I see, thought Johansson, crestfallen, and hung up.
…
During the afternoon Johansson and his two traveling companions first visited a police station in lower Manhattan. It looked like most of the other police stations Johansson had visited if you disregarded the size. This was bigger. Then the local officers took them along to a nearby restaurant where you could get a good, nutritious meal at a discount price. If you were a police officer, that is.
“Never kick ass on an empty stomach,” said their host, smiling broadly at them.
Detective Lieutenant Martin Flannigan, thought Johansson while something touched his heart. You could just as well be named Bo Jarnebring and be acting head of the local detective department in Östermalm. And you have the right first name.
Lieutenant Flannigan and his colleagues had arranged for them to go along on a special exercise against street robberies in Manhattan. Street robbery was something that was viewed seriously, especially at Christmastime and at least in certain parts of Manhattan.
“It’s a decoy operation,” Flannigan explained. “Works very well on the dumbest crooks.”
Decoy, thought Johansson. Lockfågel. Like when he used to shoot ducks down by the river in his youth. First he set out the decoys he had inherited from his grandfather and then he paddled the kayak and settled in among the reeds by the shore and waited for twilight and for the ducks to start flying in formation. One evening he had shot more than he was able to carry at one time. How old could I have been? thought Johansson.
As soon as darkness had set in and the crooks started to look out of their holes, they’d sought out a suitably situated back street. One of Flannigan’s boys had dressed up like a bum. After that he sat down in a doorway and pretended to be unconscious and alongside him he had a paper bag with several green cigarette cartons sticking up.
“Menthol cigarettes,” explained Flannigan. “Don’t ask me why, but blacks are crazy about menthol cigarettes.”
Johansson and Flannigan were standing by the window in a little bar diagonally across the street. Flannigan’s first move had been to order each of them a beer. I’ve gotten the best beat, thought Johansson, for his two travel companions were huddled together with their local hosts in various vehicles arranged along the street.
“Now we’ll see if they rise to the bait,” said Flannigan, grinning. “Cheers,” he said, raising his glass.
It had only taken a quarter of an hour, but the first fish who swallowed the bait was the wrong color: a white female addict in her thirties. First she had walked past the sleeping bum, stopped at the street corner, and looked around. Then she went back again, slowed down by the bum, checked one more time, and took the paper bag with the cigarette cartons.
“Watchful as an eagle,” said Flannigan, grinning.
“Police, freeze,” and one minute later she was sitting in the backseat of a dark-blue van with her hands shackled behind her back.
It kept on that way until the van was full. A female drug addict, two who really were bums, plus a few ordinary snot-nosed youths, and with one exception they’d all been the right color. They turned in the catch at the police station and then Flannigan had taken his colleagues to his regular place, where they had a large number of beers, related the usual heroic stories for each other, and generally preserved the common Western police culture.
Nice guys, Johansson thought before he fell asleep in his bed at the hotel. But a hell of a place to work.
[SUNDAY, DECEMBER 8]
On Sunday Johansson’s travel companions took the early morning plane home to Stockholm. He himself walked to Grand Central Station and put himself on the train to Albany. Wonder what she’s like? he thought. Judging by her voice on the answering machine she sounds both happy and nice and completely normal. Not at all like his image of an ex-girlfriend of John P. Krassner, who had had the bad taste to go around with people’s home addresses in the hollow heel of his shoe.
CHAPTER VI
Free falling, as in a dream
Stockholm in October
“It’s about an American journalist,” said Assistant Detective Jeanette Eriksson. “He arrived at Arlanda from New York last Sunday and I’ve already collected two tips about him.” She indicated her computer screen while Waltin leaned forward in order to see better. Why don’t I just sit on Daddy’s lap? she thought.
“What’s his name?” said Waltin, casually placing his right hand next to her left.
“Jonathan Paul Krassner, goes by John,” said Eriksson, “born in 1953. Resident of Albany in upstate New York.” Although he’s actually rather a dish, she thought. If you happen to like older guys.
“Do we have anything on him?” asked Waltin while he lightly drummed his fingertips on the tabletop.
“We don’t have anything in-house.” Assistant Detective Eriksson shook her head. “If you want me to go outside the building, then I have to go through my chief.” Wonder if that’s a genuine Rolex, she thought. In which case it must have cost an arm and a leg. It looks genuine, anyway.
“Let’s not be in a rush,” said Waltin, smiling a white-toothed smile. “What’s the problem?”
“Depends on what you mean by problem,” said Eriksson, shrugging her slender shoulders. “The first tip came in the day before yesterday, and I’ve been content to simply make a note of it. The informant is one of our journalists at state television. This particular person I happen to know about. He seems to have problems both with alcohol and his own imagination.” Wonder if he thinks I’ll move my foot, she thought.
“So, what did he have to tell us?” said Waltin, smiling confidently.
“He had run into Krassner at the press club down on Vasagatan Tuesday evening. I’m guessing it was in the bar, although he doesn’t say so. He wanted to get hold of his contact here but our man is out on a job and I saw no reason to bother him. In any case, our informant maintains that Krassner appears suspiciously interested-those are his own words-in our cooperation with other security services in the West. Among other things he’s supposed to have talked about the Germans and how we use them as our channel to the Americans.”
“What could he have meant by that?” said Waltin, shrugging his well-tailored shoulders. “What Germans?” He gave her a manly smile.
“Exactly,” said Eriksson and she smiled as well.
He really is a dish, she thought.
“Then there’s that other tip,” she continued. “It came in a few hours ago. It’s another informant, and he says we should contact him at once regarding an American journalist by the name John P. Krassner.”
“Whoops,” said Waltin. “And so who is he?”
“That’s why I need your help,” she said. “This informant has a secure identity which is beyond my authority. Highest priority both with us and with military intelligence, so I’m not finding him. But according to my instructions I should see to it that the bureau chief or you get this immediately.”
Assistant Detective Eriksson nodded energetically. And it doesn’t appear that you have any objections, she thought.
“And because my boss is taking a long lunch in town and then you happened to come by…” She smiled, with a little gleam in her eyes. You are a little interested after all, she thought.
“You can make a note that I’m informed,” said Waltin efficiently and looked at the clock. “Print out a copy too, so I can take it with me, and I’ll be in touch during the day. Then you can set up a surveillance file on this Krassner. And classify it up a notch until we know what this is all about.”
…
This is going like clockwork, thought Waltin a while later. Berg hadn’t had any objections; he had seemed as though he was thinking about something else, and after having found out who the informant was Waltin had become truly curious. He had met him twice before, both times at the secure location, and he had not been able to avoid noticing with what respect Berg had treated him. Of the little that Berg had told him when their guest had gone home, he had also understood that this was not any ordinary retired professor of mathematics from the technical college in Stockholm. In addition it actually appeared as if the more intricate and private question of the future handling of little Miss Jeanette Eriksson was in the process of solving itself quite naturally. Say what you will about Berg, thought Waltin, he seems to be totally uninterested in women, and of course that’s good for someone like me.