“You’ve turned to the right man, Claes,” said his acquaintance warmly. “We have contact with a completely phenomenal private detective bureau in New York. I can get them going at once.”
Wonder how much he’s thinking about charging me this time, thought Waltin. Thanked him cordially for the assistance and ended the conversation.
Criminology student Jeanette Eriksson rang numerous times at the door to the corridor where Krassner was living before one of the doors was opened from inside. Out came a man in his thirties dressed in jeans, T-shirt, and in stocking feet. He was uncombed and appeared clearly irritated.
It’s him, she thought, and smiled her little girl smile at him.
“Excuse me,” she said, “but I’m looking for a friend who lives here. Medium height, slender build, dark hair, blue eyes, thin face with a defined jawline and a dimple on his chin.” Really good-looking, she thought routinely.
Krassner-for it must be he-sighed and appeared tangibly surly.
“Sorry, I don’t speak Swedish,” he said, and made no sign of letting her in.
And it was at that moment that Daniel showed up.
“Maybe I can help you,” he said, smiling broadly with white teeth.
All guys are the same, thought Jeanette Eriksson half an hour later when she and her new acquaintance, Daniel M’Boye, were sitting across from each other, each with a cup of bad coffee from the dormitory cafeteria. Daniel had been very helpful; the friend she had been looking for had unfortunately been forced to break off his studies when his mother met with a traffic accident.
“Is he a close friend of yours?” he asked, and the compassion in his eyes seemed completely genuine.
She had managed her retreat with flying colors: old friend from high school. Didn’t know each other especially well, actually. She had heard that he was studying law and had thought about asking if she could borrow some books from him. But that was no problem at all, she assured him. She had other friends she could ask.
“Do you want a cup of coffee?” He looked at her, courteous and well-mannered.
She appeared just hesitant enough.
“I’d been thinking about going down myself and having a cup in the cafeteria.” The smile was broader now and almost a little imploring.
“Okay,” said Jeanette, nodding and smiling. This kind of thing is actually just too easy, she thought.
First, Daniel told about himself and then asked what she did, and she answered completely correctly. Studied criminology, it was going so-so, second year at the university, didn’t really know what she wanted to be, lived in a studio in Solna, also so-so, mostly study and sleep, not so much fun but life would no doubt go on.
“Although your friend who didn’t want to let me in didn’t exactly seem happy either,” said Jeanette and giggled. “Surly type.”
“I hardly know him,” said Daniel and smiled. “He’s only been living there a week. He’s an American. Rather mysterious.”
“I thought he seemed old too,” said Jeanette with the correct smile. “What’s he studying?”
“He said he’s writing a book. Something political, political science, about Sweden and Swedish politics. It’s not exactly my thing,” M’Boye said, and smiled broadly as he leaned closer to her.
Time to move, thought Jeanette, and she smiled shyly back. Of course he got her home phone number after the equally obvious evasions. The new secret number that she had already arranged on Friday afternoon and that she hoped she could soon be rid of.
The weekly meeting with his superiors had gone completely without friction for once. Berg had reported on a few mixed problems: the Yugoslavs, the Kurds, how it was going with the intensified survey of antidemocratic elements within the police and the military.
“It’s going slowly,” said Berg, “but it’s moving forward.”
The special adviser had nodded, a very slight but concurring nod.
After the meeting he had taken Berg aside.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“I hope I’ll have something for you on Friday,” said Berg. “We don’t dare go outside the building, so it’s taking time to find out who he is.”
“Wise,” said the special adviser, and to Berg’s astonishment he had patted him on the arm.
He seems worried, thought Berg. Why? he thought. What is it he knows that I don’t know?
“How’s it going?” Berg asked Waltin, who was sitting on the other side of his desk, lightly pinching the already perfect creases of his trousers.
“It’s going slowly, but forward,” said Waltin. “Do you want to see what he looks like?”
Waltin handed over a plastic folder with photographs.
The photos of Krassner were taken with a telephoto as he went in and out of the dormitory where he was living: heavy boots, jeans, thick padded jacket, bareheaded on one occasion and with a stocking cap on another, close-ups of his face, thin, dogged. A person with an idea, thought Berg, who didn’t like what he saw.
“Do you know anything about his routines?”
“Seems to mostly sit closed up in his room and type,” said Waltin. “He’s visited the public library, the university library, and the Royal Library. Yesterday evening he went down to the press club and had a few beers. Walked the entire way home afterward. The light wasn’t turned off until around two o’clock.” So little Jeanette will really have to earn her keep, he thought contentedly.
“Do you have enough people?”
“Yes,” said Waltin. What is this really about? he thought.
“Do we have anyone in his vicinity?”
“Yes,” said Waltin.
“One of ours?”
“Yes,” said Waltin.
“What’s he like then?”
“Solitary, a little mysterious, seems almost a little worked up. Says hello to his corridor neighbors but doesn’t associate with anyone. Tapes hairs on his door when he goes out. You know, that type.”
Berg knew exactly.
“And mostly he sits locked up in his room and writes?”
“Yes,” said Waltin. “He seems to mostly sit there and peck like a sparrow on his little typewriter.”
“What does he live on then?” said Berg, who didn’t like what he was hearing. “Birdseed?”
“McDonald’s hamburgers and the occasional pizza.”
This doesn’t sound good, thought Berg. This doesn’t sound good at all.
On Thursday evening Waltin’s contact phoned. He had a little material on Krassner, which he wondered if he should fax over. There was more on the way, but he wouldn’t get that until next week.
“He seems to be a strange bird,” said Waltin’s contact. “May I be so bold as to ask what kind of business idea he wants to sell you on?”
“Yes, of course,” said Waltin. “It’s not a big secret. It deals with the media. He had some interesting ideas about how certain media products could be developed.”
“Oh, I see,” said the contact. “Then I would be damn careful if I were in your shoes.”
Jonathan Paul Krassner, known as John, was born on July 15, 1953, in Albany, New York, the only child of a marriage between Paul Jürgen Krassner, born in 1910, and Mary Melanie Buchanan, born in 1920. His parents had married the year before he was born, and divorced the year after.
The father was said to have been a salesman. After the divorce he had moved to Fresno, California. His further fate was unknown and any contacts with his son could in any event not be established. John had grown up with his mother, who worked as a nurse at a Catholic hospital outside Albany. The mother had died of cancer in 1975.