The Swede by Robert Karjel

He gazed at Grip and crossed his thin arms. “In the real world, they’realways three letters: GRU, CIA, MI5. Am I right?” Ben was originally from Houston and could never shake the fact that he was a devout Republican.
    “You a good shot?” he wondered. “Two bullets from thirty yards, and both within an inch of each other, in the chest?”
    Grip shrugged.
    Ben liked it. Also Miles Davis, of course, though he never admitted it, and an occasional Hopper painting would be all right too.
    G rip went back to Stockholm. Farewell was no farewell; between their two cups of coffee that morning, they both knew that something had just begun. After breakfast Ben picked up clean shirts from the Chinese laundry on his way to the gallery, while Grip took a taxi to JFK.
    In Stockholm, Grip went to see the doctor again, this time at least getting to take off his shirt. And with that, he was back for real. The first thing he did on the job was submit an application for transfer. He wanted to join the bodyguard detachment, not least for the overtime. When they worked, they worked round the clock, and afterward were off accordingly. His old boss was furious, called it a hell of a waste. But Grip had performed enough unholy services under his direction. “I’ll still need you sometimes.” Grip nodded, and with that, the man who would always be the Boss had signed his consent. Then Human Resources did their usual thing: checked his loans and bank accounts, asked him to fill out some routine papers about his family. Dad was dead and Mom senile, no problem. And really, what would they ever find out by asking people to tick boxes? If something happened, a real scandal, a juicy revelation, at least they could pick up their sheet and say, We did our best toscreen out people with black marks in their past. Ticks in the box. Everybody happy.
    Grip got his royal family assignment and bought two new suits with room for a bulletproof vest underneath. Then it was business as usual: some official state visits, strolling down the cobblestone streets of a market town, subduing drunks, Solliden Palace in summertime, then a trip to the Riviera. He trained in rapid firing on the shooting range and listened to the latest concoctions from the threat analysts. Like everything else, these went in cycles, sometimes fixated on the stone-throwing Left, sometimes just blurry pictures of bearded Palestinians. They never talked about the lone crazies, the outliers, the ones they never could get to anyway. And so Grip gazed out over the public gatherings, over the people with their outstretched hands, looking for the ones in the background who just stood quietly, staring, preparing to leap.
    He got to knee two German paparazzi, that was all. Autumn came.
    The bodyguard detachment was the security police’s refuge for the divorced, newly divorced, and never married. Their stories were mostly of compassionate lies and failures. Life without the earphone was life on a different planet; for many, their civilian time was a wasteland. In any event, everyone minded their own business. Their mountain of overtime compensation was the captain’s biggest problem, and what his staff did when he could find gaps to send them away, nobody cared about. “Lundgren, von Hoffsten, Grip, take ten days—now!” Lockers were slammed, cell phones turned off. Maybe they took the time to have a beer, usually not. A few brief nods. And so each headed out on his own.
    Grip didn’t even pack—he already had what he needed in New York. He usually landed sometime after lunch and then headed tothe gallery. It took no more than a glance and a smile over Ben’s shoulder as he stood talking with a customer. Certainly they missed each other, but there was no jealousy or worry. The state of affairs was completely clear. Till death do us part. In the fall they went up to Cape Cod for a long weekend. Stayed at a small hotel with a yellow facade that Hopper had once painted, walked between the