“Never mind,” said his wife. “It’s not the end of the world, is it? There must be lots of uniforms that you can rent.”
Didn’t think about that, thought the chief legal officer.
“Is there anything in particular you’re thinking of,” he asked cautiously.
“I’m considering becoming a nurse,” his wife said with an efficient and energetic gleam in her beautiful brown eyes. “How’s that, honey? Haven’t you been feeling a little poorly lately?”
At the meeting the following week, the chief legal officer had introduced an item of his own for the “remaining business” part of the agenda; because this was the first time during Berg’s tenure, the matter had not contributed to his peace of mind. This agenda item, cryptic to say the least, provided little indication of where it was headed, either. Berg had been on pins and needles until it was time and the only consolation in this misery was that the prime minister’s special adviser had once again reported that he was prevented from attending.
“Yes,” the chief legal officer said, and cleared his throat. “As I’ve already said to my esteemed boss”-the chief legal officer nodded to the minister of justice, who nodded back, while Berg just felt left out-“I have today resigned from my position as attorney to the supreme commander. Effective immediately, by the way; my successor will be selected by the end of the week.”
“That’s too bad,” said Berg. What’s going on? he thought.
“Oh,” said the chief legal officer with an unexpected chill in his voice. “I have made the evaluation that in light of your ongoing survey of antidemocratic elements within the police and the military, there is a risk that I might find myself in a conflict of interest and I have therefore decided to resolve it in this way.”
“Perhaps that’s a wise decision,” Berg said in a neutral tone.
“Certainly,” said the chief legal officer, looking at him. “Even if we still have nothing specific to consider, I prefer to forestall rather than be forestalled.”
“Exactly what I was going to say,” said the minister with false joviality in his voice. “I’m sure all of us in this building have wondered the same thing. By the way, the prime minister came to see me the other day after the governmental meeting. How is your survey coming along, Berg? It’s been going on for a good while now.”
What’s going on? thought Berg.
“How’s it going with that doggone survey of our colleagues?” said Berg when he was with Waltin a few hours later.
“Pretty well,” said Waltin, shrugging his shoulders in a gesture of indifference. “Or pretty badly, if you want. It depends on how you look at it.”
“Do we have anything on hand?” asked Berg. “The wolf pack down in Rosenbad has started howling.”
“Plenty,” said Waltin.
“Good,” said Berg.
CHAPTER III
Between Summer’s Longing and Winter’s End
Quantico, Virginia, in December
[SUNDAY, DECEMBER 1]
Johansson had fallen asleep at ten o’clock on Saturday evening but in his head the time was four in the morning on Sunday. When he woke up the time was still four o’clock on Sunday morning, because Johansson was at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia, while his head was evidently still back on Wollmar Yxkullsgatan in Stockholm, where it was almost noon; Johansson himself was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
Outside the window it was as black as the inside of a sack, although it would clearly be a fine day, thought Johansson. The local weather report posted on the bulletin board in the lobby promised fair weather, temperature in the lower 40s and sunshine; obviously, nothing foreseeable was left to chance in this place. Should I follow my big brother’s advice? thought Johansson. Or should I take a brisk walk instead? The only problem was that there were still three hours left before dawn, and security in the area was rigorous. “High-Ranking Swedish Police Officer Shot by FBI During Morning Constitutional,” thought Johansson, smiling wryly as he visualized the headline. Breakfast, too, was out of the question, as the dining room didn’t open until seven, and would any reasonable person want to have breakfast at one o’clock in the afternoon? Besides, he had a room with its own shower, in contrast to his coworkers, who were not as special as him and had to share a shower with the others staying on the same corridor.
Johansson went into the shower and followed his big brother’s advice while he thought about a woman with whom he had spoken only once before in his life and who was approximately five thousand miles away in a northeast direction. Wonder what she’s doing now, thought Johansson. I don’t expect she’s sitting in the post office on a Sunday. Then he returned to his bed and finished a novel in English that he’d bought to read during the trip, and when the dining room was finally open he was one of the first in line. Big brother was right, he thought while he had scrambled eggs and fried ham with rye bread. It’s even good for your appetite.
When Johansson was a child, his ten-years-older brother had been responsible for the essential aspects of his upbringing. As there were seven children-Johansson was number six-and his parents also had a large farm to run, they mostly had other things on their hands than little Lars Martin. It was not a conventional upbringing, of course, and it surely would have scared the wits out of a child psychologist, but Johansson never had any reason to complain. His oldest brother had always been kind to him. He was the first one to stop calling him Little Brother; he taught him to swim when he was five, took him hunting when he wasn’t much older, and beat up his middle brothers in well-measured doses when they were mean to him. He was also the first one to initiate him into the mysteries of adult life.
When Lars Martin was seven his brother had shown him his porno magazines in an intimate moment. Fat white ladies with giant breasts and no more hair between their legs than Lars Martin himself. There was definitely some kind of cheating going on, he had thought, experienced sauna-goer that he was.
“Though you can wait to read these till you get hair on your prick,” big brother explained. “Besides, you’ll notice it yourself. Yeah, when your love for reading starts to flow, I mean,” he added vaguely.
Lars Martin was content to nod. What could he say?
“Oh, hell,” said big brother, inserting a substantial wad of snuff. “I usually look at them when I beat off. It makes it easier,” he said, nodding. Mostly to himself, it seemed.
Beat off, thought Lars Martin, but he didn’t ask about that.
“Oh, hell,” big brother continued. “There aren’t any women here. Not like in Kramfors, anyway.”
For the past three months big brother had worked as a forestry apprentice at SCA paper down in Kramfors, so he was not only ten years older but well traveled too.
What’s this he’s saying, thought Lars Martin confusedly, no women? It’s swimming with women here, Mama Elna and our sisters and Grandma and all our aunts. And the old neighbor lady Mrs. Nordlund, and say what you will about old lady Nordlund, she was even fatter than the ladies in those magazines he had just been looking at.
And it kept getting stranger and stranger.
His big brother nodded seriously at him and tousled his hair.
“You’ll think about this when it’s time,” he said. “Forget about beating off if there are ladies around, but otherwise see to it that you jerk him off, say, two, three times a day.”
Kramfors, ladies, beat off, jerk him off, thought little Lars. What’s he talking about?
“For otherwise it can go straight to hell.” His brother nodded in great seriousness.
“To hell?” said Lars Martin inquiringly, for he knew what that was, anyway. “How so?”