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

Kenya, Germany

Exactly twenty-four hours after his first call to the chancellor, Allan called again. Merkel answered after the first ring.

‘Good morning, Chancellor. I suppose it’s best I call the chancellor “Chancellor” as often as possible while I still can – you never know what may happen on Sunday.’

‘Good morning, Mr Karlsson,’ said Chancellor Merkel.

‘I’m calling to inform you, Madame Chancellor, of where your people can fetch the package. Or the box, rather. The boxes. The uranium, in short.’

‘Good. Let’s hope you manage to do so this time, before you slam down the receiver in my ear again. Tell me,’ she said, gripping her pen at the desk outside her bedroom, wearing the same dressing-gown as she had worn the previous morning.

He recommended that the Federal Republic sneak in at low altitude and land in the dark at the Keekorok Airport in Maasai Mara.

‘If you come straight down from Berlin, then hang a slight left over Kampala, Keekorok is not far into the countryside, just after Lake Victoria. Alternatively you can come in an arc from the other direction. In that case, it’s directly to the right from Lamu, along the coast of Kenya. After an hour or so, Keekorok will show up beneath you.’

Was Karlsson out of his mind?

‘Perhaps a slightly more legal arrangement would be to explain the situation to the Kenyan government in Nairobi. But there’s the chance it might be overthrown between the informing and the fetching.’

Chancellor Merkel had no intention of confirming over the telephone their prospective plans to trespass illegally on the territory of another nation, especially not two days before the election. Instead she responded: ‘I hear what you’re saying. Please give me the coordinates.’

Coordinates? This was beyond Allan’s capacity. But Meitkini was standing next to him, listening in, and jotted down what the chancellor had asked for.

‘I’ve just received a note. Oh, I see, this is what coordinates are. It actually reminds me of atomic fission, at first glance.’

Allan recited; Angela Merkel took notes.

‘When do you estimate the goods can be ready, Mr Karlsson?’

Madame Chancellor could decide that for herself. That very night, or the next one, perhaps.

Without directly confirming the arrangement, Angela Merkel informed him that the night after next might be worth aiming at. For example, at oh one hundred hours. ‘Anything else we need to discuss in the meantime?’ she asked.

Allan had a sudden brainwave. ‘Yes, there may be, since the chancellor was kind enough to ask.’

‘Well?’

‘We happened to incur some expenses related to ensuring that the uranium didn’t end up in North Korea.’

Chancellor Merkel smelt a rat. Thus far, Karlsson had given no indication that he wanted remuneration. ‘Expenses?’ she said.

‘Among other things, it became necessary for us to purchase four hundred tons of soil for the good of our cause.’

Soil? What had that to do with the enriched uranium? No, she didn’t want to know. ‘And what is the current market price for four hundred tons of soil?’ she asked, in a chilly tone.

It was rich in sand and of the highest quality. And it required extensive arrangements to transport it from Nairobi.

‘Ten million, more or less,’ said Allan.

‘Ten million euros for four hundred tons of soil?’ said Chancellor Merkel.

So Karlsson was a gangster, after all. One who was attempting extortion.

‘Heavens, no,’ said Allan. ‘Ten million Kenyan shillings.’

Angela Merkel quickly brought up the current exchange rate on her laptop. What a relief! The Kenyan shilling was worth 0.008 euros. Karlsson was demanding what corresponded to the amount the well-off nation made in surplus in two minutes at the current rate. Their conversation had already lasted twice that long.

‘Naturally you will be compensated for your soil, Karlsson,’ she said, still without wishing to know what or whom he might be intending to bury in it. ‘If you give me an account number, I’ll take care of it at once.’

‘One moment, Madame Chancellor,’ said Allan, and asked for Meitkini’s help.

Receiving payments from abroad was an everyday occurrence at the camp. Meitkini wrote down a series of letters and numbers for Allan.

‘Thanks,’ said the chancellor. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to hang up. I have a few matters to take care of.’

Quite a lot of things, actually. She had to organize the transport to Keekorok before she rushed right back to saying and doing nothing. The polling stations would open in forty-eight hours.