Waltin shook his head.
“Not a peep.”
“This is a generally well-regarded person? Popular in broad circles?”
“Can’t imagine that,” said Waltin. “The simple reason no doubt is that hardly anyone knows of his existence, and those who know about him are maybe not so well informed about his actual job description. With a few isolated highly placed exceptions. If you want I can snoop around. Hear if there’s something in spite of it all.” Waltin smiled a meaningful smile.
“Forget about that,” said Berg, shaking his head. “I don’t intend to lie awake nights for his sake.”
Perhaps a bit too casual, thought Berg. That last bit, anyway, was probably unnecessary.
After lunch Berg had a last-minute meeting with Kudo and Bülling at their urgent request. What they had to report was so important that they could only do so directly to him. They were clearly punctual as well, for when Berg arrived one minute late they were already sitting at their places in his own conference room.
An odd couple, thought Berg as he greeted them. Kudo was small, dark, thin, well-trained, well-dressed, and obviously careful to make a keen impression. His entire being exuded high alert, and just like all the others in the corps who were the same way and that Berg had encountered during his more than thirty years, he tried to crush the metacarpals of the person with whom he was shaking hands. Bülling was tall, fair, and lanky, his head drooping as he peeked out obliquely when he shook hands. His thin hand was dripping with sweat, and as soon as Berg released it he quickly put it back into the pocket of his baggy Manchester corduroy jacket.
Hand sweat, thought Berg at the same time as an alarm bell started to ring inside him. “Abundant or profuse hand sweat can indicate large consumption of psychopharmaceuticals,” thought Berg, who had learned that by heart at internal education in personnel defense: The course where you learned everything about how to defend yourself in good time against your own personnel. Best to make discreet contact with the bureau’s psychiatrist, Berg decided, smiling extra amiably at both of his visitors. The last thing he wanted was for one of his coworkers to flip out in his office.
“Please,” said Berg, indicating with his right hand. What a strange couple, he thought.
“This is about the PKK,” said Kudo with fateful seriousness in his voice.
“Partiya Karkeren Kurdistan,” muttered Bülling with his eyes toward the tabletop.
Damn initials, thought Berg.
“I know,” he said. “The Kurdistan workers’ party, previously known as Kurdistan’s revolutionaries. Continue.” He nodded at them.
What this was about, purely concretely, was a wiretapped telephone conversation that had been snapped up a little less than a week before, after which it had taken up the entire analysis group’s combined capacity. At 22:37 hours Semir G., “known Kurdish activist,” had phoned his neighbor Abdullah A., also a “known Kurdish activist,” both living in the same apartment block on Terapivägen in Flemingsberg. After blathering about this and that in Kurdish for almost half an hour they suddenly got to the point.
Kudo looked at Berg with the same serious gaze as though he’d been a little homespun-clad gnome on the farm where Kudo had grown up.
“It’s a wedding conversation,” he said heavily.
“As you surely know, chief, ‘wedding’ is their code word for assassination,” muttered Bülling with his gaze directed firmly at the tabletop. “It’s a code word they use when they’re going to shoot someone.”
Berg was content to nod. He himself knew that this could also mean other things, such as a wedding, for example, or a demonstration or some other collective activity of a not more closely specified type.
“So they’re planning to shoot someone,” intoned Kudo with eyes black as pistol barrels.
Yes, or it’s also just that someone’s going to get married, and don’t we all know what such things can lead to down the line, thought Berg.
“Why are they phoning each other?” asked Berg. “They live in the same building.”
“We’re not clear about that bit yet,” said Kudo, nodding energetically.
“We’re working on it,” mumbled Bülling.
“Do we know who it is?” asked Berg.
“Who,” mumbled Bülling, peeking nervously at the door.
“That they’re planning to shoot,” said Kudo, in spite of the fact that he wasn’t the one who was called the Professor.
“Which of their defectors or political opponents is it that they’re planning to shoot this time?” clarified Berg. “Do we know what his name is?” he added, to be on the safe side.
“This time unfortunately it doesn’t concern a normal wedding,” said Kudo, as he leaned forward, lowered his voice, and, in order to further underscore the seriousness of the matter, also shook his head. “They’re talking about lamb,” he said.
“Lamb?” Berg looked at him questioningly. “As in lamb chops?”
“Lamb,” mumbled Bülling. “So we’re convinced that this time they intend to shoot someone completely different, probably some highly placed person of some type. Presumably one of our own top politicians.”
“Why do you think that?” asked Berg.
“They’re going to bring home a lamb,” mumbled Bülling. “And then they’re going to buy wine and then they’re going to have two poets.”
It had taken Berg more than a quarter of an hour to unravel the factual basis for the conclusion that the Kurdish section’s analysis group had come to, of an impending attack against a highly placed Swedish politician.
“I’ll read direct from the transcript of the tape,” said Kudo. “Then you can form your own impression, chief.”
Do that, thought Berg, nodding wearily.
“It’s Semir G. who has taken up the matter. The same Semir who is phoning,” added Kudo slyly. “Word for word he says this. I’m quoting from the tape.”
Just get on with it, man, thought Berg, nodding.
“Quote. We must arrange for wedding soon. We must buy cakes, pastries, and rolls, but this time we must buy a lamb too. And wine and then we must have two poets. End quote.”
Kudo nodded before he continued.
“Quote. We should have two poets? End quote, Abdullah A. then asks. Quote. This time we shall buy lamb and wine and have two poets. End quote, answers Semir G. That’s the whole thing,” said Kudo. “Right after that the conversation ends with the usual farewell phrases.”
Sigh, thought Berg.
“They’ve never offered lamb before,” explained Kudo. “When they’re going to murder their own people, they only talk about pastries and rolls and cakes. Sometimes it’s just rolls.”
“And how do you interpret this?” asked Berg, at the same time seeing himself in a mirror.
“That this is certainly about a highly placed person outside their own circles,” said Kudo, nodding triumphantly.
“Then they’ll have two poets too; they usually get by with one poet,” mumbled Bülling.
“Assassins, that is,” said Kudo. “ ‘Poet’ is their code for assassin, and this business of two poets can only mean that there are bigger matters in the offing.”
“The wine,” mumbled Bülling with a sidelong glance at his partner.
“Exactly,” said Kudo energetically, “yes, the wine. It usually isn’t mentioned either, and our interpretation is this, that partly it should underscore the lamb, so to speak, partly it speaks for the fact that this isn’t about a politician within their own cultural sphere.”
“Mohammedans don’t drink wine,” mumbled Bülling, at the same time making a mysterious winding movement with his long neck.
“Yes,” said Berg. He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands over his belly. “This bears thinking about. I want you to write a memorandum and append all the supporting materials you have. As well as any material we’ve received through our German colleagues.”
Aren’t most Kurds Christians? he thought.
&nb
sp; “Take all the time you need,” he said, and looked at them seriously. “It’s fine if I get it in a week.”
Waltin detailed three detectives with the operational bureau’s section for internal surveillance to compile the material that Berg wanted. In addition he installed one of his own analysts to lead and divide up the work. He himself had more important matters to attend to.
“The prime minister, the Cabinet, the government, senior officials in government administration, highly placed politicians regardless of party allegiance. I want the threats divided into categories, I want to know how they’ve come in, I want to have a picture of whoever’s behind them. Hamilton, here”—he nodded toward his own coworkers—“will help you with the details. Questions?”
“How far back should we go?” The one who asked was a young female detective who looked as though she was twenty at most and barely passed for a police officer.
Pretty little piece, thought Waltin, jutting out his manly chin in order to show potency and energy.
“Go back to the last election,” said Waltin.
“But there must be tons,” she said with surprise.
“Exactly,” said Waltin energetically. “That’s just the idea.” And I don’t intend to go into that here, he thought.
“Are we searching for something in particular, some particular person or group or organization?” asked one of the other detectives, a young man who appeared to be twenty-five at most and wore a blue college sweatshirt that said Stanford University on it.
“No,” said Waltin. “This is pure compilation. A sociological investigation, if you will.”
Wonder if that sweatshirt is genuine? he thought.
“Any more questions?” Waltin looked at the third member of the group. He was a young man who looked like he played in a pop band.
“No.” The one being questioned shook his head. “I never have any questions.”
Good types, thought Waltin as he took the elevator down to the garage. I might recruit that dark one to my own little enterprise, he thought.
Berg had spent the weekend out at his cottage. The thought was that he and his wife should spend time together, pick a few mushrooms, have a good dinner, and perhaps stop by to see his aged parents, who lived in the vicinity. But there hadn’t been any visit to his parental home or any mushroom picking. Mother and Father had gone to Åland, it turned out, and on Saturday morning when they woke up it had been pouring down rain, which had kept up the entire day. They made a fire in the fireplace; his wife had read a thick novel and scarcely answered when spoken to. And he himself had mostly sat with his own thoughts. Why didn’t we ever have any children? he thought. We couldn’t have our own, but why didn’t we adopt while there was time? The thought of this made him so dejected that he thought about his job instead. As a rule that usually calmed him, and it did so this time as well.
For lunch his wife had made a mushroom omelet. Mushrooms that they had picked before. Butter, bread, and cheese on the side.
“Beer or water?” asked his wife.
“Do we have any red wine?” asked Berg.
His wife looked at him with surprise.
“Has something happened?”
“No,” said Berg. “Why do you think that?”
“You usually don’t ever drink wine with lunch,” she said.
Berg shrugged his shoulders and smiled wanly.
“No,” he said. “But just now I suddenly felt like it. Won’t you have a glass then?” he asked.
“Gladly,” she said. “If you’re going to anyway, I’ll gladly have a glass. There’s lots left over from Midsummer, as you know.”
“We can have that Spanish wine,” said Berg. “The case that I got from their embassy.”
It had been an excellent lunch, he thought. Afterward they had had coffee, his wife had returned to her novel, he himself had a third glass of red wine and lay down on the sofa.
What do I do with Kudo and Bülling? thought Berg. He couldn’t get rid of them. The operation had already been allowed to go too far, and it would likely outlast him as well. However insignificant it might be, there was also a risk that at some point the Kurds would arrange for a wedding outside their circle, and Berg wasn’t the type who planned to preside over his own funeral. A probability so small as to almost defy calculation, but which I can’t disregard, he thought. And whether it was the red wine or something else, suddenly he knew exactly what to do with Kudo and Bülling.
On Monday morning he summoned them, and five minutes after his secretary had hung up the phone they were sitting in front of his desk, Kudo leaning forward ready to leap, Bülling with his gaze directed at the fringe of the carpet.
“Yes,” said Berg. “I’ve been thinking about you gentlemen since we met last week.”
“What can we do for you, chief?” said Kudo.
“I believe we’ll have to inform the leadership in Stockholm,” said Berg. “And with a thought for the degree of secrecy, I believe we must limit the information to the chief constable alone.”
“Any further limitations?” said Kudo.
“Yes,” said Berg. “The information you turned in to me last week stays here with us. On the other hand, you are free to give a general report on the activities and the persons involved.”
“What do we do with Semir G. and Abdullah A.?” mumbled Bülling.
“Obviously we’ll report on them too,” said Berg, “on their persons and general activities. With the exception of the conversation that was discussed last time we met.” And hopefully this time will be the last we see each other in this way, he thought.
Of course it was actually that fool who foisted Bülling on me, thought Berg when they had left. So it’s only right that he gets him back in return, and besides, perhaps he could have some small practical use for them for once. We’ll just have to see if he rises to the bait, thought Berg.
The bait had been swallowed by the next weekly meeting with the political superiors. For starters it had also gone quite well in spite of the fact that the prime minister’s adviser was present. First, Berg reported on the continued survey of anticonstitutional elements within the police and the military. They were working with high urgency but because the assignment was so extraordinarily sensitive they had to proceed with extreme care. This is going to take time, Berg emphasized, and he had not acknowledged the quiet chuckle from a certain person at the table.
After that he gave a lightly retouched version of Waltin’s unsuccessful attempt at recruiting. Politicians loved those kinds of stories. Berg knew that from experience, and it worked this time as well.
“That was nice to hear,” sighed a relieved minister. “That you were unsuccessful this time, I mean. Yes, that you were successful in the larger context because you were unsuccessful in the smaller, if one may say so, if you understand what I mean,” he clarified, looking at Berg.
Finally he had touched on the ongoing compilation of threats and menaces against the sitting government and those closest to them. And here as well they were working with high urgency.
“They’re working at high urgency, and I’m actually counting on the fact that as early as our next meeting I should be able to give a summary of what we have.”
“There’s quite a bit, of course,” said the minister.
“Unfortunately that’s the way it is.” Berg nodded heavily in confirmation.
“These Kurds,” said the minister, who seemed unusually frisky. “Are they keeping calm or … ? I saw an article in Svenskan the other day that wasn’t exactly amusing.”
“Wonder how it ended up just there?” said the special adviser, with an irritating grin.
“There I would like to maintain,” said Berg, “that we have good control of the situation.” He nodded toward the minister; he pretended not to notice the other person.
The minister nodded gratefully while the special adviser appeared even more delighted.
“I was actually at a Kurdish wedding one time,” he said while he o
bserved Berg behind half-closed eyelids and with the same amused smile. “Nice people. They served very good food too. I recall that we had roasted lamb and some kind of wine from their home region.”
Okay, thought Berg as he sat in the backseat of his car returning to Kungsholmen, now what do I know? That Kudo and Bülling, mostly Kudo—for say what you will about Bülling, he wasn’t directly communicative—let their mouths run before their brains, despite instructions to the contrary. And that the moronic Stockholm chief constable evidently had a direct channel to the prime minister’s special adviser. So far everything’s fine and dandy, thought Berg. Such knowledge is simply power.
What is it he wants to say to me? thought Berg. It’s completely clear that there’s a message. Who would invite someone like that to their wedding? Not even a Kurd. What type of message is it he wants to give me? That he knows what I’m doing and that he’s keeping an eye on me? Quite certainly, thought Berg. That I should watch out? Quite certainly that too. But why does he talk about it to me? Because he wants to draw attention to himself? Possibly, but scarcely probable. To get me off balance, even if that means he has to show his cards to me? Or is it so bad … Berg’s thoughts were interrupted by a quiet throat-clearing from the driver’s seat.
“Boss, excuse me for interrupting, but we’re here now.” The car had stopped down in the garage and his chauffeur was looking at him uneasily in the rearview mirror.
“Please excuse me,” said Berg. “I’m sitting here with my own thoughts.”
Is it that bad, thought Berg in the elevator on the way up to his office on the top floor, that the card he’s shown me means nothing to him? That he can lay it out just to shake me up, because he’s holding much better cards than that? Who? thought Berg. Who in that case is the traitor in my immediate circle? Most likely Waltin, he thought, and the sorrow he suddenly felt in passing had the same cold intensity he felt whenever he thought about the children he and his wife had never had.
At the meeting the following week he reported on Waltin’s compilation of those threats and menaces directed at, or intended for, politicians and senior officials in the Cabinet, the parliament, and the authorities that were of decisive significance for the security of the realm. Waltin had done an excellent job: He had done it regardless of how things stood with his own reliability, and Berg himself was very satisfied with the way in which he had set up his report. First he had quickly peeled away the remaining authorities and the parliament in order to concentrate on the menace that concerned the Cabinet and those who worked there.
Between Summer's Longing and Winter's End Page 17
