by Mattias Berg
After sitting around in painful idleness, he had suggested we see who could be the quickest at counting the number of panes in the enormous barred windows running all the way from the doors of the front entrance up to the roof. I nodded: a stand-in should be obeyed in the same way as the President himself.
“231!” he said eagerly, after only about a second. He had obviously already counted them. “Simple mathematics. Seven sections times eleven rows times three panes in each!” he went on.
“Exactly,” I answered. “Less the two missing panes at 3:7:2 and 5:2:1. So: 229 in total.”
It was because of those sorts of things that I had become the Carrier and he was still a stand-in. Because I—and not he—understood that the picture always consists of millions of pixels, that it is the details which define the whole rather than the other way around, his military career would always be stuck in amateur dramatics and party tricks.
Otherwise we usually arrived in Brussels directly with the helicopter, Marine One. Only Kurt-or-John and I, together with the President, and a few select members of his own security detail in a separate little group sitting furthest forward. We would land on the roof of the grayish and anonymous N.A.T.O. headquarters building, far enough away from the center along the motorway, then go straight into the office of the Supreme Allied Commander Europe while the guards gave even me subservient nods.
The latest Admiral was amiable and relaxed. Had taken up his post at the same time as the President and was about the same age—which meant they had more in common than just their jobs: they could loosen up with some banter before the agenda for the day took hold, about acquaintances shared, someone’s old girlfriend at university, the sports results. Occasionally about the nuclear football. Sometimes the President made as if to pass it to the Admiral, to take it out of my left hand and throw it across.
I had not moved a muscle, hardly even blinked. Through all these years.
During exercises we would instead land at and depart from the closed-off parts of Zaventem airport, called “Terminal X”. Enormous, fully armed columns for the regular joint maneuvers with our European allies. One of many full dress rehearsals, physical and psychological preparations for the unthinkable, with or without nuclear weapons.
But now I had come here to Belgium, a man without a briefcase or a weapon. I got onto a local train, picked a seat in the center of an empty carriage and took out the newspaper I had bought at the station kiosk. The clock at the first stop, Leuven, said 14.12. That vague time after lunch on a regular working day. A perfect moment to strike—or to be anonymous.
And there was at least as much in the Washington Post as there had been in the New York Times the day before, an entire spread. The headline read AMERICAN NUCLEAR WEAPONS SCANDAL, the layout unusually brash for the newspaper.
According to its so-called defense policy expert, astonishing new revelations were continuing to emerge from the nuclear weapons program. For example, the majority of the operative personnel at yet another of our most important missile bases—Minot—had been suspended for security reasons.
But the expert wrote that this was still small beer in comparison with the latest, as yet unconfirmed, rumor. That another of the three most senior officers responsible for the whole of the American nuclear weapons system had been suspended pending the outcome of an investigation. The main reason was said to be that he had behaved inappropriately at an international nuclear weapons conference, had become intoxicated and bragged about how he saves the world from destruction every day, each second, just by not pushing the button. He had also, in the course of the conference, ended up at the homes of a number of women with doubtful security status. “Like in a James Bond movie!”, the military political expert wrote.
I was not surprised: sooner or later our true personalities have a habit of emerging. And I had never had any time for General Goldsmith.
And yet—all this synchronicity. Everything coming out at once.
I stared out the window, trying to gather my thoughts. Sat bolt upright, so as not to let the raw parts of my back touch the seat.
Flanders rolled by like a newsreel from the First World War. The same special clay which made the unusually deep and durable trenches possible, the deadlock, the same unceasing rain. It spattered ever harder against the window as the train took me further into this featureless part of the world, as if made to house in the greatest secrecy one of our key nuclear weapons bases in Europe. The sort of thing that we never confirmed, however strong the indications were.
I ticked off the names of all the artistically decorated station buildings on the Post-it note the woman in the ticket office at Bruxelles-Central had given me. Tienen, Landen, Sint-Truiden, Alken . . . And oddly enough there was a taxi available outside the station in Hasselt. Despite the rain, on this day of all days.
“Spotters’ Day?” the driver asked. “To the base?”
“No,” I said, “first a good night’s sleep at the hotel. I’ll take the risk of waiting till tomorrow to get myself there.”
The driver hardly spared a glance at the kitschy decals on my enormous black backpack, which I lifted into the car with me. He spoke English as well as most people do around our overseas bases, knew that it was worth making that little effort. And that he should not ask any more questions than necessary.
So it was mostly him telling me. About what was obviously the reason Ingrid had been expecting Sixten on that particular day in Kiruna, so as to have enough time to come down here for this very occasion. The moment when everybody would be gazing in the wrong direction. “Misdirection”, as magicians call it. When aircraft enthusiasts from the entire town, country, continent would be gathered for the one time in the year when one can see the airplanes in action at really close quarters. Our propaganda machinery in full swing.
“And it’ll be especially spectacular this year, as you know! The whole area is super excited that this time they’ll not only be allowed into the N.A.T.O. base, but the real one, right inside, so that the Americans can show everybody there are no nuclear weapons there. People are also speculating that something completely new is going to be demonstrated. The spotters have been standing in line for days—and the activists for even longer. Even though the gates won’t be opened until seven tomorrow evening.”
I glanced at the clock on the taxi dashboard: almost 4.00 p.m., the day before. Immediately before the first sign, VLIEGBAS, I began to recognize where I was, even as a car passenger. To kill some time I asked the driver to take a swing around the base. The area by the placard which read Kiezel Kleine Brogel Spotters Corner was for once totally empty. The enthusiasts who normally stood there for most of the day, gazing into the sky, since our fighters’ take-off and landing times were classified even during training, must have moved over to the base itself.
Through the taxi window I looked at the encampment outside the gates. The rain had stopped, and enormous pools of water lay mirror-like. The tents of the demonstrators and enthusiasts stood not too far apart, united by a common interest. In the calm before the storm.
Then I let my eyes travel further: across the sentry box; the high walls; the razor-wire fence which had been developed for Guantanamo and continually refined for our nuclear weapons bases around the world. I had been here so often, very recently, in another life. The Kleine Brogel nuclear weapons base was one of our central locations in Europe for exercises. As well as one of the keys to our complex intercontinental system of attack and counter-attack, in case events turned real. What went by the name “Global Strike” in our current war plan.
When I felt that I had reconnoitered enough, I asked the driver to take a detour past the fighter plane on the roundabout on the way to Peer. Our old F-16, one of our longest-lasting models, part of the classic old weapons system which was gradually going to be replaced as part of the “Revitalization”. According to current plans, with effect from 2023.
As we approached the hotel, I had a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach:
even I was not immune to it. There was no way of knowing what would be waiting for me there. If Ingrid and Jesús María could have survived the attack in Suite 325. Whether I had been spared just to act as what we call a “spool of thread”. Somebody one allows to run free, under constant surveillance, to see where the leads run and how many people are involved. How deep it all goes. How high up, so that everyone is identified—even myself.
“Will you fetch me tomorrow late afternoon, at 6.30 p.m.?” I asked the driver.
“Of course, sir.”
The facade of the hotel was the same as ever, a piece of cultural history, military memorial, frozen time. The neon sign said “1815”, the name of the hotel honoring the battle at Waterloo—one hour from here by the main road. Where even Napoleon was defeated.
The woman in reception looked the same too. Her name badge identified her as Valeria—in our military way we had called her Valkyria behind her back, because of her long blond hair and luxuriant figure—and she had clearly had some more work done to her face since I last saw her.
Yet when I handed over my passport she hardly looked up. Maybe because she simply did not recognize me after my own surgery. Or because she had a lot on her hands.
The lobby was packed with spotters. In many ways hard to distinguish from the various sorts of spies, not least our own, who always turned up when bases around the world opened their gates.
But in one respect the two groups differed markedly. The enthusiasts’ binoculars were enormous, and stuck out of their backpacks, a status symbol of sorts: the bigger, the better. This was in stark contrast to the spies’ smaller models, chosen in order not to arouse attention.
In some ways therefore I blended in among the enthusiasts with my large black hybrid, even my kitschy tourist decals had their equivalent on some backpacks—but in one decisive respect I did not at all. Valeria pounced on this like a hawk when she finally looked up from her computer.
“But where are your binoculars, Herr Gustafsson?”
“Oh, I was robbed on the way here, unfortunately. In my sleeping compartment. But I’ll able to borrow from a friend. He’s been here for a few days already, to get a good place in line because of the rumors about something spectacular tomorrow evening.”
“And you think you’ll be able to find each other among all the people waiting to get in?”
“It usually works out, with a bit of ingenuity. It’s not our first time.”
She gave me a searching look, could very well have been paid by our military command, to keep an eye on things. Then she gave me my room key.
4.04
I checked out just after 9.00 a.m., before having breakfast. Valeria still showed no sign of seeing through my new face, just nodded and hummed into the computer. The dining room was empty, all the spotters up with the dawn to stand in line at the base. There was a chance that Ingrid might be among them. If, that is, she was still alive. I picked up a couple of newspapers and loaded my plate with sausage, bacon and potato pancakes, knew I needed the nourishment since I had not had a proper meal for more than twenty-four hours.
I left the plate half empty, or half full. When the tourist bureau next to the hotel opened, I showed them my passport and in return was given my own key to the Bruegelhuis and a bulky black audio guide.
“So you like Bruegel, Herr Gustafsson?” the young girl at the counter asked in a broad Flemish accent.
“Actually not. He scares the living daylights out of me.”
The girl stiffened. She did not know how she should handle this response, what to do with herself in her traditional outfit from this province, Limburg: the strange white kerchief and appliqué fabric flowers, the black blouse and lilac striped skirt with orange fabric sewn onto it. With her studied politeness, her language skills, her training in tourism at the local university.
Before leaving I bought a box of Bruegel pastilles, some postcards of his most gloomy works, and I reached for a magic Bruegel cube, with which one could switch between ten or so famous paintings: for example change the tranquil “Hunters in the Snow” into the macabre and violent “The Fall of the Rebel Angels”. As I walked out I could hear the young girl sigh with relief.
The rain fell heavily again, cascaded over the medieval square like a great flood. As I stepped through the entrance to the Bruegelhuis, Peer’s exhibition dedicated to its most famous son, the drops from my rain suit streamed onto the creaking floorboards. My legs felt shaky and unreliable on the dizzyingly steep stairs. Not only because I had wanted to come here for so long, the place where, according to the experts, Pieter Bruegel the Elder was born. Apart from the base, it seemed to be the only thing which justified Peer’s existence. And I had always thought of getting away for a free hour during one of our training visits, although the opportunity had never arisen.
Once I got into the exhibition upstairs at the Bruegelhuis, I was alone. This would be the obvious rendezvous in Ingrid’s mind. She had been fascinated by him first. Started her opening lecture to us with “The Triumph of Death”—and concluded our final dissertation session with “The ‘Little’ Tower of Babel”.
It was in the immediate aftermath of 9/11, 2001, our world had been turned upside down. Ingrid did not seem to want to talk about my dissertation at all. Instead she showed me the viral images on the net, with Bin Laden or the Evil One’s face in the cloud of smoke caused by the aircraft crashing into the World Trade Center. Then she opened an image of “The ‘Little’ Tower of Babel” on her computer. Clicked to zoom closer and closer in, highlighting how the black clouds in the top right-hand corner of Bruegel’s painting really seemed to be coming out of the building: in the form of smoke or soot. As if something had crashed into that work too, from the side, before exploding against Babel’s tower.
Here in front of the reproduction of that painting I switched on the audio guide. But the meditative voice did not say a single word about it, hardly referred to the strange black clouds.
I moved on and found myself standing there, my legs trembling under the weight of my body. Somewhere behind the thick velvet curtains I could sense the sounds from the square, life at lunchtime on St Lucia’s day, Friday the 13th, in this small Belgian village with Bruegel and a nuclear weapons base as its claims to fame. I put the headphones back on. “Pling. Number 23. ‘The Triumph of Death’. Bruegel’s prophetic masterpiece . . .” Stood stock-still in the dark room, just let myself be sucked in. For one minute, three, maybe longer.
When I surfaced again and switched off the audio guide, I heard an unmistakable creaking from the flooring in the next room. Somebody was there, keeping more or less exact pace with me: a few times I tried suddenly stopping in front of one of Bruegel’s paintings and the footsteps would continue for just a second or two too long. I breathed calmly through my nose. Almost inaudibly, as we had been trained.
But the person shadowing me, or at least keeping me under observation, always from one of the adjoining eerily dark rooms in the Bruegelhuis, seemed to be well trained. So nobody gave themselves away—and neither did I. It could just as easily be Zafirah, Ingrid or Jesús María.
Then I heard a soft, for most people imperceptible, click from the entrance door lock on the ground floor. The careful tread up the stairs revealed neither the person’s gender nor their weight. Could have been a compact little woman with perfect control over her center of gravity or a large man. What I knew was that this was someone who had been trained to move with stealth in tight situations: presumably at the same school as me.
Back at the tourist bureau, after triple-locking the door to the Bruegelhuis—neither the hunter nor the hunted revealing their play—I asked the young woman:
“Are there more sets of keys to the house?”
“Of course, sir, why do ask?”
“Who was it who picked up the other ones? Sex, age, any distinguishing marks? Could I possibly see a copy of their passport?”
She stared at me, terrified, as if this were a police interrogation.
“Nobody’s been here. Not a living soul since you. Not in this weather!”
She managed a little smile.
“Maybe it was our house ghost you heard. We call him ‘the Spirit of Bruegel’.”
I gave her a long look, this naïve young woman, hardly more than a teenager, in her Limburger folk dress. I knew that everyone could be bought—or threatened.
“I can believe that,” I said.
4.05
After a long and late lunch—I tried to get through a gigantic entrecôte cut from a Belgian Blue—and then a tedious wait after that, in and out of shops, the taxi came and collected me outside the hotel.
The rain was once again beating against the windows of the taxi, and only got worse as we approached the base. I stared out at the volumes of water biblically drenching the sidewalks along the roadway. Focused, meditated, with the key sentence as my dark mantra. “I love you . . . just as senselessly as my pretty weird and hellish father, for the time being and onward into eternity, Amen.”
The driver got an excessive tip just for not asking any more questions, even though I was arriving later than almost everyone else. Once he had driven off, I put on a wig, mustache and beard in the shelter of the crowd. Despite the heavy rain there were more people outside the base than I had ever seen at similar events: tens of thousands, perhaps even reaching the dream target of one hundred thousand. Ordinary families with balloons twisted into the shape of F.16s with the words “SPOTTERS’ DAY. Kleine Brogel 2013” on the wings. Enthusiasts and spies equipped with similar rainwear and tall rubber boots.
The activists, on the other hand, rarely had any equipment apart from their signs and streamers. So far they were being allowed to do much as they wanted. Even scribble all over the posters for the event on the perimeter fencing: “BOMB Spotters’ Day”, “NUCLEAR Spotters’ Day”.
