‘One suggestion is to call the one with a pistol “the idiot”,’ said Holger Two, feeling a certain amount of satisfaction at having said it out loud.
‘Holger and the Idiot . . . yes, that might work,’ said the king.
‘No one calls my Holger an idiot!’ said Celestine.
‘Why not?’ said Nombeko.
The prime minister felt that it was in no one’s best interests for a fight to break out, so he hurried to praise Holger for having put away the weapon, which led Nombeko to elucidate the prevailing balance of power for everyone.
‘If we catch Holger, the one we don’t call an idiot when his girlfriend is listening but are welcome to otherwise, and tie him to a tree – then the risk is that his girlfriend will set off the bomb instead. And if we tie her to a tree next to the first one, who knows what the girl’s grandmother will think to do with her moose-hunting rifle.’
‘Gertrud,’ the king said approvingly.
‘I’ll have you know that if you touch my little Celestine, bullets will fly in every direction!’ said Gertrud.
‘Well, there you go,’ said Nombeko. ‘We don’t need the pistol. I even got the idiot to realize that a while ago.’
‘Dinner’s ready,’ said Gertrud.
On the menu was chicken casserole, home-brewed beer and the hostess’s own special blend of schnapps. People could help themselves to casserole and beer, but Gertrud would handle the schnapps. Everyone got his own glass, including the feebly protesting prime minister. Gertrud filled them to the rim and the king rubbed his hands:
‘A little bird told me that the chicken will be delicious. But now let’s see about the rest of it.’
‘Cheers, King,’ said Gertrud.
‘What about the rest of us?’ said Celestine.
‘Cheers to the rest of you, too, of course.’
And she drained her glass. The king and Holger Two followed her example. The others sipped theirs more tentatively, except for Holger One, who couldn’t bring himself to drink to the king, and the prime minister, who poured his schnapps into a geranium when no one was looking.
‘Why, it’s Marshal Mannerheim!’ the king said approvingly.
No one but Gertrud knew what he was talking about.
‘Splendid, King!’ she said. ‘Might one tempt the king with another? After all, a person can’t stand on one leg.’
Holger One and Celestine felt increasingly troubled by Gertrud’s delight in the man who was meant to abdicate. And who was, moreover, sitting there in a bloody dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves instead of a uniform jacket. One didn’t like not catching on, even though he was quite used to it.
‘What’s going on?’ he said.
‘What just happened was that your friend the king recognized the world’s most excellent drink,’ said Gertrud.
‘He’s not my friend,’ said Holger One.
* * *
Gustaf Mannerheim was no bluff of a man. After all, he had served in the tsar’s army for several decades, travelling around Europe and Asia by horse.
So when Communism and Lenin took over Russia, he went back home to Finland, which was free, and became a commissioned officer and eventually president. He was designated Finland’s greatest soldier of all time, receiving orders and distinctions from all over the world – and on him was conferred the unique title of Marshal of Finland.
Marskens sup, or ‘the Marshal’s shot’, came into being during the Second World War. It was one part aquavit, one part vodka, a splash of gin and two splashes of vermouth. The drink became a classic.
The first time the Swedish king had enjoyed it was on a state visit to Finland more than thirty years earlier, when he had been king for just over a year.
Twenty-eight years old, nervous and with trembling knees, he had been received by the experienced Finnish president Kekkonen, himself a bit older than seventy. With the prerogative of age, Kekkonen had immediately decided that the king needed to get something inside his chest, which was already so heavy with medals, and after that the rest of the visit went swimmingly. A Finnish president doesn’t serve any old drink; it had to be marskens and thus was born a lifelong love between king and schnapps, while the king and Kekkonen became hunting pals.
The king emptied his second schnapps, smacked his lips, and said, ‘I see that the prime minister’s glass is empty. Shouldn’t he have a refill, too? By the way, hang up your jacket. Your shoes are covered in mud anyway. And it goes halfway up your legs, I see.’
The prime minister apologized for his appearance. In the light of what he now knew, of course, he ought to have arrived at the palace for the gala banquet in overalls and rubber boots. And he added that he preferred to refrain from drinking; anyway, it seemed that the king was drinking for them both.
Fredrik Reinfeldt didn’t know how he should tackle his carefree king. On the one hand, the head of state probably ought to take this exceedingly complicated situation seriously and shouldn’t just sit there drinking buckets of alcohol (in the prime minister’s moderate eyes, two glasses was about as much as a bucket).
On the other hand, the king seemed to be creating confusion among the revolutionary republican ranks around the table. The prime minister had registered the whispering between the man with the pistol and his girlfriend. Clearly, something was bothering them. The king, of course. But not in the same way that he was bothering the prime minister. And not, as it seemed, in that simple, down-with-the-monarchy way that had probably been the start of it all.
Something was up, anyway. And maybe if he just left the king alone, they would find out what it was. It would be impossible to stop him anyway.
He was the king, after all!
* * *
Nombeko was the first to empty her plate. She had been twenty-five before she’d eaten until she was full for the first time, at the expense of President Botha, and since then she had taken advantage of every chance she got to do so.
‘Is it possible to have seconds?’
It was. Gertrud was pleased that Nombeko was pleased with the food. Gertrud was pleased in general, it seemed. It was as if the king had touched her soul. With something.
Himself.
Marshal Mannerheim.
Or his shot.
Or a bit of everything.
Whatever it was, it might be a good thing. Because if the king and Gertrud together managed to confuse the coup-makers, the latter’s idea of what must happen next would become muddy.
A spanner in the works, as it was called.
Nombeko would very much have liked to talk strategy with the king, the topic of which would be that he should continue digging around in the Mannerheim regions, but she couldn’t reach him: he was absorbed in their hostess, and vice versa.
His Majesty had an ability that the prime minister lacked: he could take pleasure in the present moment, quite regardless of external threats. The king enjoyed Gertrud’s company, and he was sincerely curious about the old woman.
‘Gertrud, what is your relationship with the marshal and Finland, if you’ll excuse my curiosity?’ he said.
This was the exact question that Nombeko had wanted to hear answered but had been unable to ask.
Good, King! Are you that clever? Or did we just get lucky?
‘My relationship to the marshal and Finland? Oh, the king doesn’t want to know that,’ said Gertrud.
Of course you do, King!
‘Of course I do,’ said the king.
‘It’s a long story,’ said Gertrud.
We have plenty of time!
‘We have plenty of time,’ said the king.
‘Do we?’ said the prime minister, and received an angry look from Nombeko.
This doesn’t involve you!
‘It begins in 1867,’ said Gertrud.
‘The year the marshal was born.’ The king nodded.
You’re a genius, King!
‘Oh, the king is so clever!’ said Gertrud. ‘The year the marshal was born, that’s exactly righ
t.’
Nombeko thought that the description of Gertrud’s family tree was as great a botanical contradiction as the first time she’d heard it. But her story had not lessened the king’s good humour in the least. He had, after all, once failed maths at Sigtuna Allmänna Läroverk. Perhaps that was because he hadn’t managed to calculate that barons, false or not, do not generate countesses.
‘So she’s a countess!’ he said appreciatively.
‘She is?’ said the prime minister, who was better at calculating, and who received yet another angry look from Nombeko.
There was certainly something about the king that was weighing on Holger One and Celestine. It was just a bit hard to put a finger on it. Was it his bloody shirt? The rolled-up sleeves? The gold cuff links the king had placed in an empty shot glass on the kitchen table for the time being? His disgustingly medal-covered uniform jacket hanging on a hook on the henhouse wall?
Or merely that the king had just chopped the heads off three chickens?
Kings don’t chop the heads off chickens!
For that matter, prime ministers don’t pick potatoes (at least not in a tailcoat) but, above all, kings don’t chop the heads off chickens.
While One and Celestine worked through this appalling contradiction, the king managed to make things even worse. He and Gertrud walked into the potato field, and then to the old tractor, which of course the group no longer needed, and that was good, because it didn’t work anyway. Gertrud described the problem to her king, who replied that the MF35 was a little peach, and one had to pamper it to get it to work. And then he suggested cleaning the diesel filter and the spraying nozzle. If there was just some juice left in the battery, it would probably rumble to life after that.
Diesel filter and spraying nozzle? Kings don’t fix tractors.
Dinner was over. After coffee and a private walk to take a look at the MF35, the king and Gertrud returned for one last Mannerheim together.
Meanwhile, Prime Minister Reinfeldt cleared the table and cleaned up the kitchen. In order to avoid dirtying his tailcoat more than was necessary, he put on the countess’s apron.
Holger One and Celestine sat whispering in a corner, while his brother and Nombeko did the same in another corner. They talked about how the situation looked and what their next strategic move ought to be.
That was when the door flew open. In came an older man with a pistol. He bellowed in English that everyone should stay where they were, and not make any sudden moves.
‘What’s happening?’ said Fredrik Reinfeldt, dish-scrubbing brush in hand.
Nombeko answered the prime minister in English. She told the truth: the Israeli Mossad had just barged into the house with the aim of commandeering the atomic bomb in the potato truck.
CHAPTER 21
On a lost composure and a twin who shoots his brother
Thirteen years is a long time to spend behind a desk without anything sensible to do. But at any rate, Agent B had finished the last day of his career. He was sixty-five years and nine days old. Nine days earlier, he had been sent off with almond cake and speeches. Since the speech from his boss was lovely but insincere, the almond cake tasted bitter.
After one week of retirement, he had made up his mind. He packed his bags to go to Europe. To Sweden.
He had always been bothered by the case of the cleaning woman who had disappeared with the bomb that had been honestly stolen by Israel, and the feeling seemed to have followed him into old age.
Who was she? Beyond her thievery, she had probably killed his friend A. Former Agent B didn’t know what was spurring him on. But if something is bothersome, that’s it.
He ought to have had more patience at that PO box in Stockholm. And he ought to have checked Celestine Hedlund’s grandmother. If only he had been allowed to.
That was a long time ago now. And the clue hadn’t been much of a clue to start with. But still. Former Agent B’s first plan was to travel to the forest north of Norrtälje. If that didn’t result in anything, he would stake out that post office for at least three weeks.
After that, perhaps he could retire for real. He would still wonder, and never find out. But at least he would feel that he had done all he could. Losing to a superior opponent was bearable. But giving up before the final whistle had been blown wasn’t. Michael Ballack never would have done that. Incidentally, the two-footed star of FC Karl-Marx-Stadt had made it all the way to the national team, and become captain.
B landed at Arlanda Airport. There he hired a car and drove straight to Celestine Hedlund’s grandmother’s house. He had thought the house would probably be empty, boarded up – or maybe that was what he was hoping to find. After all, the main goal of this trip was to bring the agent peace of mind, not to find a bomb that wouldn’t let itself be found anyway.
At any rate, there was a potato truck in the road just outside the grandmother’s house – and all the lights were on! Why was it there? What could it contain?
The agent climbed out, sneaked up to the truck, looked into the back of it, and – it was as if time stood still. The crate with the bomb was in there! Just as scorched at the corners as last time.
Since the world appeared to have gone crazy, he checked to see if the keys were in the ignition. But he wasn’t that lucky. He would have to confront them inside the house after all, whoever they might be. An eighty-year-old woman, certainly. Her grandchild. The grandchild’s boyfriend. And the goddamn fucking cleaning woman. Anyone else? Well, maybe the unknown man who had been spotted in the Blomgrens’ car that time outside the burned-down buildings on Fredsgatan in Gnesta.
Agent B picked up the service weapon he just happened to have packed with his things on the day he retired, and cautiously tested the doorknob. It was unlocked. He just had to step in.
* * *
Fredrik Reinfeldt (with dish-scrubbing brush in hand) had blurted out his question about what was happening. Nombeko answered him in English and told the truth: that the Israeli Mossad had just barged into the house with the aim of commandeering the atomic bomb in the potato truck. And maybe, while he was at it, killing one or two of the people in the room. In that regard, she believed that she herself was of immediate interest.
‘The Israeli Mossad?’ said the prime minister (also in English). ‘What right does the Israeli Mossad have to wave weapons around in my Sweden?’
‘My Sweden,’ the king corrected him.
‘Your Sweden?’ Agent B heard himself say, looking back and forth between the man with the apron and the dish-scrubbing brush and the man on the sofa with the bloody shirt and empty schnapps glass in hand.
‘I am Prime Minister Fredrik Reinfeldt,’ said the prime minister.
‘And I am King Carl XVI Gustaf,’ said the king. ‘The prime minister’s boss, one might say. And this is Countess Virtanen, the hostess of this gathering.’
‘Why, I’m much obliged,’ the countess said with pride.
Fredrik Reinfeldt was almost as upset as he had been a few hours earlier in the potato truck when he realized that he had been kidnapped.
‘Put down your weapon at once. Otherwise I will call Prime Minister Olmert and ask what is going on. I presume you are acting on his orders?’
Agent B stood where he was, struck by something that could be compared to a brain fart. He didn’t know which was worst: that the man with the apron and the dish-scrubbing brush claimed to be the prime minister, that the man with the bloody shirt and the schnapps glass claimed to be the king, or the fact that Agent B thought they both looked familiar. They were the prime minister and the king. In a house in the middle of the forest, beyond the end of the road in Swedish Roslagen.
An agent of the Israeli Mossad never loses his composure. But Agent B was in the process of doing just that. He lost his composure. He lowered his weapon. He put it back in the holster inside his jacket. And he said:
‘May I have something to drink?’
‘Such luck that we haven’t put the bottle away yet,’ said G
ertrud.
Agent B took a seat next to the king and was immediately served the marshal’s shot. He drained his glass, gave a shudder and gratefully accepted another round.
Before Prime Minister Reinfeldt had time to commence the shower of questions he had for the intruder, Nombeko turned to Agent B and suggested that the two of them should tell boss Reinfeldt and his boss the king exactly what had happened. From Pelindaba on. Agent B nodded numbly.
‘You start,’ he said, showing Countess Virtanen that the glass in his hand was empty again.
So Nombeko started. The king and the prime minister had already heard the short version while they were locked up in the back of the truck with the bomb. This time she went into greater detail. The prime minister listened intently as he wiped the kitchen table and the counter. The king listened, too, from his spot on the kitchen sofa next to the very delightful countess, with the less-delightful agent on his other side.
Nombeko started in Soweto, then moved on to Thabo’s diamonds and how she got run over in Johannesburg. The trial. The verdict. The engineer and his passion for Klipdrift. Pelindaba and all its electric fences. The South African nuclear weapons programme. The Israeli involvement.
‘I cannot confirm that,’ said Agent B.
‘Watch it,’ said Nombeko.
Agent B considered. It was all over for him anyway. Either by way of life in a Swedish prison or by way of the prime minister making a call to Ehud Olmert. The agent preferred life in prison.
‘I have changed my mind,’ he said. ‘I can confirm that.’
As the story went on, he had to confirm more than that. The interest in the seventh bomb, the one that didn’t exist. The agreement with Nombeko. The idea of using the diplomatic post. Agent A’s initial hunt when the mix-up was discovered.
‘What happened to him, by the way?’ said Agent B.
‘He landed in the Baltic Sea in a helicopter,’ said Holger One. ‘Rather hard, I’m afraid.’
Nombeko went on. About Holger & Holger. Fredsgatan. The Chinese girls. The potter. The tunnel. The National Task Force’s intervention. How the force waged several hours’ worth of war with itself.