Stieg Larsson, My Friend

by Kurdo Baksi

  The “We shall never submit” appeal, published on 29 November, 2000, is probably the text Stieg Larsson was proudest of having written. When I first read it in the bar of the Amaranten Hotel, that much was obvious in my friend’s face. Although his name is not mentioned, he was responsible for every single word. My only contribution was to lobby various people with close links to the party leaders.

  Stieg gave me a big hug when we met at the Amaranten. This was an unusually intimate gesture, occasioned by the fact that I had kept the promise I had made to him: to make sure that an appeal from all Swedish political party leaders would be published on that particular day in November by four national daily newspapers based in Stockholm, plus thirty or so regional newspapers.

  The fact is that it was quite easy to convince the party leaders to sign, even if I think I spared Stieg the fact that the one who was hardest to get on board was the prime minister, Göran Persson. This surprised me, because Persson was the one with whom I had the best contacts. In the end it was thanks to Jenny Ohlsson, one of Persson’s assistants, that I managed to retain Stieg’s words more or less intact.

  It was obvious how much this meant to Stieg. This was one of the most important moments in our friendship. Not just because of the success we had with the appeal, but also because it was the day we had one of our most heated quarrels.

  The Amaranten bar was more or less empty, as usual. It suited us to meet there – it was quiet and relaxed, with luxurious if slightly grubby decor. Looking back, it is easy to conclude that a friendship without frank discussions is doomed in advance. Such a friendship can never progress beyond the polite and the conventional.

  When we sat down in the bar, I had been angry with Stieg for quite some time. Perhaps it was our recent successes that gave me the courage to raise the matter. Ever since I had heard that one of the younger members of Expo’s staff had infiltrated some of the parties linked with neo-Nazism using a false name, I had been nagged by worry. Obviously I was concerned about the young man’s safety. But I was just as concerned that the media would attack Expo again. The journal would not be able to survive another collapse in subscriber numbers.

  It had taken two years for Expo to repair the damage caused the previous time it had lost its journalistic self-respect.

  I knew I had to ask Stieg the question, it simply had to be done.

  “Stieg,” I said, after taking a swig of beer, “where do you think the boundary is between a journalist using false names and identities in order to obtain information, and infiltrating an organization?”

  It seemed as if he had been expecting the question. He responded without hesitation.

  “If a neo-Nazi party, or a party linked with neo-Nazism, refuses to provide information about its activities and refuses to answer questions, it is legitimate to obtain information in unconventional ways.”

  I didn’t reply, but sat in silence for a while. It was obvious that Stieg was irritated. He almost spat out, “Normal journalistic techniques get nowhere with neo-Nazi groups. So what do you expect us to do? Sit back with our arms folded?”

  Sighing, I realized that the discussion had already become more heated than I had hoped it would.

  “I understand what you mean, but I don’t agree. There are limits, even in investigative journalism. How and when you should resort to false identities requires a long discussion. There are various ways for a journalist to pretend to be somebody else in order to find out information that is difficult to get hold of.”

  He leaned back in his chair, as if waiting to hear what I would say next. It was not at all like him to allow me to speak without interruption, but perhaps it was obvious that I really was worried and angry.

  “The question is,” I went on, “how one should react when undercover journalism becomes a matter of life and death. Placing a young person in a neo-Nazi or racist organization is a big responsibility. There is a constant risk that somebody might be injured or even murdered. Surely you can see the danger with this business of using a false identity? It could end in tragedy.”

  I felt almost breathless after speaking so fast. It was clear that Stieg was annoyed. He shook his head.

  “We have a member of staff who volunteered to do this. I would never force anybody to undertake such a dangerous assignment in order to uncover information. But what I do do is give our colleague maximum support.”

  “How?”

  “By protecting and being in constant touch with him. We have set up clear rules for how he should go about things. He must not spread racist propaganda, nor is he allowed to take initiatives leading to neo-Nazi campaigns. In addition we have another colleague close to where he is located.”

  Now it was my turn to shake my head. I was not at all satisfied with his answer. This was a kind of life-and-death game that I couldn’t possibly accept.

  “Expo has always received tips from rival neo-Nazi groups. And a lot of their members resign when they get reach thirty and start families. We are journalists, Stieg, not bloody police officers!”

  Stieg reacted in a way I’d never seen him react before. He glanced quickly round the bar, which was just as deserted as it had been earlier. Then he looked me straight in the eye and raised his voice. It was both angry and reproving in a way I wasn’t at all happy about.

  “The police!” he said, raising a finger. “What did they do when Expo’s printer was attacked? What did they do when the neo-Nazis shot at your flat? What did they do when Peter was car-bombed? Why did their surveillance arrangements fall short when a trade unionist was murdered? Why did it take them four months to tell us that somebody had collected our passport photos? Were they waiting for us to be murdered as well?”

  “I think you’re exaggerating.”

  “My point is that the police don’t take racism and neo-Nazism seriously. It’s not exactly news to you that there are neo-Nazis in the Swedish police force, is it?”

  “No.”

  “So why are you defending the police? Surely you haven’t forgotten that neo-Nazi millionaire in Filipstad who controlled a considerable network within the Swedish police? When three Latin Americans were beaten up in Gamla Stan in Stockholm, one of the neo-Nazis arrested turned out to be the son of that multi-millionaire. Was he ever put in a police cell? Was he ever charged?”

  Stieg was now so het up that there was no point in trying to calm him down. It was as if several years of frustration were gushing forth as he sat in the bar. I began to accept that I was doomed to be the day’s target. My problem was that I agreed with his analysis, but in no circumstances could I support him in what he considered to be the most effective way of dealing with the situation.

  I let him continue with his lecture, but could not support his plans to infiltrate the neo-Nazis.

  Eventually he leaned back in the armchair again and took a swig of beer. He was still annoyed, but now he said in a calmer voice, “You must get more up to date with what’s going on, Kurdo. Nowadays neo-Nazis can be between ten and eighteen years old. A lot of them start a family, get a steady job, carry a briefcase, wear a suit and tie, and still continue to be active neo-Nazis. Do you know that several high-ranking police officers maintain that you yourself organized the shooting at your flat?”

  Hmmm, the shooting at my flat in Tensta, just outside Stockholm. What happened during the night of 3 November, 1999? A horrific incident that is practically impossible to explain to somebody who wasn’t there. Half the living room was covered in shards of glass. I was attacked despite the fact that I was being protected by neighbours and the police. I had often asked myself how one could avoid being subjected to neo-Nazi violence. I had several offices in different locations, several flats so that I could move from one to the other, unarmed bodyguards, special protection on public occasions, frequent conversations with the police about safety measures, contact with a police mentor, irregular working hours, taxi rides, taking different routes to and from my offices and flats. Even so, one never feels safe.


  I had only myself to blame for our conversation taking the course it did. I was the one who had initiated the discussion. Nevertheless, I couldn’t simply let pass what I had just heard. How could my friend allow somebody to risk his life by infiltrating the neo-Nazis, who had so much blood on their hands? The shooting at my flat wasn’t even one of their worst crimes.

  All I knew at that stage was that one of Expo’s reporters had spent two years, 1997–9, embedded in the inner circle of a neo-Nazi-inclined group in Blekinge. In a roundabout way I had heard that it was in accordance with Stieg’s wishes that this person had become a member of the extremist group, which was steeped in criminal activity.

  I had suspected this for some time before discovering that it was in fact the case. Nevertheless, I had done nothing about it until that evening. The reason I had lain low for so long was that Expo and Svartvitt had two separate editorial boards. That was the arrangement we had agreed upon from the start, and I couldn’t simply barge in and comment on Expo’s editorial policies.

  But now I had realized that our friendship would not be able to survive this clash of ideas. It was dependent on our being able to resolve differences of opinion like this. Moreover, to be completely honest, I wasn’t absolutely certain that I was right. I simply didn’t know if our two boards would be able to continue cooperating. I didn’t even know if the relationship between Stieg and me would survive the strain.

  “Stieg,” I said with a sigh, “we are talking about a seventeenyear-old. How can you possibly think that it’s acceptable for such a young person to infiltrate such a dangerous group? Still, nothing awful has happened, so we can draw a line under it. We must look to the future. You must promise me one thing: in no circumstances will you allow anybody under the age of eighteen to do anything as dangerous as this again. Neo-Nazis know no limits. They are capable of anything. We don’t have the right to expose anyone else to danger, irrespective of how important the information is that Expo is trying to track down. You always say that the right to life takes precedence over everything else. That must apply to Expo’s staff as well.”

  Stieg said nothing. He stared at me for quite a while, rubbing his knees. Then he looked as if he had had second thoughts. He folded his hands over his stomach and sighed. He lit a cigarette and offered me one. We both inhaled.

  “You are right,” he said.

  We sat there in silence, smoking. It was impossible to know what he was thinking. Suddenly he said, “You must have lunch with Erland the next time you give a lecture in Umeå.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “My dad.”

  “Stieg, you mustn’t call your father Erland, that’s rude. You should simply say ‘my dad’.”

  We both laughed. We weren’t quite sure why we laughed, I suspect. Perhaps because the difference between his background in the north of Sweden and mine in Turkish Kurdistan had suddenly become so obvious.

  “I promise,” I said with a smile, “to have lunch with your father the next time I’m in Umeå. It will be an honour.”

  Then we struggled up out of our comfortable hotel armchairs. Stieg collected his rucksack and we went out into the chill of Kungsholmsgatan. We shook hands as colleagues and best friends. Our friendship had passed the test. It was as if we breathed a mutual sigh of relief.

  A year later I heard that Stieg had been one of the instigators behind another member of the Expo staff – a mere twenty years old – becoming an infiltrator into a neo-Nazi-inclined xenophobic group.

  7

  The sleepless warrior

  It is impossible to describe Stieg without mentioning his insomnia. The man seemed never to sleep. He was aware of this and we often spoke about it. One conclusion we came to was that there are people who manage to do their jobs efficiently despite sleeping very little at night. When it comes to comparing him with insomniacs like Churchill and Napoleon, however, I sometimes have the feeling that Stieg had something else in common with them: he was always ready to do battle. The difference being that the battles Stieg fought always took place in the mind, in mental arenas. I would call them battles over human values.

  I occasionally used to say that Stieg was a sleep saver. Maybe there is no such expression, but I always thought it suited him. He admitted that even as a child he had found it difficult to go to bed in the evening. He had become a night owl early on, despite the fact that his constant curiosity and his eagerness to work meant that he was driven to be just as active during the day.

  We often discussed whether sleeping well resulted in a longer life. Looking back, it feels uncomfortable to recall those many discussions; we agreed it did not necessarily follow that people who always slept well accomplished more. We could think of too many cases where the opposite applied.

  One might even ask if it is possible for any dedicated and committed person, always involved in hundreds of projects, to sleep well. How can a good-hearted individual relax when human rights are being violated on a daily basis? When there are people with no roofs over their heads? When there are millions of refugees in the world? For somebody unacquainted with Stieg, such questions might sound somewhat naive and illogical; but in all our conversations these undeniable facts were an overwhelming driving force that empowered his will to change things.

  The fact is that Stieg himself sometimes compared his sleeping habits to Churchill’s. He used to say that they were in the same league when it came to insomnia, but that the old statesman had the edge. Apparently Churchill seldom slept for more than three hours per night. Nevertheless he lived to the ripe old age of ninety, as Stieg never failed to point out when I or somebody else complained about his bad nocturnal habits.

  I suggested that the number of hours one slept was not the most important thing. When you sleep is also crucial. Stieg usually went to bed when most other people were getting up. I don’t actually know if the time when you sleep is all that significant in fact, I suppose I just wanted to see him properly rested – something as unlikely to happen as our bringing about peace. Tired, red eyes, irregular breathing and slowing reflexes spoke for themselves. Winning the peace, as we used to put it, was the greatest achievement possible.

  If Churchill had his champagne and cigars, Stieg had his coffee and cigarettes. Not such a grand combination, one has to admit. I know nobody who was as inveterate a smoker as Stieg. He had been chain-smoking since he was a teenager and it was hard to imagine him not puffing away at a cigarette. Coffee was his second greatest love. Churchill wanted his champagne “cold, dry and free”, and Stieg wanted his coffee with milk but no sugar. Most of all, he wanted lots of it. There was no limit to the amount of coffee he could drink. I have never come across anybody as hooked on caffeine as Stieg. When we spent sixteen hours together at Prime Minister Persson’s international conference on the Holocaust, I kept a count of how many servings of coffee Stieg drank. I made it twenty-two, most of them plastic mugs.

  That amount of coffee can hardly be conducive to decent sleep. Swilling down twenty or so cups of coffee a day and smoking two or three packets of cigarettes no doubt ruin more than just a decent night’s slumber. They must slowly but surely undermine your whole body.

  The slim, elegant young man I had met at the Vasa restaurant in the autumn of 1992 started to acquire chubby cheeks. His body became increasingly bloated, and he needed to buy bigger trousers and shirts. He had no interest at all in food. He ate if and when he had the time. Usually greasy junk food. But his weight increase had no effect on his energy, his enthusiasm for work or his lust for life. He was always smiling. It is true to say that he became more and more stressed as the years went by, but he never lost focus or became distrait.

  He would spend most of his time glued to his computer, focusing all his attention first on one project, then on the next. Full speed ahead all the time. Interestingly enough, he was always motionless in front of his screen. The only part of his body he kept in trim was his brain – the rest of him had to survive as best it could.

 
; I frequently suggested that he take up swimming. He thought that sounded even worse than going for walks in the woods. He would often grasp at any excuse to avoid having to listen to all the nagging – he was under constant threat of being murdered, he couldn’t possibly risk anything of the sort. That would be reckless in the extreme. He had a point, of course: but his main reason was to avoid taking any physical exercise. He very rarely did anything of the sort. He never stopped smoking, although he did cut down during the last year or so of his life. I occasionally saw him taking snuff as well.

  Whenever he thought I was nagging him too much, Stieg would tell me that he was about to take his annual fortnight’s holiday. When I asked if he was going to leave his computer at home, he would always change the subject.

  You can imagine how astonished I was to hear that in his younger days, he took part in skiing competitions. That sounds so unlikely. I have never been able to establish how good he was, but the very fact that he must once have been sufficiently interested to enter flabbergasts me. I have never met anybody less interested in sport – never ever.

  My friend Stieg Larsson was one of those people who believe in their own immortality. He was in good company. Most people think that accidents only happen to others. But I know that he sometimes thought about how his mother had died far too early from a cerebral haemorrhage. This was a great sorrow always at the back of his mind. She died at the age of fifty-six in Erland’s arms, one summer’s day in 1991, as he was combing her hair. Shortly before her death she had read Stieg’s newly published book on the Extreme Right, Extremhögern, at a single sitting.

  No, there is no explanation for the way in which Stieg waged war on his own body. Nor would he ever be able to explain it himself. More than anything else it was like a vicious circle that could not be broken.

  Yet again I come back to the contradictory nature of Stieg’s character. That overwhelming work ethic – most probably made even stronger by his working-class background – which he insisted on forcing others to adopt. And then the direct opposite: a total inability to discipline himself when it came to looking after his own body. Worst was, of course, his lack of sleep, and perhaps his complete lack of discipline in this respect was due to what the medics call insomnia. Anybody suffering from this complaint can seldom get to sleep for any reason other than utter exhaustion.