Food and drink were turned away at the door once again, causing Allan to lose patience. On occasion it could be a wise strategy to hold one’s tongue or express agreement, but right now it was time to say something before they all starved to death.
Julius sensed what Allan was about to do and desperately tried to make eye contact so he could say, using his hands and face, ‘No, Allan, don’t do it!’
But do it he did.
‘Forgive me, Mr Supreme Leader. My name was mentioned not far into your speech about a bit of everything. And here I am. Old and frail, but ever at your service. However, I suspect I will be of far too little use if I’m dead, and I’m about to starve to death. Is there any way what you have to say can be wrapped up a bit more speedily than you had perhaps intended?’
Kim Jong-un’s proud smile went chilly. ‘You will soon be allowed to eat, Mr Karlsson. But your presumed cleverness about nuclear technology doesn’t give you the right to express yourself as you wish, here in the People’s Palace.’
Oh, so he was in that sort of mood.
‘I certainly didn’t mean any offence, O Supreme One, but it’s possible that in addition to all the rest I haven’t been sleeping very well lately. You see, my friend the asparagus farmer here has trouble being as quiet as he ought to be at night.’
Kim Jong-un didn’t follow. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He doesn’t mean anything—’ Julius attempted.
‘I mean he snores,’ said Allan. ‘Oh, how he snores. If the Supreme One had any idea at all how much he snores! The boat that picked us up was the size of an entire warehouse, but not big enough that we didn’t have to share a cabin, and, well, there hasn’t been as much sleeping as there ought to have been. But what were we talking about, again? Oh, that’s right, food. And perhaps a drink alongside. Might it be on its way, perchance?’
With that, Kim Jong-un’s train of thought was sufficiently derailed. When the staff dared to stick their noses out of the kitchen again, he gave the green light.
They were served entrecôte with mushroom sauce. Not particularly Asian, but it appealed to the guests and was washed down with an Australian cabernet sauvignon.
Spirits rose around the table. Allan decided to tolerate the Supreme Leader’s talk of this and that for a little longer. But when the Supreme One claimed the nation had detonated a hydrogen bomb the year before, Allan had to protest. He’d read about that on his tablet, and the truth was that the so-called hydrogen bomb had hardly made a bang.
‘The fact that you’re transporting four measly kilos of uranium in a boat that could bring thirty thousand tons all the way from God-knows-where to Pyongyang is enough proof for me that, one, you aren’t anywhere near having a hydrogen bomb, two, you hardly even know the first thing about plutonium, and three, your total stores of uranium fit into a briefcase. In short, you have nothing to use, except those four kilos. And, as luck would have it, me. And I have nothing left in my glass.’
Kim Jong-un waved over a waiter. The impudence of the Swiss man was really too much. Well, there were two options: either he would turn out to be useful, in which case there was no reason to send him home to Europe. Or he wouldn’t, and then he would be sent nowhere but to his eternal rest. In either case he would come to regret his lack of respect.
The Supreme Leader decided to continue being amiable and generous. ‘You are outspoken, Mr Karlsson, I must say. And I suppose you have every right to be, given your age. Although your primary reason for being here is to work, I’d be happy to make sure you do some sightseeing in our beautiful capital city. What do you say we arrange a visit to the city’s most exclusive shopping centre after work tomorrow? Unfortunately I won’t be able to join you, but I’m sure you’ll manage with the guide I’ll put at your disposal.’
By ‘most exclusive shopping centre’, the Supreme Leader meant the city’s only shopping centre.
Visiting department stores? That was more than Allan needed. But it seemed like a good idea to play along, so Julius could stop looking so tormented. ‘That’s a kind thought,’ he said. ‘Sounds relaxing in every way, after a long day in the laboratory. I don’t suppose we could borrow a coin or two? In all our haste we didn’t bring anything with us but a few bottles of champagne, and unfortunately those are gone.’
Kim Jong-un said that Karlsson and his friend shouldn’t worry about the cost. If they found a souvenir or two to take home, they should consider it a gift.
When it came to the peace project, Karlsson could have six days in the lab. Time limits tended to promote creativity. Upon proven results, the Supreme One promised both a medal of valour and a first-class ticket home to Switzerland.
Julius still didn’t dare to say anything, not after the failed attempt in the Supreme Leader’s office.
Allan, however, was beyond daring. ‘A lot can be accomplished in six days. If only I manage to stay alive … I’ve been frail for a pretty long time. The last thirty or forty years, really. I suppose I’m singing my last refrain, as they say. Of course, Noah lived to be nine hundred and fifty. The difference is that I’m real.’
‘Who?’ said Kim Jong-un.
‘Noah. From the Bible. Exciting literature. Oh, but wait, what am I saying? I suppose you haven’t read it, because you would have had to execute yourself, if I’ve understood your laws correctly.’
Was this bloody Swiss man bringing up the Bible – a forbidden book – during dinner in the Palace of the People’s Republic? Now he had crossed a line.
But Margot Wallström came to his rescue. She broke in and thanked the Supreme Leader for the opportunity to meet in private.
Kim Jong-un nodded, even though he hadn’t promised any such thing. ‘Tomorrow I’m busy with important matters, but lunch the day after might work. And then you may leave, Madame Wallström. Go home and tell them that the world’s leading expert in nuclear weapons is in my hands. That ought to prompt some humility in America. If that characteristic even exists there.’
Margot Wallström took an extra large sip of her replenished wine to calm her nerves as she wondered what would happen if someone were to let Kim Jong-un and Benjamin Netanyahu into the same room. Monumental lack of humour and self-awareness against monumental lack of humour and self-awareness. All that would be missing was Donald Trump as a mediator.
* * *
Julius chewed Allan’s ear off all the way from the palace to the hotel. Why on earth had he quarrelled with the Supreme Leader like that?
‘Quarrelled? When has anyone died from a little honesty?’
‘Here people have dropped like flies from honesty over the years! Where’s the sense in it if we do the same?’
Allan allowed that he didn’t see any sense in that particular result. ‘But, please, can you stop worrying about every tiny thing? This will all work out for the best, you’ll see.’
‘How the hell do you expect it to work out? After tonight he’ll never let us go!’
‘He wouldn’t have anyway. I have no intention of helping that chatterbox more than necessary. When that dawns on him, it’ll be best if we’ve left the country. Preferably in the company of that briefcase he’s so proud of.’
‘And how do you intend for us to disappear?’
‘With the help of that charming Swedish minister for foreign affairs, of course. Have you already forgotten?’
‘In greater detail, Allan.’
‘Detail, schmetail.’
* * *
Margot Wallström took her limousine straight from the half-surreal dinner at the Supreme Leader’s palace to the Swedish embassy to start the process of producing passports. It wasn’t as simple as cobbling together a passport or two at the embassy. Sweden was Sweden and rules were rules.
The chief of the Swedish passport police wasn’t happy about the call from Pyongyang. He wavered and balked and wavered some more, with a series of formal objections to the minister’s request that he produce two diplomatic passports in extremely dubious accordance with the
rules. He said he didn’t understand how the minister could put him on this sort of spot.
It would never do, of course, for Margot Wallström to explain that she had two Swedes to smuggle out of North Korea in the interest of averting a third world war, so she decided to change tack. Thus she informed the chief of the passport police that there was no need for him to understand what he was doing: the important thing was that he did as she said. When the chief of the passport police responded by wondering once more if the minister was seriously suggesting he falsify signatures and produce passports for two people no one at the passport office in Stockholm had even met, she responded with a simple ‘Yes.’ And ‘Diplomatic passports, as I said.’
‘Diplomatic passports perhaps, but as for the rest …’
‘As for the rest, either you do as I say or you do as I say. If necessary I can ask the prime minister to call you and repeat the request. If that’s not enough, I have contacts in the royal court. The king could give you a ring, if you like. And the speaker. Whom else would you like to hear from? Secretary General Guterres?’
The chief of the passport police fell silent. What did the king have to do with this?
‘Please, Mr Passport Police Chief. There’s not much time. The lives of Swedish citizens are at stake. And more lives than that.’
At last he went along with her request, given that it would also be sent in writing along with the electronic transmission of photographs and signatures.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Minister for Foreign Affairs Wallström. ‘But the passports must be produced at once and sent by diplomatic courier to Pyongyang within the hour.’
‘Within the hour? But it’s almost lunchtime.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
USA
‘What the hell?’ said President Trump, to National Security Advisor H. R. McMaster, who had just replaced National Security Advisor Michael T. Flynn, who had, of course, turned out to be a security risk.
The issue was that Fox had just put up a clip from a so-called press conference in North Korea, and Breitbart News had followed up with an article on the same topic. And with that, the president knew all that was worth knowing about the issue, except for the whole situation as such.
That bitch Wallström from Sweden had nagged her way to a secret meeting with Kim Jong-something in … whatever the capital of North Korea was called. And then she’d stood up next to him on North Korean TV! How stealthy did she think that made her, that goddamn nutcase? And as if that wasn’t enough, she had hugged, on live TV, a Swiss Communist who was there to upgrade the North Korean nuclear weapons programme.
‘Well,’ said Lieutenant General McMaster. ‘She didn’t hug the Swiss Communist. Breitbart might have been mistaken on that point.’
The president waved away the security advisor’s comment. He would have to twist that Wallström’s nose when she got back, but who was the Communist she’d hugged?
‘Didn’t hug, as I said.’
President Trump spent some moments swearing about the self-righteous Swiss before he realized he should give them a call. He picked up the phone and ordered his secretary to get him a line to the president of Switzerland on the double.
‘And find out his name while you’re at it,’ he said to the secretary, who said his name was Doris Leuthard and, given the first name, was likely a she. ‘Another bitch? You can bet your ass on it. Well, come on, make the call!’
‘It’s two in the morning in Europe, sir,’ said the secretary.
‘Good,’ said President Trump.
Switzerland, USA
It had been a hectic day for President Leuthard. Which had turned into a hectic evening and night. She forced herself to go to bed just after one o’clock, in the hopes of being somewhat well rested by six o’clock the next morning.
She was able to sleep for forty-five minutes before she was woken by her assistant. There was an incoming call from the White House in Washington.
Doris Leuthard stood up, feeling dizzy, but prepared herself. When the President of the United States calls, you don’t just flip your pillow over and go back to sleep.
‘Good morning, Mr President,’ said Doris Leuthard. ‘… Did you wake me? Oh, no, no worries.’
‘Great,’ said President Trump. ‘Because it’s night already in Zürich, isn’t it?’
Yes, President Leuthard could confirm that to be the case. Just as it was in Berne, where she was. But, anyway, why did he wish to speak with her?
Doris Leuthard posed the question and anticipated the answer. Ever since the previous afternoon, the federation she represented had been astonished and appalled that an unknown compatriot seemed to be in Pyongyang. Ever since, she and her Federal Council had been working intensively with their own intelligence service and its networks to find out what was going on.
It turned out that President Trump preferred to shout at his Swiss colleague rather than speak to her. He asked what they were doing and whether she realized the challenge she was giving the United States by initiating a collaboration on nuclear weapons with North Korea. This was completely at odds with the sanctions against the country the EU had ratified.
When Doris Leuthard spent a little too much time drawing a breath before responding, Donald Trump went on to say that he would make sure the EU kicked Switzerland out of the union unless she immediately withdrew all aid to that fool over there.
Now President Leuthard had no idea where to begin. How many mistakes could a presidential colleague make in such a short time?
‘Well, Switzerland isn’t a member of the EU, so it will be hard for you to kick us out, Mr President. Beyond that, I’m not sure your presidential powers extend so far that it can rearrange the European Union’s roster of member states. Incidentally, the sanctions against North Korea are regulated by the UN, and we are a member there. If you’d like to alter that, I’ll have to ask you to call and wake up Secretary General Guterres instead.’
‘But you said you weren’t asleep,’ said President Trump.
Doris Leuthard had enough presence of mind not to get into a conversation with the President of the United States about whether or not she had been asleep at two in the morning. Instead she said she sympathized with his worries. ‘We have no idea who the alleged Swiss man is, but it’s something we’re working intensively to find out. I assure you.’
‘You’d better be,’ said President Trump. ‘And you’ll have to do more than that. The moment you know something, you call me immediately. Is that understood?’
President Leuthard had already been tired; after two minutes on the phone with the American president she was exhausted. ‘When we know, we will take the proper measures. What those may be will have to be dictated by the circumstances. I cannot promise, but neither can I rule out, that I will inform you personally, especially now that you have expressed a wish thereof. The Swiss Confederation does, however, retain the right to come to its own decisions regarding national security.’
President Trump hung up without saying goodbye. He muttered as he logged into Breitbart.com to see if the Swiss knew more than their president wanted to admit. But not even Breitbart seemed to have an ear close enough to the ground.
While Donald Trump was conversing with the terrible woman in Switzerland, two things happened outside his door. Retired CIA agent Ryan Hutton had called the White House and managed, via a few detours, to be transferred to National Security Advisor McMaster. Agent Hutton was almost eighty years old, but claimed he still had both intellect and vision intact. If the lieutenant general wished, Hutton could tell him who the Swiss nuclear-weapons expert in Pyongyang was.
‘Please do,’ said H. R. McMaster.
Well, first off, the Swiss man in question was Swedish and nothing else. His name was Allan Karlsson and he had to be close to a hundred years old by now; during the seventies and eighties he’d been a paid agent of the United States, stationed in Moscow; he’d spent the fifties in a Soviet gulag in Siberia after he had, laudably enough, chall
enged Stalin. Prior to this he had been awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom for his pivotal achievements in the building of the world’s first atomic bomb.
‘Another Swede?’ was President Trump’s first comment. ‘How many of them are there? What is wrong with that country?’
‘He did receive the Medal of Freedom, Mr President.’
‘Sixty years ago, sure. He’s had plenty of time to forget what freedom is. What the hell else would he be doing in Pee-oy … Pyong … P …’
‘Pyongyang, sir. We don’t know. The fact is, we know no more than what was said at the press conference, plus these new pieces of the puzzle from former CIA Agent Hutton.’
‘Two Swedes and a North Korean. That makes three Communists in a row,’ said President Trump. ‘Get that fucking Wallström over here right now, before Sweden takes over the whole world. Was there anything else? I want some peace and quiet for a while.’
Yes, the security advisor had one more thing. It so happened that the NSA had bugged a hotel in Pyongyang. Since the hotel had hardly any guests, there wasn’t much to overhear, but apparently they had just had a hit. There seemed to be regular transports into North Korea of something with the code name ‘asparagus’. The number five hundred million figured somehow. Dollars, one had to presume.
President Trump liked asparagus and was blissfully unaware that the most exclusive variety, served at his many US hotels, was imported from Sweden. The brand was ‘Gustav Svensson’.
‘Five hundred million dollars for asparagus?’ said President Trump. ‘It’s not that good. Find out what that’s code for.’
North Korea
Allan and Julius met Minister for Foreign Affairs Wallström in the breakfast room before the friends’ first workday in the plutonium factory north of Pyongyang.