Between Summer's Longing and Winter's End

CHAPTER XIX

And all that remained was the cold of winter

Stockholm in February

Waltin was in the habit of keeping everything sensitive in his head. He’d learned that early on, and there would have to be compelling reasons to put something on paper within the operation where he worked. He had no great faith in auditors, either, and if you simply kept things orderly around you there was no reason to fear them. Nonetheless-and this he knew-people did make mistakes. This applied to him as well, and for that reason he was very careful about inspecting the papers that were to be turned over to Berg.

The money didn’t worry him. Everything essential was already taken care of, and on that point he didn’t have the least concern. Certain withdrawals and transfers could, however, still be made, an invoice or two might be supplied with the right date and inserted into the bookkeeping, and if you minded the pennies the dollars tended to take care of themselves. Hedberg’s little foreign company in the security industry, the one that Waltin owned but with Hedberg’s name on all the files, would shortly receive a substantial replenishment of liquid assets.

Because he was forced to do what he was doing, he’d taken the opportunity to amuse himself royally while he did it. He’d sorted and turned in the material in the most confusing way, attached hard-to-read handwritten scraps of paper with questions and opinions on everything between heaven and earth, which was innocent enough and totally uninteresting if it was really him that they were after. The auditors might as well have to earn their keep while they were at it.

…

Berg never ceased to surprise him. Waltin had been completely convinced that the coward would roll over when he tossed Hedberg out on the table. But he hadn’t. Instead Berg had obviously thrown a wrench into his plans, even if he’d needed that fat-ass Persson in order to put up real resistance. Inspected closely, his own cards weren’t especially good, either. What could he say? That he had reason to suspect that his own operative had killed Krassner and feigned his suicide? In which case, why had he kept quiet about the matter for more than two months? Not good, not good at all.

But apart from his mounting irritation at a totally incompetent boss, there was nothing to suggest that if everyone just sat quietly in the boat, things would go wrong. As it was now, they were in the process of dismantling a perfectly functioning organization simply because some social democrats in the government office building wanted to be ornery with them. This was pure madness, and even wanting to discuss the matter at all showed how weak you were. He’d spoken with Hedberg on the telephone several times but he seemed almost evasive. Did he suspect anything? Did he have any clue that Waltin was trying to lure him home to Sweden in order to lock him up in prison? Hedberg was far from being a genius, but he was sufficiently intelligent for the kind of thing Waltin usually used him for. He was a calm, likable person, and above all else he was reliable. In addition, considering their history together, he was the very last person Waltin wanted to quarrel with. Anyone at all, but not Hedberg.

Finally he’d been forced to take the bull by the horns and explain to Hedberg that he now so help me God had to come home to Sweden to help clean up. There were things that Waltin didn’t understand and that Hedberg might possibly help him with. The sort of things that you couldn’t discuss on the telephone, for they both knew that so-called secure lines only existed in the believer’s imagination. And perhaps if he now distrusted Waltin, he ought to take a look at the amounts that had flowed into the company’s account recently. Money that Waltin had turned over to Hedberg with full confidence and that he would naturally never be able to demand back if Hedberg turned difficult. Clearly he’d bought that argument, for the last Saturday in February he’d suddenly phoned from Arlanda on Waltin’s secret number to report that he was on the scene.

Waltin had put him up in the apartment at Gärdet where he’d lived when he’d come over most recently to help with Krassner. Not to remind him in any way, but simply because that was the most secure he had to offer at the moment. It was at the disposal of the external operation and only he knew about it. Berg obviously had no inkling about it, and it was a so-called secure address. It was not a place where people from the open operation might come rushing in at any moment. Besides, it was a nice place to stay. Waltin himself had made use of it on a few occasions, and if it was good enough for him with his demands for seclusion and comfort, then it was more than good enough for Hedberg.

When they met, Hedberg said little, as usual, but there must have been something more that was weighing on him because he started by saying that he could only stay until next Saturday. Partly because he’d been planning to return to Java for a long time, partly because he had to see to getting his boat in the water.

“Fine with me,” said Waltin good-humoredly. “Then we’ll just scrape together as much as we have time and energy for.”

During the work-filled days that followed they also started to find each other again. Hedberg softened, and Waltin started to regain his confidence. On Thursday, when they were done for the most part with what they needed to do, Waltin treated him to a nice dinner at an out-of-the-way place, and when they were sitting with their coffee Hedberg opened up.

“At first I thought you intended to set me up,” he said suddenly, looking at Waltin.

“Oh well,” said Waltin, making an effort to sound both relaxed and sufficiently uninterested. “If anything it’s probably the case that you know considerably more about this than I do. The only thing I’ve understood is that wham-bam Berg has my head on a platter.”

“Yes,” said Hedberg, smiling wanly. “I got that. And I certainly think you understand that I’m not the type to set you up.”

No, thought Waltin with feeling, for in that case you’d no doubt dream up something considerably worse.

“Sometimes it’s best not to know something,” said Hedberg cryptically.

You’re telling me, thought Waltin.

Then Hedberg sat quietly for almost a minute while he twirled his spoon in his coffee cup, and that must have been when he decided, for he’d spilled everything that up till that moment Waltin had been forced to figure out for himself.

“There wasn’t anything really wrong with that American,” said Hedberg, for some reason choosing not to refer to him by name. “It was those fucking social democrats that were after him to protect that traitor they had as a boss.” He didn’t go into how he now knew that. “He’d managed to worm his way in with the CIA and sold them out too. To the Russians, of course, since they were the ones he was working for the whole time. Ever since he was a little snot-nosed kid,” clarified Hedberg.

“I guess I’ve suspected a thing or two over the years,” said Waltin, sighing. Would have been fun to read those papers you took with you, he thought.

“Then he had his best friend murdered too,” said Hedberg, nodding.

“My God,” said Waltin with well-acted disgust. “Are you sure of that?” Clearly had more balls than his voters, he thought with delight.

“Quite certain,” said Hedberg, nodding. “A murder-for-hire that the Russians arranged for him. I guess he didn’t dare pull the strings himself,” said Hedberg with a snort.

“No, my God,” said Waltin with emphasis. “I hope you’ll excuse me but I at least have to have a little pick-me-up. Will you join me?” Sounds like a book that just has to get published, thought Waltin with delight. That manuscript must be worth millions.

Hedberg hardly drank at all. Something that Waltin had been glad to note right at the start of their acquaintance, but what he had just related had clearly made an impression.

“I’ll have a small whiskey,” said Hedberg. “Something inexpensive is fine.”

Before they parted they decided to meet the next evening to clear up the final details before Hedberg went back.

I don’t need to worry about him, in any case, thought Waltin as he sat in the taxi on the way back home.

Late on Friday afternoon Waltin had taken the opportunity to drop by Berg’s office in order to turn in yet another thick pile of painstakingly unsorted documents so that his boss would have something to upset his weekend with, and on the way into Berg’s office he almost ran into a chief inspector with the prime minister’s security detail, who was on his way out. Red under the eyes and clearly so upset that he neither saw nor heard.

“Heavens,” said Waltin, smiling with his white teeth toward Berg. “He didn’t seem happy. Have you been mean to him?” As well, he thought.

Berg didn’t seem especially upbeat, either. He sighed heavily and shook his head absentmindedly. He’ll soon be ready for the madhouse, thought Waltin contentedly. We’re only counting the days.

“No,” said Berg. “If only it were that simple. He’s just gotten a touch of his usual headache.”

“So that’s how it is,” said Waltin as he set his papers on Berg’s desk. “Brought along a little reading for you before the weekend, by the way. What’s the big boss come up with this time, then? Is he going to go over Niagara Falls in a barrel?”

“If only it were that good,” sighed Berg. “No, he’s going to the movies with his wife.”

“Here in town?” said Waltin with genuine astonishment. On a Friday evening after payday and thirteen drunks for every dozen and without a guard? The man must have a very strong death wish, thought Waltin, and considering how many years he’d heard everyone complain about the prime minister’s nonexistent security awareness, it was a pure miracle that no one had taken advantage of the opportunity. Must be all the TV-watching, thought Waltin. People just sit and stare at their televisions instead of doing something sensible with their lives.

Berg sighed yet again and then he said something that he really wasn’t allowed to say, not even to Waltin, despite the fact that Waltin was a police superintendent with the secret police and both security-classed and equipped with a muzzle both lengthwise and crosswise.

“He called a few hours ago and canceled his bodyguards. He and his wife were thinking about going to a movie, and before that they were going to have dinner together at their residence.”

“Clint Eastwood’s latest, of course,” said Waltin, clucking with delight.

“No idea,” said Berg, uninterested, for personally he never went to the movies. He didn’t say that; it wasn’t decided for sure. Not even that, he thought dejectedly.

Well, well, thought Waltin when he left Berg. You can’t have everything, but nonetheless he felt the same tingling expectation as that time when he saw dear Mother standing there wobbling on the platform with her silly canes.

High time to go home, thought Berg, looking with distaste at the papers that Waltin had left on his desk. Considering the orderliness that Waltin was clearly capable of, it was his good fortune that he wasn’t compelled to support himself for real by running his own business. When the auditors had reported to Berg they’d been almost white in the face, and what had shaken them the most was that they were completely convinced that Waltin had genuinely exerted himself to do his very best. Anyway, that was completely uninteresting, considering what happened later.

During the years that followed Berg devoted hundreds of hours to ransacking his consciousness. Honestly, sincerely, and ruthlessly he tried to recall down to the smallest detail what he’d done, said, and thought during the days in question that would change his life as well. He obviously remembered the short meeting with Waltin, as well as the reason that Waltin had dropped by his office. In order to deliver a bundle of papers that, it was true, were classified at the highest level of secrecy, but in any case had nothing to do with what happened later. That was all, and there wasn’t anything more.

When Hedberg showed up in the apartment at Gärdet he was late. It was going on seven-thirty and Waltin had waited for half an hour and more or less given up on the idea he’d been thinking about. Whatever it was, thought Waltin in his usual superficial way, but just at that moment Hedberg put the key in the lock.

“Unfortunately I have to cancel our little meeting,” said Waltin, “but we were through with each other for the most part anyway.”

“That’s okay with me,” said Hedberg, shrugging his shoulders. Perhaps I should stop by Café Opera and see if there’s anything worth screwing, he thought. It’s actually been a while.

“I heard a funny thing at the office an hour ago,” said Waltin. Just in passing like that, he thought, so we’ll have to see if there’s anyone who’ll rise to the bait.

“Yes?”

“Our mutual acquaintance seems to have phoned and canceled his bodyguards. He’s supposed to be going to a movie with his wife. In the middle of town on a Friday evening after payday when there are thirteen drunks to the dozen,” said Waltin, smiling.

“The Swedes are a patient people,” declared Hedberg. “I’m sure he’s figured that out. Kept in the dark and put up with just about anything.”

“Unfortunately that’s how it is,” sighed Waltin.

“Does he still live there?” said Hedberg suddenly.

“Yes,” said Waltin as he looked at the expensive watch that he’d stolen while dear Mother was still alive and he himself was far too young to be able to use it. “Yes, he still lives there.

“From one thing to another,” said Waltin as he stood up. “Because I’m forced to close down, I bought some goodies and put them in the fridge. If there should be anything left over, just leave it so I can take care of it tomorrow after you’ve gone. I was thinking about stopping by anyway.”

“It’ll work out,” said Hedberg.

…

As soon as Waltin had left, Hedberg went out to the kitchen and took out the plastic bag with mixed delicacies that Waltin had placed in the fridge. The revolver was under a foil container from the Östermalm market with prepared veal burgers, cream gravy, small green peas, and mashed potatoes.

Who the hell does he take me for? thought Hedberg crossly as he weighed it in his hand. Buffalo Bill?

Then he looked at his watch and it was almost eight, so perhaps there wasn’t so much to think about, but since he’d planned to go into town anyway he might just as well take a look past Old Town where the traitor lived.