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The secretary for the Överste – the equivalent of a colonel in the American military – ushered me in to see him as soon as I arrived.
Colonel Holmgren was a bulldog of a man – 5’9” with broad shoulders, a bullet-shaped head, and a perpetual scowl. As soon as I walked in the door, he held up a piece of paper.
“Henriksson, what the fuck is this?!”
My heart leapt in my chest, but I played dumb until I knew for sure what he was talking about. “Sir?”
“MUST just sent over an order for your immediate discharge!”
MUST was an acronym for Militära underrättelse- och säkerhetstjänsten, the Swedish Military Intelligence and Security Service. It was a division of the military but served roughly the same purpose as the American CIA: foreign intelligence and counter-intelligence.
If Alistair wanted to pull strings without leaving any fingerprints, going through MUST was exactly how to do it.
He’d actually made good on his promise… and in a miraculously short period of time.
“What the fuck are you up to, Henriksson?” Holmgren snarled.
I decided I had to be somewhat open. “Sir, I was recruited by an agency that deals with NATO. To work for them, I couldn’t remain in SOG any longer.”
“What agency?”
“I can’t say, sir. Top secret.”
“Bullshit – my security clearance is higher than yours.”
“I can’t say, sir. I’m sorry.”
“Who recruited you?”
“I can’t say, sir.”
“Does this have anything to do with your trips to London?”
“I can’t say, sir.”
Holmgren narrowed his eyes. “This is suspiciously good timing, considering your deployment to Afghanistan.”
I stayed quiet.
The colonel shook his head as he stared at the paper.
“Twenty years in SOG, and I’ve never seen anything like this.” He glared back up at me. “You sure you know what you’re getting yourself into, son?”
I decided to be honest. “Not entirely, sir.”
He sighed and stood up, then walked around the desk with his hand extended. Though he was all angry bluster on the outside, the colonel cared deeply about everyone under his command.
“You’re a goddamn good soldier, Henriksson. You’ll be sorely missed.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said as I shook his hand.
Holmgren handed me the paper. I scanned it for a particular phrase and found it: the Swedish term for ‘honorable discharge.’
Alistair had fulfilled his promise to the letter.
“As of this moment, you’re a free man,” Holmgren said. “Bit of advice?”
“Yes, sir?”
