“That sounds like something you should talk about with Flykt,” said Holt.
“Sure,” said Bäckström. “So we can all read about it in the newspaper tomorrow.”
“Hundreds of tips have come in about the Palme weapon,” said Holt. “You know that as well as I do. What makes this tip so special?”
“Everything,” said Bäckström with emphasis. “The informant’s identity, to start with.”
“What’s his name?” said Holt.
“Forget that, Holt. I would never dream of exposing any of my informants. I’d rather go to jail. Forget about my informant. What counts is that the informant has the name of the man with the weapon,” said Bäckström.
“Of the perpetrator?” asked Holt.
“Of the one who took care of the weapon,” Bäckström clarified. “The spider in the web you might say.” There, you got something good to suck on, you disturbed little sow, he thought.
“So give me a name.”
“Forget it,” said Bäckström, shaking his head. “You would never believe me if I told you.”
“Try, Bäckström,” said Holt, looking at the clock.
“Okay then,” said Bäckström. “Blame yourself, Holt, but this is the way it is according to my informant, and who he is you can just forget. I know who he is. He’s a white man. So forget about him now.”
“I’m listening,” said Holt. “Tell me what your anonymous informant has already told you. What he said about the weapon, who he’s fingering, and how he knows it.” A white man, thought Holt.
28
The special adviser lived in a palatial villa in the Uppland suburb of Djursholm, where the crème de la crème in the vicinity of the royal capital had the highest fat content. Twenty-plus rooms, 2,100 square feet, stone, wrought iron, brick, and copper. A hundred-yard-long asphalt driveway, an acre of lawn with shading oaks that weren’t allowed to obscure the view. Not a vulgar waterfront location obviously, simply high and well-situated enough for morning sun and a clear view across Stora Värtan and Lidingö to the east. The special adviser would never have dreamed of swimming down in Framnäs bay where the IT billionaires and property swindlers held court.
Officially he didn’t even live where he did. The villa was owned by his first wife-“clever as a poodle and faithful as a dog”-who had bought it thirty-five years earlier, only a few months before she was divorced from the man who had always lived there. Not a bad deal for a young woman who worked as a secretary at the military headquarters at Gärdet, earned 3,000 kronor a month at that time, and evidently didn’t need to borrow a cent to execute the deal.
The special adviser himself was listed as living on Söder. A simple apartment with two rooms and a kitchen, and he was even in the telephone directory. Anyone who didn’t know better could call there and talk with his answering machine or send a letter that would never be answered. The special adviser preferred a secret life, assembled of all the particular secrets that the truly initiated love to talk about, and he gladly contributed his share.
The rumor was…that the special adviser was immensely wealthy. At the same time he lacked assessed property. He took no deductions, and his stated income agreed to the krona with the salary he had drawn from the government offices for almost thirty years. “I don’t understand what people are talking about. I’m an ordinary wage earner. I’ve always been thrifty, but you don’t get rich on that.”
According to rumor…the special adviser had an art collection that would make the financier Thiel and Prince Eugen green with envy. “It’s nice to have a little color on the walls. Most of this is actually on loan from my first wife.” The same wife who’d moved to Switzerland thirty years earlier and was as quiet as a basenji. Immensely wealthy besides, according to the official information that the Swiss authorities unwillingly surrendered.
The rumor stated…that the special adviser had a wine cellar that, apart from the contents, could only be compared with Ali Baba’s treasure chamber. “I appreciate a good glass of wine over the weekend and especially in the company of good friends. Because I’m extremely moderate of course I’ve accumulated a few bottles over the years.”
The special adviser had been a member of the Social Democratic Party since he was a teenager attending high school. In his wallet he still carried his first party book, no photo, just his name, the party branch he belonged to, and old, handwritten receipts for the dues he’d punctually paid. “That’s what characterizes us real Social Democrats. That we have both our hearts and our wallets to the left.” He gladly showed the evidence that he carried in his left inside pocket, and presumably it was completely true.
According to the brief information in the National Almanac, Who’s Who, and the National Encyclopedia, he was born in Stockholm in 1945, earned a doctorate in mathematics at Stockholm University in 1970, and was appointed professor in 1974. The following year he started as a technical adviser in the government offices (“technical adviser government offices 1975-76”), returned to the university and his professorship during the conservative administration of 1976-1982, then back as “special adviser at the disposal of the prime minister 1982-91,” another pause during a three-year conservative administration when he worked as a visiting professor at MIT, back as “undersecretary 1994-2002.” Since then he had evidently slowed down, “technical adviser in the government offices since 2002.”
Finally a short recitation of his more important academic appointments: “Member of the Board of Directors of the Royal Academy of Science since 1990; Visiting Professor at MIT 1991-94; Honorary Fellow at Magdalen College, Oxford University, since 1980.”
In the country where he lived there was no one like him-in any event there shouldn’t be-and for a long time he had lived the myth that surrounded him. The special adviser, Sweden’s own Cardinal Richelieu, the prime minister’s top security adviser, the extended arm of power or perhaps simply power? In one of the few newspaper interviews with him he described himself as “a simple lad from Söder who’s always been good at arithmetic.”
Wonder what he plans to serve this evening? thought Johansson as the taxi stopped in front of the house where the man didn’t live.
The special adviser received him under the crystal chandelier in the hall and in the most Mediterranean manner.
“Lovely to see you, Johansson,” he said, standing on tiptoe, embracing his guest and marking two kisses on the cheek. “Let me look at you.” He took a step back but without releasing his hand. “You look like the picture of health, Johansson,” he continued.
“Nice of you,” said Johansson, smiling as he coaxed his fist loose from the special adviser’s damp grip. “You’re doing well yourself, I hope?” Although you look awful, and what in the name of God have you got on? he thought.
The special adviser was just below average height. In school he’d been a chubby little boy who for obscure reasons had never been bullied. As an adult first corpulent, then fat, and nowadays truly obese. A rotund body, with spider-like arms and legs, topped by a good-sized head of thick gray hair that stood straight up and out at the sides over his large ears. His face was bright red in color, consisting mainly of forehead and a nose worthy of a conquistador. His eyes were large and clear blue, well entrenched behind heavy eyelids and bulging cheeks, the imposing nose, a round pouting mouth with moist lips like those of a small child, then a natural progression to the three flowing chins that sought shelter under the lining of his shirt collar. Taken as a whole he was clearly a person who must possess considerable inner qualities.
In honor of the day he was dressed in an improbable ensemble of green velvet. Baggy pants without creases, green jacket with shiny lapels, and held together with a thick braided silk cord that he’d wrapped around his body. Along with a tuxedo shirt with black bow tie and a pair of gold-embroidered velvet slippers.