“Fire away,” said Johansson.
On Friday afternoon, when Johansson and his two travel companions were sitting on the plane to New York, each with a small whiskey as a counterbalance to all the watery American beer they had been drinking that week, his colleague from narcotics suddenly started to laugh.
“Yes?” said Johansson. “Out with it, now.”
The colleague from narcotics nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “I was thinking about the last conference I went to. It was with the narcotics unit, on the boat to Finland.”
“Yes?” said Johansson.
His colleague started laughing again.
“Yes, hell,” he said. “It wasn’t exactly like this one, if I may say so.”
Johansson smiled and nodded.
“I know what you mean,” he said.
CHAPTER IV
Free falling, as in a dream
Stockholm in autumn
There hadn’t been much mushroom picking, Berg would always think when he looked back at that autumn before everything happened. He and his wife had a little cottage up in Roslagen and usually they picked quite a few mushrooms during the fall. Mushrooms are good, thought Berg, it was nice to walk around in the woods thinking while his wife darted aimlessly among the bushes. It was a small contribution to their finances as well. True, he was a department head and earned more than almost all his colleagues within the corps, but every little bit helps, he would think.
But not that autumn, for the demands of his political superiors had become more and more exacting, and the prime minister’s adviser started showing up at meetings again; if he really was as intelligent as they said, Berg for one could think of better ways to make use of the gifts the good Lord had clearly bestowed on him. He wasn’t even ironic anymore, just treacherous, and everything he said required Berg’s entire analytical capacity simply to interpret. But after many trials and tribulations it was finally ready, the first report on “Anticonstitutional Movements and Elements Within the Open Police Operations in the Stockholm Police Department.”
Toward the end of this work, he had been forced to personally intervene to organize the content and form, despite the fact that his coworkers were doing all they could and despite the fact that he assigned several of his best forces to the task. People who obviously, and preferably, should have been used on more pressing assignments. Unfortunately he was the one who had established the boundaries of the task and decided on the title of the report, something he would have to eat at numerous meetings during the fall; for a while, in fact, it threatened to paint him into a corner where he easily could have lost control of the entire ongoing process.
His wretched excuse for a nephew was of course part of the material, which he had counted on in general, but when the whole thing was done he could say that, unfortunately, this simple fact demanded as much psychic energy as the work itself. Should he set out the names of colleagues included in the material when he gave a summary of it to his superiors? Obviously not; it went against established routine, and created considerable, quite unnecessary risks. Would there be gossip and talk? Probably. Would he get any questions about this? Probably not. Would it be used against him regardless of what he did or didn’t do? Certainly.
It was not a long report. Including appendices, it was just over a hundred pages, and enumerated a corresponding number of policemen, almost all of whom had in common that they worked in the uniformed police in central Stockholm and that they, individually and collectively, in various ways and with varying frequency, had expressed extreme right-wing or flat-out neo-Nazi opinions. The way in which they’d done so varied essentially. There were individual policemen who openly took the first opportunity to express themselves disparagingly or even hatefully about female colleagues, about immigrants, about the so-called clientele with whom they worked, about people in general, about social democrats, about the left in general. In short, about everyone except themselves. There were others who behaved inappropriately as soon as they were around more than two pairs of eyes in the heads of anyone other than their fellow police officers; who would wear a swastika on the inside of their coat lapel; who gave the Hitler salute at the bar, who made toasts to Adolf Hitler, or said that the prime minister ought to be shot, or that you ought to make glue out of all immigrants.
There was also a hard core, organized in various ways, that had regular gatherings and maintained high security and discretion in the presence of the world around them. Of course it was within this core that Berg found his own nephew; as a foreground figure, moreover, both a formal and an informal leader. “Policeman B appears to play a leading role in this connection. It should be pointed out, however, that his superior gives him extraordinary evaluations and among other things describes him as one of the best policemen in the district, with good judgment and good conduct.”
They held meetings in rented halls as well as at the police station, had joint exercises and other open-air leisure activities, had dinner together at a so-called men’s club with special invitees, listened to lectures on the good life in South Africa, on Hitler as a political thinker, on why no Nobel Prize winners were black, and on the left-wing slant in the press. German marching music was played and a joint Hitler greeting was made before, during, and after the meal. “It should, however, be noted that consumption of alcohol at these social gatherings was always moderate,” Berg’s infiltrator noted in one of the surveillance memoranda he submitted.
Reporting to his superiors in the blue room on the seventh floor at Rosenbad. Outside the windows a pale September sun was shining. And now the misery can begin, thought Berg.
“If I’ve counted right in your document,” said the special adviser, observing Berg with his constant, irritating half-sneer, “which isn’t always easy for the mathematically inclined,” he added with a faint chuckle.
Berg was content to nod.
“So, your material includes between a hundred and five and a hundred fifteen so-called members of the Stockholm Police Department’s various uniformed divisions, all of whom have in common that they seem to harbor a certain faiblesse for”—he savored the words almost sensuously—“or the brown and black colors on the political palette.”
Berg was content to nod. Where is he going? he thought.
“How many policemen are there in the divisions included in your survey?” the special adviser asked.
“Somewhere between twelve hundred and fifteen hundred,” answered Berg quickly. “I apologize that I can’t give you a more exact number than that.” So now he’ll convert that to a percentage, he thought.
“Nine hundred seventy, according to the information which I’ve received from the highest leadership in the Stockholm Police Department. Which should give us a percentage of between eleven and twelve percent. If this impromptu calculation is correct.”
Don’t put on airs, thought Berg, but he didn’t say that.
“That sounds about right,” said Berg, “but I think your base sounds a little small. Just under a thousand policemen, I’m almost certain that there are considerably more.”
“Which should give us a percentage of between seven and eight if there are fifteen hundred as you say. That sounds almost comforting.”
Now he chuckled again.
“Seven percent is bad enough,” said Berg.
“That the number should be nine hundred seventy was, by the way, a piece of information I got from the chief constable. Do you mean that he could have underestimated his own personnel by more than fifty percent?”
Sweden’s most moronic police officer and the only one who votes for the social democrats, if you believe what he says himself, so he might very well have, thought Berg.
“I am the one, no doubt, who is misinformed,” said Berg. “However that may be, it’s bad enough.”
“These hundred or so you’ve picked out for us”—the special adviser mostly seemed to be thinking out loud—“do they form just the tip of an iceberg or are things on the con
trary so fortunate that you’ve managed to include pretty much all of them?”
“Unfortunately one has to account for a certain number of omissions,” said Berg defensively.
“Now, if one were to harbor such opinions while observing so-called normal human behavior, that’s to say without running around shouting ‘Heil Hitler’ and singing ‘Die Fahne Hoch’ while dressed in a peaked cap with a skull on it …”
“There is probably a risk of that, yes. Unfortunately,” said Berg. Where are you going now? he thought.
“But rather, one settles for silent complicity and writes one’s recommendations in one way and not another and uses simple scheduling and planning, for example, to ensure that no female officers are allowed to set foot in the field or that no immigrants are admitted to the police academy. As long as one is content with that, one doesn’t end up in your survey, in any case?”
No, thought Berg. How would you be able to do that? But he didn’t say that, of course.
“Answer is yes,” said Berg and just as he said that he wished he had bitten off his tongue instead.
“Answer is yes,” repeated the special adviser, looking as though he had just tasted something extra delicious. “It sounds like a serious deficiency in the method of investigation itself.”
Get out of this, thought Berg. Turn it around.
“I interpret your comments to mean that perhaps you have been thinking about the matter, that you have some concrete suggestions?”
“I don’t know about suggestions. Regardless of whether there are five or fifty percent we have to find a way to get rid of them. Preferably immediately, and in the worst case as soon as possible. We are talking about the Swedish police, not about the SS or the SA or the Gestapo. Not even about the Secret Swedish State Police, or Sestapo, which for some reason they preferred to call themselves in the good old days.”
How naïve can you be? thought Berg. The union would never go along, and someone like you surely ought to have learned that, at least.
“Unfortunately I see certain problems with legislation and employment-security regulations and union interests. To only mention a few of the factors in this connection.” Berg shrugged his shoulders eloquently.
It hadn’t gotten better. They’d gone over time by almost two hours. And he couldn’t excuse himself and leave, either. Especially not when perhaps that was precisely what they hoped he would do.
“I was thinking about your excellent memorandum, the one about the secret police and the military as the great threats against democracy,” said the special adviser. “Not the ones who go around in uniforms that your survey deals with. It’s not the traffic cops who keep me awake at night.” Now he seemed to be thinking out loud again.
“Not me either anymore,” the minister interjected happily, speaking for the first time in half an hour. “Not since I stopped driving,” he said and tittered.
“No,” said Berg politely. “Yes,” he added inquiringly, looking at his tormentor. What are you driving at? he thought.
“Would you describe your own coworkers as more or less reliable than those characters you’ve just described for us?”
“That is clearly a completely different category of officer,” said Berg emphatically. “Behavior, opinions, or thoughts of the type described would never be tolerated by us.” Finally, solid ground under his feet, he thought.
“Secret police officers are more intelligent than regular police,” the special adviser clarified. “More controlled, more reticent, completely normal in their outer, observable behavior, in short. Above all, are they more reticent?”
“Certainly,” said Berg, in spite of the fact that he now saw the direction in which they were heading. Fortunately they’re significantly more reticent than most, he thought.
“If you make the Hitler salute before a job interview you won’t be working for the secret police, period,” said the special adviser. “Sounds like a tricky group to investigate.”
“What do you mean?” asked Berg, even though he already knew.
“More talented, reticent, discreet, quite normal in their behavior. But how do they think, in reality? They’re all police officers, of course, same background, same education, same experiences. Many of them are even born and bred.”
“I have complete confidence in all those who are working for us,” said Berg with even more emphasis.
“It’s no doubt there that we differ,” said the special adviser. “Misunderstand me correctly,” he added quickly. “What I mean is only that self-evident lunatics, the kind that clearly show what they think and feel and intend, have an almost calming effect on me. It’s the others that disturb me.”
Me too, thought Berg, but it was the last thing he would think of saying to someone like that.
Now it has to be over soon anyway, thought Berg, stealing a glance at his watch. Otherwise I’ll simply have to think of something regardless of the consequences.
“A completely different matter,” said the adviser, observing Berg behind half-closed eyelids.
Be content to nod, thought Berg, nodding.
“Purely concretely, and if we try to enter these people’s mind-set, though apart of course from the material content and the qualitative substance. I am speaking of those so-called colleagues who are included in your investigation.”
“Yes?” said Berg questioningly. You never learn, he thought with irritation.
“What do they dislike the most,” he said. “Person, fact, social phenomenon, thing? What’s their lowest common denominator?”
So this was where we were going, thought Berg.
“The prime minister,” said Berg. “If there is a particular person that you have in mind, then unfortunately it is the case that the prime minister seems to form a recurring object of hatred.”
“So that’s why they use his portrait for target practice during their open-air activities,” said the special adviser, and for some reason he was smiling broadly as he said it.
“I am not aware of that as a fact,” answered Berg, but it didn’t seem as though the other was listening: he was reclining comfortably in his chair, eyelids half-lowered, hands clasped over his fat stomach, although no longer smiling.
That man is definitely not in his right mind, thought Berg.
Before they left they agreed that this was a question to be viewed with the utmost seriousness and assigned the highest priority. In addition the survey must be broadened. How did it look in the rest of the country? How did it look within the secret police and the military? And what of that business of the threat against the prime minister and the country’s highest political leadership?
They wanted a comprehensive compilation of data as soon as possible. Broadly and in depth and without wavering or shying away from any facts, however unpleasant they might be. The purely practical aspects were turned over to Berg and his coworkers with confidence. What is going on? thought Berg as he sat in the backseat of his service car en route to his office on Kungsholmen. It’s already dark out; soon it will be winter, and what happened to summer, actually? Where did it go?
When he got back to work he hoped that Waltin would be there so they could discuss the new turn of events, but all there was of him was a message from Berg’s secretary that Waltin had waited for the longest time but had finally been compelled to take care of an urgent errand. Unfortunately he couldn’t be reached on his pager either, but he intended to be in touch early the next morning.
“If you don’t have any objections I was thinking about taking off too,” said his secretary with an amiable smile.
They met the following morning and Waltin was just as energetic, well-tailored, and smelling of aftershave as always. Berg himself had felt better. He had twisted and turned in bed until midnight, when he finally gave up, went into his study, and put his thoughts on paper. Then he made a fresh attempt at sleeping, with only moderate success. Not until four in the morning had he disappeared into some sort of dream-filled daze, and when he and his
wife were eating breakfast she suggested that he should call in sick and stay home.
“I don’t suppose there’s anything I can help you with?” she asked. Berg had only shaken his head and an hour later he was sitting at his desk. As a final measure before leaving home he had fed his nighttime notes into the document shredder in his study. Waltin had to be content with a piece of paper that addressed only three points, which Berg expanded on with a brief oral account of what had occurred at yesterday’s meeting.
“I see,” said Waltin, handing back the paper he had just read. “Sounds as if we’d need a healthy increase in appropriations. In addition, I believe we’re in dangerous territory.”
Berg nodded to him to continue.
“If we take the first point—expanding, deepening, and completing our survey of certain officers, we’re going to have a lot of problems, to put it mildly.”
“What kind of problems?” asked Berg.
“First off, purely practical problems with our collection of data. I’ll give you an example. One of my recruiters became interested in a possible informant a while ago. He’ll finish police academy in a few months and is interning with a uniformed division in Östermalm and seemed tailor-made to infiltrate those circles we’re investigating.”
“But?”
“The problem was that he was already inside. It was by pure chance that we found out about him in time.”
And how many of them are there that we’ve missed? thought Berg, groaning internally.
“Suppose we succeed in solving this,” continued Waltin. “Really penetrate, really reel in these … forces … within the corps.” Waltin smiled.
“Yes?” Berg nodded to him to continue.
“Then we need only concern ourselves with the content, and if we try to do something about it we might just as well …” Waltin shrugged his shoulders. “You know what I mean. Both you and I have been around awhile. And what would happen to us? Are any of us that suicidal?” And you have to know what I mean, since you’ve got one in your own family, he thought, but he didn’t say that.
Between Summer's Longing and Winter's End: The Story of a Crime Page 16