Another Time, Another Life: The Story of a Crime

by Leif Gw Persson

  On Monday morning Johansson was still in a good mood, which was excellent because he would be meeting with his department’s chief prosecutor first thing, and he would need all the strength he could summon.

  “What do you think?” said Johansson, nodding at the chief prosecutor, who was already squirming in his chair on the other side of Johansson’s large desk.

  “There are undeniably a number of unpleasant coincidences,” said the chief prosecutor, who did not appear particularly cheerful.

  “There sure are,” said Johansson heartily. As so often happens when against your better judgment you try to make the best of chance, he thought.

  “There is no way this constitutes reasonable grounds for suspicion,” said the chief prosecutor deprecatingly, holding up both palms. “Far from it, far from it. I’ve tried to do an ordinary, traditional sifting of evidence, and when I consider the various aspects—both separately and combined—the only reasonable conclusion is that they’re insufficient … clearly insufficient.”

  “That’s more or less the same conclusion we’ve drawn,” Johansson agreed.

  “That’s probably the only reasonable conclusion you can come to,” said the prosecutor, “and we can’t disregard the fact that there are credible alternative explanations for what might have happened when Eriksson was eliminated. In which there is not the slightest room for any involvement on Stein’s part, I might add.”

  “So what are you thinking?” asked Johansson innocently, despite the fact that he had already figured out what the response would be.

  “Well,” said the chief prosecutor, “I’m thinking for example of the interview with Chief Inspector Bäckström. He does have a completely different view of the matter, and he was after all responsible for the original investigation.”

  “He certainly was,” said Johansson.

  “Bäckström is a very experienced, skilled police officer,” said the prosecutor. “One of the real old owls,” he said, nodding with more emphasis than even Johansson would have expected of him.

  “A real old owl,” said Johansson heartily. A really thirsty old owl, he thought. “That homosexual lead is definitely promising,” he continued. Assuming that you’re really stupid, and you definitely are, he thought.

  “What do you think about a dismissed with prejudice as far as Stein is concerned,” the chief prosecutor said carefully.

  “A strong dismissal,” Johansson emphasized.

  “And that the investigation your people have done—very meritorious, I want to emphasize—obviously stays up here with us,” the prosecutor decided, already seeming considerably perkier.

  “Yes, of course,” said Johansson. “Anything else would be purely defamatory. When do you think you can have the papers ready?” he asked. I’ll talk with my people, he thought.

  “When do you want them?” the chief prosecutor.

  “Preferably now,” said Johansson. And if you even think about chickening out at the last minute, I’ll kill you with my own bare hands, he thought.

  “How about this afternoon?” the prosecutor asked carefully. “I need a few hours to refine some of the wording, but you’ll get a decision this afternoon.”

  “This afternoon will be fine,” said Johansson. Refine away, he thought.

  “Unfortunately,” said Johansson an hour later as he was sitting with his investigation team, “we got the cold shoulder from the prosecutor. The poor guy was scared to death.”

  “Such is life,” said Wiklander philosophically. And I don’t intend to lie awake at night on Eriksson’s account, he thought.

  “Yes, it doesn’t seem like Stockholm will straighten out this case,” said Holt. Despite the fact that Bäckström apparently quit, she thought.

  “Damn it all,” said Martinez. Fucking cowards, she thought. If this hadn’t been about someone like Stein then the colleagues down in Stockholm probably would have pounded the shit out of her, she thought.

  “I think it sounds like the right decision,” said Mattei. Because regardless of what Johansson said about the case last Friday, it needn’t be the case that Stein killed Eriksson. In any event it had not been established beyond a reasonable doubt, she thought.

  “Okay then,” said Johansson, nodding. “By the way, on a completely different matter, I want you to close your eyes,” he said, smiling. “Then I want everyone to raise your hand if you think we’ve done all that can be asked of us. Now you can look,” said Johansson.

  Three hands out of four, he thought, but because he himself was holding up both of his it was all the same.

  “I’m sure you’ll get another chance, Martinez,” said Johansson, nodding. “Thanks for a good job by the way, and that applies to all of you,” he said. And now only the hard part remains, he thought.

  After lunch Johansson met two of his colleagues from counterespionage, who gave him a presentation on Michael Liska, born in Pest, Hungary, in 1940 and an American citizen since 1962.

  “Allowing for the fact that we don’t have too much on our American friends—for obvious reasons, as you surely understand,” said the police superintendent, who was one of several assistant heads in the department, “we have nonetheless tried to gather together what there is about old Liska. It’s on the disk here,” he said, handing over a computer disk to Johansson. “All we have on him is there, which as I said is not very much.”

  Then perhaps, given the way the world is starting to look, it’s high time you find out a little more about him, thought Johansson, but naturally he didn’t say that to them. Someone besides him would have to do that.

  “Can you summarize what’s here?” asked Johansson.

  “Certainly,” said the police superintendent, and then he did.

  According to the police superintendent, Liska had been working for almost thirty years at the CIA, and before that with the naval intelligence service. He was a legend within the CIA and the intelligence agencies of the Western world, and nowadays not even a particularly secret one. Among other things he was said to have played a prominent role in the execution of Operation Rosewood.

  “Although in later years he has become more of the agency’s outward face,” the police superintendent explained. “He has made several appearances on American TV, where he sometimes speaks on his employer’s behalf. He’s a very good TV personality, has a good image, and in recent years he has mostly made the circuit giving talks. Much appreciated as a lecturer, he has even done a few appearances here in Sweden. Most recently he was featured at a dinner that the military gave at Karlberg’s castle in December.”

  During his period as an active agent, Liska had primarily worked abroad, almost solely in Europe, and concentrating primarily on the countries behind the Iron Curtain, although he had also been active in Scandinavia, including Sweden.

  “The guy even seems to speak completely comprehensible Swedish—well, Scandinavian maybe. Altogether he seems to have spent at least a couple of years in Sweden and Norway. All at once he would show up at their embassy out on Djurgården,” said the police superintendent, seeming almost flattered by Liska’s interest in his native land.

  “What kind of Swedish contacts did he have?” asked Johansson.

  “You mean apart from the regular channels with our own military intelligence service and a few of the real bigwigs in the older generation?” the police superintendent asked. “That part’s on the disk.”

  So it’s there, thought Johansson. Several old owls. I really ought to take up bird-watching given my job, he thought.

  “Does he have a best buddy here in Sweden I ought to know about?” asked Johansson. Don’t be so damn naïve, he thought.

  “Well,” said the police superintendent, smiling, “he does have one friend who is undeniably intriguing.”

  “And who’s that?” said Johansson, though he had already guessed the answer.

  “And you know him well, too,” said the police superintendent. “The prime minister’s own éminence grise in questions that concern
national security—the not entirely unknown former special adviser, nowadays the undersecretary in the government offices.”

  Strange that people never refer to him by name, thought Johansson. Is it so damn hard to remember that his name is Nilsson? With the usual spelling, too.

  “So Undersecretary Nilsson and CIA agent Liska are best buddies?” asked Johansson.

  “Depends on what you mean by best,” the police superintendent said evasively. “I don’t really dare say “best,” but that they’ve known each other forever is common knowledge.”

  “And the contacts Mr. Nilsson had with this Liska, of what nature are they?” asked Johansson.

  “We assume they have occurred with the blessing and consent of the highest authorities,” said the police superintendent, nodding piously.

  “If I may now be a little nitpicky and boring,” said Johansson, “I’m wondering if there is anyone here in the building who during all these years of blessed coexistence has had the good taste, if for no other reason than the sake of good form, to inform the undersecretary of who his American friend’s employer is?” said Johansson. “I’m assuming it doesn’t appear on Liska’s business card.”

  “Not the ones we’ve seen in any event,” said the police superintendent, who still seemed happy and upbeat. “I don’t think it’s a secret,” he added. “It’s clear he knows what agency Liska works for.”

  “I’m sure he does,” said Johansson. “But that’s not what I’m sitting here pestering you about.”

  “You mean whether we in the service have informed him about who Liska is?” asked the police superintendent, who no longer seemed as exhilarated.

  “Exactly,” said Johansson. “Have we?” Finally he gets it, he thought.

  “No,” said the police superintendent, suddenly seeming rather gloomy.

  “Then we should change that ASAP,” said Johansson. “Make sure the documentation is clear so the analysts can make their assessment. Then make a proposal for getting a regular security intelligence report to the undersecretary. And a copy to the minister of justice for his information so they can’t put the blame on each other.”

  “When do you want it?” said the police superintendent guardedly.

  “It’ll be fine if I get it in a few hours,” said Johansson. So I can go through the disk in the meantime, so there, you little bastard, he thought.

  “No one is going to be particularly happy,” said the police superintendent, who didn’t look too happy himself.

  “That leaves me cold,” said Johansson. “If we assume, and this is purely an academic question, that Liska hadn’t been working for the CIA, but instead for the former GRU or KGB at a time when these agencies viewed Sweden as part of their own domestic politics, what would have happened to the undersecretary in that case?”

  “Yes, but that’s an impossible comparison,” the police superintendent objected. “I think that—”

  “Answer the question,” Johansson interrupted. “What would have happened to the undersecretary then?”

  “Then naturally he would have ended up in jail,” said the police superintendent.

  “Nice that we’re in agreement,” said Johansson.

  “I want you to set up three meetings for me,” said Johansson to his secretary.

  “As you wish, Boss,” she replied, smiling her cool smile, pen already in hand.

  “First, I want to meet the GD within the next few hours at the latest, but in any event before the end of the day,” said Johansson, beginning to count by raising his right index finger. “I need half an hour.”

  “Second?” asked his secretary.

  “Second,” said Johansson, letting the middle finger on his right hand keep the index finger company, “I want to have a meeting in Rosenbad with our esteemed contact the undersecretary sometime tomorrow. Preferably in the morning.”

  “And third …?”

  “Third,” said Johansson, but without holding up the middle finger—you didn’t do that to women—“and assuming that I’ve managed to meet the person I just mentioned, I would like to have a meeting with Helena Stein, the undersecretary in the Ministry of Defense. In the evening, just the two of us, and preferably at her home.”

  “My goodness,” said his secretary. “I hope it’s nothing like that.”

  No, thought Johansson. Unfortunately it’s just the opposite.

  39

  Tuesday, April 11, 2000

  At ten o’clock in the morning Johansson met with the undersecretary in his office at Rosenbad and turned over the security intelligence regarding the American citizen Michael Liska, which the colleagues in counterespionage had produced the day before and which his own general director had approved the same evening.

  “I am grateful for the honor that has been bestowed on me,” said the undersecretary, nodding ironically toward the binder of papers he had received but had not even condescended to open. “I will obviously inform my highest superior of your findings.”

  “You don’t seem particularly surprised,” Johansson chuckled. He had decided in advance to play along as long as it suited him. And don’t try to pressure me with your distinguished acquaintances, he thought.

  “I doubt that anyone here in the building will be particularly surprised by how Liska puts food on the table,” said the undersecretary.

  “If you know about more contacts he’s had that we’ve missed, I assume you’ll report them to us,” said Johansson.

  “Of course, of course,” sighed the undersecretary. “I had no idea you were so formal, Johansson.”

  “I guess you didn’t,” said Johansson, smiling. “Yes, I am very formal,” he continued. “I can be downright frightfully formal in a pinch, and to avoid any misunderstanding I would also like to stress that you should not view me, my superior, or our organization as some kind of free resource for you to dispose of as you choose. That goes against the constitution and I can be terribly sensitive where such things are concerned.”

  “Oh boy, that last part almost sounded a little threatening,” said the undersecretary, unperturbed. “Would you like a cup of coffee by the way? I’m in the mood for one anyway.” The undersecretary made an inviting gesture toward cups, coffeepot, and plates on his coffee table. “As you can see I’ve got an ample supply of pastries.”

  I see that, thought Johansson, who had already made note of the excess of pastries on the table and immediately decided not to let himself be tempted, not even by a little cognac ring. On the other hand, he thought, those napoleons do look heavenly.

  “By the way, how’s it going with Stein?” the undersecretary continued as he poured coffee into Johansson’s cup.

  “Not so well,” said Johansson, who had decided that it was high time to turn the screw.

  “Not so well,” the undersecretary repeated, actually sounding sincerely surprised. “Is it that old story from the West German embassy that’s still haunting her?”

  “No,” said Johansson, shaking his head heavily. “If only it were that good.” And if you’re going to pour coffee for me, I prefer that you do it in my cup, he thought.

  “Now I’m getting worried,” said the undersecretary, setting down the coffeepot and looking at Johansson without trying any of his usual grimaces. “As you know, my esteemed boss intends to offer her a position in the government, and if you and your people have a different opinion I’m afraid you’ll have to count on us devoting a good deal of time and effort to scrutinizing your arguments.”

  “Has she already been asked?” Johansson said.

  “No,” said the undersecretary. “But soon.”

  “Tell your boss he has to find someone else,” said Johansson. “If you don’t want to tell him, I can take it up with him directly.”

  “Johansson, Johansson,” said the undersecretary deprecatingly. “Now you really have to tell me what this is all about. And I’m assuming that this doesn’t have anything to do with a twenty-five-year-old embassy occupation.”

  “No,
” said Johansson. “It doesn’t.”

  “Well,” said the undersecretary, attempting a smile, “I’m frightfully curious. What in the world has she done? Is she involved in the Palme assassination too?”

  “No,” said Johansson curtly as he took a blue plastic folder from his briefcase. “I will gladly tell you what this is about, provided you acknowledge on a paper I have with me that you have had access to this information and that you also sign a special confidentiality agreement on another paper that I also have with me. I have discussed the matter both with the GD and our lead attorney, and the GD told me that if you sign you should be informed, and if you don’t, he is going to personally request a private presentation for your boss.”

  “Give me a pen,” said the undersecretary. “Before I die of curiosity.”

  “Well,” said the undersecretary as he set aside the pen and pushed the folder with the signed documents back to Johansson.

  “Now I’m going to tell you about two partially connected problems we discovered during our background check of Undersecretary Stein,” said Johansson. “Namely, that we have reason to suspect that Liska and his organization, in cooperation with domestic interests within our so-called defense lobby, planned to subject Undersecretary Stein to influence were she to be appointed minister of defense or given a similarly security-related position within the Swedish government.”

  “Goodness,” said the undersecretary. “Correct me if I’ve counted wrong, but I come up with at least three objections in a single sentence.”

  “A few months ago Liska managed, with the help of a few useful idiots in the military intelligence service, to activate the case that concerns the embassy occupation—which will soon pass the statute of limitations,” Johansson said. “We believe they’ve opened up a portal through which they intend to convey disinformation in order to influence Helena Stein and people like her.” Why do you look so strange? thought Johansson. What happened to your usual trademark sardonic smile?