The Girl Who Saved the King of Sweden

by Jonas Jonasson

  Accordingly, the current issue had reports on President Hu Jintao, on Götheborg’s return to port – and on the fact that the president would be coming to Stockholm for a gala banquet with the king and the prime minister, among others, at the palace.

  This information probably wouldn’t have been worth much if it hadn’t been for Nombeko’s immediate reaction when she saw the picture of President Hu.

  She looked at it and then looked at it once more. And then she said to herself, out loud, ‘Wow, Mr Chinese Official went and became the president!’

  So both the Swedish prime minister and the president of China would be marching into the palace that evening. If Nombeko stood among all the curious onlookers and shouted at the prime minister as he passed, the best-case scenario was that she would be carried off, and the worst-case scenario was that she would be arrested and, by extension, deported.

  However, if she were to shout at the president of China in Wu Chinese, the result would be different. If Hu Jintao’s memory wasn’t too short, he would recognize her. And if, in addition, he had even a modicum of curiosity, he would approach her to find out how on earth it happened that the South African interpreter from his past was standing here in the courtyard of the Swedish palace.

  And with that, Nombeko and Holger Two had only one tiny person between themselves and the prime minister, or the king, for that matter. President Hu had all the necessary qualifications to act as a bridge between the involuntary owners of an atomic bomb on the one hand and the people they had been failing to get hold of for twenty years on the other.

  Where all of this would lead them remained to be seen, but it was unlikely that the prime minister would just wave them away, bomb and all. Rather, he would probably summon the police and have them locked up. Or something in between; the only thing that was certain was that Nombeko and Holger Two had to give it a shot.

  But there wasn’t much time. It was already eleven in the morning. Nombeko had to bike back to Sjölida, involve Holger Two in the plan but, for God’s sake, not the two crazies, or for that matter Gertrud, start the truck and make it all the way to the castle well before six, when the president would make his entrance.

  * * *

  Things went wrong right away. Holger Two and Nombeko had sneaked into the barn and started to unscrew the far-too-authentic licence plates in order to replace them with the ones they had stolen many years ago. But, as he so often did, One was sitting in the hayloft above them, and the activity around the truck woke him from his mental slumber. His reaction was to jump silently through the trapdoor in the loft in order to get Celestine. Before Holger Two and Nombeko had finished with the licence plates, One and his girlfriend had forced their way into the barn and were sitting in the cab of the potato truck.

  ‘Oh, so you were planning to sneak off without us, with the bomb and all,’ said Celestine.

  ‘Oh, so you were planning that!’ said Holger One.

  But then his brother snapped.

  ‘That is enough!’ he roared. ‘Get out of that cab right now, you damned parasites! There is not a chance in the world that I am going to let you ruin this opportunity, too. Not a chance in the world!’

  Whereupon Celestine pulled out a pair of handcuffs and shackled herself to the glove compartment. Once a demonstrator, always a demonstrator.

  Holger One got to drive. Celestine sat beside him, in an unnatural position thanks to being handcuffed to the truck. Nombeko was next to her, and Two was farthest to the right, at an adequate distance from his brother.

  As the potato truck rolled past the house, Gertrud came out onto the steps.

  ‘Buy some food while you’re out – we have nothing to eat!’

  One and Celestine were informed by Nombeko that the point of this trip was to get rid of the bomb, since it so happened that circumstances were right to make direct contact with Prime Minister Reinfeldt.

  Holger Two added that he would put both his brother and his horrid girlfriend through the eight-row potato-planter if they did anything besides sit where they now sat during the trip. Holding their tongues.

  ‘We sold the eight-row planter,’ Holger One attempted.

  ‘Then I will buy a new one,’ said his brother.

  The gala banquet at the royal palace was to begin at 6 p.m. The guests would be welcomed in the Inner Guards’ Hall, after which the company would repair to the banquet itself in the White Sea Hall.

  It wasn’t easy for Nombeko to get into position in the inner courtyard, so that she would be sure to catch President Hu Jintao’s attention. Curious onlookers among the general public were being gently pushed back along the sides of the courtyard, never less than fifty yards from where the guests would make their entrances. Would she even recognize him at that distance? He would surely recognize her, at least. How many black Africans spoke Wu Chinese?

  As it turned out, recognition was no problem at any distance. There was an obvious hubbub among the security police as President Hu of the People’s Republic of China and his wife, Liu Yongqing, arrived. Nombeko took a breath and shouted in the president’s dialect:

  ‘Hello there, Mr Chinese Official! It’s been a long time since we were on safari in Africa together!’

  Within four seconds, Nombeko was surrounded by two security police in civilian clothes. Within another four seconds, they had calmed down a bit, because the black woman didn’t look like a threat: her hands were fully visible and she wasn’t about to throw herself at the presidential couple. However, she would, of course, immediately be escorted from the area.

  Except . . .

  What was going on?

  The president stopped short as he was entering the castle; he had left the red carpet and his wife behind him, and now he was on his way up to the black woman. And . . . and . . . he was smiling at her!

  Some days were more difficult than others, when one belonged to the security police. Now the president was saying something to the demonstrator . . . she was a demonstrator, right? And the demonstrator answered.

  Nombeko noticed the security officers’ confusion. So she said in Swedish, ‘You gentlemen needn’t look so frightened. The president and I are old friends and we’re just going to exchange a few words.’

  Then she turned to President Hu again and said, ‘I think we’ll have to save the reminiscing for some other time, Mr Chinese Official. Or Mr President, as it has so quickly and amusingly become.’

  ‘Yes, it has.’ Hu Jintao smiled. ‘And maybe not entirely without your assistance, Miss South Africa.’

  ‘You’re far too kind, Mr President. But now the fact is – if I may get straight to the point – I’m sure you remember the crazy engineer from my old homeland, the one who invited you on safari and to dinner? Right. Things didn’t go particularly well for him after that, and that’s just as well, but he did succeed in scraping up a few atomic bombs, with the help of myself and others.’

  ‘Yes, right, six of them, if I remember correctly,’ said Hu Jintao.

  ‘Seven,’ said Nombeko. ‘On top of everything else, he was bad at counting. He locked the seventh in a secret room, and then you could say it ended up lost. Or . . . actually, it was in my luggage . . . when I came to Sweden.’

  ‘Sweden has nuclear weapons?’ Hu Jintao said in surprise.

  ‘No, Sweden doesn’t. But I do. And I’m in Sweden. So to speak.’

  Hu Jintao was silent for a second or two. Then he said, ‘Miss South Africa, what do you want me . . . what’s your name, by the way?’

  ‘Nombeko,’ said Nombeko.

  ‘Miss Nombeko, what do you want me to do with this information?’

  ‘Well, if you would be so kind as to pass it on to the king with whom you are about to shake hands, and if he would be so kind as to pass it on to the prime minister, perhaps he could come out and tell me what we should do with the aforementioned bomb. It’s not the kind of thing you can just take to the recycling centre, after all.’

  President Hu Jintao didn’t know wh
at a recycling centre was (China’s climate goals weren’t quite on that level), but he understood the situation. And he realized that circumstances dictated that he immediately end his conversation with Miss Nombeko.

  ‘I promise you, miss, that I will convey the matter to both the king and the prime minister, and I am pretty sure I can guarantee that you can expect an immediate reaction.’

  With that, President Hu returned to his startled wife and the red carpet, which led into the Inner Guards’ Hall where Their Majesties were waiting.

  All the guests had arrived; there was nothing more to see. Tourists and other onlookers dispersed in different directions with different goals for the rest of the beautiful June evening in Stockholm in the year 2007. Nombeko remained there, alone, waiting for something – but she didn’t know what.

  After twenty minutes, a woman approached. She shook Nombeko’s hand as she introduced herself in a low voice; she was the prime minister’s assistant and she had been asked to bring the woman to a more discreet corner of the castle.

  Nombeko thought this was a good idea, but she added that she wanted to bring along the truck that was parked outside the courtyard. The assistant said that this was fine; it was on the way.

  Holger One was still behind the wheel, with Celestine next to him (she had hidden the handcuffs in her handbag). The assistant got into the cab, too, whereupon it became a bit crowded in there. Nombeko and Holger Two climbed into the back.

  It was a short trip. First up Källargränd and then down Slottsbacken. Then a left turn into the car park and all the way back up. Perhaps it was best for the driver to back up the last bit? Stop! That’s good.

  The assistant jumped out, knocked on an unassuming door, slipped in when it opened and disappeared. Then, one after another, the prime minister came out, followed by the king and President Hu Jintao, with his interpreter. The Chinese president really did seem to have vouched for Nombeko and her gang, because all the security personnel remained in the doorway.

  Nombeko recognized the Chinese interpreter, even though twenty years had gone by.

  ‘So, you didn’t die after all,’ she said.

  ‘Well, it’s still not too late,’ the interpreter replied sourly. ‘Considering what you’re apparently driving around with.’

  Holger Two and Nombeko invited the prime minister, the king and the president up into the back of the potato truck. The prime minister didn’t hesitate. He wanted to find out if the appalling claim was true. And the king followed him. The president of China, however, considered the whole thing to be a matter of domestic politics, and backed his way into the palace, unlike his curious interpreter, who very much wanted to get a glimpse of the nuclear weapon in question. The bodyguards in the doorway were fidgety. What were the king and the prime minister doing in the back of a potato truck? It didn’t feel right.

  Ironically enough, at that very moment a lost group of Chinese tourists and their guide approached, so the door to the back of the truck had to be shut in a hurry. At this point, the Chinese interpreter, who had got in the way, found his fingers shut in the door. Nombeko and the others could hear his ‘Help, I’m dying!’ outside, while Holger Two knocked on the window to the cab and asked One, behind the wheel, to turn on the lights in the back.

  Holger One obediently turned on the lights, turned round – and saw the king! And the prime minister!

  But above all, the king. Good God!

  ‘It’s the king, Dad,’ Holger One whispered to Ingmar Qvist in heaven.

  And his father Ingmar replied:

  ‘Drive, my son! Drive!’

  And Holger drove.

  PART SIX

  I have never once in my life seen a fanatic with a sense of humour.

  Amos Oz

  CHAPTER 20

  On what kings do and do not do

  The potato truck had no sooner started rolling than Nombeko was at the window, telling Holger One that he must stop immediately if he wanted to survive the day.

  But One, who wasn’t sure that he wanted to survive, asked Celestine to shut the window to block out the racket from the back.

  She was happy to, and she also drew the curtain so that she wouldn’t have to see His Majesty in his dark blue uniform jacket, white waistcoat, dark blue trousers with gold stripes, white dress shirt and black bow tie.

  She was so proud of her rebel.

  ‘We’re going back to Grandma’s, right?’ she said. ‘Or do you have a better idea?’

  ‘You know very well that I don’t, darling,’ said Holger One.

  The king mostly looked surprised at the situation they found themselves in, while the prime minister was upset.

  ‘What on earth is going on?’ he said. ‘Are you kidnapping your king and prime minister? Along with an atomic bomb! An atomic bomb in my Sweden. Who gave you permission for such a thing?’

  ‘Well, the Kingdom of Sweden is rather more mine,’ said the king, sitting down on the nearest potato box. ‘But as for the rest, I share the prime minister’s indignation.’

  Nombeko said that it might not matter too much who the country belonged to if it was going to be blown to kingdom come, but she immediately regretted saying this because now the prime minister wanted to know more about the damn bomb.

  ‘How powerful is it? Tell me!’ he said sternly.

  But Nombeko thought they were in low enough spirits as it was; she didn’t want to lower them even more. How could she have been so stupid as to bring it up? She tried to guide the conversation in a different direction:

  ‘I am truly sorry about what has happened. It’s not at all the case that this gentleman and the majesty next to him have been kidnapped – not by my boyfriend and me, at any rate. As soon as the truck stops, I promise to – at the very least – twist the nose of the man behind the wheel and make everything right.’

  And then, in order to defuse the situation, she added, ‘It’s extra annoying to be locked in the back of the truck when the weather is so beautiful.’

  This last bit reminded the nature-loving king of the white-tailed eagle he had seen above the Stockholm Sound that afternoon.

  ‘In the middle of the city!’ Nombeko said, hoping for a second that her distraction had worked.

  But when that second passed, the prime minister broke in and said that the group should stop discussing the weather and ornithology.

  ‘Instead, tell me what kind of damage the bomb can do. How bad is it?’

  Nombeko answered hesitantly. They were just talking about a few or perhaps several megatons.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Two or three. No more.’

  ‘And what does that mean?’

  He was a stubborn rascal, that prime minister.

  ‘Three megatons is about 12,552 petajoules. Is the king sure that it was a white-tailed eagle?’

  Fredrik Reinfeldt gave his head of state such a look that the latter refrained from answering. Then the former pondered whether he knew how much a petajoule was, and how bad twelve thousand of them might be, before he decided that the woman in front of him was being evasive.

  ‘Tell me exactly what that means!’ he said. ‘In a comprehensible manner.’

  So Nombeko did. She told him what it meant: that the bomb would take everything within a thirty-eight-mile radius with it, and that in the worst-case scenario, bad weather with a lot of wind could double the damage.

  ‘Then it’s lucky that the sun is shining,’ the king mused.

  Nombeko nodded in appreciation of his positive attitude, but the prime minister called attention to the fact that Sweden was facing what might be its greatest crisis since the nation’s birth. The heads of state and government found themselves roving through Sweden with a ruthless weapon of mass destruction, and they didn’t know the motives of the man behind the wheel.

  ‘Given these circumstances, mightn’t the king find it more fitting to think of the survival of our nation rather than white-tailed eagles and the fact that at least we’ve been luck
y with the weather?’ said the prime minister.

  But the king had been around for a while; he had seen prime ministers come and go, while he himself had endured. There wasn’t really anything the matter with this new one, if he would just calm down a bit.

  ‘There, there,’ he said. ‘Just have a seat on one of the potato boxes like the rest of us, and we’ll ask Mr and Mrs Kidnapper for an explanation.’

  * * *

  In truth, he would have liked to have become a farmer. Or a steam-shovel operator. Or anything at all, as long as it had something to do with cars or nature. Preferably both.

  And then he had become king.

  This didn’t really come as a surprise to him. In an early interview he described his life as a straight line from birth onwards. Predetermined as soon as the forty-two cannon shots rang out over Skeppsholmen on 30 April 1946.

  He was named Carl Gustaf: Carl after his maternal grandfather Charles Edward, Duke of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha (who was an exciting combination of Nazi and Brit at the same time), and Gustaf after his father, paternal grandfather and great-grandfather.

  Things started off terribly for the little prince. When he was only nine months old he lost his father in a plane crash. A dramatic hitch in the order of succession ensued. His grandfather, the future Gustaf VI Adolf, would have to stay alive until he was ninety-nine years old, otherwise there would be a vacancy that risked putting wind in the sails of the republicans in Parliament.

  There was general agreement among the advisers that the hereditary prince should be kept within the yard-thick walls of the palace until the order of succession was secure, but his loving mother, Sibylla, refused. Without friends, her son would at worst become crazy, at best impossible to deal with.

  So the prince was allowed to attend an ordinary school, and in his free time he was able to develop his interest in engines and be involved in the Scouts, where he learned to tie square knots, sheet bends and half hitches faster and better than anyone else.