The Accidental Further Adventures of the Hundred-Year-Old Man

North Korea

Julius was involuntarily imprisoned in the capital of North Korea, and he longed for the peace and petty thievery he had known back on Bali. His goal of five hundred million rupiah – almost forty thousand dollars – had been realistic once, but perhaps not now that he wasn’t there to keep an eye on things.

On the other hand, his and Allan’s debts to the hotel and the boat-renter were much greater than that. In this sense it was economically advantageous to keep their distance, although visiting North Korea was certainly overdoing it.

When this mess was all over, perhaps they could move the asparagus operation to an area where they didn’t owe anyone any money.

‘Thailand?’ Julius said aloud, just as the door opened.

Allan held it open and allowed Minister for Foreign Affairs Margot Wallström to enter first. ‘Allow me to introduce my friend Julius Jonsson,’ said Allan. ‘He’s single, if the minister feels so inclined.’

Margot Wallström shot an angry look at Allan. ‘Thanks, but no thanks. I have been happily married for over thirty years.’

Julius greeted the minister with the comment that she would have to forgive Allan. It must have to do with his age. The strangest things came out of his mouth sometimes. Most of the time, really.

Minister Wallström nodded and said she had noticed as much.

In the limousine after the horrid press conference, she had formed an approximate idea about Karlsson and Jonsson. The hundred-and-one-year-old really did seem to be a nuclear weapons expert, or at least he had been once upon a time. The only good news of the day was that he aspired not to help Kim Jong-un.

The truly bad part was that he had no plans about how to avoid doing so.

The general impression in the UN building was that North Korea had the capacity for nuclear weapons but so far that capacity was limited; the Supreme Leader was trying to make such a rumpus that no one would notice. In any case, the threat was real. Nuclear weapons are so powerful, of course, that even a small, half-failed load could destroy an entire city. Like Seoul, for example. Or Tokyo. Or a whole island, like Guam.

Margot Wallström shuddered at the thought. And at the apparent truth that the man who could sort out the North Korean nuclear weapons programme was in this very hotel room, digging through the empty minibar. And, furthermore, he was Swedish. Was Sweden going to be the primary reason behind a shift in the balance of worldwide power?

No, she had to stop it happening if she could. Preferably without ending up imprisoned in this country for thirty years or more, accused of espionage or whatever the Supreme Leader happened to dream up.

‘Do you think you could come with me on my plane out of here?’ she asked. ‘Twenty-nine of the thirty seats in the cabin are available.’

Julius lit up.

Allan stopped looking for liquor. ‘As empty as the minibar in this hotel room,’ he said. ‘The whole hotel, in fact.’

The minister for foreign affairs went on. ‘I can try to help you get diplomatic passports. I’m afraid you’ll have to sort out the rest on your own.’

‘The rest?’ said Julius.

‘Getting to the plane when it’s time to take off.’

Allan hadn’t listened beyond the first part of what had just been said. ‘Diplomatic passports?’ he said. ‘I haven’t had one of those since 1948, when Churchill and I flew home from Tehran together. Or ’forty-seven. No, ’forty-eight.’

‘Winston Churchill?’ said the minister.

‘Yes, that’s his name. Or it was. I suppose he’s been dead a long time, like most people.’

The minister for foreign affairs suddenly felt as if she was in a movie. And it made her stomach hurt to think of what she was about to do. Espionage wouldn’t be an entirely inaccurate charge. But she took portraits of Allan and Julius with her phone camera and promised them passports within a few days.

‘Sign the back of my business card so they’ll have something to go on at home.’

She’s one results-oriented woman, thought Julius. And delightful. Shame she’s taken.

The Swedish UN representative had been assigned room 105, next door to Allan and Julius. Once she was in the room, ostensibly to prepare herself for the evening’s dinner, she spent more time pondering how she could rescue the two Swedes and trick Kim Jong-un out of knowledge he shouldn’t have. It seemed as if the Supreme Leader didn’t want her around any longer than necessary, but she had to give Karlsson and Jonsson time to come up with a plan. Plus the diplomatic passports had to make it over. She wouldn’t be able to order them until she got to the embassy several hours later. Time seemed to be her greatest enemy right now. Although it was in serious competition with everything else.

She showered, changed clothes, spiffed herself up, and at last stood ready in front of the hall mirror. She looked at herself and said, ‘What am I doing here?’

Her mirror image gazed back but didn’t respond.

Kim Jong-un asked his guests to have a seat at the dining table as he remained standing at one end, his hands on the back of his chair. He appeared to have something to say.

Two of the waiting staff came through the doors, their arms full of plates, and a third walked in with two bottles of wine. But all three immediately turned back after a glance from the Supreme Leader.

Allan watched the food and drink come and go in the span of one second and was disappointed.

‘Friends,’ Kim Jong-un began.

‘Could we perhaps talk while we eat?’ Allan suggested.

The Supreme Leader pretended not to hear this comment. He launched into a speech about peace and freedom.

‘Peace’ seemed to involve supplying his country with ever more deadly weapons. What constituted ‘freedom’ was not quite as clear. Except possibly that every single citizen had the right to love their leader, combined with the duty to avoid not doing so.

With that, the Supreme Leader expressed his contentment that Providence had supplied him with Mr Karlsson, who had come all the way from Switzerland to contribute to the fight against American imperialism. And that UN Envoy Wallström had joined in for similar reasons.

‘Well,’ said Margot Wallström, ‘as Mr Kim is aware, my task is rather to try to open up lines of dialogue between different people, to begin talking to each other, like we’re doing now, instead of putting on performances here and there, like the one that took place in front of the TV cameras earlier today. I have already expressed my displeasure with that, have I not?’

She’s not only delightful, she’s brave too, Julius thought. Now, if only Allan remains calm…

Kim Jong-un looked at the UN envoy without listening to what she said. And went on with his speech.

He started on how happy everyone was in the Democratic People’s Republic, how well the crops were growing, and how much nicer the weather was in the northern half of the peninsula than in the south. Altogether, it was no wonder tens of thousands of Koreans fled from south to north each year.

Food and drink were turned away at the door once again, causing Allan to lose patience. On occasion it could be a wise strategy to hold one’s tongue or express agreement, but right now it was time to say something before they all starved to death.

Julius sensed what Allan was about to do and desperately tried to make eye contact so he could say, using his hands and face, ‘No, Allan, don’t do it!’

But do it he did.

‘Forgive me, Mr Supreme Leader. My name was mentioned not far into your speech about a bit of everything. And here I am. Old and frail, but ever at your service. However, I suspect I will be of far too little use if I’m dead, and I’m about to starve to death. Is there any way what you have to say can be wrapped up a bit more speedily than you had perhaps intended?’

Kim Jong-un’s proud smile went chilly. ‘You will soon be allowed to eat, Mr Karlsson. But your presumed cleverness about nuclear technology doesn’t give you the right to express yourself as you wish, here in the People’s Palace.’

Oh, so he was in that sort of mood.

‘I certainly didn’t mean any offence, O Supreme One, but it’s possible that in addition to all the rest I haven’t been sleeping very well lately. You see, my friend the asparagus farmer here has trouble being as quiet as he ought to be at night.’

Kim Jong-un didn’t follow. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He doesn’t mean anything—’ Julius attempted.

‘I mean he snores,’ said Allan. ‘Oh, how he snores. If the Supreme One had any idea at all how much he snores! The boat that picked us up was the size of an entire warehouse, but not big enough that we didn’t have to share a cabin, and, well, there hasn’t been as much sleeping as there ought to have been. But what were we talking about, again? Oh, that’s right, food. And perhaps a drink alongside. Might it be on its way, perchance?’

With that, Kim Jong-un’s train of thought was sufficiently derailed. When the staff dared to stick their noses out of the kitchen again, he gave the green light.

They were served entrecôte with mushroom sauce. Not particularly Asian, but it appealed to the guests and was washed down with an Australian cabernet sauvignon.

Spirits rose around the table. Allan decided to tolerate the Supreme Leader’s talk of this and that for a little longer. But when the Supreme One claimed the nation had detonated a hydrogen bomb the year before, Allan had to protest. He’d read about that on his tablet, and the truth was that the so-called hydrogen bomb had hardly made a bang.

‘The fact that you’re transporting four measly kilos of uranium in a boat that could bring thirty thousand tons all the way from God-knows-where to Pyongyang is enough proof for me that, one, you aren’t anywhere near having a hydrogen bomb, two, you hardly even know the first thing about plutonium, and three, your total stores of uranium fit into a briefcase. In short, you have nothing to use, except those four kilos. And, as luck would have it, me. And I have nothing left in my glass.’

Kim Jong-un waved over a waiter. The impudence of the Swiss man was really too much. Well, there were two options: either he would turn out to be useful, in which case there was no reason to send him home to Europe. Or he wouldn’t, and then he would be sent nowhere but to his eternal rest. In either case he would come to regret his lack of respect.

The Supreme Leader decided to continue being amiable and generous. ‘You are outspoken, Mr Karlsson, I must say. And I suppose you have every right to be, given your age. Although your primary reason for being here is to work, I’d be happy to make sure you do some sightseeing in our beautiful capital city. What do you say we arrange a visit to the city’s most exclusive shopping centre after work tomorrow? Unfortunately I won’t be able to join you, but I’m sure you’ll manage with the guide I’ll put at your disposal.’

By ‘most exclusive shopping centre’, the Supreme Leader meant the city’s only shopping centre.

Visiting department stores? That was more than Allan needed. But it seemed like a good idea to play along, so Julius could stop looking so tormented. ‘That’s a kind thought,’ he said. ‘Sounds relaxing in every way, after a long day in the laboratory. I don’t suppose we could borrow a coin or two? In all our haste we didn’t bring anything with us but a few bottles of champagne, and unfortunately those are gone.’

Kim Jong-un said that Karlsson and his friend shouldn’t worry about the cost. If they found a souvenir or two to take home, they should consider it a gift.

When it came to the peace project, Karlsson could have six days in the lab. Time limits tended to promote creativity. Upon proven results, the Supreme One promised both a medal of valour and a first-class ticket home to Switzerland.

Julius still didn’t dare to say anything, not after the failed attempt in the Supreme Leader’s office.

Allan, however, was beyond daring. ‘A lot can be accomplished in six days. If only I manage to stay alive… I’ve been frail for a pretty long time. The last thirty or forty years, really. I suppose I’m singing my last refrain, as they say. Of course, Noah lived to be nine hundred and fifty. The difference is that I’m real.’

‘Who?’ said Kim Jong-un.

‘Noah. From the Bible. Exciting literature. Oh, but wait, what am I saying? I suppose you haven’t read it, because you would have had to execute yourself, if I’ve understood your laws correctly.’

Was this bloody Swiss man bringing up the Bible – a forbidden book – during dinner in the Palace of the People’s Republic? Now he had crossed a line.

But Margot Wallström came to his rescue. She broke in and thanked the Supreme Leader for the opportunity to meet in private.

Kim Jong-un nodded, even though he hadn’t promised any such thing. ‘Tomorrow I’m busy with important matters, but lunch the day after might work. And then you may leave, Madame Wallström. Go home and tell them that the world’s leading expert in nuclear weapons is in my hands. That ought to prompt some humility in America. If that characteristic even exists there.’

Margot Wallström took an extra large sip of her replenished wine to calm her nerves as she wondered what would happen if someone were to let Kim Jong-un and Benjamin Netanyahu into the same room. Monumental lack of humour and self-awareness against monumental lack of humour and self-awareness. All that would be missing was Donald Trump as a mediator.

Julius chewed Allan’s ear off all the way from the palace to the hotel. Why on earth had he quarrelled with the Supreme Leader like that?

‘Quarrelled? When has anyone died from a little honesty?’

‘Here people have dropped like flies from honesty over the years! Where’s the sense in it if we do the same?’

Allan allowed that he didn’t see any sense in that particular result. ‘But, please, can you stop worrying about every tiny thing? This will all work out for the best, you’ll see.’

‘How the hell do you expect it to work out? After tonight he’ll never let us go!’

‘He wouldn’t have anyway. I have no intention of helping that chatterbox more than necessary. When that dawns on him, it’ll be best if we’ve left the country. Preferably in the company of that briefcase he’s so proud of.’

‘And how do you intend for us to disappear?’

‘With the help of that charming Swedish minister for foreign affairs, of course. Have you already forgotten?’

‘In greater detail, Allan.’

‘Detail, schmetail.’

Margot Wallström took her limousine straight from the half-surreal dinner at the Supreme Leader’s palace to the Swedish embassy to start the process of producing passports. It wasn’t as simple as cobbling together a passport or two at the embassy. Sweden was Sweden and rules were rules.

The chief of the Swedish passport police wasn’t happy about the call from Pyongyang. He wavered and balked and wavered some more, with a series of formal objections to the minister’s request that he produce two diplomatic passports in extremely dubious accordance with the rules. He said he didn’t understand how the minister could put him on this sort of spot.

It would never do, of course, for Margot Wallström to explain that she had two Swedes to smuggle out of North Korea in the interest of averting a third world war, so she decided to change tack. Thus she informed the chief of the passport police that there was no need for him to understand what he was doing: the important thing was that he did as she said. When the chief of the passport police responded by wondering once more if the minister was seriously suggesting he falsify signatures and produce passports for two people no one at the passport office in Stockholm had even met, she responded with a simple ‘Yes.’ And ‘Diplomatic passports, as I said.’

‘Diplomatic passports perhaps, but as for the rest…’

‘As for the rest, either you do as I say or you do as I say. If necessary I can ask the prime minister to call you and repeat the request. If that’s not enough, I have contacts in the royal court. The king could give you a ring, if you like. And the speaker. Whom else would you like to hear from? Secretary General Guterres?’

The chief of the passport police fell silent. What did the king have to do with this?

‘Please, Mr Passport Police Chief. There’s not much time. The lives of Swedish citizens are at stake. And more lives than that.’

At last he went along with her request, given that it would also be sent in writing along with the electronic transmission of photographs and signatures.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Minister for Foreign Affairs Wallström. ‘But the passports must be produced at once and sent by diplomatic courier to Pyongyang within the hour.’

‘Within the hour? But it’s almost lunchtime.’

‘No, it isn’t.’