Certainly, thought Johansson, marking his agreement with his glass. I guess that’s precisely the point, he thought.
The following morning-he’d just sat down to start the day’s work on Krassner’s papers-Wiklander called him despite the fact that it was Saturday.
“I got the number from your brother,” Wiklander explained. “It was those counts and barons you were wondering about.”
“Are you at work on a Saturday?” asked Johansson. Wiklander can go places, he thought.
“I’m slaving at the after-hours unit,” Wiklander explained. “Thought about going to the Canary Islands in January but the holidays can really put a draft in your wallet.”
“I’m listening,” said Johansson, who had never been to the Canary Islands in his entire life and had no intention of ever going there, despite the fact that he was a real policeman.
It had taken awhile even for Wiklander, for none of the subjects of inquiry were in the police’s own register or archives, and for a time he’d almost believed that he would have to go outside the building, but then fortunately he’d happened to think of his colleague Söderhjelm.
“But then I happened to think of our colleague Söderhjelm in the fraud unit,” Wiklander explained, “and it struck me that she’s one of them.”
“One of them?”
“Yes, one of the nobility, that is,” Wiklander clarified. “They usually know everything about each other.”
Personally Johansson had only a faint recollection of a younger, female colleague. Well trained and at the same time courteous but without being the least bit ingratiating, which was actually an all-too-rare combination in the world where he’d chosen to live his life.
“I’m listening,” he said.
“Yes, those people clearly know everything about each other,” Wiklander repeated. “She is supposedly distantly related to that von Wrede too. She arranged for me to chat with someone she knew at the House of Nobles. It’s an organization they have,” he clarified for his obviously commoner boss.
“I’m listening,” said Johansson. Get to the point already, he thought, feeling a slight irritation when he saw the piles of paper in front of him.
“They’re dead,” said Wiklander. “All of them except for that math genius are dead. Although he’s not nobility, of course. Some old family of clergy from Västergötland, the Söderhjelm woman thought. Semirefined, if you like.”
…
All of the aristocrats involved were dead, and no normal causes of death either, according to Wiklander. First out was Captain Count Lewenhaupt, who had passed away as early as 1949 from the complications of a tropical disease that he’d picked up during a safari in Africa.
“Some mysterious worm that crept in under his skin and took up residence in his liver. He died at some special clinic for tropical diseases in London,” Wiklander summarized.
Bilharzia, thought Johansson, who was not the usual policeman and knew a little of everything.
Second Lieutenant Baron von Wrede had died in a traffic accident in 1961. According to Wiklander he’d evidently driven his convertible sports car right into the stable on the estate where he lived.
“The word on the ground is that he was drunk and had argued with his wife,” said Wiklander, who was also a real policeman of a more usual type than Johansson.
“Björnstjerna, then,” said Johansson. “Where, when, and how did he die?”
“Seems to have been a completely normal death, actually,” said Wiklander, his voice sounding almost a little disappointed. “Died at the Sophia Home; in 1964, of cancer. He wasn’t particularly old, either. Born in 1923.”
“Forselius, then,” Johansson pressed. “What have you found out about him?”
“He’s still alive,” declared Wiklander. “Although he was considerably older than any of the others. Seems to be an interesting type. He’s even in the encyclopedia. I trotted down to the public library. Took the opportunity to peek at a few books that he’s written.”
“So was there anything interesting?” said Johansson in a friendly tone.
“Sure,” said Wiklander. “Although it was pure Greek plus a lot of numbers, so I’ll reserve my judgment.”
“Interesting type?”
“If I’ve understood things correctly, I believe he’s worked quite a bit for SePo,” said Wiklander. “Even in later years, actually, despite the fact that he’s as old as the hills. If I haven’t gotten the matter completely turned around, I believe he’s the one who built their computer program for codes and encryption and all that stuff they work with.”
“You haven’t talked to anyone?” said Johansson, and for some reason he felt a faint stab of worry.
“Not my style,” said Wiklander dismissively. “I found it out on my own.”
“Except for Söderhjelm,” said Johansson judiciously.
“She’s like me so, she doesn’t count,” said Wiklander curtly.
“That’s good,” said Johansson. “What else were you thinking about doing this weekend?” he added familiarly, and as a suitable and diplomatic conclusion.
“As soon as I get off I thought about asking Officer Söderhjelm to dinner,” said Wiklander. “Nice lady, actually.”
Nice to hear that someone is normal, thought Johansson, looking at his paper-strewn desk.
“There’s one thing I’m wondering about,” said Wiklander, sounding a little cautious. “If you’ll excuse me, chief.”
“Shoot,” said Johansson. “I’m listening.”
“What is this really about?” said Wiklander. “Is it something I ought to know about, or what?”
“Well,” said Johansson. “If it stays completely between us?”
“Obviously,” said Wiklander.
“I’m actually in the process of writing a mystery,” said Johansson. “I just needed some good characters.”
“So that’s how it is,” said Wiklander, whose voice suddenly sounded very wary. “Too bad they were dead, then.”
“You can’t have everything,” said Johansson tranquilly, and then he thanked him for his help and finished the conversation.
In a normal mystery isn’t everyone dead sooner or later? he thought as he put down the receiver, and you can’t have everything. Or can you? And for some reason he started thinking about the woman he’d met at the little post office up on Körsbärsvägen.
…
During 1953 the prime minister had changed the direction of his life. It wasn’t a dramatic change, but rather a course correction, and he seemed not only to have retained his interest in secret activities but also to have developed them in more conventional, national forms. And according to Krassner, this had all happened not only with Buchanan’s consent but with his clearly expressed approval and support.
First he had begun phasing out his involvement with student politics to switch his sights to greater political goals. As a natural consequence of this, among other things, his activity within the CIA decreased sharply, and after the summer of 1953 there was nothing in either Krassner’s text or Buchanan’s documentation to indicate that he carried out any direct assignments whatsoever on their behalf. On the other hand, according to Krassner, he still had close, recurring contacts with Buchanan all the way up to the spring of 1955, when he’d sent his strange, poetically worded notice that his life between the longing of summer and the cold of winter was now to be seen as history.
During the same year he’d also gotten a steady job-two steady jobs, in fact. Right before the summer of 1953 he’d gotten a position as an “analyst” with the intelligence department at army headquarters, and only a few months later he’d started working as an assistant to the then prime minister. Not a bad job for a highly talented young man with great ambitions in life, and not a bad employer, either. Not least as his professional connection to the twenty-five-years-older prime minister soon appeared to those around them like an almost classic father-son relationship.