Reflection on a Kill

“So what can you tell me?”

Olle dragged on his cigarette. Outside, the lights of Stockholm sparkled in the swirling snow. Harry removed his coat, draped it across a chair. The small, cramped apartment smelled of burnt toast and gun oil.

“Nothing,” said Olle, shrugging hopelessly. He wore only board shorts and a stained white T-shirt. The thermostat must have been set to 75; despite having just come in from the cold, Harry already felt uncomfortably hot.

“That isn’t what you said on the phone,” Harry reminded him patiently.

“What did I say?”

“You said that you know how you are going to die.”

Olle nodded calmly, as if he heard this sort of thing all the time. He gazed into space, his eyes bloodshot and wide.

“That’s true,” Olle admitted, tapping his ash into a loose bottle cap. “I have a distinct memory of it.”

Harry’s forehead creased. Without asking, he helped himself to some of Olle’s whisky. “Brutal out,” he said, apologetically.

Olle scratched his facial fuzz. Harry realized another smell lurked beneath the surface, one closely associated with Olle’s unwashed condition.

“How long has it been since you left this room?”

Olle paused, counting. “Not since I met with Remi.”

Harry nodded, sipping the whisky. Remi had been found dead, her throat ripped out. He caught himself glancing at Olle’s fingernails. They were neatly trimmed, clean.

“You think I killed her,” Olle pronounced.

“Not at all,” Harry replied, flashing red.

“You asked me about her.”

Harry frowned. “When?”

“You will -- about three minutes from now.”

Harry finished his drink. “What are you talking about?”

Olle smudged out his cigarette. He looked suddenly older, his stubble gray, his hair white at the temples. He pushed smoke out his nostrils.

“I’m talking about my memories,” said Olle. “I don’t remember my past anymore. I seem to only remember things that haven’t happened yet.”

Harry scoffed. “Are you fucking daft?”

Olle shrugged. “I don’t expect you to believe me.”

Harry leaned back speculatively. “What’s your wife’s name?”

“Talia.”

Harry smiled cruelly. “No. Try again.”

Olle’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t remember.”

“For God’s sake.”

“Try again. Anything.”

“Alright — your children’s names?”

He seemed to search for them. “Angela? Jamie?”

“Wrong names, wrong quantity. You have three kids.”

Olle swiped his cheeks, reached for his cigarette pack. “Christ,” he said shakily. “Mind pouring me a drink?”

Harry obliged. He passed Olle the glass. Olle’s hand shook so badly he splashed liquid on his chin.

“What happened to you?”

Olle lit a cigarette. Blue smoke formed a halo around his head.

“How the hell am I supposed to know?”

“You met the Russian?”

Olle stared into space. He might have been studying a distant star through an especially weak telescope. “I — I don’t recall. The Russian?”

Harry set his elbows on his knees, shaking his head. “Didn’t you file a report? Your daily report?”

“I — I don’t recall!”

“You’re telling me you don’t remember Petr?”

“I don’t know any Petr.”

Harry stared at him. “By God. You’re either telling me the truth, or you’re fucking lying.”

“I’ve no reason to lie.”

Harry emptied the bottle into his glass. “Nothing in your background — in our past — suggests you would lie. Benchmark would have sniffed it out long ago. You have a reputation for truthfulness. But you must remember Petr.”

“I have no recollection. Who is he?”

“Your agent, like Remi. You’re fucking running him.”

Olle got up and paced. “You don’t believe me. You think I’m covering.”

“I’m simply trying to understand, that’s all.”

“As am I.”

Harry sighed. “What happened to Remi?”

“I don’t know.”

“You didn’t kill her?”

“No.”

Harry paused, swirling his whisky. “Of course, you can prove that.”

Olle gave a small, tight smile. “You’re asking me to prove a negative?”

Harry put down his glass. “Did you kill Petr?”

Olle abruptly ceased pacing and peered out at the snowy night. From where he stood, he could just make out the lights of the ArkDes on Skeppsholmen. Had he met anyone there? Jesus, he had no idea. …

“Petr,” he mumbled dreamily. His mind seemed about to latch onto an image. Then he burst, “I tell you, I don’t know him.”

Harry hunched forward. “Have you experienced any falls? Any bumps on the noggin?”

Olle shrugged impotently.

“What about strange smells in the house? Did you notice any smoke? Any weird mists in the air?” 

“No, damn you.”

“GRU is said to be experimenting with —”

“I have no knowledge!”

Harry fell silent. The cuckoo clock on the wall softly chimed the hour.

Olle turned back to him, his face pinched. “When are you going to do it?” he demanded.

Harry frowned. “When am I going to do what?”

“I think you know.”

With a heavy sigh, Harry rested his hands in his lap. “That’s not why I came here.”

Olle smirked bitterly. “You think I’ve crossed over.” 

“I don’t know who killed Remi. But her death was very … convenient, let’s say … for the other side.”

“Not for me. For me, it’s a death warrant.”

They stared at each other.

“Your service firearm is in your coat pocket,” Olle said, breaking the silence. “You’ve already fitted it with a suppressor. Benchmark sent you to close my account.”

Harry fell silent. After a moment, he picked up his coat and stood facing Olle, his eyes downcast, his expression gray. Olle watched, unmoving.

“All I can tell you,” said Harry, reaching into his pocket, “is that someone killed Remi. I don’t know what’s happened to your fucking memory — or to you, Olle. But someone has to pay for Remi.”

Olle cracked open the balcony door and flicked his cigarette into the frigid night. The lights on Skeppsholmen beckoned through the churning snow.

He saw Harry’s reflection in the glass panel.

“You’re not Harry,” he said to the disembodied face.

“No,” came the reply, as the gun emerged from the coat pocket. “Petr. This is our meeting. Now, forget.”

The gun thumped once, discharging a single round into the small of Olle’s back. His body fell at such an angle that it prevented any snow from drifting into the apartment for several hours.