Between Summer's Longing and Winter's End

CHAPTER IV

Free falling, as in a dream

Stockholm in autumn

There hadn’t been much mushroom picking, Berg would always think when he looked back at that autumn before everything happened. He and his wife had a little cottage up in Roslagen and usually they picked quite a few mushrooms during the fall. Mushrooms are good, thought Berg, it was nice to walk around in the woods thinking while his wife darted aimlessly among the bushes. It was a small contribution to their finances as well. True, he was a department head and earned more than almost all his colleagues within the corps, but every little bit helps, he would think.

But not that autumn, for the demands of his political superiors had become more and more exacting, and the prime minister’s adviser started showing up at meetings again; if he really was as intelligent as they said, Berg for one could think of better ways to make use of the gifts the good Lord had clearly bestowed on him. He wasn’t even ironic anymore, just treacherous, and everything he said required Berg’s entire analytical capacity simply to interpret. But after many trials and tribulations it was finally ready, the first report on “Anticonstitutional Movements and Elements Within the Open Police Operations in the Stockholm Police Department.”

Toward the end of this work, he had been forced to personally intervene to organize the content and form, despite the fact that his coworkers were doing all they could and despite the fact that he assigned several of his best forces to the task. People who obviously, and preferably, should have been used on more pressing assignments. Unfortunately he was the one who had established the boundaries of the task and decided on the title of the report, something he would have to eat at numerous meetings during the fall; for a while, in fact, it threatened to paint him into a corner where he easily could have lost control of the entire ongoing process.

His wretched excuse for a nephew was of course part of the material, which he had counted on in general, but when the whole thing was done he could say that, unfortunately, this simple fact demanded as much psychic energy as the work itself. Should he set out the names of colleagues included in the material when he gave a summary of it to his superiors? Obviously not; it went against established routine, and created considerable, quite unnecessary risks. Would there be gossip and talk? Probably. Would he get any questions about this? Probably not. Would it be used against him regardless of what he did or didn’t do? Certainly.

It was not a long report. Including appendices, it was just over a hundred pages, and enumerated a corresponding number of policemen, almost all of whom had in common that they worked in the uniformed police in central Stockholm and that they, individually and collectively, in various ways and with varying frequency, had expressed extreme right-wing or flat-out neo-Nazi opinions. The way in which they’d done so varied essentially. There were individual policemen who openly took the first opportunity to express themselves disparagingly or even hatefully about female colleagues, about immigrants, about the so-called clientele with whom they worked, about people in general, about social democrats, about the left in general. In short, about everyone except themselves. There were others who behaved inappropriately as soon as they were around more than two pairs of eyes in the heads of anyone other than their fellow police officers; who would wear a swastika on the inside of their coat lapel; who gave the Hitler salute at the bar, who made toasts to Adolf Hitler, or said that the prime minister ought to be shot, or that you ought to make glue out of all immigrants.

There was also a hard core, organized in various ways, that had regular gatherings and maintained high security and discretion in the presence of the world around them. Of course it was within this core that Berg found his own nephew; as a foreground figure, moreover, both a formal and an informal leader. “Policeman B appears to play a leading role in this connection. It should be pointed out, however, that his superior gives him extraordinary evaluations and among other things describes him as one of the best policemen in the district, with good judgment and good conduct.”

They held meetings in rented halls as well as at the police station, had joint exercises and other open-air leisure activities, had dinner together at a so-called men’s club with special invitees, listened to lectures on the good life in South Africa, on Hitler as a political thinker, on why no Nobel Prize winners were black, and on the left-wing slant in the press. German marching music was played and a joint Hitler greeting was made before, during, and after the meal. “It should, however, be noted that consumption of alcohol at these social gatherings was always moderate,” Berg’s infiltrator noted in one of the surveillance memoranda he submitted.

Reporting to his superiors in the blue room on the seventh floor at Rosenbad. Outside the windows a pale September sun was shining. And now the misery can begin, thought Berg.

“If I’ve counted right in your document,” said the special adviser, observing Berg with his constant, irritating half-sneer, “which isn’t always easy for the mathematically inclined,” he added with a faint chuckle.

Berg was content to nod.

“So, your material includes between a hundred and five and a hundred fifteen so-called members of the Stockholm Police Department’s various uniformed divisions, all of whom have in common that they seem to harbor a certain faiblesse for”-he savored the words almost sensuously-“or the brown and black colors on the political palette.”

Berg was content to nod. Where is he going? he thought.

“How many policemen are there in the divisions included in your survey?” the special adviser asked.

“Somewhere between twelve hundred and fifteen hundred,” answered Berg quickly. “I apologize that I can’t give you a more exact number than that.” So now he’ll convert that to a percentage, he thought.

“Nine hundred seventy, according to the information which I’ve received from the highest leadership in the Stockholm Police Department. Which should give us a percentage of between eleven and twelve percent. If this impromptu calculation is correct.”

Don’t put on airs, thought Berg, but he didn’t say that.

“That sounds about right,” said Berg, “but I think your base sounds a little small. Just under a thousand policemen, I’m almost certain that there are considerably more.”

“Which should give us a percentage of between seven and eight if there are fifteen hundred as you say. That sounds almost comforting.”

Now he chuckled again.

“Seven percent is bad enough,” said Berg.

“That the number should be nine hundred seventy was, by the way, a piece of information I got from the chief constable. Do you mean that he could have underestimated his own personnel by more than fifty percent?”

Sweden’s most moronic police officer and the only one who votes for the social democrats, if you believe what he says himself, so he might very well have, thought Berg.

“I am the one, no doubt, who is misinformed,” said Berg. “However that may be, it’s bad enough.”

“These hundred or so you’ve picked out for us”-the special adviser mostly seemed to be thinking out loud-“do they form just the tip of an iceberg or are things on the contrary so fortunate that you’ve managed to include pretty much all of them?”

“Unfortunately one has to account for a certain number of omissions,” said Berg defensively.

“Now, if one were to harbor such opinions while observing so-called normal human behavior, that’s to say without running around shouting ‘Heil Hitler’ and singing ‘Die Fahne Hoch’ while dressed in a peaked cap with a skull on it…”

“There is probably a risk of that, yes. Unfortunately,” said Berg. Where are you going now? he thought.

“But rather, one settles for silent complicity and writes one’s recommendations in one way and not another and uses simple scheduling and planning, for example, to ensure that no female officers are allowed to set foot in the field or that no immigrants are admitted to the police academy. As long as one is content with that, one doesn’t end up in your survey, in any case?”

No, thought Berg. How would you be able to do that? But he didn’t say that, of course.

“Answer is yes,” said Berg and just as he said that he wished he had bitten off his tongue instead.

“Answer is yes,” repeated the special adviser, looking as though he had just tasted something extra delicious. “It sounds like a serious deficiency in the method of investigation itself.”

Get out of this, thought Berg. Turn it around.

“I interpret your comments to mean that perhaps you have been thinking about the matter, that you have some concrete suggestions?”

“I don’t know about suggestions. Regardless of whether there are five or fifty percent we have to find a way to get rid of them. Preferably immediately, and in the worst case as soon as possible. We are talking about the Swedish police, not about the SS or the SA or the Gestapo. Not even about the Secret Swedish State Police, or Sestapo, which for some reason they preferred to call themselves in the good old days.”

How naïve can you be? thought Berg. The union would never go along, and someone like you surely ought to have learned that, at least.

“Unfortunately I see certain problems with legislation and employment-security regulations and union interests. To only mention a few of the factors in this connection.” Berg shrugged his shoulders eloquently.

It hadn’t gotten better. They’d gone over time by almost two hours. And he couldn’t excuse himself and leave, either. Especially not when perhaps that was precisely what they hoped he would do.

“I was thinking about your excellent memorandum, the one about the secret police and the military as the great threats against democracy,” said the special adviser. “Not the ones who go around in uniforms that your survey deals with. It’s not the traffic cops who keep me awake at night.” Now he seemed to be thinking out loud again.

“Not me either anymore,” the minister interjected happily, speaking for the first time in half an hour. “Not since I stopped driving,” he said and tittered.

“No,” said Berg politely. “Yes,” he added inquiringly, looking at his tormentor. What are you driving at? he thought.

“Would you describe your own coworkers as more or less reliable than those characters you’ve just described for us?”

“That is clearly a completely different category of officer,” said Berg emphatically. “Behavior, opinions, or thoughts of the type described would never be tolerated by us.” Finally, solid ground under his feet, he thought.

“Secret police officers are more intelligent than regular police,” the special adviser clarified. “More controlled, more reticent, completely normal in their outer, observable behavior, in short. Above all, are they more reticent?”

“Certainly,” said Berg, in spite of the fact that he now saw the direction in which they were heading. Fortunately they’re significantly more reticent than most, he thought.

“If you make the Hitler salute before a job interview you won’t be working for the secret police, period,” said the special adviser. “Sounds like a tricky group to investigate.”

“What do you mean?” asked Berg, even though he already knew.

“More talented, reticent, discreet, quite normal in their behavior. But how do they think, in reality? They’re all police officers, of course, same background, same education, same experiences. Many of them are even born and bred.”

“I have complete confidence in all those who are working for us,” said Berg with even more emphasis.

“It’s no doubt there that we differ,” said the special adviser. “Misunderstand me correctly,” he added quickly. “What I mean is only that self-evident lunatics, the kind that clearly show what they think and feel and intend, have an almost calming effect on me. It’s the others that disturb me.”

Me too, thought Berg, but it was the last thing he would think of saying to someone like that.

Now it has to be over soon anyway, thought Berg, stealing a glance at his watch. Otherwise I’ll simply have to think of something regardless of the consequences.

“A completely different matter,” said the adviser, observing Berg behind half-closed eyelids.

Be content to nod, thought Berg, nodding.

“Purely concretely, and if we try to enter these people’s mind-set, though apart of course from the material content and the qualitative substance. I am speaking of those so-called colleagues who are included in your investigation.”

“Yes?” said Berg questioningly. You never learn, he thought with irritation.

“What do they dislike the most,” he said. “Person, fact, social phenomenon, thing? What’s their lowest common denominator?”

So this was where we were going, thought Berg.

“The prime minister,” said Berg. “If there is a particular person that you have in mind, then unfortunately it is the case that the prime minister seems to form a recurring object of hatred.”

“So that’s why they use his portrait for target practice during their open-air activities,” said the special adviser, and for some reason he was smiling broadly as he said it.

“I am not aware of that as a fact,” answered Berg, but it didn’t seem as though the other was listening: he was reclining comfortably in his chair, eyelids half-lowered, hands clasped over his fat stomach, although no longer smiling.

That man is definitely not in his right mind, thought Berg.

Before they left they agreed that this was a question to be viewed with the utmost seriousness and assigned the highest priority. In addition the survey must be broadened. How did it look in the rest of the country? How did it look within the secret police and the military? And what of that business of the threat against the prime minister and the country’s highest political leadership?

They wanted a comprehensive compilation of data as soon as possible. Broadly and in depth and without wavering or shying away from any facts, however unpleasant they might be. The purely practical aspects were turned over to Berg and his coworkers with confidence. What is going on? thought Berg as he sat in the backseat of his service car en route to his office on Kungsholmen. It’s already dark out; soon it will be winter, and what happened to summer, actually? Where did it go?

When he got back to work he hoped that Waltin would be there so they could discuss the new turn of events, but all there was of him was a message from Berg’s secretary that Waltin had waited for the longest time but had finally been compelled to take care of an urgent errand. Unfortunately he couldn’t be reached on his pager either, but he intended to be in touch early the next morning.

“If you don’t have any objections I was thinking about taking off too,” said his secretary with an amiable smile.

They met the following morning and Waltin was just as energetic, well-tailored, and smelling of aftershave as always. Berg himself had felt better. He had twisted and turned in bed until midnight, when he finally gave up, went into his study, and put his thoughts on paper. Then he made a fresh attempt at sleeping, with only moderate success. Not until four in the morning had he disappeared into some sort of dream-filled daze, and when he and his wife were eating breakfast she suggested that he should call in sick and stay home.

“I don’t suppose there’s anything I can help you with?” she asked. Berg had only shaken his head and an hour later he was sitting at his desk. As a final measure before leaving home he had fed his nighttime notes into the document shredder in his study. Waltin had to be content with a piece of paper that addressed only three points, which Berg expanded on with a brief oral account of what had occurred at yesterday’s meeting.

“I see,” said Waltin, handing back the paper he had just read. “Sounds as if we’d need a healthy increase in appropriations. In addition, I believe we’re in dangerous territory.”

Berg nodded to him to continue.

“If we take the first point-expanding, deepening, and completing our survey of certain officers, we’re going to have a lot of problems, to put it mildly.”

“What kind of problems?” asked Berg.

“First off, purely practical problems with our collection of data. I’ll give you an example. One of my recruiters became interested in a possible informant a while ago. He’ll finish police academy in a few months and is interning with a uniformed division in Östermalm and seemed tailor-made to infiltrate those circles we’re investigating.”

“But?”

“The problem was that he was already inside. It was by pure chance that we found out about him in time.”

And how many of them are there that we’ve missed? thought Berg, groaning internally.

“Suppose we succeed in solving this,” continued Waltin. “Really penetrate, really reel in these… forces… within the corps.” Waltin smiled.

“Yes?” Berg nodded to him to continue.

“Then we need only concern ourselves with the content, and if we try to do something about it we might just as well…” Waltin shrugged his shoulders. “You know what I mean. Both you and I have been around awhile. And what would happen to us? Are any of us that suicidal?” And you have to know what I mean, since you’ve got one in your own family, he thought, but he didn’t say that.

“Suggestion,” said Berg.

“First of all, time,” said Waltin. “We have to prolong the process. Use our difficulties to explain to them why it takes such a long time, but take enormous care to avoid doing anything about the matter itself.”

“And second,” asked Berg.

“See to it that we tone down what we’ve already given them. They’ve already got too much. We made a mistake there.”

Berg nodded. What choice did I have? he thought. To be replaced by someone like the Stockholm chief constable?

“We’ll do that,” said Berg. “Can you think about the arrangements and give me a concrete proposal?”

Waltin nodded and smiled in his engaging way.

“And when did you want to have it?” he asked.

“Well, preferably right now,” answered Berg, “but because it’s you, you can have a breather till first thing tomorrow.” Waltin is sharp, he thought. He thinks like I do. The question is whether I can rely on him the same way I rely on myself.

…

“It can wait,” decided Berg. Good Lord, he thought. I’ve got ten years left, after all.

“Threats and menaces against key political persons,” he continued.

“I could drown them in that,” answered Waltin and for some reason he seemed almost pleased. “Letters, telephone conversations, tips, complaints, surveillance material, our eavesdropping. You name it. There’s as much as you’d like.”

“What do we do? Shall we frighten them or keep them calm?”

“I think we should give them a suitable selection,” said Waltin. “Frighten them just enough while we explain to them that the advantage with these types is that they’re all talk and they never deliver.”

Berg nodded. We’ll do that, he thought.

“That miserable special adviser they’ve foisted on us. Do we have any threats against him?”

Waltin shook his head.

“Not a peep.”

“This is a generally well-regarded person? Popular in broad circles?”

“Can’t imagine that,” said Waltin. “The simple reason no doubt is that hardly anyone knows of his existence, and those who know about him are maybe not so well informed about his actual job description. With a few isolated highly placed exceptions. If you want I can snoop around. Hear if there’s something in spite of it all.” Waltin smiled a meaningful smile.

“Forget about that,” said Berg, shaking his head. “I don’t intend to lie awake nights for his sake.”

Perhaps a bit too casual, thought Berg. That last bit, anyway, was probably unnecessary.

After lunch Berg had a last-minute meeting with Kudo and Bülling at their urgent request. What they had to report was so important that they could only do so directly to him. They were clearly punctual as well, for when Berg arrived one minute late they were already sitting at their places in his own conference room.

An odd couple, thought Berg as he greeted them. Kudo was small, dark, thin, well-trained, well-dressed, and obviously careful to make a keen impression. His entire being exuded high alert, and just like all the others in the corps who were the same way and that Berg had encountered during his more than thirty years, he tried to crush the metacarpals of the person with whom he was shaking hands. Bülling was tall, fair, and lanky, his head drooping as he peeked out obliquely when he shook hands. His thin hand was dripping with sweat, and as soon as Berg released it he quickly put it back into the pocket of his baggy Manchester corduroy jacket.

Hand sweat, thought Berg at the same time as an alarm bell started to ring inside him. “Abundant or profuse hand sweat can indicate large consumption of psychopharmaceuticals,” thought Berg, who had learned that by heart at internal education in personnel defense: The course where you learned everything about how to defend yourself in good time against your own personnel. Best to make discreet contact with the bureau’s psychiatrist, Berg decided, smiling extra amiably at both of his visitors. The last thing he wanted was for one of his coworkers to flip out in his office.

“Please,” said Berg, indicating with his right hand. What a strange couple, he thought.

“This is about the PKK,” said Kudo with fateful seriousness in his voice.

“Partiya Karkeren Kurdistan,” muttered Bülling with his eyes toward the tabletop.

Damn initials, thought Berg.

“I know,” he said. “The Kurdistan workers’ party, previously known as Kurdistan’s revolutionaries. Continue.” He nodded at them.

What this was about, purely concretely, was a wiretapped telephone conversation that had been snapped up a little less than a week before, after which it had taken up the entire analysis group’s combined capacity. At 22:37 hours Semir G., “known Kurdish activist,” had phoned his neighbor Abdullah A., also a “known Kurdish activist,” both living in the same apartment block on Terapivägen in Flemingsberg. After blathering about this and that in Kurdish for almost half an hour they suddenly got to the point.

Kudo looked at Berg with the same serious gaze as though he’d been a little homespun-clad gnome on the farm where Kudo had grown up.

“It’s a wedding conversation,” he said heavily.

“As you surely know, chief, ‘wedding’ is their code word for assassination,” muttered Bülling with his gaze directed firmly at the tabletop. “It’s a code word they use when they’re going to shoot someone.”

Berg was content to nod. He himself knew that this could also mean other things, such as a wedding, for example, or a demonstration or some other collective activity of a not more closely specified type.

“So they’re planning to shoot someone,” intoned Kudo with eyes black as pistol barrels.

Yes, or it’s also just that someone’s going to get married, and don’t we all know what such things can lead to down the line, thought Berg.

“Why are they phoning each other?” asked Berg. “They live in the same building.”

“We’re not clear about that bit yet,” said Kudo, nodding energetically.

“We’re working on it,” mumbled Bülling.

“Do we know who it is?” asked Berg.

“Who,” mumbled Bülling, peeking nervously at the door.

“That they’re planning to shoot,” said Kudo, in spite of the fact that he wasn’t the one who was called the Professor.

“Which of their defectors or political opponents is it that they’re planning to shoot this time?” clarified Berg. “Do we know what his name is?” he added, to be on the safe side.

“This time unfortunately it doesn’t concern a normal wedding,” said Kudo, as he leaned forward, lowered his voice, and, in order to further underscore the seriousness of the matter, also shook his head. “They’re talking about lamb,” he said.

“Lamb?” Berg looked at him questioningly. “As in lamb chops?”

“Lamb,” mumbled Bülling. “So we’re convinced that this time they intend to shoot someone completely different, probably some highly placed person of some type. Presumably one of our own top politicians.”

“Why do you think that?” asked Berg.

“They’re going to bring home a lamb,” mumbled Bülling. “And then they’re going to buy wine and then they’re going to have two poets.”

It had taken Berg more than a quarter of an hour to unravel the factual basis for the conclusion that the Kurdish section’s analysis group had come to, of an impending attack against a highly placed Swedish politician.

“I’ll read direct from the transcript of the tape,” said Kudo. “Then you can form your own impression, chief.”

Do that, thought Berg, nodding wearily.

“It’s Semir G. who has taken up the matter. The same Semir who is phoning,” added Kudo slyly. “Word for word he says this. I’m quoting from the tape.”

Just get on with it, man, thought Berg, nodding.

“Quote. We must arrange for wedding soon. We must buy cakes, pastries, and rolls, but this time we must buy a lamb too. And wine and then we must have two poets. End quote.”

Kudo nodded before he continued.

“Quote. We should have two poets? End quote, Abdullah A. then asks. Quote. This time we shall buy lamb and wine and have two poets. End quote, answers Semir G. That’s the whole thing,” said Kudo. “Right after that the conversation ends with the usual farewell phrases.”

Sigh, thought Berg.

“They’ve never offered lamb before,” explained Kudo. “When they’re going to murder their own people, they only talk about pastries and rolls and cakes. Sometimes it’s just rolls.”

“And how do you interpret this?” asked Berg, at the same time seeing himself in a mirror.

“That this is certainly about a highly placed person outside their own circles,” said Kudo, nodding triumphantly.

“Then they’ll have two poets too; they usually get by with one poet,” mumbled Bülling.

“Assassins, that is,” said Kudo. “ ‘Poet’ is their code for assassin, and this business of two poets can only mean that there are bigger matters in the offing.”

“The wine,” mumbled Bülling with a sidelong glance at his partner.

“Exactly,” said Kudo energetically, “yes, the wine. It usually isn’t mentioned either, and our interpretation is this, that partly it should underscore the lamb, so to speak, partly it speaks for the fact that this isn’t about a politician within their own cultural sphere.”

“Mohammedans don’t drink wine,” mumbled Bülling, at the same time making a mysterious winding movement with his long neck.

“Yes,” said Berg. He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands over his belly. “This bears thinking about. I want you to write a memorandum and append all the supporting materials you have. As well as any material we’ve received through our German colleagues.”

Aren’t most Kurds Christians? he thought.

“Take all the time you need,” he said, and looked at them seriously. “It’s fine if I get it in a week.”

Waltin detailed three detectives with the operational bureau’s section for internal surveillance to compile the material that Berg wanted. In addition he installed one of his own analysts to lead and divide up the work. He himself had more important matters to attend to.

“The prime minister, the Cabinet, the government, senior officials in government administration, highly placed politicians regardless of party allegiance. I want the threats divided into categories, I want to know how they’ve come in, I want to have a picture of whoever’s behind them. Hamilton, here”-he nodded toward his own coworkers-“will help you with the details. Questions?”

“How far back should we go?” The one who asked was a young female detective who looked as though she was twenty at most and barely passed for a police officer.

Pretty little piece, thought Waltin, jutting out his manly chin in order to show potency and energy.

“Go back to the last election,” said Waltin.

“But there must be tons,” she said with surprise.

“Exactly,” said Waltin energetically. “That’s just the idea.” And I don’t intend to go into that here, he thought.

“Are we searching for something in particular, some particular person or group or organization?” asked one of the other detectives, a young man who appeared to be twenty-five at most and wore a blue college sweatshirt that said Stanford University on it.

“No,” said Waltin. “This is pure compilation. A sociological investigation, if you will.”

Wonder if that sweatshirt is genuine? he thought.

“Any more questions?” Waltin looked at the third member of the group. He was a young man who looked like he played in a pop band.

“No.” The one being questioned shook his head. “I never have any questions.”

Good types, thought Waltin as he took the elevator down to the garage. I might recruit that dark one to my own little enterprise, he thought.

Berg had spent the weekend out at his cottage. The thought was that he and his wife should spend time together, pick a few mushrooms, have a good dinner, and perhaps stop by to see his aged parents, who lived in the vicinity. But there hadn’t been any visit to his parental home or any mushroom picking. Mother and Father had gone to Åland, it turned out, and on Saturday morning when they woke up it had been pouring down rain, which had kept up the entire day. They made a fire in the fireplace; his wife had read a thick novel and scarcely answered when spoken to. And he himself had mostly sat with his own thoughts. Why didn’t we ever have any children? he thought. We couldn’t have our own, but why didn’t we adopt while there was time? The thought of this made him so dejected that he thought about his job instead. As a rule that usually calmed him, and it did so this time as well.

For lunch his wife had made a mushroom omelet. Mushrooms that they had picked before. Butter, bread, and cheese on the side.

“Beer or water?” asked his wife.

“Do we have any red wine?” asked Berg.

His wife looked at him with surprise.

“Has something happened?”

“No,” said Berg. “Why do you think that?”

“You usually don’t ever drink wine with lunch,” she said.

Berg shrugged his shoulders and smiled wanly.

“No,” he said. “But just now I suddenly felt like it. Won’t you have a glass then?” he asked.

“Gladly,” she said. “If you’re going to anyway, I’ll gladly have a glass. There’s lots left over from Midsummer, as you know.”

“We can have that Spanish wine,” said Berg. “The case that I got from their embassy.”

It had been an excellent lunch, he thought. Afterward they had had coffee, his wife had returned to her novel, he himself had a third glass of red wine and lay down on the sofa.

What do I do with Kudo and Bülling? thought Berg. He couldn’t get rid of them. The operation had already been allowed to go too far, and it would likely outlast him as well. However insignificant it might be, there was also a risk that at some point the Kurds would arrange for a wedding outside their circle, and Berg wasn’t the type who planned to preside over his own funeral. A probability so small as to almost defy calculation, but which I can’t disregard, he thought. And whether it was the red wine or something else, suddenly he knew exactly what to do with Kudo and Bülling.

On Monday morning he summoned them, and five minutes after his secretary had hung up the phone they were sitting in front of his desk, Kudo leaning forward ready to leap, Bülling with his gaze directed at the fringe of the carpet.

“Yes,” said Berg. “I’ve been thinking about you gentlemen since we met last week.”

“What can we do for you, chief?” said Kudo.

“I believe we’ll have to inform the leadership in Stockholm,” said Berg. “And with a thought for the degree of secrecy, I believe we must limit the information to the chief constable alone.”

“Any further limitations?” said Kudo.

“Yes,” said Berg. “The information you turned in to me last week stays here with us. On the other hand, you are free to give a general report on the activities and the persons involved.”

“What do we do with Semir G. and Abdullah A.?” mumbled Bülling.

“Obviously we’ll report on them too,” said Berg, “on their persons and general activities. With the exception of the conversation that was discussed last time we met.” And hopefully this time will be the last we see each other in this way, he thought.

Of course it was actually that fool who foisted Bülling on me, thought Berg when they had left. So it’s only right that he gets him back in return, and besides, perhaps he could have some small practical use for them for once. We’ll just have to see if he rises to the bait, thought Berg.

The bait had been swallowed by the next weekly meeting with the political superiors. For starters it had also gone quite well in spite of the fact that the prime minister’s adviser was present. First, Berg reported on the continued survey of anticonstitutional elements within the police and the military. They were working with high urgency but because the assignment was so extraordinarily sensitive they had to proceed with extreme care. This is going to take time, Berg emphasized, and he had not acknowledged the quiet chuckle from a certain person at the table.

After that he gave a lightly retouched version of Waltin’s unsuccessful attempt at recruiting. Politicians loved those kinds of stories. Berg knew that from experience, and it worked this time as well.

“That was nice to hear,” sighed a relieved minister. “That you were unsuccessful this time, I mean. Yes, that you were successful in the larger context because you were unsuccessful in the smaller, if one may say so, if you understand what I mean,” he clarified, looking at Berg.

Finally he had touched on the ongoing compilation of threats and menaces against the sitting government and those closest to them. And here as well they were working with high urgency.

“They’re working at high urgency, and I’m actually counting on the fact that as early as our next meeting I should be able to give a summary of what we have.”

“There’s quite a bit, of course,” said the minister.

“Unfortunately that’s the way it is.” Berg nodded heavily in confirmation.

“These Kurds,” said the minister, who seemed unusually frisky. “Are they keeping calm or…? I saw an article in Svenskan the other day that wasn’t exactly amusing.”

“Wonder how it ended up just there?” said the special adviser, with an irritating grin.

“There I would like to maintain,” said Berg, “that we have good control of the situation.” He nodded toward the minister; he pretended not to notice the other person.

The minister nodded gratefully while the special adviser appeared even more delighted.

“I was actually at a Kurdish wedding one time,” he said while he observed Berg behind half-closed eyelids and with the same amused smile. “Nice people. They served very good food too. I recall that we had roasted lamb and some kind of wine from their home region.”

Okay, thought Berg as he sat in the backseat of his car returning to Kungsholmen, now what do I know? That Kudo and Bülling, mostly Kudo-for say what you will about Bülling, he wasn’t directly communicative-let their mouths run before their brains, despite instructions to the contrary. And that the moronic Stockholm chief constable evidently had a direct channel to the prime minister’s special adviser. So far everything’s fine and dandy, thought Berg. Such knowledge is simply power.

What is it he wants to say to me? thought Berg. It’s completely clear that there’s a message. Who would invite someone like that to their wedding? Not even a Kurd. What type of message is it he wants to give me? That he knows what I’m doing and that he’s keeping an eye on me? Quite certainly, thought Berg. That I should watch out? Quite certainly that too. But why does he talk about it to me? Because he wants to draw attention to himself? Possibly, but scarcely probable. To get me off balance, even if that means he has to show his cards to me? Or is it so bad… Berg’s thoughts were interrupted by a quiet throat-clearing from the driver’s seat.

“Boss, excuse me for interrupting, but we’re here now.” The car had stopped down in the garage and his chauffeur was looking at him uneasily in the rearview mirror.

“Please excuse me,” said Berg. “I’m sitting here with my own thoughts.”

Is it that bad, thought Berg in the elevator on the way up to his office on the top floor, that the card he’s shown me means nothing to him? That he can lay it out just to shake me up, because he’s holding much better cards than that? Who? thought Berg. Who in that case is the traitor in my immediate circle? Most likely Waltin, he thought, and the sorrow he suddenly felt in passing had the same cold intensity he felt whenever he thought about the children he and his wife had never had.

At the meeting the following week he reported on Waltin’s compilation of those threats and menaces directed at, or intended for, politicians and senior officials in the Cabinet, the parliament, and the authorities that were of decisive significance for the security of the realm. Waltin had done an excellent job: He had done it regardless of how things stood with his own reliability, and Berg himself was very satisfied with the way in which he had set up his report. First he had quickly peeled away the remaining authorities and the parliament in order to concentrate on the menace that concerned the Cabinet and those who worked there.

As an introduction he had sketched out the various forms this took: threats from foreign powers, political conspiracies at various levels within the realm, terrorist actions with an origin in another country, domestic terrorism, political extremist groups, and actions carried out by so-called individual lunatics, and he was very satisfied with that presentation as well. An assessment that, by the way, was quite clearly shared by the minister, who larded his summary with verbal agreement and nods. And by the legal officer as well, for this could be seen in his eyes despite his usual silence. The special adviser sat with his eyes closed and he had neither grinned, chuckled, nor had any opinions, which was probably the highest praise Berg could count on from that quarter.

“Yes,” said Berg, clicking a new picture from the slide projector he had brought in. “We’re starting to approach the heart of the matter, as the saying goes. As you see from the charts, the volume of threats directed at the government and persons in its vicinity has increased violently since the change of administration at the last election.”

At this point the special adviser had chuckled, not said anything, but chuckled in that very unnerving way. Should I wait him out? thought Berg.

“The number of threats we’ve captured against the government and its affiliates has increased by more than one thousand percent since the change of government. Under the previous lot, we used to get a few hundred per year, but now it’s a few thousand.”

“That’s just terrible,” said the minister of justice. “I received a letter bomb myself about a year ago.”

“That case is included here, as you no doubt know,” said Berg confidently, “and we have good hope of finding the perpetrators. We know they belong to a neo-Nazi group on the extreme right-wing fringe.”

“It’s really nice that they’re still on that fringe,” said the special adviser. “You say ‘bomb,’ ” he continued, looking at Berg. “Are we talking about that package with three fireworks in it, where some mentally challenged young man with pyrotechnic inclinations pasted match-striking surfaces on the fuse?”

“Our technicians were not that shaken up,” Berg agreed. “And that’s the good side of things. The volume has increased dramatically, as you see, but when we observe the various individual cases the picture begins to change. It’s almost exclusively a matter of communications by telephone or various types of mailings, mostly letters; in a purely judicial sense it’s most often a question of insults and slander than pure threats. The most common individual communication that we receive, for example, claims that our prime minister is a Russian spy.”

“But that’s shocking,” said the minister.

“Stay calm,” said the special adviser, leaning forward and patting the minister on the arm. “I’ve got my eyes on that little scoundrel.”

“But, but,” persisted the minister, pulling his arm away. “I’m not so amused by all these threats and my wi-yes, my partner… actually became quite upset when she heard about my letter bomb.”

“Obviously,” said the special adviser jovially. “But wasn’t that a different partner? Than the one you have now, I mean.” Now he was laughing so that his fat belly bounced.

“Yes, you can joke,” said the minister. “Tell me, Berg,” he continued, nodding amiably. “What kind of people are these, who get mixed up in such things?”

“All possible types if we’re talking occupations and social groups,” said Berg. “And obviously there is a significant overrepresentation of persons with psychiatric problems, but we have everything from counts and barons and doctors and executives to common laborers, students, the unemployed, people on disability, and mental patients. Many are immigrants too, it should be pointed out, but almost all in that subcategory seem to have acted more out of personal dissatisfaction than any extreme political ideology.”

“Police officers,” said the special adviser. “Police officers and military personnel, the ones you described to us a few weeks ago. How is it with them?”

“What I am accounting for today are almost exclusively reported cases. With or without a known perpetrator. So the persons included in my earlier account, where we ourselves sniffed out the information, are not part of these statistics.” Berg nodded thoughtfully before he continued. “But certainly there are also police officers and military personnel in our material on reported cases. Here, for example, there is a detective chief inspector with the Stockholm police who called the prime minister’s chancellery on his service phone and conveyed threats against the prime minister to his secretary. Still in service, by the way, case closed when the crime couldn’t be confirmed against his denials.”

Berg cleared his throat and continued.

“We have a half dozen officers-the highest ranking is a lieutenant colonel with a ranger unit-who have uttered, to say the least, inappropriate viewpoints about the government and its work as well as individual members of the government in the presence of draftees and subordinate personnel. In brief, quite a few,” concluded Berg.

“Am I unjust if I say that the material about reported cases consists mainly of rubbish, but that at the same time you are sitting on other data that perhaps indicates a more qualified menace and with presumptive perpetrators of a quite different, and higher, quality?” The special adviser looked expectantly at Berg.

“No,” said Berg. “I guess I concur unreservedly with your description. That is how I myself and my coworkers view the situation.”

What is going on? thought Berg. I don’t even need to say it myself. He’s the one who is saying it for me.

After the meeting he met Waltin. First he complimented him for his excellent support and then briefly gave his view on how the whole thing had turned out.

“It was a good meeting,” said Berg. “I got a definite sense that we’re finally starting to transmit on the same wavelength.”

Waltin nodded. He looked satisfied, but not in any way that appeared exaggerated or suspicious, just satisfied. I’ve probably been mistaken, thought Berg. What I need is a week’s vacation.

Waltin of course had no idea of the suspicions that had been moving around in Berg’s head lately, and even if he had he wouldn’t have been overly concerned. There were other things stirring in Waltin’s head. One that was stirring more and more often was that dark little thing with the boyish body and that small, small, firm rear, which just now was sitting in a small, small chair in the section for internal surveillance. Before her big, big computer. At first he had thought about finding out how old she was, but on further reflection he had decided not to. That would ruin the enjoyment, thought Waltin. She looked as though she were in high school, despite the fact that she must have turned twenty-five, and that was good enough.

Lately he had looked in on her and her coworkers more and more often, and that puritanical upper-class fairy Hamilton, who was still working directly under him, had only gotten surlier and surlier. I guess I’ll have to live with that, thought Waltin, and he grinned exactly like a wolf whose fantasies were only getting better and better. This time she had been sitting alone too, so he had avoided wasting a lot of unnecessary time setting up smokescreens and conversing with her male coworkers.

“How nice that you came,” she said. “I need help. There’s something I have to ask you.”

“I’m listening,” said Waltin. He assumed a semi-profile and a manly yet easy smile as he unobtrusively moved his chair closer to hers. Little Jeanette, age seventeen, thought Waltin while his well-tailored crotch tightened a little.

“We’ve received a few tips that I’m not really sure about,” she said, wrinkling her brow.

Delightful, thought Waltin, that little wrinkle in her forehead as she bit on the pen she was holding in her little hand. Imagine if she had a lisp too, he thought. Then he might even have considered taking responsibility for his actions.

“Tell me,” said Waltin, crossing his right leg over his left while loosening the knot of his tie.

“It’s about an American journalist,” she said. “He arrived at Arlanda from New York last Sunday and I’ve already received two tips about him.”

“What’s his name?” asked Waltin and leaned forward to get a better look at the text on her computer screen. What a delightful scent, he thought. Like rosy, freshly bathed skin.

“Jonathan Paul Krassner, goes by John,” she said. “Born in 1953.”