In the event that the man at the other end of the line could reproduce their message, it would be possible at least to consider believing that he was who he claimed to be. He had already told her which language the note had been written in.
‘Oh, yes, right. Well, the thing was, Konrad visited the lavatory. I suppose he was … that is … it took some time for him to return.’
‘The napkins,’ said Chancellor Merkel.
‘Well, they were in one of those racks in the centre of the table, so I grabbed one and started writing. And then another, and another. Perhaps we don’t need to delve into their contents. Haven’t you already read them? And, after all, I’m the one who wrote them.’
Either he isn’t who he says he is, or he’s very dense, thought Angela Merkel. But then she recalled that he was said to be a little over a hundred years old, so she supposed she could give him another chance.
And with that she had lowered her guard another millimetre without even noticing.
‘If this conversation is to go on for any longer, I want to ascertain that Mr Karlsson is who he says he is. So would you please do me a kindness and tell me what you – if you are you – wrote to me. If I’m even me.’
She added the last bit in the event that she was dealing with a blackmailer. In doing so, she had refrained from acknowledging that she had any part in this bizarre conversation.
‘Now I understand,’ said Allan. ‘If you are you – and I’m assuming you are because I placed this call to you – you received a report from me about how my asparagus-farming friend Julius and I came across four kilos of enriched uranium in a North Korean briefcase. Did you know, incidentally, that all briefcases in North Korea look the same?’
‘Please go on,’ said Angela Merkel.
‘Right. Well, first, I suppose we were thinking we would hand the briefcase over to what’s-his-name, Trump, the President of the USA. But then it turned out he wasn’t really right – a far too common trait among world leaders, I’ve noticed. If you’ll forgive the observation.’
‘Go on.’
‘So then I was over him, as the kids say. But you, Madame Chancellor, I have faith in, thanks to my black tablet. I imagine you’re certain to have dealt with those four kilos in the best way possible already, and perhaps you have space for four hundred more.’
Karlsson definitely was the person he claimed to be. The proof wasn’t that he had reproduced enough of the details from the message on the napkins, but that he was sticking to the exact half-muddled tone of the letter. The chancellor let down her guard completely. ‘Four hundred?’ she said. ‘Wasn’t it supposed to be five?’
She was right about that, the chancellor, thought Allan. He and Julius had counted the boxes, weighed and reweighed them, and a hundred kilos were missing. But surely the smugglers hadn’t sent four hundred kilos one way and the last hundred another. If it was about minimizing the risk, shouldn’t the load have been divided down the middle?
‘A perfectly correct observation, Madame Chancellor,’ said Allan, when he had finished thinking. ‘But perhaps it’s partly that my sources weren’t completely trustworthy, and partly that there may have been delivery issues. In all likelihood, it’s both.’
Allan reflected upon this for a few seconds more.
‘Still there?’ the chancellor asked, when the silence at the other end seemed a bit too lengthy.
‘Yes, I’m here. And I’ve completed my analysis. I say: delivery issues.’
Angela Merkel realized what a fix she was in. The election was three days away, and she was about to be saddled with four hundred kilos of enriched uranium. It had to be dealt with tidily and discreetly.
‘Still there?’ Allan wondered.
Yes, she was.
‘I would have liked to send over the four hundred kilos, but it was a bit easier last time – what I’ve got here won’t fit into a briefcase, North Korean or otherwise. I need an aeroplane. From Africa – that’s where I am. And a runway in Germany, if only you would be willing to pull a few strings, Madame Chancellor, so we aren’t shot down on approach. Just think how that would look. Four hundred kilos of uranium raining down on Berlin.’
The chancellor buried her forehead in her hand. And thought: Four hundred kilos of uranium raining down over Berlin days before the election.
She pulled herself together and formulated a few questions that were still hanging over her. Could Mr Karlsson tell her where, more precisely, he and the uranium were currently located? And was he perhaps working in cooperation with another representative of the Federal Republic? After all, a few of them were stationed in Africa on the matter in question.
Allan told her that he was in Kenya, that he had first considered contacting the Kenyan government, but there had just been an election – in that sense, they were a bit ahead of Germany – and it had ended so poorly that the man who had just won had immediately lost what he had just won in the Supreme Court, so now the election had to be done all over again. Either the opposition had been tricked out of winning the election, or they had tricked others so it would look like they’d been tricked. Allan would feel more secure with the uranium in the arms of the chancellor.
In her arms or on her shoulders – it was bad either way, but she understood his reasoning. Then again, it would never end well if human trouble-magnet Karlsson was allowed to fly into Germany, with or without his current cargo.
‘And how was any contact with German representatives in this matter?’ she said.
‘Good, thanks,’ said Allan.
Angela Merkel found that he was uniquely gifted at not answering questions.
‘I think it would be best if the Federal Republic picks up the cargo in question,’ she said. ‘Kindly provide the exact geographical information and I will see what I can do.’
Exact geographical information? How did you give that? And when breakfast was on the table.
‘I will absolutely provide that, Madame Chancellor. But exact geographical information isn’t exactly my speciality. I’m better at ending up wherever I end up. May I call again tomorrow morning, at the same time, and we can work out the details?’
The chancellor began to answer, but Allan was hungry and had no time. He hung up.
‘Breakfast is ready, Allan,’ said Julius.
‘I see that. I’m coming,’ said Allan.
Kenya
The group’s money would soon run out, and Gustav Svensson’s arrival meant yet another mouth to feed. Sabine had known since her days as a businesswoman in Sweden that she could do calculations. First she’d had to learn about deficit, then credit, after the coffin sales had taken off, and now they were back to deficits.
And it seemed that no profitable clairvoyance plans were going to turn up. She almost had the urge to try an LSD trip to get unstuck, but the drug market was non-existent in Maasai Mara. She wouldn’t have taken that step anyway. If her mother, in that state, had hunted for ghosts in front of trains, there was a good risk she would do the same in front of the lions.
Now it wasn’t only Julius and Fredrika sitting in the lounge and talking asparagus: Gustav Svensson had joined them. Although talking asparagus was an understatement. They were worshipping asparagus.
The mutual understanding seemed to be that the climate at two thousand metres above sea level at the equator was perfect! Green, it would be. Or white. Or both, depending on whom you were listening to.
But also, everything was beyond tragic because the soil was all wrong. And had been for a long time. Remains left by humans from two million years ago had been found in the adjacent valley. In the same hard red soil that the asparagus lovers were now cursing.
‘Then buy new soil,’ Allan said, from nearby on the veranda, with his nose in his tablet. ‘Then again, don’t, because I just did it for you.’
What had Sabine and the asparagus lovers just heard?
‘You bought soil? For here? With what money?’ Sabine said.
‘You bought soil? For here?
What kind?’ said Julius.
‘What kind?’ said Gustav.
‘What kind?’ said Fredrika Langer.
Allan had been surfing around, got tired of all the moaning and groaning, and decided to do something about it. There was plenty of sandy soil in Nairobi, and with a few clicks it had been ordered. Four hundred tons, to start. That ought to go pretty far, right?
‘Let me ask you again. With what money did you just buy four hundred tons of soil?’ said Sabine.
‘None at all,’ said Allan. ‘Things aren’t so advanced here in Africa. They’ll send an invoice.’
‘And who were you thinking would pay for it?’
‘Oh, that’s what you meant. Don’t we have some money left from the coffin business?’
‘No.’
‘Then I will ask you to let me think about it.’
Sabine’s financial objections were drowned by the topic at hand. Fredrika Langer had grown most eager of all. ‘Hell’s bells!’ she said. ‘Four hundred tons would be enough for almost the entire field beyond the organic garden. We’ll have to make sure to keep watch at night, so the baboons don’t ruin our fun.’
Gustav Svensson’s entire face lit up. ‘Four hundred tons!’ he said, without truly comprehending how much this actually was.
Meanwhile, Julius had already entered the next phase. ‘Let’s see, how can we best guide the trucks? The slope begins almost immediately on the other side of the garden, so maybe it’ll be best to squeeze them between the souvenir shop and the office. What do you all think?’
No one but Sabine considered the fact that there were not sufficient assets in place to pay for the soil. Nor did anyone manage to recall that they didn’t live where they were staying, and that at least one of them, Fredrika, had another life, far away.
‘What kind of mess have you made this time?’ Sabine said, once she had left the enthusiastic group and strolled over to the old man on the veranda.
‘Mess?’ said Allan. ‘They’re happy as Larry.’
‘But we don’t have any money.’
‘We haven’t had it before. Relax, Sabine! We only live once. That’s the only certainty in life. How long, though – that varies.’
Kenya, Madagascar
Fredrika Langer was sitting on a win. That is to say, the uranium. And the phone number to the chancellor, the one that wasn’t to be used except in an emergency.
‘Emergency this, emergency that,’ Allan had said. ‘Shall I handle the phone call?’
So he did. He would call again the next morning. This was all as surreal as it was uplifting.
Her boss had sent her into the savannah hundreds of miles from where one might reasonably expect any action, even as he had placed himself in the perfect position. And then everything had gone topsy-turvy. At any moment, he would be calling from Madagascar to reassure himself that she was on her way. Not that he cared about her, but without her around he had no one upon whom to dump all the small matters and the even tinier ones.
Fredrika asked John at the bar for a glass of water; he poured it and she managed to take her first sip before her phone rang.
‘Fredrika Langer, how may I be of service?’ she said, with the aim of annoying her boss from the start.
‘It’s me, you idiot. Have you reached Musoma yet? You were supposed to—’
She interrupted him. ‘No. I’m skipping Musoma. Sticking around here instead. Me and the uranium.’
Agent A wondered if he’d misheard. Had Langer found the uranium? Up there?
‘Yes. These things happen, you know.’
‘Don’t touch it! I’m coming straight away. Where are you?’
‘In Kenya.’
‘But where in Kenya, for Chrissake?’
Agent Langer looked around. ‘On the savannah, I think.’
‘Answer me properly, Langer, or I’ll bash in your head when I get there.’
‘You’ll have to find me first.’
What was going on? Was she obstructing her boss?
‘If you don’t want to be fired, you will give me your exact position this minute!’
That threat didn’t land where it was intended to.
‘Fired? If anything, Chancellor Merkel was hinting at a promotion last time we spoke.’
Agent A was struck by a sudden breathlessness. Had that dunce Langer spoken to the chancellor behind his back? Where had she got the phone number?
‘Yes, of course, you should have been the one to have it, not me. After all, you’re the boss, for heaven’s sake, but you didn’t think it befitted the boss to carry around our operations folder. And I certainly understand – it must weigh nearly a hundred grams.’
This was pure catastrophe.
‘Give it to me this instant!’ he said. ‘That is an order.’
‘No, I can’t. This line isn’t secure. It’s such a shame you were forced to send me in the wrong direction. Should I call her for you? No, silly me, I’ve already done that.’
She could hear her boss breathing heavily.
‘The chancellor mentioned something about a medal. For me, that is, not for you.’
‘Listen here,’ Agent A tried.
‘But what would I do with a medal? I resign instead. I probably have about a year’s worth of overtime to use up, so I think I’ll start straight away. You won’t have to see me ever again. And, better still, I won’t have to see you.’
Fredrika Langer’s description of events wasn’t quite accurate: Allan had been the one to make the phone call to Berlin. But anything that would torment Agent A was fair game. The part about resigning had felt extra good to say. Might as well make it true as soon as possible.
‘But, please, Langer,’ said Agent A. ‘Just … tell … me … where … you … are …’
Her boss took it one word at a time, doing his best to breathe.
‘I told you. Kenya. I think. But I’m busy now. Angela’s calling on the other line, you know. Awfully nice woman. Bye.’
She hung up and threw her phone into the stream that meandered prettily from the camp to the watering-hole.
‘Is all well?’ wondered Allan, who had seen what she’d just done.
‘Very well, thank you,’ said Former Agent Langer. ‘Very well.’
Kenya, Germany
Exactly twenty-four hours after his first call to the chancellor, Allan called again. Merkel answered after the first ring.
‘Good morning, Chancellor. I suppose it’s best I call the chancellor “Chancellor” as often as possible while I still can – you never know what may happen on Sunday.’
‘Good morning, Mr Karlsson,’ said Chancellor Merkel.
‘I’m calling to inform you, Madame Chancellor, of where your people can fetch the package. Or the box, rather. The boxes. The uranium, in short.’
‘Good. Let’s hope you manage to do so this time, before you slam down the receiver in my ear again. Tell me,’ she said, gripping her pen at the desk outside her bedroom, wearing the same dressing-gown as she had worn the previous morning.
He recommended that the Federal Republic sneak in at low altitude and land in the dark at the Keekorok Airport in Maasai Mara.
‘If you come straight down from Berlin, then hang a slight left over Kampala, Keekorok is not far into the countryside, just after Lake Victoria. Alternatively you can come in an arc from the other direction. In that case, it’s directly to the right from Lamu, along the coast of Kenya. After an hour or so, Keekorok will show up beneath you.’
Was Karlsson out of his mind?
‘Perhaps a slightly more legal arrangement would be to explain the situation to the Kenyan government in Nairobi. But there’s the chance it might be overthrown between the informing and the fetching.’
Chancellor Merkel had no intention of confirming over the telephone their prospective plans to trespass illegally on the territory of another nation, especially not two days before the election. Instead she responded: ‘I hear what you’re saying. Please give me the coordinate
s.’
Coordinates? This was beyond Allan’s capacity. But Meitkini was standing next to him, listening in, and jotted down what the chancellor had asked for.
‘I’ve just received a note. Oh, I see, this is what coordinates are. It actually reminds me of atomic fission, at first glance.’
Allan recited; Angela Merkel took notes.
‘When do you estimate the goods can be ready, Mr Karlsson?’
Madame Chancellor could decide that for herself. That very night, or the next one, perhaps.
Without directly confirming the arrangement, Angela Merkel informed him that the night after next might be worth aiming at. For example, at oh one hundred hours. ‘Anything else we need to discuss in the meantime?’ she asked.
Allan had a sudden brainwave. ‘Yes, there may be, since the chancellor was kind enough to ask.’
‘Well?’
‘We happened to incur some expenses related to ensuring that the uranium didn’t end up in North Korea.’
Chancellor Merkel smelt a rat. Thus far, Karlsson had given no indication that he wanted remuneration. ‘Expenses?’ she said.
‘Among other things, it became necessary for us to purchase four hundred tons of soil for the good of our cause.’
Soil? What had that to do with the enriched uranium? No, she didn’t want to know. ‘And what is the current market price for four hundred tons of soil?’ she asked, in a chilly tone.
It was rich in sand and of the highest quality. And it required extensive arrangements to transport it from Nairobi.
‘Ten million, more or less,’ said Allan.
‘Ten million euros for four hundred tons of soil?’ said Chancellor Merkel.
So Karlsson was a gangster, after all. One who was attempting extortion.
‘Heavens, no,’ said Allan. ‘Ten million Kenyan shillings.’
Angela Merkel quickly brought up the current exchange rate on her laptop. What a relief! The Kenyan shilling was worth 0.008 euros. Karlsson was demanding what corresponded to the amount the well-off nation made in surplus in two minutes at the current rate. Their conversation had already lasted twice that long.