“Can you arrange it so that he avoids having them in the house?” interrupted the special adviser.
“Yes,” said Berg. “I can do that. I can arrange it so that he doesn’t even need to see them.” Even if that requires more than twice as many resources, he thought.
“Then that’s what we’ll do,” decided the special adviser. “I’ll warn the boss so he doesn’t take out his moose rifle and shoot them by mistake if they’re sneaking around in the park.”
“That would certainly be practical,” Berg agreed.
“Although I can’t guarantee that he won’t try to invite them in for mulled wine and ginger snaps,” said the special adviser. “My dear boss easily turns sentimental this time of year, and we shouldn’t underestimate his ability to adapt himself to… what is it you policemen say?… his ability to like the situation.”
“Ginger snaps and mulled wine, that would certainly be fine,” said Berg, smiling.
“Not a lot, of course,” said the special adviser, raising his hand in a slightly dismissive gesture.
After the meeting they had lunch at Rosenbad, which had been a tradition for many years. During the bourgeois administration it had often been really nice, with ample refreshments and conversation that had been both frank and agreeable. And you didn’t need to sit and wonder the whole time what they really meant when they said something, thought Berg. Although this wasn’t a bad lunch either. Everyone except Berg, who was going back to work afterward, had schnapps with the little Christmas plate that had been served as an appetizer. The minister had two, the special adviser probably three by filling up his glass on the sly when he didn’t think anyone was looking, while the chief legal officer was content with a half to indicate solidarity.
With coffee the minister and chief legal officer excused themselves, having other urgent business, but the special adviser wanted to talk with Berg alone.
“Damn it, Erik,” he said. “Considering that it’s almost Christmas and everything, can’t I treat you to a cognac with coffee?” Suddenly he also seemed completely different. Almost like a young boy who was in a quandary and wanted the help of an adult.
“A little one, then,” said Berg, smiling. “If you’re going to have one too?”
“Sure I will,” said the special adviser, sounding normal again. “It’s possible that I’ll have two, but that’s a question for later.”
“I’m listening,” said Berg, nodding and leaning back. Perhaps there will be Christmas this year despite everything, he thought.
“Have you heard of a police superintendent named Lars Johansson?” asked the special adviser. “Big burly Norrlander, my age, works as head of the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation? I believe he is going to be a bureau head after New Year’s.”
Have I heard of Lars Martin Johansson from Näsåker? thought Berg. And how do I respond to that? he thought.
“Yes,” said Berg.
“What’s he like?” said the special adviser with curiosity, leaning forward.
Berg nodded thoughtfully, taking a bigger gulp of the cognac than he had intended, to have time to think.
“What’s he like? What do you mean?”
“I mean, what’s he like as a detective?”
“He’s the best,” said Berg. For he is, of course, he thought with surprise at the same moment as he said it.
“What’s he good at?” The special adviser nodded at him to continue.
“At figuring out how things stand,” said Berg. “Actually, it’s almost a little uncanny. Sometimes you get the idea that he’s one of those people who can see around corners,” he continued, smiling. Ask me, he thought. Despite the fact that it must be almost ten years ago.
“You sound almost as if he can walk on water,” said the special adviser.
“I’m almost certain he can’t do that,” said Berg. Nor would he ever dream of doing it, either, he thought. Not Lars Martin Johansson.
“Is there anything else he’s good at?”
“He’s taciturn,” said Berg with more feeling than he intended. Ask me, he thought, for on more than one occasion he had thanked God that Johansson was clearly made that way.
“Not a telltale, exactly,” the special adviser clarified.
“If he’s decided not to say anything, then nobody hears anything,” said Berg, nodding emphatically. “The problem I guess is rather that he follows his own mind when he makes a decision.” What are you getting at? he thought.
“Sounds like a thinking person,” said the special adviser, sighing lightly. “He has none of the faults or deficiencies of us normal mortals?”
“Well,” said Berg. “On some occasions I’ve gotten the idea that when he’s finally figured out how things stand, then the rest of it is less important to him.” Fortunately, he thought.
“That justice must take its course and all that?”
“You might possibly put it like that,” said Berg. “Are you looking for my successor?” he continued, smiling wanly.
“Certainly not,” said the special adviser, sounding almost a little shocked. “Haven’t I said that, by the way? Both I and my eminent boss are extraordinarily satisfied with your contributions. As far as we’re concerned, we’d be glad if you would stay until your dying day.” And if this Johansson is as you say, then he’s the last one we’re going to take instead, he thought.
“Nice to hear,” said Berg, smiling. “And if I could be completely forthright now, then I haven’t exactly always had that impression.”
“I know, I know,” said the special adviser, looking almost guilt-ridden. “I’ve always had problems with that bit. You should hear how my ex-wives and children describe me. It’s really terrible. But we’re working on that. It’s almost the only thing that Ulla-Karin and I are working on.”
“Ulla-Karin is your current wife,” said Berg with a certain hesitation, because he only had vague recollections of these rather muddled aspects of the special adviser’s personal file.
“No, for Christ’s sake,” said the special adviser with feeling. “Ulla-Karin is my psychiatrist-my therapist, that is. Excellent person, lecturer at Karolinska, smart as a poodle, as a whole kennel of poodles, actually.”
“That’s nice to hear,” said Berg neutrally. Wonder if he’s pulling my leg? he thought.
“My wives have always been completely crazy,” continued the special adviser, seemingly mostly to himself. “Completely stark raving mad.”
“It can’t have been easy,” said Berg sympathetically.
“What do you mean by easy?” said the special adviser vaguely. “Who the hell said you should have it easy?”
Yes, who said that? thought Berg, glancing quickly at his watch.
“Now to change the subject,” continued the special adviser. “This Waltin, he worries me, actually.”
And now he looked as he always did again although without the least suggestion of a smile.
There were four primary reasons for this unease that the prime minister’s special adviser expressed. The first was in regard to Waltin’s personality. Simply and summarily, without having met him, without being able to speak more particularly of why or even who he’d spoken with, he didn’t trust Waltin.
“I understand what you mean,” said Berg, and discovered that he sounded more compliant than he ought to have.
Wasn’t someone like him expected to defend his closest coworker?
“Waltin is not a typical police officer, if I may say so,” continued Berg.
“Nice to hear,” grunted the special adviser.
“But this much I think I can say,” Berg concluded, and this was no doubt an expression of the concern that he as boss had to show, “that during all the years that we have worked together, I have never had reason to criticize him for anything that he’s done in service.”