Another Time, Another Life

21 Autumn 1999

It was Bureau Chief Berg, head of operations for the Swedish secret police, who asked the question.

“Could you see yourself doing it, Lars?” Berg asked.

Could I? thought Johansson. Could I see myself doing it?

“Yes,” said Johansson.

And that was how the whole thing started.

A good many things had happened in the secret police since the prime minister was murdered in February 1986. The fact that the murder had unleashed a number of re-evaluations of the secret operation was the least important. Where wriggling out of such things was concerned, the people at the agency had decades of practice. In secret police-related work, it was also the case that every investigator with a minimum of instinct for self-preservation realized the importance and value of proceeding carefully.

As this concerned things that were secret by nature, it was extremely important in the process not to damage an operation of decisive public significance, for that could only profit the enemy and in the final analysis even risk the well-being of the entire nation. Therefore the object of the re-evaluation, just like always, escaped with the usual mixture of cosmetic measures and minor personnel changes. All in accordance with the old, proven rule of giving the idealists peace of mind and the cannibals the pound of flesh they were always coveting.

In order to “underscore a more civilian and democratic direction,” the operation changed its name from the security department of the National Police Board-Sec-to the Security Police, or SePo, as nowadays even police officers called it. For the same reason the operation was also given greater independence in relation to its immediate parent body, the National Police Board. In order to finally make the head of the Swedish secret police the formal equivalent of his foreign colleagues he had been elevated to the position of general director. Finally, a number of individuals had been kicked diagonally upward or moved around within the upper police bureaucracy, while just one had to step right out into the cold, though he retained his salary.

At the same time other things had happened that had considerably more far-reaching consequences, the most important being the collapse of the Soviet Union and the breakup of the Eastern Bloc. The old “Russian squad,” which historically had claimed more than half of all combined resources if properly calculated, was now not even a shadow of its former self, and if it hadn’t been for Bureau Chief Berg’s bureaucratic creativity the entire organization would have been in serious danger even as the enemy lowered the flag.

Berg was without comparison the shrewdest operational head in the history of the secret police, and instead of coming to a stop when the old main road was closed off, he quickly found new paths in the terrain of security politics: the situation in the Balkans, European and international terrorism, the new threat from the extreme right, the nation’s own growing need for Swedish constitutional protection, and best of all the assassination of Olof Palme, which created a veritable boom in the personal security industry.

The same year that the Berlin Wall fell, SePo’s bodyguard squad passed the agency’s old Russian squad in personnel strength, and after that the demand for bodyguards only increased. Upper-class people felt threatened as never before, and right or wrong this was useful to SePo. So far all was well and good, but other things were considerably more worrisome.

The threat against Swedish democracy nowadays came from the right and not from the left. It would have been simple enough just to turn your head, but the problem was the historical inheritance from the days of the cold war collected in the archives of the secret police. A workforce of hundreds who had worked doggedly for decades registering hundreds of thousands of Swedish citizens because their political sympathies were to the left of the Social Democratic regime. A sad story, but unfortunately only one side of the problem.

Another side of the problem was that the political powers that be from the days of the cold war who had authorized SePo to collect all this information were now on their way out. The majority of the older ones had already died a natural death or had long since retired. The prime minister had been shot and his contemporaries who still remained in the corridors of power were a shrinking few who were counting the days to the end. Thus the basis for the exchange of services between the secret police and its political client had been demolished.

The burden of guilt still remained, and in a moral sense it was greater than ever, but there were no old clients to go to for help paying the claims that would be raised against the secret police. Much less anyone with whom you could exchange services when you ended up with your beard in the mail slot through your own fault. Nowadays the whole system was rotten through and through, in Berg’s opinion. Humanly and morally rotten to the core, and deeply unjust to him and his colleagues, who had only been doing their jobs.

And as if this wasn’t enough, there was a third side to the matter. The new powers that be-historically unburdened by this sorry story-were obviously also strongly overrepresented in SePo’s old archives from the radical sixties and seventies. This Berg knew from his own experience, because he’d had to play fireman on a number of occasions when new individuals, who were now living other lives and operating in a different time, had been appointed to high-ranking official positions. And thanks for the help was the last thing he could expect. Instead it was a matter of keeping his lips sealed and hoping for the best.

This complication also happened to be one of the first issues that Berg brought up during his conversation with Johansson, and the reaction had of course been as expected.

“If you want me to clean up after you then I think you’ve come to the wrong person,” said Johansson, who suddenly appeared both expectant and guarded.

“No, God help us,” Berg answered, making a deprecating gesture. “I intend to take care of that myself. I thought you should start with a clean desk.” Thanks to me cleaning up after others. It was that unjust, he thought.

“A lovely thought,” said Johansson. “That we’ll all get to go into the new millennium with an empty desk.”

“That’s pretty much the point,” Berg clarified, still sensing Johansson’s hesitation.

“So that’s why you’ve turned to a predecessor of the ’68 generation,” said Johansson, smiling.

“Oh well,” said Berg soberly. “You understand what I mean.”

“What do the ones who decide think?” Johansson appeared genuinely curious about the reply.

“The government offices thought your name was an extraordinary suggestion,” said Berg. “I’ve talked with the responsible undersecretary… you must have met him, by the way, around the time Palme was shot. As you know it’s the government that controls the appointment, and we were in complete agreement.”

“That’s a relief,” said Johansson, who now seemed rather amused. Times are changing, he thought. “What does the GD say then?” said Johansson. The new general director was nonetheless head of the secret police.

“The general director,” said Berg, who had a hard time concealing his surprise. “There’s never been any problem with him.” It didn’t matter what title they gave these high-level bosses (and personally he was now on his fifth), though naturally he couldn’t say that, he thought. Johansson would certainly figure that out all on his own as soon as he got his feet wet.

“As head of operations you’re the one who will lead the work itself, and in the government offices they have great confidence in you as an individual,” Berg clarified, nodding seriously.

And I’m easily flattered too, thought Johansson.

After that they talked about other things that Johansson wanted said before he decided. That he wasn’t a politician but a police officer. That for him it was about putting people who were involved in serious crimes in jail before they had a chance to cause even more mischief, and that the only reason for him to change jobs was that he wanted finally to get involved in a few serious operational assignments.

That was no problem at all, according to Berg. On the contrary, the political client, top-ranking police leadership, and, obviously, Berg himself were of the exact same opinion.

“I think you’re going to appreciate this job and I’m quite certain that you’re going to be pleasantly surprised. I know that a horrifying lot of nonsense gets talked about us among our colleagues in the open operation, but that should be taken with a large grain of salt,” said Berg, nodding decisively. “This is a job for a real policeman.” Someone like you and me, he thought.

A real policeman, thought Johansson. That sounds good.

Then they proceeded to practical details. Higher rank? Yes. Salary? Obviously higher, which by the way was a natural consequence both of the higher rank as well as the fact that those who worked in the closed operation had always earned more than those who were part of the regular police.

The possibility of choosing his own coworkers? Of course. Assuming that Johansson only spit out a little three-letter word he was the one who was the boss and it was no more difficult than that.

Despite everything, one somewhat sensitive detail remained.

“How long do you intend to stay?” said Johansson. You look tired, he thought. You’ve lost a lot of weight too.

“I can go tomorrow if you want,” said Berg, smiling. Today if it were up to me, he thought, but naturally he didn’t say that.

“And here I was hoping for a guided tour,” said Johansson, smiling.

“I’ll be glad to give you one,” said Berg. “I was hoping you’d ask, actually.” What’s a few weeks more or less after all these years? he thought.

Johansson nodded. He really seems worn out, he thought.

“Oh well,” said Berg, looking almost a little solemn. “What do you say? Could you see yourself doing it?”

“Yes,” said Johansson.

And that was how the whole thing started.

Johansson’s existence as a transient resource within the police department was over. He was no longer a police jack-of-all-trades whom the government offices and National Police Board could call in whenever it was time to clean up after some highly placed colleague who had been discreetly dismissed or had simply thrown in the towel because he’d had enough. Now he was an established man with operational management responsibility for what was called the closed operation in police talk, and for anyone who coveted police authority there was no better place to be.

He himself did not give much thought in particular to that part of it. He had plenty to do recruiting coworkers to the free investigation and detective team he intended to have in his immediate vicinity. He would need the help of his best friend Bo Jarnebring because it had been years since Johansson had worked in the field himself and there must be many capable new people whose existence he didn’t even know about. In that way he acquired ten or so new coworkers, and the only fly in the ointment was that Jarnebring himself steadfastly resisted all his friend’s attempts at recruitment.

“I don’t look good in a fake beard,” said Jarnebring, shaking his head. “Besides, I’m starting to get too old.”

“Say the word if you change your mind,” said Johansson. I guess we all get old, he thought.

“Not this time,” said Jarnebring. “On the other hand I wonder what’s happened to you?”

“What do you mean?” asked Johansson.

“How long have we known each other? How long is it since you and I met for the first time out at the old police academy?”

“Thirty years,” said Johansson, shrugging his shoulders.

“If I don’t remember wrong you were the class socialist. You were more or less alone in that besides, and I seem to recall that you wanted to shut down the secret police.”

“You don’t say,” said Johansson. How time flies. It actually is more than thirty years now, he thought.

“If I don’t remember wrong, you couldn’t have something like the secret police in a democratic, lawful police organization. It was absolutely unthinkable, and if anyone had asked you at that time if you could imagine working as a spook, I know exactly what would have happened.”

“What?” asked Johansson, despite the fact that he already knew the answer.

“The person in question would have been socked on the jaw,” said Jarnebring, not mincing words.

“Oh well,” said Johansson, shrugging his shoulders.

“And because you’ve never been particularly good at such things, I would have had to jump in and help you, too,” Jarnebring declared.

“Sure,” Johansson agreed. “I’m sure I would have been counting on that.”

“But now you’ll be head of the whole thing,” said Jarnebring. “What’s happened?”

“These are new times now,” said Johansson. New and I hope better times, he thought.

“I don’t believe that for a moment,” said Jarnebring. “Possibly these are different times.”

22 Autumn 1999

Of course Johansson spoke with his wife before he decided to change course in his police life. Ten years earlier, after almost fifteen years as a divorced man-or a single man or a bachelor or whatever you want to call it-he had proposed to her after an emotionally charged week of basically uninterrupted togetherness. In that way he had settled accounts with the solitude he had come to consider a natural part of both his individuality and his existence. Disregarding the fact that he might still miss that solitude when their togetherness became too much or when he simply felt like being by himself for a while.

She had said yes despite the fact that he couldn’t offer her a new job but only his heart, and because Lars Martin Johansson was a person who knew how to distinguish between great and small he had subsequently devoted himself to his “marital community”-that was how he looked at it-with great seriousness and considerable energy. It hadn’t been easy, not all the time, but who ever said we humans should have it easy? We make a choice, and important choices have major consequences, thought Johansson. Like now.

“What do you think, dear?” asked Johansson.

“What do you think?” Johansson’s wife countered in that way he sometimes had a hard time with. “I’m not the one who’s going to be a secret agent,” she added, smiling in that other way he had never had any problem with whatsoever.

“If he had asked me twenty years ago I would have thrown him out,” said Johansson, whatever that had to do with it, given that the question had been asked a few days ago.

“Do you think we need a secret police force?” his wife asked, looking at him with curiosity.

“It’s clear we need a secret police force,” said Johansson with a conviction that didn’t feel quite genuine. For we do need it, don’t we? he thought. Of course we need SePo, don’t we?

“Okay then,” said his wife, shrugging her shoulders. “Because we need a secret police force and you’re an excellent police officer-and a respectable person who lives a respectable life, at least since you met me-then I guess the only answer is yes.”

Why does she look so amused? thought Johansson. I don’t understand women. They’re not like us, he thought.

“You’re not pulling my leg?”

“Would I ever pull your leg?” his wife teased. “What does Bo say, by the way?”

“Jarnebring,” said Johansson with surprise. “Why do you wonder that? I don’t care what he thinks about it.”

“Aye, aye, aye,” said his wife, shaking her head at the same time that she seemed highly amused. “Little Bosse doesn’t want to play with his best buddy anymore.”

“He says I’m too old,” said Johansson curtly. There she goes again, he thought.

“Do you know something?” His wife looked at him.

Johansson just shook his head. Best to bide your time a little, he thought.

“Do you remember that old comic strip about those two rascals, Knoll and Tott?”

“Yes,” said Johansson hesitantly.

“That’s you and Bo,” she said. “You’re just like Knoll and Tott. Or were their names Pigge and Gnidde?”

“I don’t remember,” said Johansson. Women are definitely not like us, he thought. “On a different note,” Johansson continued, suddenly feeling the need to change the subject. “Forget about that for now. What do you want to do this evening? Dinner? A movie? Or…” Johansson moved his shoulders in a manner that was clear enough.

“First I think we should go out to eat-we have to celebrate your new job. Then maybe we can go to a movie-there’s actually one I want to see. And then… a little… or what? Was that what you said? You’re shy too. Do you know that? Yes, maybe… we’ll see.”

“Good,” said Johansson, getting up quickly. “That’s what we’ll do then. I just have to shower first.” How beautiful she is, he thought, and then he leaned over and placed his hand on her slender neck. She had a hollow there, right at the hairline, that seemed made for his right thumb.

“Go shower now,” said his wife, releasing herself from his grip. “I have to start powdering my nose if we’re going to make it to the movie too.”

Wonder what kind of film it is? thought Johansson as he stood in the shower. Say what you want about her taste in films, it wasn’t much like his own and at the most recent one he had been on the verge of falling asleep in the middle. Shouldn’t I get to decide which film? he thought suddenly. This celebration is for me, isn’t it?

23 March 2000

The cleaning out of the Swedish secret police archives, before the truth seekers from the nation’s academic institutions were let onto the premises, became one of the most extensive operations in the history of the organization, and a good illustration of the fact that the fruits of persistent police work could be an end in themselves. Disregarding the fact that the reason for the original efforts and the motivation behind the later measures were diametrically opposed

Obviously not all of what was filed could be cleaned out-or even a significant portion of it-because to do so would scarcely have contributed to the improvement of the secret police’s reputation. At the same time, certain individuals must by necessity be rescued from the eyes of the review commission. Primarily this concerned the most important informants used over the years. All in all there were thousands of individuals who appeared under various aliases, cover names, and code designations, and who were almost always found in more than one file, and who in practice were almost impossible to clean out.

It was Chief Inspector Wiklander who found the first big dust bunny. Wiklander was head of the detective group that was part of Johansson’s new “free resource,” the combined investigation and detective squad that was intended to become his primary weapon in the struggle against those who most urgently and unexpectedly threatened the security of the realm. Johansson had become acquainted with Wiklander during his time as acting head of the National Crime Bureau, and as soon as Johansson settled down in his new chair as boss he had contacted him. Wiklander was one of the best policemen Johansson had encountered during his long career. Almost as competent as he himself had been at the same age, and just as taciturn. After less than a month on Johansson’s team, Wiklander had requested a special meeting with his top boss.

“Do you remember the West German embassy, Boss?” asked Wiklander.

“Sit down,” said Johansson, nodding toward his visitor’s chair. Do I remember the West German embassy? he thought, and the feelings that suddenly arose were mixed to say the least.

The reason that Wiklander had started looking into the occupation of the West German embassy on the twenty-fourth of April 1975 was mostly a coincidence. In one of the secret police’s many incident files the embassy occupation was entered as two murders; both the military attaché and the trade attaché had been murdered. Because the statute of limitations on murder was twenty-five years and it was already the end of March in the year 2000, the crimes associated with the embassy occupation had turned up on the special computerized review list of serious crimes that would soon be free of judicial consequences and relegated to the national archives. “The final twitch” was the expression used in the building to refer to those cases on the list of impending nullification.

“I wasn’t there personally, I was still in school, but I remember that my buddies and I were glued to the TV,” said Wiklander, smiling and shaking his head.

Me too, thought Johansson with sorrow in his heart, but he didn’t intend to talk about why he felt that way, not with Wiklander in any event.

“I’m listening,” he said instead, leaning back in his chair.

The reason the embassy drama was still on the list of crimes not yet past the statute of limitations was that there were certain questions remaining. It was thus still an open case. True, no one seemed to have given a thought to it during the past more than twenty years, but the filing of an incident did not always bear any logical connection with the work that was put into it.

“The reason it’s still there is that we’re pretty sure the Germans inside the embassy must have had help from people on the outside,” Wiklander clarified.

“Sure,” said Johansson dryly. “You didn’t need to be Einstein to figure that out.”

“No,” said Wiklander. “I realized it when I was watching it on TV. Even though I was still in school.”

Right man in the right place, thought Johansson contentedly, nodding at him to continue.

Thus it was mostly out of personal curiosity that Wiklander had ordered the old binders from the archive. Among the first things he noticed were the traces of Bureau Chief Berg’s sanitary efforts a few years earlier.

“First,” said Wiklander, counting on his long, bony fingers, “there have been suspects noted in the files. Second, they were removed during a review that was done by Chief Inspector Persson a little more than two years ago. Persson-wasn’t he the one who was Berg’s confidant?” And a man who was uniquely perverse, thought Wiklander, who had met Persson and was far from as ignorant about what was going on as he tried to pretend to be.

Bureau Chief Berg and his right hand, Chief Inspector Persson, they were real policemen, thought Johansson with warmth, and now both were out of the building. Persson had retired a year before Berg turned things over to Johansson.

“What’s the problem?” asked Johansson. “Were they Swedes? The accomplices, that is,” he clarified. He at least had thought as much twenty-five years ago as he sat on the couch in front of the TV in the company of his two runny-nosed children. Despite the fact that he had only been a single observer high up in the grandstand.

“I think so, but I don’t know for sure,” said Wiklander, shaking his head. “As I said, they’re cleaned out of the file and I intended to come back to this. On the other hand I’m fairly certain there must have been four of them.”

“You don’t say,” said Johansson. “How can you be so sure of that?”

Wiklander’s suspicions were based on a combination of three factors. For one thing, the same entry appeared in several different registers, which gave a sufficiently clever person with access to all the registers a chance to trace at least some of the erasures that had been made in the register. Obviously-and this was the second factor-assuming that the one who did the cleaning was not as shrewd or careful as the one who checked the cleaning. The third thing was the use of a certain standard format for personnel notations in one of the registers of operatives for the secret police.

“It’s this standard format in one of our registers of operatives that makes me pretty certain it must concern four different individuals,” Wiklander explained. “I don’t know how much you know about computers, Boss,” he added hesitantly.

“Enough,” said Johansson curtly. “I’m listening.” Who do you take me for? he thought.

The connections hadn’t exactly been easy to explain. Wiklander was compelled to run through them twice before Johansson was quite certain he understood how the whole thing stood.

“I’m a hundred percent sure that these four people must have wound up in the current register of operatives,” said Wiklander. “Everyone who’s entered in there has the same format. Simply put it’s a matter of a standardized page for each individual, and it’s the same for everyone regardless of how much information there is about the various individuals in other registers or in their personnel files, if there are any. The link is made the same way for everyone with a reference code of ten characters.”

“But they can’t be so fucking dense that every individual who’s registered or removed is loaded as a separate entry,” said Johansson with a hint of indignation.

“No… not really,” Wiklander replied, shaking his head. That would have been almost criminal, he thought.

“But you’ve figured out anyway that just four individuals have been cleaned out,” said Johansson. “Four forms in a standard format, each of which contains one individual?”

“Yes,” said Wiklander, seeming not entirely displeased with himself.

Around this time two years earlier there had been some rather energetic cleaning in the relevant register of operatives. The various cleaning persons even had to be put on a waiting list while the computer operators executed their orders and the quantity of characters stored in the computer was reduced at the same tempo as the orders were taken care of. Because each order was signed both by the person who requested it and the person who carried it out, it had been no great challenge for Wiklander to find Chief Inspector Persson and his business on the day in question. Not to mention the colleagues ahead of and behind him on the list of secret police officers in need of cleaning.

“This is where they messed up,” said Wiklander. “The character count in the computer is recorded consecutively. So to put it briefly, it’s possible to see how many characters colleague Persson alone had ordered removed. And because I know the number of characters on each form-down to a few dozen-he must have cleaned out exactly four individuals who had been entered in the register because they were included in the event file for the West German embassy.”

“Sloppy damn computer nerds,” said Johansson gloomily. “I hope you stuck the pointer into them.”

“Yes,” said Wiklander. “They were very grateful for the help.”

I can believe it, thought Johansson sourly. What the hell choice did they have?

“Four individuals have been cleaned out-that much is clear-but we have no idea who they were?”

“No,” said Wiklander. “That we don’t know.”

“It can’t have been one of those little elves who were going to take revenge for the West German embassy by kidnapping Anna-Greta Leijon,” Johansson speculated. “If I remember correctly there were at least thirty individuals in jail at various times. Both Swedes and foreigners as I recall. Do any of them seem to have ended up in parliament a few years later?”

“Kröcher and his comrades,” said Wiklander, shaking his head. “No, it can’t have been any of them. As far as the member of parliament is concerned, his name is Juan Fonseca. He was completely innocent, by the way. Got damages as a consolation.”

“You’re quite certain,” said Johansson, looking questioningly at his visitor. Damages my ass, he thought. In certain regards Johansson was an extremely old-fashioned policeman.

“Quite sure,” said Wiklander. “For one thing they’ve been checked out this way and that, and for another they’re still in our registers. There are thousands of pages about them, so there’s enough for a whole raft of dissertations. They come into the story later, after the West German embassy-to take revenge on Anna-Greta Leijon, who was the minister of labor, in charge of immigration issues and the cabinet minister responsible for terrorist legislation. She was the one who in a formal sense made the deportation decision about the German terrorists.”

Forget the law, thought Johansson, who was well aware that to carry out real police work in a crisis situation, you couldn’t run around with a statute book under your arm.

“So we have four individuals who’ve been cleaned out,” he summarized. “We don’t have a clue who they are, despite the fact that this seems to concern one of the most serious crimes that has been handled in this department. Pretty strange,” Johansson concluded.

“Yes,” said Wiklander. “Although that’s not even the strangest thing.”

“Then what is?” asked Johansson, looking guardedly at his visitor.

What was most strange according to Wiklander was that only a few months ago, right before Johansson took over from Berg, two names had suddenly appeared in the file on the West German embassy. What’s more, they were Swedish citizens who were supposed to have helped the terrorists in the embassy in their planning and preparations before the occupation, and who in a formal judicial sense were guilty, among other things, of being accomplices to two murders, some ten cases of kidnapping, destruction constituting a public danger or sabotage, as well as a few other goodies.

“I’ll be damned,” said Johansson. More than enough for life imprisonment, he thought judiciously.

“Yes,” said Wiklander. “Not exactly a recommendation.”

“So what are their names?” said Johansson. I’m still a policeman, he thought.

“They’re both dead, actually,” answered Wiklander. “One was a TV journalist who was rather well known in his day-we’re talking the late seventies and eighties. His name was Sten Welander, born in 1947. He died of cancer five years ago.”

“I have a faint memory,” said Johansson. A skinny fanatical type with designer stubble and all the opinions that were correct at the time. They were all like that anyway, regardless of when, he thought.

“The other one worked at the Central Bureau of Statistics over on Karlavägen as some kind of official… assistant director… nothing remarkable… Eriksson, Kjell Göran, born 1944.”

“Died from a stroke of course,” Johansson grunted contentedly.

“No,” said Wiklander. “He was murdered in November 1989.”

“You don’t say,” said Johansson. “You don’t say.” This is getting better and better, he thought with delight.

“Yes,” said Wiklander. “I’ve requested the investigation files from Stockholm. It’s still unsolved, but no one has worked on the case since the spring of 1990. After that it went down into the archives… no investigation results, according to the decision.”

“I have some faint recollection,” said Johansson hesitantly. “Eriksson?” What was that about? he thought.

How had Welander and Eriksson, suitably enough both dead, turned up in the file on the West German embassy, and how was it that it had happened when it did? Hardly six months remained before the case would lapse when the statute of limitations ran out, and without anyone seeming to have lifted a finger to investigate the case for more than twenty years. Of all this, and this was what was so strange, there was not the slightest hint in the files that Wiklander had gone through.

“It must have been Berg who put them in,” said Johansson. “Have you talked with him?”

“No,” said Wiklander. “I thought I would wait until I knew a little more.”

“Smart,” said Johansson. “Find out how they wound up in the file.” If for no other reason than to satisfy our curiosity, he thought.

“Yes… it’s doubtful there will be any indictment against them,” observed Wiklander, who was not particularly interested in jurisprudence either as long as real police work was involved.

24 March 2000

Whether Wiklander was only almost as good a police officer as his boss, the legendary Lars Martin Johansson, was actually of no interest, because he was good enough. When the binders on the unsolved murder of Kjell Eriksson on the thirtieth of November 1989 came up from the colleagues in Stockholm, Wiklander closed the door to his office, unplugged the telephone, and, to be on the safe side, turned on the red lightbulb outside his door. Then he set to work.

Before he left for the day he was becoming certain he had figured out how the whole thing fit together, even if he was far from clear about why he felt that. Police intuition, Wiklander thought philosophically, leaning back in his chair to summarize his thoughts before he went home after a long day.

If I try not to make things unnecessarily difficult, thought Wiklander, then the most likely explanation is that both Eriksson and the now deceased TV reporter Welander were two of the four names that had been cleaned out of the registry just over two years ago. But who were the other two?

Personally he was more or less convinced that the broker Tischler must have been one of them, and according to the searches he had already made Tischler was still alive, allowing for the fact that he had left the country ten years ago and was currently registered in Luxembourg. The simple, obvious explanation for Tischler’s generosity toward Eriksson must have been that they had a history together that would not bear scrutiny and that Tischler would fall considerably farther than Eriksson if their common secret was revealed.

That left the fourth one who had disappeared from the registry, thought Wiklander. Who was he, or perhaps even she? Despite everything, women were considerably more common in political terrorism than in traditional serious crime, and that must be the motive in this case, he thought.

One of Eriksson’s neighbors? It didn’t seem particularly likely based on the material he’d found in the investigation. One of his coworkers whom the detectives investigating the murder had missed because they didn’t know what they were looking for? Not at all impossible, thought Wiklander, who as a real policeman had a very strong opinion about university graduates in Eriksson’s generation. Eriksson’s Polish cleaning woman? She was in a good category, thought Wiklander, but the problem with her-he had already checked on his computer-was that she hadn’t come to Sweden until 1978, three years after the events at the West German embassy.

It’ll work out, thought Wiklander. In any event, he had already turned over lists of all the neighbors, coworkers, and everyone else who appeared in the investigation to his colleagues at the group for internal surveillance. By the time he arrived at work the next day the names would have been checked against the secret police’s registry of politically motivated hooligans and of everyone else who just happened to be there. Despite all the truth commissions that the outside world persisted in foisting off on him and his hardworking comrades.

But that wasn’t the question that was really interesting. If someone had gone to the trouble of cleaning out those four names just over two years ago, why had two of them been re-inserted in the same registry only a few months ago, and at a time when the top priority was flushing as many names as possible? And why had Tischler avoided making the same round-trip if he had been in the registry from the start, which most of the investigation suggested that he had? Because Tischler, in contrast to the other two, was still alive? Because he had his own channels to power? Because…

This’ll work itself out too, thought Wiklander, getting up and flexing his computer-stiffened shoulders. As soon as he figured out who the fourth one was, there would be only one completely uninteresting detail remaining, which his colleagues in Stockholm could take care of: who had murdered Kjell Göran Eriksson?

When Wiklander returned to his office the next morning, the lists with the search results were already on his desk. They contained nothing that he had not already figured out or suspected. Only one of the neighbors had produced a hit in SePo’s registry. An old Nazi-tainted major who, granted, lived on the same floor as the murder victim. But the mere thought that he could have had anything politically in common with Eriksson, Tischler, and Welander was preposterous. He couldn’t have murdered Eriksson either, because the Stockholm Police Department’s detectives had given him a better alibi than he really deserved: He had taken part in the celebration of the anniversary of Charles XII’s death on the same evening Eriksson was murdered.

You lucky devil, thought Wiklander, whose political views were different from the major’s.

A check on Eriksson’s former coworkers had produced considerably more hits in the registry. The number was even higher than expected for the office in question, but none of the five individuals whose names came up made Wiklander particularly excited. They had been ordinary members of the far left back then; two were now social democrats, one a liberal, one a conservative, and one a Green; all of them were living in a new era and evidently unworthy even of being rescued from the eyes of the review commission.

Only Eriksson’s Polish cleaning woman remained. Even she had her own file up at SePo. Not because she cleaned but because she was Polish and had apparently been involved with at least seven of Wiklander’s colleagues within the open operation, who also seemed to have in common the fact that their discretion left a good deal to be desired. Nice-looking woman, thought Wiklander, looking appreciatively at the picture of Jolanta that was in her personal file, but just now you leave me cold, he thought, as he closed it.

So instead he tried a different route. Who had reinstated the information about Eriksson and Welander in the file on the embassy drama, despite the manifest lack of interest in the case itself and the fact that both Eriksson and Welander were long dead?

Not Persson, because he’d already retired. Not Berg either, thought Wiklander, though without really knowing why. It doesn’t seem like Berg, taking them out and then putting two back in.

Could it have been someone else in the building? After getting the necessary permissions from Johansson he had simply gone around and asked.

Behind the third door he knocked on was a chief inspector with the terrorist squad, who happened to be sitting on the answer.

“It was me,” he said, nodding happily at Wiklander. “I was the one who put them in the file.”

“May I sit down?” Wiklander asked, looking inquisitively at the vacant chair in front of the desk.

“Of course,” said his colleague with the terrorist squad cordially. “Would you like some coffee?”

Half an hour later Wiklander had consumed two cups. In addition he now knew how the names of two corpses had been reinstated in the as yet inconclusive investigation of one of the most serious crimes in Swedish history. On the other hand, he had not become any wiser. Definitely not wiser, thought Wiklander.

Analysts at the military intelligence service had sent in the tip. The chief inspector with the terrorist squad who received it had obviously noticed that the two individuals in question had been dead for some time, but because his informant had also said that there would probably be more tips concerning the same matter, involving individuals who were both alive and not at all uninteresting to SePo, the guy from the terrorist squad had chosen to put them back in.

“You know how finicky our analysts can be,” he added by way of explanation.

Was there anyone else, Berg, for example, who had reacted against this measure? Wiklander asked. No one, his colleague summarized, and obviously not Berg, since considering the order of command in their mutual workplace the information wouldn’t have been filed over his objections.

“Berg must have approved it,” said the chief inspector with the terrorist squad. “A mere chief inspector like myself…”

“Yes,” said Wiklander. Berg must have approved it, he thought.

“From the fact that you’re here I’m guessing that our friends up in the gray building have gotten in touch again, so this doesn’t seem to have been completely wrong,” said Wiklander’s host, winking slyly.

Wiklander nodded in such a way that a sympathetic observer might perhaps have understood as agreement. What rock did they dig you out from under? he thought.

“I have a slight difficulty right now… as you’ll surely appreciate,” said Wiklander evasively. “What we’re trying to do is to assess our previous information… in light of the new material we’ve come up with, if you know what I mean.”

“I understand perfectly,” said the colleague with a smile of mutual understanding, in spite of the fact that he hadn’t understood a thing.

“It’s true I haven’t been here very long,” said Wiklander, “but it seems like it’s pretty unusual for us to get any tips from those quarters. From the military, I mean.”

“Tell me about it. What do you think I was thinking?” The colleague at the terrorist squad nodded with emphasis. “So I asked them straight out where they’d gotten it from-the information they were submitting, that is.”

“And?” Wiklander tried to appear eager and appropriately curious.

“They said they got it from the Germans,” the chief inspector said, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “From the lads at the BND. And because it wasn’t any of their business, they handed it off to me… well, to us that is.”

“The BND,” said Wiklander, who was new to secret ops and had not yet gone through any courses.

“Bundesnachrichtendienst,” answered the chief inspector. “Which as you surely know is the Germans’ counterpart to the CIA.”

“You don’t say,” said Wiklander, making an effort to appear at least somewhat shrewd. “Any idea how they got hold of it? The BND, that is,” he clarified.

The chief inspector wiggled his right palm.

“Nobody’s talking about it, as you can appreciate. But some things you figure out for yourself and some things don’t need to be said. That part was more implicit,” Wiklander’s host replied.

“Wait a second,” said Wiklander. “Did anyone say… or did anyone not say-that they got the information from the BND?”

“That’s not the kind of thing you say,” said the chief inspector deprecatingly. “It would be a real dereliction of duty if you said that sort of thing.”

“You figured it out anyway?” asked Wiklander.

“Of course I did,” said the chief inspector contentedly. “I don’t know if you know, but around that time the Germans found some previously unknown material in the old Stasi archives. It was the so-called SIRA archive, which, among other things, contained a lot of names of their old spies and political sympathizers abroad. There was also quite a lot of information from the seventies and eighties, so that even a child could figure out what had happened-when the Germans found out about it, I mean. Well, and then we got it. Of course it was here in Stockholm that the shit hit the fan. And I can’t rule out that this was just their way of tweaking our noses. Even if it’ll soon be twenty-five years since those leftist maniacs blew up the West German embassy.”

“You’ll have to excuse me,” said Wiklander, “but why in the name of God didn’t Stasi get rid of the papers in that SIRA archive?”

“The official explanation is that they didn’t have time. They had a shortage of shredders,” the terrorist chief inspector said comfortably. “Fate bestows her favors unevenly. They should have called me. They could have borrowed as many as they wanted.”

This is getting stranger and stranger, thought Wiklander as he returned to his office. High time to talk with the boss.

Johansson immediately made room in his schedule, and a few hours later Wiklander reported his findings.

“This is getting stranger and stranger,” said Johansson. “Here’s what we’ll do,” he continued, nodding encouragingly at Wiklander.

“I’m listening,” said Wiklander.

“I think you’re completely right about Eriksson, Welander, and Tischler,” said Johansson. “Try to find out who the fourth one is, and then I’ll see if Berg has any ideas. At least he’ll be able to tell me why he removed them from the file two years ago.”

“If you’re going to talk with him anyway you might as well ask him how common it was back in his day for us to get help from the military,” Wiklander suggested.

“Well, I know what it’s like these days,” said Johansson with a wide grin. “They seem to finally understand that these are new times. Nowadays we’re greeted with standing ovations. I had dinner with the supreme commander last week.”

“And it was nice,” said Wiklander neutrally. Whatever that has to do with anything, he thought.

“Yeah,” said Johansson. “I got the impression that attitudes have changed somewhat.” Although the food was only so-so, he thought.

“Let’s hope so,” said Wiklander. “We still owe our salaries to the same taxpayers.” Although they seem to have considerably better per diems than we do, he thought. At least that’s what he’d heard at one of the courses he’d taken since getting his new job.

“Joking aside,” said Johansson, suddenly looking serious. “If they’re just fucking with us, they won’t get away with it. I didn’t have that good a time. Find the fourth man for us, and I’ll take care of the foreign policy. And see if Jarnebring has any ideas. I just remembered he was involved in the investigation of Eriksson’s murder,” said Johansson, who had finally put the pieces together after Wiklander had recounted the case from 1989.

“The fourth man,” said Wiklander. “I’m on it.”

As soon as Wiklander left, Johansson called Berg at home. It was high time, even just for social reasons. It had been more than a month since they’d last talked.

Berg’s wife answered. She sounded tired and depressed. Her husband was not at home and might be gone for a few more days. Could she ask him to call Johansson when he came back? She would ask, but she couldn’t promise anything. And as soon as she had said A she also said B.

Her husband had been admitted to a radiation clinic for treatment. He had been several times during the past six months and she did not want Johansson to tell anyone about it. She herself had promised her husband that.

“Erik has cancer,” she said. “We have to hope for the best.”

“If there’s anything I can do…” said Johansson. What do I say now? he thought.

“I promise to tell him that you called,” Berg’s wife interrupted, “and if it’s something to do with work then maybe you should try talking with Persson,” she suggested.

Johansson sighed as he hung up, and suddenly he felt gloomy, even though Berg wasn’t exactly a close friend. I’ll have to try Persson, he thought, looking up the number on his computer. At least he isn’t dying of cancer, thought Johansson. Not with all that fat and that blood pressure.

“Yes,” said Persson, succeeding in a single word at sounding as cheerful as Berg’s wife had when she had answered the phone.

“Do you have time to meet?” said Johansson, who was more like Persson than he realized and wasn’t going to risk any small talk.

“If you want, you can have roast pork and brown beans in an hour,” said Persson morosely. “If you want a drink you’ll have to bring it with you. I’m all out here at home.”

“I’ll stop at the liquor store, then I’ll see you in an hour,” said Johansson heartily. That’s a real old-time policeman there, he thought. He himself had all the time in the world. His wife was away at a conference, and the alternative would have been to eat alone or in the company of the TV. Without having any idea of Persson’s domestic talents he was willing to take the risk.

25 March 2000

Persson lived in Råsunda, in one of the old fin de siècle buildings north of the soccer stadium. On the way there Johansson had his taxi stop at Solna Centrum while he trotted into the state liquor store and bought some strong beer, a bottle of pure aquavit, and half a bottle of Grönstedts cognac. No reason to be stingy, thought Johansson. If his meeting with Persson didn’t produce any results he could always enter it as a work expense, to be forwarded to that myth-enshrouded blue book, the royal realm of Sweden’s most secure storage place for such information.

I never cease to be amazed, thought Johansson half an hour later as he sat in the kitchen of Persson’s small two-room apartment while his host was just pouring a refill in their shot glasses. If Johansson remembered correctly, Persson had lived as a bachelor since separating from his wife in the early seventies, and at work he had been known for going around, regardless of the season, in the same gray suit, same yellowing nylon shirt, and same mottled tie.

At his place there was the smell of cleanser and polished floors. It was as tidy as a dollhouse, and not much bigger. Given that Persson weighed close to four hundred pounds, he was like an elephant in a china shop. An elephant, however, who had the gracefulness of a ballerina and who was as skilled in the art of cooking as Johansson’s beloved aunt Jenny. In the good old days she’d been in charge of the bar at the Grand Hotel in Kramfors and had supplied both lumber barons and ordinary gamekeepers with the finer things in life.

“This is damned good,” said Johansson emphatically, and because his wife was at a safe distance at a conference in southern Sweden he was finally free to let loose both his genetically inherited Norrland taste buds and his always tight-fitting belt.

“Real men should have good food,” Persson muttered, rocking his shot glass meaningfully. “By the way, I heard you got married.”

“Yeah,” said Johansson. “Although it’s been a while now.” A little over ten years to be more exact. You’re your usual self, thought Johansson, feeling almost moved by Persson’s concern.

“Personally I’ve had the same thought since I got divorced,” said Persson, as if thinking out loud. “But it never worked out. Though I do have a lady friend I see now and then.”

“Oh yeah?” said Johansson. What the hell should I say? he thought. I can’t really ask if she’s nice.

“She’s a good woman,” said Persson, reading Johansson’s mind. “She’s Finnish. Works in home services, but she’s going to retire soon too. We’ve talked about buying something in Spain.”

“It’s supposed to be a little warmer there.” Persson in Spain, thought Johansson. Where the hell do people get such ideas?

“Yes, I guess I’m afraid of that,” Persson sighed. “Skoal then.”

Then they toasted, turned their attention to the food, made coffee, and went to sit in Persson’s living room to talk police work.

“You’re a good fellow, Johansson,” said Persson. “Aquavit and Grönstedts,” he continued, nodding at his large cognac glass. “It’s risk-free sending you to the liquor store. I knew that all along. What can I help you with?”

“The West German embassy,” said Johansson. Just as well to get this cleared up now so we can talk old memories, thought Johansson.

“If you mean the West German embassy in April ’75, well, that was before I came to SePo,” said Persson. “I was working at the old burglary squad at the time. With a lot of tattooed idiots who were high as kites and rummaged around in people’s apartments all day long.”

“After that,” said Johansson. “Since you came to SePo?” I wonder why he doesn’t ask why I’m asking? he thought.

“I was in on that case in ’89,” said Persson. “It was Berg who asked me. It was at the very end of ’89, in December.”

Johansson just nodded. More’s coming, he thought. You couldn’t rush Persson.

“It was in connection with a murder,” said Persson. “Berg wanted me to check up on a Kjell Göran Eriksson who had been killed on the evening of the thirtieth of November. It was roughly the same time as those bastards were about to burn down the whole city to celebrate that Charles XII was dead.” Persson shook his head and took a substantial sip from his glass.

“Why was he interested in him?” asked Johansson.

“It had something to do with the West German embassy,” said Persson. “I don’t know how much you know, but-”

“A little,” said Johansson, nodding at him to continue.

“You didn’t have to be much of a policeman to figure out that the Germans inside the embassy must have had help from some of our domestic talents… on the outside. I did that myself when I was working at burglary and trying to knock a little sense into the thieves,” said Persson.

“How did Eriksson come into the picture?” Johansson asked.

“He was one of the ones who helped the Germans,” said Persson, looking almost surprised at the question. “Berg figured that out almost immediately. He was a capable cop, Erik. At that time,” said Persson, and for some reason he grinned at Johansson. “Before he became a fine fellow… if you know what I mean, Lars?”

“I know what you mean,” said Johansson, and he smiled too. “I know exactly what you mean,” he added with more emphasis than he perhaps had intended.

“Are you wondering why Eriksson didn’t get sent to prison?” asked Persson, who could definitely read minds. “Him and his other buddies.”

“Yes,” said Johansson. “Why didn’t he?”

“Yup,” said Persson, sighing. “That was before my time. You should really ask Berg about it, but…”

“I’m asking you instead,” said Johansson.

“I know,” said Persson, suddenly looking rather mournful. “Erik’s wife called before you showed up.”

“How are things with him?” said Johansson.

“He’s dying,” said Persson. “So… that’s how it is with him. And since you’re asking, as far as I’m concerned he should have been able to live to the end of his life. Sixty-five is no great age, is it?”

No, thought Johansson. Sixty-five is no great age. Not when you’ve passed fifty, like he had, or would soon turn sixty-seven, like his colleague Persson in the armchair across from him.

“There were certainly several reasons that Eriksson and his friends were not brought in,” said Persson. “I’m a policeman, so politics has never been my strong suit, but if you ask me…” Persson shook his head and poured another cognac.

“You went in and looked at the murder investigation,” Johansson reminded him. “Why did you do that?”

“If you ask me,” said Persson contemplatively, “it was for the same reason we didn’t put little Eriksson away for his collaboration at the West German embassy.”

“And that was?” asked Johansson.

“I guess it had become a little awkward for others besides Eriksson,” said Persson. “Because he was working for us-among other things, trying to keep track of all the other student bastards who weren’t content with just throwing tomatoes at people like you and me,” said Persson.

I thought as much, thought Johansson. It was what had struck him as he sat in the taxi en route to Persson’s place.

Then they talked about Eriksson’s past as an informant for the secret police, an assignment he had devoted himself to during his entire active period within various parts of the acronym-ridden and lunatic left, counting the time from the late sixties to the mid-seventies.

“Then they hung him out to dry,” said Persson. “It was after the West German embassy that Berg decided he should be hung out to dry.”

“But you made no attempt to confront him?” Johansson asked.

Allowing for the fact that Persson himself had not been involved at that time, he was nonetheless certain that no such attempt had been made. Eriksson had been far too mixed up with the secret police for anyone to dare risk something like that. He had even been on the salary list for so-called external coworkers at Sec for a rather long time.

“The bastard swindled us out of several thousand in the midst of all this,” Persson sighed.

“You think he was playing double?” asked Johansson.

“Yes,” said Persson. “True, I never met him, but I understood from what people said that this guy was a real little dung fly. If there was any shit anywhere, he’d be sure to land on it.”

“It can’t have been the case that he was the one who infiltrated you all,” Johansson asked. And let you pick up the tab to add a little spice to the arrangement, he thought.

“No,” said Persson. “He was just the kind of guy who likes to keep his options open. We had other informants too, thank God, and you should have heard what they thought of Eriksson. At the time of the West German embassy takeover it was probably as simple as Eriksson abandoning us because he got the idea that it was probably the Red Guards who would win the day. He doesn’t seem to have been a great political thinker, and he wasn’t exactly faithful either.”

“I understand he wasn’t particularly pleasant,” said Johansson.

“A jerk,” said Persson with conviction. “Pity he was already protected when I started.”

But it was good luck for Eriksson, thought Johansson, sneaking a glance at Persson’s right hand wrapped around the cognac glass.

Eriksson had accomplices. They got off too. Johansson wanted to know why.

“There was no way to get around Eriksson, it seems,” Persson sighed. “How would that have looked? They didn’t want to bring him in, so the others he’d been in league with get off the hook too. Besides, they weren’t really much to hang on the Christmas tree… well, with one exception of course.”

“You mean Welander,” said Johansson, who had figured out a few things himself after his conversation with Wiklander.

“Fucking Red Guard,” said Persson, riled up. “For a long time I was hoping that malignant asshole would take a false step, but he was a clever bastard. He got out while there was still time.”

“What about the other two,” said Johansson with an innocent expression.

“Who do you mean?” said Persson, suddenly sounding normal again.

“Tischler and the fourth guy,” said Johansson as if he had simply forgotten the name.

“Tischler,” Persson snorted. “He only got involved using his father’s money, mostly because it was an easy way to meet willing ladies. True, I wasn’t the one who did that investigation, but if there’s anything I’ve learned it’s to separate good police work from bad, and there were no major faults with the investigation Berg ordered done. I thought you’d read it?”

“No,” said Johansson. “I’m guessing it disappeared two years ago when you pulled it out of the file.”

“Orders from Berg,” said Persson curtly, “and this isn’t me gossiping. He and I have already talked about it. And what do you mean by ‘pulled it out’ anyway? I put together what I was told to put together, placed it in a couple of binders, and gave it to Erik. It’s not my business to have opinions about what he did with it later.”

“And you have no idea what he did with it?” asked Johansson with an innocent expression.

“No,” said Persson. “You don’t ask about that sort of thing.”

Although you seem to have managed to do quite a bit anyway, thought Johansson.

How had they found out about Eriksson, Welander, Tischler, and that mysterious “fourth man” almost twenty-five years ago?

“I wasn’t there, like I said,” said Persson. “Not when it started anyway.”

“But you’ve read the investigation,” said Johansson.

“Sure,” said Persson. “I’ve spent a few hours looking at it, and like I said it was not a bad investigation. Berg ran it, and at that time he was no slouch. That I can assure you.”

“Tell me,” said Johansson.

It had not even been particularly demanding, according to Persson. Welander had evidently driven the car when the terrorists’ messages were turned over to TT and the other news agencies in the Hötorg skyscraper. Eriksson was the one who got to take the elevator up and put the message in the mailbox while Welander stayed behind in the car out on the street and waited.

“Welander was moonlighting at the TV station at that time, so it was actually a journalist at TT who was working in the Hötorg skyscraper where the TV station had an officer who recognized Welander outside the building and thought it was a strange coincidence. He tipped us off, and then Berg and the other colleagues were on a roll. Erik set up the whole apparatus,” said Persson, seeming not exactly displeased.

“The whole apparatus,” Johansson nodded, sounding just as delighted as he suddenly felt.

“The whole apparatus,” Persson nodded, “plus a lot of things that not even you and Jarnebring would have dreamed of trying.”

“So what did they do besides delivering mail?” asked Johansson. That particular detail must have suited Eriksson to a T, he thought.

“They were the ones who arranged all the practical details for the Germans,” said Persson. “Room and board, local knowledge, transport, even some of the explosives they used most likely came from their Swedish contacts. It was ordinary Swedish-made Dynamex from Nobel-our technicians figured that out-mixed with that Czech grease they always used. Welander was the boss and Eriksson was the helper, running around like a rat on fire. He also got paid, the bastard. The Germans gave him thousands of deutschmarks to buy food and drink, but for some reason it was mostly hash he put on the table for them.”

“How does Tischler come into the picture?” asked Johansson.

“The Germans were staying with him before the embassy occupation. Tischler’s dad owned some big-ass summer place out on Värmdö where they were all having sex while they organized the final details. It was pretty ideally located, isolated and discreet and just half an hour into town by car. Although Tischler’s own role in this whole thing is actually a little unclear.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Johansson.

“A few weeks after the West German embassy he looked up Welander-by then we already had surveillance on Welander. Tischler was more or less crazed, screaming and yelling that Welander had exploited him… He was extremely agitated. Our colleagues reported that they didn’t even have to plant any microphones to listen to the conversation. Tischler seems to have been living under the delusion that this plot was about helping some German comrades-the usual student radicals-by keeping them away from the West German police. He had no idea they were going to blow up the West German embassy and try to kill the personnel.”

“In any event he seems to have figured out how things stood afterward,” said Johansson.

“Sure,” said Persson. “In that regard he was a hell of a lot smarter than the member of parliament who helped Kröcher escape, because he had no idea what he was mixed up in, and after having read the interrogations with him I think I believe him. Even though it goes against my usual inclinations,” said Persson. “He seems to have been your typical aspiring socialist member of parliament,” he summarized, chuckling so that his massive belly was jumping.

“The fourth man then,” said Johansson.

“Even more unclear than Tischler,” said Persson. “I would go so far as to say I would have left him out if it had come down to it.”

“Better safe than sorry,” said Johansson.

“More or less,” said Persson. “There were slightly unusual circumstances. Besides, in that case you should probably talk with Berg,” Persson concluded.

“It’s pointless to ask you about it,” said Johansson.

“Yes… even you couldn’t manage to bring that much aquavit here,” said Persson.

Don’t say that, thought Johansson, but naturally he didn’t say it. Better to come back, he thought.

Why had Berg decided to remove the two names from the file two years ago? For a couple of reasons, according to Persson. They were linked to an investigation that had been stone dead for more than twenty years and that no one wanted to touch anymore, for one.

“Times are a little different now,” said Persson.

Although the Germans could probably still keep from laughing if they found out about Eriksson’s background and his involvement in the occupation of the West German embassy, thought Johansson. But he hadn’t come to Persson’s place to quarrel, so he decided instead to wrap things up and get what he came for.

“Welander and Eriksson were put back in the file again a few months ago,” said Johansson. “Were you aware of that?”

“No,” said Persson, sounding genuinely surprised. “I had no idea. I don’t know why Erik would go along with that.”

“Why do you think he did?” asked Johansson.

“Maybe because they were the ones it was really all about,” said Persson. “The other two were just along for the ride. Welander was the driving force and Eriksson was his assistant. That Welander was one unpleasant bastard. There was a good deal of material on him that wasn’t about the West German embassy, and there was no question that he had some very peculiar contacts.”

“With West German terrorists?” asked Johansson.

“With the circles around them in any case. Their sympathizers, and there were quite a few at that time. Besides, our counterparts at counterespionage were pretty sure he had contacts with the East Germans… well, with the Stasi then. So he was lucky he got a job in TV, because that way he was safe from us,” said Persson, sighing. “If you only knew, Johansson…” Persson shook his head. “For a while we could have put handcuffs on half the workforce at that fucking place. If we were to believe what was in our own papers, that is.”

“Exactly what I’m avoiding,” said Johansson.

“What else would you expect?” said Persson with conviction. “If Berg promised he would clean up for you, he will. If he has put Welander and Eriksson back in the file, he must have had good reason for doing so.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Johansson piously. I’ll believe it when I see it, he thought.

“Well…” said Persson with a sigh, taking the opportunity to fill his glass again.

“They were dead anyway, which is a good thing if you want peace and quiet in the midst of a disclosure. The truth commission…” Persson snorted. “A lot of crazy academics who don’t know a rat’s ass about police work.”

“One more question,” said Johansson, saving the last drop in his glass. “You’ll have to excuse me for harping on about this, but who was the fourth one? The fourth man?”

“So that’s what you’re wondering about,” said Persson, grinning. “It was pure chance that we stumbled on the fourth one in the group, and it actually happened in my time. If we were going to put the first three in jail, naturally we would have done so right from the start. But we didn’t do that of course.”

“So who was it?” said Johansson.

“You know what,” said Persson. “From what I’ve heard over the years, you are said to be the absolute shrewdest person ever to set foot in our beloved police station on Kungsholmen, so I think it will be more than enough if you get the same tip that I got. Just to keep an old retiree from getting dragged into your investigation. And besides, you can get it straight from the horse’s own mouth.”

“You’re the one who figured out who it was?” asked Johansson.

“Of course,” said Persson self-assuredly. “Although it wasn’t some inner inspiration. That has never happened to me so far,” Persson chuckled.

“You got a tip,” said Johansson. That hasn’t ever happened to me either, he thought.

“I found a memo from a colleague that wound up in the wrong binder. It was as simple as that,” said Persson, grinning contentedly. “Talk to our colleague Stridh. You know that lazy ass who worked in the patrol cars. He’s still there, isn’t he?”

“Stridh,” said Johansson. “Do you mean Peace at Any Price?” He’s pulling my leg, thought Johansson.

“The very same,” said Persson. “Although he himself probably hasn’t understood how things really stood, if you ask me. No sir,” Persson continued. “Now let’s have a good time and have a little whiskey. I have a fine old bottle in the pantry out in the kitchen. I got it from my lady friend the last time I had a birthday, so there’s no need to panic. Tell me about your new wife, by the way. I’ve heard that she is one outstandingly fine-looking lady.”

“Sure, she’s good-looking,” said Johansson, “she is that.” And she’s nice too, he thought. Stridh, he thought. Could that fuckup Stridh have figured out what both he and Wiklander, and his best friend Bo Jarnebring too for that matter, had missed?

26 March 2000

It was Wiklander who, on orders from Johansson, went to question Stridh at home about the fourth man. It had been a late one for Johansson the night before-many old memories to be aired-yet there must be limits to what liberties a top-level boss like Johansson could take. Working out in the field was all well and good, and eating roast pork and brown beans at home with a former colleague was probably fine, but conducting an interview with yet another colleague the very next morning was a little too much. Besides, in Johansson’s case he had hundreds of coworkers available, and Wiklander was certainly better suited for the task than anyone else.

Stridh was home, of course. Within the corps he was known for being something of a comp time equivalent to soccer’s Diego Maradona, so it was obvious that he would be home on a Friday when even a child could figure out that there was likely to be a lot of police work over the weekend.

“You’re probably wondering why I want to talk with you,” said Wiklander collegially when the introductory preludes were over and the mandatory coffee was on the kitchen table.

“I have my suspicions,” said Stridh.

“You do,” said Wiklander.

“Yes,” said Stridh. “I’ve worked more than thirty years as a cop, and all that time I’ve had a visit from SePo only once before-that was Persson-that big fat guy, you know-and that was more than ten years ago, so I’m guessing you’re here for the same reason. West German embassy?”

“Yes,” said Wiklander. “I want to talk with you about your observations in connection with the events at the West German embassy in April of 1975. Unfortunately I can’t go into why and you can’t tell anyone that we’ve even seen each other either-much less had this conversation-but I’m sure you already know all that,” Wiklander concluded, softening the whole thing by nodding and smiling.

“Yes,” said Stridh. “I’ve been around awhile so I do know that. As I’m sure you’re also aware, I wrote a few pages about the matter, it was the day after-let’s see, that would be the twenty-fifth of April 1975. I assume you’ve read them?”

“Unfortunately not,” said Wiklander, who had decided to save time and put his cards on the table as far as possible. “Your papers seem to have disappeared in one of our archives.” You could put it that way, he thought.

“Yes, that’s really strange,” said Stridh. “The very idea of an archive is that it should be a way to ensure that that sort of thing doesn’t happen, but sometimes you almost wonder if it isn’t the other way around. I have a certain interest in history,” said Stridh. “To be completely honest, it’s probably my major interest in life.”

“You wrote a memo,” Wiklander reminded him. Pull yourself together, old man, he thought.

“I even made a copy of it,” said Stridh smugly, “so in this case I can actually help you repair the damage… as regards the failure in the archiving,” Stridh clarified. “This is perhaps not completely in accordance with the rules, of course,” he continued, “but considering it’s for a good cause… Besides, I had the idea that maybe I had been involved in a historic event and because history is my big interest-”

“That’s just great,” Wiklander interrupted, smiling amiably. “But perhaps you should start by telling me a little about the background, and then… we can look at the papers later.”

“Sure,” said Stridh. “I’m happy to do that.”

Then Stridh talked about the mysterious car that he had stopped. About his conversation with the doorman at the Norwegian embassy and the purely general speculations he’d had before, during, and after what had happened on Thursday the twenty-fourth of April 1975. Not unexpectedly, he took his sweet time doing so.

“That was a dreadful story,” Stridh declared. “I remember I was thinking about what Churchill said to his countrymen during the war. The Germans probably should have taken that to heart a little more than they did.”

“What do you mean?” asked Wiklander, who happened to think of his old history teacher from secondary school at home in Karlstad. Stridh could be a brother to old Nightcap, thought Wiklander.

“Well, if you believed the newspapers, the colleagues at Sec-or SePo, as it seems to be called these days-warned them that something was up,” Stridh clarified.

“I was thinking about what you said about Churchill,” Wiklander reminded him. Just as confused as old Nightcap, thought Wiklander. They must be twins or at least spiritual brothers.

“Yes, him, yes,” said Stridh, nodding. “What I was thinking about was how he said that ‘he who is forewarned is also forearmed.’ ‘He who is forewarned is also forearmed,’ ” Stridh quoted solemnly. “I think that what happened to the Germans shows-if nothing else-what can happen if we don’t learn from history. Or what do you think?”

“Well… yes,” agreed Wiklander. “Maybe we should look at those notes you wrote.” And preferably before summer gets here, he thought.

In its essentials, the memo Stridh had prepared was exemplary. One might have opinions about the organization, use of language, and his typing skills, but if you disregarded that and directed yourself to the police-related meat and potatoes, it was basically unobjectionable.

He had noted the license number of the car he had stopped as well as the time and place. He had looked up the car himself in the vehicle registry. A large 1973 Mercedes that was registered to a pediatrician in private practice by the name of Rolf Stein whose address at that time was on Riddargatan in the Östermalm neighborhood.

The driver’s name he had evidently committed to memory well enough that the following day he managed to find him in the driver’s license registry. His name was Sten Welander, and he was born in 1947 and got his driver’s license in 1965.

All this was good enough, but Stridh had done more than that; he had made a serious attempt to identify the younger female passenger Welander had with him. According to Stridh “the young woman in question was probably one Helena Lovisa Stein, known as Helena, whose registered address was the same as the above-named Stein, Rolf. Helena Stein, born on September 10, 1958, was the daughter of the above-mentioned Stein, Rolf.”

“Perhaps you’re wondering why I think that?” Stridh asked.

“Wonder what?” said Wiklander, who was starting to experience a certain lack of concentration.

“That the girl in the car was the same as a certain Helena Stein,” Stridh clarified. “Perhaps you’re wondering why I think that?”

“Yes,” said Wiklander, nodding energetically. “How did you come to that conclusion?” I’ve got to pull myself together, he thought. I’m the one who’s doing the questioning.

“Well,” said Stridh, clearing his throat, “as I told you, she mentioned something-when I stopped their car-about it being her parents’ car, or else she said that it was her father’s car-but it was one of the two-so that was my starting point, and then-”

“So you looked her up in the census,” Wiklander quickly interrupted.

“Exactly,” said Stridh, actually looking a bit disappointed.

“But that’s just great,” Wiklander said sincerely. “I’m very grateful for your assistance.”

“As you see in my memo I tried to make a description of her features,” Stridh added, “so my suggestion is that you try to retrieve a school photo or something of her from that time and compare it. But I’m actually rather sure-Stein had only one daughter and it was Helena. Extremely cute girl actually. I have a very good memory for faces, so if you produce a photo of her you’re welcome to come back.”

“I thank you for that offer,” said Wiklander evasively, and he had already stood up. Come back here? God help me, he thought.

When Wiklander finally returned to the relative safety and peace of his desk he pondered the conceivable “fourth man.” Wiklander had no great problem with the fact that “he” would probably prove to be a young woman. Many of the most active members of the European terrorist movements at that time had been women.

On the other hand she was far too young even for that, Wiklander thought. Sixteen years old when the embassy drama took place, or sixteen and a half if you were to be exact the way little children always were when stating their age. Regardless of which, she was too young in a strictly criminological sense, and the only reasonable explanation must be that she had been dragged into something she didn’t completely understand, for in that case it was more of an advantage the younger you were, he thought. A radical, politically involved sixteen-year-old? Sounded both probable and correct. A sixteen-year-old who could have taken an active part in the most spectacular political attack in Swedish postwar history and the cold-blooded murder of two people? Forget it, thought Wiklander, who had a daughter the same age himself. She must have been taken in.

In the simplest version of events, she was involved with and had been exploited by a boyfriend almost twice her age. A twenty-eight-year-old academic and TV reporter who was involved with a sixteen-year-old doctor’s daughter from a good family during the liberated seventies? It could happen-but there were still limits, Wiklander thought as he filled in his list of questions for internal surveillance. It’ll work out, thought Wiklander, who felt secure in his conviction that regardless of what the explanation was, his coworkers would dig it out for him.

Wiklander devoted the rest of the afternoon to routine tasks mostly related to things other than the West German embassy. After an hour his assistant head detective called on the phone to report that she and her colleague had just retrieved a photo of Helena Stein from the photo studio that in the seventies had taken pictures for the French School on Döbelnsgatan in central Stockholm.

“Excellent,” Wiklander grunted, returning to his quickly receding pile of papers. This is going like a dance, he thought.

After another half hour the same detective phoned and reported that Helena Stein was now identified as the “fourth man.” A photo identification had been conducted at Stridh’s kitchen table at home, and he had immediately and without hesitation pointed her out from among a dozen different photos depicting her classmates, which had been obtained from the same photographer.

“Brilliant,” said Wiklander. We’re going like gangbusters now, he thought.

Only fifteen minutes later there was a knock on his door, despite the fact that the red light was on.

“Come in,” Wiklander called.

In the door stood yet another of his many female coworkers, this one from their own group for internal surveillance. Despite the fact that she looked like a little girl in an old Swedish folk ballad, she was a detective inspector whose name was Lisa Mattei. Her mother was a detective chief inspector with the personal protection squad of the secret police, thirty years older and far from the female ideal of the folk ballad.

“This is about this Stein,” said Mattei.

“Yes,” said Wiklander energetically. “Are you through with her?”

“Depends on what you mean by through,” said Mattei, raising her slender shoulders in a gesture of indifference. “In any event, she seems interesting enough,” she said, handing a computer printout to Wiklander. “Read the top lines and you’ll see what I mean.”

This can’t be true, Wiklander thought as he read. Then he set the paper down on his desk and looked at his coworker.

“Do you know whether the boss is here?” he asked.

“Which one do you mean?” Mattei said, looking rather impertinent.

“Johansson,” said Wiklander. No messing around now, he thought.

“He just came in,” said Mattei. “I’m guessing he’s sitting in his office having Danish pastries. On several previous occasions I’ve noted remnants on the lapel of his jacket that indicate such activities.”

It’s always something, Wiklander thought, but naturally he didn’t say that.

“Not a word,” he said. “Not a word to anyone.”

It was true that Johansson also had a red lamp beside the door to his office, but it was almost never lit. This was because if you wanted to go into his office, you first had to pass the office where his secretary sat, and there was no red lamp in the world that could compare with her.

“Is the boss in?” said Wiklander to Johansson’s secretary, nodding to be on the safe side at the closed door behind her back.

“Yes,” the secretary said coolly. “But he’s occupied and doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

“It’s like this, you see,” said Wiklander, looking as if he meant it besides, “I have to see him immediately.”

“Has the enemy landed on our coasts?” the secretary asked, giving Wiklander a very cool glance as she tapped on the keyboard in front of her.

“Something along those lines,” said Wiklander, nodding.

“Then it’s okay to go in,” the secretary said, gesturing toward the closed door behind her back at the same time as a discreet click of the lock could be heard.

Johansson was sitting in the chair behind his large desk, drinking coffee and munching on a sizeable Danish pastry.

“Sit yourself down,” said Johansson jovially, pointing toward one of his three visitors chairs. “What can I help you with? Unfortunately you can’t have any Danish because I just took the last one, but I’m sure I can arrange coffee.”

“It’s fine,” said Wiklander, hoping he didn’t sound the way he felt.

“You seem harried,” Johansson asserted. “Do we have a problem?”

“Depends on what you mean by problem,” said Wiklander, sounding rather evasive. Is it a problem if all hell’s broken loose? he thought.

“We’ve identified the fourth man,” said Wiklander. Best to take this in an orderly sequence, he thought.

“But that’s just great,” said Johansson. What’s the problem? he wondered.

“The fourth man is a woman born in 1958,” Wiklander continued. “And we’re quite sure about that,” said Johansson. Forty-two years old, an excellent age for a woman, he thought; he himself had a wife who was only a few years older.

“As certain as we can be,” said Wiklander.

“What’s the problem then?” asked Johansson. Sixteen, seventeen years old at the time of the West German embassy, a bit on the young side, thought Johansson.

“This,” said Wiklander, handing over the same computer printout he had received five minutes earlier.

“So what’s this?” said Johansson, not making the slightest motion to reach out for the paper.

“I asked one of the gals in our internal surveillance squad to do a complete search on her, but when she started on it our internal warning system came on, because the colleagues who do background checks are already in the middle of a complete workup on her.”

“So why are they doing that?” Johansson asked.

“The woman in question is named Helena Stein and she’s an undersecretary in the defense department,” said Wiklander. “She’s an attorney, and before she became an undersecretary in the defense department she worked for a number of years in the prime minister’s office and at the ministry of foreign trade on issues dealing with our manufacture and export of war matériel. She took her current job in the defense department two years ago. A background check was made on her then as well, and she seems to have passed without any problems. All undersecretaries have a high security clearance as you no doubt know, Boss-and in her particular case it’s even higher than the majority of other undersecretaries. Maybe that isn’t so strange considering her job,” Wiklander concluded.

“I should damn well think I know who Stein is,” said Johansson, looking almost amused. In his case it would have been dereliction of duty not to know the name of the undersecretary in the defense department, and that she had apparently disappeared from their files at roughly the same time she was appointed undersecretary did not of course make the matter any less interesting, he thought.

“But that’s not the problem,” said Wiklander.

“So what is it?” asked Johansson. This is getting better and better, he thought.

“The reason they’re doing a new background check on her now is that the prime minister’s office requested one yesterday. This concerns the absolute highest existing level of secrecy, and they want it to be done with the greatest possible speed and well in advance of the government meeting in fourteen days.”

“So why do they want one?” asked Johansson, despite the fact that he already sensed the answer. There aren’t that many jobs to choose from, he thought, and his own was already taken.

“Because the prime minister apparently intends to appoint her as a member of the government,” said Wiklander, “and considering her new security level she wouldn’t be handling consumer issues or social insurance,” Wiklander added. What in the name of God should I do? he thought.

Christ, thought Johansson. It was already pretty late anyway, he thought, but naturally he didn’t say that. Acting prime minister… coordination minister… or perhaps even foreign minister or defense minister? And it didn’t matter which, considering the problem that had just surfaced.

“Not a word to anyone, Wiklander,” said Johansson, pointing at his coworker with his whole hand. “Not a word to anyone. Is that understood?”

Now it was a matter of thinking, and thinking sharp, thought Johansson.

27 March 2000

Seems like old shit has landed in a new fan, thought Johansson half an hour later when he was through thinking. Then he quickly made three decisions, which he made sure to carry out immediately.

First he informed his boss, the general director, of the unfortunate coincidence between his and Wiklander’s investigation and the prime minister’s impending appointment. Johansson was not stupid, and because he intended to go further, he wanted to make sure he had all the clearance he could need.

The GD might not have been as cunning as Johansson, for he had seemed almost energized by the news, and when he stated his one, concrete wish, which was to be informed of developments as the case proceeded, it was with curiosity shining from his eyes.

“Of course, Boss,” said Johansson, who could not have asked for more.

Next Johansson had a directive issued to his coworkers who were conducting the background checks on Stein. Not a comma-regardless of content or intent-that concerned Helena Lovisa Stein could now leave the building without his approval. And if anyone in Rosenbad was wondering about anything-even if they just wanted to know what time it was-they should be referred to Johansson.

I need people too, thought Johansson. Not that many, but enough, and only the best. People who can work uninterruptedly until this is cleared up and who can fulfill their assignments despite the fact that the person who leads the assignment may be compelled to withhold information that the team members, for various reasons, may not or should not know about.

“Do you think you can arrange it?” said Johansson, nodding at Wiklander.

“Yes,” said Wiklander. “It’s already done. I’ve already assigned everyone we need.”

The third decision was the most difficult, and so it had to wait until last. Johansson steeled himself and called Berg at home, and surprisingly enough Berg himself answered.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” said Johansson, “but I need to see you immediately.”

“Then I suggest you come over to my place,” said Berg. His voice sounded tired and muted, but he did not seem particularly surprised.

“Sit down,” said Berg half an hour later, pointing toward the empty armchair in his office. “Would you like coffee?”

“Not unless you’re having some,” said Johansson. You’re dying, he thought, and it was more a statement than an expression of sorrow or even emotion. Pull yourself together, Johansson thought, and it was himself and not Berg he was thinking about.

“Then we won’t have coffee,” said Berg, smiling wanly as he carefully sat down in a straight-backed chair across from the armchair he had shown his guest.

“What can I help you with?” Berg asked.

“Putting some order into old recollections from another time,” said Johansson.

“It’s about the West German embassy, isn’t it,” said Berg, and this was more a statement than a question.

“Yes,” said Johansson.

“Then I’ll tell you the whole story,” said Berg.