Then the chief legal officer took over. The legal officer, of all people, who had hardly opened his mouth during all these years, thought Berg, and from the papers that he started to shuffle and from what he then said, Berg understood two things. That he of course was not one to speak unprepared, and that he must have a very large bone to pick with Berg and his operation.
“To summarize,” said the legal officer with a crackling-dry voice and as though he were addressing a child, “the business-enterprise element of the external operation is not in accord with the instructions of the government. Quite apart from the entire construction, it must be considered utterly dubious as an instrument of control.”
“When this came up the first time during the previous administration,” Berg objected, “I was of the distinct impression that they were completely in agreement with us that it was only a question of a cover in order to protect the actual operation. And as you gentlemen perhaps recall, we also briefed our parliamentary committee.”
From their facial expressions Berg could tell that they didn’t share the previous administration’s understanding of the matter, and that none of them had any memory of any information from their time in opposition.
“Because you’ve done business with both private and public clients, it is quite obviously a question of a business operation in the legal sense, and thereby inconsistent with your instructions,” the legal officer repeated.
“Well,” said Berg, swearing to himself about how compliant he sounded, “but that’s of course in the very nature of the matter. How else would we be able to maintain a credible front?”
“It sounds as if it’s high time to close up shop,” chuckled the prime minister’s special adviser behind his half-closed eyelids. “I have a vague recollection that you and I talked about this previously, by the way.”
So that’s how it is, thought Berg.
“It’s naturally regrettable that the previous administration’s attorneys didn’t pay attention to this little complication,” the legal adviser stated contentedly. “If you had asked me I would have been able to enlighten you on the fact that the entire arrangement was unthinkable from the start.”
“Naturally we’re not demanding that you immediately close the whole thing down,” said the minister of justice amiably. “The control function naturally must remain, and we understand fully that you may need a certain transition period in order to find a… how shall I put it… a more correct legal form for the whole thing.”
“By Monday would be good,” said the special adviser, laughing so that his fat belly bounced.
“Oh well,” said the minister of justice sourly, because it was he who actually had a seat in the government, and he had the right to demand a little good manners even from the prime minister’s confidant. “You surely need a little longer, but if we might get your thoughts on how such an oversight should be set up by the next meeting or perhaps even the following meeting then I’ll be completely satisfied.” The minister of justice nodded affably.
How generous of you, thought Berg. Not enough that I’m expected to cut off my right arm myself. I also have to decide where, when, and how it should be done. Provided that it goes quickly, of course.
It was at that point that he decided to try a different angle of attack, and afterward he deeply regretted having done so. He ought to have understood better, he thought. This was something they must have prepared with all the precision required for a successful ambush.
“I have heard it suggested,” Berg began hesitantly and carefully, “that the government is planning a new parliamentary oversight of the entire closed operation… and it would be far from me to have any opinions about that,” he continued just as carefully as he’d begun, “but am I to understand from what you are now saying that you have abandoned the idea of a more comprehensive inspection?”
“Certainly not,” said the minister of justice, sounding just as jovial as if it was an ordinary present that was going to be given out. “Certainly not,” he repeated. “When we discussed the matter at the higher governmental level, we were only in agreement on the fact that it would be advantageous to deal with this question in particular before we set to work on the somewhat broader oversight.”
“We don’t want to embarrass the opposition,” the special adviser clarified with his usual wry grin.
“Not at any price, certainly not,” emphasized the minister with a cordial voice. “Let others score such crude political points.”
So there’s no help to be had, thought Berg. Wonder how many they’ve talked with?
“I will put together a proposal as quickly as is possible,” he said, nodding curtly. “If there’s nothing else, then…”
He understood by their satisfied head shaking that they all thought he’d gotten as much as he could tolerate for one occasion.
…
Despite repeated attempts, Waltin hadn’t gotten hold of Hedberg. After the shocking attack he’d been subjected to by that fat red-haired stuffed sow and Berg’s deplorable nephew-actually he ought to report him, but justice would have to be tempered with mercy, and first he wanted to discuss the problem with Hedberg, who always used to have good ideas when it was a matter of retaliating with interest-he’d felt anxious and phoned Hedberg on his secret number far into the night. The phone had rung and rung, but no one had answered, and finally he’d gone to bed after a few stiff malt whiskeys.
The explanation for Hedberg’s absence came in the mail the next morning. On the hallway mat below the mail slot lay a single postcard: blue sky and blue sea, white sand and green palms. When he turned over the card and saw the only word written there he understood exactly: “Diving,” read Waltin, smiling. Hedberg was clearly at his favorite place, devoting himself to his favorite hobby, and just like all the times before he would soon return from Java to relative civilization and his little house on northern Mallorca, where he’d settled many years ago when he’d had enough both of his fatherland and of the secret police he’d worked for.
Hedberg, thought Waltin, nodding with approval as he always did every time he thought about the brother that his constantly sick little mama had denied him, and when he did so this time he suddenly got a totally brilliant idea how he might use him to shut his deplorable and clearly paranoid boss up. For it was of course Berg who had supported Hedberg that time almost ten years ago when those lunatics at the Stockholm Police Department’s assault unit were after him like a pack of howling bloodhounds. We all have a history, and I’ll see to it that you don’t run away from this one, thought Waltin contentedly.
It must have been almost ten years ago, thought Waltin. Those so-called detectives in Stockholm wanted to get Hedberg for a post-office robbery and two murders. The whole story was absolutely absurd and obviously quite worthy of police thinkers like that Norrland tramp Johansson and his violence-worshipping best friend, Jarnebring, who were the ones who’d let the pack loose.
First Hedberg supposedly slipped away from a bodyguard assignment, where he was guarding the minister of justice while the latter was screwing a slightly more high-class prostitute to exhaustion, and took the opportunity to rob a post office not far from the security object’s love nest. Then he supposedly killed two witnesses who recognized him and wanted to extort money from him. True, he’d only run over the first one with his car, but the other one he’d killed in a rather more old-fashioned and honest way, dumping the body out at the Forest Cemetery. An ordinary old bum, so that was no doubt both pious and practical, but the peasant police had persisted anyway, even though it would have been best for all concerned just to bury the wretch and forget the whole thing. They were going to get Hedberg and that was that.