“Okay,” said Martinsson, pressing the send button on the portable radio three times.
I see, thought Hedberg when a crackling sound came from the radio in his toolbox. The object is at a secure distance and we’re almost twenty minutes ahead of schedule. So what do I do now? he thought.
“A hamburger would sit nicely,” said Martinsson.
“The hell it would,” objected Göransson.
“There’s a stand up at Tessin Park,” said Martinsson innocently. “It’ll take five minutes at the most.”
“Okay then,” said Göransson, sighing. “I could go for one too. With cheese and raw onion and a lot of mustard and ketchup. I want coffee too. Coffee with milk.”
Take a chance, Hedberg decided. He’d stood in the stairwell between the sixteenth and seventeenth floors for almost five minutes, observing the glass door to the corridor where Krassner was living. True, the lights were on inside, but that’s how it should be and it looked empty. Leaking faucet, thought Hedberg, smiling wryly as he took the keys out of his pocket. You should never wait with a leaking faucet.
Nothing here, nothing there, but here, thought Hedberg while his sensitive fingers probed the crack between the door frame and the door to Krassner’s room. He moistened the little scrap of paper against his tongue, carefully unlocked the door, pressed the scrap of paper back where it had been, sneaked into the dark coat closet and slowly pulled the door closed after him while he held the door handle down. Empty, thought Hedberg, slowly releasing it again. And high time to carry out a little work.
…
“Damn good burger,” said Martinsson contentedly, belching to give emphasis to his judgment.
“So-so,” said Göransson.
He still sounds grumpy, thought Martinsson.
“It’s not the end of the world,” he said. “For Christ’s sake, it’s only five past seven. Five minutes more or less isn’t the end of the world. Better than raw hamburger.”
“Sure, sure,” said Göransson. We’re well situated, in any case, he thought. Scarcely a hundred yards down on the street and with full view of the entryway, and five minutes isn’t the end of the world, nor ten either, for that matter.
“I can take the first hour if you want to lean back,” Martinsson suggested. Instead of smoking a peace pipe with you, you grumpy bastard, he thought.
“Okay then,” said Göransson. “You take the first hour.”
Why didn’t I decide that we should meet in his room instead? thought Assistant Detective Jeanette Eriksson, glancing nervously at her watch. Seven minutes late, and the guy who’s going to do the job is probably already frantic. Lay off, Jeanette, she thought. You know very well why you didn’t want to meet him in his room. Drink your beer, which you’ve ordered and paid for with government money, and try to appear normal. Quarter past, she decided. If he hasn’t shown up by quarter past I’ll have to make radio contact.
Hedberg had started in the shower room. Shower, toilet, sink, medicine chest with mirror, tiled walls, and a plastic mat that looked almost new and appeared to be solidly glued to the floor. Plastic gloves on his hands, plastic covering over his shoes, and the very first thing he did was to place his walkie-talkie on the desk inside the room so he would be quite sure to hear it if someone needed to warn him. Between the medicine chest and the wall he found a plastic bag with a few carelessly rolled cigarettes. Marijuana, thought Hedberg, sniffing in the bag. He placed it back carefully where it had been. Coat closet next, thought Hedberg. Hat rack, three wall-mounted closets with overhead cabinets. This is going like a dance, he thought.
Come sometime then, thought Jeanette, glancing at the clock, and just then he arrived. Fourteen minutes late and with an embarrassed smile.
“I’m really sorry I’m late,” said Daniel as he leaned over, giving her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
“It’s okay,” said Jeanette, trying to appear just irritated enough.
“I have a suggestion,” said Daniel, sitting down on the stool next to her. “There’s a good Mexican restaurant down on Birger Jarlsgatan. What do you think?”
Five, maybe ten minutes’ walk, thought Jeanette. She herself would have preferred to stay in the vicinity in case something happened, but on the other hand Waltin hadn’t said anything that prevented her from doing it. Only that she should see to it that M’Boye was kept away from the student dormitory for at least an hour and that she should make contact as soon as everything was done. Okay, she thought. Have to move a little, walk off the tension.
“Okay,” she said, smiling. “That’s okay.”
The closets were mostly empty, screwed solidly tight against the wall, although one of the skirting boards against the floor was coming loose. Hedberg got down on his knees, took a knife, and poked carefully with the blade between the skirting board and the linoleum. I see, thought Hedberg with satisfaction, removing the molding and sticking in his hand. Papers, he thought. A rather thick bundle encased in a plastic sleeve.
Hedberg carefully coaxed out his find. Got up and read the text on the first page. “The Spy Who Went East, by John P. Krassner.” Is he spending his time writing a mystery? thought Hedberg, bewildered, leafing through the manuscript. It wasn’t that long and was far from finished, judging by the amount of handwritten additions and corrections. How will I have time to photograph this? he thought, and at that moment he heard steps in the corridor outside the door.
…
Waltin was sitting at home in his large apartment on Norr Mälarstrand watching porn. It was one of his favorite tapes and originally part of a large confiscation that Berg’s coworkers had made at the home of some crazy Yugoslav, but because it was altogether too good to be shown at personnel parties at the bureau he’d pinched it for his own use. A private American production in which the play’s leather-clad hero had hung up a real prize sow from a pair of ceiling hooks in his rec room. A well-narrated and very morally instructive story, although for Waltin it was nevertheless mostly about the play’s female protagonist. Exactly the type he hated, with large, fat white breasts that bobbed up and down as soon as she moved, and now she was getting exactly the treatment her type deserved.
The steps in the corridor outside had died away. Then he’d heard the door between the corridor and the stairs slam shut. It was supposed to be empty of people here, thought Hedberg, exhaling. He tiptoed into the room and over to the desk and quickly started laying manuscript pages out on the available surface. Desk lamp or flash? he thought as he took the camera out of his tool bag. Desk lamp, he thought. It goes more quickly and is less visible. He arranged the light so it was balanced and started to photograph. It must be over a hundred pages, he thought with irritation. Wonder if I have enough film? It went quickly, in any case. The first roll was done in a few minutes, and just as he stood putting in a new one he heard it again, the slam of the door to the corridor. Someone’s on their way in, thought Hedberg, turning off the desk lamp and tiptoeing quickly out into the coat closet.
Strange that he puts up with me, thought Jeanette, trying out her shy smile at her table companion. They had been seeing each other for almost six weeks and all he’d gotten was a kiss and a hug, and he hadn’t even nagged at her, much less tried to wrestle with her. What she had been thinking about most the past few days-for her assignment would be over this evening if you could believe Waltin-was how she would extract herself from this without hurting him unnecessarily.
“You must think I’m really boring,” said Jeanette.