With coffee the minister and chief legal officer excused themselves, having other urgent business, but the special adviser wanted to talk with Berg alone.
“Damn it, Erik,” he said. “Considering that it’s almost Christmas and everything, can’t I treat you to a cognac with coffee?” Suddenly he also seemed completely different. Almost like a young boy who was in a quandary and wanted the help of an adult.
“A little one, then,” said Berg, smiling. “If you’re going to have one too?”
“Sure I will,” said the special adviser, sounding normal again. “It’s possible that I’ll have two, but that’s a question for later.”
“I’m listening,” said Berg, nodding and leaning back. Perhaps there will be Christmas this year despite everything, he thought.
“Have you heard of a police superintendent named Lars Johansson?” asked the special adviser. “Big burly Norrlander, my age, works as head of the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation? I believe he is going to be a bureau head after New Year’s.”
Have I heard of Lars Martin Johansson from Näsåker? thought Berg. And how do I respond to that? he thought.
“Yes,” said Berg.
“What’s he like?” said the special adviser with curiosity, leaning forward.
Berg nodded thoughtfully, taking a bigger gulp of the cognac than he had intended, to have time to think.
“What’s he like? What do you mean?”
“I mean, what’s he like as a detective?”
“He’s the best,” said Berg. For he is, of course, he thought with surprise at the same moment as he said it.
“What’s he good at?” The special adviser nodded at him to continue.
“At figuring out how things stand,” said Berg. “Actually, it’s almost a little uncanny. Sometimes you get the idea that he’s one of those people who can see around corners,” he continued, smiling. Ask me, he thought. Despite the fact that it must be almost ten years ago.
“You sound almost as if he can walk on water,” said the special adviser.
“I’m almost certain he can’t do that,” said Berg. Nor would he ever dream of doing it, either, he thought. Not Lars Martin Johansson.
“Is there anything else he’s good at?”
“He’s taciturn,” said Berg with more feeling than he intended. Ask me, he thought, for on more than one occasion he had thanked God that Johansson was clearly made that way.
“Not a telltale, exactly,” the special adviser clarified.
“If he’s decided not to say anything, then nobody hears anything,” said Berg, nodding emphatically. “The problem I guess is rather that he follows his own mind when he makes a decision.” What are you getting at? he thought.
“Sounds like a thinking person,” said the special adviser, sighing lightly. “He has none of the faults or deficiencies of us normal mortals?”
“Well,” said Berg. “On some occasions I’ve gotten the idea that when he’s finally figured out how things stand, then the rest of it is less important to him.” Fortunately, he thought.
“That justice must take its course and all that?”
“You might possibly put it like that,” said Berg. “Are you looking for my successor?” he continued, smiling wanly.
“Certainly not,” said the special adviser, sounding almost a little shocked. “Haven’t I said that, by the way? Both I and my eminent boss are extraordinarily satisfied with your contributions. As far as we’re concerned, we’d be glad if you would stay until your dying day.” And if this Johansson is as you say, then he’s the last one we’re going to take instead, he thought.
“Nice to hear,” said Berg, smiling. “And if I could be completely forthright now, then I haven’t exactly always had that impression.”
“I know, I know,” said the special adviser, looking almost guilt-ridden. “I’ve always had problems with that bit. You should hear how my ex-wives and children describe me. It’s really terrible. But we’re working on that. It’s almost the only thing that Ulla-Karin and I are working on.”
“Ulla-Karin is your current wife,” said Berg with a certain hesitation, because he only had vague recollections of these rather muddled aspects of the special adviser’s personal file.
“No, for Christ’s sake,” said the special adviser with feeling. “Ulla-Karin is my psychiatrist—my therapist, that is. Excellent person, lecturer at Karolinska, smart as a poodle, as a whole kennel of poodles, actually.”
“That’s nice to hear,” said Berg neutrally. Wonder if he’s pulling my leg? he thought.
“My wives have always been completely crazy,” continued the special adviser, seemingly mostly to himself. “Completely stark raving mad.”
“It can’t have been easy,” said Berg sympathetically.
“What do you mean by easy?” said the special adviser vaguely. “Who the hell said you should have it easy?”
Yes, who said that? thought Berg, glancing quickly at his watch.
“Now to change the subject,” continued the special adviser. “This Waltin, he worries me, actually.”
And now he looked as he always did again although without the least suggestion of a smile.
There were four primary reasons for this unease that the prime minister’s special adviser expressed. The first was in regard to Waltin’s personality. Simply and summarily, without having met him, without being able to speak more particularly of why or even who he’d spoken with, he didn’t trust Waltin.
“I understand what you mean,” said Berg, and discovered that he sounded more compliant than he ought to have.
Wasn’t someone like him expected to defend his closest coworker?
“Waltin is not a typical police officer, if I may say so,” continued Berg.
“Nice to hear,” grunted the special adviser.
“But this much I think I can say,” Berg concluded, and this was no doubt an expression of the concern that he as boss had to show, “that during all the years that we have worked together, I have never had reason to criticize him for anything that he’s done in service.”
“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.
For some reason it took Berg almost a half hour to explain and to recount the conclusions he’d drawn from the fact that the special adviser had asked him whether Johansson and Waltin might be in this together. Persson sat silently the whole time, and he did so even when Berg was through.
“Well,” said Berg. “What do you think?”
“I’m thinking,” said Persson, holding out his glass. “May I have another cognac?”
. . .
When Persson had gotten his cognac, he sat silently for another few minutes without even sniffing the expensive drops. He just sat there, sunk in his chair with his gaze turned inward. Finally shook his head, looked at Berg, and raised his glass.
“Naw,” he said. “Both you and that socialist in the government building have gotten this wrong. So I think we’ll just forget that.”
“What do you mean?” said Berg, with his faint smile.
“Someone like Johansson wouldn’t even touch someone like Waltin with a ten-foot pole,” said Persson. Johansson’s a real policeman, thought Persson, but he didn’t say that. And a good fellow, he thought, but he didn’t say that either, for Berg could certainly figure it out all on his own.
“So if Johansson were to have said something about Krassner, in any case he hasn’t heard it from Waltin,” said Berg.
“We can just forget that,” said Persson. “If indeed he has said something … for that’s of course just pure guesswork on your part.” Persson smiled and nodded at Berg. You need a vacation, he thought.
“You don’t think he might have heard something from Jarnebring?” Berg persisted. “They’re both still like two coats of paint.”
“Whatever he might have heard from him,” said Persson. A good fellow, Jarnebring, thought Persson. And a real policeman, just like him and Johansson, or like Berg when he was young. Before he became the boss and started looking under his own bed for ghosts that were never there.
“So you think we should close the case,” said Berg, smiling. Peculiar, he thought. Suddenly he felt both calm and happy, despite all
the special advisers and strange colleagues with Rolex watches who took the joy out of existence.
“I don’t even think we have a case,” said Persson. “If you don’t believe me I suggest you ask Johansson if he’s said something about the Krassner guy to that socialist in the government building. For that matter, perhaps you should question all three. Johansson, Jarnebring, and the socialist. Good luck,” he said and chuckled.
“I give up,” said Berg. “I’m on the wrong track.”
Persson shrugged his fat shoulders.
“He might well have heard something,” he said. “Given how much shit all the police are talking the whole time. He might well have said something to that socialist. If for no other reason than to test him,” said Persson, who was a real policeman. “Or to mess with him. I’ve heard that he can be as annoying as his boss.”
“Skoal,” said Berg, raising his glass. “And merry Christmas, by the way.” And peace to both great and small, he thought.
Berg and Johansson had a story in common, and Berg hoped that Johansson, despite his sometimes uncanny ability to be able to see around corners, was unaware of this.
Almost ten years earlier Johansson, who at that time was working with the Stockholm Police Department’s central detective unit, developed suspicions about someone in the bodyguard unit of the secret police. According to Johansson—for likely his old armor-bearer and best friend Bo Jarnebring had been acting as travel companion—one of Berg’s officers (granted, one at the base of Berg’s high pyramid) robbed a post office in connection with a security assignment. And as if this wasn’t bad enough, he tried to cover his tracks by murdering two witnesses who had recognized him.
Briefly and in summary, it was quite a hair-raising story, and how Johansson—who truly lived up to the epithet “a real policeman”—was able to think along such uncollegial lines at all was a complete mystery. Possibly here as well it was a matter of his ability to sometimes be able to see around corners. In any event, there were unfortunately many things that indicated that he was correct in all the essentials. This even Berg was forced to admit, although it still pained him every time he did so. The investigation had been closed rather quickly and the man concerned had not even been questioned, much less informed that he was under suspicion in the matter. He hadn’t even been fired—however that could have been arranged—but after a few more years he had chosen to leave of his own free will, and instead of returning to the open operation he had quit the police force. Where he’d gone after that Berg had studiously avoided finding out.
Between Summer's Longing and Winter's End: The Story of a Crime Page 42
