It had been a very civil affair. True, it had started with a war game where first the participants drew lots and swapped occupations, not in order to go to the front lines but rather to see to it that communications, the food supply, and the medical and legal systems were functioning. In other respects as well the conference had primarily dealt with just that: how you got roads and telephones, electricity and water, to function, how you saw to it that people didn’t starve to death and that they had clothes on their backs. And how you got them to behave like “people” even if the worst were to occur.
The final morning had been devoted to a seminar drill under the leadership of a “special adviser to the prime minister,” the latter’s own éminence grise, who also bore the highest responsibility for security questions affecting the government and the central administration. Considering that, he’d been unusually specific when he handed out his assignment. He wanted the course participants to write down the names of the three living Swedes who ran the greatest risk, ranked by likelihood of personal attack. Not just anybody, obviously, but those who were in high positions in politics, industry, or the bureaucracy. Or were celebrities for other reasons such as, for example, the queen, Astrid Lindgren, or Björn Borg.
In total the delegates had written down twenty-some names, and the country’s prime minister had landed overwhelmingly in first place, having received twice as many risk points as the remaining names combined. All of the delegates had placed him topmost, and one managing director of a large fashion company, himself far from unknown, had written the prime minister’s name three times to be on the safe side. Despite their seminar leader’s title.
“So the result appears to be quite unambiguous,” said the special adviser as he began the concluding discussion. “It would be interesting to hear your reasons,” he continued while he observed the delegates behind half-closed eyelids and with a sardonic smile.
Peculiar type, thought Johansson. If he hadn’t been so fat you could easily take him for a viper lying in the hot sun, only pretending to be asleep.
“Politicians of course often become a bit controversial,” one editor in chief began tactfully, because someone had to begin.
“Good God,” moaned one of the executives, who, judging by his complexion, ought to do something about his blood pressure. “If people like you read what you yourselves were writing, you must surely understand that he doesn’t seem the least bit controversial. You just have to read back what you’re writing.”
“What do you mean?” said the editor in chief with a faint smile.
“I think it’s touching that you all appear to agree that the fellow is a real son of a bitch. I myself have no idea, for I’ve never met him,” he added, glaring acidly at the editor in chief.
“Which I have,” clarified the editor in chief, looking for some reason rather superior.
“So he is a real son of a bitch, then,” said the executive, and the ensuing laughter drowned out the weak protests of his opponent.
Then things had broken loose in earnest: “arrogant,” “upper-class type,” “rotten,” “malicious,” “holds a grudge,” and “very un-Swedish.” In addition he was “much too intelligent,” “much too educated,” “much too verbal,” “much too talented,” and all in all “much too unreliable.”
“And let’s not forget that he’s obviously spying for the Russians too. How he manages that between all his tax evasions,” said the executive with the blood pressure, looking sternly at the second editor in chief for some reason.
The only one who hadn’t said anything was Johansson. He hadn’t even changed his expression but was content to surreptitiously observe their seminar leader, whose body language, apart from the wry smile and the lowered eyelids, was not completely unlike his own. But now he had the chance.
“I think that’s all nonsense,” said Johansson suddenly, and because he was who he was and looked the way he did, the room suddenly went completely quiet.
“What do you mean?” said the special adviser, with a faint twitch of the eyebrow.
Good, thought Johansson. Here’s a nibble, and it’s the big fish who’s circling the hook.
“Well,” said Johansson leisurely and with a lot of Norrland in his voice. “Quite apart from all the logical and rational reasons that argue against that… and you know that sort of thing better than someone like me,” he added good-naturedly, nodding toward the rest of the assembly.
“Speak up, man,” hooted one of the younger executives who’d been on a survival course abroad. “If you’ve said A then you have to say B.”
“Purely from a police perspective, then,” said Johansson hesitantly in order to secure the bait thoroughly around the sinker and the line. “Purely from a police perspective, then… he’s simply the wrong type, as we say. The type who would never spy for the Russians. Not him, no.” Johansson shook his head heavily and everyone who saw him understood that the very thought was impossible.
“It is quite nice to hear that opinion from such an esteemed representative of the police,” said their chairman. “It’s not always what I’ve heard being whispered among his colleagues.”
“What do you mean?” asked Johansson.
“That the prime minister would not be a spy,” said the special adviser with clear emphasis.
“I didn’t say that,” said Johansson with well-acted astonishment while he carefully traced the line between his thumb and index finger.
“I thought you said he was completely the wrong type?” Now the prime minister’s special adviser had hoisted up his eyelids at least halfway.
“No, there I think you’ve got me wrong,” said Johansson like a peasant, shaking his head. “As a spy he’s probably a rather good type, at least when he was younger. Today no doubt he has too much to do, and then he’s probably pretty much under observation too. If it’s the case that he has spied for someone, then I believe that it was long before he became prime minister. And he would never dream of doing it for the Russians.”
“That is very nice to hear. You don’t have any tips on who it might have been in any case?” asked the special adviser.
“Quite certainly for the Americans,” said Johansson. “For the CIA, if I were to speculate.”
And there you bit, thought Johansson when he saw the shift in the special adviser’s look.
“I’ve understood that within the police your political preferences differ from mine and my boss’s,” said the special adviser, sounding a little bit too offended for someone like him.
“Well,” said Johansson and nodded. “That’s no doubt correct. Although I personally think that he appears both educated and… well, intelligent.”
“But a spy? For the CIA?” said the special adviser, and got a few giggles as reward.
“It’s so easy to get into things,” said Johansson, letting him savor his heaviest police look. “And the kind of intelligence I’m thinking of here doesn’t have anything to do with it. On the contrary. What attracts a person the most is the sort of thing you’re already suited for; otherwise it would be no big deal to abstain. It’s easy to get into things, but it can be considerably trickier to get out.” Johansson nodded again, mostly to himself as it appeared, and in the room where he was sitting it was dead silent.