According to Sarah, that the shit hit the fan was ultimately due to the restaurant where they were eating, and the one who had seen to it that it hit where it did was actually not John but his uncle the colonel. The restaurant was owned by a Vietnamese family who had come over as boat people at the end of the seventies. They had quickly found economic success in their new homeland and today they owned and ran more than ten businesses in Albany and the surrounding area: restaurants, laundromats, and convenience stores as well as a building supply store and a large motel.
In the early eighties they had opened the restaurant where Johansson and Sarah were sitting, only a couple of stones’ throws from the house where the colonel lived, and it was then too that the colonel had gone seriously crazy. Vietnamese were the Enemy, and as the Enemy they were riffraff, according to the colonel. “Not real warriors, just common gangsters,” and as for the almost two hundred thousand of them who had fled to the United States, they were either communist infiltrators or common deserters who ought to have been shot on the spot. First he’d risen up from his drinking bench and gone around the neighborhood with a petition, but the interest among his neighbors had been tepid and instead it was getting more and more crowded at the newly opened restaurant. It was high alert and red alert and the colonel had succeeded in converting his nephew to the cause.
“Which unfortunately was not that difficult, I guess,” Sarah said and sighed. “However it happened, John succeeded in getting the newspaper to start publishing a series of articles that we had a Vietnamese mafia on our hands. After two articles, publication was interrupted and to make a long story short, the newspaper had to pay a lot of money and John was fired.”
“Was there anything that he wrote that was true, then?” Johansson asked, occupationally injured as he was.
“I can’t imagine what,” said Sarah. “It was certainly a typical John disclosure.”
…
Then they had fruit for dessert, but when Sarah ordered green tea Johansson felt more than a slight hesitation.
“Do you think they have coffee at a place like this?” he asked, lowering his voice.
“Of course they do. Vietnamese aren’t numbskulls. If I were you I would order a double espresso.”
She’s actually really pretty, thought Johansson. Although a little sharp perhaps.
It was Johansson who drove the black Volvo home to Sarah’s. It’s true that he had had two beers, but because they’d been sitting in the restaurant for almost three hours, and because he would never dream of doing it at home, it wasn’t such a big deal. When they came back they had sat down in the living room and talked awhile. Sarah had asked him if he wanted to have wine, whiskey, or something else, but he had declined. Why-he didn’t really know himself; he had just said no thanks, and therefore things had turned the way they had. After a rather short time the conversation had run out. She had shown him to his room, said good night, stood on her tiptoes, and given him a light kiss on the cheek as she smiled and nodded, and that’s how it was.
Johansson brushed his teeth, put on his clean new American underwear, and crept down into her dad’s bed, which was both large enough and hard enough for Johansson’s requirements. Five minutes later he was sleeping, on his right side and with his arm under the pillow as he always did when he was at home, but without having followed his older brother’s advice. How would that look, in her papa’s bed? thought Johansson just before he fell asleep.
CHAPTER X
Free falling, as in a dream
Stockholm in November
In spite of everything Berg felt a certain confidence, even a certain increased confidence. True, this Krassner affair was not good, but up till now nothing had come out that was directly alarming. The signals he got from Waltin seemed to indicate the opposite. The fellow clearly abused narcotics, and considering the quantity he’d purchased it appeared not entirely impossible-if required, if it appeared that he was sitting on some essential secrets and the matter was going to become public anyway-that the police and the prosecutor would be able to sell him to the media as a cynical narcotics dealer and not just some ordinary drug-abusing academic. In such contexts it wasn’t really a matter of whether what was said was true or false but rather of who was saying it.
According to Waltin and his officers there were also many other things indicating that Krassner was not in his right mind. High-strung, suspicious, almost paranoid: These were hardly qualities that furthered his objectivity and clarity, if things were so bad that his uncle had let the cat out of the bag about something that might have consequences for Berg and the interests he was employed to protect. Whatever that might be, thought Berg. With all due respect to Swedish security policy, regardless of whether you were talking about the official or the factual accounts, Krassner’s uncle had ended his active service almost thirty years ago. He was dead, besides, so in that respect Krassner couldn’t count on any active support from that quarter. You should take care not to see ghosts in the daytime, Berg decided, and at that point he had also started to view the situation more positively.
In the best case, perhaps this story could be turned to the advantage of Berg and the operation. It had already contributed to normalizing his relations with the prime minister’s special adviser, and that was good enough. That this depended on the fact that, at least for the time being, he needed Berg more than Berg needed him was nothing to sulk about. Instead it gave him an opportunity to take the initiative, go on the offensive, and, he hoped, be able to win back some lost territory. At the first weekly meeting with his superiors in November, therefore, Berg had decided that he would only bring up two matters, and both were chosen with care. By himself of course.
However, he had not been able to avoid the brief introductory description of the situation. First he mentioned the ongoing survey of antidemocratic elements within the police and the military. “It’s not going quickly, I’ll be the first to admit that, but it’s moving forward,” said Berg, nodding confidently. None of his superiors had any questions or raised any objections.
After that something about the Yugoslavs-“it appears the situation is calm just now”-and finally the usual mantra about the Kurds, and it was then that the minister had come to life and everything started to go completely wrong, despite all of Berg’s exertions.
“This Kudo,” said the minister. “How’s it going for him? It’s been a while since we heard anything from that front.”
Thank the good Lord for that, thought Berg without changing his expression.
“It’s rolling along according to plan,” said Berg. “I’ve told them to try to penetrate a little deeper into the special ethnic aspects of… yes, their communication, if I may say so. How they exchange secret messages and those kinds of things. We’re often up against difficult questions of interpretation.”
“Yes, it would be interesting to get to meet them some time,” said the minister. “Yes, this Kudo here and his closest associate… what was it he…”
“Bülling,” Berg interjected quickly, because he wanted to put an end to the misery.
“Exactly,” said the minister and brightened noticeably. “Bülling, that sounds almost German.”
“Or assumed,” declared the special adviser with a light sigh.
“You mean as in byling, slang for ‘cop,’ ” said the minister delightedly, for he was not stupid in that respect. “Rather inventive, it might even be said, almost a little bold.”
“Bülling is actually a very bold person,” said the special adviser, looking at the minister with almost closed eyes and a heavily corroborative nod. “Without exaggeration I would maintain that Bülling is probably the absolute boldest and bravest police officer in the corps.”