The Accidental Further Adventures of the Hundred-Year-Old Man

by Jonas Jonasson

  Russia

  Gennady Aksakov put down the phone following the informal intelligence call from Stockholm. Or, rather, he slammed it down. And kicked the empty chair by his side.

  ‘What is it, Gena?’ asked President Putin, across from him.

  ‘Allan fucking Karlsson, that’s what.’

  ‘The hundred-and-one-year-old?’

  ‘Yes. That bastard killed the second Nazi too. Four million euros, down the drain.’

  Putin said it wouldn’t bankrupt anyone, but what had happened?

  The Nazi had challenged a great number of heavily armed police officers with the Danish anti-terror force and was immediately shot to bits.

  Putin quietly wondered what this had to do with the hundred-and-one-year-old. Hadn’t the alarm been sounded because of a hearse full of explosives in Copenhagen?

  ‘The hearse wasn’t full of anything. It was just illegally parked.’

  ‘Illegally parked? By whom? No, hold on. Don’t say anything. I understand.’

  Tanzania

  Olekorinko’s miracle-medicine tent city was in the Serengeti, right on the banks of the Mara River. When Allan, Julius and Sabine got into a taxi outside the airport in Dar es Salaam, they learned from the cheerful driver that it would take a day to get there by car, then half a lifetime to find their way. The Mara River had the peculiarity of being four hundred kilometres long, and the Serengeti about fifteen thousand square kilometres in size.

  ‘They have Lebensraum, those lions,’ said Allan.

  ‘We need a more accurate address,’ said Julius.

  ‘And some form of transportation other than a car,’ said Sabine.

  It was five hundred metres from Julius Nyerere International to the domestic terminal.

  Since the trio were already sitting in the taxi, they changed their order from a one-day journey to a two-minute one. The driver was no longer quite so cheerful: he’d hardly had time to switch the meter on before it had to be turned off again. He ought to have driven first and explained later.

  Behind the taxi a black Passat contained two highly focused agents from the Bundesnachrichtendienst, whose task was not to let Karlsson out of their sight. And immediately to inform the top director of the BND, or alternatively the chancellor, if the elderly man got up to anything stupid.

  Congo

  The Congolese mine in Katanga had officially been closed for several years. The UN had seen to it. With that, the supply of uranium was cut off to the immediately adjacent nuclear research centre, which the country had once had the blessing of the United States to open as thanks for the delivery of uranium for the bombs over Hiroshima and Nagasaki, back in the forties.

  No one but the United States had ever thought it was a good idea to have that type of capacity in a country where everything could be bought for the right money. But since the Americans had more of that particular commodity than anyone else, their interests came first. They had essentially bought the entire country. With money.

  Eventually, however, even the USA got behind the rest of the UN’s demands for law and order in Congo. It followed that the Katanga mine and its laboratory no longer posed a threat to fragile world peace.

  Or did it?

  A local watchdog force, financed by none other than the UN, was tasked with making sure that no uranium prospecting activities occurred. The immediately adjacent laboratory was sealed.

  At the end of each month, the head of this force, Goodluck Wilson, faxed a report to the International Atomic Energy Agency in Vienna. It always read the same: Everything is quiet, trust us. More or less.

  Goodluck Wilson had hand-picked the entire rest of the force, which was made up of his three brothers and their seven most trustworthy cousins. They all had the same goal with their watchdog mission: to get filthy rich. There was no discussion of how the world would end up feeling as a result.

  Each morning, four former laboratory assistants crawled up out of an underground tunnel, through the floor of the sealed centre for atomic research, to enrich whatever could be enriched. All in all fifteen people should theoretically have been sharing the profits, but in practice there were only eleven. The four assistants didn’t know that in fact an accident would befall them when they were no longer needed. The gross profits as budgeted were fifty million dollars for Goodluck and another five million each for the ten brothers and cousins. The non-existent miners received eight dollars per day, and were satisfied with this, until the western shaft collapsed on several of them six years after the mine was closed. This would likely have passed unnoticed if it hadn’t been that seventeen workers who shouldn’t have been there had demonstrably been there. And now they were dead. This was impossible to hush up. The IAEA wondered what the miners had been up to in the shaft, if everything was so quiet. Without listening to the answer, they sent observers down for a closer look.

  Goodluck and his men had been planning to wait until the amount of enriched material was up to an even half-ton; that was what the North Koreans had ordered via the Russians. But now the first four hundred kilos had to be hastily encased in lead and hidden in a hut in a nearby village. There were plenty of empty huts after the latest landslide. The four laboratory assistants (including the one on the BND payroll) also managed to become victims, when the underground tunnel to the nuclear research centre collapsed, as planned, the morning before the observers from Vienna arrived.

  The representatives from the IAEA found no irregularities. But they were cautious enough to exchange half the watchdog force for people who could be trusted. Or people who were not to be trusted, in Goodluck Wilson’s estimation.

  Everything comes to an end sometime. The head of the watchdog force knew he couldn’t squeeze any more out of this operation. The profits topped out at eighty million dollars, more than half of which went to Goodluck. There wasn’t much to be done about it. You had to be content with the little you could get.

  Tanzania

  On a bench in the departure hall at the domestic terminal of Julius Nyerere International Airport, Sabine delved into the geographical research she thus far hadn’t had time to perform. Allan had involuntarily to give up his black tablet for this purpose (with the roaming data charges still covered by an already sufficiently duped hotel manager in Bali).

  The resulting decision was to take the first flight they could get to Musoma in the Serengeti, then ask their way to their destination. Olekorinko’s miracle-medicine tent city was famous throughout Africa; finding someone in Musoma to show them the way shouldn’t be difficult.

  The plane had a single engine and seated thirteen passengers. Nine were from an Italian consulting firm that was celebrating its twenty-fifth anniversary by taking the staff to the Serengeti for a few days of safari (tax-deductible, since they made sure to have a fifteen-minute conference every day). Three more seats were reserved just prior to departure by a small group of Swedes.

  The two agents had, on the one hand, been tasked with keeping an eye on the suspected uranium delivery to Honour and Strength. Last time, the much smaller cargo had travelled through Tanzania and Mozambique, then on to the south. On the other hand, Berlin had ordered the agents not to let Allan Karlsson out of their sight. And Karlsson was heading in the wrong direction.

  Tailing someone, even a hundred-and-one-year-old, was not the sort of thing anyone wanted to do on their own. The risk of being discovered was too great. The egocentric and arrogant Lead Agent A disliked the idea of leaving in the wrong direction in relation to the uranium – just because the old hag in Berlin had got some bee in her bonnet. And why, incidentally, did he have to carry around the folder for this operation? He was the boss, unlike the woman at his side.

  ‘Take this,’ he said, to his meek colleague. ‘And book us two tickets. I’m going to get some coffee.’

  The carrier Precision Air seemed to be on the arrogant man’s side that day. There was only one seat left. The arrogant agent was able to hand the short end of the stick to the meek one with a c
lear conscience (and a scornful grin). Meanwhile he intended to keep the border of Tanzania and Mozambique under surveillance. If you wanted to climb in the ranks, you had to be where the action was, when the action was.

  The short end of the stick, in this case, meant tailing Karlsson to see what kind of foolishness he got up to, far away from the centre of the action.

  As it happened, the loser had the misfortune of ending up in the sole empty seat, right next to the target she was absolutely not supposed to reveal herself to.

  Agent B elected to enter into service rather than a deepening depression. She started a conversation with Karlsson; perhaps she would get something useful in return. She said hello and avoided giving her name but told him she was a businesswoman.

  ‘Well, there you go,’ said Allan. ‘Hope business is good.’

  ‘It is, thanks,’ said the agent, immediately turning the conversation in the other direction.

  She fished for what might be bringing the gentleman to … to …

  ‘Musoma?’ Allan said. ‘We’re on our way to Musoma. And so is the businesswoman, I expect.’

  Agent B cursed herself. Forgetting the name of their destination! But it had been such a whirlwind at the terminal. This was a big country, three times the size of Germany. She knew Dar es Salaam like the back of her hand. And the capital, Dodoma. And Morogoro, of course. And Arusha.

  But Musoma, way up to the north-west? She hadn’t heard of it until today.

  Allan unreservedly told her that Sabine – that lady two rows ahead – worked as a medium and was seeking fresh inspiration. There was meant to be an extraordinary healer up in the Serengeti, his name was Olekorinko, and there was nothing wrong with that – everyone had to be called something. His friend Julius, the man in the seat next to Sabine, might have changed other people’s names the way some people change shirts, but that didn’t suit Allan.

  ‘A healer?’ said Agent B.

  ‘Or maybe a witch doctor. I seldom commit difficult words to memory. I have trouble enough with the easy ones.’

  The plan was to visit Olekorinko, learn from him, and gain new spiritual energy. Sabine could surely tell her more, if the businesswoman was interested. ‘I don’t suppose you’re in the clairvoyance trade yourself? Or in tourism, perhaps?’

  What was this? Atomic bomb expert and potential uranium smuggler Karlsson was on his way to see a witch doctor in the savannah to get spiritual energy? If he had to sit there telling lies, couldn’t he at least do so with finesse?

  No, the agent did not work in clairvoyance. She said she was a real-estate broker.

  That was the cover A and B used in Dar es Salaam.

  But that didn’t have the desired effect either. Allan thought it sounded interesting. He said that there must be many exciting mud huts to bid for on the Tanzanian savannah.

  Was the hundred-and-one-year-old being sarcastic or just hard to read? The agent felt ill at ease in his presence. Pretending to be a real-estate broker in the largest city in Tanzania was one thing. That story would not work nearly as well in areas where there might not be any real estate to broker. Musoma?

  ‘Well, the mud huts there are not my primary target,’ she said, trying to sound self-assured. ‘But there is the occasional safari camp to look at.’

  ‘Oh, so you are in tourism after all?’

  Few more words were exchanged between Allan and the agent during the rest of the flight. The German needed the time to work out the details of her cover story. Thus far it had not gone as expected. Neither did it get any better when the plane came in for landing and it turned out that Musoma was a real city with what had to be over a hundred thousand citizens and a great number of European-style buildings.

  ‘Look!’ Allan said, pointing out of the window. ‘There’s quite a bit to sink your teeth into around here after all, Mrs Real Estate Broker. Imagine! You didn’t know about that or where you were heading.’

  The agent already hated herself. And now she hated Karlsson too, damn him.

  * * *

  The runway was made of earth. It was narrow, and not a single metre longer than necessary. It was in the middle of the city that turned its back on the southern shores of Lake Victoria.

  Outside the small terminal building there were several taxis, whose drivers were hoping for fares. Everyone knew where Olekorinko could be found, but no one was so desperate for money that they wanted to drive the three foreigners out to see him. It was a journey of around 150 kilometres and the roads were in such poor shape that it was just about 100 per cent certain that a Fiat, Honda or Mazda would get stuck along the way.

  But Sabine caught sight of a man unloading passengers and luggage from a Land Cruiser not far away. It was an open car with three rows of seats and heavy tyres that didn’t look as if they would get stuck anywhere. When the man had finished and said farewell to the owners of the luggage, Sabine approached to ask if he was available for hire.

  No, he was not. He wasn’t from the area and was about to head back to camp at Maasai Mara. There would be more guests arriving in two days, and he had to be back at work by then.

  Sabine didn’t give up immediately. Continued conversation indicated that the place where the man worked was in Kenya, bordering the Serengeti – and just a few dozen kilometres from Olekorinko’s camp. Suddenly the three foreigners’ suggestion was of interest. Being paid for a journey home you had to undertake anyway was a bonus, even if it did involve a short detour.

  The German agent stood eighty metres away, looking on unhappily. There were no other Land Cruisers within view, and she had already come to understand the limitations of the taxi cabs.

  B called her boss in Dar es Salaam to discuss the situation. He updated her on the latest news. The Americans had just sent information on the latest position of Honour and Strength. The vessel had only a few days left to reach the southern tip of Madagascar.

  If nuclear weapons expert Karlsson’s earlier information was correct, there was a good chance a new delivery of enriched uranium would be made there and then. This load would be much larger than the first. The smuggling route was more or less known, thanks to the now-vanished laboratory assistant. The greatest challenge for the smugglers would be to cross the border between Tanzania and Mozambique. That was to say, about eighteen hundred kilometres from where Agent B was currently located.

  B thought Karlsson might be part of the smuggling operation, after all, and that his earlier information had been meant to throw them off the trail. If anything could bring B joy, it was the chance to show up her boss.

  ‘What did you say he said he was going to do up there, that Karlsson?’

  B reproduced portions of the conversation.

  A chuckled. ‘Clairvoyance wouldn’t be a bad thing for you to have right now. Can’t you borrow a little of his?’

  ‘He’s gone, dammit!’ said the meek agent, in a slightly less meek tone than usual.

  Lead Agent A lied and claimed to be suffering alongside his underling. For his part, he was about to pack his bags and head for the Mozambique border, where he planned to intimidate the head of border control. A man who was on their payroll.

  ‘You just stay up there, keeping Merkel happy. It’s not much fun for you but that can’t be helped. Same goes if it turns out I get all the credit when those five hundred kilos are neutralized. We all have our roles to play, now don’t we?’

  Agent B sighed. There were only taxi cabs here. Surely very good on asphalt. Useless on the savannah, as she’d been made to understand.

  ‘Buy yourself a Land Cruiser, then,’ said her boss. ‘Or a helicopter.’

  At least there was one positive thing about Karlsson: the BND had been given more money to play with.

  Buy an off-roading vehicle? thought B. What she wanted most was to buy herself a new life. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said, and hung up without saying goodbye.

  * * *

  They still had ten kilometres left to Olekorinko’s tent city for mira
cles when the traffic came to a standstill. That can easily happen when ten thousand people try to reach the same place at the same time and the road to get there is so narrow it can barely handle two-way traffic. Cars were constantly passing in the opposite direction because just as many freshly treated people were heading away from the camp.

  Far from everyone arrived by car. Many were driving motorcycles or mopeds. Others were on bicycles. The very poorest ones walked. Each time the oxpecker twittered from the sky, everyone knew a herd of Cape buffalo had come too close for comfort. Those who weren’t already in a car climbed onto the nearest four-wheeled vehicle – onto the bonnet, the roof or someone’s lap. When the birds disappeared, the chaos returned to its original level. There was no reason to worry about lions or leopards. They slept during the day. And elephants could be seen and heard from a distance.

  Now and then the traffic eased and the Land Cruiser with the three Swedes and the driver might advance five hundred metres or more before it had to stop again.

  The man they’d hired as a driver was named Meitkini and he was worried he might not get back to camp and his job as a safari guide in time. Nevertheless, he didn’t regret his decision. The three travellers were pleasant. And they paid well.

  Allan was in the passenger seat up front and had borrowed Meitkini’s binoculars. He gave a running commentary on everything he saw, from warthogs to giraffes, read aloud from the black tablet about what was going on in the world beyond the savannah, and got Meitkini to tell the better part of his life story. Julius and Sabine were in the next row of seats and did their best to contribute to the cheerful atmosphere. When Julius asked, Meitkini responded that he wasn’t sure, but he didn’t expect the climate of the Serengeti was optimal for asparagus.