“All I have ever done is buy and sell,” Harderberg said patiently. “What happens before the goods come into my hands is no concern of mine. I don’t even know about it.”
Wallander was appalled. “I didn’t know people like you existed,” he said in the end.
Harderberg leaned quickly forward in his armchair. “That was a lie,” he said. “You know perfectly well such people exist. I’d go as far as to say that, deep down, you envy me.”
“You’re crazy,” Wallander said, making no attempt to conceal his disgust.
“Crazy with happiness, crazy with rage, yes, OK. But not plain crazy, Inspector. You have to understand that I’m a passionate human being. I love doing business, conquering a rival competitor, increasing my fortune, and never needing to deny myself anything. It’s possible that I’m a restless Flying Dutchman, always seeking something new. But more than anything else I’m a heathen in the correct sense of the word. Perhaps Inspector Wallander is familiar with the works of Machiavelli?”
Wallander shook his head.
“Christians, according to this Italian thinker, say the highest level of happiness is to be attained through humility, self-denial, and contempt for everything human. Heathens, on the other hand, see the highest level of goodness in mental greatness, bodily strength, and all the qualities that make human beings frightening. Wise words that I always do my best to live up to.”
Wallander said nothing. Harderberg looked at the two-way radio and then at his watch. It was 1 a.m. Wallander called Höglund, thinking that now he really had to work out how to convey his SOS. But yet again he told her that all was well, everything under control. She could expect him to be in touch again at 2 a.m.
Wallander made calls each hour through the night, but he could not get her to see that what he really wanted was for her to sound the alarm and send as many officers as possible to Farnholm. He had realized that they were alone in the castle, and that Harderberg was only waiting until dawn before leaving not just his castle but also his country, along with the still shadows in the background, the men who did his bidding and killed whomever he pointed a finger at. The only staff left were Sofia and the woman at the entrance gate. The secretaries had gone, all the ones Wallander had never seen. Perhaps they were already in another castle elsewhere, waiting for Harderberg?
The pain in Wallander’s head had eased, but he was very tired. He had come so far and now he knew the truth, but he felt that that was not enough. They would leave him at the castle, possibly tied up, and when eventually he was discovered or managed to free himself, they would be up in the clouds and away. What had been said during the night would be denied by the lawyers Harderberg employed to defend him. The men who had actually pointed the guns, the ones who had never crossed Sweden’s borders, would be no more than shadows against whom no prosecutor would be able to bring charges. They would never be able to prove anything, the investigation would crumble away through their fingers, and Harderberg would in the eyes of the world go on being a respectable citizen.
Wallander had the truth in his possession, he had even been told that Borman had been killed because he had discovered the link between Harderberg and the county council fraud. And thereafter they had not dared to take the risk that Gustaf Torstensson would start seeing things he should not see. He had, despite all their efforts to prevent it; but there again, it did not really matter. The truth would eventually consume itself, because the authorities would never be able to arrest anybody for this series of appalling crimes.
What Wallander would recall in the future, what would stay in his mind for a very long time to come as a horrifying reminder of what Harderberg was like, was something he said shortly before 5:00 that morning, when for some reason or another they had started talking about the plastic container again, and the people who were killed so that their body parts could be sold.
“You have to understand that it’s but a tiny part of my activities. It’s negligible, marginal. But it’s what I do, Inspector Wallander. I buy and sell. I’m an actor on the stage governed by market forces. I never miss an opportunity, no matter how small and insignificant it is.”
Human life is insignificant, then, Wallander had thought. That’s the premise on which Harderberg’s whole existence is based.
Then their discussions were over. Harderberg had turned off the computers, one after another, and disposed of some documents in a shredder. Wallander had considered running away, but the motionless shadows in the background had never left. He had to admit defeat.
Harderberg stroked the tips of his fingers over his lips, as if to check that his smile was intact. Then he looked at Wallander one last time.
“We all have to die,” he said, making it sound as if there were one exception: himself. “Even the span of a detective inspector has a limit. In this case, at my deciding.” He checked his watch before continuing. “It will shortly be dawn, even though it is still dark. Then a helicopter will land. My two assistants will board it, and so will you. But you will only be in it for a short time. Then you will have an opportunity to see if you can fly without mechanical aids.”
He never took his eyes off Wallander as he spoke. He wants me to beg for my life, Wallander thought. Well, he’s going to be disappointed. Once fear reaches a certain point, it is transformed and becomes its opposite. That’s one thing I’ve learned.
“Investigating the innate ability of human beings to fly was thoroughly researched during the unfortunate war in Vietnam,” Harderberg said. “Prisoners were dropped, but at a great height, for a brief moment, they recovered their freedom to move, until they crashed into the ground and became a part of the greatest freedom of all.” He stood up and buttoned his jacket. “My helicopter pilots are very skillful,” he said. “I think they’ll manage to drop you so that you land in Stortorget in Ystad. It will be an event recorded forever in the annals of the town’s history.”
He’s gone completely insane, Wallander thought.
“We must now go our different ways,” Harderberg said. “We have met twice. I think I shall remember you. There were moments when you came close to displaying acumen. In other circumstances I might have been able to find a place for you.”
“The postcard,” Wallander said. “The postcard Sten Torstensson somehow sent from Finland when he was actually with me in Denmark.”
“It amuses me to copy handwriting,” Harderberg said. “It could be said that I’m rather good at it. I spent a few hours in Helsinki the day young Torstensson was with you in Jutland. I had a meeting—not a successful one, I’m afraid—with senior people at Nokia. It was like a game, like sticking a twig into an anthill. A game where the aim is to cause confusion. That’s all.”
Harderberg held out his hand to Wallander, who was so amazed that he shook it.
Then he turned on his heel and was gone.
Harderberg dominated the whole room whenever he was present. Now that the door had closed behind him there was nothing left. Wallander thought he left a sort of vacuum behind him.
Tolpin was leaning against a pillar, watching Wallander. Obadia was sitting, staring straight ahead.
Wallander refused to believe that Harderberg had given orders for him to be thrown out of a helicopter above the center of Ystad. But he knew he would have to do something.
The minutes passed. Neither of the men moved.
So he was to be thrown out, alive, to plummet onto the rooftops, or possibly onto the pavement in Stortorget. Having to accept that led immediately to panic. It paralyzed him, spreading through his body like poison. He could hardly breathe. He tried desperately to think.
Obadia slowly raised his head. Wallander could hear the faint noise of an engine rapidly coming closer. The helicopter was on its way. Tolpin gestured that it was time to go.