. But this evening she had to call Larsson first. She felt bad about depending on him. He’d already done so much for her.
“They’ve given me a final notice,” she said when he answered the phone. “One week to pay. I don’t know what to do anymore.”
“There’s no progress, then, no chance of him remembering where he’s stuck his money?”
“In a single week, I don’t think so… But why do we need the clinic at all? I can care for him myself.”
“How?” asked Larsson. “The man’s still sick. He needs constant supervision, drugs, therapy. How can you afford that? Look, if there’s really no other way, I could get a loan on my apartment.”
“No, that’s not fair. You’ve been a good friend to us, Thor, but even a good friend must look after himself… Hell! I’ve got to go to work. We’ll finish this some other time.”
“I’m sorry, Alix. I wish I could have done more to help you.”
“You have. You listened. You cared. That was what I needed right now.”
She put down the phone. There would just be time to wash her hair before she left for the club. The bath would have to wait.
In an imposing Baroque office building on Lubyanka Square, in Moscow, the conversation between Alix and Larsson was recorded, transcribed, and passed on to a duty officer. He examined it, then leaned back in his chair and stared blankly at the ceiling, losing himself in thought as he considered his opinion and how best to present it. Finally he sat upright again and put a call through to his boss’s assistant.
“I need to meet the deputy director,” he said. “It is a matter of the utmost urgency.”