‘As Håkan has already told you, rumours about a Swedish spy had been circulating for a while,’ said Talboth. ‘The CIA had known about it for ages. When I worked at the Stockholm embassy, we put a lot of resources into trying to solve this problem. The fact that somebody was selling Swedish military secrets to the Russians was a problem for us and for NATO. Sweden’s arms industry was at the cutting edge when it came to technical innovations. We used to have regular meetings with our Swedish colleagues about this worrying situation. And with colleagues from England, France and Norway, among others. We were faced with an incredibly skilful agent. We also realised that there must be an intermediary, an “informer”, in Sweden. Somebody passing on information to the agent, who in turn sent it on to Russia. We were surprised that we – or rather, our Swedish colleagues – could never find any clues as to who it was. The Swedes had a shortlist of twenty names, all of them officers in one service or another. But the Swedish investigators got nowhere. And we didn’t manage to help them either. It was as if we were hunting a phantom. Some genius hit on the idea of calling the person we were looking for “Diana”. Like the Phantom’s girlfriend. I thought it was idiotic. Mainly because there was nothing to suggest that a woman was involved. But it would eventually transpire that the nitwit responsible had unknowingly but devastatingly stumbled onto something very relevant. In any case, that was the situation until late March 1987. The eighteenth, to be precise. Something happened on that day that changed the whole situation, sent several Swedish intelligence officers out into the cold, and forced us all to start thinking differently. Has Håkan told you about this?’
‘No.’
‘It began outside Amsterdam at Schiphol, the big airport, early in the morning. A man appeared outside the airport police’s office. He was wearing a baggy suit, a white shirt and a tie. He was carrying a small suitcase in one hand and had an overcoat over his arm and a hat in his other hand. He must have given the impression of coming from another age, as if he had climbed out of a black-and-white film with sombre background music. He spoke to a police officer who was really far too young for the job, but there was a flu epidemic and he was filling in. The man spoke bad English and announced that he was seeking political asylum in the Netherlands. He produced a Russian passport in the name of Oleg Linde. An unusual surname for a Russian, you might think, but it was correct. He was in his forties, with thinning hair and a scar along one side of his nose. The young police officer, who had never set eyes on a defector from the East before, called in an older colleague who took over. I think his name was Geert, but before he had a chance to ask his first question, Linde began talking. I’ve listened to the interrogation so many times that I know the most important parts almost by heart. He was a colonel in the KGB, the division dealing with espionage in the West, and was seeking political asylum because he no longer wanted to do work that was propping up the crumbling Soviet empire. Those were his first words. Then he came out with the bait he had prepared in advance. He knew about many of the Soviet spies working in the West, especially a number of very competent agents based in the Netherlands. After that he was handed over to the security services. They took him to an apartment in The Hague, ironically enough not far from the International Court of Justice, where he was interrogated. It didn’t take long for Säpo to realise that Oleg Linde was completely genuine. They kept his identity secret, but they immediately began informing colleagues all over the world that they had come across a marvellious “antique”, which was now standing on a table in front of them. Would they like to come and take a look? To examine it? Reports came in from Moscow to the effect that the KGB was in an uproar; everybody was scuttling around like ants in an anthill poked with a walking stick. Oleg Linde was one of those people who simply couldn’t be allowed to go missing. But missing he was. He’d disappeared without a trace, and they feared the worst. Moscow figured out that he must be in the Netherlands when their spy network there collapsed. He had begun his big “clearance sale”, as we called it. And he was cheap. All he wanted was a new name and a new identity. According to what I’ve heard, he moved to Mauritius and settled in a town with the wonderful name of Pamplemousse, where he earned a living as a cabinetmaker. Evidently Linde had a background as a joiner before he joined the KGB, but I’m not sure about that part of the story.’
‘What’s he doing now?’
‘He’s sleeping the eternal sleep. He died in 2006. Cancer. He met a young lady in Mauritius and married her, and they had several children. But I don’t know anything about their lives. His story is reminiscent of that of another defector, an agent known as “Boris”.’
‘I’ve heard of him,’ said Wallander. ‘There must have been a constant procession of Russian defectors at that time.’
Talboth stood up and went indoors. Down in the street below, several fire engines raced past, sirens wailing. Talboth came back with the jug full to the brim with iced water.
‘He was the one who informed us that the spy we’d been looking for in Sweden was a woman,’ he said when he had sat down again. ‘He didn’t know her name; she was overseen by a group within the KGB that worked independently of the other officers – that was normal practice with especially valuable agents. But he was certain that it was a woman. She didn’t work in the military or in the arms industry, which meant that she had at least one, possibly several, informers who provided her with information that she sold. It was never clear whether she was a spy for ideological reasons or if she did it purely as a business venture. The intelligence services always prefer spies who operate as a business. If there is too much idealism involved, the operation can easily go off the rails. We always think that agents with great faith in the cause are never entirely reliable. We are a cynical bunch, and we have to be in order to do our job properly. We repeat the mantra that we might not make the world any better, but at least we don’t make it any worse. We justify our existence by claiming that we maintain a sort of balance of terror, which we probably do.’
Talboth stirred the ice cubes in the jug with a spoon.
‘Future wars,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘will be over staples such as water. Our soldiers will fight to the death over pools of water.’
He filled his glass, being careful not to spill any water. Wallander waited.
‘We never found her,’ Talboth continued. ‘We helped the Swedes as much as we could, but she was never identified, never exposed and arrested. We started talking about the possibility that she didn’t exist. But the Russians were constantly finding out about things they shouldn’t have. If Bofors made some technical advance in a weapons system, the Russians soon knew all about it. We set endless traps, but we never caught anybody.’
‘And Louise?’
‘She was above suspicion, of course. Who would have suspected her of anything?’
Talboth excused himself, saying he had to attend to his aquarium. Wallander remained on the balcony. He started writing a summary of what Talboth had said, but then decided he didn’t need notes; he would remember. He went to the room he’d been given and lay down on the bed with his arms under his head. When he woke up, he saw that he’d been asleep for two hours. He jumped up, as if he had slept far longer. Talboth was on the balcony, smoking a cigarette. Wallander returned to his chair.
‘I think you’ve been dreaming,’ Talboth said. ‘You kept shouting in your sleep.’
‘My dreams are pretty violent at times,’ said Wallander. ‘It comes and goes.’
‘I’m lucky,’ said Talboth. ‘I never remember my dreams. I’m very grateful for that.’
They walked to the Italian restaurant Talboth had mentioned earlier. They drank red wine with their food, and spoke about everything under the sun – except for Louise von Enke. After the meal Talboth insisted they try various kinds of grappa, before insisting just as strongly on paying for everything. Wallander felt distinctly tipsy when they left Il Trovatore. Talboth lit a cigarette, being careful to turn his head away when he blew out the smoke
.
‘So,’ said Wallander, ‘many years have passed since Oleg Linde talked about a female Swedish spy. It seems implausible to me that she should still be operating.’
‘If she is,’ said Talboth. ‘Don’t forget what we talked about on the balcony.’
‘But if the spying was in fact still going on, that would exonerate Louise,’ said Wallander.
‘Not necessarily. Somebody else could have picked up the baton. There are no simple explanations in this world. The truth is often the opposite of what you expect.’
They continued walking slowly down the street. Talboth lit another cigarette.
‘The middleman,’ Wallander said, ‘the person you called the intermediary. Do you have just as little information about him?’
‘He has never been exposed.’
‘Which means, of course, that “he” could just as well be a woman too.’
Talboth shook his head.
‘Women seldom have such influential positions in the military or the arms industry. I’d bet my paltry pension it’s a man.’
It was a very warm evening, oppressively so. Wallander could feel a headache coming on.
‘Is there anything in what I’ve told you that you find particularly surprising?’ Talboth asked half-heartedly, mostly to keep the conversation going.
‘No.’
‘Is there any conclusion you’ve drawn that doesn’t fit in with what I’ve said?’
‘No. Not that I can think of.’
‘What do the police investigating Louise’s death have to say?’
‘They don’t have any leads. There’s no murderer, no motive. The only clues are the microfilm and documents hidden in a secret pocket in her handbag.’
‘But surely that’s proof enough to show that she’s the spy everybody has been looking for? Perhaps something went wrong when she was due to hand over her material?’
‘That’s a plausible explanation. I assume that’s the basis on which the police are proceeding. But what went wrong? Who was it that met her? And why did it happen just now?’
Talboth stopped and stamped on his cigarette butt.
‘It’s a big step forward in any case,’ he said. ‘She’s obviously guilty. The investigation can concentrate on Louise now. They’ll probably find the middleman sooner or later.’
They continued walking and came to the entrance door. Talboth tapped in the code.
‘I need more fresh air,’ Wallander said. ‘I’m a dyed-in-the-wool night owl. I’ll stay out for a bit longer.’
Talboth nodded, gave him the entry code and went inside. Wallander watched the door closing silently. Then he stared walking along the deserted street. The feeling that something was fundamentally wrong struck him once more. The same feeling he’d had after leaving the island following the night he’d spent with Håkan von Enke. He thought about what Talboth had said, about the truth often being the opposite of what you’d expected. Sometimes you needed to turn reality upside down in order to make it stand up.
Wallander paused and turned round. The street was still deserted. He could hear music coming from an open window. A German hit song. He heard the words leben, eben and neben. He continued walking until he came to a little square. Some young people were making out on a bench. Maybe I should stand here and shout out into the night, he thought. I don’t know what’s going on. That’s what I could shout. The only thing I’m sure about is that there’s something I’m not getting. Am I coming closer to the truth, or drifting further away from it?
He strolled around the square for a while, growing more and more tired. When he returned to the apartment, Talboth seemed to have gone to bed. The door to the balcony was locked. Wallander undressed and fell asleep almost immediately.
In his dreams the horses started running again. But when he woke up the next morning, he could remember nothing about them.
37
When Wallander opened his eyes, he didn’t know where he was at first. He glanced at his watch: six o’clock. He stayed in bed. He could hear through the wall what he assumed was the noise of the machines adjusting the oxygen level of the water in the gigantic aquarium, but he couldn’t hear whether the trains were running. They lived a silent life in their well-insulated tunnels. Like moles, he thought. But also like the people who wormed their way into the places where decisions were made, decisions they then stole and passed on to the other side, which was supposed to be kept in ignorance.
He got out of bed and felt an urge to leave. He didn’t bother to take a shower, but simply dressed and emerged into the large, well-lit apartment. The balcony door was open, the thin curtains flapping gently in the breeze. Talboth was sitting there, cigarette in hand. A cup of coffee was on the table in front of him. He turned slowly to face Wallander, who had the impression that Talboth had heard him coming. He smiled. It suddenly seemed to Wallander that he didn’t trust that smile.
‘I hope you slept well.’
‘The bed was very comfortable,’ said Wallander. ‘The room was dark and quiet. But I think I should thank you for your hospitality now and take my leave.’
‘So you’re not going to give Berlin another day to impress you? There’s an awful lot I could show you.’
‘I’d love to stay on, but I think it’s best I set off for home now.’
‘I take it your dog needs somebody to look after it?’
How does he know I have a dog? Wallander thought. I’ve never mentioned it. He had a vague impression that Talboth realised immediately he’d said something he shouldn’t have.
‘Yes,’ said Wallander. ‘You’re right. I mustn’t take too much advantage of my neighbours’ willingness to keep an eye on Jussi. I’ve spent all summer heading off to first one place, then another. And of course I have a grandchild I want to see as often as possible.’
‘I’m glad that Louise had time to enjoy her,’ said Talboth. ‘Children are one thing, but grandchildren are even more meaningful; they are the ultimate fulfilment. Children give us the feeling that our existence has been meaningful, but grandchildren are the confirmation of that. Do you have a photo of her?’
Wallander showed him the two photographs he had brought.
‘A lovely little girl,’ said Talboth, getting to his feet. ‘But you must have some breakfast before you leave.’
‘Just a cup of coffee,’ said Wallander. ‘I never have anything to eat in the morning.’
Talboth shook his head in disapproval. But he came back out onto the balcony with a cup of coffee – black, the way Wallander always drank it.
‘You said something yesterday that I’ve been wondering about,’ Wallander said.
‘No doubt I said all kinds of things that you’ve been wondering about.’
‘You said that sometimes one needed to look for explanations in places diametrically opposed to where one was looking at the time. Did you mean that as a general principle, or were you referring to something specific?’
Talboth thought for a moment.
‘I don’t recall saying what you say I did,’ he said. ‘But if I did, it was no doubt meant as a general principle.’
Wallander nodded. He didn’t believe a word of what Talboth said. He had meant something specific. It was just that Wallander hadn’t caught on to what it was.
Talboth seemed on edge, not as calm and relaxed as he had been the previous day.
‘I’d like to take a photo of the two of us together,’ he said. ‘I’ll get my camera. I don’t have a guest book, but I always take photographs when I have visitors.’
He came back with a camera, which he balanced on the arm of one of the chairs. He set the timer and came to sit down beside Wallander. When the picture was taken, he took another one himself, this time of Wallander alone. They said their goodbyes shortly afterwards. Wallander had his jacket in one hand and his car keys in the other.
‘Will you manage to find your way out of the city without help?’ Talboth asked.
‘My sense of direction isn’t all
that good, but I’ll no doubt find the right road sooner or later. Besides, there’s a logic in the German road network that puts all the others to shame.’
They shook hands. Wallander took the lift down to street level and waved to Talboth, who was leaning over his balcony railing. As he left the building, Wallander noticed that Talboth’s name didn’t appear on the name-plate listing all the tenants; it said instead ‘USG Enterprises’. Wallander memorised the name, then got in his car and drove off.
It took him several hours to find his way out of the city. When he finally emerged onto the motorway, he realised too late that he had missed an exit and was now heading for the Polish border. With considerable difficulty he eventually managed to turn and set off in the right direction. When he passed Oranienburg, he shuddered at the memory of what had happened there.
He arrived back home without any problems. Linda came to visit him that evening. Klara had a cold, and Hans was taking care of her. The following day he was due to leave for New York.
It was a warm evening, so they sat out in the garden, and Linda drank tea.
‘How’s business going for him?’ Wallander asked as they swung slowly back and forth in the hammock.
‘I don’t know,’ said Linda. ‘But I sometimes wonder what’s going on. He always used to come home and tell me about the fantastic deals he’d closed during the day. Now he doesn’t say anything at all.’
A skein of geese flew past. They watched the birds flying south.
‘Are they migrating already?’ Linda wondered. ‘Isn’t it too early?’
‘Maybe they’re practising,’ said Wallander.
Linda burst out laughing.
‘That’s exactly the kind of comment Grandad would have made. Do you realise that you’re getting more and more like him?’
Wallander dismissed the thought.
‘We both know he had a sense of humour. But he could be much more malicious than I ever allow myself to be.’
The Troubled Man Page 42
