Free Falling, As If in a Dream

Finally it had happened anyway. What he thought would never happen. Instead of sheering ninety degrees port and setting course toward the woman in the big house down by the beach in Cala Sant Vicente, he continued right out into the deep channel. Entered a new course on his GPS navigator at the same time as he congratulated himself that Esperanza always had her fuel tanks filled. Enough diesel to take him three hundred nautical miles to Corsica, where there were many like him and at least one he trusted unconditionally. Who could give him a refuge for the remainder of his life.

Not like the woman, who said she was from the U.S. and was renting the large house on the beach in Cala Sant Vicente. Who talked about her wealthy husband whom she never saw. Who was twenty years younger than him, with her long dark hair, her white teeth, her large, pendulous breasts and the promise in her eyes. The one who had approached him only a week ago when he was scrubbing the deck on Esperanza to make her fine before autumn, when the vacation season was now finally over. The one who asked him if he spoke English, if he knew any good places where she could dive. If perhaps he, or someone else, could help her?

The woman who could actually dive as well as he could and who had shown that the very first time she went with him out to sea. The woman he was supposed to have picked up at the large house in less than an hour. The woman who must have betrayed him, despite the promise in her eyes. Because there was no other explanation. Because Ignacio Ballester had come to see him early in the morning. Told him what his nephew had said and chose to warn him instead of betraying him.

He only had time to take with him the essentials and the small bag that was always packed. Completely sufficient, because there was nothing in that cottage that could say anything about him or the life he had lived since that Friday evening at the intersection of Tunnelgatan and Sveavägen more than twenty years ago. He had left his car because it was safest that way, and what would he do with it now? Ignacio drove him down to the harbor and Esperanza. Shook his hand and wished him luck at sea. There was no alternative, and that was why Esperanza was berthed there. A beautiful little boat, but also an insurance policy and a constant reminder.

Security, freedom, and at a low price. Simply yet another day and night at sea.

99

Grilled perch, butter and lemon, boiled potatoes, beer and a cold shot of aquavit. It couldn’t have been better in all its simplicity, but despite that Johansson had problems with his appetite.

“Which one of my people was it who warned him?” asked Johansson as soon as he’d taken the first bite.

“You must have asked the Spanish colleagues to assign some local talent to protect the little ladies you sent down. One of them happened to be the nephew of the man who owned the shipyard where Hedberg built his boat. He suddenly realized that your co-workers were searching for one of his uncle’s old customers. Called his uncle and let his mouth run. Then his uncle went to Hedberg and warned him. It’s not the first time this sort of thing has happened, but I guess I don’t need to tell you that.”

“No,” said Johansson. “You don’t need to.”

“You’re eating poorly, Lars,” said Persson. “Why aren’t you eating? Here I’ve been standing at the stove and exerting myself.”

“What the hell do you want?” said Johansson. “It never occurred to you that I’ll take you up to Stockholm and put you in jail?”

“No, never,” said Persson with a smile. “For what, if I may ask?”

“For what you just told me,” said Johansson.

“No,” said Persson, shaking his head. “That thought has never occurred to me. And if you do that anyway, I will have no idea what you’re talking about. That’s one of the advantages of sitting in a sauna when you’re going to talk about such things. Not a lot of clothes where people can hide microphones and other garbage. Cheers, by the way.”

“Cheers,” said Johansson, emptying his full shot glass.

“Although I have every sympathy that you’re a little moved,” said Persson. “Who wouldn’t be after such a cock-and-bull story. But as soon as you get a little perspective on it you’re going to thank me.”

“Thank you,” said Johansson. “For what? Because you killed Hedberg?”

“Because I solved a problem for us. For you and me and everyone else like you and me. For my only friend, Erik, not least. If it hadn’t been for his sake I might even have let the bastard live.”

“You must have had help,” said Johansson. Because you’re already sitting here you can hardly have flown commercial, considering what you were up to this morning, he thought.

“I would never dream of talking about such things,” said Persson. “A good fellow takes care of himself. How the hell would it look if people like you and me didn’t dare stand up for one another?”

When Johansson was in the taxi on the way home a few hours later his red cell phone rang. The cell to which only his closest associates had the number.

“Yes,” said Johansson, who never answered with his name when the red phone rang. Holt, he thought.

“Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you for hours.” Holt did not sound happy.

“Had a few things to take care of,” said Johansson. “So I turned off the cell.”

“We’ve found Kjell Göran Hedberg,” said Holt. “We think so, at least. We’re pretty sure it’s him.”

“What the hell are you saying?” said Johansson. “Tell me. I’m listening.”

“He’s dead,” said Holt.

“Dead,” said Johansson. “What the hell are you saying?”

100

The Spanish police had acted with uncharacteristic swiftness. Their investigation of the boat accident outside Cap de Formentor arrived by courier from the national bureau’s liaison in Spain only a few weeks later.

In purely technical terms they didn’t have much to go on. Scattered pieces of the boat had been found. The only part of Kjell Göran Hedberg that was found was the lower left leg. Shark-infested waters so it was completely natural. There were even white sharks in the area. Known not to leave much behind when they were finished. That it was Hedberg’s leg was however established beyond any reasonable doubt. Comparisons with the DNA material that had been secured in the house search ruled out that the appendage had been attached to anyone other than him.

The investigators had to rely on eyewitness reports instead. Three individuals, who were standing at the lookout point out on the promontory when it happened, told the police what they had seen. Everything indicated an accident involving gas, caused by leakage from the tank to the grill that was on board. Probably when Hedberg lit it to make his breakfast.

Johansson’s Spanish ally El Pastor made contact via a letter addressed directly to Johansson. He had no reason to suspect foul play. On the contrary, he shared the understanding that his colleagues in the tech squad with the police in Palma had arrived at. It was the kind of unhappy occurrence that unfortunately could obliterate the most well-planned police efforts.

Johansson had the head of his international unit write a brief, friendly thank-you letter. Obviously without saying a word about El Pastor’s loose-lipped associate. How could he say anything about him without getting into problems? Besides, it wasn’t his responsibility.

The right thing in the right place, thought Johansson as he placed the investigation into an interoffice envelope for forwarding to the colleagues at the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation who took care of the identification of Swedish citizens who perished in accidents abroad. In reality they should have been investigating the murder of the Swedish prime minister, but the lack of meaningful assignments in that case meant that for several years now they had mostly been engaged in other things.

101

Three weeks after Kjell Göran Hedberg’s demise, Johansson devoted three days to cleaning up after him. First he gathered all the papers that were the result of his and his three associates’ efforts. Most of them he ran through the shredder and the rest he put in a binder. In the evening, when all his co-workers had already gone home, he personally went down to the Palme room and distributed the contents of his binder among the thousand that were already there. Just as in ancient Rome, he was going to let justice rely on chance when all else had betrayed it.

Then he turned off the light and left. Inwardly he also wished future archival researchers good luck.

The following day he had a long lunch with the female chief prosecutor in Stockholm, who was also the head of the Palme investigation. He turned over to her the memo he had asked Lisa Mattei to write about the future registration of the Palme investigation’s material. How this gigantic pile of papers could best be stored for the future, while he and his associates took back the office space they so desperately needed for the things they were actually working on.

“If we could be content with ordinary diskettes and computer memory,” said Johansson. “If we could just transfer all the material to computers and store it according to the latest technology, there is nothing to prevent you from carrying it around with you on a simple cord around your neck,” he said. “Within the foreseeable future in any event,” he clarified.

In order to underscore that he was serious, he fished his computer memory out of his pocket. This one already held ten gigabytes, attached to his key ring, taking up less space than his keys, even though the device could hold a whole wall of binders.

“Although I want an amethyst on mine,” the chief prosecutor replied, smiling at him.

“Of course,” said Johansson. “I’ll treat you to that. If you take care of the confidentiality issues and tell us how you want it implemented in practical terms.”

“Of course,” she said. “Who else would do it? And then I’ll be obligated to inform the government too, naturally.”

“No problem,” said Johansson. Down in the cellar with all the papers, he thought. Twenty-five to forty years of secrecy, regardless of which it no longer concerned him. Hardly anyone else either. Possibly a historian or two with a lot of letters in their little heads.

What remained was the most important thing. That he talk with his co-workers. First Lisa, because that would be easiest. Then Lewin, because that was actually not interesting. Finally Anna Holt, because that could certainly get tricky.

“What do you want to do now, Lisa?” Johansson asked as he personally served her coffee in order to really underscore his goodwill.

“I was thinking about going back to my old job at CIS,” Mattei replied.

“Is that what you really most want to do?” said Johansson.

“Yes,” said Mattei.

“Okay then,” said Johansson. “That’s what we’ll do.”

Nothing more than that was said.

Jan Lewin was not sure he wanted to return to his old job at the bureau’s homicide squad. He had even considered resigning from the police after more than thirty years in service.

“What good would that be?” said Johansson, looking at him with surprise. “Once a policeman, always a policeman. You know that, don’t you, Jan?”

If it really was that way, unfortunately it didn’t apply to him. The profession had taken its toll on him. Besides, maybe he wasn’t suited for it to begin with. In later years he had gotten more and more depressed.

Johansson tried to cheer him up by talking about a dissertation in police research he had just read. According to the author, the slightly depressed investigators were the very best ones. Completely superior to all the thoughtless, excitable colleagues.

“Apparently you shouldn’t be so fucking cheerful and high-spirited,” said Johansson. “Then you would start to lose in precision and reflection.”

“So you say,” said Lewin. “The problem I guess is that it wears you down. It eats you up from inside, if you understand what I mean.”

“I hear what you’re saying,” said Johansson. “Do you know what I think?”

“No,” said Lewin.

“You need a woman,” said Johansson.

Johansson quickly elaborated on his thoughts on Lewin’s actual needs. Every man needed a woman. Good guys needed good ladies. It was no more complicated than that, but to be on the safe side he repeated the message twice.

“Do you have anyone in particular you intended to suggest?” said Lewin.

“Holt,” said Johansson. “Anna Holt. She likes you, for one thing. Besides, you’re the same age. You should be careful about running after younger talents. They have a fucking capacity to grow away from you.”

“In a collegial sense, possibly,” said Lewin, squirming. “Besides, I’m actually twelve years older than her.”

“Yeah, who the hell can believe that,” said Johansson. “You don’t look a day over forty-five, and Anna is forty-seven if I remember right, so I’m sure that will work out.”

“So you say,” said Lewin, smiling hesitantly.

“Because you know she’s twelve years younger than you, you’ve presumably already thought about it,” Johansson observed.

“Why do you think that?”

“Any real policeman could see that,” said Johansson. “If you know something like that, you’ve already checked out the lady in question.”

The conversation with Anna Holt went better than he had thought. Considerably better than he had feared.

Holt also wanted to return to her regular work. Not only that, she assumed that she would do so.

“Sure,” said Johansson. “You’ll get everything as you wish, Anna. I’m sure you already know that.”

“Thanks,” said Anna Holt. “What I already have is good enough.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” said Johansson.

“I have just one last question,” said Holt, getting up.

“I sensed that,” said Johansson.

“What happened to Hedberg was a strange coincidence, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Johansson. “It was probably one of the strangest things I’ve encountered in my whole life.”

“And,” said Anna Holt.

“I was just as fucking shocked as you were when you told me what had happened,” said Johansson, looking seriously at her with his honest, gray eyes.

“I believe you,” said Anna Holt. She nodded and left.

The following day Lewin went into Holt’s office and after the usual hemming and hawing squeezed out his real errand.

“I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me?”

Holt thought it sounded like an excellent idea. She suggested they could do it that same evening and preferably at her place. True, there was nothing really wrong with the restaurant he’d invited her to, but in the long run she thought it was a little tedious to go out. Unnecessarily expensive too.

“Gladly,” said Lewin without clearing his throat. “Is there anything you want me to bring?”

“It’s enough if you bring yourself,” said Holt. If I ask you to bring along a toothbrush, I’m sure you’ll call to cancel right beforehand, and if need be you can always borrow mine, she thought.

The provincial police chief in Stockholm was a busy woman. Not until the same day that Johansson and the chief prosecutor in Stockholm decided to carry the Palme investigation down to the basement of the police building in the greatest possible secrecy did she have time for Bäckström’s presentation on the same case.

To begin with it had looked fairly promising. The police chief’s own conference room. A small, highly qualified group. She herself, the attorney for the Stockholm police, the presenter Bäckström, and his faithful squire Fridolin.

“The Friends of Cunt,” said the police chief with an incredulous expression. That was how the whole thing started, and then it only got worse.

An hour later it was over. Ms. Police Chief nodded curtly at Bäckström and requested a private conversation with Fridolin.

“I’m disappointed in you, Fridolf,” she said as she closed the door on the two of them.

The following day her attorney called Bäckström’s home number to clarify certain legal and employment-related matters.

As a private individual Evert Bäckström had great freedom to have his own opinions about this and that, such as for example about the murder of Olof Palme, and to the degree that he violated laws and regulations it was his own responsibility. Concerning Inspector Evert Bäckström it was also very simple. Memoranda of the type he had submitted to him and to his superior the day before should not be signed with his official title, because the contents did not have the slightest thing to do with Bäckström’s position with the police. If he nonetheless did so, it was as stated a matter of his own criminal liability. In order to avoid any misunderstanding on this point, the attorney had also written an explanatory letter that was already in Bäckström’s mailbox.

“What do we do now?” said Bäckström, giving Fridolin the evil eye. You little dickhead, I should flush you down the john, he thought.

According to Bäckström’s squire it was too early to throw in the towel. On the other hand perhaps an alternative plan of action ought to be chosen.

“What do you think about TV, Bäckström?” said Fridolin, leaning forward. “I have quite a few contacts in the media, too.”

“Journalist bastards,” Bäckström snorted, already missing Egon so much it hurt.

“These are no ordinary journalists,” Fridolin assured him. “I know a guy at TV4. A heavy dude, really heavy. He works at Cold Facts,” Fridolin stated, sounding more and more like his new mentor.

“So he does,” said Bäckström, nodding and taking a meditative sip of the good malt in order to think even more clearly. “So he does,” he repeated. Wasn’t it the case that in war all means are permitted? he thought.

102

On Thursday the second of November the special adviser departed the era in which he had lived and worked for over sixty years. Not because he had consumed enormous quantities of pea soup and warm punsch, but rather from completely natural causes. His bad heart, his high blood pressure, a lifelong excess of food and alcoholic beverages that his doctor had advised him against. Constant negligence with his medications, even though the same doctor emphasized how important it was that he follow his prescriptions to the letter. Completely natural causes in other words, and the great mystery was really how he had lasted a day beyond the age of thirty considering the life he had lived.

Just like his mentor, old professor Forselius, he died as a result of a massive brain hemorrhage. According to the autopsy report there were a number of good reasons, but because the pathologist would be asked anyway he wanted to point out one of them in particular. That his blood had been thin as water, due to a severe overdosage of the blood thinner warfarin, which he was forced to take due to his bad heart. It was a classic rat poison that had also been beneficial in the art of medicine, even though in combination with large quantities of alcohol it was much worse than rat poison. His high blood pressure had taken care of the rest, producing a logical conclusion. The great mystery was, as stated, how he had lived as long as he had.

In the investigation of the death there were also two interviews. One with his housekeeper, who found him dead in the morning. The second with the last person who saw him alive and had dinner with him the same evening he died, former detective inspector Åke Persson. Persson had worked the majority of his active career with the secret police, and according to him that was also how he and his host had gotten to know each other.

A simple three-course dinner. Swedish home cooking. First some herring with a couple of shots and a beer for each, then sailor’s beef casserole with which they shared a bottle of red wine, for dessert homemade apple pie made by the host’s housekeeper. A little cognac with coffee, and possibly a thing or two he’d forgotten, but absolutely no extravagance.

They finished the evening with a game of billiards and a little evening toddy. Then Persson went home. His host had as always been in the best of spirits and even sang to him as he got into the taxi. On the other hand he had no memory of what it was he sang. Whatever that had to do with it, by the way.

The special adviser had thus died of natural causes, and as far as the witness Persson was concerned he could have gone on living as long as he wanted.

He was mourned and missed by those near and dear, friends and co-workers. A man with a good memory besides, who only a few weeks before his death made a codicil to his will in which he bequeathed an old book about Magdalen College, Oxford, to the head of the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation, Lars Martin Johansson.

To my dear friend Lars Martin Johansson. In memory of all the deer in the park at Magdalen, in memory of all the stimulating conversations we have had, and because I personally have now finally had my say.

103

Johansson was present both at the funeral and at the cemetery, Norra Kyrkogården, as well as at the ensuing luncheon at Grand’s French restaurant. Persson had been there too, and when they were through eating and said goodbye to the closest mourners, they went home to Johansson’s to have a memorial highball to the dead man and talk in peace and quiet.

“What does your wife have to say?” asked Persson as they were in the taxi on their way to Johansson’s both pleasant and spacious apartment on Söder.

“Not a smidgen,” said Johansson. “She’s at a conference. Won’t be home until this evening.”

Johansson did not waste any time on small talk. Led his guest into the office, mixed two ample highballs for them, offered him the larger armchair and sat down on the couch himself.

“I got a little worried when I read the investigation into the cause of death,” said Johansson. “Are things so bad that your sense of orderliness has started running amok?”

“Forget it,” said Persson, shaking his head. “Neither you nor your associates have anything to worry about. Our mutual friend ate himself to death. Burned his candle at both ends. To be on the safe side he lit a fire in the middle too, and it’s no more complicated than that.”

“Nice to hear,” said Johansson. “So what do you think about Bäckström? I heard from Jarnebring, when we talked last week, that he’s more or less climbing the walls when he’s not hovering like a blimp due to all the conspiracy theories he’s full of. There was some journalist at TV4 who called Bo to ask whether he knew anything about the mysterious sex track in the Palme murder that Bäckström has been raving about.”

“Couldn’t be better,” Persson grunted. “If Bäckström is saying it, then even those lunatics on TV should understand that there’s no truth to it. Besides, isn’t he on sick leave? And at a guess, the little fatso is going to stay that way for a good long while.”

“So you say,” said Johansson. “On a completely different matter. So when did you figure out how things stood?”

“The fall of 1992. When we got word from the Spanish colleagues that Waltin drowned in Mallorca. Then Berg decided we should do a home search at Waltin’s. If he hadn’t done it, I would have done it anyway,” said Persson, nodding.

“I ran it myself,” Persson continued. “Neat and tidy. No carelessness. His apartment in town, his estate down in Sörmland, three different safety deposit boxes, an extra apartment at the top of the building on Norr Mälarstrand where he lived. Registered to some company that he owned.”

“So did you find anything interesting?” said Johansson, without sounding the least bit curious.

“No,” said Persson, shaking his head. “Just a bag of old clothes, shoes and winter clothes, a knit cap. I burned it the same day. Nothing to trace. The clothes weren’t even washed. Some other trash of no interest that mostly concerned little Waltin’s special orientation went into the same fire.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nothing you want to hear about,” said Persson. “That particular part I took care of when I and the woman I’m involved with took the boat over to Finland. Somewhere on a level with Landsort where it’s supposed to be three hundred feet deep. She’s Finnish, by the way, so we were going to see her elderly parents. Old as the hills, frisky as squirrels. Must be the sauna.”

“Berg,” said Johansson. “Did you tell him?”

“No,” said Persson. “Why would I do that? He had enough troubles of his own.”

“So why did you wait fifteen years with Hedberg? Couldn’t you just as well have left it at that?”

“Your fault, Lars,” said Persson. “When you showed up at my place a few months ago and started asking about Waltin, I realized the hour had come. You’re the man who can see around corners,” said Persson and grinned.

“So it was really my fault,” said Johansson.

“Depends on what you mean by fault,” said Persson, shrugging his shoulders. “True, you did say to me that you wanted to boil the bastard for glue, but I really did it for Erik’s sake.”

“For Erik Berg’s sake?”

“Who else?” said Persson. “What do you think would have happened to his reputation if you’d dragged Hedberg into Stockholm District Court? What do you think would have happened to the organization? To you too for that matter. You were operations head with us for six years. If Erik had still been alive, he would surely have ended up in jail too. I did it to be on the safe side, if nothing else. I think you would have been able to keep from laughing when the media vultures started feasting on you. Because you don’t really think they would have been content with Waltin and Hedberg?”

“I understand what you mean,” said Johansson, and as he said that he thought of his wife.

“So who helped you?” said Johansson. It’s over now, he thought.

“Last question,” said Persson. “Are we agreed on that?”

“Yes,” said Johansson. “After this we draw a line through this.”

“Cheers to the deceased,” said Persson, raising his glass. “That man was more than just a mouth.”

“Cheers to him,” said Johansson. You already knew that, didn’t you? he thought.

“I have a present for you, by the way,” said Johansson. He stuck his hand in his pants pocket and handed over the copper-sheathed lead bullet he had brought with him from work when he went to the funeral.

“The renowned seventy-five-percenter,” said Persson, holding it up between his thumb and index finger in his improbably large hand.

“So you know that,” said Johansson.

“Our deceased friend told me,” said Persson. “He had pretty good ears, you know.”

“I’ve understood that,” said Johansson.

“I have three brothers and three sisters,” said Persson. “Combined they’ve collected a dozen kids. Have I told you that?”

“No,” said Johansson. “I actually have three brothers and three sisters too.” Combined we have even more children than you all, he thought.

“I know that too,” said Persson, studying the bullet he was holding in his hand. “My nephews and nieces are grown now, although when they were little I used to do magic tricks for them. Whenever they had a party, Uncle Åke would do magic for them. I got pretty good, actually. Probably could even have supported myself doing that. It’s in your fingers, and once you learn it, it never goes away.”

“I believe you,” said Johansson.

“Good,” said Persson. “How would it be otherwise? If people like you and me couldn’t trust each other.”

“Not so good. Really bad, maybe. I believe that,” Johansson agreed, sipping his highball.

“So what do you think about this?” said Persson. He pulled down the sleeve on his right arm, showed the bullet he was holding in his fingers, raised his hand, clenched it, turned his giant fist before he opened it again and showed his empty hand.

“Abracadabra,” said Persson.

104

The same evening, when his wife came home and they’d gone to bed, he dreamed. The only nightmare he could remember having as an adult. No ether-induced stupor this time; he hadn’t had very much to drink, and he was definitely not eleven years old anymore. Even so he had fallen freely.

Fallen freely, as if in a dream. Simply whirled down and down, fell headfirst into a black hole that never ended. He sat upright in bed without knowing whether he was alive or dead. He must have done something more, because Pia was holding his arm so hard that it hurt. Even though his muscles were tensed like rope.

“What’s going on, Lars? God, I was frightened.”

“I’m alive,” he said. Am I? he thought.

“Of course you’re alive,” said Pia, stroking his cheek. “It was only a dream. A nightmare. I guess you’re not used to them. Don’t forget you’ve promised me to live to be a hundred.”

“I haven’t forgotten. I promise,” said Johansson, shaking his head. I’m alive, he thought.

“Nothing else has happened? Is there anything you want to say? Nothing you’ve forgotten to tell me?”

“I’m going to quit my job,” said Johansson. “I’ve already talked with them. I’m through with this now. I really thought I never would be, but now I am.”

“And nothing else has happened? Something I ought to know?”

“Nothing,” said Johansson. “Nothing has happened.” Finally, he thought. Finally it’s over.

Truth, myth, or just a simple tall tale? Regardless of which, early on Friday morning the first of December a single shot echoed in the park behind Mary Magdalene’s College in Oxford. The previous night had been cold. The ground was white with frost, shrouded in fog that rolled in from the river Cherwell, when the largest of the park’s deer had to sacrifice his life. Still the largest of them all but declining the past few years. Now he mostly created disorder in the herd, bothered the hinds and held back the younger, more energetic stags. For that reason someone decided he should be removed.

The man who held the shotgun was a thirty-year-old professional hunter from one of the nearby estates. Among many other things his employer was also a senior fellow of Magdalen, and his own hunter took care of the wildlife at the College as a part-time job. But no proctor in a Spanish cloak and tall black hat, because that belonged to a time long past. Instead a young, very professional game warden in a green cap and oilskin jacket who made certain there was a proper backstop behind the prey before he shot, who had loaded the bullet the evening before so as not to unnecessarily disturb the peace in the halls of learning, who made the suffering brief and put the bullet in the deer’s neck.

The deer that collapses on the spot, on head and horns, with curled-up front legs and a few final kicks with the back hooves. The red blood that colors the white frost, the final snorting exhalation. Red blood that shows up especially well against white frost, time that stops for a moment. But no more than that, and for the others in the herd life will immediately go on.

Truth, myth, or just a simple tall tale? Regardless of which, on the first Sunday in Advent, Sunday the third of December, there was a dinner at Magdalen College in memory of a recently deceased honorary fellow. Not a remarkable dinner, simply a typical English gentlemen’s dinner, with venison steak, brown gravy, and overcooked vegetables, but the wine they served was excellent. A Romanée-Conti from the great year of 1985, a large quantity of which the special adviser had purchased long before at three-hundred-year-old Berry Bros. & Rudd on St. James Street in London, and also took the opportunity to send a couple of cases to the wine cellar at Magdalen.

The English upper classes have the good custom of almost never giving speeches during dinner. Dinner is eaten every day, dinner speeches are given only on special occasions, and this particular day one of the dinner guests did give a speech. A memorial speech to the deceased.

The speaker was himself both an honorary fellow and a member of the governing body of another college. It had been founded more than five hundred years later and in a completely different era than when the buildings were erected to honor the memory of the foremost of Jesus’s female disciples. It was called St. Antony’s College, which was an honorable enough name compared with all the other colleges at Oxford, but insiders simply called it “The Spy College.” Founded after the most recent world conflagration by donors who almost always wanted to be anonymous and all of whom seemed to have unlimited amounts of money. As an academic institution the logical answer to the Western powers’ demand for better, more educated, and more reliable brains in the Western security agencies. Perhaps the historical inheritance of the five traitors from Cambridge, if you preferred to think along such lines.

The dinner speaker was named Michael Liska, born in Hungary during the Second World War, fled as a teenager to the U.S. after the revolt against the Russians in 1956. He had no notable academic credentials, especially not in the company in which he found himself. He had worked his entire adult life for the CIA, a successful career, and when he had retired a few years ago he had been deputy director of the organization. Even substituted as its director on a few occasions when circumstances compelled the president of the United States to make rapid, radical changes.

A big, burly fellow who was always called “The Bear,” even though “Liska” means “fox” in Hungarian. Michael “The Bear” Liska, who was now a healthy retiree of sixty-seven. Even though as a teenager he climbed up on a Russian T54 in the streets of Budapest, threw a Molotov cocktail through the open turret door, and sent a volley of bullets through the body of the driver when he tried to crawl out of his burning tank.

About this and other things of the same sort he had of course not said a word. Instead, for his learned listeners he talked about his Swedish friend and comrade-in-arms of almost forty years.

He began his memorial oration by recounting his friend’s scientific achievements. The decisive contributions he had made to harmonic analysis in mathematics, about their significance for coding and encryption in an intelligence operation.

Liska also placed him in a historical perspective. The last, and youngest, of the three great Swedish mathematicians who used the gift that only the Lord God Almighty could have given them, to protect freedom and law.

Arne Beurling, who had been the first of them. Professor of mathematics at the University of Uppsala, who in 1940 reluctantly reported for service as a sergeant with the Defense staff’s intelligence division. Then in fourteen days he broke the Germans’ secret telecommunications codes with the help of paper, pen, harmonic analysis, and a highly unusual mind.

His contemporary colleague Johan Forselius, professor of mathematics at the Royal Technical Academy, who with the computers of the new era and his own contributions to prime number theory made sure that the messages the democracies of the Western world chose to conceal would also remain concealed in practice. In the spirit of the time that was then required.

Then the youngest of the three, for whom they were now gathered to grant a final farewell. Forselius’s disciple, professor of mathematics at the University of Stockholm at the age of twenty-nine. His dissertation on stochastic variables and harmonic divisions for many years considerably facilitated the uncovering of every dictator’s evil projects and secret traps.

Liska concluded his talk by quoting the final words in a letter he had received from his old friend only a month or so before he died.

“Regardless of whether truth is absolute or relative, and quite apart from the fact that many of us constantly seek it, in the end it is nonetheless hidden from almost all of us. As a rule out of necessity, and if for no other reason than out of concern for those who would not understand anyway.”