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

Kenya

Meitkini had learned how to handle a spear, knife and club when he was three years old. At the age of four, he had the misfortune, as a cowherd, to come face to face with a buffalo. The greatest misfortune belonged to the buffalo, however, for the four-year-old’s spear landed almost where it was meant to and he managed to stay hidden under a bush as the life slowly drained from the beast. Eleven years later, the fifteen-year-old boy was sent out on the savannah, with only the clothes on his back and his spear, knife and club. Nothing more. That was how it worked. The boys who came back to the village a year later were accepted into the adult world: they were Maasai warriors for real. If they didn’t come back, the question was no longer of interest.

Yes, Meitkini came back, as did all his friends. Those who have been taught to survive from the age of three tend to do just that.

Now, at thirty-two, he asked his fellow travellers to take off all the clothing they didn’t absolutely need and gather up all the blankets that were in the car. Meanwhile, Meitkini himself climbed into the back and grabbed the extra can of petrol.

He tossed strategically placed piles of petrol-drenched clothing and blankets around both cars, then handed out flashlights to all his companions and instructed them in which direction to aim the beams. He then dropped a match on top of each pile of fabric, which immediately began blazing wildly.

‘There we go,’ he said. ‘Now I’ll climb down and lift the boxes out while those of you who can manage it receive them. That should work.’

As a final safety measure, he handed a crowbar to Fredrika: he had found it next to the petrol can.

‘Throw this if you see anything approaching.’

She nodded seriously. For the moment, she felt like a field agent again.

Ten minutes later, Meitkini was done. The piles were still burning. Fredrika Langer was still standing at the ready with the crowbar. The last thing Meitkini did was lift the dead Stan Smith out of the car and lay him in the ditch.

‘Are you leaving him there for the lions?’ Sabine asked.

‘No,’ said Meitkini, who had recognized four pairs of glowing eyes not far off in the bush. ‘For the hyenas.’

Back at camp, things had changed. Fredrika Langer didn’t go into the details with Meitkini: she just said it was no longer urgently necessary for them to rush off to Musoma together.

‘Lovely,’ said Meitkini. ‘In that case, are you ladies and gentlemen content for me to ask John to pour us something pleasant in the lounge before we sit down for a late supper?’

‘Something pleasant in the lounge sounds pleasant to me,’ said Allan.

The others nodded in agreement.

Fredrika Langer appeared to have a more pleasant time in the lounge than any of the others, including Allan. She needed it. Partly because of Allan Karlsson she was now sitting on four hundred kilos of enriched uranium, all weighed out and ready – that is, a hundred times more than Karlsson had already managed to present to Chancellor Merkel.

Agent Langer’s boss had long stood watch along the six-hundred-kilometre border between Tanzania and Mozambique, looking for the uranium that was currently in Kenya. Now he was probably doing the same thing in Madagascar. Fredrika felt she needed more time to think before she called her boss with the news.

What should she do? Not even taking into account how tired she was of everything.

‘You look worn out, Madame Agent,’ said Allan. ‘Fredrika, I mean. Have things perhaps been a little much lately?’

And then there was Karlsson. Who saw right through you.

As everyone gathered around the table to enjoy a late three-course meal on the veranda, with a view of the pitch-black valley, two headlights popped up in the distance. At first they were just a faint flicker in the darkness: obviously someone, or several someones, was slowly approaching the camp.

Julius began to worry.

Sabine began to worry.

Fredrika Langer began to worry.

Meitkini checked to make sure he had his club.

‘A visitor?’ said Allan. ‘Exciting!’

The starter arrived, but it remained untouched. The car was getting close. Oh, dear God, it was an ordinary old car! A taxi! That had made it the entire way?

‘Could it be someone who’s missing Stan Smith?’ wondered Fredrika, who had gone to fetch the crowbar to be on the safe side.

‘Hmm,’ Meitkini mused. ‘But how would missing him lead to us?’

The taxi stopped just below the veranda. A man thanked the driver, handed over some money, and stepped out. His eyes searched the people standing in a row and landed on Julius, second from the left.

‘Hello, my friend,’ said Gustav Svensson. ‘Nice to see you!’