“Beer or water?” asked his wife.
“Do we have any red wine?” asked Berg.
His wife looked at him with surprise.
“Has something happened?”
“No,” said Berg. “Why do you think that?”
“You usually don’t ever drink wine with lunch,” she said.
Berg shrugged his shoulders and smiled wanly.
“No,” he said. “But just now I suddenly felt like it. Won’t you have a glass then?” he asked.
“Gladly,” she said. “If you’re going to anyway, I’ll gladly have a glass. There’s lots left over from Midsummer, as you know.”
“We can have that Spanish wine,” said Berg. “The case that I got from their embassy.”
It had been an excellent lunch, he thought. Afterward they had had coffee, his wife had returned to her novel, he himself had a third glass of red wine and lay down on the sofa.
What do I do with Kudo and Bülling? thought Berg. He couldn’t get rid of them. The operation had already been allowed to go too far, and it would likely outlast him as well. However insignificant it might be, there was also a risk that at some point the Kurds would arrange for a wedding outside their circle, and Berg wasn’t the type who planned to preside over his own funeral. A probability so small as to almost defy calculation, but which I can’t disregard, he thought. And whether it was the red wine or something else, suddenly he knew exactly what to do with Kudo and Bülling.
On Monday morning he summoned them, and five minutes after his secretary had hung up the phone they were sitting in front of his desk, Kudo leaning forward ready to leap, Bülling with his gaze directed at the fringe of the carpet.
“Yes,” said Berg. “I’ve been thinking about you gentlemen since we met last week.”
“What can we do for you, chief?” said Kudo.
“I believe we’ll have to inform the leadership in Stockholm,” said Berg. “And with a thought for the degree of secrecy, I believe we must limit the information to the chief constable alone.”
“Any further limitations?” said Kudo.
“Yes,” said Berg. “The information you turned in to me last week stays here with us. On the other hand, you are free to give a general report on the activities and the persons involved.”
“What do we do with Semir G. and Abdullah A.?” mumbled Bülling.
“Obviously we’ll report on them too,” said Berg, “on their persons and general activities. With the exception of the conversation that was discussed last time we met.” And hopefully this time will be the last we see each other in this way, he thought.
Of course it was actually that fool who foisted Bülling on me, thought Berg when they had left. So it’s only right that he gets him back in return, and besides, perhaps he could have some small practical use for them for once. We’ll just have to see if he rises to the bait, thought Berg.
The bait had been swallowed by the next weekly meeting with the political superiors. For starters it had also gone quite well in spite of the fact that the prime minister’s adviser was present. First, Berg reported on the continued survey of anticonstitutional elements within the police and the military. They were working with high urgency but because the assignment was so extraordinarily sensitive they had to proceed with extreme care. This is going to take time, Berg emphasized, and he had not acknowledged the quiet chuckle from a certain person at the table.
After that he gave a lightly retouched version of Waltin’s unsuccessful attempt at recruiting. Politicians loved those kinds of stories. Berg knew that from experience, and it worked this time as well.
“That was nice to hear,” sighed a relieved minister. “That you were unsuccessful this time, I mean. Yes, that you were successful in the larger context because you were unsuccessful in the smaller, if one may say so, if you understand what I mean,” he clarified, looking at Berg.
Finally he had touched on the ongoing compilation of threats and menaces against the sitting government and those closest to them. And here as well they were working with high urgency.
“They’re working at high urgency, and I’m actually counting on the fact that as early as our next meeting I should be able to give a summary of what we have.”
“There’s quite a bit, of course,” said the minister.
“Unfortunately that’s the way it is.” Berg nodded heavily in confirmation.
“These Kurds,” said the minister, who seemed unusually frisky. “Are they keeping calm or…? I saw an article in Svenskan the other day that wasn’t exactly amusing.”
“Wonder how it ended up just there?” said the special adviser, with an irritating grin.
“There I would like to maintain,” said Berg, “that we have good control of the situation.” He nodded toward the minister; he pretended not to notice the other person.
The minister nodded gratefully while the special adviser appeared even more delighted.
“I was actually at a Kurdish wedding one time,” he said while he observed Berg behind half-closed eyelids and with the same amused smile. “Nice people. They served very good food too. I recall that we had roasted lamb and some kind of wine from their home region.”
Okay, thought Berg as he sat in the backseat of his car returning to Kungsholmen, now what do I know? That Kudo and Bülling, mostly Kudo-for say what you will about Bülling, he wasn’t directly communicative-let their mouths run before their brains, despite instructions to the contrary. And that the moronic Stockholm chief constable evidently had a direct channel to the prime minister’s special adviser. So far everything’s fine and dandy, thought Berg. Such knowledge is simply power.
What is it he wants to say to me? thought Berg. It’s completely clear that there’s a message. Who would invite someone like that to their wedding? Not even a Kurd. What type of message is it he wants to give me? That he knows what I’m doing and that he’s keeping an eye on me? Quite certainly, thought Berg. That I should watch out? Quite certainly that too. But why does he talk about it to me? Because he wants to draw attention to himself? Possibly, but scarcely probable. To get me off balance, even if that means he has to show his cards to me? Or is it so bad… Berg’s thoughts were interrupted by a quiet throat-clearing from the driver’s seat.
“Boss, excuse me for interrupting, but we’re here now.” The car had stopped down in the garage and his chauffeur was looking at him uneasily in the rearview mirror.
“Please excuse me,” said Berg. “I’m sitting here with my own thoughts.”
Is it that bad, thought Berg in the elevator on the way up to his office on the top floor, that the card he’s shown me means nothing to him? That he can lay it out just to shake me up, because he’s holding much better cards than that? Who? thought Berg. Who in that case is the traitor in my immediate circle? Most likely Waltin, he thought, and the sorrow he suddenly felt in passing had the same cold intensity he felt whenever he thought about the children he and his wife had never had.
At the meeting the following week he reported on Waltin’s compilation of those threats and menaces directed at, or intended for, politicians and senior officials in the Cabinet, the parliament, and the authorities that were of decisive significance for the security of the realm. Waltin had done an excellent job: He had done it regardless of how things stood with his own reliability, and Berg himself was very satisfied with the way in which he had set up his report. First he had quickly peeled away the remaining authorities and the parliament in order to concentrate on the menace that concerned the Cabinet and those who worked there.
As an introduction he had sketched out the various forms this took: threats from foreign powers, political conspiracies at various levels within the realm, terrorist actions with an origin in another country, domestic terrorism, political extremist groups, and actions carried out by so-called individual lunatics, and he was very satisfied with that presentation as well. An assessment that, by the way, was quite clearly shared by the minister, who larded his summary with verbal agreement and nods. And by the legal officer as well, for this could be seen in his eyes despite his usual silence. The special adviser sat with his eyes closed and he had neither grinned, chuckled, nor had any opinions, which was probably the highest praise Berg could count on from that quarter.