The prime minister’s special adviser smiled at Berg and nodded, and suddenly he seemed not in the least ironic.
“I thank you for the compliment,” said Berg. “Would you have seen it if you hadn’t talked with Forselius?”
“Probably not.” The special adviser shrugged his shoulders. “I have a simple question. Is there anything to Forselius’s suspicions, and by that I don’t mean those kind of idiotic obviosities such as that our social-democratic government and our neutral and noble fatherland were bedfellows with the U.S. and the Western powers on security matters ever since we knew how the war would end.”
“I can see that we’re saving time here,” said Berg, smiling faintly.
“Exactly, and I’m the one who’s saying it so you can just relax and enjoy. You know, I know, all the others like you and me know. There are even editors-in-chief and professors of political science and modern history who know that their military service and placements have never been by chance, nor the psychological operations either. Even that scandal reporter Guillou knows, so it’s all the same that the media hasn’t informed everyone else. High time they did, by the way, so we could at least deprive that bastard of one of his conceivable arguments.”
“The snag is no doubt our policy of neutrality,” said Berg, feeling sharper and more secure than he had for a long time.
“Obviously. There is nothing in our world that is simply good or bad. We are also the prisoner of our compromises, and as long as we here at home are not completely sure of how it’s going to go out there, we are the world leaders at compromise.”
“That, I believe, is a pretty good summary of Swedish postwar politics,” agreed Berg.
“And neither you nor I are the first to arrive at that.”
“Certainly not,” said Berg.
“But it’s you and I who can end up in a jam, and it’s you and I who are expected to wriggle ourselves and all the others who’ve given us our jobs out of the jam, and if we don’t manage that then we, people like you and me, get squeezed a little more.”
“Speak up if you’re thinking about looking for a new job,” said Berg.
“And how is it this time?” The prime minister’s special adviser looked seriously at his lunch guest. “Is there any sort of confounded-sorry-personal, historically determined, private obviosity which is of sufficient interest to the mass media that we could end up in a jam?”
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to find out,” said Berg.
“But that’s just great,” his host said with emphasis. “That’s what we’ll do then, help each other out. Completely without the aid of mirrors.”
On Monday morning right before eight o’clock Assistant Detective Jeanette Eriksson entered the building on Norr Mälarstrand where she was to meet Waltin: an Art Deco building with large balconies and the best view of the water and the rises of south Stockholm on the other side. The company to which she was going was on the third floor, but from the name placard in the lobby it appeared that there was a Waltin on the top floor of the building. And if that’s where he lives he must have an amazing view, thought Assistant Detective Eriksson. The office was not bad either; small, to be sure, but light, modern, functional, and tastefully furnished. Quite certainly much more expensive than it appeared. Waltin was well dressed, newly shaved, efficient, and served freshly brewed coffee. Exciting guy, she thought. Wonder what he’s really like?
“Okay, Jeanette,” he said, smiling. “Tell me.”
As concerned Krassner the individual there was not much to relate. Not yet, for it had been a weekend, even off in the United States, and because she couldn’t take the normal shortcut, that aspect would no doubt take time. On the other hand she had found him.
“He’s living in the student dormitory called the Rosehip on Körsbärsvägen, on the sixteenth floor in one of those student corridors with eight rooms and a common kitchen. He sublet the room through an international student organization.”
“Who are the others living in the same corridor?” asked Waltin.
“One room is standing empty, because the person who lives there has gone home to his parents. He’s studying law and is from the province of Östergötland. His mother suffered a serious traffic accident a month ago. As far as the other six go, besides Krassner, they’re normal students in their twenties. All of them men, actually, although I don’t believe they have gender-segregated residences. I can check that out if you want.”
Waltin shook his head and smiled weakly.
“Okay,” Eriksson continued. “One of the guys is at the tech college, one’s in business school, one’s studying at GIH, one’s studying political science, one sociology, and one works with information management. All of them are Swedes except for the last, who’s some type of student from South Africa. He’s here on a scholarship this semester, black guy. He’s older than the others, twenty-eight, born in Pretoria. He got his scholarship from the Swedish trade union federation.”
Typical, thought Waltin. The social democrats and their blacks and Arabs and all those other gooks that they drag here.
“Do we have anything on any of them?” he asked.
“Not with us or within the open operation. Yes, if we include the kinds of things that all boys get involved with in their teens. The one at GIH was a little wild when he was in high school, but otherwise, no, just normal Swedish students. None of them are from Stockholm. Country boys.”
Waltin nodded. A purely idiotic project that an old bastard had palmed off on Berg, he thought. The only question was how to get himself where he wanted to go without wasting time on unnecessary work.
“Do you have any ideas about how we proceed from here?” he asked.
“I thought about trying to find out who he is,” said Eriksson. “As I said, that’s going to take time, but I have some possibilities I thought I’d try out.”
“I have an idea too.” Waltin smiled and nodded.
“Tell me,” said Eriksson, looking at him with curiosity.
Waltin smiled secretively and shook his head.
“Leave his biography to me, then I promise you’ll get a complete description of him at the end of the week. Without cheating.”
“Without cheating?” She smiled inquisitively and nodded. He actually seems super smart, thought Eriksson.
“Without cheating,” said Waltin emphatically and held up his right thumb.
Half as big as mine, he thought when she held out her small thumb, and he felt the well-known arousal when he saw her before him, curled up in the corner of his big sofa with her little thumb in her little mouth while the tears ran down her small, round cheeks.
As soon as she had gone Waltin went into the office restroom for relief. He leaned her over the washbasin with a firm grip around her thin neck while he took her from behind, hard and determined so that she would be quite clear about that right from the beginning. Then he washed his hands carefully and phoned one of his many business acquaintances who had a company subsidiary in the United States.
…
Assistant Detective Eriksson drove straight home to her studio apartment out in Solna and changed into university student clothing. Because she had studied criminology part-time for over a year this was easy. After that she took the subway into the city; a short walk brought her to the lobby of the Roseship student dormitory on Körsbärsvägen. She knew precisely what she would do and how she would do it. The camera and the rest she had stuffed under the books in her shoulder bag.
Waltin also knew what he would do. He had asked his business acquaintance with the American subsidiary to look a little closer at a young American who was trying to sell him on a business idea. Before Waltin went any further he of course wanted to know if the young American could be trusted: “Good ideas, but of course you’d really like to know if he’s fish or fowl.” It was also a bit sensitive, obviously, and as always it was urgent. On the other hand, what it cost was less important as long as it was done thoroughly.