by Asa Larsson
At that moment, her telephone rang.
It was Inspector Fred Olsson.
“Did I wake you?” he asked.
“No, I’ve already had quite a wake-up call,” laughed Anna-Maria, still trying to kick Robert while Gustav tried to burrow his way in under the covers on Robert’s side.
Robert had tucked them under his body, and was resisting with all his might.
“You did say you wanted bad news straightaway.”
“No, no,” laughed Anna-Maria, jumping out of bed. “I never said that, and besides I’ve already had some seriously bad news this morning.”
“What on earth’s going on there?” asked Fred Olsson. “Are you having a party, or something? Anyway, listen to this: the guy with the light-colored overcoat…”
“John McNamara.”
“John McNamara. He doesn’t exist.”
“What do you mean, he doesn’t exist?”
“There’s a fax here for you from the British police. The John McNamara who hired a car at Kiruna airport died eighteen months ago in Iraq.”
“I’m on my way,” said Anna-Maria. “Shit!”
She pulled on her clothes and patted the moving covers to say goodbye.
At quarter to seven, Mauri Kallis’s security chief, Mikael Wiik, was driving up the avenue of lime trees to Regla. It took an hour to drive from Kungsholmen to Regla. This particular morning he’d got up at four-thirty because he had a breakfast meeting with Mauri Kallis. But he wasn’t complaining. Early mornings were nothing to him. And besides: the Merc he was driving was new. He’d taken his partner to the Maldives for New Year’s.
Two hundred meters from the first iron gate, he passed Mauri’s wife, Ebba, on a black horse. He slowed down in plenty of time, and gave her a friendly wave. Ebba waved back. In the rearview mirror he saw the horse take a few little dancing steps when the gates were opened; the car hadn’t frightened him.
Bloody horses, he thought as he drove through the second gate. They never know what’s really dangerous. Sometimes they rear up just because there’s a stick lying across the track that wasn’t there yesterday.
Mauri Kallis was already in the dining room. A pile of newspapers beside his coffee cup: two Swedish, the rest foreign.
Mikael Wiik said good morning and helped himself to coffee and a croissant. He’d had a proper breakfast before he left home. He wasn’t the type to sit there shoveling down porridge in front of his employer.
Nobody knows a man like his bodyguard, he thought as he sat down. He knew Mauri Kallis was faithful to his wife, if you disregarded the occasions when his business associates provided girls as a kind of digestif, so to speak. Or when Kallis himself was doing the providing, knowing that was what would get the fish to take the bait. But that was part of the job, and didn’t count.
Kallis didn’t drink much either. Mikael Wiik suspected more of that sort of thing had gone on with Kallis and Inna and Diddi Wattrang in the past. And it was true that during the two years Wiik had been working for him, he’d had the odd drink with Inna—and one or two other things as well. But at work—no. When it came to working dinners or pub crawls, it was part of Mikael Wiik’s job to have a word with (and pay) bartenders and the staff who were waiting on the tables to make sure Mauri Kallis was discreetly served alcohol-free drinks, and apple juice instead of whisky.
Mauri Kallis stayed in hotels with excellent sports facilities when he was away on business, and liked to work out in the hotel gym early in the morning. He preferred fish to meat. He read biographies and factual books, not novels.
“Inna’s funeral,” Mauri Kallis said to Mikael Wiik. “I was thinking of asking Ebba to organize it, so perhaps you and she could get together on that. We can’t postpone the meeting with Gerhart Sneyers, he’s flying in from Belgium or Indonesia the day after tomorrow, so we’ll have a small dinner party then and hold the meeting on Saturday morning. Several people from the African Mining Trust will be there, you’ll have a list tomorrow afternoon at the latest. They’re traveling with their own security people, of course, but, well, you know how things are…”
I know, thought Mikael Wiik. The gentlemen on their way to Regla were well guarded and paranoid. And some of them had good reason to feel that way.
Gerhart Sneyers, for example. He owned both mining and oil companies. Chairman of the African Mining Trust, an association of foreign company owners in Africa.
Mikael Wiik could remember Mauri’s first meeting with Gerhart Sneyers. Mauri and Inna had flown to Miami just to meet him. Mauri had been nervous. Mikael had never seen him like that.
“How do I look?” he’d asked Inna. “I could change my tie. Or should I leave it off altogether?”
Inna had stopped him from going back up to his room.
“You look just perfect,” she’d assured him. “And don’t forget: it’s Sneyers who’s asked for this meeting. He’s the one who should be nervous about you. All you can do is…”
“…sit back and listen,” Mauri had said, as if he’d learned it by heart.
They’d met in the foyer of the Avalon. Gerhart Sneyers was a well-preserved man in his fifties. His thick red hair peppered with gray. An attractive face, in a masculine, craggy way. White skin covered in freckles. He shook hands with Inna first, like a gentleman, then Mauri Kallis. The bodyguards were ignored; they nodded almost imperceptibly at one another, professional colleagues in spite of everything.
Sneyers had two guys guarding him. They were wearing sunglasses and suits, and looked like Mafiosi. Mikael Wiik felt like a country boy in his mint green jacket and cap. His internal defense mechanism was up and running with disparaging thoughts about the other two.
Fatso, he thought about one of the bodyguards. He’d never manage more than a hundred meters. And he wouldn’t even do that in a decent time.
Sniveling puppy, he thought about the other one.
They walked down Ocean Drive, the whole party, on the way to a boat Gerhart Sneyers had hired. The wind was rustling in the palm trees, yet it was still so hot they were all sweating. The puppy kept on losing concentration the whole time, grinning suggestively at the bodybuilders jogging along the beach to burn fat, their shorts tucked up into their asses to get a nice even suntan.
The boat was a Fairline Squadron, a 74-footer, a double bed on deck, double Caterpillar engines and a top speed of 33 knots.
“It’s what the celebrities want,” said the puppy in his broken English, looking meaningfully at the double bed.
“It’s not exactly meant for sunbathing,” he went on.
Mauri, Inna and Gerhart Sneyers had disappeared below deck. Mikael Wiik made his excuses and followed them.
When he got down below he positioned himself just inside the doorway.
Gerhart Sneyers was just saying something, but paused briefly as Mikael Wiik slid in. Just long enough to give Mauri time to send him out. But Mauri said nothing, just gave Gerhart a look to indicate that he should carry on.
A demonstration of strength, thought Mikael Wiik. Mauri decides who’s here and who isn’t. Gerhart is alone, Mauri has Inna and Mikael with him.
And Inna gave Mikael only the briefest glance. You’re one of us. Our team. The winners. Upstarts like Gerhart Sneyers come running to us wanting meetings.
“As I was saying,” said Gerhart Sneyers to Mauri. “We’ve had our eye on you for a long time. But I wanted to see where you were going with Uganda. We didn’t know if you were intending to sell once the prospecting was done. I wanted to see if you were made of the right stuff. And you were, no doubt about that. Cowards haven’t got the nerve to invest in those areas, things are way too uncertain. But glory to the brave, isn’t that what they say? My God, there are some fantastic deposits there! A snotty kid with a plank and a rag can extract gold there, just imagine what we can do….”
He paused to give Mauri the chance to speak, but Mauri said nothing.
“You own some large mines in Africa,” Sneyers went on, “so we would be hon
ored if you were interested in joining our little…adventurers’ club.”
It’s the African Mining Trust he’s talking about. An association of foreign mine owners in Africa. Mikael Wiik is aware of them. He’s heard Inna and Mauri talking about them. He’s heard them talking about Gerhart Sneyers as well.
Gerhart Sneyers is on Human Rights Watch’s blacklist of companies that deal with dirty money from the Congo.
“His mine in western Uganda is mainly a money laundry,” Mauri has said. “Militia groups plunder mines in the Congo, Sneyers buys gold both from there and from Somalia, and sells it on as gold from his own mines in Uganda.”
“We have many common interests,” Gerhart Sneyers went on. “Building up an infrastructure. Security arrangements. The members of the group can be flown out from a pocket of unrest in less than twenty-four hours. From absolutely anywhere. Believe me, if you haven’t encountered that kind of problem so far, you’re bound to do so sooner or later—either you or your staff.
“We take a long-term view as well,” he added, topping up Inna’s and Mauri’s glasses.
Inna had finished her own drink, swapped her glass with Mauri’s without anyone noticing, and finished his too. Gerhart Sneyers went on:
“Our goal is to bring European, American and Canadian politicians onto the boards of our companies; many of the group’s mother companies have former heads of state on their boards. This also gives us a way of applying pressure. Influential people in countries providing aid, you see. Just to stop the blacks being difficult with us.”
Inna excused herself and asked for the bathroom. When she had gone, Sneyers said:
“We’re going to have problems in Uganda. The World Bank is threatening to freeze the aid in order to force through democratic elections. But Museveni isn’t ready to let go of his power. And if he loses the aid, we’ll have a new Zimbabwe. No reason to maintain good relations with the West any longer, and the overseas investors will be out on their ear. And then we’ll lose everything. He’ll take the lot. But I’ve got a plan. Although it’ll cost money…”
“Oh yes?” says Mauri.
“His cousin Kadaga is a general in the army. And they’ve fallen out. Museveni has got it into his head that his cousin isn’t loyal to him. Which is essentially true. Museveni is reducing Kadaga’s power by not paying his soldiers’ wages. They don’t get any equipment either. Museveni has other generals whom he supports. It’s gone so far that his cousin is staying away from Kampala. He’s afraid he’ll be arrested and accused of some crime. It’s hell up there in the North right now. The LRA and other groups are fighting with government forces over the control of the mines in the Congo. We’ll soon be maneuvered out of northern Uganda, and then they’ll start fighting over those mines. In order to finance their wars, they need gold. If General Kadaga can’t pay his soldiers, they’ll desert. To whoever pays the best—other government troops or militia groups. He’s ready to negotiate.”
“What about?”
“He wants the financial resources to build up his forces again quickly. And to go into Kampala.”
Mauri looked skeptically at Gerhart Sneyers.
“A coup?”
“Not necessarily; a legal regime is better for international relations. But if Museveni were to be…eliminated, then you could put up a new candidate in an election. And that candidate would need the military behind him.”
“Who is this candidate? How do you know things would be better with a different president?”
Gerhart Sneyers smiled.
“Naturally I can’t tell you who he is. But our man will have the sense to keep in with us. He would know that we determined Museveni’s fate, and can do the same with him. And General Kadaga will support him. And if Museveni is gone, the majority of the other generals will join him. Museveni is a dead end. So…are you in?”
Mauri Kallis was trying to digest what he’d just heard.
“I’ll think about it,” he said.
“Don’t think too long. And while you’re thinking, move your money to a place where you can pay out without it being traced back to you. I’ll give you the name of an extremely discreet bank.”
Inna came back from the bathroom. Gerhart Sneyers filled up their glasses again and fired his final salvo:
“Look at China. They couldn’t give a damn that the World Bank won’t lend money to undemocratic states. They go in and borrow billions for industrial projects in developing countries. And then they own enormous interests in the growing economies of tomorrow. I don’t intend to sit on the sidelines and watch. We’ve got our chance in Uganda and the Congo right now.”
Mikael Wiik’s train of thought was interrupted by Ebba Kallis coming into the kitchen. She was still wearing her riding clothes, and gulped down a glass of juice in one go.
Mauri looked up from his newspaper.
“Ebba,” he said. “Tomorrow night’s dinner party, everything ready?”
She nodded.
“And then I was going to ask you to take charge of Inna’s funeral,” he said. “Her mother, well, you know how it is…It’ll take her a year to come up with the perfect guest list. Besides which, I presume I’m the one that’s going to end up paying for it all, so I’d prefer it if you were dealing with things and not her.”
Ebba nodded again. She didn’t want to do it, but what choice did she have?
He knows I don’t want to take care of her funeral, she thought. And he despises me because I’ll do it anyway. I’m his cheapest member of staff. And it’ll be me that has to deal with her mother when she turns up with her impossible requests.
I don’t want to organize any funeral, thought Ebba Kallis. Can’t we just…chuck her in a ditch or something?
She hadn’t always felt like that. Inna had seduced her too, at the beginning. At first Ebba had been totally charmed.
It’s a night at the beginning of August. Mauri and Ebba are newly married, and have just moved into Regla. Inna and Diddi haven’t moved there yet.
Ebba wakes up because somebody is staring at her. When she opens her eyes, Inna is leaning over her bed. She raises her finger to her lips to silence Ebba, her eyes shining with mischief in the darkness.
The rain is hammering against the window and Inna is soaked to the skin. Mauri mutters in his sleep, and turns on his side. Ebba and Inna look at each other, holding their breath. When his breathing is calm and even, Ebba gets up carefully and steals down the stairs to the kitchen after Inna.
They sit in the kitchen. Ebba fetches a towel. Inna dries her hair with it, but refuses dry clothes. They open a bottle of wine.
“But how did you get in?” asks Ebba.
“I climbed in through your bedroom window. It was the only one that was open.”
“You’re crazy. You could have broken your neck. But what about the gate? The guard?”
A local smith has just installed the remote-controlled iron gates. Inna doesn’t have a remote in her car. The wall around the estate is two meters high.
“I parked the car outside and climbed. And Mauri might want to consider changing his security firm.”
Lightning flashes across the sky. A second later comes the crash of thunder.
“Come on, let’s go down to the lake for a swim,” says Inna.
“Isn’t it dangerous?”
Inna smiles, raising her shoulders up toward her ears.
“Yes.”
They run down to the jetty. There are two jetties on the property. The old jetty is a little way off, you have to go through a dense wood. Ebba has been thinking of building a pool house down there in the future. She has so many plans for Regla.
It’s pouring with rain. Ebba’s nightdress is sodden, clinging to her thighs. They strip naked on the jetty. Ebba is slender and flat-chested. Inna is as curvaceous as a film star from the fifties. Lightning splits the sky. Inna’s teeth gleam white through the darkness and the rain. She dives from the jetty. Ebba stands there shivering, hesitating on the edge. The rain is wh
ipping up the surface of the water so that it looks as if it’s boiling.
“Jump in, it’s warm,” yells Inna, treading water.
And Ebba jumps.
The water feels strangely warm, and she stops shivering at once.
It’s a magical feeling. They swim around in the water like two children. Back and forth. Down beneath the surface, puffing and panting back up again. The rain pelts down on their heads, the night air is chilly, but beneath the surface of the water it’s warm and pleasant, just like a bath. The storm passes over them, sometimes Ebba hardly has time to count one elephant between the lightning and the thunder.
Perhaps I’ll die here, she thinks.
And at that particular moment it doesn’t really matter.
Ebba got herself a cup of coffee and a big bowl of fruit salad. Mauri and Mikael Wiik were talking about the security arrangements for Friday’s dinner party. They were receiving overseas guests. Ebba stopped listening and allowed her thoughts of Inna to return.
They’d been friends at first. Inna had made Ebba feel special.
Nothing unites two women like sharing experiences of their crazy mothers. Their mothers were obsessed with family, and collected rubbish. Inna had talked about her mother’s kitchen cupboard. Stuffed with old East Indies china, held together with glue and metal clamps. Plus all the broken bits that definitely couldn’t be thrown away. Ebba had matched that with her tales of the library at Vikstaholm; you could hardly even get through the door. There were steel shelves crammed with old books and handwritten manuscripts that nobody could take care of, giving everybody a guilty conscience because they knew they’d handled them without gloves and the wasps were munching their way through the cellulose and they were in a worse and worse state with every passing year.
“And I don’t want her old crap.” Ebba had laughed.
Inna had helped her ward off her mother’s attempts to offload a certain amount of this cultural heritage in return for certain economic considerations; her new son-in-law had money, after all.
