Phantom Read Online Free PDF Page A

Sunday best. But tattoos protruded from under their sleeves. It was almost comic.
    They handed him the package. Half a kilo in one long sausage that would just fit inside the metal plate around the retractable handle of the carry-on bag. He was to remove the package after they had landed at Suvarnabhumi Airport and put it under the blanket at the back of the pilots’ locker in the cockpit. And that was the last he would see of it; the rest would probably be sorted out by the ground crew.
    When Mr. Big and Mr. Small had presented the opportunity to take packages to Bangkok, it had sounded like lunacy. After all, there was not a country in the world where the street price of dope was higher than in Oslo, so why export? He hadn’t probed—he knew he wouldn’t get an answer, and that was fine. But he had pointed out that smuggling heroin to Thailand carried a sentence of death if caught, so he wanted better payment.
    They had laughed. First the little one. Then the big one. And Tord had wondered if maybe shorter nerve channels produced quicker reactions. Maybe that was why they made fighter-jet cockpits so low, to exclude tall, slow pilots.
    The little one explained to Tord in his harsh, Russian-sounding English that it was not heroin, it was something quite new, so new that there wasn’t even a law banning it yet. But when Tord asked why they had to smuggle a legal substance they had laughed even louder and told him to shut up and answer yes or no.
    Tord Schultz had answered yes as another thought announced its presence. What would the consequences be if he said no?
    That was six trips ago.
    Tord Schultz studied the package. A couple of times he had considered smearing soap over the condoms and freezer bags they used, but he had been told that sniffer dogs could distinguish smells and werenot fooled so easily. The trick was to make sure the plastic bag was fully sealed.
    He waited. Nothing happened. He cleared his throat.
    “Oh, I almost forgot,” said Mr. Small. “Yesterday’s delivery …”
    He slipped his hand inside his jacket with an evil grin. Or perhaps it wasn’t evil—perhaps it was Eastern-bloc humor. Tord felt like punching him, blowing unfiltered cigarette smoke into his face, spitting twelve-year-old whiskey in his eye. Western-bloc humor. Instead he mumbled a thank-you and took the envelope. It felt thin between his fingertips. They had to be big notes.
    Afterward he stood by the window again and watched the car disappear into the darkness, heard the sound being drowned out by a Boeing 737. Maybe a 600. Next generation, anyway. Throatier and higher-pitched than the old classics. He saw his reflection in the window.
    Yes, he had taken their coin. And he would continue to take it. Take everything life threw in his face. For he was not Don Draper. He was not Chuck Yeager and not Neil Armstrong. He was Tord Schultz. A long-spined pilot with debts. And a cocaine problem. He ought to …
    His thoughts were drowned out by the next plane.
    Goddamn church bells! Can’t you see them, Dad, my so-called next of kin all standing over my coffin? Crying crocodile tears, moaning: “Gusto, why couldn’t you just learn to be like us?” Well, you fucking self-righteous hypocrites, I couldn’t! I couldn’t be like my foster mother, a dense, spoiled airhead, going on about how wonderful everything is, as long as you read the right book, listen to the right guru, eat the right fricking herbs. And whenever anyone burst her bubble, she always played the same card: “But look at the world we’ve created—war, injustice, people who don’t live in harmony with themselves.” Three things, babe. One: War, injustice and disharmony are normal. Two: You’re the least harmonious of everyone in our disgusting little family. You wanted only the love you couldn’t have, and you didn’t give a shit about the love you were given. Sorry, Rolf, Stein and Irene, but she had eyes only for me. Which makes point three all the more