The engineer toyed with the idea of explaining to the Supreme Leader that the original question was one of charlatanry, and that nothing had been mentioned about the potential levels of senile dementia. But he realized that wouldn’t work. It left the option of lying to the Supreme Leader (a mind-boggling thought) and saying that the gentlemen were no longer needed: the engineer had come to understand the mechanics of pressure and within a few weeks would be able to convert that knowledge into practical results. In which case he either had the given number of weeks left to live, or he would have to deliver on his promise.
Karlsson had proved to have chemical formulas in his aged skull, and he’d put some of them on paper. When the Swiss men left for the day, the engineer planned to take a closer look.
During lunch he’d lost his temper with Karlsson, who had been reciting from his black tablet by memory about an American TV show host who had first committed a series of sexual harassments, then said he was angry with God, who hadn’t rushed to his defence. The engineer roared his displeasure and said he didn’t give a damn about God or all the Americans in the world, or about hetisostat pressure and what it could do, because he was about to have five hundred kilos of enriched uranium to deal with. When that shipment arrived they would no longer need Karlsson. The engineer promised to drag the old man out of the laboratory if he didn’t shape up immediately.
Five hundred kilos? That was the second time Allan had heard this. Even four kilos was bad enough.
‘There, there, Mr Engineer,’ he said. ‘We don’t want to take that tone with one another, do we? Comrade Stalin in Moscow was once angry with me too, and for that sole reason sent me all the way to Siberia. But all that brought him was a stroke. A bad temper is no good for your health, I like to say.’
The engineer was not feeling well. But he didn’t drop his battle with the muddle-headed Karlsson.
At some point, the hundred-and-one-year-old took a closer look at a photograph on the wall in which the grinning Supreme Leader stood next to a mid-range missile. The Swiss man seemed to be focusing his attention on the tip of the missile; he was contemplatively mumbling another formula. Properly deciphered, it was a combination of vitamin C and smelling salts, but the unprepared engineer thought there might be hope after all.
* * *
At one minute to two, it was time. Allan had buttered up the engineer to such an extent that he didn’t even protest when the self-proclaimed expert asked him to run yet another pointless errand to the cold storage room. It was something about the use-by date of the distilled water. Bottle by bottle.
When the engineer had vanished, Allan said: ‘I think it’s time to take off. He probably won’t be back for a few minutes.
‘Wrong shampoo,’ said Allan, placing the briefcase on the guard’s table and opening the lid. ‘It didn’t smell as much like lavender as it should have. Or whatever it was. The engineer is a quality-oriented gentleman. You can count on another package tomorrow.’
Before the guard had time to take a closer look at the package he recognized, Allan wriggled out of his coat.
‘But you had better check this properly. More than once I have stuck things into my pockets without remembering what or why. Once when I was out shopping I found a padlock in one. To this day I can’t imagine where I had been planning to hang it.’
The guard dug through Karlsson’s pockets and soon had Jonsson’s coat.
‘I’m the same way,’ said Julius. ‘Although I’m more inclined in the direction of cigarette lighters.’
The guard’s eyes darted from coat to coat as Allan calmly closed the lid of the briefcase.
‘We can’t stand here chatting all day, no matter how pleasant it may be. The Supreme Leader is waiting. Done with the coats? That’s good. Come along, Julius.’
The old men walked towards the waiting driver, Julius very eagerly, Allan at his usual pace. They got into the vehicle, which drove off while the guard stood there pondering padlocks, cigarette lighters, the Supreme Leader, and what had just happened.
Thirty seconds later, the engineer came to the entrance. Angrier than ever.
‘Where did those damned idiots go?’
‘Why, they left, Mr Engineer.’
‘Lovely. Tomorrow I’m going to throttle Karlsson.’
* * *
The nameless driver was surprised that the international guests wished to return to the hotel when it was only two o’clock.
‘Not the hotel, my dear Whatever-your-name-is. First we’re going to the palace to pick up the Supreme Leader. Important meeting. Exciting, isn’t it?’
The driver went totally pale. To a North Korean civil servant, having the Supreme Leader in your car would be the equivalent of a pastor riding around with Jesus Christ Himself. In fact, the man had orders to drive the guests to the hotel and nowhere else, but the palace was on the way.
‘I understand if this is nerve-racking,’ Allan said. ‘But I know the Supreme Leader well. He’s very amicable. There’s really only one thing that irritates him. Or two, if you include the United States.’
The nameless driver nervously asked what it might be.
‘Filth,’ said Allan. ‘Filth, dust, trash and messes. I recall one time when a poor assistant happened to spill a glass of juice on … Well, we don’t need to discuss that any further. Rest in peace. Now I’ll have to ask you to speed up. We don’t want to keep the Supreme Leader waiting.’
The trip went ever faster. Allan asked Julius, in Swedish, to become part of the action.
‘Not so fast,’ he said. ‘I get car sick.’
‘Did I mention we were in a rush?’ Allan said.
It was, of course, impossible to speed up and slow down simultaneously. The driver judged that the Supreme Leader was more important than the less elderly man in the back. Many times more important.
Once they reached the deserted highway, Julius complained about the high speeds again. The nameless driver continued to ignore him, encouraged by Allan, who spoke uninterrupted about all the fine qualities of the Supreme Leader, as well as how upset he became when faced with a mishmash of messiness.
‘I must say, your car is in fantastic condition,’ he said. ‘The Supreme Leader will be very pleased with you. One pleasant thought is that he might ask you to introduce yourself by your name, and then we’ll finally learn what it is.’
The nameless man was now steering the car with one hand and wiping the already clean dashboard even cleaner with the other.
‘I feel sick,’ said Julius, cautiously picking up the box of milk and muesli from the floor. It had become terrifically mushy during the day.
This was immediately followed by the absolute worst sound the nameless man had heard in all his fifty-two years. Julius feigned noisy vomiting and splashed the muesli mixture across the seat back, between the front seats, and onto the driver’s neck. The nameless driver completely panicked, according to plan. He swerved 180 degrees into the other lane, braked hard in a parking spot, and threw himself from the vehicle. How big a catastrophe was this?
When you’re a hundred and one, you are no longer a flexible wonder, if you ever were in the first place. Even so, Allan managed to reach across, close and lock the door after the driver. This occurred even as Julius locked the doors in the back and crawled into the front. That only went so-so too – after all, he was nearing seventy. But after a few seconds, he was in the driver’s seat. With the most astounded driver on the Korean peninsula outside.
‘Now let’s see how this machine works,’ he said, putting it into gear and driving off.
‘We need to go in the other direction,’ Allan reminded him.
So it came to be that the friends turned the car around not far down the deserted road and happened to pass the nameless driver where he stood without having worked out what was going on. Allan rolled down the window to say goodbye.
‘Farewell. We won’t need to be picked up tomorrow morning. Although you wouldn’t have anything to pick us up i
n, now that I think about it.’
* * *
The journey continued southwards, towards Sunan International. Allan said that they were in good shape timewise, and that Julius did not need to drive like the car thief he had once been. Also, the risk of traffic jams seemed small. Or the risk of traffic at all.
Julius nodded, and wondered if Allan had considered how they should proceed once they arrived. That was a matter both of them had repressed while so much else was standing in the way.
But Allan had already fallen back into the clutches of his black tablet.
‘Oho. Speaking of being out driving, apparently women are going to win the right to do the same in Saudi Arabia. Prince Abdulaziz seems to be a pragmatic fellow. No wonder the Saudis have a spot on the UN women’s commission.’
‘Can’t you put down that goddamn news machine and devote just one second to our survival?’ said Julius, who recognized this very type of frustration from earlier.
‘On the other hand, everything is relative,’ Allan went on. ‘The prince is a Wahhabi and Wahhabis are against most things, as I’ve understood it. Such as Shiite Muslims, Jews, Christians, music and vodka. Have you ever heard anything so awful? To be against vodka!’
Julius swore at Allan’s further exposition.
‘Would you tell me what we’re going to do? Should we drive straight through the fence and up to the minister’s plane? If we get caught, it’s all over! Or should we drive in the regular way? What will we say to the guards at the sentry gate, in that case? Should we shoot them? With what? Jesus Christ, Allan!’
The hundred-and-one-year-old turned off his black tablet and thought for a moment.
‘Wouldn’t it be best to leave the car in the short-term car park, take our briefcase and our diplomatic passports, and check in?’
* * *
One of the check-in desks was different from the rest. It was off to the side and had a gold-framed sign above the counter with Korean words and an explanation in English below: Premium Check-In.
Allan greeted the man at the counter with ‘Good day,’ introduced himself as Special Envoy and Diplomat Karlsson from the kingdom of Sweden, and wondered if Minister for Foreign Affairs Wallström’s plane had already pulled up for boarding.
The man behind the counter took Allan’s and Julius’s passports and looked at them.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I have not received information that you …’
‘Information isn’t exactly in keeping with the spontaneous nature of hush-hush diplomacy,’ said Allan. ‘People like us stay in the wings. Would you please be so kind as to show us to the plane?’
No, the man did not wish to be so kind.
‘One moment,’ he said, and left to find his boss.
Julius thought Allan was behaving admirably at the airport, but they hadn’t accomplished anything yet. After a minute or so, a man in uniform arrived to ask how he could be of service.
‘Good day, Colonel,’ Allan said to the man, who wasn’t a colonel at all, but the head of airport security.
‘What is this about?’ asked the head of security.
‘Are you the one who will be taking us to Minister Wallström’s plane? Wonderful! Would you please carry this suitcase for me? We’re travelling light, but I’m old and worn out,’ said Allan, placing the briefcase of uranium on the counter.
‘I won’t be leading you anywhere, not before we’ve found out who you are,’ the head of security said defensively.
At that instant, a miracle occurred.
‘Attachés Karlsson and Jonsson! Are you here already? Splendid!’ said Margot Wallström, as she strode towards them from the main entrance. ‘I’ve just come straight from lunch with the Supreme Leader. We talked almost exclusively about you, Mr Karlsson, and he sends his kindest greetings to you both and offers you a warm welcome back as soon as possible.’
The head of security went pale. He knew who Madame Wallström was – he was the one who’d met her two days earlier and welcomed her according to his orders.
‘Now, where were we?’ said Allan. ‘Will you be helping me with my briefcase?’
Two seconds of reflection. Five. Ten. Then the head of security said: ‘Of course, my dear sir.’
At which he guided the minister-slash-UN-envoy, her two attachés, the envoy’s suitcase, and the one attaché’s briefcase past all the checkpoints and all the way to the freshly refuelled aeroplane, ready and waiting.
Eighteen minutes later, thirty-six minutes ahead of schedule, the Swedish minister for foreign affairs’ plane exited North Korean airspace, carrying two more passengers than it had when it landed two days earlier.
Three hours after that, the North Korean leader Kim Jong-un flew into a rage the like of which were seldom seen. And he hadn’t even yet been informed, by the engineer at the plutonium factory, that the briefcase of enriched uranium now contained instead a diverse selection of pleasantly scented toiletry articles. This, in turn, was because the engineer had just hanged himself in his cold storage room (straight after he had deciphered Karlsson’s first formula as the main ingredient in a nylon stocking). The name- and limousine-less driver, for his part, had to spend twenty-five minutes waiting at the edge of the highway before, at last, a truck approached for him to step out and plant himself in front of. The head of airport security did not share this death wish. Even so, he was allowed to live for only two more days, before being summarily charged in court and duly executed by firing squad.
USA
The service on board was excellent. Allan had a vodka and Coke, Julius a gin and tonic, and Minister Wallström a glass of white wine.
‘Nice plane you’re flying around in,’ said Julius. ‘The Swedish government’s plane, I assume. It will be nice to go home again.’
The minister for foreign affairs sipped her wine and replied that the plane didn’t belong to the Swedish government but the UN. ‘And you’ll have to long for Sweden for a little while longer, Mr Jonsson. We’re on our way to New York. President Trump is waiting for us there, at the UN building. I just learned he wants to meet you too, Mr Karlsson. My colleagues on the Security Council have hinted that he’s not in the best mood. Unless angry as a hornet is his best mood.’
‘My, my,’ said Allan. ‘Just think, getting to meet another American president before turning up one’s toes.’
‘Have you met one before?’ asked Minister Wallström in surprise.
‘No, two.’
* * *
The UN plane landed at JFK and was treated with the respect every UN plane deserved. Margot Wallström, Allan and Julius were guided a few steps to a black Lincoln that took them to the VIP area for entering the United States of America. There stood the president’s chief strategist, Steve Bannon, stamping his feet impatiently. He was annoyed for any number of reasons. Partly because he was being made to play errand boy, but mostly because Donald Trump had bawled him out earlier that day when he had flown into a rage and accidentally kicked the president’s son-in-law in the backside during a conversation about proper policy on the Middle East. Since it wasn’t possible to bawl back without getting fired, he’d had to bawl at someone else instead. He had to let off steam somehow.
‘Don’t make any trouble here,’ said Steve Bannon, to the border control officer. ‘The president is waiting.’
The officer became nervous when she realized she was creating a delay for the president, but she still made sure to do her job. Two of the three diplomats did not have ESTA authorization.
‘But they’re diplomats, for fuck’s sake,’ said Steve Bannon.
‘That may be,’ said the border control officer, ‘but I still have to do my job.’
‘Then do it,’ said Bannon.
It took a certain amount of digging in the immigration computer, plus one phone call, before the officer was able to rubber-stamp the diplomats Jonsson and Karlsson. There was nothing in their backgrounds to suggest they might be enemies of the state. Neither of them had even been born i
n Tehran.
‘Welcome,’ she said at last.
‘Thanks,’ said Allan.
‘Thanks,’ said Julius.
‘Now come on!’ said Steve Bannon.
‘Hope the president isn’t this irate,’ mumbled Minister for Foreign Affairs Wallström.
He was.
* * *
Perhaps their carry-on luggage should have been included in the inspection of Allan and Julius, but typically carry-ons are inspected at the departure airport. And the journey had been taken in a UN plane. And all three were diplomats. And then there was ranting Steve Bannon.
These reasons weren’t sufficient, yet the fact was that the United States of America had just been saddled with four kilos of enriched uranium, carefully packed in a North Korean briefcase, without having any clue that it had happened.
This occurred to Julius in the limousine on the way to the UN building. He also realized that Allan had never told the minister for foreign affairs what he was carrying around. ‘What are you going to do with that?’ he whispered, while Margot Wallström was engrossed in a phone call.
‘I suppose it could make a nice present for the president,’ said Allan, ‘as long as he’s so eager to meet with me. But why don’t you hold on to it for now? It doesn’t seem quite right to barge into the UN building carrying enriched uranium without letting them know in advance.’
Julius squirmed.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Allan. ‘I’ve thought it all out.’
The minister for foreign affairs finished her call and the limousine arrived at their destination. Julius was assigned to a nearby park bench and Allan promised to be back soon.