“Krassner is history,” said Berg, making an effort to sound as though it really was that way, “so I don’t think we even need to think about that. Do you think you can get a preliminary study to the meeting with them next week?”
“Of course, no problem at all,” said Waltin courteously, and then they moved on to talk about other things. Berg was almost preoccupied and looked as though he needed a long vacation, which suited Waltin just fine.
When he came out of the police building after the meeting with Berg he was in such a good mood that, despite the cold, he decided to walk down to the city center, where he could meet completely normal people who wanted him to help them increase the security of their economic operation and were willing to pay for it. He hadn’t even left the block before one of the Stockholm Police Department’s riot-squad vans glided up alongside him. Next to the driver sat Berg’s retarded nephew, and the only reasonable interpretation of this was that he and his simian friends had been let off on all the complaints and had now gone back to duty. Young Berg sat with the window rolled down and his burly arm supported against the door frame, and the cold was unlikely to be the reason he was also wearing black leather gloves. And because Waltin was a civilized person he was finally compelled to say something.
“Is there something I can help you gentlemen with?” said Waltin without slowing his pace.
“Just checking that everything’s calm,” said Berg. “Trying to maintain general order and security.”
“Feels reassuring to hear that we’re on the same side,” said Waltin, congratulating himself for his imperturbability.
“Makes us happy too,” said Berg, suddenly sounding as sullen as a child. “We haven’t always had that impression.”
It was then that Waltin got his idea. A pure impulse, for how in the name of heaven could psychopaths be able to injure him, and it was high time he made that clear to them.
Waltin just stopped, and because the driver hadn’t managed to put on the brakes he was forced to back up a yard before Berg again had eye contact with Waltin.
“It’s probably not me you should be worried about,” said Waltin lightly, glancing at his watch. “And if you gentlemen are going downtown anyway you can drive me to Norrmalmstorg,” he said. And you should certainly be careful about playing poker, thought Waltin when he saw the surprised shift in Berg’s expression. Of course he also waited until the driver jumped out and held open the door for him. It’s not just your uncle who can shut things down, thought Waltin as he climbed into the van.
When Berg arrived at the weekly meeting the special adviser wasn’t there. Berg glanced inquiringly at his empty seat as he sat down, and the minister of justice nodded with a worried expression.
“Unfortunately he had to run off,” said the minister. “It was a close friend of his who passed away. He sends greetings, by the way, and regrets that he couldn’t be here.”
Close friend of his, thought Berg, astonished. Wonder what such a person is made of? But naturally he hadn’t said that. Saying such a thing would probably be the last thing he’d do, he thought.
First he took up the ongoing survey of extreme right-wing elements within the police; he started by recounting the disturbing observations that Waltin had reported to him the day before.
“We unfortunately have encountered certain problems with our data collection,” said Berg cryptically.
“Is it the computers that are causing trouble again?” asked the minister without the slightest hidden motive.
“If it were only that good,” said Berg, shaking his head. “No, unfortunately it’s worse than that, I’m afraid.”
And when he’d said A he might just as well say B, he thought.
“A couple of our field agents, infiltrators, as certain people say, have expressed concern that they might be at risk of being unveiled, so we’ve been compelled to bring them home to the building and break off,” said Berg. “We must find some way to regroup before we can continue.”
“Good Lord,” said the minister with genuine concern. “There isn’t any risk that something will happen to them, is there?”
What would that be? thought Berg. We’re living in Sweden, after all, and it’s policemen we’re talking about. Both my own men and the ones they’re spying on.
“It probably needn’t turn out that badly,” said Berg soothingly.
“Nice to hear,” said the minister, appearing sincerely relieved.
Under the “remaining questions” point, and before they departed, Berg only let it be known that they were in the process of putting together the requested preliminary study about the external operation, giving it the highest priority, and that he counted on being able to submit it at the next meeting. The minister of justice seemed almost embarrassed as he said that, and the chief legal officer suddenly excused himself and took off.
“I believe perhaps our friend from the Cabinet Office expressed himself less well than he might have the last time we met,” said the minister, clearing his throat and casting a meaningful glance at the relevant person’s empty chair.
“Far be it from me to question either your viewpoints or your motives,” said Berg courteously. For I’m not that stupid, he thought.
“I haven’t thought that, either,” said the minister cordially, “but I have tried to speak with our mutual friend in order to get him to understand that this is such a complicated affair: It really is something that bears thinking about in peace and quiet. It’s not something you should be rash about, I mean.”
The minister leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Without being indiscreet,” he continued, “it was actually he who asked me for advice on a related matter, and so I also took the opportunity to say what I thought about this.”
I see, thought Berg. So that’s how it went.
“And I actually succeeded in convincing him,” said the minister contentedly.
“Nice to hear,” said Berg, despite the fact that the only thing he was really hearing were the alarm bells ringing in his own head.
“It will have to take the time it takes,” declared the minister with a confirming nod. “For me it will be just fine if we can clear this up sometime during the spring.”
What is it they’re really up to? thought Berg as he stepped out through the doors to Rosenbad. At an internal seminar they’d had at work, the lecturer had described something that was evidently called Anderson’s Confusion Strategy, after the American psychologist who had invented this method, which was dubious, to say the least. Evidently what the whole thing amounted to was that you continually sent contradictory messages to the person you were out to get, while at the same time oscillating between cordiality and threats. According to the lecturer, in a normal case it only required a rather small dose of this before the object was ready for both the pillbox and the straitjacket.
That can’t be what he’s up to, thought Berg, and the one he was thinking about was the prime minister’s special adviser. Although it’s clear. He’s certainly capable of most anything, thought Berg.
It was Forselius’s Polish cleaning woman who had found her employer. He was lying dead right inside his own front door when she opened it, and as she had studied medicine at the university in Lodz before she finally succeeded in getting from there to Sweden and the Swedish social home service, she had no problem at all with that. Forselius was dead; everything indicated that he had died rather recently and that he had probably suffered a stroke. In addition, as usual he was wearing his stained dressing gown and reeked of cognac.
His cleaning woman had dialed the telephone number she was supposed to dial if something happened and almost immediately a number of people had arrived. All of them men, all of them both friendly and taciturn, and one of them certainly also a doctor.