Black Lies, Red Blood

Twenty-three

When the call was over he stood for a long time with the receiver in his hand before it occurred to him to hang up. Through the window he stared unseeing at the back side of the lot, before it slowly took shape: the worn-out swing set that only the neighborhood children used now and then; the apple tree which during the spring, despite the onslaught of canker, blossomed like never before; a pale-green, moss-infested lawn hidden under piles of brush, a pile that was now growing before his eyes, turning into an image of how he understood life.

The day before he had done what Henrietta had been nagging about for several weeks, pruned the hawthorn hedge down to an acceptable level. Now the brush had to be removed. He had no desire, he had no time. He loathed hawthorn, with thorns that poked so infernally and straggly branches that were impossible to load onto the trailer efficiently. He would have to make several trips. Besides, his own trailer was uninspected and he would have to go out and rent one.

We should have planted something besides a hedge, he thought. There were lots of things they should have done differently. We should live somewhere else, not in this shitty country, he sometimes thought.

These thoughts had come and gone recently, but he always pushed them aside as unrealistic. There were so many other things that occupied his time. The morrow would always have to wait, that’s how it had felt for several years now. The dreams would have to wait.

There had been too much work, but he couldn’t complain, that was what he had foreseen and planned for, understood already when the Wall fell. Then he had been at the SE Bank main office, one of the successful ones, a pup who had now grown into a, well, what? A fighting dog? A clever poodle? Or a tired Saint Bernard?

No, he decided, I’m an experienced hunting dog with a sharp nose, a foxhound.

And things had gone well. The company he started in 1993 established itself as one of the most successful on the Eastern European market. It gave him great satisfaction that he had been right. That he had done the right things in the right order and in the right place, with the right people.

Or were they the right people? He’d had reason to doubt that sometimes, especially after the most recent call from Moscow, or rather from the dacha somewhere south of the Russian capital. Oleg parasitized on the city, but he would never live there again. It was too dirty, too poor, with too many cars, he explained. Jeremias Kumlin suspected that it also reminded him too much of history, of the shame and brutality in his childhood and youth.

At Oleg’s country place, originally built for one of the leading Party bigwigs, he could live the life of the oligarch he was to its full extent, unconcerned about the city’s noise and filth, the alcoholics, the criminality. Oleg’s two sons, pale copies of himself, as if they had never encountered sunlight or real life, were already very much at home in the metropolises of Europe. They had also visited Stockholm and Uppsala, with Jeremias as guide. They even stayed at his house for a few days, accommodated in the recreation room.

Their mother had died in the late nineties, of cancer, Oleg maintained, but Jeremias Kumlin suspected suicide. She had been a Party member and with growing fear and sorrow watched the old society being dismantled, the shock therapy when Russia was to be “modernized.” To say the least she was horrified by the violence in Chechnya. The few times they met, Kumlin perceived her as the only honorable person in the family, in all of Moscow actually.

Now Oleg was remarried, to a woman who most resembled a parody of a slightly overweight prostitute, with a large, often poorly made up mouth and bad teeth, almost always a little tipsy, a representative of the new Russian economy.

When Oleg wanted to go somewhere he drove the five hundred meters to his own little landing strip, where he had his private plane. He did not trust any other mode of transportation, especially not Aeroflot.

I can’t blame anyone or anything, thought Jeremias, as the pile of branches got bigger. Right from the start he understood what RHSKL GAS was all about, but chose to ignore his doubts, because he had immediately seen the potential. Just take those damn abbreviations, a leftover from the Soviet period, long combinations which to Jeremias Kumlin stood out as a symbol of nepotism and corruption. So much could be concealed behind a string of letters.

He had made the right choice, but it was still wrong.

And now that infantile policeman Nilsson! The most peculiar thing was that the police only talked about some photo taken decades ago. Nilsson maintained that he was calling around to all the team members to create an image of the murdered man for himself. He immediately sensed that this was only a pretext, but during the course of the conversation became more and more uncertain whether that was a correct interpretation.

Nilsson had also asked whether he had contact with any of the others on the team. Behind that question Jeremias Kumlin sensed ulterior motives. He had become successful in the East, in part because he was good at reading between the lines. Perhaps the police thought someone on the team had something to do with Gränsberg’s death?

When he read about the murder in the newspaper he was terrified at first, but as the days passed and nothing happened his worry went away to some degree. But then came that call. About a twenty-year-old photo!

As if that wasn’t enough, Oleg called half an hour later. So damn amateurish to phone! KGB, GRU, or whatever their successors were called, were surely listening in like they did in the Soviet period.

Oleg sounded relaxed as usual, but it had been a long time since Kumlin let himself be fooled, a command was concealed behind the velvety words, and a naked threat. He had assured Oleg that there was no danger.

Jeremias Kumlin was a bit player, admittedly somewhat difficult to replace, but in a pinch, if the least friction or uncertainty about his usefulness were to arise, he would be sacrificed. Kumlin did not doubt that for a moment. Oleg was free of loyalty based on nostalgia and human concern.

He should have known better! And Oleg should have too, but when he explained the arrangement it looked reasonably watertight, and would even provide a little street cred that might be exploited in the future. But now in hindsight Jeremias Kumlin realized that it was idiotic to get involved in the environmental business. There were too many wills, too many political considerations, too many idealists. Oil and gas were one thing; you knew going in that it was greed that set the agenda and guided the course of events. The mechanisms were simple and universal, and those involved were definitely not idealists.

And you could simply shoot the heads off of the journalists who started to question and dig. That had been clearly illustrated in the case of Anna Politkovskaya. She paid with her life, as a warning to others.

In Sweden too there were diggers, who loved to poke around in the shit and point out conditions they found offensive, moralistic jaw-flappers. Not least the one on Swedish Radio, one of those Finnish types, stubborn as a dachshund, wanting to go down every single fox burrow. Kumlin had run into him at a reception in Moscow, arranged by one of the “development funds” rigged by the Ural mafia. Then Kumlin didn’t know who he was, he took for granted that he was one of the many consultants or aid guys who were looking out for themselves. They talked for a long time, the Finn revealed an exceptional lack of knowledge, asked such naive questions that Kumlin almost felt sorry for him, so he could show off a little to a mutely listening, obviously impressed beginner.

About six months later he heard the same man in a feature on the news program Ekot rattle off facts and figures in his characteristic voice, then not the least bit ignorant or shy. That time it concerned an aid project to Russia where Swedish dairy producers and interest organizations were involved. Money had disappeared, unclear where, the established goals were as distant as at the start, everyone blamed everyone else. Everything, in other words, was one big sour milk soup.

He realized too that he was the one who would have to take all the shit, do the payback, an impossible task that would mean the end. Maybe he would even be brought to trial.

Oleg was safely ensconced in Russia. He could always manipulate his way out, there were many judges and politicians on his payroll, so as usual he would get off without a scratch. In the worst case he might shoot some troublesome official to show who had interpretative preference where business methods were concerned.

Without mercy he would sacrifice Jeremias Kumlin, perhaps with a laugh.

Kumlin would soon be forced to travel to Moscow. But first, and as a necessary prerequisite prior to the trip, he had to figure out the problem with Gränsberg, but how? The whole thing was an improbable story that threatened him like a gigantic pile of brush, whose thorns would penetrate deeply. A pile of brush that was growing bigger by the day.

He cursed himself that he let him in at all. Maybe it was a slumbering remnant of team spirit. On the bandy court Gränsberg had been his direct opposite-big, a little clumsy, but with an enormous work capacity. He had compensated for his not terribly advanced skating with a rare eye for the game.

He himself was the elegant one, small and dainty-“a virtuoso on blades,” as one journalist had written-who could take advantage of Gränsberg’s exquisitely hit, liberating passes, often halfway across the court, rock-hard along the ice or low throws, right on the blade of the club.

They had talked bandy a few minutes, commented on Sirius’s wobbly existence. In contrast to Gränsberg he never went to a match at the Students’ athletic field. Then, after a brief silence, as Kumlin realized that Gränsberg had a hard time bringing up his business, it slipped out of Gränsberg that he needed money for a “substantial investment.”

He had read about his former teammate in the newspaper, how successful he was, and got the idea that Jeremias could make him a loan, at a proper interest rate of course, he was quick to point out.

There was no accounting for Gränsberg, he didn’t present his case in a smooth way, not even in an intelligent way. He blabbed too much, got off on side tracks. Jeremias let him carry on for a while before he declined. From experience he knew the danger of engaging in a discussion, asking questions, and giving advice. No, he turned him down right away, not patronizingly, but firmly.

Gränsberg had taken the response unexpectedly calmly, thanked him for the visit, and went his way. A week later he was standing there again. This time Henrietta was home, Jeremias could hear the sewing machine upstairs, and now he was irritated. No meant no. There was nothing to add. His tone became a little sharper, he wanted to get rid of Gränsberg, did not want Henrietta to hear that they had a visitor, come down, perhaps offer coffee, she was like that, always opening her arms, uncritical.

He asked Gränsberg to wait and went up to his study to get a little cash. It took no more than a few seconds. But when he came back the hall was empty. Gränsberg had disappeared and left the outside door open behind him. Jeremias remained standing with two 500 kronor bills in his hand.

It was not until that evening that he realized what had happened. After a couple of days he e-mailed Oleg and told him. Since then his sleep at night had been ruined, every morning he woke with terror as his first visitor.

And now Bosse was dead.