“Excuse me, chief,” said his chauffeur with a careful throat clearing. “But we’re home now.”
“I must have dozed off, so I guess I’m the one who should beg your pardon,” said Berg.
[WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 27]
Finally a night of uninterrupted rest, and by breakfast time Berg had already decided that he’d been unnecessarily concerned, that he had more important things to do, and that the explanation of the immediate circumstances surrounding Krassner’s suicide could well be turned over to a reliable coworker. Persson, thought Berg, and just then the sun peeked in through the kitchen window.
“Good morning, good morning,” said Berg, in an excellent mood, to his secretary as soon as he strode through the door to his office. “Can you ask Persson to come in to see me?”
Berg had known Persson for more than thirty years. They’d been in the same class at the police academy and a few years later they’d shared the front seat of one of the Stockholm Police Department’s radio cars during a not particularly eventful summer while their older, regular colleagues enjoyed their vacations in the country with their families and other colleagues and their families. Then Berg had started his climb toward the top of the police pyramid while Persson had played it safe and chosen to remain down below. Twenty years later, and in Persson’s case twice as many pounds around the middle, they ran into each other by chance in town. Persson was working as an investigator on the burglary squad, and true, there were better jobs, no doubt, but because life was as it was … A week later he’d started with Berg, and it was a decision that neither of them had had reason to regret.
. . .
“I’m listening,” said Persson, sitting down in the visitor’s chair in front of Berg’s large desk without asking for permission first, because he and Berg were old constables who’d worked like dogs together and such nonsense didn’t apply to him.
“This concerns a few discreet inquiries about an apparent suicide that occurred on Friday evening,” Berg explained.
“Hmm,” said Persson, nodding.
Five minutes later Berg had familiarized his former classmate with all the details and was essentially ready to go ahead with more essential matters than this lunatic Krassner.
“Is there anything you’re wondering about?” asked Berg amiably.
“No,” said Persson. Shook his head, got up, and left.
A real old-time constable, thought Berg affectionately when he saw Persson’s fat rear end disappearing through the door. Just as meticulous, taciturn, merciless, and kind as his father, the rural constable, had been during his time in the corps.
Two hours later everything was back to normal again and his good mood was shattered. Kudo and Bülling had requested an immediate meeting because their “analyses of certain telephone traffic clearly indicated that an assassination aimed at a highly placed but not more closely identified by name Swedish politician was imminent.”
“There’s one thing I’m wondering about,” said Berg with as judicious a tone of voice as he could summon despite the situation. “It says here”—Berg rustled the papers he’d just received—“I quote, not more closely identified by name, end quote.”
“Exactly,” said Kudo energetically.
“That’s right,” Bülling assisted with his gaze glued to the fringe of the carpet.
“Not more closely identified by name, what does that mean? Do we have his first name?” Or hers, or his or her initials? thought Berg, a little confused, while a rapid-onset headache started to feel its way out toward his temples.
“Answer no,” said Kudo briskly.
“In other words, we lack the first name of the politician in question,” mumbled Bülling.
“Do we have his last name?” asked Berg. Fälldin, he thought hopefully. If it were the former prime minister, it would certainly facilitate a possible surveillance assignment.
“Answer no,” countered Kudo. “Last name negative.”
“So in other words we have neither the first nor last name of this … not more closely identified by name … politician?”
“Exactly,” said Kudo, nodding with emphasis.
“He’s highly placed, in any event,” Bülling clarified in a mumble.
Then we devoutly hope it’s not Santa Claus, thought Berg, but he didn’t say that.
“I think we’ll do the following,” he said instead.
Five minutes later he had returned to his office, where he informed his secretary that he intended to work at home the rest of the day and could only be disturbed in event of war, naval attack, or coup d’état. Although obviously that wasn’t how he put it.
“I’ll call for your car,” said his secretary. Poor thing, she thought. He seems completely worn out. Why doesn’t he ever take a vacation?
[THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 28]
On Thursday, the twenty-eighth of November, Chief Inspector Persson wound up his discreet inquiries in Bureau Head Berg’s office regarding the immediate details in connection with the Stockholm Police Department’s investigation of the suicide of the American citizen John P. Krassner that he had initiated the day before: “probable” suicide, as it read in the initial review of the case. And as his old friend and colleague who had given him the assignment was on a visit to the secret police’s office in Luleå, the debriefing would have to wait until the following morning.
All the same, thought Persson, deciding to take off early.
[FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 29]
First he met with Persson. He had set aside an hour for their meeting, but because Persson was the way he was, they were done in twenty minutes. Krassner had taken his own life; there was quite simply no latitude for any other possibility. Suicide was also the conclusion arrived at by the investigators from the Stockholm police. In reality the case was already closed, aside from the fact that the formal decision might drag on a few more days.
“I was thinking about his movements right before … well, before he jumped out the window,” objected Berg, whose constant worry was gnawing inside his head. “He seems to have made his decision awfully late.”
Not the least bit strange, according to Persson, but actually classic suicidal behavior. Trots off to a meeting set up beforehand and right when he gets there he changes his mind and leaves. Mucks about town, returns home, and settles the matter.
Well, thought Berg. He doesn’t appear to have been particularly rational.
An embarrassing detail remained, according to Persson. If you were to dig into such things, Göransson and Martinsson had actually messed things up big time and it was no thanks to them that Waltin’s operative was already finished and had managed to leave before Krassner showed up at home in his apartment.
“Damn blind bats,” summarized Persson, and should Berg decide to send them back to the open operation at once, he could personally see about scaring the shit out of them before they got kicked out.
“Well,” said Berg, “I’d been thinking about maybe waiting a little while until everything has a chance to settle down.”
He’s starting to get soft, thought Persson, but he didn’t say that.
Then Persson got up to go, but before he did so he did something completely unexpected.
“There was one more thing,” he said, looking at Berg.
“I’m listening,” said Berg, and as he said it he heard alarm bells start ringing in his head.
“Waltin,” said Persson.
“What about him?” asked Berg.
“Get rid of that piece of shit,” said Persson.
“Is there anything in particular?” The alarm bells were ringing louder now.
“No, nothing in particular,” said Persson, shrugging his broad shoulders. “I just don’t trust him.”
“Have you heard anything?” persisted Berg.
“No, but there isn’t one single thing right with that bastard,” Persson said as he left.
What do I do now? thought Berg, and the alarm bells in his head were now pealing.
Then he went to Rosenbad and met the prime minister’s special adviser, who appeared heavy and worn-out and was disquietingly red around the eyes. He doesn’t look well, thought Berg, and something must have happened with their relationship, for the thought that his old tormentor was feeling poorly made him depressed in a hard-to-explain way. Berg proceeded gingerly and started by recounting the immediate circumstances surrounding Krassner’s suicide. The technical investigation at the scene, his posthumous suicide letter, the forensic doctor’s report, questioning of the witnesses, and the observations that his own detectives had made during the time they had kept him under surveillance—everything, absolutely everything, pointed unambiguously in the same direction: suicide.
The special adviser was content to nod and smile his wry smile with the heavy eyelids lowered.
“We must try to endure the sorrow,” he said, laughing a little.
Now I recognize you, thought Berg.
“Well well, then,” continued the special adviser, mostly sounding as if he was thinking out loud. “A mutual acquaintance maintains that you killed him.”
I must do something about Forselius, thought Berg. He seems to have gone completely gaga.
And then they finally got to the point.
“Tell me,” said the prime minister’s special adviser. “What was he up to?”
The result of the search that Berg’s coworker had carried out—Berg was careful to underscore that this was a matter of a house search and that it had full legal support in the partially secret legislation that governed his operation—showed that Krassner was in the process of writing a book, that he didn’t seem to have gotten especially far in his work, and that the little there was to study was incoherent, not to say incomprehensible. In addition, with his suicide the entire affair was no doubt over.
“What was it about?” The prime minister’s special adviser suddenly seemed a bit more alert and looked at Berg with curiosity.
“It was about your boss,” said Berg. “Or, to put it more correctly,” he added judiciously, “I think it was intended to be about your boss.”
“Explain,” said the special adviser.
The material that Berg had studied mostly contained drafts of background descriptions: of the Social Democratic Party’s frightful history, with its constant zigzagging between capitalism and communism; how during the war the party had been closely allied with the Nazis; and that from the beginning the party had been led by lechers and bribe-takers. Branting kept mistresses and was really just a capitalist in disguise who wanted to cover his own rear end just in case. Per Albin also had mistresses and moreover took bribes from the executives that he used to play poker and drink with. Krassner had this from a reliable Swedish source, whose grandfather had himself been one of the bribe-givers and told it in confidence to the source’s own mother. In addition he was a multimillionaire by virtue of the fact that he’d organized a national fund on his fiftieth birthday whose proceeds had gone straight into his own pockets.
“Just imagine,” said the special adviser with delight. “I’ve always thought that Per Albin was a wise man. But Tage, then? What kind of mischief was he up to?”
“Erlander is not mentioned whatsoever in the material that we have inspected,” Berg declared.
“That’s fishy,” said the special adviser. “People from Värmland have always been crafty types. And they drink, and they’re damn lazy, just like the slaves in Uncle Tom’s Cabin. It was dancing at the crossroads and all that kind of thing.”
Say that during an election campaign, thought Berg, but he didn’t say that.
“Well,” said the special adviser, looking urgently at Berg. “I realize you’ve saved the best for last. My highly esteemed boss: What kind of criminal activities has he gotten himself into?”
“Apart from the fact that he’s been a Russian spy since the mid-1960s he seems to have conducted himself quite well for the most part,” said Berg dryly.
“And what is the evidence for that?” said the special adviser.
“Nothing that you couldn’t read between the lines in Svenskan,” said Berg. Or that I haven’t heard at work, he thought, but naturally he didn’t say that.
“And that’s all?” asked the special adviser, sounding almost disappointed.
“That’s all,” said Berg, “and the only reasonable conclusion is that we’ve been unnecessarily concerned.”
But then the objections had come and suddenly Berg recognized his old self.
“There are four things that I don’t really understand,” said the special adviser. “In general there are lots of things I don’t understand, but in this case there are four.”
“I’m listening,” said Berg, and now he was hearing the alarm bells again. Faintly and way back in his head, it was true, but clearly.
“The reason that we got unnecessarily concerned was not Krassner of course, but his uncle. Where is he in this?”
Nowhere, according to Berg.
“I recall you saying at the beginning that he was sitting for entire days writing at his typewriter, and all you find are less than a hundred pages of unsorted and mostly rejected notes, despite the fact that he’d been at it for six weeks? Has he hidden something, and in that case, where?”
According to Berg there was nothing to indicate that he had hidden away either documentation or material that he’d written himself. In any case not here in Sweden.
“The material you looked at seems to deal primarily with the party and its leadership. To me that sounds like a typical background description to something else. And a completely plausible reason to come here and get down to work.”
“You mean he ought to have more material at home in the U.S.,” asked Berg. Concerning your boss, he thought.
“Yes.”
“I am withholding judgment,” said Berg, “but if it is of the same quality as what we’ve found here, I still don’t think there’s any reason for us to worry.”
For you don’t really want me to ask the Germans to pose the question to our colleagues across the pond, he thought.
“And then I don’t understand the title of his book,” said the special adviser. “The spy who went over to the east?”
“I don’t either,” said Berg.
Nice to hear, thought the special adviser, for that was exactly the answer he wanted.
The ensuing weekly meeting went completely without friction, and the minister appeared mostly to be thinking about the approaching weekend. Berg had devoted most of the time to briefing them about two ongoing investigations of foreign embassies. One dealt with suspected refugee espionage and one with an unfortunately already completed case of industrial espionage in which the foreign office was resisting deportation. None of those present had any questions. On the other hand, the alarm bells in Berg’s head were still ringing.
It is as it is, thought Berg when he got into his car outside Rosenbad. It’s nice that the weekend’s almost here.
[THE FIRST WEEK IN DECEMBER]
So, what’s really going on? thought Assistant Detective Jeanette Eriksson as she settled down on her usual chair at work on Monday morning after having spent the weekend together with her new—and secret—boyfriend, Police Superintendent Waltin. For wasn’t that how she was expected to view him, despite the difference in age? Her rump was sore too, which was awkward because the seclusion of her own office was now only a memory. Moreover, the whole Krassner project was already history, of the type that could never be told and with the lid painstakingly screwed down by the highest boss himself. And everything had started so well just a week ago, or ten days, to be exact, thought Eriksson, who was still careful about time regardless of whether it concerned work or her private life. Or, as in this case, something that had started as the former and continued as the latter.
Krassner was definitely history and Daniel would soon be. The last time they’d spoken she’d told him a tall tale about her constantly ailing mother suddenly becoming so much worse that she was now
compelled to go home to Norrland to help her dad take care of her and her younger siblings. Daniel’s sympathy as usual knew no bounds and she herself had felt even more reprehensible than usual. All that actually remained was Waltin, for it was he who now decided in detail how she should cover up after the assignment with Krassner, and it was he who now occupied her private life and clearly intended to do so in such a way that she didn’t have the least desire to talk about it with anyone. Like that bag of candy that he’d first given her and then taken back for reasons that would scarcely be publishable even in Aunt Malena’s little column in the big evening paper.
What is really going on? thought Assistant Detective Eriksson as she carefully adjusted her bottom to find the least painful position before she went to work on the day’s routine assignments.
On Tuesday, the third of December, the Stockholm police closed the investigation of John P. Krassner’s sudden death. His suicide was now explained beyond all reasonable doubt, there were even papers on the matter, and before the day was over Police Inspector Persson in his discreet way produced a copy of the entire investigation.
On the other hand, he had missed Krassner’s belongings, the few things he’d left behind, for the embassy had already sent those home to the United States. This clearly bothered Persson, who among other things asked for some invitation that was not found either in the confiscation record or on the list of things sent home, but Persson had not been the least bit concerned. You throw away that kind of shit as soon as you get it, don’t you? Persson thought, and he’d said so as well.
“You throw away that kind of shit as soon as you get it, don’t you?” said Persson.
Berg contented himself with nodding in agreement, but to be completely sure he also requested an expert opinion from one of the bureau’s psychiatric consultants. An extraordinarily competent doctor of the old school who had helped him on several previous occasions and who hadn’t disappointed him this time either. Clearly Krassner’s posthumous letter indicated that among other things he had a “strong depressive disposition” and that the “suicidal thoughts that had tormented him a long time” had finally acquired an “almost compulsory and occasionally hallucinatory character.”
Between Summer's Longing and Winter's End: The Story of a Crime Page 33
