Another Time, Another Life (49 page)

“What kind of Swedish contacts did he have?” asked Johansson.

“You mean apart from the regular channels with our own military intelligence service and a few of the real bigwigs in the older generation?” the police superintendent asked. “That part’s on the disk.”

So it’s there, thought Johansson. Several old owls. I really ought to take up bird-watching given my job, he thought.

“Does he have a best buddy here in Sweden I ought to know about?” asked Johansson. Don’t be so damn naïve, he thought.

“Well,” said the police superintendent, smiling, “he does have one friend who is undeniably intriguing.”

“And who’s that?” said Johansson, though he had already guessed the answer.

“And you know him well, too,” said the police superintendent. “The prime minister’s own éminence grise in questions that concern national security—the not entirely unknown former special adviser, nowadays the undersecretary in the government offices.”

Strange that people never refer to him by name, thought Johansson. Is it so damn hard to remember that his name is Nilsson? With the usual spelling, too.

“So Undersecretary Nilsson and CIA agent Liska are best buddies?” asked Johansson.

“Depends on what you mean by best,” the police superintendent said evasively. “I don’t really dare say “best,” but that they’ve known each other forever is common knowledge.”

“And the contacts Mr. Nilsson had with this Liska, of what nature are they?” asked Johansson.

“We assume they have occurred with the blessing and consent of the highest authorities,” said the police superintendent, nodding piously.

“If I may now be a little nitpicky and boring,” said Johansson, “I’m wondering if there is anyone here in the building who during all these years of blessed coexistence has had the good taste, if for no other reason than the sake of good form, to inform the undersecretary of who his American friend’s employer is?” said Johansson. “I’m assuming it doesn’t appear on Liska’s business card.”

“Not the ones we’ve seen in any event,” said the police superintendent, who still seemed happy and upbeat. “I don’t think it’s a secret,” he added. “It’s clear he knows what agency Liska works for.”

“I’m sure he does,” said Johansson. “But that’s not what I’m sitting here pestering you about.”

“You mean whether we in the service have informed him about who Liska is?” asked the police superintendent, who no longer seemed as exhilarated.

“Exactly,” said Johansson. “Have we?” Finally he gets it, he thought.

“No,” said the police superintendent, suddenly seeming rather gloomy.

“Then we should change that ASAP,” said Johansson. “Make sure the documentation is clear so the analysts can make their assessment. Then make a proposal for getting a regular security intelligence report to the undersecretary. And a copy to the minister of justice for his information so they can’t put the blame on each other.”

“When do you want it?” said the police superintendent guardedly.

“It’ll be fine if I get it in a few hours,” said Johansson. So I can go through the disk in the meantime, so there, you little bastard, he thought.

“No one is going to be particularly happy,” said the police superintendent, who didn’t look too happy himself.

“That leaves me cold,” said Johansson. “If we assume, and this is purely an academic question, that Liska hadn’t been working for the CIA, but instead for the former GRU or KGB at a time when these agencies viewed Sweden as part of their own domestic politics, what would have happened to the undersecretary in that case?”

“Yes, but that’s an impossible comparison,” the police superintendent objected. “I think that—”

“Answer the question,” Johansson interrupted. “What would have happened to the undersecretary then?”

“Then naturally he would have ended up in jail,” said the police superintendent.

“Nice that we’re in agreement,” said Johansson.

“I want you to set up three meetings for me,” said Johansson to his secretary.

“As you wish, Boss,” she replied, smiling her cool smile, pen already in hand.

“First, I want to meet the GD within the next few hours at the latest, but in any event before the end of the day,” said Johansson, beginning to count by raising his right index finger. “I need half an hour.”

“Second?” asked his secretary.

“Second,” said Johansson, letting the middle finger on his right hand keep the index finger company, “I want to have a meeting in Rosenbad with our esteemed contact the undersecretary sometime tomorrow. Preferably in the morning.”

“And third …?”

“Third,” said Johansson, but without holding up the middle finger—you didn’t do that to women—“and assuming that I’ve managed to meet the person I just mentioned, I would like to have a meeting with Helena Stein, the undersecretary in the Ministry of Defense. In the evening, just the two of us, and preferably at her home.”

“My goodness,” said his secretary. “I hope it’s nothing like that.”

No, thought Johansson. Unfortunately it’s just the opposite.

At ten o’clock in the morning Johansson met with the undersecretary in his office at Rosenbad and turned over the security intelligence regarding the American citizen Michael Liska, which the colleagues in counterespionage had produced the day before and which his own general director had approved the same evening.

“I am grateful for the honor that has been bestowed on me,” said the undersecretary, nodding ironically toward the binder of papers he had received but had not even condescended to open. “I will obviously inform my highest superior of your findings.”

“You don’t seem particularly surprised,” Johansson chuckled. He had decided in advance to play along as long as it suited him. And don’t try to pressure me with your distinguished acquaintances, he thought.

“I doubt that anyone here in the building will be particularly surprised by how Liska puts food on the table,” said the undersecretary.

“If you know about more contacts he’s had that we’ve missed, I assume you’ll report them to us,” said Johansson.

“Of course, of course,” sighed the undersecretary. “I had no idea you were so formal, Johansson.”

“I guess you didn’t,” said Johansson, smiling. “Yes, I am very formal,” he continued. “I can be downright frightfully formal in a pinch, and to avoid any misunderstanding I would also like to stress that you should not view me, my superior, or our organization as some kind of free resource for you to dispose of as you choose. That goes against the
constitution and I can be terribly sensitive where such things are concerned.”

“Oh boy, that last part almost sounded a little threatening,” said the undersecretary, unperturbed. “Would you like a cup of coffee by the way? I’m in the mood for one anyway.” The undersecretary made an inviting gesture toward cups, coffeepot, and plates on his coffee table. “As you can see I’ve got an ample supply of pastries.”

I see that, thought Johansson, who had already made note of the excess of pastries on the table and immediately decided not to let himself be tempted, not even by a little cognac ring. On the other hand, he thought, those napoleons do look heavenly.

“By the way, how’s it going with Stein?” the undersecretary continued as he poured coffee into Johansson’s cup.

“Not so well,” said Johansson, who had decided that it was high time to turn the screw.

“Not so well,” the undersecretary repeated, actually sounding sincerely surprised. “Is it that old story from the West German embassy that’s still haunting her?”

“No,” said Johansson, shaking his head heavily. “If only it were that good.” And if you’re going to pour coffee for me, I prefer that you do it in my cup, he thought.

“Now I’m getting worried,” said the undersecretary, setting down the coffeepot and looking at Johansson without trying any of his usual grimaces. “As you know, my esteemed boss intends to offer her a position in the government, and if you and your people have a different opinion I’m afraid you’ll have to count on us devoting a good deal of time and effort to scrutinizing your arguments.”

“Has she already been asked?” Johansson said.

“No,” said the undersecretary. “But soon.”

“Tell your boss he has to find someone else,” said Johansson. “If you don’t want to tell him, I can take it up with him directly.”

“Johansson, Johansson,” said the undersecretary deprecatingly. “Now you really have to tell me what this is all about. And I’m assuming that this doesn’t have anything to do with a twenty-five-year-old embassy occupation.”

“No,” said Johansson. “It doesn’t.”

“Well,” said the undersecretary, attempting a smile, “I’m frightfully curious. What in the world has she done? Is she involved in the Palme assassination too?”

“No,” said Johansson curtly as he took a blue plastic folder from his briefcase. “I will gladly tell you what this is about, provided you acknowledge on a paper I have with me that you have had access to this information and that you also sign a special confidentiality agreement on another paper that I also have with me. I have discussed the matter both with the GD and our lead attorney, and the GD told me that if you sign you should be informed, and if you don’t, he is going to personally request a private presentation for your boss.”

“Give me a pen,” said the undersecretary. “Before I die of curiosity.”

“Well,” said the undersecretary as he set aside the pen and pushed the folder with the signed documents back to Johansson.

“Now I’m going to tell you about two partially connected problems we discovered during our background check of Undersecretary Stein,” said Johansson. “Namely, that we have reason to suspect that Liska and his organization, in cooperation with domestic interests within our so-called defense lobby, planned to subject Undersecretary Stein to influence were she to be appointed minister of defense or given a similarly security-related position within the Swedish government.”

“Goodness,” said the undersecretary. “Correct me if I’ve counted wrong, but I come up with at least three objections in a single sentence.”

“A few months ago Liska managed, with the help of a few useful idiots in the military intelligence service, to activate the case that concerns the embassy occupation—which will soon pass the statute of limitations,” Johansson said. “We believe they’ve opened up a portal through which they intend to convey disinformation in order to influence Helena Stein and people like her.” Why do you look so strange? thought Johansson. What happened to your usual trademark sardonic smile?

“Sounds rather daring given the relations between our respective countries,” said the undersecretary. “But I hear what you’re saying,” he continued. “You don’t think you could be a little more precise?”

“Not at the present time,” said Johansson. “We have decided to follow
up on what we have and provide the usual updates as we go forward, depending on how the whole thing develops.”

“But that’s just excellent,” said the undersecretary. “Because we are forewarned, we are also forearmed, and if I were Stein I would be the one who was most grateful. In any event she doesn’t need to worry that the Americans will try to yank her chain.”

And not yours either, thought Johansson.

“No, neither the Americans nor anyone else is going to yank her chain,” said Johansson. In any case not in that way, he thought.

“Okay then,” said the undersecretary, who for some reason chose not to question any further what Johansson had just said. “Then I don’t really understand the problem. What obstacle is there to appointing her?”

“Unfortunately it won’t work,” said Johansson.

“What do you mean it won’t work?” said the undersecretary, no longer making any attempt to conceal how irritated he was. “Has she murdered someone, or what?”

“Yes,” said Johansson.

“What?” said the undersecretary.

You definitely did
not
know that, thought Johansson when he saw the undersecretary’s suddenly wide-open eyes.

Johansson then related what had gone on when Helena Stein stabbed Kjell Göran Eriksson to death almost eleven years ago, basically the same way he had told it to his best friend and to his own investigation team.

After that he gave an account of the measures he had taken, all the way from the prosecutor’s dismissal with prejudice down to all the top-secret classifications he himself had put in place, not least the little scrap of paper he had put into the shredder with his own hands.

“What a completely improbable fucking story,” the undersecretary moaned, shaking his head with dismay.

“Regardless of that,” continued Johansson, who had one more point to clear up before he was finished, “completely regardless of that she represents a risk that we advise your superior in the strongest possible
terms not to take,” said Johansson, and he almost felt solemn as he said it. For a simple boy from the country like himself it was almost as though the eagle of history had brushed him with its wing.

“I see exactly what you mean,” said the undersecretary, looking as though he would like to moan audibly.

“For both your sake and mine I would still like to go over the risks we envisage. There are four sources of risk here. The first is leaks within our own closed operation,” said Johansson. “It’s true we’re known with good reason for being taciturn, and compared with all the babbling brooks running around in the open police operation, we’re about as talkative as a concrete wall with no cracks. Still I can’t overlook the risk, even if I judge it to be the least serious in this context.”

“How many at SePo know about Stein?” the undersecretary asked.

“Eight including myself, plus another seven who know parts of it and might possibly figure out the rest themselves.”

“And that’s as secretive as you’ve managed to be,” said the undersecretary crossly.

“As you already know,” said Johansson, grinning. “And with you now, that makes nine.”

“What are the other three risks, besides ourselves?” he asked.

Johansson’s colleagues at the detective squad in Stockholm were another risk. The files on Eriksson would be returned in exactly the condition they were in when they were loaned out and with all conceivable discretion. Regardless, it was still an open murder investigation, and sooner or later—this could definitely not be ruled out—it might end up in competent enough hands that someone would be forced to start being interested in Helena Stein.