Another Time, Another Life (27 page)

“That’s a relief,” said Johansson, who now seemed rather amused. Times are changing, he thought. “What does the GD say then?” said Johansson. The new general director was nonetheless head of the secret police.

“The general director,” said Berg, who had a hard time concealing his surprise. “There’s never been any problem with him.” It didn’t matter what title they gave these high-level bosses (and personally he was now on his fifth), though naturally he couldn’t say that, he thought. Johansson would certainly figure that out all on his own as soon as he got his feet wet.

“As head of operations you’re the one who will lead the work itself, and in the government offices they have great confidence in you as an individual,” Berg clarified, nodding seriously.

And I’m easily flattered too, thought Johansson.

After that they talked about other things that Johansson wanted said before he decided. That he wasn’t a politician but a police officer. That
for him it was about putting people who were involved in serious crimes in jail before they had a chance to cause even more mischief, and that the only reason for him to change jobs was that he wanted finally to get involved in a few serious operational assignments.

That was no problem at all, according to Berg. On the contrary, the political client, top-ranking police leadership, and, obviously, Berg himself were of the exact same opinion.

“I think you’re going to appreciate this job and I’m quite certain that you’re going to be pleasantly surprised. I know that a horrifying lot of nonsense gets talked about us among our colleagues in the open operation, but that should be taken with a large grain of salt,” said Berg, nodding decisively. “This is a job for a real policeman.” Someone like you and me, he thought.

A real policeman, thought Johansson. That sounds good.

Then they proceeded to practical details. Higher rank? Yes. Salary? Obviously higher, which by the way was a natural consequence both of the higher rank as well as the fact that those who worked in the closed operation had always earned more than those who were part of the regular police.

The possibility of choosing his own coworkers? Of course. Assuming that Johansson only spit out a little three-letter word he was the one who was the boss and it was no more difficult than that.

Despite everything, one somewhat sensitive detail remained.

“How long do you intend to stay?” said Johansson. You look tired, he thought. You’ve lost a lot of weight too.

“I can go tomorrow if you want,” said Berg, smiling. Today if it were up to me, he thought, but naturally he didn’t say that.

“And here I was hoping for a guided tour,” said Johansson, smiling.

“I’ll be glad to give you one,” said Berg. “I was hoping you’d ask, actually.” What’s a few weeks more or less after all these years? he thought.

Johansson nodded. He really seems worn out, he thought.

“Oh well,” said Berg, looking almost a little solemn. “What do you say? Could you see yourself doing it?”

“Yes,” said Johansson.

And that was how the whole thing started.

• • •

Johansson’s existence as a transient resource within the police department was over. He was no longer a police jack-of-all-trades whom the government offices and National Police Board could call in whenever it was time to clean up after some highly placed colleague who had been discreetly dismissed or had simply thrown in the towel because he’d had enough. Now he was an established man with operational management responsibility for what was called the closed operation in police talk, and for anyone who coveted police authority there was no better place to be.

He himself did not give much thought in particular to that part of it. He had plenty to do recruiting coworkers to the free investigation and detective team he intended to have in his immediate vicinity. He would need the help of his best friend Bo Jarnebring because it had been years since Johansson had worked in the field himself and there must be many capable new people whose existence he didn’t even know about. In that way he acquired ten or so new coworkers, and the only fly in the ointment was that Jarnebring himself steadfastly resisted all his friend’s attempts at recruitment.

“I don’t look good in a fake beard,” said Jarnebring, shaking his head. “Besides, I’m starting to get too old.”

“Say the word if you change your mind,” said Johansson. I guess we all get old, he thought.

“Not this time,” said Jarnebring. “On the other hand I wonder what’s happened to you?”

“What do you mean?” asked Johansson.

“How long have we known each other? How long is it since you and I met for the first time out at the old police academy?”

“Thirty years,” said Johansson, shrugging his shoulders.

“If I don’t remember wrong you were the class socialist. You were more or less alone in that besides, and I seem to recall that you wanted to shut down the secret police.”

“You don’t say,” said Johansson. How time flies. It actually is more than thirty years now, he thought.

“If I don’t remember wrong, you couldn’t have something like the secret police in a democratic, lawful police organization. It was absolutely
unthinkable, and if anyone had asked you at that time if you could imagine working as a spook, I know exactly what would have happened.”

“What?” asked Johansson, despite the fact that he already knew the answer.

“The person in question would have been socked on the jaw,” said Jarnebring, not mincing words.

“Oh well,” said Johansson, shrugging his shoulders.

“And because you’ve never been particularly good at such things, I would have had to jump in and help you, too,” Jarnebring declared.

“Sure,” Johansson agreed. “I’m sure I would have been counting on that.”

“But now you’ll be head of the whole thing,” said Jarnebring. “What’s happened?”

“These are new times now,” said Johansson. New and I hope better times, he thought.

“I don’t believe that for a moment,” said Jarnebring. “Possibly these are different times.”

Of course Johansson spoke with his wife before he decided to change course in his police life. Ten years earlier, after almost fifteen years as a divorced man—or a single man or a bachelor or whatever you want to call it—he had proposed to her after an emotionally charged week of basically uninterrupted togetherness. In that way he had settled accounts with the solitude he had come to consider a natural part of both his individuality and his existence. Disregarding the fact that he might still miss that solitude when their togetherness became too much or when he simply felt like being by himself for a while.

She had said yes despite the fact that he couldn’t offer her a new job but only his heart, and because Lars Martin Johansson was a person who knew how to distinguish between great and small he had subsequently devoted himself to his “marital community”—that was how he looked at it—with great seriousness and considerable energy. It hadn’t been easy, not all the time, but who ever said we humans should have it easy? We make a choice, and important choices have major consequences, thought Johansson. Like now.

“What do you think, dear?” asked Johansson.

“What do
you
think?” Johansson’s wife countered in that way he sometimes had a hard time with. “I’m not the one who’s going to be a secret agent,” she added, smiling in that other way he had never had any problem with whatsoever.

“If he had asked me twenty years ago I would have thrown him out,” said Johansson, whatever that had to do with it, given that the question had been asked a few days ago.

“Do you think we need a secret police force?” his wife asked, looking at him with curiosity.

“It’s clear we need a secret police force,” said Johansson with a conviction that didn’t feel quite genuine. For we do need it, don’t we? he thought. Of course we need SePo, don’t we?

“Okay then,” said his wife, shrugging her shoulders. “Because we need a secret police force and you’re an excellent police officer—and a respectable person who lives a respectable life, at least since you met me—then I guess the only answer is yes.”

Why does she look so amused? thought Johansson. I don’t understand women. They’re not like us, he thought.

“You’re not pulling my leg?”

“Would I ever pull your leg?” his wife teased. “What does Bo say, by the way?”

“Jarnebring,” said Johansson with surprise. “Why do you wonder that? I don’t care what he thinks about it.”

“Aye, aye, aye,” said his wife, shaking her head at the same time that she seemed highly amused. “Little Bosse doesn’t want to play with his best buddy anymore.”

“He says I’m too old,” said Johansson curtly. There she goes again, he thought.

“Do you know something?” His wife looked at him.

Johansson just shook his head. Best to bide your time a little, he thought.

“Do you remember that old comic strip about those two rascals, Knoll and Tott?”

“Yes,” said Johansson hesitantly.

“That’s you and Bo,” she said. “You’re just like Knoll and Tott. Or were their names Pigge and Gnidde?”

“I don’t remember,” said Johansson. Women are definitely not like us, he thought. “On a different note,” Johansson continued, suddenly feeling the need to change the subject. “Forget about that for now. What do you want to do this evening? Dinner? A movie? Or …” Johansson moved his shoulders in a manner that was clear enough.

“First I think we should go out to eat—we have to celebrate your new job. Then maybe we can go to a movie—there’s actually one I want to see. And then … a little … or what? Was that what you said? You’re shy too. Do you know that? Yes, maybe … we’ll see.”

“Good,” said Johansson, getting up quickly. “That’s what we’ll do then. I just have to shower first.” How beautiful she is, he thought, and then he leaned over and placed his hand on her slender neck. She had a hollow there, right at the hairline, that seemed made for his right thumb.

“Go shower now,” said his wife, releasing herself from his grip. “I have to start powdering my nose if we’re going to make it to the movie too.”

Wonder what kind of film it is? thought Johansson as he stood in the shower. Say what you want about her taste in films, it wasn’t much like his own and at the most recent one he had been on the verge of falling asleep in the middle. Shouldn’t I get to decide which film? he thought suddenly. This celebration is for me, isn’t it?

The cleaning out of the Swedish secret police archives, before the truth seekers from the nation’s academic institutions were let onto the premises, became one of the most extensive operations in the history of the organization, and a good illustration of the fact that the fruits of persistent police work could be an end in themselves. Disregarding the fact that the reason for the original efforts and the motivation behind the later measures were diametrically opposed

Obviously not all of what was filed could be cleaned out—or even a significant portion of it—because to do so would scarcely have contributed to the improvement of the secret police’s reputation. At the same time, certain individuals must by necessity be rescued from the eyes of the review commission. Primarily this concerned the most important informants used over the years. All in all there were thousands of individuals who appeared under various aliases, cover names, and code designations, and who were almost always found in more than one file, and who in practice were almost impossible to clean out.

It was Chief Inspector Wiklander who found the first big dust bunny. Wiklander was head of the detective group that was part of Johansson’s new “free resource,” the combined investigation and detective squad that was intended to become his primary weapon in the struggle against those who most urgently and unexpectedly threatened the security of the realm. Johansson had become acquainted with Wiklander during his time as acting head of the National Crime Bureau, and as soon as
Johansson settled down in his new chair as boss he had contacted him. Wiklander was one of the best policemen Johansson had encountered during his long career. Almost as competent as he himself had been at the same age, and just as taciturn. After less than a month on Johansson’s team, Wiklander had requested a special meeting with his top boss.

“Do you remember the West German embassy, Boss?” asked Wiklander.

“Sit down,” said Johansson, nodding toward his visitor’s chair. Do I remember the West German embassy? he thought, and the feelings that suddenly arose were mixed to say the least.

The reason that Wiklander had started looking into the occupation of the West German embassy on the twenty-fourth of April 1975 was mostly a coincidence. In one of the secret police’s many incident files the embassy occupation was entered as two murders; both the military attaché and the trade attaché had been murdered. Because the statute of limitations on murder was twenty-five years and it was already the end of March in the year 2000, the crimes associated with the embassy occupation had turned up on the special computerized review list of serious crimes that would soon be free of judicial consequences and relegated to the national archives. “The final twitch” was the expression used in the building to refer to those cases on the list of impending nullification.

“I wasn’t there personally, I was still in school, but I remember that my buddies and I were glued to the TV,” said Wiklander, smiling and shaking his head.

Me too, thought Johansson with sorrow in his heart, but he didn’t intend to talk about why he felt that way, not with Wiklander in any event.

“I’m listening,” he said instead, leaning back in his chair.

The reason the embassy drama was still on the list of crimes not yet past the statute of limitations was that there were certain questions remaining. It was thus still an open case. True, no one seemed to have given a thought to it during the past more than twenty years, but the filing of an incident did not always bear any logical connection with the work that was put into it.

“The reason it’s still there is that we’re pretty sure the Germans inside the embassy must have had help from people on the outside,” Wiklander clarified.