Kudo looked at Berg with the same serious gaze as though he’d been a little homespun-clad gnome on the farm where Kudo had grown up.
“It’s a wedding conversation,” he said heavily.
“As you surely know, chief, ‘wedding’ is their code word for assassination,” muttered Bülling with his gaze directed firmly at the tabletop. “It’s a code word they use when they’re going to shoot someone.”
Berg was content to nod. He himself knew that this could also mean other things, such as a wedding, for example, or a demonstration or some other collective activity of a not more closely specified type.
“So they’re planning to shoot someone,” intoned Kudo with eyes black as pistol barrels.
Yes, or it’s also just that someone’s going to get married, and don’t we all know what such things can lead to down the line, thought Berg.
“Why are they phoning each other?” asked Berg. “They live in the same building.”
“We’re not clear about that bit yet,” said Kudo, nodding energetically.
“We’re working on it,” mumbled Bülling.
“Do we know who it is?” asked Berg.
“Who,” mumbled Bülling, peeking nervously at the door.
“That they’re planning to shoot,” said Kudo, in spite of the fact that he wasn’t the one who was called the Professor.
“Which of their defectors or political opponents is it that they’re planning to shoot this time?” clarified Berg. “Do we know what his name is?” he added, to be on the safe side.
“This time unfortunately it doesn’t concern a normal wedding,” said Kudo, as he leaned forward, lowered his voice, and, in order to further underscore the seriousness of the matter, also shook his head. “They’re talking about lamb,” he said.
“Lamb?” Berg looked at him questioningly. “As in lamb chops?”
“Lamb,” mumbled Bülling. “So we’re convinced that this time they intend to shoot someone completely different, probably some highly placed person of some type. Presumably one of our own top politicians.”
“Why do you think that?” asked Berg.
“They’re going to bring home a lamb,” mumbled Bülling. “And then they’re going to buy wine and then they’re going to have two poets.”
It had taken Berg more than a quarter of an hour to unravel the factual basis for the conclusion that the Kurdish section’s analysis group had come to, of an impending attack against a highly placed Swedish politician.
“I’ll read direct from the transcript of the tape,” said Kudo. “Then you can form your own impression, chief.”
Do that, thought Berg, nodding wearily.
“It’s Semir G. who has taken up the matter. The same Semir who is phoning,” added Kudo slyly. “Word for word he says this. I’m quoting from the tape.”
Just get on with it, man, thought Berg, nodding.
“Quote. We must arrange for wedding soon. We must buy cakes, pastries, and rolls, but this time we must buy a lamb too. And wine and then we must have two poets. End quote.”
Kudo nodded before he continued.
“Quote. We should have two poets? End quote, Abdullah A. then asks. Quote. This time we shall buy lamb and wine and have two poets. End quote, answers Semir G. That’s the whole thing,” said Kudo. “Right after that the conversation ends with the usual farewell phrases.”
Sigh, thought Berg.
“They’ve never offered lamb before,” explained Kudo. “When they’re going to murder their own people, they only talk about pastries and rolls and cakes. Sometimes it’s just rolls.”
“And how do you interpret this?” asked Berg, at the same time seeing himself in a mirror.
“That this is certainly about a highly placed person outside their own circles,” said Kudo, nodding triumphantly.
“Then they’ll have two poets too; they usually get by with one poet,” mumbled Bülling.
“Assassins, that is,” said Kudo. “ ‘Poet’ is their code for assassin, and this business of two poets can only mean that there are bigger matters in the offing.”
“The wine,” mumbled Bülling with a sidelong glance at his partner.
“Exactly,” said Kudo energetically, “yes, the wine. It usually isn’t mentioned either, and our interpretation is this, that partly it should underscore the lamb, so to speak, partly it speaks for the fact that this isn’t about a politician within their own cultural sphere.”
“Mohammedans don’t drink wine,” mumbled Bülling, at the same time making a mysterious winding movement with his long neck.
“Yes,” said Berg. He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands over his belly. “This bears thinking about. I want you to write a memorandum and append all the supporting materials you have. As well as any material we’ve received through our German colleagues.”
Aren’t most Kurds Christians? he thought.
“Take all the time you need,” he said, and looked at them seriously. “It’s fine if I get it in a week.”
Waltin detailed three detectives with the operational bureau’s section for internal surveillance to compile the material that Berg wanted. In addition he installed one of his own analysts to lead and divide up the work. He himself had more important matters to attend to.
“The prime minister, the Cabinet, the government, senior officials in government administration, highly placed politicians regardless of party allegiance. I want the threats divided into categories, I want to know how they’ve come in, I want to have a picture of whoever’s behind them. Hamilton, here”-he nodded toward his own coworkers-“will help you with the details. Questions?”
“How far back should we go?” The one who asked was a young female detective who looked as though she was twenty at most and barely passed for a police officer.
Pretty little piece, thought Waltin, jutting out his manly chin in order to show potency and energy.
“Go back to the last election,” said Waltin.
“But there must be tons,” she said with surprise.
“Exactly,” said Waltin energetically. “That’s just the idea.” And I don’t intend to go into that here, he thought.
“Are we searching for something in particular, some particular person or group or organization?” asked one of the other detectives, a young man who appeared to be twenty-five at most and wore a blue college sweatshirt that said Stanford University on it.
“No,” said Waltin. “This is pure compilation. A sociological investigation, if you will.”
Wonder if that sweatshirt is genuine? he thought.
“Any more questions?” Waltin looked at the third member of the group. He was a young man who looked like he played in a pop band.
“No.” The one being questioned shook his head. “I never have any questions.”
Good types, thought Waltin as he took the elevator down to the garage. I might recruit that dark one to my own little enterprise, he thought.
Berg had spent the weekend out at his cottage. The thought was that he and his wife should spend time together, pick a few mushrooms, have a good dinner, and perhaps stop by to see his aged parents, who lived in the vicinity. But there hadn’t been any visit to his parental home or any mushroom picking. Mother and Father had gone to Åland, it turned out, and on Saturday morning when they woke up it had been pouring down rain, which had kept up the entire day. They made a fire in the fireplace; his wife had read a thick novel and scarcely answered when spoken to. And he himself had mostly sat with his own thoughts. Why didn’t we ever have any children? he thought. We couldn’t have our own, but why didn’t we adopt while there was time? The thought of this made him so dejected that he thought about his job instead. As a rule that usually calmed him, and it did so this time as well.
For lunch his wife had made a mushroom omelet. Mushrooms that they had picked before. Butter, bread, and cheese on the side.