“I’ll talk with him,” said the special adviser, and he sounded neither ironic, uninterested, nor even weary. “But you should probably not expect too much. He is who he is-and then, he is my chief,” he added by way of explanation.
“I’ll talk with him too,” said the minister of justice. “I really will.”
“You can of course explain to him that it’s not like it was in the old king’s time,” said the special adviser behind his lowered eyelids, and when he said that he sounded exactly as usual again.
…
For the past fourteen days Waltin had been planning a break-in. The first time he’d done a break-in he was only fifteen years old and still in junior high school. And he hadn’t intended to steal anything that time either. He just wanted to look around a little. He’d made his way into the apartment of a schoolmate who’d gone away with his family during midwinter break. It hadn’t been especially difficult. He’d gotten hold of keys long before and he’d visited his schoolmate at home on several occasions so that he was well oriented in the family residence. Actually it was his mother that Waltin was interested in. A small, slender, beautiful woman with a lot of class and not the least like her piggish son.
It had been a marvelous experience. He’d walked around for hours in the large, silent, dark apartment. He’d had surgical gloves on, a little practical pen-like flashlight that he’d bought at the hobby store, and he’d had a hard-on almost the entire time. He had proceeded systematically without leaving any traces. In a photo album in the parents’ bedroom he’d finally found what he’d been searching for. It was a photo of his friend’s mother. Without a stitch on her body she stood, smiling in the most shameless way toward the photographer, and judging by the background this was out at their summer place in the archipelago, for he’d been there too. At the same time it had been a great disappointment. She was holding his classmate, who already looked like a little pig ten years ago, by the hand, and besides she had much larger breasts than he’d thought. At least at that time.
At first he had nonetheless considered taking the photo with him, trying to cut away the little pig and making a copy of the remainder which he could send to her anonymously with a few well-formulated lines hinting that there was more, and worse, and that perhaps they ought to meet… but those breasts were much too repugnant in their fat, white tangibility, so her photo had remained in the album and while he masturbated he tried to cover the little pig and the breasts with the fingers of his left hand. It had gone rather well, even if it had taken a while, and when he was done he had vigorously rubbed sperm over both pig and breasts.
When he left he had taken along a few pieces of gold jewelry and a few bottles of very good French wine. He had pawned the gold jewelry bit by bit and been paid handsomely. He had enjoyed the wine alone in the seclusion of his room while dear Mama, as usual, lay dying in the next room. Everything also indicated that he had conducted himself creditably. It didn’t even seem as if they had discovered that they had had a secret visit. The pig had been exactly like he always was, equally sniveling and pushy, and if he’d had a break-in at home the whole school would surely have known about it before lunch break.
That was then. Nowadays he was only occupied with legal break-ins, and his professional capacity had never been questioned among the taciturn few who had the honor of helping him with the practical details. Although this time it didn’t feel right. For one thing he wasn’t especially motivated. What could someone like Krassner actually produce if scrutinized? If it had been a question of ordinary bet-making he wouldn’t have put a dime on the fool. It was not a simple task, either. Entry codes, alarms, detectors, and surveillance cameras were one thing-they could be as sophisticated as anything, for that just it made more fun-but seven watchful youths living squeezed together in a shoe box was something quite different and seven times worse.
A necessary condition was that he get them out so that the place was empty. Little Jeanette would take care of the South African, even if Waltin didn’t like the fact that he hadn’t come up with a better solution. It also appeared as if he would be rid of the five remaining students. Two would be going home to their parents and a third to his girlfriend. Two had intended to stay home and at least meditate a little before possibly going out, but because Jeanette had managed to arrange the pop-concert tickets, he would be rid of them too. Probably would be, and that just left his greatest concern, Krassner himself.
It was only right and appropriate that that old duffer Forselius get to help out with this matter. It was, after all, his fantasies that were the basis of the whole thing. But naturally he had dug in his heels like a restive mule when Waltin had called on him to talk about the matter.
“I hear what you’re saying,” he said sourly when Waltin explained what it involved. “I hear what you’re saying.”
“You’re the only one I can trust,” said Waltin. “True, he has contacts with some journalists, but I don’t want to take that risk. I’d rather let it be.”
“That’s nice to hear,” said Forselius, sounding a trifle more energetic. “That rabble should just be mowed down.”
Certainly, thought Waltin. Fine with me, but what do we do instead?
“Couldn’t you invite him here and relate a few war memories about you and his uncle?” Waltin suggested.
“To someone like that?” snorted the old man. “You don’t think it’s bad enough the way it is?”
What is it now? thought Waltin, who didn’t have any idea what this was actually about.
“Not real ones, of course,” said Waltin with well-acted terror. “God help me, no, I was thinking that since we were at it anyway we might cook up a good story. If you understand what I mean?” He had leaned forward in the well-worn leather armchair and nodded as ingratiatingly as his precarious position allowed.
“You’re thinking about the days when it was Professor Forselius who held up the mirrors,” grunted the old man while he reached for the carafe of cognac. “Those were different times.”
What mirrors? thought Waltin. What’s he raving about? Suddenly satisfied and contented?
“Certainly, certainly,” said Forselius. Downed a substantial gulp and wiped away the remaining drops with the back of his hand. “But how the hell do I get hold of that damn person, for I’m guessing he doesn’t have a telephone at that damn place he’s living in?”
“We’ll have to write a letter,” said Waltin.
So they had written a letter in which Forselius invited Krassner to his apartment, at nineteen hundred hours on Friday the twenty-second of November. Forselius had gone through old files since meeting Krassner the last time and he had found some that might possibly be of value to his work and that he actually thought his uncle should have received if he’d still been alive, but if Krassner himself was interested, then…
“Then we just have to hope that piece of shit replies,” said Forselius.
“I’m sure he will,” said Waltin warmly.
“And if he doesn’t, then you’ll have to think of something else instead,” said Forselius slyly.
“I’m sure it will work out,” said Waltin, getting up.
“I remember there was a Pole. It was right after the war. We were short on time then too. And it was important as hell.”
“Yes,” said Waltin amiably. “I’m listening.”
“It’s not important,” said Forselius, shaking his head. “It was right after the war and we were playing by different rules at that time, but we sure did get him out of the way. That we did.” Forselius sighed heavily.
Wonder if they killed that Pole the old geezer was mumbling about? thought Waltin when he’d come down onto the street. In that case it had probably been quite practical, but because times were different nowadays he’d decided on a different alternative. To his surprise Berg had bought it as well. Even more surprising, he’d suddenly appeared to lose interest in the entire business.