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

USA

Allan found his friend on the park bench outside UN headquarters where he’d parked him just over an hour earlier. Julius was still sitting there, the North Korean briefcase on his lap. The switch from North Korea to the United States had been a step in the right direction, but the realization that this was a country where the possession of enriched uranium could bring you a few hundred years in prison had captured his anxious attention all over again.

‘How was the meeting?’ he asked Allan by way of a greeting.

‘Agreeable.’

‘Good. Does that mean you’ve finally made sure we’ll be rid of this?’

He held up the briefcase as if Allan didn’t already know what he meant.

‘No, it wasn’t quite that agreeable. That Trump is not getting our briefcase. He seems awfully close to exploding all on his own.’

‘What? Then what are we going to do with it? And with ourselves? You said you had everything worked out. Exactly what have you worked out?’

‘Did I say that? Well, you say a lot of things when you’re my age. I don’t know, dear Julius, but it will all sort itself out. May I have a seat here next to you?’

Allan didn’t wait for a response, assuming one wouldn’t be forthcoming anyway. He sat down and said it felt nice to rest his legs a bit, because the hallways in the UN building had been both long and plentiful. Add to that the time difference and other oddities…

But Julius did not allow himself to be sucked in. Didn’t Allan understand that they were in the United States with four kilos of enriched uranium, and that there was no way they could leave the country with the briefcase in hand? It would immediately set off alarms at the airport no matter how hard they waved their diplomatic passports.

Allan said he did understand, now that Julius had reminded him.

Julius went on: ‘If the president was angry today, what do you think is going to happen when he finds out what we’re strolling around his country with?’

‘Then we’ll have to try not to tell him,’ said Allan.

At which he felt around a bit, asked Julius for the briefcase, and placed it on one end of the bench with the North Korean coat on top. This provided a temporary bed with four kilos of enriched uranium and a coat as a pillow. He lay down and closed his eyes in the fresh air.

‘So now you’re just going to lie down and die?’ Julius said acidly, shifting in the other direction to keep his trousers away from the dirty soles of Allan’s shoes.

No, Allan had no such plans. He was just going to recuperate a little; it had been a long day. After all, it was not much later than it had been half a day earlier, such was the design of the earth.

As he lay there, the hundred-and-one-year-old looked both tired and pathetic, on top of how extremely old men look in the first place. In under a minute a passing woman had already asked if he was okay and if she could help somehow. She was probably South American. The surroundings in the UN district were fairly international. Allan politely declined the offer of aid, saying that he felt fine and would soon be on his feet again.

Julius kept up his anxious talk of the briefcase and the future, but Allan stopped listening. Julius seldom came up with any new ideas when he was worried, and the old ones brought no joy to anyone.

After a few more minutes, a man stopped. He was perhaps sixty years old and wearing a hat. Just like the woman, he wondered if everything was as it should be, and if he could be of any service.

Julius was grumpy and said nothing, but Allan realized what he was missing. He looked up and enquired if the gentleman had something to drink. The fact was, he had just suffered through a meeting with the American president and there was a man about whom one could say a lot of things. An ill-natured scoundrel. With a temper as uneven as a rural North Korean highway. Who apparently had never had a drink in his entire life.

‘The president?’ said the man in the hat. ‘The American one? Trump? That’s terrible. Let’s see if I have anything for comfort.’ He dug through his shoulder bag and brought up two small bottles wrapped in brown paper. ‘It’s not much, but it’s something. Underberg. Good for the stomach.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with Allan’s stomach,’ said Julius. ‘Don’t you have anything for his head?’

‘Yes, there is,’ said Allan. ‘Depending on the alcohol content, of course.’

The man in the hat thought it might be forty per cent or more; he hadn’t checked. In any case, he never travelled abroad without a few of these brown bottles in his luggage. Good for the stomach. Had he mentioned that?’

Allan sat up with a certain amount of difficulty, accepted the hat man’s offer, unscrewed the cap of the small bottle, and drained its contents in one gulp.

‘Brrrr!’ he said, his eyes sparkling. ‘You’ll want to hold onto your hat before having any of that.’

The hat man smiled. Julius saw what good the little bottle seemed to do for Allan and quickly reached for the other. Soon he had caught up and both men gazed contentedly at their new acquaintance.

‘I’m Ambassador Breitner,’ he said. ‘Representative here at the UN for the Federal Republic of Germany. I have one bottle left in my bag, but I think I had better keep it, because you gentlemen might fight over it.’

‘Maybe not fight,’ said Allan. ‘We’re not violent. Violence seldom leads anywhere. Julius here certainly tends to take a dim view of most things, but it always stops there.’

Julius was on the verge of taking a dim view of what Allan had just said, but chose to smile along with his friend and the man in the hat.

‘So, another UN employee. Then we’re colleagues,’ said Allan. ‘I myself, and this fellow here, who doesn’t seem to be quite as surly any more, are diplomats and assistants to UN Envoy Wallström from Sweden. My name is Allan and this is Julius. A good man, deep down.’

Ambassador Breitner shook hands with them.

‘Might you be hungry, Mr Breitner?’ Allan asked. ‘The miracle cure we were just served has whetted my appetite. We’d love you to keep us company at some venue, especially if you might be so generous as to foot the bill, because it has just occurred to me that we have no money. We once had a gold cigarette lighter, but we had to exchange it in Pyongyang for muesli with milk.’

UN Ambassador Breitner had already come to enjoy his new companions. Also, he was curious about the frail man who had apparently just had a disastrous meeting with President Trump. The other, too, might have an interesting story to tell. But above all he was an experienced diplomat and as such he was always on the job. Pyongyang? These two gentlemen might be sources of information.

‘Why, it so happens I can spare an hour or two for a couple of diplomat gentlemen. And the Federal Republic will pick up the tab. We can afford that.’

The German knew a nice place on Second Avenue. It wasn’t far to walk, even for Allan. There they were served schnitzel, German beer and fruit vodka, and the mood was so cheery that with their second toast, Ambassador Breitner suggested that Allan and Julius could call him Konrad.

‘Of course, Konrad,’ said Allan.

‘For once I agree with Allan, Konrad,’ said Julius.

During dinner the ambassador learned first how an iPad works (he chose not to mention that he already owned two) and then how best to cultivate asparagus. After their second toast, the conversation turned to how Allan and Julius had ended up in North Korea and managed to sneak out with the help of Minister Wallström and the diplomatic passports she had conjured up.

Konrad Breitner was able to connect Allan and Julius’s story with the news he had been following for the past few days. So the Swiss nuclear weapons expert was Swedish! He didn’t appear to be much of a traitor, but he was quite a rascal when it came to downing fruit vodka. He had already had three, though he had complained all the while, saying he didn’t understand what business fruit had being in vodka.

Julius didn’t have Allan’s talent for taking the day and early evening as they came, not by a long shot. He was tormented by the fact that he had a briefcase full of enriched uranium at his feet, and the more vodkas he consumed, the more his imagination convinced him that Ambassador Konrad was sneaking repeated glances at it. All in his mind or not, he decided to be proactive.

‘We are certainly happy that we managed to get away with all of Allan’s technical design plans in the briefcase here. It would have been terrible if they’d got into the hands of the Supreme Leader.’

For a moment Allan thought his friend was about to ruin a carefree night at the pub, but then he caught on to what Julius was up to. The asparagus farmer wanted nothing more than to be rid of the uranium, and it wasn’t as if they could just put it down somewhere between Fifth and Sixth Avenues and walk away. Konrad might be the answer to their problem!

‘I’m glad you revealed what the briefcase contains, Julius. We’d been planning to hand it all over to President Trump, but… well, as I said, he was about to explode even without any blueprints for how it should be done. Now we’re wondering if we might find terminal storage for the documentation in safer hands.’

‘Have you discussed the matter with Minister Wallström?’ Konrad wondered, sobering up.

Allan said that Madame Wallström was extraordinary in every way, but at the end of the day she was Swedish and had, like all Swedes from 1966 onwards, a pathological fear of touching anything nuclear.

Julius understood that Allan understood, and hurried to his rescue. ‘Safest of all, of course, would be if the knowledge was kept with the EU, wouldn’t you say, Allan?’

‘There you go being so clever again, Julius, as only you can be. When you choose to show that side of yourself. Please feel free to do so more often. But finding a strong EU leader who is prepared to take responsibility for world peace is easier said than done. Perhaps that new Frenchman, Macron?’

‘Macron?’ Julius said earnestly, although he was still playing along.

‘Yes, he won the presidential election the other day. Didn’t I mention that? No, of course not. You only get surlier when someone tries to enlighten you. The special thing about Macron is that he’s neither left nor right. Or he’s both. I’m not quite sure how that works, but it sounds nice and balanced.’

UN Ambassador Breitner was no dummy. What was more, he had been on his guard ever since a few minutes ago. Yet he fell into the trap. ‘Well, it just so happens that Chancellor Merkel is coming to Washington in two days. Do you suppose she would suffice as guarantor? Of world peace, I mean?’

Julius let Allan get in the crucial jab.

‘Why, Konrad! You’re a genius! Are you saying you’re prepared to hand over our nuclear weapons-tainted briefcase to Angela Merkel? Why didn’t we think of her?’

Ambassador Breitner smiled humbly. ‘What are friends for? Cheers, boys.’

The ambassador was the only one with anything left in his glass, but it still worked.

Now, the contents of the briefcase might have been encased in lead, but who knew what sort of instruments could be found at American security checkpoints? No one would be surprised to find that radioactivity warning lights started blinking here and there. A potential life sentence at Guantánamo was not something Allan and Julius wished upon their new-found friend Konrad. Especially since he was picking up the tab for the evening.

‘But we have a problem,’ said Allan.

And he explained that the nuclear weapons-related documents had been hidden in a lead-lined package and that it might cause problems for the ambassador at airport security. Not to mention what would happen if officials at JFK got it into their heads to take a closer look at said package.

‘Oh?’ said Ambassador Breitner, doubtfully.

‘Given what we’ve just said, may we suggest that you take a taxi to Washington, Ambassador? Julius and I can cover the cost, but that will likely require a payment plan. We’re a bit hard up just now.’

‘Extremely hard up,’ said Julius.

If the ambassador went by road to the German embassy, Allan and Julius’s white lie wouldn’t be discovered until he arrived. Once he’d carried the briefcase through the gates, it would be too late. A global scandal would have been averted (since no one would expect the Germans to call a press conference on the matter) and Ambassador Breitner would get off with an internal scolding. And perhaps dismissal. But not Guantánamo.

‘A taxi?’ said Ambassador Breitner. ‘Why not? Certainly, now that I think about it. And don’t worry about the fee. I’ll be saving the cost of the flight.’

‘Wonderful,’ said Allan. ‘Then I think that’s enough saving the world for today. Time for another round before we all get stiff.’

It had taken six fruit vodkas each to accompany the beer and schnitzel. When Ambassador Breitner excused himself to visit the cloakroom, Allan and Julius had the chance to exchange a few words.

‘Imagine you coming up with something like this,’ Allan said encouragingly.

‘Although he’s a good man, is Konrad. It’s too bad we’re making trouble for him,’ said Julius.

Allan absorbed his friend’s musings. ‘That can be remedied,’ he said.

Then he swiped a paper napkin and asked the waitress for a pen. Julius wondered what Allan had cooked up and was told that it might help their new-found friend Konrad if the briefcase contained not only enriched uranium but also a greeting to the big cheese.

‘Merkel?’

‘Yes, that’s her name.’

Allan composed a letter on the napkin.

At that instant, Julius yanked the pen out of Allan’s hand and told him to get a grip.

‘Konrad will be back at any moment! For God’s sake, hurry up!’

He gave Allan the pen back, so he started a new line and kept on writing.

Allan placed the three napkins on top of one another in the proper order and asked Julius to stick them into the side pocket of the briefcase.

Julius did as he was asked, assuming there was no time to edit out the silly part about his relationship to German asparagus. Given the circumstances, Allan had actually done a rather good job on the napkins.

Konrad, however, didn’t return for some time. Bathroom visits could, after all, vary by nature. This one was clearly of the longer sort. Julius had a sudden inspiration. He took a scrap of paper from the inner pocket of his worn summer jacket. There he had Gustav Svensson’s phone number. On the table was Konrad’s phone.

‘Do you suppose…?’ said Julius.

‘I absolutely suppose,’ said Allan.

Julius called. And found himself speaking to the same voicemail as last time. This was deeply annoying.

‘Gustav, for God’s sake! What was the point of the phone if you’re going to keep it turned off all the time? Allan and I made it to New York from Pyongyang and next we’re going…’

‘Here he comes,’ said Allan.

Quick as a wink, the phone was back on the table.

‘Well, then, my friends, I suppose we should be thinking of getting along,’ said Konrad, taking out his wallet.

The bill was already on the table, next to the phone. Germany was about to become 620 dollars poorer, plus a hundred dollars in tips (plus the cost of a fifteen-second call to Indonesia). Konrad placed seven hundred-dollar bills and two twenties on the table, stood up, and said it was time for the friends to part ways.

‘And for me, I suppose, all there is to do is take over this exciting briefcase and catch a cab,’ he said.

‘Yes, I suppose that’s true,’ said Allan, standing in the way so Konrad wouldn’t notice Julius commandeering the tip.