“Think about it,” said the special adviser.
The second reason was in regard to the so-called external operation. The special adviser had thought about that and come to the conclusion that it was not a good solution to the secret police’s completely legitimate demand for supervision of its own operation. And whether the head of the operation was good or bad as a person was actually less interesting when looking at the big picture, but if he was like Waltin it could go really badly.
“You don’t want to say more,” said Berg, trying to make his voice sound completely neutral.
“I was thinking that we could take that up after the New Year,” said the special adviser. “I’m actually still thinking.”
So that’s what you’re doing, thought Berg, who suddenly felt a familiar, insidious weariness.
The third thing concerned the Krassner case. Completely disregarding whether he’d actually taken his own life-as an old mathematician, the special adviser was aware that chance could sometimes provide the most unexpected results-this was nonetheless an affair that filled him with both wonder and displeasure. What was written in Krassner’s posthumous papers was of course only confused nonsense, but quite apart from the fact that he was hardly a budding Pulitzer Prize winner, was there nothing in his history that indicated that he should have been this confused and incompetent? Where, by the way, were the traces of his uncle who had had a central position with the American intelligence service for many years? At the embassy in Stockholm to boot. For while he had irrefutably held that post, he was conspicuously absent from Krassner’s posthumous papers.
“Not a trace of the old bastard. Nowhere,” said the special adviser emphatically.
“There’s unfortunately a risk that he might have put such papers as he might have received from his uncle somewhere else,” admitted Berg, who had thought about the matter himself. “In that case I’m pretty certain that they were left behind in the States.”
“There’s no risk they might have disappeared along the way?” The special adviser looked at him seriously.
“I really don’t think so,” said Berg with a certain emphasis. “Even if I’m only speaking for myself, I really don’t think so. We’re usually rather meticulous about that sort of detail.”
“Hmm,” said the special adviser, looking as though he was thinking deeply.
…
The fourth reason dealt with a very unpleasant story, and if it was true, Berg had been nurturing a snake in his bosom. Fortunately it was also so concrete that he ought to be able to check it out. And if there was something to it, then Waltin’s days were numbered, at least with him. The only question that remained was where in that case he would get to number the rest of them.
“You don’t want to talk about where you’ve gotten your information?” asked Berg.
“Far be it from me to insult a man of your intellectual abilities,” said the special adviser, smiling.
“Thanks for the compliment,” said Berg. The military, he thought. Who else?
“One last question,” said the special adviser, indicating that that was the case by pushing his coffee to one side and making an effort to get up from the table.
“I’m listening,” said Berg.
“Waltin and that Johansson,” said the special adviser. “There’s no possibility that they’re in it together?”
“No,” said Berg. “I take that to be completely out of the question.” What is it he’s saying? Berg wondered to himself.
“Why? Why is it out of the question?”
“I don’t really know how I should put it,” said Berg thoughtfully. “Let me say this. If what you believe about Waltin is true, then Johansson is probably the last person that he would be in league with. As Johansson would have seen to it that he landed in jail long ago.”
“If it isn’t true, then? Might they possibly see each other socially?”
“I know they’ve met professionally at some point,” said Berg. “And I’m as certain as you can be that they’ve never met or even talked to each other in the private sphere. No,” said Berg, shaking his head. “I think you can forget that.”
“Why?” persisted the special adviser.
“Johansson is a real policeman,” said Berg. “He would never dream of socializing privately with Waltin.”
Like Persson, thought Berg. Or me too, for that matter.
“But Waltin himself? I understand the fellow can be frightfully charming if he shows that side of himself?”
“Waltin doesn’t like real policemen,” said Berg seriously. For that’s of course how it was, he thought; he’d figured that out early on. We’re probably not refined enough for him, thought Berg, smiling wanly.
“Interesting,” said the special adviser, suddenly looking happy. “He actually thinks that you real policemen are real rabble, some sort of garbagemen of the legal system,” the special adviser clarified with obvious enjoyment.
“More or less,” said Berg. I’ll be darned how happy you’ve turned, he thought.
When he was sitting in the car to go back to the office he suddenly changed his mind and asked his chauffeur to drive him home. Following up on that story about Waltin that the special adviser had told him required more quiet than his place of employment could provide. Then he had to think about that strange, concluding question that the special adviser had asked. That Johansson and Waltin could be in it together, completely disregarding what “it” might be, was an impossible idea. It was quite simply wrong, because they didn’t do anything together, never had and never would, thought Berg.
The special adviser, on the other hand, was not a nitwit. If you were to believe the test results in his personal file, he was as little a nitwit as was humanly possible in a purely statistical sense. But he had nonetheless asked the question. There must be something he’s heard and gotten wrong, thought Berg. Rather recently, besides. At that conference on total defense, thought Berg. For that was certainly where he’d met Johansson. What was it Johansson had said that disturbed the special adviser so much that he was forced to go to Berg to get help? Johansson must have said something about Krassner, thought Berg, and as soon as he’d had that thought his whole line of reasoning became incomprehensible. What in the name of heaven could someone like Johansson know about someone like Krassner? thought Berg.
…
As soon as Berg stepped inside the door of his cozy house in Bromma he sat down with the telephone and called his faithful coworker Persson. Berg had two things that he wanted him to find out.
“If you can drag yourself here I’ll even see to it that you get a little food,” said Berg with the gruff solicitude that naturally ensued when you’d shared the front seat of the same radio car for a long time.
“You’ve just made me an offer I can’t refuse,” said Persson, and twenty minutes later he was standing on Berg’s front stoop.
When Berg had fed Persson, they moved to the study with coffee and a cognac each to be able to sit in peace. First Berg told the story about Waltin he’d heard from the special adviser and that he in turn had probably gotten from the military intelligence service. That was taken care of in less than ten minutes, and Persson didn’t make a single notation in his little black book.
“Well,” said Berg. “What do you think?”
“I’ll believe anything at all about Waltin,” said Persson. “But you knew that already, of course.”
“Yes,” said Berg, smiling faintly. “I think I’ve understood that much.”
“I’ll check it out. You had something else,” said Persson.
“Yes,” said Berg. “It concerns that dreadful Krassner. At least I’ve gotten the idea that it does.”
“The do-it-yourselfer,” said Persson.
“Exactly,” said Berg.
“I’m listening,” said Persson.