Between Summer's Longing and Winter's End: The Story of a Crime

by Leif G. W. Persson

  Berg’s officers were all ambitious, meticulous, and hardworking. Those who weren’t he got rid of or placed in positions in his organization where their deficiencies could be of use for his overarching purposes, but still, sometimes it went wrong.

  At his last meeting with his superiors, most of the time had been devoted to discussing the disturbing reports collected by his group for the surveillance of the Kurds. This minister of justice was the latest in a line of ministers of justice, and was like his predecessors to the point of interchangeability in muddling their considerations.

  “This Kudo,” asked the minister of justice. “What kind of fellow is he? Kudo? It sounds foreign, almost African. Is the fellow African?”

  Then he would hardly have a first name like Werner, thought Berg, but he didn’t say so. Instead he shook his head politely.

  “Inspector Kudo is the head of the Kurdish group’s surveillance unit,” said Berg. “He’s the one who has compiled and written the report in question,” he explained.

  “Oh, I understand,” said the special adviser, raising his eyelids a millimeter. “That’s why he signed his name to it.”

  “I mean the name,” said the minister of justice, who didn’t give up so easily. “Kudo? Isn’t that African?”

  “I seem to recall that his father came here as a refugee from Estonia after the war,” said Berg. “Kudo. I think the name is actually Estonian.”

  “Personally I would say it’s an assumed name,” said the special adviser, his eyelids lowered and wearing his usual irritating smile. “Let us assume, purely hypothetically, that is,” he said and for some reason nodded at Berg, “that his father’s name was Kurt and his mother’s was Doris. So it became KuDo instead of Andersson. One ought to be grateful that he doesn’t spell it with a capital ‘D.’ Ku-Do,” said the special adviser with emphasis on both syllables, while for some reason he looked at the minister.

  “Exactly,” said the minister of justice and giggled. “For then I might well have thought he was Japanese. As in ‘judo,’ I mean,” he clarified, nudging the chief legal officer, who smiled politely without saying anything.

  “If this is important to you gentlemen I can of course check this out,” said Berg politely. One complete fool, one who never says anything, and one who isn’t in his right mind, thought Berg.

  “It would be just splendid if you could do that,” said the special adviser with exaggerated warmth in his voice. “I guess if necessary I can put up with the fact that the fellow can neither think nor write—what do we really have to choose from?—but I’m suspicious of types who change their names.”

  What is it you really want to say? thought Berg.

  A hidden message, thought Berg a few hours later. He was sitting behind his desk and had just finished reading Werner Kudo’s personal file. Born Werner Andersson, son of Kurt Andersson and his wife, Doris, née Svensson.

  Careless of me, thought Berg.

  It had been a very delicate task to recruit people to the Kurdish group. Finding people who were ambitious, meticulous, and hardworking and who at the same time could accept the ever more fantastic stories that their hard-pressed informants were delivering. Werner Kudo had fit like a hand in a glove since the day in the break room when, in utmost confidence, he had revealed to one of Berg’s secret informants within the operation that there were gnomes on the farm in Småland where he had grown up. Little homespun-clad fellows who kept a watchful eye on people, livestock, and buildings at his parental home, he explained while his colleague in the break room nodded encouragingly, listened eagerly, and made a mental note of every word.

  Also, it was Berg who had found the perfect partner for Kudo. His name was Christer Bülling—that name was also assumed, but because his birth name was Sprain the reason was self-explanatory. He had worked at the Solna police department’s planning group before Berg sank his claws into him. It was the Stockholm chief constable who had tipped him off. During a dinner he had talked about a younger colleague from Solna whom he had met during a meeting and who had made an indelible impression on him.

  “The most intelligent young man I’ve ever met; the others call him the Professor,” the chief constable had said by way of summary. This had immediately aroused Berg’s curiosity.

  Berg was a man possessing great knowledge. Among other things he knew that beauty tends to dwell in the eye of the beholder, and because he was also firmly convinced that the Stockholm chief constable was the most moronic police officer he had ever met, he had contacted Waltin the very next day and asked him to make a careful survey of Christer Bülling, alias the Professor.

  “Why is he called the Professor?” Berg had asked when he met Waltin a week later to go over the survey.

  “According to one of his first-grade classmates, it’s because he was the only one wearing glasses. He was also supposed to have horribly protruding ears and generally appeared a bit dopey,” Waltin had explained. “Personally I thought it was due to his grades,” he had continued, “but according to one of the psychologists we have here at the firm, children are just not capable of irony in the same way as adults.”

  “So he’s not exactly a genius,” Berg concluded.

  “Not exactly,” Waltin had said, and sighed. “If you want I can pull his test results when he enlisted. According to the psychologist—”

  “Forget about that,” Berg interrupted. “Do you have anything else?”

  “Bülling was exempt from fieldwork rather early. It was the company’s in-house physician who recommended it. He’s said to suffer from agoraphobia and has difficulty meeting people in general. Extremely taciturn, almost autistic.”

  “Not one to run around and talk a lot?” Berg asked.

  “No,” Waltin said with conviction. “On the other hand he’s almost obsessed with reading a lot of papers. That certainly fits in with his diagnosis, according to the doctor. It’s supposed to relieve anxiety for people like him. At the planning group they are very satisfied with him. He gets extraordinary ratings.”

  I can believe that, Berg thought, but he didn’t say that.

  “Is this someone you’re thinking of recruiting?” Waltin asked.

  “To the Kurd group, as head of investigation and analysis. What do you think of that?”

  Waltin nodded approvingly.

  “Kudo and Bülling.” Waltin savored the names. “They’re going to be a real radar unit. And besides, it’s a kind of radar we ordinary mortals lack.”

  Kudo and Bülling were turning into a problem. The whole Kurdish effort, in fact, was undoubtedly getting out of control, thought Berg, because the two of them took themselves and their assignment so damn seriously. They knew nothing about the real reason the group where they were now working had been set up, and they lacked any qualification for figuring out, on their own, how matters really stood. The most recent meeting with the minister of justice might have gone badly. Also, it was, remarkably enough, the minister of justice who had made the unpleasant discovery in the papers that Berg should have read more carefully.

  “I wonder about this secret monitoring,” said the minister.

  “Yes,” said Berg, looking at him with a neutral expression.

  “How is this really?” continued the minister. “I don’t find it in the legal text. Is it regulated in any of those secret statutes?”

  “If it’s telephone wiretapping you mean,” said Berg, “then it’s regulated by a special—”

  “No,” interrupted the minister and for once he sounded a bit irritated. “I don’t mean telephones. You don’t suppose they’re sitting in the same room talking to each other on the phone, do you? This must be some kind of concealed monitoring device. Right, like hiding a lot of microphones in the walls and ceiling and in furniture and God knows what.”

  “I see,” said Berg vaguely. “The legal situation is a little unclear, if I may say so. What do you say, Gustav?”

  Berg looked at the chief legal officer, who was looking down at his paper
s and didn’t seem particularly interested in delineating this particular legal situation.

  “I think Gustav is the right man,” urged Berg. “How many of us are there who have had the privilege of holding both the scales of justice and the sword of power in our hands?” he continued ingratiatingly, with a friendly look at his interlocutor.

  What the hell does that dreadful man mean? thought the chief legal officer, feeling a shudder pass through him. Is he trying to say something or what?

  He really looks strange, thought Berg. He’s seemed odd for quite some time now. It may be high time for a new little check.

  “Yes.” The chief legal office cleared his throat. “This is, as stated, an especially intricate question that the chief has brought up here, and in order to save time, I’d like to propose that we take this up after the meeting. I’m at your disposal as soon as the chief has time and so desires. But if I may say something very briefly”—he cleared his throat again before continuing—“then I’m without a doubt in total agreement with the chief that we’re faced with an especially complicated judicial matter.”

  The minister of justice looked as happy as when his first-grade teacher had pasted a gold star in his arithmetic book.

  “Yes, I suspected as much,” he said contentedly. “Now, where were we before I interrupted?”

  He had been lucky, at any rate, thought Berg when he was sitting in relative security behind his desk. The prime minister’s special adviser had not been present. He had reported a scheduling conflict one hour before the meeting. This, by the way, had been happening more and more often during the past year. Not that I mind, thought Berg.

  . . .

  The day after the chief legal officer had been appointed, the supreme commander’s secretary had called and asked when he would have time to visit the tailor.

  “Tailor?” asked the chief legal officer.

  “To be measured for the chief legal officer’s uniform,” explained the secretary.

  I don’t want a uniform, thought the chief legal officer with distaste, but before he managed to say so, the thought occurred to him that if the nation were to end up in a war, naval or otherwise, he would quite simply be compelled to wear a uniform. There were laws about that.

  He had not dared say anything to his wife. They had met at an organization for liberal attorneys a few years earlier and married the following year; to have a general in the house was in all likelihood not at the top of her marital wish list. However, one evening after a nice dinner as they were sitting in the music room enjoying an excellent recording of Mahler’s second symphony, he had screwed up his courage and told her the whole dreadful story.

  “Now, now, honey,” she said consolingly and patted him on the arm. “It’s not the end of the world, is it? Go upstairs and put it on, so I can see how you look. I promise not to start laughing.”

  She hadn’t laughed. Instead there was a strange gleam in her eyes and she looked at him in a way she had never done before. That was how it had started.

  The first time they played war. Because his mother-in-law was Norwegian and his wife spoke the language fluently, Sweden got to occupy Norway. It couldn’t be helped. At first he had the whole uniform on—well, not the shoes, of course, for he had kicked them off and that damn cap had tumbled off several times, but for the most part the whole uniform. It had been an exceptional experience. Then he had gone out on the balcony to collect himself and since he was there anyway, he had taken the opportunity to propose a toast to His Majesty the King, but then his wife came out and led him in again to continue negotiations for the occupation and to establish the final terms of peace, and then it had just gone on and on. Like in a dream, thought the chief legal officer. Up until now, thought the chief legal officer in distress. For now that horrid spy character Berg had evidently got on the trail of him and his wife.

  “What do we do now?” said the chief legal officer, looking mournfully at his wife. How beautiful she is, he thought. But everything that has a beginning must also have an end, he thought.

  “Never mind,” said his wife. “It’s not the end of the world, is it? There must be lots of uniforms that you can rent.”

  Didn’t think about that, thought the chief legal officer.

  “Is there anything in particular you’re thinking of,” he asked cautiously.

  “I’m considering becoming a nurse,” his wife said with an efficient and energetic gleam in her beautiful brown eyes. “How’s that, honey? Haven’t you been feeling a little poorly lately?”

  At the meeting the following week, the chief legal officer had introduced an item of his own for the “remaining business” part of the agenda; because this was the first time during Berg’s tenure, the matter had not contributed to his peace of mind. This agenda item, cryptic to say the least, provided little indication of where it was headed, either. Berg had been on pins and needles until it was time and the only consolation in this misery was that the prime minister’s special adviser had once again reported that he was prevented from attending.

  “Yes,” the chief legal officer said, and cleared his throat. “As I’ve already said to my esteemed boss”—the chief legal officer nodded to the minister of justice, who nodded back, while Berg just felt left out—“I have today resigned from my position as attorney to the supreme commander. Effective immediately, by the way; my successor will be selected by the end of the week.”

  “That’s too bad,” said Berg. What’s going on? he thought.

  “Oh,” said the chief legal officer with an unexpected chill in his voice. “I have made the evaluation that in light of your ongoing survey of antidemocratic elements within the police and the military, there is a risk that I might find myself in a conflict of interest and I have therefore decided to resolve it in this way.”

  “Perhaps that’s a wise decision,” Berg said in a neutral tone.

  “Certainly,” said the chief legal officer, looking at him. “Even if we still have nothing specific to consider, I prefer to forestall rather than be forestalled.”

  “Exactly what I was going to say,” said the minister with false joviality in his voice. “I’m sure all of us in this building have wondered the same thing. By the way, the prime minister came to see me the other day after the governmental meeting. How is your survey coming along, Berg? It’s been going on for a good while now.”

  What’s going on? thought Berg.

  “How’s it going with that doggone survey of our colleagues?” said Berg when he was with Waltin a few hours later.

  “Pretty well,” said Waltin, shrugging his shoulders in a gesture of indifference. “Or pretty badly, if you want. It depends on how you look at it.”

  “Do we have anything on hand?” asked Berg. “The wolf pack down in Rosenbad has started howling.”

  “Plenty,” said Waltin.

  “Good,” said Berg.

  CHAPTER III

  Between Summer’s Longing and Winter’s End

  Quantico, Virginia, in December

  [SUNDAY, DECEMBER 1]

  Johansson had fallen asleep at ten o’clock on Saturday evening but in his head the time was four in the morning on Sunday. When he woke up the time was still four o’clock on Sunday morning, because Johansson was at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia, while his head was evidently still back on Wollmar Yxkullsgatan in Stockholm, where it was almost noon; Johansson himself was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

  Outside the window it was as black as the inside of a sack, although it would clearly be a fine day, thought Johansson. The local weather report posted on the bulletin board in the lobby promised fair weather, temperature in the lower 40s and sunshine; obviously, nothing foreseeable was left to chance in this place. Should I follow my big brother’s advice? thought Johansson. Or should I take a brisk walk instead? The only problem was that there were still three hours left before dawn, and security in the area was rigorous. “High-Ranking Swedish Police Officer Shot by FBI During Morning Constitutional,” tho
ught Johansson, smiling wryly as he visualized the headline. Breakfast, too, was out of the question, as the dining room didn’t open until seven, and would any reasonable person want to have breakfast at one o’clock in the afternoon? Besides, he had a room with its own shower, in contrast to his coworkers, who were not as special as him and had to share a shower with the others staying on the same corridor.

  Johansson went into the shower and followed his big brother’s advice while he thought about a woman with whom he had spoken only once before in his life and who was approximately five thousand miles away in a northeast direction. Wonder what she’s doing now, thought Johansson. I don’t expect she’s sitting in the post office on a Sunday. Then he returned to his bed and finished a novel in English that he’d bought to read during the trip, and when the dining room was finally open he was one of the first in line. Big brother was right, he thought while he had scrambled eggs and fried ham with rye bread. It’s even good for your appetite.

  When Johansson was a child, his ten-years-older brother had been responsible for the essential aspects of his upbringing. As there were seven children—Johansson was number six—and his parents also had a large farm to run, they mostly had other things on their hands than little Lars Martin. It was not a conventional upbringing, of course, and it surely would have scared the wits out of a child psychologist, but Johansson never had any reason to complain. His oldest brother had always been kind to him. He was the first one to stop calling him Little Brother; he taught him to swim when he was five, took him hunting when he wasn’t much older, and beat up his middle brothers in well-measured doses when they were mean to him. He was also the first one to initiate him into the mysteries of adult life.