Between Summer's Longing and Winter's End

CHAPTER XII

Between Summer’s Longing and Winter’s End

Stockholm in November and December

[FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22]

Hedberg arrived well in advance. He liked to arrive well in advance, even on simple assignments like this. He and Waltin had lunch together, discussed the requirements and the goal, went over who should do what and a few other practical details.

“I want to find out what he’s up to, quite simply,” Waltin summarized. “And when you’ve taken care of things I don’t want him to find out that you’ve done so.”

“He’s writing something,” said Hedberg. “That’s all we know?”

“No doubt something shocking,” concurred Waltin, smiling wryly. “Which according to certain political thinkers might possibly have significance for the security of the realm, which in turn entails your and my modest participation in this little project.”

“Okay then,” said Hedberg, getting up. “I’ll be in touch as soon I’m done.”

After lunch he’d returned to the apartment that Waltin had arranged for him. Clearly better than staying at a hotel with lots of people who might notice you at the wrong moment and in the wrong place. You also got a receipt if you stayed at a hotel and if you paid cash you could almost be sure that someone would think that strange, become suspicious, and make a mental note of your appearance. Almost as bad as credit cards, which were a pure paper trail that your opponent could pick up by electronic means even years later if things went badly. But if you were camping at Waltin’s you never got a bill, and if you ran into a neighbor when you were coming in or going out it was almost a sensation. He had lots of vacant apartments too. Hedberg had seldom needed to stay at the same place twice, and the refrigerator was always well stocked in accord with his wishes.

Hedberg slept a few hours. He liked to be well rested when he went to work. Then there was less carelessness.

Seven o’clock was the agreed-on time. At that time the corridor should be empty and he would be able to do his part, hopefully as quickly as possible. He was already on the scene at six o’clock to reconnoiter; the first thing he saw was the blue delivery van someone had parked at just the spot where you had a complete view of the dormitory lobby.

Fucking amateurs, thought Hedberg with irritation and returned to his own car, which he’d placed some distance away. Why hadn’t they gotten themselves a well-situated lookout where they could sit without risk of being discovered? He himself had no intention of being photographed, regardless of whether it was his former colleagues who were holding the camera. Least of all then.

“There he is. Damn, he’s early,” Assistant Detective Martinsson declared a second after Krassner had stepped out briskly through the entryway.

“Eighteen thirty-two,” Göransson said, making a little note on the pad that sat on the instrument panel. “I guess he just wants to arrive in good time.”

Nothing bad that doesn’t bring something good with it, thought Hedberg. First he’d seen Krassner’s back, but because the light was poor out on the street he was uncertain if he’d seen right. But then the blue delivery van had suddenly shown up and taken a new position less than a hundred yards behind the man who was disappearing down the street. Okay then, thought Hedberg. No rest for the wicked.

Krassner had clearly decided to walk over to Sturegatan. He’d also been so kind as to select the correct sidewalk. He was walking fast too, so it was no great art for them to keep a suitable distance despite the fact that they were shadowing him from a vehicle.

“Fucking amateur,” snorted Martinsson. “If I’d been him I would’ve walked on the other side of the road. They never learn that you should walk against traffic.”

“If I were you I would just be thankful,” said Göransson. “It must be close to ten degrees outside. Be glad that you can sit in a warm car instead.”

With you as chauffeur, thought Martinsson, for it was hardly by chance that Göransson was sitting in the driver’s seat just this once. You really need to move a little, you lazy bastard, thought Martinsson, but he didn’t say that.

Looks good, Hedberg noted, inspecting his own image in the mirror while he took the elevator up to the seventeenth floor. Typical worker with blue overalls, tool belt, and a small metal toolbox where he had put his camera and the walkie-talkie that he needed so those two amateurs who had driven off in the blue delivery van would be able to warn him if Krassner was suddenly inspired to come up with some tomfoolery.

“He’s twenty minutes too early,” Martinsson observed as Krassner’s back disappeared through the entryway to Forselius’s building on Sturegatan. “Should we report that he’s arrived, or what?”

“Yes,” said Göransson. “And then I think we should drive around the block and position ourselves a little farther down. Better to stay on the same side as the entryway.”

“Okay,” said Martinsson, pressing the send button on the portable radio three times.

I see, thought Hedberg when a crackling sound came from the radio in his toolbox. The object is at a secure distance and we’re almost twenty minutes ahead of schedule. So what do I do now? he thought.

“A hamburger would sit nicely,” said Martinsson.

“The hell it would,” objected Göransson.

“There’s a stand up at Tessin Park,” said Martinsson innocently. “It’ll take five minutes at the most.”

“Okay then,” said Göransson, sighing. “I could go for one too. With cheese and raw onion and a lot of mustard and ketchup. I want coffee too. Coffee with milk.”

Take a chance, Hedberg decided. He’d stood in the stairwell between the sixteenth and seventeenth floors for almost five minutes, observing the glass door to the corridor where Krassner was living. True, the lights were on inside, but that’s how it should be and it looked empty. Leaking faucet, thought Hedberg, smiling wryly as he took the keys out of his pocket. You should never wait with a leaking faucet.

Nothing here, nothing there, but here, thought Hedberg while his sensitive fingers probed the crack between the door frame and the door to Krassner’s room. He moistened the little scrap of paper against his tongue, carefully unlocked the door, pressed the scrap of paper back where it had been, sneaked into the dark coat closet and slowly pulled the door closed after him while he held the door handle down. Empty, thought Hedberg, slowly releasing it again. And high time to carry out a little work.

…

“Damn good burger,” said Martinsson contentedly, belching to give emphasis to his judgment.

“So-so,” said Göransson.

He still sounds grumpy, thought Martinsson.

“It’s not the end of the world,” he said. “For Christ’s sake, it’s only five past seven. Five minutes more or less isn’t the end of the world. Better than raw hamburger.”

“Sure, sure,” said Göransson. We’re well situated, in any case, he thought. Scarcely a hundred yards down on the street and with full view of the entryway, and five minutes isn’t the end of the world, nor ten either, for that matter.

“I can take the first hour if you want to lean back,” Martinsson suggested. Instead of smoking a peace pipe with you, you grumpy bastard, he thought.

“Okay then,” said Göransson. “You take the first hour.”

Why didn’t I decide that we should meet in his room instead? thought Assistant Detective Jeanette Eriksson, glancing nervously at her watch. Seven minutes late, and the guy who’s going to do the job is probably already frantic. Lay off, Jeanette, she thought. You know very well why you didn’t want to meet him in his room. Drink your beer, which you’ve ordered and paid for with government money, and try to appear normal. Quarter past, she decided. If he hasn’t shown up by quarter past I’ll have to make radio contact.

Hedberg had started in the shower room. Shower, toilet, sink, medicine chest with mirror, tiled walls, and a plastic mat that looked almost new and appeared to be solidly glued to the floor. Plastic gloves on his hands, plastic covering over his shoes, and the very first thing he did was to place his walkie-talkie on the desk inside the room so he would be quite sure to hear it if someone needed to warn him. Between the medicine chest and the wall he found a plastic bag with a few carelessly rolled cigarettes. Marijuana, thought Hedberg, sniffing in the bag. He placed it back carefully where it had been. Coat closet next, thought Hedberg. Hat rack, three wall-mounted closets with overhead cabinets. This is going like a dance, he thought.

Come sometime then, thought Jeanette, glancing at the clock, and just then he arrived. Fourteen minutes late and with an embarrassed smile.

“I’m really sorry I’m late,” said Daniel as he leaned over, giving her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“It’s okay,” said Jeanette, trying to appear just irritated enough.

“I have a suggestion,” said Daniel, sitting down on the stool next to her. “There’s a good Mexican restaurant down on Birger Jarlsgatan. What do you think?”

Five, maybe ten minutes’ walk, thought Jeanette. She herself would have preferred to stay in the vicinity in case something happened, but on the other hand Waltin hadn’t said anything that prevented her from doing it. Only that she should see to it that M’Boye was kept away from the student dormitory for at least an hour and that she should make contact as soon as everything was done. Okay, she thought. Have to move a little, walk off the tension.

“Okay,” she said, smiling. “That’s okay.”

The closets were mostly empty, screwed solidly tight against the wall, although one of the skirting boards against the floor was coming loose. Hedberg got down on his knees, took a knife, and poked carefully with the blade between the skirting board and the linoleum. I see, thought Hedberg with satisfaction, removing the molding and sticking in his hand. Papers, he thought. A rather thick bundle encased in a plastic sleeve.

Hedberg carefully coaxed out his find. Got up and read the text on the first page. “The Spy Who Went East, by John P. Krassner.” Is he spending his time writing a mystery? thought Hedberg, bewildered, leafing through the manuscript. It wasn’t that long and was far from finished, judging by the amount of handwritten additions and corrections. How will I have time to photograph this? he thought, and at that moment he heard steps in the corridor outside the door.

…

Waltin was sitting at home in his large apartment on Norr Mälarstrand watching porn. It was one of his favorite tapes and originally part of a large confiscation that Berg’s coworkers had made at the home of some crazy Yugoslav, but because it was altogether too good to be shown at personnel parties at the bureau he’d pinched it for his own use. A private American production in which the play’s leather-clad hero had hung up a real prize sow from a pair of ceiling hooks in his rec room. A well-narrated and very morally instructive story, although for Waltin it was nevertheless mostly about the play’s female protagonist. Exactly the type he hated, with large, fat white breasts that bobbed up and down as soon as she moved, and now she was getting exactly the treatment her type deserved.

The steps in the corridor outside had died away. Then he’d heard the door between the corridor and the stairs slam shut. It was supposed to be empty of people here, thought Hedberg, exhaling. He tiptoed into the room and over to the desk and quickly started laying manuscript pages out on the available surface. Desk lamp or flash? he thought as he took the camera out of his tool bag. Desk lamp, he thought. It goes more quickly and is less visible. He arranged the light so it was balanced and started to photograph. It must be over a hundred pages, he thought with irritation. Wonder if I have enough film? It went quickly, in any case. The first roll was done in a few minutes, and just as he stood putting in a new one he heard it again, the slam of the door to the corridor. Someone’s on their way in, thought Hedberg, turning off the desk lamp and tiptoeing quickly out into the coat closet.

Strange that he puts up with me, thought Jeanette, trying out her shy smile at her table companion. They had been seeing each other for almost six weeks and all he’d gotten was a kiss and a hug, and he hadn’t even nagged at her, much less tried to wrestle with her. What she had been thinking about most the past few days-for her assignment would be over this evening if you could believe Waltin-was how she would extract herself from this without hurting him unnecessarily.

“You must think I’m really boring,” said Jeanette.

“No,” said Daniel, shaking his head seriously and placing his large hand over hers. “You’re not like other girls I’ve met, but I respect your attitude toward… well, you know.”

Daniel smiled wryly and shrugged his broad shoulders.

“Besides, I like you. A lot,” he added, squeezing her hand and nodding.

Damnation, thought Assistant Detective Eriksson, but she didn’t say it. Instead she just nodded with a shy smile and her gaze directed at the tablecloth. Sort of the way little Jeanette would have done.

Waltin moaned lightly with pleasure and sipped his malt whiskey while the whiplashes echoed from his black Bang & Olufsen speakers and the female protagonist shrieked like a stuck pig.

“There’s more to come, there’s more to come,” Waltin hummed with delight, for he was both exhilarated and the tiniest bit intoxicated, and just then of course his red telephone rang. His secure line.

Typical, thought Waltin, sighing as he paused the film. Quarter past eight, he thought, looking at his watch as he picked up the receiver. It must be Hedberg, and it could only mean that everything had gone according to plan.

“Yes,” said Waltin. “I’m listening.”

“In a little less than three weeks I’m going home,” said Daniel. “Do you want to go along?”

He smiled at her, that big white charming smile, but it was probably mostly to conceal the seriousness of his question, she thought.

“I don’t know, maybe later. I have that exam that I just have to take care of and then I’m going to spend Christmas with my parents.” The latter was true in any case, she thought.

“You must come to South Africa,” said Daniel and smiled. “It’s amazing.”

I’m sure, thought Assistant Detective Eriksson. And how do I get myself out of this? But she didn’t say that either.

“Everything went well?”

“Yes,” said Hedberg.

“Anything interesting?” asked Waltin.

“Nada,” said Hedberg.

“Nada? Nothing?”

“Messy student’s den, a lot of papers, and most of the ones that had something on them lying on his desk. A few miscellaneous handwritten notes.”

“And that was all?”

“Yes,” said Hedberg. “I took a few rolls of what was on the desk. I got the idea that he’s writing some kind of mystery.”

“Mystery? Why do you think that?” asked Waltin.

“I found a page,” said Hedberg. “I have a picture of it. Typewritten. Looked like the cover to a mystery or something. The Spy Who Went East, by John P. Krassner.”

“The Spy Who Went East?”

“Yes, The Spy Who Went East. Supposed to be the Russians, I guess.”

The spy who went over to the east? Strange title, thought Waltin. Went over from what?

“And there wasn’t anything else? I mean the book itself or anything?”

“There were a number of pages with more or less text on them and those I took pictures of. Most of what was there was on the desk, but there wasn’t too much. I got it all on three rolls, so he doesn’t seem to be any great author.”

“Were you able to check the ribbon in the typewriter? How much had he written?”

“Yes. Appeared almost unused.”

An old bastard and his crackpot fantasies, thought Waltin.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” Waltin suggested.

“Sounds fine,” said Hedberg. “I was actually planning to go and turn in, so you can call me early if you want.”

…

First Waltin thought about calling the security police’s own central liaison and asking them to inform Göransson and Martinsson that they could call it a day. But then he started thinking about that idiot Martinsson and decided that they might just as well sit where they were, at least until they themselves made contact. It was below zero outside, and in all likelihood it would soon be the same temperature inside that old delivery van he’d loaned out to them. It was only to be hoped that old man Forselius entertained himself half the night with that scatterbrain Krassner while Martinsson froze his dick off on the street outside, Waltin thought contentedly. Besides, he really wanted to see the end of his film. True, he’d seen it more times than he could recall, but it only got better and better every time. So be it, thought Waltin, pouring a fresh malt whiskey and reaching for the remote control.

They sat at the restaurant for almost two hours, and once they came out onto the street she thought about leaving, saying that they could talk tomorrow, and going home, but for some reason that didn’t happen. Instead they walked home to Daniel’s, a brisk walk-they even raced a little-and when they strode in through the entryway to the dormitory he looked at her with his big eyes and his gentle smile and asked if she wanted to have a cup of tea. And she nodded and followed him into the elevator. What is it you’re doing? thought Assistant Detective Jeanette Eriksson.

What do you mean, first hour? thought Martinsson, glancing at the blanket-wrapped, snoring bundle in the back of the delivery van. Almost three hours, and the last two hours he’d been cold as a dog despite the fact that he’d wrapped his legs in a blanket and even stuffed a couple of old copies of Expressen under his rump in a desperate attempt to alleviate the cold that forced its way up through the seat.

Like some damn homeless person, thought Martinsson. And that damn Göransson must be built like an Eskimo despite the fact that he’d taken almost all the blankets that they had in the car. And that damn druggie who sat gorging himself in a big Östermalm apartment. He would slice the arms and legs off him as soon as he stuck his nose outside the door and then…

“Jesus!” Martinsson swore out loud and sincerely as he turned the key in the ignition.

As soon as she stepped into the corridor she saw them and all her alarm bells starting ringing in her head. What is going on? she thought. But fortunately Daniel took over so she had time to think. Another Daniel than the one she knew. Big, black, and threatening, a person who didn’t step back and who quite certainly hadn’t grasped that the men whose way he was blocking were police. Jesus, thought Assistant Detective Jeanette Eriksson despite the fact that she almost never swore, what is going on and what am I doing here?

The film was over. The whiskey wasn’t, and there was more available if that had been the case, but Waltin didn’t feel like it. A really good red wine is better, thought Waltin. Softer, more balanced, and you didn’t lose your clarity in the same way regardless of the degree of intoxication, but just now he didn’t feel like wine either. The only thing he felt was a slight irritation. Waste of resources, thought Waltin. What was important now was to bring home little Jeanette and see to it that somewhat more essential things were accomplished. And at that moment the phone rang. Past ten, thought Waltin with surprise, for some reason it was that old bastard Forselius that he was picturing. However he might have gotten the number here, thought Waltin, picking up the receiver.

“Yes,” said Waltin. “I’m listening.”

“For Christ’s sake, Martinsson, turn off the engine,” said Göransson, sticking his rumpled head between the seats. “We can’t sit with the engine on, you know that well enough.”

Hope your sleep was good, thought Martinsson, but before he had time to say anything really cutting on the same theme they called them on the radio.

“Yes,” said Martinsson, turning off the engine. “We’re listening.”

“You can call it a day, boys,” said the officer on the radio. “I was just speaking with the Alpha dog.”

“Call it a day,” said Martinsson. This is God help me not true, he thought.

“Yep. He wants you to call it off. Then he wants to meet you tomorrow, but he’ll be in touch early in the morning regarding the time.”

Göransson had already reached out his hand and turned on the ignition, despite the fact that he hadn’t managed to crawl out between the seats.

“Do you mind driving?” he asked.

“Where are you calling from?” asked Waltin. Calm down, he thought.

“From a pay phone down in the vestibule at… well, you know,” replied Assistant Detective Eriksson.

“Okay,” said Waltin. “So do the following. Walk a little ways down toward town and take a taxi to my place, so we can talk in peace and quiet.”

What the hell is going on? thought Waltin.

While Waltin was waiting for little Jeanette he had taken the opportunity to freshen himself up. He had washed himself-hands, face, and armpits-brushed his teeth, and sprayed over any lingering scent of whiskey. Then he’d changed his shirt, to a loose and comfortable cream-colored linen with his monogram embroidered in blue silk on the breast pocket. And while he was polishing his feathers he had been thinking sharply the whole time.

There was a significant risk that the shit would hit the fan, thought Waltin. In addition there were several things that didn’t add up. According to the conversation with Hedberg at approximately a quarter past eight, when he called from the apartment that Waltin had arranged for him, he was supposed to have carried out his assignment without complications, between seven and roughly a quarter to eight. Between thumb and index finger and it will work out, thought Waltin.

…

According to Göransson and Martinsson, a double misfortune that he must do something about at once, Krassner had walked through Forselius’s doorway on Sturegatan as early as twenty minutes to seven, and when they were sent home three and a half hours later he should still have been there.

Truly very peculiar, thought Waltin, because according to the Stockholm police command center, Krassner had fallen out of a window from the sixteenth floor of the Rosehip student dormitory on Körsbärsvägen at five minutes to eight in the evening and approximately half a mile from the place where he was supposed to be sitting shooting the breeze with a confused old bastard from the days of the cold war. Moreover, the information as to time and place were certain, because he himself had checked them, obviously in a completely secure but devious way. Had he even been at Forselius’s at all? The simplest thing would no doubt be to ask directly, thought Waltin, but at the same time that could just as well wait. Having come that far in his thoughts he was interrupted by the discreet signal from the doorway telephone. Little Jeanette, thought Waltin, and he felt both exhilarated and capable of action.

Good Lord, thought Jeanette confusedly as she looked around Waltin’s living room. How can a police officer afford such an apartment? Even if he is a superintendent?

“How are you doing?” asked Waltin. He looked at her, smiling a little but with a touch of seriousness and with a sympathetic wrinkle in his forehead.

“I’m okay,” said Jeanette, nodding. “I understood of course that he was crazy. And I’ve said that. But that he was crazy enough to jump out the window, that I didn’t believe.”

“We’ll discuss that later,” said Waltin soothingly. “Would you like something to eat?”

“No. I ate a while ago.”

“Then perhaps I might offer you something to drink? A glass of wine, perhaps?” Waltin looked at her with the same slightly worried smile.

“A glass of wine would be nice. If you’re having one too.”

“We both probably need one,” said Waltin confidently. So that we can finally get to the point, you and I, he thought.

A quarter of an hour later the pieces started falling into place. Little Jeanette sat curled up on his big sofa; she was already working on her second glass of wine. She seemed collected but at the same time vulnerable and a little dejected in a way that was both attractive and arousing.

“If I’ve understood the matter correctly, you meet M’Boye at the student restaurant a little after seven. Then the two of you walk to a restaurant on Birger Jarlsgatan. Eat dinner for two hours and return to his apartment at the dormitory. You’re there at about nine-thirty.”

Waltin looked at her with mildly inquisitive eyes. Whatever it was you had to do there, you little bitch, he thought.

“Yes,” said Jeanette, nodding. “And that was when we ran into the guys from Stockholm. They were done with Krassner’s room and were just leaving but Dan-M’Boye got angry and asked who they were and what they were doing there. I guess he didn’t realize that they were police. For a moment I was worried that he would attack them.” Jeanette nodded, mostly to herself, apparently, taking a gulp from her wineglass.

“What did they say then?” asked Waltin. “The police,” he clarified.

“Well, there was a rather heated discussion between them and M’Boye. They said that it was a suicide, that they were completely sure of that but they didn’t want to explain why and M’Boye refused to buy it.”

“Do you know why?” asked Waltin. “Why didn’t he believe it?”

“Presumably because they were policemen and because he doesn’t like the police,” said Jeanette, shrugging her shoulders. “Well, and because it was skewed from the start. One of the cops was actually not very nice. The other one was more normal. He was a technician. He even introduced himself.”

“And you?” said Waltin.

“No.” Jeanette shook her head. “I tried to keep myself in the background. I didn’t even need to say my name. They seemed to be in a big hurry to get out of there, actually.”

“And neither of them recognized you,” asked Waltin.

“No,” said Jeanette, and for some reason she smiled.

“And you’re quite certain of that?”

“Yes, quite certain. When they left I heard the one from the after-hours unit, he was the short fat one who was actually rather awful, he called me a typical student whore.”

“Sad,” said Waltin without smiling. “Sad to have such officers. You don’t know their names?”

“The short fat one never introduced himself, but the other one showed his ID.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“Yes, his name was Wiijnbladh. Detective inspector.”

This isn’t true, thought Waltin delightedly. Wiijnbladh, that wretched little shit.

“Is it anyone you know?” asked Jeanette.

“No,” said Waltin, shaking his head. “It doesn’t ring any bells. Don’t believe I’ve even heard the name.”

It’s not anything I’m thinking about telling you, in any case, thought Waltin.

“You know what,” he said. “This is a very sad story that we’ve landed in, because of a poor person who actually appears to have been seriously mentally ill, and if there’s anything I blame myself for, it’s probably that I didn’t listen carefully enough to what you said about how bad things were with Krassner…”

“I don’t think you should do that,” objected Jeanette. “Unfortunately I wasn’t especially clear, but…”

Waltin shook his head negatively.

“Jeanette,” said Waltin. “You and I are police officers. Our duty is to protect the security of the realm, and unfortunately it’s the case that most of what we encounter in our job is more or less crazy. But we’re not social workers, we aren’t doctors, and we’re definitely not spiritual advisers. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

Clearly, thought Waltin, for she nodded in agreement and looked both serious and collected.

“We won’t get involved in the investigation of Krassner’s suicide,” Waltin continued. “The Stockholm police can take care of that. That will take its own course, even if I will, naturally, see to it that we’re kept informed. But as far as we’re concerned I have a definite feeling that this entire sad story is over. And unfortunately, unfortunately it had a bad ending, but there’s nothing we can do about that. What you and I should do is the following.”

She looked at him and nodded. Attentive, listening, willing to do what he said. Excellent, thought Waltin.

“What we should do is simply one thing,” said Waltin. “We should lie low.” And I’m going to lie between your legs, thought Waltin, but he didn’t say that, for she didn’t have anything to do with it.

[SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 23]

When Waltin woke up early on Saturday morning, little Jeanette was lying next to him in bed. As a seducer he had been faced with considerably more difficult tasks. She had seemed almost compliant when he led her into his bedroom, and because it was the first time, he’d held back and contented himself with performing a couple of for the most part normal acts of intercourse. He had been just determined enough but not more, and when he woke up she was sleeping curled up in a fetal position with her head boring down into the pillow, holding yet another pillow pressed against her belly. Waltin had lain looking at her a while, and he was still very satisfied with what he saw. This can be completely perfect, he thought. All that was demanded now was precision, clarity, and a perfectly executed acclimatization, and because the conditions were good he could happily take the time such things took when they were worth the effort.

Then he went out to the kitchen and prepared breakfast, set the table over by the window with the view, and exerted himself both in how he did it and what he set out for them. When everything was ready he’d wakened her with a light kiss on the forehead, and now she was sitting across from him. In one of his altogether too large bathrobes, newly wakened, with tousled hair and a bare, unadorned face. And she looked both surprised and delighted when she understood that the cup in front of her contained neither coffee nor tea.

“Chocolate with whipped cream,” tittered little Jeanette. “God that’s good! I don’t think I’ve had that since I was a kid.”

Which is the very idea, thought Waltin, stroking her lightly across the back of her neck.

“I was thinking about inviting you to dinner this evening,” said Waltin, at the same time letting his thumb stop at the base of her neck. “I would have preferred to have spent the whole day with you,” he continued with the exactly right charm-filled apologetic smile, “but unfortunately there are certain practical matters that I must take care of before we can relax.”

Little Jeanette had nodded with a serious expression. Just like children always did when they understood that they’d become a part of something important.

“Now here’s what we’ll do,” said Waltin, lacing his powerful, suntanned fingers in hers, which were half their size. “I don’t want you to return to the student dormitory. On the other hand, I want you to keep track of that M’Boye so he doesn’t get you dragged into something. Can you phone him?”

“He was going to call me at home this morning,” said Jeanette. “He doesn’t have a phone of his own. Just the one that goes to their corridor.”

“Avoid that,” said Waltin. “Lie low. Keep track of M’Boye. See to it that he doesn’t start anything. Can you manage that?” Waltin smiled warmly and squeezed her hand.

Jeanette nodded.

“Good,” said Waltin. “Then I’ll find out what this sad story is really about.”

First he arranged a meeting with Hedberg in the small sleepover apartment at Gärdet that he’d loaned out to him. Hedberg seemed fresh and rested and offered fresh-brewed coffee. Waltin had decided to wait to discuss Krassner’s suicide.

“Tell me,” said Waltin, taking a sip of the hot coffee.

…

According to Hedberg there wasn’t much to tell. He had seen Krassner leave the student dormitory at six-thirty, and when he got the all-clear signal on the radio ten minutes later he had started to work. One hour later he was finished and then he’d taken his gear, left the place, driven home, called Waltin, and reported.

“A messy little student apartment; he didn’t have too many things. A few papers and those you have on film.”

Hedberg nodded toward the three rolls of film that were lying on the table.

“Well, what more was there?” said Hedberg, looking as though he was thinking deeply. “He’d hidden some marijuana cigarettes behind the medicine cabinet. He got to keep those.” Hedberg smiled wryly.

“What impression did you get of him?” asked Waltin. “As a person, I mean.”

“Impression,” said Hedberg. “Well, I guess I almost got the impression that the person living there was a little crazy. Looked like an ordinary junkie pad. Things tossed everywhere, sheets bunched up at the foot of the bed. Nothing that you would have appreciated,” said Hedberg, smiling faintly.

So there, thought Waltin who had difficulty with intimacies, even when they came from such a highly valued colleague as Hedberg.

“A little crazy, you say?”

“One of those paranoid junkie types,” said Hedberg, nodding. “That door alert, the piece of paper on the door frame, I found right away, for example.”

“And you put it back when you left,” said Waltin.

“All according to orders and established routines,” said Hedberg.

“No complications,” asked Waltin, lightly and just uninterested enough.

“So-so,” said Hedberg. “If I were to complain, there was actually someone left in the corridor after seven o’clock. Right after seven I heard someone going out through the door to the vestibule. Then there was someone who came in right after and turned and went out again. I got an impression that it was the same person and that he’d forgotten something that he came back and fetched.”

M’Boye, thought Waltin, who had Jeanette’s account fresh in his memory. Goes to show that blacks can never learn to tell time.

“I’m sorry about that,” he said. “It was one of those people who can’t keep track of time.”

“It’s not the end of the world,” said Hedberg. “I heard him and he didn’t see me, so I’ll give you that one.”

Okay then, thought Waltin. Then there’s just one problem remaining.

“A little problem has come up,” he said.

Hedberg contented himself with nodding.

“Krassner has taken his life.”

“Oh, lay off.” said Hedberg, surprised. “When?”

“Five minutes to eight yesterday evening,” said Waltin. “He did a double full gainer out the window at the student dormitory.”

Hedberg hadn’t been easy to convince, and his objections were both logical and completely understandable.

“I think this sounds strange,” said Hedberg. “It was almost twenty till eight when I left his corridor. That was just a quarter of an hour before he would have jumped out through the window.”

“Yes,” said Waltin. “There isn’t much time to play with.”

“Then he’s supposed to have written a suicide note as well? It can’t have been a very long epistle, otherwise we would have run into each other.”

“He might actually have written the letter before and had it with him,” said Waltin, who was thinking out loud.

Hedberg shook his head and still seemed to be full of doubt.

“I still think it sounds strange,” he said, also sounding like someone thinking out loud. “He must have left that meeting over on Sturegatan at least fifteen minutes before he jumped out through the window. And in that case he can hardly have done more than come in and left. His meeting, I mean. What kind of strange meeting was it?”

“Yes,” said Waltin. “There’s a lot here that’s strange.”

“Sure,” said Hedberg with emphasis. “And then if he was on his way back, how is it that the guys who were supposed to watch him didn’t make contact and warn me?”

Interesting question, thought Waltin.

“It’ll work out,” said Waltin, putting the rolls of film in his pocket. “I’ll be in touch when I know something.”

What is it that I’ve forgotten? he thought, getting up. Is there something I’ve forgotten?

“There was something else,” said Waltin. “Help me.”

“You mean that letter?” asked Hedberg. “The letter about the meeting?”

“Exactly,” said Waltin, “Krassner’s invitation to the meeting with Forselius. Did you find it?”

“No,” said Hedberg. “It wasn’t left behind in his room, in any case. Of that I’m quite certain. Neither a letter nor an envelope.”

Damn, thought Waltin, despite the fact that he almost never swore.

“We’ll just have to hope that he didn’t have it with him,” said Hedberg, smiling wryly.

Waltin was not the type to take unnecessary risks. If Krassner had indeed had Forselius’s letter in his pocket when he jumped out the window, it was too late to do anything about that. On the other hand there was almost certainly still time to warn Forselius so that he could keep his mouth shut if the investigators from the Stockholm police were to contact him. In addition there were of course a number of other major reasons to find out what he and Krassner had really been up to at the meeting, which in any event must have been considerably shorter than planned.

Forselius seemed even less pleased than usual to encounter Waltin. After the usual grumbling about Saturday morning and “important business,” he finally yielded and received him in his darkened apartment, as usual and despite the time of day wearing a dressing gown and holding a brandy snifter. Waltin pretended not to notice and turned on the charm, being careful not to show his cards from the start.

“How did the meeting with Krassner go?” Waltin asked with a conciliatory smile.

“The meeting with Krassner,” said Forselius, with a calculating look at Waltin. “You’re wondering how the meeting with Krassner went?”

“Yes,” said Waltin, smiling amiably. “Tell me how it went.”

“So kind of you to ask,” Forselius grunted. “It went just fine.”

“That’s nice,” said Waltin. “What did you-”

“The little snake never showed up,” Forselius interrupted, fortifying himself with a generous gulp from the snifter.

“He never showed up?”

“I’m happy that your ears are functioning,” Forselius said amiably. “As I said. He never showed up.”

“What did you do, then?” Waltin asked with interest. Idiot, he thought. The old man is a complete idiot.

“I waited a while. Then I read a good book, an excellent book, in fact, about stochastic processes and harmonic functions. I have it here somewhere if you’re interested.” Forselius made a sweeping gesture in the direction of the bookshelves behind his back.

“It never occurred to you to make contact?” asked Waltin. As we’d agreed on, you miserable old bastard, he thought.

“No,” said Forselius, looking as if he’d never given it a thought. “On the other hand I did make a call to your boss.”

What else would you expect? thought Waltin.

“And what did he say?”

“Not too much,” said Forselius. “Either he wasn’t at home or he didn’t want to answer.”

“Did you leave a message?” asked Waltin.

“I never leave messages on answering machines,” said Forselius haughtily. “It goes against the nature of the operation.”

When Waltin told Forselius that Krassner was dead, the old man nodded approvingly. It was an excellent opportunity to find out in peace and quiet what “the little snake” had been up to. The information that he must have taken his own life was received with amused indulgence.

“Took his own life, of course,” said Forselius, winking. “So now the superintendent wants me to testify that he seemed deeply depressed when we met, if our colleagues from the open operation should knock on my door.”

“If that should be the case I only want you to say how it was,” said Waltin with forced courtesy. “That he wanted to meet you for an interview but that he never showed up.” And that you can keep yourself sufficiently sober not to mention us, he thought.

“So it was then that he”-Forselius grunted with enjoyment while he drew his index finger across his wrinkled neck-“took his own life.”

Sigh, thought Waltin, and five minutes later he said goodbye, correct yet courteous.

After the visit with Forselius, Waltin took the road past the firm’s garage. The blue delivery van stood parked in its usual place and it had been cursorily cleaned. However, in the trash can by the garage door only five yards away someone had been recklessly careless. The black garbage bag was almost empty, but on the top was a paper bag and inside it an empty can, a crumpled coffee cup, and various scraps of paper that were evidence of a hamburger dinner for two, plus a receipt for the whole party from the hot-dog stand up by Tessin Park at Gärdet.

What kind of world is it we live in when a police superintendent is forced to use his weekend to root through garbage cans? thought Waltin gloomily while with distaste and the help of his pen he poked through the leftovers. What do I do now and how do I get rid of these two lightweights?

First he returned to his office and spoke with an acquaintance who was responsible for certain security issues at the ministry of foreign affairs. No problem, because Waltin promised to pay the costs, and the joint decision on a quickly arranged extra exercise under realistic conditions could be made immediately. One hour later he met Göransson and Martinsson in his office. Both appeared to have slept well, and one thing was obvious right from the start: Neither of them had any idea about Krassner’s demise.

“Tell me,” said Waltin, nodding and smiling amiably while he leaned back in his large desk chair and formed his fingers into a church steeple of the classic Gothic model.

“Yes,” said Göransson, clearing his throat and leafing through his little black notebook. “Well,” he continued after another throat clearing. “The object left his address on Körsbärsvägen at eighteen thirty-two hours. After that he walked at a brisk pace down Körsbärsvägen, then Valhallavägen on the sidewalk on the west side. He arrived at the appointed meeting place, Sturegatan 60, at eighteen forty-two hours and went directly in through the doorway. Ten minutes later, that is,” Göransson summarized with a discreet throat-clearing and a slightly nervous side glance at his younger colleague.

“I see,” said Waltin blandly. “And what did you do then?”

“We positioned our vehicle approximately one hundred yards further down on Sturegatan,” said Göransson, giving Martinsson another glance. “It was the best position according to our collective judgment.”

“What else?” asked Waltin heartily. “Was it you who was driving, Martinsson?”

Martinsson tore himself unwillingly away from his image in the large mirror behind Waltin’s back and shook his head.

“No,” said Martinsson. “It was Göransson who drove.”

Göransson glared acidly at his younger colleague, which wasn’t easy, as he was trying to do it on the sly.

“And at what time had you taken up your position?” Waltin asked innocently.

“About eighteen forty-three,” said Göransson. “About eighteen forty-three more or less, that is.”

This is getting better and better, thought Waltin, but he didn’t say that.

“And so then what happened?” Waltin asked with curiosity, at the same time leaning forward across the desk in order to further indicate his deep interest.

Not a thing, according to both conspirators. They had just sat there-true enough, in the front seat of a Dodge delivery van but watchful as two eagles-until the radio operator had made contact and told them to break it off and call it a day and then it was past ten o’clock.

“Twenty-two-zero-eight hours,” Göransson clarified with a fresh throat clearing and after another look in his little black book.

“It’s all in our surveillance memo,” Martinsson assisted obligingly. “It’s sitting in the usual folder.”

“But that was very good, wasn’t it?” said Waltin, nodding and leaning back. Lying with all the practice that the profession had given them, he thought, and now it was crucial to just be rid of them before the natural stupidity that qualified them for this same profession also made a mess of things for him.

“I have a special assignment for you gentlemen,” said Waltin. “A very urgent one, abroad, might take a week, maybe two. The thing is that the ministry of foreign affairs needs help with a little discreet surveillance of a somewhat mixed delegation of politicians, people from the foreign ministry and the military, and I have to have a couple of lads that I can really rely on. Through thick and thin,” he added gravely.

“Yes,” said Göransson. “We’re listening, chief.” The thought of a fat foreign per diem had put life into his tired eyes.

“Abroad,” said Martinsson, who was younger, had a harder time concealing his enthusiasm, and was already packing his bathing trunks.

“We can be at Arlanda in two hours, packed and ready,” Göransson agreed obligingly.

“That won’t be necessary,” said Waltin dryly. “It’s good enough if you can be at the central train station before six o’clock.” For further transport to a place where there aren’t any hamburgers and where it’s guaranteed that you’ll be freezing your asses off, thought Waltin, but he didn’t say that.

“Train,” Göransson burst out, and the light in his eyes had gone out.

“Train,” echoed Martinsson, who seemed so taken aback that he forgot to check his reaction in Waltin’s mirror.

“I think it’s going to be a very interesting journey,” said Waltin, nodding with conviction, “and you’ll receive further information accordingly and on a need-to-know basis.”

It will be a fantastic journey, he thought. In the middle of a bitterly cold winter on one of those fine old Russian trains and with all the service that has made their hosts famous among their Western visitors.

“He who makes a journey always has something to tell,” said Waltin, smiling amiably. “In addition the ministry of foreign affairs has arranged passports for you, so you don’t need to mess around with visas,” he added consolingly.

In the afternoon Waltin made quiet inquiries about how it was going with the Stockholm Police Department’s investigation of Krassner’s death. According to his contact, who had spoken with the head of the after-hours squad, the investigation was already done. A few practical details remained that the local precinct at Östermalm would take care of.

“Seems to be a rather typical suicide. However it is that you can jump from the sixteenth floor-but he was after all some sort of student, so he was high, of course,” Waltin’s contact summarized.

That was nice to hear, I guess, Waltin thought sympathetically and decided that the rolls of film that Hedberg had taken could wait until after the weekend. So could contact with Berg, who was out of the country meeting important people and was only to be disturbed if something happened that was even more important, and in Waltin’s ledger Krassner didn’t merit an entry. Finally, thought Waltin, who had more essential things on the program.

Assistant Detective Jeanette Eriksson had done her part as well. Daniel had called her right before lunch and as usual he was friendly and obliging, and this time also worried about how she was doing. Jeanette had said the things she was expected to say. That it felt sad despite the fact that she didn’t know Krassner and had mostly perceived him as a very strange character who hadn’t even been particularly nice. Whatever the case may be, it was still a strange feeling since she’d said hello to him as recently as a few days ago. One thing was important; she absolutely did not want anything to do with the police. True, she hadn’t said anything to Daniel earlier, but her previous experiences with the Swedish police were far from good. Despite the fact that she’d never done anything criminal.

“They treat all people like criminals, even if you’re completely innocent,” said Assistant Detective Eriksson.

According to Daniel she had no reason to be concerned. She could trust him unconditionally. He would really not drag her into anything if the police were to come around again. This Krassner was truly a strange person and Daniel himself was certain that he’d also been a racist. And as far as the Swedish police were concerned, he had unfortunately been struck by the fact that they were obviously like the South African police, and he couldn’t even bear to go into his experiences regarding the latter.

“It’s a particular kind of people who become police officers,” Daniel maintained. “It doesn’t seem to matter where they come from, and I’ve never met one who seemed normal and humane.”

Because Jeanette would as usual be meeting her sick mother over the weekend, one of her early lies and the emergency exit she made use of most often, they decided that they would talk after the weekend, perhaps meet in town and have lunch together.

Okay then, thought Assistant Detective Jeanette Eriksson as she put down the receiver. And now she could finally start planning her evening.

Okay then, thought Waltin as he strode into his apartment on Norr Mälarstrand. High time to plan the evening.

[MONDAY, NOVEMBER 25]

When Waltin came to work on Monday morning he felt sharp in mind, strong in body, and with a pleasurable weight in his crotch. He had spent the last thirty-six hours with Jeanette Eriksson, and they hadn’t even set foot outside the door. With the exception of a few brief meals and a few hours’ sleep, he had also been for the most part screwing her the entire time, and everything had gone according to plan. Women were naturally submissive. Waltin had known that for a long time from his own extensive personal experience, but with many women-and strangely enough this often concerned those who were a little younger-there might still be problems stemming from the rampant delusions spread by certain media and groups on the left fringe. Something that in its turn might create mental blockages that prevented them from full enjoyment in what was for a woman the obvious way.

Little Jeanette had, however, responded in a natural way to the signals he’d given her, although it was still mostly a matter of intellectual influence, and her physical qualifications were extraordinary. The slender boyish body, her closed eyes when he was working his way through her erogenous zones, the pathetic little attempts to hold back her reactions before she achieved orgasm. The only thing that bothered him now was the black triangle of tightly curled hair that covered her little womb, but that was a detail he looked forward to being able to attend to the coming weekend.

High time to tighten the thumbscrews, thought Waltin contentedly, and just then his red telephone rang.

Berg had spent the weekend together with some colleagues at Constitutional Protection. The meeting had taken place at an exceedingly comfortable spa hotel twenty or thirty miles outside Wiesbaden, and for once he’d had the opportunity to bring his wife along. The Germans had arranged a charming ladies’ program so that he and his colleagues had been able to work completely undisturbed while their wives visited various attractions along the Rhine, and in the evenings they had taken their meals together. Exceedingly nice parties where the host had escorted his wife to the table for the somewhat simpler and more informal welcome buffet on Friday evening, and Berg himself had been given the place of honor at the gala dinner on Saturday.

You can really count on the Germans, thought Berg. They were a people who were careful about both content and form in their relationships with their fellow human beings.

…

On Sunday evening he and his wife had taken the flight to Copenhagen. His wife had continued with a connecting flight to Stockholm because she had classes at the school where she worked on Monday morning. He himself had taken the hydrofoil to Malmö, checked in at the Savoy, eaten a simple dinner at the hotel, and gone to bed early.

On Monday morning he had set up a meeting with his colleagues at the department in Malmö, but before they sat down at the conference table he had called his secretary in Stockholm. It had after all been two and a half days since he’d last had access to a secure telephone.

“Waltin wants you to call him,” said his secretary. “It’s about Citizen Kane,” she added. Where had she heard that name before? she thought.

Krassner, thought Berg, and much later, when he thought back to this incident, he recalled that he’d had an unpleasant foreboding about something even then. Unclear why, but real. He remembered that distinctly long afterward.

Waltin’s voice sounded utterly unconcerned. Almost as though he had nothing to do with the matter.

Of course Berg also thought about that. Both then and long afterward.

“How has it been going?” asked Berg.

“Just fine,” said Waltin. “It appears we’ve been worrying ourselves quite unnecessarily.” Not me but you, he thought, but he didn’t say that.

“What do you mean?” said Berg.

“I’ve just been looking through the results of his so-called intellectual efforts, and it seems to be pure rubbish.”

Despite the fact that he’d been sitting at his typewriter several hours a day for a month and a half, thought Berg, but he didn’t say that.

“Tell me,” said Berg.

“Fifty-some pages with highly confused notes. Some assorted texts, a few drafts of something that might possibly be a thriller, possibly a documentary history, but presumably something in between.”

“What’s it about?” asked Berg.

“I suggest that we take that up when we meet,” said Waltin, his voice sounding rather pleased. “Let me put it like this. Both you and I and many of us here in the building have probably indulged in the same line of reasoning.”

I see, thought Berg. So that’s the way it is. He’d already suspected as much.

“Has anything else happened?” he asked.

“He killed himself on Friday evening,” said Waltin, and judging by his tone of voice, he wasn’t one of the chief mourners.

“I’m coming up,” said Berg. “See to it that someone picks me up from the flight.”

One more scatterbrain, thought Waltin.

Berg and Waltin had spent the whole afternoon together, and when they went their separate ways neither of them was especially satisfied with the other, despite the fact that they both concealed it well.

There’s something careless about him, thought Berg. Something childish, something immature.

“We’ll lie low,” he said. “I’ll take this over starting now. I will of course keep you informed.”

Waltin shrugged his well-tailored shoulders. Berg might soon start working in the Kurd unit, thought Waltin. Along with both those other loonies.

“Fine with me,” he said. “Although you’re worrying yourself unnecessarily.”

First Waltin had described the work they’d done. It had actually gone completely according to plan, if you could believe him. The operative had made his way in, done what he was supposed to, and made his way out, observed by no one, and that was just what the whole thing was about. True, Göransson and Martinsson had messed up and lost track of Krassner, but luck had still been on their side. It was a fact that Krassner had taken his own life, and he’d done it under his own steam. Whether he’d been high and only wanted to try his new wings or had suffered a sudden insight into his lost life was beyond Waltin’s judgment. Regardless of which, the question was not their concern. Krassner was not a security matter anymore and had actually never been one. That was Waltin’s firm view.

“If we’re going to blame ourselves for anything, maybe it’s that, I guess. That we didn’t really see how crazy he was,” said Waltin, shrugging his shoulders. “The guy seems to have been completely confused. I suggest you look at his posthumous papers.” Waltin slid the bundle, including photographs, to Berg.

You can be quite sure that I will, thought Berg.

“Where are Göransson and Martinsson?” he asked.

“On an educational trip,” said Waltin, smiling wryly. “I thought it was safest to take them out of action.”

“How much do they know?” asked Berg.

“They don’t know about Krassner’s suicide,” answered Waltin. “They’ll no doubt find out about it sooner or later. They don’t even know that they managed to lose him. And of course they have no idea that I know what they’d been doing instead of being on the job.”

Berg contented himself with nodding.

“Eriksson?” he asked.

“Keeping an eye on the situation. I’d thought about bringing her in as soon as Stockholm has written up Krassner. I’ve told her to keep herself out of the loop.” You don’t need to worry about her, thought Waltin.

Berg nodded again.

Waltin and I, he thought. That’s two. Plus Göransson, Martinsson, and Eriksson, that makes five. And Waltin’s operative, whoever that might be, which incidentally was yet another question that could wait at least until he himself had found out the answer, which made six people altogether. And Forselius, he thought, and suddenly that was far too many. What is it those motorcycle hoods always say? he thought. That three can keep a secret if two are dead?

As soon as Waltin had left, Berg had gone out to his secretary and asked her to phone for a taxi. He’d already dismissed the thought of sitting there at work. Better to go home to his wife and the house in Bromma and think over the situation in peace and quiet. Perhaps try to sleep on the matter and in the best case dream positive dreams that Waltin was maybe right despite the carelessness that doubtless was the main ingredient of his boyish charm.

“Have we had any calls?” asked Berg, making an effort to smile at her cheerfully. A rock, he thought. A true rock.

“The prime minister’s special adviser wants you to contact him as soon as possible,” she said.

Eight, thought Berg gloomily.

[TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 26]

Brooding all night, little sleep; but when he came to work early in the morning he had nonetheless gotten a few days’ respite. The special adviser had called-he’d thought they should meet but then other things had come up and he was sitting in political discussions that most likely would be long drawn out. So he’d spoken with the minister of justice, who by the way would be making contact with Berg directly during the day, and they had agreed to postpone the weekly meeting until Friday. A bad day in and of itself, but it would be just fine if he and Berg could meet a few hours before the meeting.

“An old friend called me over the weekend and told me,” said the special adviser.

Might his name possibly be Forselius? thought Berg, and I’ll be darned how communicative you’ve suddenly become.

“That’ll be just fine,” said Berg. “I can meet Friday morning at nine o’clock.”

“Great,” stated the special adviser. “And should anything happen you can reach me down at Harpsund.”

Berg promised to contact him at once if such were the case. Them up there and us down here, he thought as he put down the receiver.

Berg devoted the entire day to Krassner. True, at first he’d thought about whether he should turn the whole thing over to one of his more reliable coworkers, but after careful consideration-there was something in this story that didn’t feel quite right-he’d decided to do it himself. At least to start with, and until he could be completely certain that it wasn’t heading off in the wrong direction.

He started by looking at the pictures from the secret search of Krassner’s student apartment. In total there were just under a hundred pictures, enlarged and of excellent quality. A dozen of them showed various parts of the interior from various angles. Untidy and littered with a vengeance, much like the addicts’ pads he’d seen during his time as a young uniformed policeman out in the field, and the messy desk was scarcely evidence of uninterrupted work under harmonious conditions.

The remaining pictures depicted only papers, white typewriter paper with varying amounts of text, sometimes typewritten, some longhand. Several papers crumpled up, smoothed out to be photographed and, he hoped, crumpled up again and returned to their original position. And it was now that Berg started having problems. Krassner’s handwriting-for you had to assume that he was the one who’d held the pen-was hard to decipher, and what was actually written there was cryptic, often abbreviated, and obviously in English throughout. Same thing with the typewritten pages: short sections and lines of text without a single context, more like drafts and directions for an outline than parts of a narrative. This is no manuscript, thought Berg-with one exception, which was possibly a basis for something that was probably meant to become a book.

The exception looked suspiciously like the title page to a book, and without being particularly familiar with the matter Berg assumed that it was a not entirely unusual expression of the agonies of authorship. “The Spy Who Went East, by John P. Krassner,” Berg read, whereupon he made a neat little pencil mark in the upper right-hand corner of his copy. Easier to see when you leaf through it, thought Berg, who had an idea that he should first try to arrange his material in some sort of logical narrative sequence. What the whole thing was really about would be a question for later.

In total eighty-five pages with varying amounts of text, Berg thought after a second count, using a moistened index finger. Sixty-one of them, folded, wrinkled, crumpled up, seemed to emanate from the pile on his desk and the floor around it, while the remaining twenty-four, judging by one of the interior pictures, had been more or less organized on Krassner’s otherwise not especially well-organized desk.

Berg first sorted the papers into two piles-wrinkled versus more or less orderly-in order to try to ascertain whether the written material in each pile possibly indicated some separate context or intellectual development, but it hadn’t made him any wiser. After more than an hour of reading, his only conclusion was that clearly this dealt in part with things that the author was already done with or had rejected and thrown away, and in part with things that he hadn’t gotten around to throwing out, but that the distinction was simply not clear from the written text. The fellow actually seems to be extremely confused, thought Berg, and for some reason he also happened to think about Waltin. Well-tailored, smiling, and in his eloquent way convinced that Krassner was a completely uninteresting nutcase who was only wasting their time.

More than once during the afternoon he pondered his poor English. In an absolute sense, and definitely in a relative sense as well, it was true that he spoke better English than the majority of his colleagues at a corresponding hierarchical level within the police operation. Not compared to Waltin, of course, for he had a quite different background, but by comparison with real police officers. In a normal, social context he managed well enough, but here he felt hopelessly handicapped. English was not his language, period, and more than once he’d been surprised by the fact that certain of his fellow workers had the temerity to maintain that they spoke fluent English. And they obviously believed it, despite the fact that their English was even worse than his.

Even before he’d started his go-through, his secretary had supplied him with a thick English-Swedish technical dictionary that he’d used before in similar connections. After lunch she’d been able to fetch a few more books that dealt with American technical expressions and common abbreviations, American colloquialisms and American slang, and after several more hours of fruitless linguistic efforts he finally gave up. He underlined those words, expressions, and passages that he didn’t understand, had his secretary copy them, and called in one of his linguists from the analysis section.

Reminds me a little of Marja when she was younger, thought Berg, who often thought about his wife, and he smiled at his hastily summoned assistant.

“You couldn’t help me with a little translation, could you?” said Berg, handing over the list of hard-to-decipher words and expressions. “From English to Swedish,” he added, and for some reason he almost sounded apologetic as he said it.

The female linguist quickly looked through the copy he’d given her, nodded, and smiled.

“I think I can manage this,” she said. “When do you want it?”

“As quickly as possible,” said Berg, and an hour later she was back in his office.

“Well,” said Berg, smiling. “How did it go?”

“I think I’ve managed most of it. In a few cases I’ve provided alternative interpretations. The most likely ones are on top.” She handed over a few neatly typewritten pages in a red plastic folder.

“Tell me,” said Berg. “Who wrote this? What kind of person?” he clarified.

“Goodness,” she said, smiling. “Linguistic psychology is not really my strong suit.”

“Try,” insisted Berg.

“American,” she said, “definitely American. Neither young nor old, somewhere between thirty and forty, I’d say. Academic, seems to have written a bit, might even be a journalist, and in that case I think I can guess who his idol is.”

“I see,” said Berg. “Who?”

“Hunter Thompson,” said the translator. “You can see the Gonzo journalism in his way of writing, even if I would say it’s the wrong context in which to use it.”

“Gonzo journalism?”

“How to explain,” she said, smiling. “Let’s put it like this. If you’re going to describe an event or a person, what’s important journalistically is not the event or person itself but rather the journalist’s feelings and thoughts in the presence of the event or person. What’s interesting is what goes on in the head of the journalist, if I may say so.”

This sounds extraordinarily practical, thought Berg.

“That sounds awfully practical. Must save an awful lot of time.”

“Certainly,” said his coworker, giggling. “Although if it’s a good head then it can be both interesting and entertaining. Like Hunter Thompson, for example, when he’s at his best. When he’s bad he’s just incomprehensible.”

“Sounds a little doubtful if it’s the truth you’re after,” Berg objected.

“The best Swedish example is probably Göran Skytte. Of a Gonzo journalist, I mean.”

Skytte, thought Berg. Wasn’t he that tall, unpleasant, self-centered, boring Scandian who ran around with that dreadful Guillou?

“So Skytte is a Swedish Hunter Thompson?”

“Well,” his coworker objected, “I have a boyfriend who plays hockey in Division Four, but I guess he’s not exactly a Gretzky. Although he would no doubt really like to be.”

“This here, then,” said Berg, pointing at the papers in the red plastic folder.

“With the qualification that my basis for comparison is perhaps a bit thin, then I think I would still maintain that Skytte is better.”

“Skytte is better,” said Berg. Than Krassner, he thought.

“Definitely,” said the translator. “If we’re talking Gonzo journalism, then Thompson plays in the National Hockey League, Skytte is in Swedish Division Four, while this guy here still has major problems with ice-skating.”

“Despite the Gonzo journalism?” said Berg. And its practical relationship to the truth, he thought.

“Perhaps more accurately, just because of that. May I ask a question?” She looked at Berg with a certain apparent hesitation.

“Yes,” said Berg. “Although I can’t promise that you’ll get an answer.”

“These things that you wanted me to translate. This much I understand, of course, that it’s the basis or draft or texts for some kind of book.”

“Yes,” said Berg. “That’s right.”

“What I’m wondering,” she continued, “is if it’s a nonfiction book. A factual description?”

“Yes,” said Berg. “At least that’s certainly the author’s intention.” And an exceedingly annoying one, he thought.

“And the remaining material looks the same?”

“Yes,” said Berg. “More or less.” In all essentials, fortunately, he thought.

“In that case I think the author is going to have major credibility problems,” said the translator. “And besides, I don’t think he writes very well.”

Gonzo journalism, thought Berg as she closed the door behind her. And for the first time during this dreadful day he felt really enlivened.

When Berg could finally call it a day and go home, it was almost ten o’clock. With the answer sheet in hand, it also seemed he could have used his time on other, much more essential work, but considering the results he could still be content. He had summarized his observations and conclusions in a special memorandum a few pages long, just enough to be the basis for the oral presentation he was thinking of making on Friday morning when he met the prime minister’s special adviser. And yet, because the content of Krassner’s posthumous reflections was what it was, he was actually looking forward to this. Quite apart from the objectivity in what was clearly, despite everything, intended to be a factual description.

“The Spy Who Went East,” thought Berg. Who Krassner’s spy was he had already figured out before he started reading, for he himself had heard it ad nauseam during his years in the big building on Polhemsgatan. During those years when the present government had been in opposition there had even been powerful forces within the closed operation working to open a preliminary investigation into the matter. Something that Berg had fortunately been able to avert with kind assistance from the then chief of national police. Although he was still not really clear about the title of Krassner’s intended book. The spy who went over to the east, thought Berg. From where, then? he thought. From the north, from the south, from the West? In all likelihood from the West, despite the fact that Krassner hadn’t given any direction whatsoever on that point in his papers, and although he’d had an uncle who worked for a number of years within the American intelligence service. Hopefully blessedly departed in accordance with the rules that applied to the cause that he served, thought Berg and decided that he’d probably been unnecessarily worried after all. The fellow actually didn’t seem to have been all there, he thought as he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

“Excuse me, chief,” said his chauffeur with a careful throat clearing. “But we’re home now.”

“I must have dozed off, so I guess I’m the one who should beg your pardon,” said Berg.

[WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 27]

Finally a night of uninterrupted rest, and by breakfast time Berg had already decided that he’d been unnecessarily concerned, that he had more important things to do, and that the explanation of the immediate circumstances surrounding Krassner’s suicide could well be turned over to a reliable coworker. Persson, thought Berg, and just then the sun peeked in through the kitchen window.

“Good morning, good morning,” said Berg, in an excellent mood, to his secretary as soon as he strode through the door to his office. “Can you ask Persson to come in to see me?”

Berg had known Persson for more than thirty years. They’d been in the same class at the police academy and a few years later they’d shared the front seat of one of the Stockholm Police Department’s radio cars during a not particularly eventful summer while their older, regular colleagues enjoyed their vacations in the country with their families and other colleagues and their families. Then Berg had started his climb toward the top of the police pyramid while Persson had played it safe and chosen to remain down below. Twenty years later, and in Persson’s case twice as many pounds around the middle, they ran into each other by chance in town. Persson was working as an investigator on the burglary squad, and true, there were better jobs, no doubt, but because life was as it was… A week later he’d started with Berg, and it was a decision that neither of them had had reason to regret.

…

“I’m listening,” said Persson, sitting down in the visitor’s chair in front of Berg’s large desk without asking for permission first, because he and Berg were old constables who’d worked like dogs together and such nonsense didn’t apply to him.

“This concerns a few discreet inquiries about an apparent suicide that occurred on Friday evening,” Berg explained.

“Hmm,” said Persson, nodding.

Five minutes later Berg had familiarized his former classmate with all the details and was essentially ready to go ahead with more essential matters than this lunatic Krassner.

“Is there anything you’re wondering about?” asked Berg amiably.

“No,” said Persson. Shook his head, got up, and left.

A real old-time constable, thought Berg affectionately when he saw Persson’s fat rear end disappearing through the door. Just as meticulous, taciturn, merciless, and kind as his father, the rural constable, had been during his time in the corps.

Two hours later everything was back to normal again and his good mood was shattered. Kudo and Bülling had requested an immediate meeting because their “analyses of certain telephone traffic clearly indicated that an assassination aimed at a highly placed but not more closely identified by name Swedish politician was imminent.”

“There’s one thing I’m wondering about,” said Berg with as judicious a tone of voice as he could summon despite the situation. “It says here”-Berg rustled the papers he’d just received-“I quote, not more closely identified by name, end quote.”

“Exactly,” said Kudo energetically.

“That’s right,” Bülling assisted with his gaze glued to the fringe of the carpet.

“Not more closely identified by name, what does that mean? Do we have his first name?” Or hers, or his or her initials? thought Berg, a little confused, while a rapid-onset headache started to feel its way out toward his temples.

“Answer no,” said Kudo briskly.

“In other words, we lack the first name of the politician in question,” mumbled Bülling.

“Do we have his last name?” asked Berg. Fälldin, he thought hopefully. If it were the former prime minister, it would certainly facilitate a possible surveillance assignment.

“Answer no,” countered Kudo. “Last name negative.”

“So in other words we have neither the first nor last name of this… not more closely identified by name… politician?”

“Exactly,” said Kudo, nodding with emphasis.

“He’s highly placed, in any event,” Bülling clarified in a mumble.

Then we devoutly hope it’s not Santa Claus, thought Berg, but he didn’t say that.

“I think we’ll do the following,” he said instead.

Five minutes later he had returned to his office, where he informed his secretary that he intended to work at home the rest of the day and could only be disturbed in event of war, naval attack, or coup d’état. Although obviously that wasn’t how he put it.

“I’ll call for your car,” said his secretary. Poor thing, she thought. He seems completely worn out. Why doesn’t he ever take a vacation?

[THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 28]

On Thursday, the twenty-eighth of November, Chief Inspector Persson wound up his discreet inquiries in Bureau Head Berg’s office regarding the immediate details in connection with the Stockholm Police Department’s investigation of the suicide of the American citizen John P. Krassner that he had initiated the day before: “probable” suicide, as it read in the initial review of the case. And as his old friend and colleague who had given him the assignment was on a visit to the secret police’s office in Luleå, the debriefing would have to wait until the following morning.

All the same, thought Persson, deciding to take off early.

[FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 29]

First he met with Persson. He had set aside an hour for their meeting, but because Persson was the way he was, they were done in twenty minutes. Krassner had taken his own life; there was quite simply no latitude for any other possibility. Suicide was also the conclusion arrived at by the investigators from the Stockholm police. In reality the case was already closed, aside from the fact that the formal decision might drag on a few more days.

“I was thinking about his movements right before… well, before he jumped out the window,” objected Berg, whose constant worry was gnawing inside his head. “He seems to have made his decision awfully late.”

Not the least bit strange, according to Persson, but actually classic suicidal behavior. Trots off to a meeting set up beforehand and right when he gets there he changes his mind and leaves. Mucks about town, returns home, and settles the matter.

Well, thought Berg. He doesn’t appear to have been particularly rational.

An embarrassing detail remained, according to Persson. If you were to dig into such things, Göransson and Martinsson had actually messed things up big time and it was no thanks to them that Waltin’s operative was already finished and had managed to leave before Krassner showed up at home in his apartment.

“Damn blind bats,” summarized Persson, and should Berg decide to send them back to the open operation at once, he could personally see about scaring the shit out of them before they got kicked out.

“Well,” said Berg, “I’d been thinking about maybe waiting a little while until everything has a chance to settle down.”

He’s starting to get soft, thought Persson, but he didn’t say that.

Then Persson got up to go, but before he did so he did something completely unexpected.

“There was one more thing,” he said, looking at Berg.

“I’m listening,” said Berg, and as he said it he heard alarm bells start ringing in his head.

“Waltin,” said Persson.

“What about him?” asked Berg.

“Get rid of that piece of shit,” said Persson.

“Is there anything in particular?” The alarm bells were ringing louder now.

“No, nothing in particular,” said Persson, shrugging his broad shoulders. “I just don’t trust him.”

“Have you heard anything?” persisted Berg.

“No, but there isn’t one single thing right with that bastard,” Persson said as he left.

What do I do now? thought Berg, and the alarm bells in his head were now pealing.

Then he went to Rosenbad and met the prime minister’s special adviser, who appeared heavy and worn-out and was disquietingly red around the eyes. He doesn’t look well, thought Berg, and something must have happened with their relationship, for the thought that his old tormentor was feeling poorly made him depressed in a hard-to-explain way. Berg proceeded gingerly and started by recounting the immediate circumstances surrounding Krassner’s suicide. The technical investigation at the scene, his posthumous suicide letter, the forensic doctor’s report, questioning of the witnesses, and the observations that his own detectives had made during the time they had kept him under surveillance-everything, absolutely everything, pointed unambiguously in the same direction: suicide.

The special adviser was content to nod and smile his wry smile with the heavy eyelids lowered.

“We must try to endure the sorrow,” he said, laughing a little.

Now I recognize you, thought Berg.

“Well well, then,” continued the special adviser, mostly sounding as if he was thinking out loud. “A mutual acquaintance maintains that you killed him.”

I must do something about Forselius, thought Berg. He seems to have gone completely gaga.

And then they finally got to the point.

“Tell me,” said the prime minister’s special adviser. “What was he up to?”

The result of the search that Berg’s coworker had carried out-Berg was careful to underscore that this was a matter of a house search and that it had full legal support in the partially secret legislation that governed his operation-showed that Krassner was in the process of writing a book, that he didn’t seem to have gotten especially far in his work, and that the little there was to study was incoherent, not to say incomprehensible. In addition, with his suicide the entire affair was no doubt over.

“What was it about?” The prime minister’s special adviser suddenly seemed a bit more alert and looked at Berg with curiosity.

“It was about your boss,” said Berg. “Or, to put it more correctly,” he added judiciously, “I think it was intended to be about your boss.”

“Explain,” said the special adviser.

The material that Berg had studied mostly contained drafts of background descriptions: of the Social Democratic Party’s frightful history, with its constant zigzagging between capitalism and communism; how during the war the party had been closely allied with the Nazis; and that from the beginning the party had been led by lechers and bribe-takers. Branting kept mistresses and was really just a capitalist in disguise who wanted to cover his own rear end just in case. Per Albin also had mistresses and moreover took bribes from the executives that he used to play poker and drink with. Krassner had this from a reliable Swedish source, whose grandfather had himself been one of the bribe-givers and told it in confidence to the source’s own mother. In addition he was a multimillionaire by virtue of the fact that he’d organized a national fund on his fiftieth birthday whose proceeds had gone straight into his own pockets.

“Just imagine,” said the special adviser with delight. “I’ve always thought that Per Albin was a wise man. But Tage, then? What kind of mischief was he up to?”

“Erlander is not mentioned whatsoever in the material that we have inspected,” Berg declared.

“That’s fishy,” said the special adviser. “People from Värmland have always been crafty types. And they drink, and they’re damn lazy, just like the slaves in Uncle Tom’s Cabin. It was dancing at the crossroads and all that kind of thing.”

Say that during an election campaign, thought Berg, but he didn’t say that.

“Well,” said the special adviser, looking urgently at Berg. “I realize you’ve saved the best for last. My highly esteemed boss: What kind of criminal activities has he gotten himself into?”

“Apart from the fact that he’s been a Russian spy since the mid-1960s he seems to have conducted himself quite well for the most part,” said Berg dryly.

“And what is the evidence for that?” said the special adviser.

“Nothing that you couldn’t read between the lines in Svenskan,” said Berg. Or that I haven’t heard at work, he thought, but naturally he didn’t say that.

“And that’s all?” asked the special adviser, sounding almost disappointed.

“That’s all,” said Berg, “and the only reasonable conclusion is that we’ve been unnecessarily concerned.”

But then the objections had come and suddenly Berg recognized his old self.

“There are four things that I don’t really understand,” said the special adviser. “In general there are lots of things I don’t understand, but in this case there are four.”

“I’m listening,” said Berg, and now he was hearing the alarm bells again. Faintly and way back in his head, it was true, but clearly.

“The reason that we got unnecessarily concerned was not Krassner of course, but his uncle. Where is he in this?”

Nowhere, according to Berg.

“I recall you saying at the beginning that he was sitting for entire days writing at his typewriter, and all you find are less than a hundred pages of unsorted and mostly rejected notes, despite the fact that he’d been at it for six weeks? Has he hidden something, and in that case, where?”

According to Berg there was nothing to indicate that he had hidden away either documentation or material that he’d written himself. In any case not here in Sweden.

“The material you looked at seems to deal primarily with the party and its leadership. To me that sounds like a typical background description to something else. And a completely plausible reason to come here and get down to work.”

“You mean he ought to have more material at home in the U.S.,” asked Berg. Concerning your boss, he thought.

“Yes.”

“I am withholding judgment,” said Berg, “but if it is of the same quality as what we’ve found here, I still don’t think there’s any reason for us to worry.”

For you don’t really want me to ask the Germans to pose the question to our colleagues across the pond, he thought.

“And then I don’t understand the title of his book,” said the special adviser. “The spy who went over to the east?”

“I don’t either,” said Berg.

Nice to hear, thought the special adviser, for that was exactly the answer he wanted.

The ensuing weekly meeting went completely without friction, and the minister appeared mostly to be thinking about the approaching weekend. Berg had devoted most of the time to briefing them about two ongoing investigations of foreign embassies. One dealt with suspected refugee espionage and one with an unfortunately already completed case of industrial espionage in which the foreign office was resisting deportation. None of those present had any questions. On the other hand, the alarm bells in Berg’s head were still ringing.

It is as it is, thought Berg when he got into his car outside Rosenbad. It’s nice that the weekend’s almost here.

[THE FIRST WEEK IN DECEMBER]

So, what’s really going on? thought Assistant Detective Jeanette Eriksson as she settled down on her usual chair at work on Monday morning after having spent the weekend together with her new-and secret-boyfriend, Police Superintendent Waltin. For wasn’t that how she was expected to view him, despite the difference in age? Her rump was sore too, which was awkward because the seclusion of her own office was now only a memory. Moreover, the whole Krassner project was already history, of the type that could never be told and with the lid painstakingly screwed down by the highest boss himself. And everything had started so well just a week ago, or ten days, to be exact, thought Eriksson, who was still careful about time regardless of whether it concerned work or her private life. Or, as in this case, something that had started as the former and continued as the latter.

Krassner was definitely history and Daniel would soon be. The last time they’d spoken she’d told him a tall tale about her constantly ailing mother suddenly becoming so much worse that she was now compelled to go home to Norrland to help her dad take care of her and her younger siblings. Daniel’s sympathy as usual knew no bounds and she herself had felt even more reprehensible than usual. All that actually remained was Waltin, for it was he who now decided in detail how she should cover up after the assignment with Krassner, and it was he who now occupied her private life and clearly intended to do so in such a way that she didn’t have the least desire to talk about it with anyone. Like that bag of candy that he’d first given her and then taken back for reasons that would scarcely be publishable even in Aunt Malena’s little column in the big evening paper.

What is really going on? thought Assistant Detective Eriksson as she carefully adjusted her bottom to find the least painful position before she went to work on the day’s routine assignments.

On Tuesday, the third of December, the Stockholm police closed the investigation of John P. Krassner’s sudden death. His suicide was now explained beyond all reasonable doubt, there were even papers on the matter, and before the day was over Police Inspector Persson in his discreet way produced a copy of the entire investigation.

On the other hand, he had missed Krassner’s belongings, the few things he’d left behind, for the embassy had already sent those home to the United States. This clearly bothered Persson, who among other things asked for some invitation that was not found either in the confiscation record or on the list of things sent home, but Persson had not been the least bit concerned. You throw away that kind of shit as soon as you get it, don’t you? Persson thought, and he’d said so as well.

“You throw away that kind of shit as soon as you get it, don’t you?” said Persson.

Berg contented himself with nodding in agreement, but to be completely sure he also requested an expert opinion from one of the bureau’s psychiatric consultants. An extraordinarily competent doctor of the old school who had helped him on several previous occasions and who hadn’t disappointed him this time either. Clearly Krassner’s posthumous letter indicated that among other things he had a “strong depressive disposition” and that the “suicidal thoughts that had tormented him a long time” had finally acquired an “almost compulsory and occasionally hallucinatory character.”

Finally, thought Berg, and high time to place this sorrowful story with the other secret files.

The weekly meeting had a mixed agenda in which the prime minister’s somewhat eccentric awareness of security had once again been discussed.

“I took the matter up with him after our most recent government meeting, as I promised,” reported the minister of justice, nodding with poorly concealed pride.

“And what did he say?” asked the special adviser avidly from behind half-closed eyelids.

“He promised to think about it,” answered the minister.

“That is truly exceptional progress. I really must congratulate you,” said the special adviser, chuckling. “Then I won’t ruin the whole day for you gentlemen by relating what he said to me when I brought up the same question.”

And that was as far as they got.

After the meeting the prime minister’s special adviser took Berg aside to ask a simple, personal question.

“This Waltin,” he wondered. “This is a person that you trust unconditionally?”

I must do something about Forselius, Berg thought with sudden irritation. I can’t have it this way.

“I understand that you have spoken with Forselius,” said Berg.

The special adviser made a difficult-to-interpret gesture that clearly was to show he didn’t intend to say boo on that subject.

“Let me put it like this,” said Berg carefully. “I think it mostly concerns a lack of personal chemistry, and were I to give a direct answer to your question I can only say that up till now I haven’t had any concrete reason whatsoever to mistrust Police Superintendent Waltin.” Apart from his private, childish little antics, which there’s no reason to go into here, thought Berg.

This time the special adviser contented himself with a slightly dismissive gesture.

“And you are of course aware of the structural problem?”

“I’m not quite sure I understand what you mean,” said Berg, still careful.

The rest of the conversation proceeded on a so-called level of principle. That was, after all, what it was called when someone like the special adviser intended to tell someone like Berg off. According to the special adviser, Berg’s structural problem was a logical consequence of the manner in which he had built up the supervision of his operation. Who would supervise the final supervisor in the chain? Especially if he were as well concealed as Waltin with all his external functions?

“It’s an insoluble problem,” said Berg. Like the kind that you love to talk about, he thought.

Not insoluble at all, according to the special adviser from his elevated position. Instead, what it involved was simply adopting a dialectical attitude in his view of the organization and its operation. Building competition and oppositions into the structure was an excellent way to also check what the various parts of it were actually up to.

“And what will happen to a peaceful work environment?” objected Berg. Dialectical, he thought. Wonder if he’s a communist? True, there was nothing in his papers, but his manner of reasoning was undeniably suspicious.

“Think about it,” said the special adviser with a dismissive shrug of his shoulders. And suddenly Berg’s inner alarm bells started ringing again.

On Friday Berg informed Waltin that Krassner was now a closed case, and despite the fact that this concerned what was fundamentally a serious story that might have ended considerably worse, Waltin was his usual irresponsible self. A well-tailored shrug of the shoulders, thought Berg, and if I don’t do something about that I may well have a new parliamentary oversight round my neck.

“What were you thinking about doing about that senile character with the cognac?” asked Waltin, who was not one to let things pass.

“I’m hard at work on it,” said Berg, who had already decided to change Forselius’s clearances and hadn’t the slightest intention of announcing it to anyone. Least of all Waltin.

“If you want you can send him an invoice,” said Waltin, smiling like a satisfied wolf. “He’s cost me almost a thousand man-hours.”

“Oh well,” said Berg, changing the subject. “It’ll work out.” And in the worst case I’m sure you can pawn your watch, he thought, but naturally he didn’t say that.

Instead he contented himself with giving a few general directives for the ongoing work: the survey of antidemocratic elements within the police and the military, the Kurds and other terrorist organizations, threats against the prime minister and other pillars of society-just to mention the general overview.

Knife ourselves in the back, gnomes and trolls, Krassner and other loonies-sounds like an excellent agenda, thought Waltin, but obviously he didn’t say that.

“Fine with me,” said Waltin. And he himself had more important things to get to work on.

On Saturday the prime minister’s special adviser met his old teacher and mentor, Professor Forselius, at the Turing Society’s annual Christmas dinner at an exclusive gentlemen’s club. An informal society, to be sure, but the guests were in tails and full academic regalia in memory of one of the greatest who had also lived his life between the promise of summer and the cold of winter and chosen to finish it by his own hand when the chill around him had become all too apparent.

The annual Christmas dinner was always enjoyed on the first Saturday in December, because it was preferable to be done in good time, and the ceremonies, the pace, and the majority of the members had been the same since the days of the cold war. First a simple buffet and a few shots of aquavit without preamble so that even the gout-afflicted professors could mingle easily with one another. Then a traditional, bourgeois dinner, which always ended with the carafe of port going clockwise around the table before they headed to one of the inner rooms for coffee and cognac.

Forselius had taken his old pupil aside and placed them both in chairs in the corner that he considered most suitable for informal conversations about such things as were included in the secrecy laws of the realm.

“Do you still have your professorship or do the socialists pay so damn little that you can’t afford to buy a new tuxedo?” grunted Forselius, nodding toward the wreaths of oak leaves around the special adviser’s black velvet collar.

“I still have the appointment and I have the salary to keep a horse, kind of you to ask,” said the special adviser. You’re your usual self, you old bastard, he thought with the warmth that naturally ensued from a fine dinner.

“You should watch out for those devils,” warned Forselius. “Next time it may be you who goes out on your ears through your window.”

“Those that I’ve spoken with maintain that he took his own life,” said the special adviser. And I promise to watch out as soon as we start the election campaign, he thought.

“Obviously,” snorted Forselius. “Is it the one with the gold watch who says that?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” said the special adviser, “but wasn’t it you who made contact with him?”

“With Berg, yes,” said Forselius. “Berg is a good fellow, a little stupid, it’s true, like all policemen, but simple and pleasant and good to deal with. Always does what you tell him.”

Give me a break, thought the special adviser, who belonged to a different generation than his mentor.

“What do you think I should have done, then?” he asked.

“Seen to it that the staff took care of it. That’s what we always did in my time. I’m sure you know what SePo thinks about people like you and your boss? He of all people ought to know that, shouldn’t he?”

Sometimes you’re awfully tedious, thought the special adviser, but he didn’t say that.

“Why in heaven’s name should SePo kill someone like Krassner?”

“Sometimes I actually worry about you,” said Forselius, looking sternly at his old pupil. “In order to get their mitts on his papers, of course.”

“His so-called papers contained mostly nonsense-only nonsense, actually.”

“So that’s what they say,” said Forselius. “And you, what would you say if you thought about it?”

That it was just nonsense, thought the special adviser, but he didn’t intend to enlighten Forselius about that in any case.

Waltin had chosen to spend this weekend on the estate he’d inherited from his father in Sörmland. True, his apartment on Norr Mälarstrand was very good for meeting his normal needs, and he had laid out a good deal of money both to soundproof it and install the technical equipment that he needed for his private documentation, but for the sensitive initial phase greater isolation than that was required.

Comfortable and off the main road. The fields and forests had long been rented out, and, considering the times, at a respectable price. The employees who had always been there had been laid off and moved, and nowadays there were no human eyes or ears in the vicinity that might see or hear things that didn’t concern them. No help to be had, in a nutshell, and his training of little Jeanette was going completely according to plan. Because she had no idea of the reality in which he lived, and that would soon become hers, she also seemed to perceive the whole thing as some type of sexual role play which enticed her more than it frightened her.

The previous weekend he’d actually already reached a breakthrough in their relationship. He complimented himself for the stroke of genius with the bag of candies: her all too ravenous appetite for salt licorice and gummi bears, the subsequent punishment, and the spontaneous opportunity that this in turn had given him to remove the annoying growth of hair between her legs with the help of a razor. Now she looked most attractive: small and slender with her thin, almost boyish body and her totally naked vagina. If only the hair on her head were allowed to grow a little, she could be almost perfect, with two small braided pigtails. Little Jeanette, age thirteen, thought Waltin with all the love and all the hope for the future of which only he was capable. Even the documentation of their budding relationship had succeeded beyond expectations. He already had enough video and audio sequences both to satisfy his own fantasies when he was alone and to nip possible attempts at rebellion in the bud. Everything indicated that Jeanette might become one of his most successful projects ever.

Why can’t he fuck like other people anymore? thought Assistant Detective Jeanette Eriksson, who this weekend was spending more time bent forward across his knees with her redder and redder backside straight up in the air than her lover, Police Superintendent Claes Waltin, was spending between her legs. She felt dejected and generally confused, and not even Krassner, who had after all been dead for more than fourteen days, was leaving her in peace. There was something that didn’t add up, and finally she plucked up her courage and asked him, if for nothing else than to get a little peace and quiet. In the best case to get him to think about something other than various ways of paddling her rear end.

“There’s one thing that I don’t understand,” she began hesitantly, with the shyly downward look that she realized that her situation now demanded.

“There is so much that you don’t understand,” said Waltin with both warmth and malt whiskey in his voice.

“There was something that Dan-that M’Boye told me that evening when we came back and we discovered that Krassner had killed himself,” she continued.

“Yes,” said Waltin with an irritated wrinkle on his otherwise smooth and suntanned forehead. Wonder if she’s fucked that damn black guy, he thought, but because the very thought was so unpleasant he quickly pushed it aside.

“When he spoke with the cops,” she added quickly. “That Wiijnbladh from tech and that horrible little fat guy from homicide.”

For some reason that she didn’t understand the wrinkles had smoothed out and Waltin suddenly appeared both pleased and curious.

“I’m listening,” he said.

Daniel had arrived late. They were to have met at seven o’clock, but he hadn’t shown up until a quarter of an hour later. In the lobby of the student dormitory on his way out to the meeting with Jeanette he had run into Krassner, who was on his way into the building. The time would have been, oh, about ten or twelve minutes past seven. Briefly and in summary, she couldn’t get those times to agree with the times that the team had planned for carrying out their inspection of Krassner’s residence.

“Well thought out, Jeanette,” said Waltin approvingly. “We actually had better luck there than we deserved.”

Then he related to her how their operative had violated his instructions and had already begun the operation at twenty minutes to seven, while M’Boye was still in his room. Krassner’s home was both small and empty of interesting material, and the house search for which they had set aside an hour had been finished in less than half that time.

“Good thing they didn’t run into each other,” said Jeanette, feeling a genuine sense of relief.

“Must have been a few minutes at most that separated them,” Waltin agreed, looking at her greedily.

Nice try, Hedberg, but you’re not fooling me, thought Waltin, and suddenly he felt as exhilarated as that time when, completely by chance, he’d run into dear Mama as she stood staggering on the Östermalm subway-station platform.

Five minutes later everything was back to normal again.

Naughty, naughty Hedberg, thought Waltin contentedly while he energetically penetrated little Jeanette from behind to the stimulating and muffled sounds that she was emitting through his professionally applied muzzle.

What is really going on? thought Jeanette, for of course she couldn’t say anything.