After a half dozen rings he got her answering machine. She sounded chipper and happy, so possibly he had been mistaken about her morning habits.
“Hi,” she said happily. “This is Sarah and I’m not home. Leave a message.”
I see, thought Johansson, crestfallen, and hung up.
. . .
During the afternoon Johansson and his two traveling companions first visited a police station in lower Manhattan. It looked like most of the other police stations Johansson had visited if you disregarded the size. This was bigger. Then the local officers took them along to a nearby restaurant where you could get a good, nutritious meal at a discount price. If you were a police officer, that is.
“Never kick ass on an empty stomach,” said their host, smiling broadly at them.
Detective Lieutenant Martin Flannigan, thought Johansson while something touched his heart. You could just as well be named Bo Jarnebring and be acting head of the local detective department in Östermalm. And you have the right first name.
Lieutenant Flannigan and his colleagues had arranged for them to go along on a special exercise against street robberies in Manhattan. Street robbery was something that was viewed seriously, especially at Christmastime and at least in certain parts of Manhattan.
“It’s a decoy operation,” Flannigan explained. “Works very well on the dumbest crooks.”
Decoy, thought Johansson. Lockfågel. Like when he used to shoot ducks down by the river in his youth. First he set out the decoys he had inherited from his grandfather and then he paddled the kayak and settled in among the reeds by the shore and waited for twilight and for the ducks to start flying in formation. One evening he had shot more than he was able to carry at one time. How old could I have been? thought Johansson.
As soon as darkness had set in and the crooks started to look out of their holes, they’d sought out a suitably situated back street. One of Flannigan’s boys had dressed up like a bum. After that he sat down in a doorway and pretended to be unconscious and alongside him he had a paper bag with several green cigarette cartons sticking up.
“Menthol cigarettes,” explained Flannigan. “Don’t ask me why, but blacks are crazy about menthol cigarettes.”
Johansson and Flannigan were standing by the window in a little bar diagonally across the street. Flannigan’s first move had been to order each of them a beer. I’ve gotten the best beat, thought Johansson, for his two travel companions were huddled together with their local hosts in various vehicles arranged along the street.
“Now we’ll see if they rise to the bait,” said Flannigan, grinning. “Cheers,” he said, raising his glass.
It had only taken a quarter of an hour, but the first fish who swallowed the bait was the wrong color: a white female addict in her thirties. First she had walked past the sleeping bum, stopped at the street corner, and looked around. Then she went back again, slowed down by the bum, checked one more time, and took the paper bag with the cigarette cartons.
“Watchful as an eagle,” said Flannigan, grinning.
“Police, freeze,” and one minute later she was sitting in the backseat of a dark-blue van with her hands shackled behind her back.
It kept on that way until the van was full. A female drug addict, two who really were bums, plus a few ordinary snot-nosed youths, and with one exception they’d all been the right color. They turned in the catch at the police station and then Flannigan had taken his colleagues to his regular place, where they had a large number of beers, related the usual heroic stories for each other, and generally preserved the common Western police culture.
Nice guys, Johansson thought before he fell asleep in his bed at the hotel. But a hell of a place to work.
[SUNDAY, DECEMBER 8]
On Sunday Johansson’s travel companions took the early morning plane home to Stockholm. He himself walked to Grand Central Station and put himself on the train to Albany. Wonder what she’s like? he thought. Judging by her voice on the answering machine she sounds both happy and nice and completely normal. Not at all like his image of an ex-girlfriend of John P. Krassner, who had had the bad taste to go around with people’s home addresses in the hollow heel of his shoe.
CHAPTER VI
Free falling, as in a dream
Stockholm in October
“It’s about an American journalist,” said Assistant Detective Jeanette Eriksson. “He arrived at Arlanda from New York last Sunday and I’ve already collected two tips about him.” She indicated her computer screen while Waltin leaned forward in order to see better. Why don’t I just sit on Daddy’s lap? she thought.
“What’s his name?” said Waltin, casually placing his right hand next to her left.
“Jonathan Paul Krassner, goes by John,” said Eriksson, “born in 1953. Resident of Albany in upstate New York.” Although he’s actually rather a dish, she thought. If you happen to like older guys.
“Do we have anything on him?” asked Waltin while he lightly drummed his fingertips on the tabletop.
“We don’t have anything in-house.” Assistant Detective Eriksson shook her head. “If you want me to go outside the building, then I have to go through my chief.” Wonder if that’s a genuine Rolex, she thought. In which case it must have cost an arm and a leg. It looks genuine, anyway.
“Let’s not be in a rush,” said Waltin, smiling a white-toothed smile. “What’s the problem?”
“Depends on what you mean by problem,” said Eriksson, shrugging her slender shoulders. “The first tip came in the day before yesterday, and I’ve been content to simply make a note of it. The informant is one of our journalists at state television. This particular person I happen to know about. He seems to have problems both with alcohol and his own imagination.” Wonder if he thinks I’ll move my foot, she thought.
“So, what did he have to tell us?” said Waltin, smiling confidently.
“He had run into Krassner at the press club down on Vasagatan Tuesday evening. I’m guessing it was in the bar, although he doesn’t say so. He wanted to get hold of his contact here but our man is out on a job and I saw no reason to bother him. In any case, our informant maintains that Krassner appears suspiciously interested—those are his own words—in our cooperation with other security services in the West. Among other things he’s supposed to have talked about the Germans and how we use them as our channel to the Americans.”
“What could he have meant by that?” said Waltin, shrugging his well-tailored shoulders. “What Germans?” He gave her a manly smile.
“Exactly,” said Eriksson and she smiled as well.
He really is a dish, she thought.
“Then there’s that other tip,” she continued. “It came in a few hours ago. It’s another informant, and he says we should contact him at once regarding an American journalist by the name John P. Krassner.”
“Whoops,” said Waltin. “And so who is he?”
“That’s why I need your help,” she said. “This informant has a secure identity which is beyond my authority. Highest priority both with us and with military intelligence, so I’m not finding him. But according to my instructions I should see to it that the bureau chief or you get this immediately.”
Assistant Detective Eriksson nodded energetically. And it doesn’t appear that you have any objections, she thought.
“And because my boss is taking a long lunch in town and then you happened to come by …” She smiled, with a little gleam in her eyes. You are a little interested after all, she thought.
“You can make a note that I’m informed,” said Waltin efficiently and looked at the clock. “Print out a copy too, so I can take it with me, and I’ll be in touch during the day. Then you can set up a surveillance file on this Krassner. And classify it up a notch until we know what this is all about.”
. . .
This is going like clockwork, thought Waltin a while later. Berg hadn’t had any objections; he had seemed as though he was thinking about something else, and after having found out who the infor
mant was Waltin had become truly curious. He had met him twice before, both times at the secure location, and he had not been able to avoid noticing with what respect Berg had treated him. Of the little that Berg had told him when their guest had gone home, he had also understood that this was not any ordinary retired professor of mathematics from the technical college in Stockholm. In addition it actually appeared as if the more intricate and private question of the future handling of little Miss Jeanette Eriksson was in the process of solving itself quite naturally. Say what you will about Berg, thought Waltin, he seems to be totally uninterested in women, and of course that’s good for someone like me.
When Waltin phoned the retired mathematics professor he encountered unexpected problems.
“Yes, I hear what you’re saying, police superintendent,” said the professor in a grumpy old man’s voice, “but at the risk of appearing obstinate I would still prefer to speak directly with the bureau chief.”
“The problem is that the bureau chief is out of town,” Waltin lied routinely. “I have spoken with him on the phone and because you contacted us, professor, the bureau chief wanted me to make contact with you at once.” And besides, I am a police superintendent, you old fart, thought Waltin, but he didn’t say that.
“I hear what you’re saying, superintendent,” mumbled the professor.
“Yes, Bureau Chief Berg was of the firm opinion that this matter was clearly important, given that you contacted us,” said Waltin in a mild voice.
“If he is of that opinion then I really don’t understand why he can’t drag himself over here.”
“As I said before, he is unfortunately out of town.” Surly old fogey who for unclear historical reasons has a completely crazy estimation of his own significance, thought Waltin. But I’m sure that can be changed.
“Where is he?” asked the professor.
“Excuse me?” said Waltin. What’s he saying? he thought.
“I asked where he was, Bureau Chief Berg, that is. Is that so hard to understand? Where is Bureau Chief Berg?”
Obviously senile too, thought Waltin.
“Yes,” said Waltin with feigned heartiness. “A man with your background surely understands why I can’t go into that. Especially not on the phone. My suggestion is that I come to your residence so we can discuss the matter in peace and quiet. Hello?”
The old fart hung up, thought Waltin, astonished. He hung up right in my ear.
When he finally got hold of Berg in his office half the afternoon had gone to waste. In addition Berg had been amused in a manner that Waltin didn’t appreciate.
“Yes, yes,” said Berg, smiling. “Johan can have his ways. When he was working at the defense department’s intelligence division during the war he is said to have taken a swing at a staff major who had hidden his whiskey. He was, of course, a drafted corporal, and in civilian life he was professor of mathematics at Uppsala University. Then he moved to the technical college to be closer to his beloved computers.”
“If we’re talking about the Second World War,” said Waltin, “that might possibly explain it. After all, some water has run under the bridge since then. The years pass, if I may say so.”
Berg shook his head thoughtfully.
“I doubt that he’s senile. He’s actually the one who set up our system of codes and encryption here at the bureau. He has saved millions for us in computer costs. We had official contact just six months ago and he was just as sharp as he’s always been. Here’s what we’ll do,” continued Berg, nodding toward Waltin. “I’ll phone and talk to him, then you come along so that I see to it that you are properly introduced.”
“Fine with me,” said Waltin and shrugged his shoulders. What could he say?
Because I have decided to trust you, thought Berg.
Professor Emeritus Johan Forselius lived in an enormous, old-fashioned apartment on Sturegatan. It took a good while before they were let in, and then they’d had to grope their way along a darkened hallway toward a distant and well-smoked study.
“It’s that damn girl from the home-care services,” muttered the professor. “I’ve told her all fall that she should put new lightbulbs in the hall, but the woman seems to be completely stupid. Speaks some incomprehensible Polish gibberish.”
Forselius blew his nose vigorously into his hand and wiped it off on his pants.
“If you gentlemen want coffee you’ll have to help yourselves,” he said, staring crossly at Waltin. “Personally I could fancy a small cognac.”
The professor sank down into a well-broken-in leather easy chair and nodded toward Berg that he could sit down as well. After that he looked again at Waltin. More challengingly this time.
“Yes, what do you say, Claes,” Berg said obligingly and nodded toward Waltin. “Wouldn’t a cup of coffee taste good?”
“Yes, truly,” said Waltin with warmth in his voice. “Is the kitchen in that direction?” Waltin made a head movement toward the apartment’s darkened interior.
“If you find a stove, superintendent, you’ve come to the right place,” said the professor, grinning contentedly. “The cognac is in the serving area. On second thought, bring the bottle if Erik here would like some, for it must be the superintendent who’ll be driving the car afterward?”
Waltin had been content to smile amiably.
Two months earlier Professor Forselius had received a letter from the United States. The sender was a John P. Krassner, who wrote that he was a researcher and author in the process of writing a book about the politics of security in Europe after the Second World War. Now he was intending to come to Sweden and requested an interview. This was not an unusual request for a man like Forselius: rumor-shrouded code-breaker from the days of the great war, well-known speaker among military personnel and secret police officers across the Western world. Forselius received similar proposals every month, despite the fact that his war posting had ended more than forty years ago, and he had done what he always did. He tossed it into the wastebasket.
“Who the hell wants to talk to people like that?” said Forselius, taking a hefty gulp from his brandy snifter. “But then, the day before yesterday, the doorbell rang, and at first I thought the damn home-care services had sent me some new damn foreigner, and then it turns out it’s that damn Krassner who’d written to me to get an interview and now he’s turned up on my own doorstep.”
Berg nodded understandingly. Those home-care folks, those home-care folks. “So you let him in?”
“Hmm,” said Forselius from the depths of his snifter. “At first I thought about just tossing the bastard out; he’s a little S.O.B. and even if I’m not as strong as I once was, it wouldn’t have been any big deal.” Forselius grunted contentedly and gave Waltin an almost greedy glance. “But then he said something that made me curious.”
“Do tell,” said Berg.
“He had greetings from an old acquaintance,” said Forselius.
The professor took a fresh sip from his large snifter while giving Waltin a suspicious look over the edge of his glass.
“An old acquaintance from the war and the years after.” Forselius nodded and appeared most interested in the contents of his glass.
“You really don’t need to be worried about Claes here,” said Berg with conviction in his voice. “Completely disregarding the fact that he is my closest man, I trust him unreservedly.” Did that sound a little strange? he thought.
Forselius nodded, mostly to himself, it appeared. Then he straightened in his chair, smiled, and shook his head.
“I hear what you’re saying, Erik,” he said. “I hear what you’re saying.”
“Well,” said Berg, smiling.
Forselius shook his head again and set the glass down on the table next to the easy chair.
“I’m afraid that this still must stay between the two of us,” he said. “But how you deal with it later is none of my concern.”
A senile old man who’s trying to make himself interesting, thought Waltin with irritati
on as he sat in the car, trying to read the evening paper he had bought in a tobacco shop directly across the street.
It took over half an hour before Berg came out. Without asking, Waltin started the car and set a course back toward Kungsholmen, but when they got stuck in the thickening traffic over by Odenplan he couldn’t contain himself any longer.
“Okay, chief,” said Waltin. “Tell a simple fellow laborer in the vineyard.”
Berg shook his head thoughtfully.
“I hope this doesn’t upset you,” said Berg, “but I have to think this through myself first. What I can give you for now is a general orientation.”
Waltin nodded with his eyes fixed on the traffic lights.
“The person from whom Krassner had greetings is an old acquaintance of Forselius from the time after the Second World War. Same generation as our esteemed professor, by the way, and when he and Forselius knew one another the acquaintance was working at the American embassy here in Stockholm. If you understand what I mean.”
CIA, thought Waltin nodding.
“According to Krassner this was his mother’s older brother, now deceased. Supposed to have died last spring.”
“Although clearly chipper enough to convey a greeting,” said Waltin, smiling wryly.
“Clearly,” said Berg. “It’s also possibly so bad that he let the cat out of the bag.”
Whoops, thought Waltin. This must be the first time in world history that that’s happened.
“What do you want me to do?” asked Waltin.
“Find out what Krassner is up to here at home in our dear fatherland,” said Berg, smiling faintly. “Plus the usual background, of course.”
“Without contacting the Germans,” said Waltin rhetorically. Who could ask the guys over there directly, which would have saved me a heckuva lot of time, he thought.
“Until we know where this is heading, it stays in-house,” said Berg, nodding with a certain emphasis. “We’re making no contacts whatsoever outside the building.” The part about the Americans especially was sensitive as hell; the Russians were like a hungover bear about that sort of thing, thought Berg.
Between Summer's Longing and Winter's End: The Story of a Crime Page 19
