Between Summer's Longing and Winter's End

CHAPTER X

Free falling, as in a dream

Stockholm in November

In spite of everything Berg felt a certain confidence, even a certain increased confidence. True, this Krassner affair was not good, but up till now nothing had come out that was directly alarming. The signals he got from Waltin seemed to indicate the opposite. The fellow clearly abused narcotics, and considering the quantity he’d purchased it appeared not entirely impossible-if required, if it appeared that he was sitting on some essential secrets and the matter was going to become public anyway-that the police and the prosecutor would be able to sell him to the media as a cynical narcotics dealer and not just some ordinary drug-abusing academic. In such contexts it wasn’t really a matter of whether what was said was true or false but rather of who was saying it.

According to Waltin and his officers there were also many other things indicating that Krassner was not in his right mind. High-strung, suspicious, almost paranoid: These were hardly qualities that furthered his objectivity and clarity, if things were so bad that his uncle had let the cat out of the bag about something that might have consequences for Berg and the interests he was employed to protect. Whatever that might be, thought Berg. With all due respect to Swedish security policy, regardless of whether you were talking about the official or the factual accounts, Krassner’s uncle had ended his active service almost thirty years ago. He was dead, besides, so in that respect Krassner couldn’t count on any active support from that quarter. You should take care not to see ghosts in the daytime, Berg decided, and at that point he had also started to view the situation more positively.

In the best case, perhaps this story could be turned to the advantage of Berg and the operation. It had already contributed to normalizing his relations with the prime minister’s special adviser, and that was good enough. That this depended on the fact that, at least for the time being, he needed Berg more than Berg needed him was nothing to sulk about. Instead it gave him an opportunity to take the initiative, go on the offensive, and, he hoped, be able to win back some lost territory. At the first weekly meeting with his superiors in November, therefore, Berg had decided that he would only bring up two matters, and both were chosen with care. By himself of course.

However, he had not been able to avoid the brief introductory description of the situation. First he mentioned the ongoing survey of antidemocratic elements within the police and the military. “It’s not going quickly, I’ll be the first to admit that, but it’s moving forward,” said Berg, nodding confidently. None of his superiors had any questions or raised any objections.

After that something about the Yugoslavs-“it appears the situation is calm just now”-and finally the usual mantra about the Kurds, and it was then that the minister had come to life and everything started to go completely wrong, despite all of Berg’s exertions.

“This Kudo,” said the minister. “How’s it going for him? It’s been a while since we heard anything from that front.”

Thank the good Lord for that, thought Berg without changing his expression.

“It’s rolling along according to plan,” said Berg. “I’ve told them to try to penetrate a little deeper into the special ethnic aspects of… yes, their communication, if I may say so. How they exchange secret messages and those kinds of things. We’re often up against difficult questions of interpretation.”

“Yes, it would be interesting to get to meet them some time,” said the minister. “Yes, this Kudo here and his closest associate… what was it he…”

“Bülling,” Berg interjected quickly, because he wanted to put an end to the misery.

“Exactly,” said the minister and brightened noticeably. “Bülling, that sounds almost German.”

“Or assumed,” declared the special adviser with a light sigh.

“You mean as in byling, slang for ‘cop,’ ” said the minister delightedly, for he was not stupid in that respect. “Rather inventive, it might even be said, almost a little bold.”

“Bülling is actually a very bold person,” said the special adviser, looking at the minister with almost closed eyes and a heavily corroborative nod. “Without exaggeration I would maintain that Bülling is probably the absolute boldest and bravest police officer in the corps.”

“You don’t say,” said the minister, leaning forward in order to hear better. “Is there anything you can tell us about this?”

“It will have to stay in this room, then,” said the special adviser, with a certain apparent hesitation. “Yes, he was the one who saved all those kids from that burning day-care center out in Solna a few years ago.”

“Now that you mention it,” said the minister with his forehead deeply creased. “I have some vague recollection.”

“The whole day-care center was burning like a beacon, but Bülling rushed straight into the sea of fire and carried out every single kid. Fourteen times, a kid under each arm, in total about thirty kids if I’ve calculated correctly, but if he hadn’t been able to borrow the Phantom’s fireproof undies probably not even Bülling would have managed it.”

“You’re pulling my leg,” said the offended minister.

“Why would you think that?” said the special adviser, looking at the minister as though he were an interesting object and not a person of flesh and blood. And at last Berg had been able to get to the point.

Berg had prepared himself carefully. First he had an up-to-date list made of persons who in various ways might be thought to constitute a threat against the prime minister and those closest to him. He had also been very selective in his choice and only included those who, according to his coworkers, “deserved to be taken seriously.” All those who’d only been drinking at their neighbor’s and seen the prime minister on TV and sworn that “I’m going to personally shoot that bastard’s head off” had thus not been taken seriously. Not even if they were in the national guard and had an AK-4 in the closet, or devoted their time to hunting or competitive shooting, which by the way evidently many of them seemed to do. So many that there were even grounds for suspicion that such activities formed an essential part of their personal profiles.

Their neighbors and other close associates also appeared to form an interesting group, because daily more or less anonymous tips came in to the police authorities, and even directly to the secret police, about normal, honorable Swedish citizens who “in an informal social context promised to take the life of the prime minister.” But “all of these drunkards, nut jobs, and big talkers”-at any given point in time there were hundreds of such pending cases piled one on top of another in Berg’s surveillance register-Berg had chosen to leave out. Remaining were twenty-two persons who at the moment could be imagined going from words to action, and those whom Berg himself looked at most seriously were of course those who hadn’t talked very much about their wishes or intentions.

Viewed as sociological material they formed an interesting group; among other things, they were distributed across the entire social spectrum. There was a count with his own castle, large forests, and landholdings who, it was true, said little for the most part but who at the same time possessed considerable personal and material resources. In addition he had an ominous history. He was demonstrably prone to violence and risk-taking, and capable in practical matters. In the B-annex on Polhemsgatan where Berg spent most of his time he was long referred to as “Anckarström”-the notorious assassin of King Gustav III in 1792-and on one occasion Berg had personally intervened in a rather delicate matter. When he’d found out that the prime minister had accepted an invitation to an exclusive dinner to which “Anckarström” had also been invited, he had contacted the government office building. At the last moment the prime minister had had a conflict and Berg had avoided both a personal headache and an unnecessary assignment for the bodyguard unit of the secret police.

In this material there was also a Swedish billionaire who resided in London. He had left a tax suit behind at home in Sweden in which the government was demanding several hundred million dollars from him, and with London as a base he had spent large sums over the past several years to support various campaigns directed against the Social Democratic Party, the government, and not least the prime minister personally. At a private dinner at the West India Club in London he had also expressed more far-reaching ambitions than that and promised ten million to the person, or persons, “who can see to it that the Gustav III of our time meets a logical end.” According to Berg’s informant, who had been a guest at the same dinner and had a long history within the industry’s own security organization, the presumptive ringleader had been stone sober, serious, and low-voiced when he laid out his offer. “He seemed almost slightly amused as he said it,” the informant summarized.

In Berg’s organization the billionaire had been given the cover name Pechlin, after one of the conspirators against Gustav III; it was Berg himself who’d chosen it for him. Berg was interested in history, and most of what he read outside his work were books dealing with Swedish history. There was something soothing about the subject, thought Berg. Regardless of how depressing it had been and how badly things may have gone, it was already history and nothing that he could be expected to do anything about. However, these two, and a few others besides, were still exceptions, and the center of gravity was of course where it always was in such matters. Exactly half of the twenty-two were dangerous criminals, and two of them were serving life sentences for murder.

One of the two was a Yugoslav terrorist, and because he was where he was, it was not he but rather his associates who constituted the practical concern. He had ongoing contacts with at least three of his countrymen, all of them known criminals who seemed to have a lot of hair on their chests and had complete freedom of movement. They were also difficult to keep an eye on, extremely taciturn in a hard-to-understand language, almost Mafia-like in their behavior and choice of associates.

The other murderer was a dogmatic Swede who harbored a deep, implacable hatred for the Swedish authorities in general and the judicial authorities in particular. He was no ordinary dogmatist, either. Among other things he was technically knowledgeable and had during his active period pieced together a number of bombs that functioned well enough to earn him his life sentences. Among those who were like-minded he was a model and a leadership figure, and because almost all of his supporters were still running loose he ached like a thorn in Berg’s awareness. Most recently he had also shown an ominous interest in the prime minister and at least two of his governing colleagues.

What the remainder had in common was that they were all men without a previous criminal record, but who otherwise constituted a delightful mixture. Two of them were, in context, more interesting than the others. Pure nightmares from a secret police perspective, Berg used to think in gloomy moments. One was a former paratrooper and junior officer at the paratrooper school in Karlsborg. Ten years earlier he had been discharged from the military and simply disappeared, it was unclear to where. A girlfriend of his had reported the disappearance to the police, but the investigation had been discontinued when she received a postcard from Turkey on which he briefly reported that he didn’t intend to see her again, thanked her for “at least one memorable lay,” and asked her not to bother the police on his behalf as he was “doing great” and didn’t intend to “return home any time soon.” The girlfriend had shown the postcard to the police, who had asked the usual questions, compared the handwriting on the postcard with previous messages, and closed the case. Of what the “memorable lay” consisted had never been discovered, but according to local gossip the ex-girlfriend was said to have parachuted on at least one occasion in her life.

A little more than a year later he had shown up in Sweden again and been observed, purely physically, in connection with a large-scale surveillance effort against a Swedish political organization on the extreme left wing. It was also by pure chance that he had been noticed-the SePo spy who did so had had him as a commander when he did his military service as a paratrooper, and the spy described him as the person who would end up lowest on his list if he had to choose an enemy. The object’s background, the context in which he was observed, and the opinion of the person who had done so had quickly increased interest in his person at the secret police’s surveillance squad.

“For Christ’s sake, we’re talking about a guy who can kill half this squad with his bare hands,” the somewhat bad-tempered chief inspector summarized the surveillance matter that had landed on his desk.

Because neither he nor his colleagues in the military intelligence service had sent him there as an infiltrator-the very thought had been absurd-it was definitely the right man in the completely wrong place. Left-wing activists should have eyeglasses with lenses thick as bottle bottoms. They could happily go around in workman’s shirts and carpenter’s pants, for that made both surveillance and identification easier, and as long as they had office-workers’ hands with arms that weren’t any thicker than those of the squad’s female office assistants, they could squawk as much as they wanted that the working class that they nowadays represented would violently overthrow society.

As long as they couldn’t jump-start a car, much less screw together a functioning bomb, or even bloody one of his colleagues’ noses. To that extent they left him cold. The ex-paratrooper did not.

Regardless of this they’d drawn a blank. The ex-paratrooper had disappeared without a trace, and because he could also shoot a hole in a five-crown piece at a distance of five hundred yards, the bad-tempered chief inspector decided that it was high time to go outside the building.

“This is truly not a person you invite home for a cup of tea, so I believe it’s best that we talk with the Germans,” decided the boss, who was both an educated man and mild-mannered, despite the fact that he was a police superintendent.

The Germans had made contact six months later when they sent a surveillance picture that, according to their own image analyst “with a certainty bordering on likelihood,” depicted the former paratrooper. The picture had been taken by a rather craftily placed surveillance camera that covered the parking lot outside the agricultural bank in a small town by the name of Bad Segeberg thirty-five miles outside Hamburg. Just that day an amount corresponding to a little more than a million U.S. dollars had been in the till, and right before closing time three masked men had come in and taken it all with the help of their automatic pistol, probably of the Uzi brand and of Israeli manufacture. A robbery “with clear terrorist connections,” declared the head of Constitutional Protection’s division in Schleswig-Holstein. The three robbers were obviously putz weg, and it would be highly desirable if the Swedes could help out with their own countryman.

The following day the former paratrooper had been the object of an operational effort by the Swedish secret police: Operation Olga. The reason this name had been chosen was not that they wanted to mislead the enemy, which they would gladly do, but rather that the object of surveillance had gone by the nickname Olga during his time as a paratrooper.

True, it wasn’t something you called him when he was listening, for then you were dead, but the reason he’d acquired this particular nickname was flattering enough, for there was only one person in the entire paratrooper school in Karlsborg who was even tougher than the object in question-namely Olga, who was the manager of the paratroopers’ cafeteria.

Six months later Operation Olga had been concluded, and at that point for the most part everything about the person who was being investigated was known, up to when he’d finished military service. After that almost nothing was known other than that “with a certainty bordering on likelihood” he had robbed a bank in northern Germany six months earlier and clearly had a fairly close connection to a Swedish group on the extreme left wing with the Palestinian question topmost on its order of business. But it was as if he himself had been swallowed up off the face of the earth. Until two months ago, when he, with the same appearance despite all the years that had passed, tanned and in seemingly perfect physical condition, had shown up in a picture taken by a rather craftily placed surveillance camera at the little park outside the government building, Rosenbad.

Operation Olga had immediately been brought up from the archives, assigned a new project number and a new budget. Berg had elevated the guard level for Rosenbad and the key persons who worked there and had informed the person responsible for security at the government office. He had also had a conversation with the prime minister’s special adviser, who had been markedly uninterested in the matter itself but as usual generous with both sarcastic remarks and expressions of doubt.

“I don’t believe in such characters,” he stated behind his heavy, lowered eyelids. “As soon as they’ve acquired a face they’re almost always uninteresting. I don’t believe in your connection either,” he continued. “It’s probably as simple as the fact that you’ve confused him with another or several others, and it wouldn’t be the first time in that case, would it? And if you haven’t done so, we can be thankful for the fact that he went to the right meeting.”

“Right meeting?” said Berg. “I don’t really understand what you mean.”

“Don’t worry,” said the special adviser with his usual wry half-sneer, for this was before Krassner had come into the picture and forced them to approach one another. “It’s not that I’m trying to convert you to the Palestinian cause. What I mean is only that if he’d gone to a political meeting of the sort to which his type is expected to go, there would scarcely have been people from your group who could’ve caught sight of him.”

So that’s what you say, thought Berg sourly, but because this was before Krassner had brought them closer to each other he had kept his thoughts to himself.

A former paratrooper who had been observed on three brief occasions over a period of ten years and had otherwise disappeared without a trace. The other person who was of particular concern to Berg was the owner of a nursery outside Finspång in the province of Östergötland. It was the government office’s own security department that had reported him to Berg, and normally he would only have become one more case in the large pile of such cases that they were content to simply register.

A little more than a year earlier the man had written to the prime minister personally and asked for his help. After a divorce his ex-wife had gotten full custody of the couple’s then six-year-old son. In spite of the fact that she was a whore, in spite of the fact that her new husband was both an alcoholic and a criminal, and in spite of the fact that he loved his son more than anything else in the world. Could the prime minister intervene and put things right? Obviously he could not. The nursery owner had received the usual friendly letter of refusal from the female adviser in the prime minister’s office who took care of such matters and could rattle off the legal arguments in her sleep. Then he’d written again and received the same reply as the previous time. In his third letter he had sharpened his tone, become personal, unpleasant, even threatening. Then he’d started phoning, and about the same time as he landed on Berg’s desk he’d ceased making contact. From sheer momentum, however, the matter had gone on to the secret police’s office in Norrköping, where they either had little to do or money left in their account. The gardener was both a marksman and a hunter and had a license for eight weapons in total: a revolver, two pistols, three rifles, and two shotguns. Fourteen days after a surveillance file had been set up on him with the secret police in Norrköping he had shown up at a political meeting in Åtvidaberg where the prime minister was the main speaker.

When the meeting was over he had sneaked around in the parking lot outside, and when the prime minister and his guards drove away to have dinner at the Freemasons Hotel in Linköping he’d followed them in his car. He had parked a distance away from the hotel, walked back and forth on the street outside, and after awhile went into the hotel lobby. At that point he was already surrounded by a hastily doubled surveillance group of, in total, four plainclothes detectives from the secret police in Norrköping.

“Do we know if he’s armed?” asked the group leader on the radio.

“Answer don’t know,” said one of the detectives who was best situated to see the object at the same time as he himself moved his service weapon from its shoulder holster to his right coat pocket.

“Okay,” said the group leader. “If he moves even one yard in the direction of the banquet room we’ll go in and take him.”

But he hadn’t. Instead he had quickly gone out onto the street again, gotten into his car and driven back to the house where he lived. The following day, after the leadership team meeting, he’d received the code name Immortelle.

As a surveillance matter, Immortelle had developed in a promising manner, but as a human being he appeared to be steadily feeling worse. It seemed as if he’d suddenly given up hope of getting his son back. He hadn’t even tried to contact him. He’d let go the employees he’d had previously, and the business he was running had been put on the back burner. His contacts with the outside world, by telephone and other means, had been drastically reduced. He isolated himself from other people. Instead he started cultivating certain of his earlier interests and acquired at least one that was completely new and at odds with his history. He could spend hours at the shooting range, where he put shot after shot into a torso target at a distance of three hundred yards with the aid of his hunting rifle and a newly purchased high-powered telescopic sight. When he’d started he was a good shot. Now he was at the same level as the police department’s own sharpshooters.

Early in the morning he disappeared out into the terrain dressed in running shoes and jogging clothes. A few months earlier he had needed more than a quarter of an hour to make his way around the cross-country track where he worked out. Nowadays he ran his two miles in less than nine minutes. In the evenings he lifted weights. He had taken a weightlifting bench, barbells, and weights to one of his greenhouses and his nightly training sessions usually lasted for two hours most days of the week. He was strong, he was fast, he could shoot, and taken all together this was not good at all.

On top of all that he had joined the Social Democratic Party. Scarcely from conviction, for there was nothing in his background that pointed in that direction. From the careful markings that he made with a pencil in the party newspaper, the local chapter’s member newsletter, and various mailings that had been rescued from his garbage can, he seemed most interested in where the prime minister was to be found, in a purely physical sense, in the immediate future. He had a motive, and he was also in possession of the means. Now he was just searching for a suitable occasion, and there was touching agreement about all this not only among the secret police in Norrköping but also among their superiors up in Stockholm.

Berg’s account had made an impression on his listeners. The minister of justice had been almost shocked. “Yes, I’m a little shocked when I hear this sort of thing,” he concluded. “You’d rather not think about the fact that such people exist.”

After that he got caught up in an extensive exposition of how things had been during the old king’s time. Back when he was only a young boy who went with his father to Palmgren’s Leather behind the Royal Theater to fetch Papa’s new riding boots, when the king suddenly came in, nodding amiably at everyone in the store.

“He walked around all alone, yes, not counting his aide-de-camp, but that was mostly so he could avoid paying himself, I guess. He walked around all alone in the middle of Stockholm and no one would have dreamed of even saying something rude to him.” The minister shook his head mournfully.

Even the chief legal officer had spoken up. When Berg-without naming names-had given a short description of the provincial count, the chief legal officer had suddenly opened his mouth for the first time outside his judicial preserve. He himself was an aristocrat on both his father’s and mother’s side of the family.

“He is regrettably a relative of mine,” the chief legal officer stated dryly. “By marriage, of course,” he added quickly when he saw the special adviser’s pleased smile.

The special adviser had said exactly what Berg had expected he would not say.

“How many people would you need to be able to carry out a complete surveillance of these characters?”

“Complete surveillance?” asked Berg in order to make clear to himself that the person who had posed the question also understood its import.

“Full surveillance. I’m talking about twenty-two surveillance teams.” The special adviser nodded.

“We can just forget that,” said Berg. “I don’t have that many people. Besides, they have a number of other things to do, as you gentlemen are certainly aware.” Why is he asking that? thought Berg. He surely must know to the penny how many resources we have, and he can count too.

The special adviser had been content to nod.

“One more thing,” he said. “How many others are there that you are aware of? Besides this especially qualified group that you’ve reported on?”

“Hundreds,” said Berg. “Certainly hundreds.” He’s not asking on his own account, thought Berg. He wants me to say it to the others. Why does he want that? he thought.

Then he recounted the information that the head of his bodyguard unit had compiled and he took the field with flying colors and fluttering banners.

“I’ve had a compilation done,” said Berg. “Of the guarding of the prime minister during the last thirty days before this meeting.”

…

The prime minister had been traveling inside and outside the country during seventeen of those thirty days, and if the decision had been up to Berg, he could just as well have been gone the entire time, for then he was always guarded by his own regular group of bodyguards, often augmented by reinforcements from the operations bureau as well as substantial resources from the local police. Best of all was when he was abroad, for there they had completely different experiences and the security forces were as a rule enormous compared to what Berg had to work with. It was worst when he was at home, at work, or in his own residence.

“During eleven of these thirteen days he hasn’t had any physical protection during the night, other than the guard from the security company that we’ve placed outside his entryway. On every one of these days he has on one or several occasions been alone outside Rosenbad or his residence. Altogether this amounts to more than twenty occasions, as it appears, everything from a quarter of an hour to several hours. He has walked away from and back to his residence; he has been out having dinner or in town shopping. That’s the situation,” said Berg, nodding with all the seriousness that the situation demanded.

“Naughty, naughty, Berg,” said the special adviser, chuckling with delight.

“I have not, repeat not, had him followed,” said Berg. “This is information that I have put together in other ways, and there is only one reason that I have done so. The prime minister is an object of protection for which I and my people are responsible and, moreover, one of our six highest priority objects. You are aware of the background that I have reported on and the rest you can certainly figure out for yourselves.”

“I’ll talk with him,” said the special adviser, and he sounded neither ironic, uninterested, nor even weary. “But you should probably not expect too much. He is who he is-and then, he is my chief,” he added by way of explanation.

“I’ll talk with him too,” said the minister of justice. “I really will.”

“You can of course explain to him that it’s not like it was in the old king’s time,” said the special adviser behind his lowered eyelids, and when he said that he sounded exactly as usual again.

…

For the past fourteen days Waltin had been planning a break-in. The first time he’d done a break-in he was only fifteen years old and still in junior high school. And he hadn’t intended to steal anything that time either. He just wanted to look around a little. He’d made his way into the apartment of a schoolmate who’d gone away with his family during midwinter break. It hadn’t been especially difficult. He’d gotten hold of keys long before and he’d visited his schoolmate at home on several occasions so that he was well oriented in the family residence. Actually it was his mother that Waltin was interested in. A small, slender, beautiful woman with a lot of class and not the least like her piggish son.

It had been a marvelous experience. He’d walked around for hours in the large, silent, dark apartment. He’d had surgical gloves on, a little practical pen-like flashlight that he’d bought at the hobby store, and he’d had a hard-on almost the entire time. He had proceeded systematically without leaving any traces. In a photo album in the parents’ bedroom he’d finally found what he’d been searching for. It was a photo of his friend’s mother. Without a stitch on her body she stood, smiling in the most shameless way toward the photographer, and judging by the background this was out at their summer place in the archipelago, for he’d been there too. At the same time it had been a great disappointment. She was holding his classmate, who already looked like a little pig ten years ago, by the hand, and besides she had much larger breasts than he’d thought. At least at that time.

At first he had nonetheless considered taking the photo with him, trying to cut away the little pig and making a copy of the remainder which he could send to her anonymously with a few well-formulated lines hinting that there was more, and worse, and that perhaps they ought to meet… but those breasts were much too repugnant in their fat, white tangibility, so her photo had remained in the album and while he masturbated he tried to cover the little pig and the breasts with the fingers of his left hand. It had gone rather well, even if it had taken a while, and when he was done he had vigorously rubbed sperm over both pig and breasts.

When he left he had taken along a few pieces of gold jewelry and a few bottles of very good French wine. He had pawned the gold jewelry bit by bit and been paid handsomely. He had enjoyed the wine alone in the seclusion of his room while dear Mama, as usual, lay dying in the next room. Everything also indicated that he had conducted himself creditably. It didn’t even seem as if they had discovered that they had had a secret visit. The pig had been exactly like he always was, equally sniveling and pushy, and if he’d had a break-in at home the whole school would surely have known about it before lunch break.

That was then. Nowadays he was only occupied with legal break-ins, and his professional capacity had never been questioned among the taciturn few who had the honor of helping him with the practical details. Although this time it didn’t feel right. For one thing he wasn’t especially motivated. What could someone like Krassner actually produce if scrutinized? If it had been a question of ordinary bet-making he wouldn’t have put a dime on the fool. It was not a simple task, either. Entry codes, alarms, detectors, and surveillance cameras were one thing-they could be as sophisticated as anything, for that just it made more fun-but seven watchful youths living squeezed together in a shoe box was something quite different and seven times worse.

A necessary condition was that he get them out so that the place was empty. Little Jeanette would take care of the South African, even if Waltin didn’t like the fact that he hadn’t come up with a better solution. It also appeared as if he would be rid of the five remaining students. Two would be going home to their parents and a third to his girlfriend. Two had intended to stay home and at least meditate a little before possibly going out, but because Jeanette had managed to arrange the pop-concert tickets, he would be rid of them too. Probably would be, and that just left his greatest concern, Krassner himself.

It was only right and appropriate that that old duffer Forselius get to help out with this matter. It was, after all, his fantasies that were the basis of the whole thing. But naturally he had dug in his heels like a restive mule when Waltin had called on him to talk about the matter.

“I hear what you’re saying,” he said sourly when Waltin explained what it involved. “I hear what you’re saying.”

“You’re the only one I can trust,” said Waltin. “True, he has contacts with some journalists, but I don’t want to take that risk. I’d rather let it be.”

“That’s nice to hear,” said Forselius, sounding a trifle more energetic. “That rabble should just be mowed down.”

Certainly, thought Waltin. Fine with me, but what do we do instead?

“Couldn’t you invite him here and relate a few war memories about you and his uncle?” Waltin suggested.

“To someone like that?” snorted the old man. “You don’t think it’s bad enough the way it is?”

What is it now? thought Waltin, who didn’t have any idea what this was actually about.

“Not real ones, of course,” said Waltin with well-acted terror. “God help me, no, I was thinking that since we were at it anyway we might cook up a good story. If you understand what I mean?” He had leaned forward in the well-worn leather armchair and nodded as ingratiatingly as his precarious position allowed.

“You’re thinking about the days when it was Professor Forselius who held up the mirrors,” grunted the old man while he reached for the carafe of cognac. “Those were different times.”

What mirrors? thought Waltin. What’s he raving about? Suddenly satisfied and contented?

“Certainly, certainly,” said Forselius. Downed a substantial gulp and wiped away the remaining drops with the back of his hand. “But how the hell do I get hold of that damn person, for I’m guessing he doesn’t have a telephone at that damn place he’s living in?”

“We’ll have to write a letter,” said Waltin.

So they had written a letter in which Forselius invited Krassner to his apartment, at nineteen hundred hours on Friday the twenty-second of November. Forselius had gone through old files since meeting Krassner the last time and he had found some that might possibly be of value to his work and that he actually thought his uncle should have received if he’d still been alive, but if Krassner himself was interested, then…

“Then we just have to hope that piece of shit replies,” said Forselius.

“I’m sure he will,” said Waltin warmly.

“And if he doesn’t, then you’ll have to think of something else instead,” said Forselius slyly.

“I’m sure it will work out,” said Waltin, getting up.

“I remember there was a Pole. It was right after the war. We were short on time then too. And it was important as hell.”

“Yes,” said Waltin amiably. “I’m listening.”

“It’s not important,” said Forselius, shaking his head. “It was right after the war and we were playing by different rules at that time, but we sure did get him out of the way. That we did.” Forselius sighed heavily.

Wonder if they killed that Pole the old geezer was mumbling about? thought Waltin when he’d come down onto the street. In that case it had probably been quite practical, but because times were different nowadays he’d decided on a different alternative. To his surprise Berg had bought it as well. Even more surprising, he’d suddenly appeared to lose interest in the entire business.

“If there is no other solution,” said Berg, holding his palms out at an angle. “I’m assuming it’s one of our own that will take care of it.”

“Yes,” said Waltin. “I think we arrest him, and then the narcotics investigators can handle the rest without revealing the sender. I have an old contact I can discuss it with.”

Then he’d spoken with Göransson and Martinsson. No problems whatsoever, since they would only be doing what he told them. Post themselves outside the student dormitory, and if Krassner came out before nineteen hundred hours on Friday evening they were to follow him and see to it that he made his way to old man Forselius. Watch him while he was there and warn if anything went awry. And when everything was over and Krassner was on his way home, they could call it a day.

If he didn’t come out they were to go up and arrest him. Take him to the police station on Kungsholmen and put him in jail, suspected of narcotics offenses or, alternatively, aggravated narcotics offenses. As little paperwork as possible and a quick turnover to the guys on the narc squad, and they definitely didn’t need to think about a search of the premises, for others would take care of that.

“Are we clear with one another?” asked Waltin.

“Sure,” said Martinsson, surreptitiously flexing his biceps in the mirror behind Waltin’s back.

Göransson had been content to nod, but on the other hand he’d been around considerably longer than Martinsson.

Can’t forget to take care of Forselius’s letter, thought Waltin.

…

True, Waltin hadn’t said very much to Assistant Detective Jeanette Eriksson, but because she was twenty-seven years old and far from being a numbskull she could figure out the rest herself.

Clearly there’s going to be a search of the premises, she thought. The kind that doesn’t usually get talked about. But then she hadn’t thought about it any further, for she had other things to think about that she felt were more urgent and more worrisome. The tickets that she’d arranged for the pop concert on Friday evening had been the least of her problems and easy enough to take care of. It was actually Waltin who’d arranged the tickets, but it was her idea.

She and Daniel had been sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee, when Tobbe and Patrik had come in to keep them company. They’d known each other since high school and played in the same band, which was several years before they’d managed to end up in the same student corridor. Now they were sour as vinegar, for despite the fact that they’d taken turns standing in line for hours, they hadn’t gotten hold of any tickets to the concert by their favorite band next Friday. She’d never heard of this band, but she grasped the opportunity in flight.

“I’m sure I can arrange that,” she said, nodding at them.

“Forget it,” said Tobbe, shaking his head and swilling a few generous gulps from the bottle of strong beer he had with him.

“For real?” asked Patrik doubtfully.

“I have an ex who works for a record company,” Jeanette lied. “He always used to be able to arrange tickets.”

Krassner himself was a considerably greater problem. One day when she was sitting in the common kitchen, reading, Krassner had suddenly come in and sat down right across from her. And despite the fact that he was smiling at her, she understood at once that it wasn’t going to be especially pleasant.

“What’s that you’re reading?” he said, grasping the cover of her book.

“It is a book about criminality,” Jeanette said in her best schoolbook English, at the same time trying to appear appropriately offended by his pushiness.

“Criminology is a required subject at the Swedish police academy,” said Krassner, and it was more of a statement than a question.

Watch out, you little shit, thought Assistant Detective Eriksson while trying to appear only seventeen years old.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t believe so, but they have it at the university in Stockholm. I’m in my second year.”

Krassner sneered like someone who knew better than to let himself be fooled by someone like her.

“You mostly sit out here in the kitchen,” he said.

“It’s so Daniel and I will be able to study better,” Jeanette said innocently. “I hope it doesn’t disturb you?”

Krassner shook his head, got up, stood in the doorway, and looked at her with his unpleasantly insinuating smile.

“Take care, officer,” he said. Turned around and disappeared into his room.

Jeanette had not replied. Only looked at him surprised, like someone who didn’t understand. What was he driving at? she wondered. Does he know something? Scarcely possible-in fact, highly improbable. Does he suspect something? Surely, for he’s that type. What does he want? He wants to test me, she thought.

“He seems completely screwy. I promise you, the man’s not healthy, you can see it in his eyes,” Eriksson summarized when she met Waltin that same evening.

“He can’t know anything,” said Waltin.

“No,” said Jeanette, “but I think that’s completely uninteresting to him.”

“You don’t look like a typical police officer, exactly,” said Waltin, smiling paternally. “He’s trying to test you.”

“Sure. He’s trying to test me, despite the fact that I look like I do. That says a great deal about him, doesn’t it?”

“You have to sit in the kitchen? There’s no other option?”

“No.” Jeanette shook her head. “Not if I’m going to be able to pass his door and try to hear what he’s up to.”

“It’ll be over soon,” said Waltin and smiled consolingly with all his white teeth. “And there isn’t anyone else who could manage it better than you.”

Then there’s one more reason to sit in the kitchen, thought Assistant Detective Eriksson, but you certainly don’t want to hear about that, and because it will soon be over I guess I’ll have to live with it.

The essential reason that she always sat in the kitchen was Daniel, or M’Boye, as she called him when she was talking with Waltin and her colleagues. Regardless of the fact that it would soon be over, she and Daniel were in their sixth week now, and he was a completely normal young man to whom she at most had given a light kiss and an occasional hug, in spite of the fact that they had gotten together more than twenty times and spent numerous hours in his room, where they had been occupied with everything between heaven and earth except what they ought to have been devoting themselves to.

He must think I’m completely nutty, thought Eriksson. Good thing he’s the way he is.

Daniel was not only big, strong, handsome, and talented. He was also both kind and well brought up, and as soon as he understood that Jeanette was not the usual “Swedish girl” he had also mobilized an attentive and patient side of his personality. Regardless of that, to put it simply, Assistant Detective Eriksson had still had to work like a beaver to avoid making use of that part of the body that Daniel-in a Freudian moment when even he had lost his footing-called her “little beaver.” Jeanette didn’t like what she was doing. She was exploiting a decent person who liked her. When the air in Daniel’s room got thick as mayonnaise, she used to rescue herself by fleeing out to the student corridor’s common kitchen. Her pretexts for doing so were no longer even far-fetched, they were worse than that, but fortunately it would all soon be over. Then she would disappear from his life, he would go home to South Africa and continue to live his life, and hopefully the marks that she left would not be all that deep.

…

Forselius had not phoned Waltin until late Thursday evening, and when he’d finally done so Waltin had already started planning his alternative in detail. Berg had called him that afternoon and at that time he’d said that it was probably leaning toward being a narcotics arrest in any event because Forselius had not been heard from. Berg seemed to have reconciled himself to the thought. “Yes, yes,” he had declared simply, “perhaps it’s just as well.”

But then Forselius called, and he sounded both energetic and conspiratorial.

“Yes, it’s me here,” said Forselius on Waltin’s secure line.

Hello to you, you old bastard, thought Waltin. And here you are calling in the middle of the night and sounding like the Third Man.

“Nice to hear from you,” Waltin said politely.

“I just called to say that everything will go off as planned,” said Forselius. “We’ve just spoken on the phone.”

“How nice,” Waltin said cordially. “I’ll be in touch.”

Wonder if I ought to phone Berg and tell him we’re back to Plan A, Waltin thought. It can wait, he decided, and instead he decided to call up Hedberg and give the all clear. He, after all, would be pulling the heavy load, and Waltin didn’t want to let him wait for word unnecessarily.

My best coworker, thought Waltin with warmth. Hedberg, who never said a word but always did exactly what he should. Sometimes it almost felt as if they were brothers. Imagine how many bad things his colleagues have said about that man, thought Waltin.