“Yes,” said Berg. “That’s right.”
“What I’m wondering,” she continued, “is if it’s a nonfiction book. A factual description?”
“Yes,” said Berg. “At least that’s certainly the author’s intention.” And an exceedingly annoying one, he thought.
“And the remaining material looks the same?”
“Yes,” said Berg. “More or less.” In all essentials, fortunately, he thought.
“In that case I think the author is going to have major credibility problems,” said the translator. “And besides, I don’t think he writes very well.”
Gonzo journalism, thought Berg as she closed the door behind her. And for the first time during this dreadful day he felt really enlivened.
When Berg could finally call it a day and go home, it was almost ten o’clock. With the answer sheet in hand, it also seemed he could have used his time on other, much more essential work, but considering the results he could still be content. He had summarized his observations and conclusions in a special memorandum a few pages long, just enough to be the basis for the oral presentation he was thinking of making on Friday morning when he met the prime minister’s special adviser. And yet, because the content of Krassner’s posthumous reflections was what it was, he was actually looking forward to this. Quite apart from the objectivity in what was clearly, despite everything, intended to be a factual description.
“The Spy Who Went East,” thought Berg. Who Krassner’s spy was he had already figured out before he started reading, for he himself had heard it ad nauseam during his years in the big building on Polhemsgatan. During those years when the present government had been in opposition there had even been powerful forces within the closed operation working to open a preliminary investigation into the matter. Something that Berg had fortunately been able to avert with kind assistance from the then chief of national police. Although he was still not really clear about the title of Krassner’s intended book. The spy who went over to the east, thought Berg. From where, then? he thought. From the north, from the south, from the West? In all likelihood from the West, despite the fact that Krassner hadn’t given any direction whatsoever on that point in his papers, and although he’d had an uncle who worked for a number of years within the American intelligence service. Hopefully blessedly departed in accordance with the rules that applied to the cause that he served, thought Berg and decided that he’d probably been unnecessarily worried after all. The fellow actually didn’t seem to have been all there, he thought as he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.
“Excuse me, chief,” said his chauffeur with a careful throat clearing. “But we’re home now.”
“I must have dozed off, so I guess I’m the one who should beg your pardon,” said Berg.
[WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 27]
Finally a night of uninterrupted rest, and by breakfast time Berg had already decided that he’d been unnecessarily concerned, that he had more important things to do, and that the explanation of the immediate circumstances surrounding Krassner’s suicide could well be turned over to a reliable coworker. Persson, thought Berg, and just then the sun peeked in through the kitchen window.
“Good morning, good morning,” said Berg, in an excellent mood, to his secretary as soon as he strode through the door to his office. “Can you ask Persson to come in to see me?”
Berg had known Persson for more than thirty years. They’d been in the same class at the police academy and a few years later they’d shared the front seat of one of the Stockholm Police Department’s radio cars during a not particularly eventful summer while their older, regular colleagues enjoyed their vacations in the country with their families and other colleagues and their families. Then Berg had started his climb toward the top of the police pyramid while Persson had played it safe and chosen to remain down below. Twenty years later, and in Persson’s case twice as many pounds around the middle, they ran into each other by chance in town. Persson was working as an investigator on the burglary squad, and true, there were better jobs, no doubt, but because life was as it was… A week later he’d started with Berg, and it was a decision that neither of them had had reason to regret.
…
“I’m listening,” said Persson, sitting down in the visitor’s chair in front of Berg’s large desk without asking for permission first, because he and Berg were old constables who’d worked like dogs together and such nonsense didn’t apply to him.
“This concerns a few discreet inquiries about an apparent suicide that occurred on Friday evening,” Berg explained.
“Hmm,” said Persson, nodding.
Five minutes later Berg had familiarized his former classmate with all the details and was essentially ready to go ahead with more essential matters than this lunatic Krassner.
“Is there anything you’re wondering about?” asked Berg amiably.
“No,” said Persson. Shook his head, got up, and left.
A real old-time constable, thought Berg affectionately when he saw Persson’s fat rear end disappearing through the door. Just as meticulous, taciturn, merciless, and kind as his father, the rural constable, had been during his time in the corps.
Two hours later everything was back to normal again and his good mood was shattered. Kudo and Bülling had requested an immediate meeting because their “analyses of certain telephone traffic clearly indicated that an assassination aimed at a highly placed but not more closely identified by name Swedish politician was imminent.”
“There’s one thing I’m wondering about,” said Berg with as judicious a tone of voice as he could summon despite the situation. “It says here”-Berg rustled the papers he’d just received-“I quote, not more closely identified by name, end quote.”
“Exactly,” said Kudo energetically.
“That’s right,” Bülling assisted with his gaze glued to the fringe of the carpet.
“Not more closely identified by name, what does that mean? Do we have his first name?” Or hers, or his or her initials? thought Berg, a little confused, while a rapid-onset headache started to feel its way out toward his temples.
“Answer no,” said Kudo briskly.
“In other words, we lack the first name of the politician in question,” mumbled Bülling.
“Do we have his last name?” asked Berg. Fälldin, he thought hopefully. If it were the former prime minister, it would certainly facilitate a possible surveillance assignment.
“Answer no,” countered Kudo. “Last name negative.”
“So in other words we have neither the first nor last name of this… not more closely identified by name… politician?”
“Exactly,” said Kudo, nodding with emphasis.
“He’s highly placed, in any event,” Bülling clarified in a mumble.
Then we devoutly hope it’s not Santa Claus, thought Berg, but he didn’t say that.
“I think we’ll do the following,” he said instead.
Five minutes later he had returned to his office, where he informed his secretary that he intended to work at home the rest of the day and could only be disturbed in event of war, naval attack, or coup d’état. Although obviously that wasn’t how he put it.
“I’ll call for your car,” said his secretary. Poor thing, she thought. He seems completely worn out. Why doesn’t he ever take a vacation?
[THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 28]
On Thursday, the twenty-eighth of November, Chief Inspector Persson wound up his discreet inquiries in Bureau Head Berg’s office regarding the immediate details in connection with the Stockholm Police Department’s investigation of the suicide of the American citizen John P. Krassner that he had initiated the day before: “probable” suicide, as it read in the initial review of the case. And as his old friend and colleague who had given him the assignment was on a visit to the secret police’s office in Luleå, the debriefing would have to wait until the following morning.