‘Are you sure about that?’ Paul glances down at Charles’ feet. ‘You’ve got some on your shoes.’
‘Didn’t you hear us?’
‘It was crackly towards the end.’
Charles turns up the collar of his coat, exposing the little microphone, undoes two buttons on his shirt and pulls off the tape that had kept the transmitter in place. Charles sees a patch of his own skin, white and pale.
‘Have you turned the receiver off?’ Charles asks.
‘Yes.’
Charles does his shirt up again and opens the glove box. There’s a packet of tissues in there, and once he’s put the equipment back he grabs it, pulls out a tissue, and wipes the blood from his shoes.
‘Does he know who the delivery is for?’ Paul asks.
‘No. You must have heard that.’
A heavy truck rolls along ahead of them. The exhaust fumes force their way inside the car, strong and acrid.
Charles folds the bloody tissue and puts it in his pocket. They head north in silence and slip into the tunnel. Before long, they’re close to the heart of the city, in the government district, with its buildings designed to make people feel small. It works.
What they’ve managed to establish so far makes things feel more under control, for now. Jan Savolainen is a no-mark with amphetamine anxiety, and of late he’s been running errands for Jakob Öberg. Öberg is a gangster with a penchant for drug smuggling and handling stolen goods. Known acquaintances: Sigge Cedergren, Leif Skiffer, Clark Olofsson. Known haunts: a two-bed flat close to Oxen, a gambling den, and a bedsit out in Bagarmossen with its own basement storage.
How Öberg knows Sven-Olof Håkansson is unclear. Håkansson runs an electronics company called Sunitron, and on the twenty-fourth of February a delivery was on its way to Sweden. It got stuck in Hamburg because German customs officials thought there was something odd about it: Sunitron had asked them for a temporary exemption, which indicated that Sweden was not its final destination — it was to be shipped on to another country. Which country that was, no one knew. Not only that, the consignment turned out to contain transmitters and receivers for advanced radar equipment originally from the USA. When Håkansson was hauled in for questioning the following day, it emerged that he, too, had no idea, and was under the impression that the goods were to stay in Sweden. At least that’s what he said. The transmitters and receivers were being held by the customs officers in Hamburg, and had that been that, things might have turned out rather differently.
Unfortunately, a raid was carried out that day, the twenty-fifth, on the Håkanssons’ home out in Täby. Four large wooden crates were found in the garage. When asked about the contents, Håkansson said that they were air-conditioning units, but when the police prised them open it was established that they in fact contained VAX computers.
That was when The Bureau was called in. VAX 11/782 has numerous civilian applications but can also have military uses. It is part of the hardware required in the production of nuclear weapons.
The problem — which had caused the Director of The Bureau to intensify his chain-smoking — was that when Charles and Paul arrived at Håkansson’s address on the evening of the twenty-fifth of February to collect the VAX computers, they were gone.
Disappeared. Stolen, with some considerable panache, as though they had simply gone up in smoke.
They informed the Director, and all hell broke loose — the ashtray hit the wall and a telephone receiver cracked when the Director whacked it on the table like a hammer. The off-white walls of the meeting room closed in, until everyone was gasping for breath.
‘He’s going to be pleased that we’ve found the computers,’ Paul says as he turns into Hantverkargatan. ‘But if they stay in Bagarmossen, we’re going to have to call off the deal. We need to get him to think that the best thing is to keep them moving, put them in new locations every now and then. First from Bagarmossen to a second location, from there to a third, perhaps even a fourth. That way they can, in a flash, just …’ He holds out his clenched fist and opens it quickly, as though the palm of his hand had burnt his fingertips. ‘Pfft. Disappear right before their eyes, again, but this time with our blessing.’
‘Getting him to think that won’t be enough. He needs to present the idea himself.’
‘Exactly,’ Paul says with a little smirk.
In times like these, that’s the only way to get him to agree to anything.
Charles stares at his fingers, stained yellow by nicotine. He puts his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes. They’re lying to so many people. It would be nice to grab some sleep. Inside his trouser pocket, his hand clenches the blood-stained tissue.
The Bureau is a hive of activity: secretaries carrying binders and papers from one room to another, their discreet heels clicking on the floor; office workers coming back from their lunch with their coats draped over their arms; the cleaner packing the vacuum cleaner back in the broom cupboard; a visitor from one of the upper floors being led through the corridors by men with polite smiles and serious brows.
The mundaneness of it makes it easier to pretend that it’s not dangerous. The Director smokes Chesterfield — the only decent American cigarette — and recently his habit’s got worse, if his secretary is to be believed. She probably should be. Everyone knows he’s up against it.
‘So we know where they are,’ he says now, holding up his glass of water and studying its contents before tasting it.
‘That’s right,’ Paul says, turning a page in the report. ‘We know that they’re originally from America, and that they arrived here via South Africa and Germany.’
‘Do we know how they got there?’
‘No. Nor do we know who it was that moved them from Täby to Bagarmossen, how, or why. If it hadn’t been for Charles,’ he adds, ‘we wouldn’t even have known where they were.’
The Director’s gaze drifts over the glass and across the desk.
‘Good work, Levin.’ He pulls the cigarette packet from his chest pocket. ‘Do we know where the VAX computers were headed?’
‘We suspect,’ Paul says, ‘that they were intended for the same destination as the radar equipment that was impounded in Hamburg.’
‘Obviously. But where was that going?’
The Director is well aware of the most likely destination. The question is either a rhetorical one, or else he wants to see if they’re lying.
‘There may be any number of destinations,’ Charles says slowly. ‘Hungary, Bulgaria, perhaps even the USSR. But we suspect it was East Germany.’
‘So do I.’ The Director lights his cigarette. ‘Fuck.’
He stands up, walks over to the window with hands in pockets and a cigarette bobbing from the corner of his mouth. The walls in here are covered with heavy bookshelves, full of ring binders and handbooks, nameless files. His uniform is hanging in between two of the shelves. The floor is covered with an expensive-looking rug. The smell of cigarettes and aftershave mixes with the synthetic smell of air conditioning.
The Director has a great beak of a nose and only smiles when it is in his interest to do so. On the few occasions it does happen, the resulting leer is half-hearted and cool, never quite reaching his eyes. It’s difficult to distinguish between his personality and his profession, the requirements of the job having worked their way into his movements, his emotions, and his heart. Apparently, his first decision after being appointed was to soundproof the walls, since he wanted to control what was heard in here. It’s actually the small sounds that expose a person, and if they squirm in their chair, fix their collar, or clear their throat in agitation — in here, those sounds are amplified, sharpened.
‘And Savolainen,’ the Director says, preoccupied. ‘It was him you saw?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, in that case, Öberg’s involved in this, too. If it is the GDR, then they’re working with
good old-fashioned Swedish crooks. Well, I never.’
‘If it is the GDR, maybe they’re not aware of that part,’ Paul says. ‘There could be a lot of links in the chain.’
‘They know,’ the Director says bleakly. ‘They always know. But,’ he goes on, ‘do they know that we know where they are?’
‘No,’ says Charles.
‘And you’re quite sure about that?’
‘Yes.’
A flock of birds streak past the window. The Director doesn’t seem to notice them. Maybe he’s closed his eyes. Charles’ palms are slippery, and when he lifts them from the desktop his sweat has left marks on the polished wood. He wipes his arm across it, and puts his hands on his thighs instead.
‘Arrange a flat and get that cellar in Bagarmossen under surveillance. I want to know if Öberg is working for Håkansson or someone else. Have you spoken to him?’
‘Öberg?’ says Charles. ‘No.’
‘What about his lackey, Savolainen? Have you spoken to him?’
‘No,’ Charles lies, and the lie sounds perfect, almost like a reflex.
He’s so used to it.
‘Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, let’s keep it that way. Don’t make contact.’ He pulls on his cigarette.
The smoke forms a cloud around him. ‘Observe, and document. Do not intervene until, in the unlikely event of it going that far, the computers get legs and are about to cross the border.’
‘May I ask,’ Paul says, ‘why this caution?’
‘We are being careful because …’ The Director coughs. The cigarette falls out of his mouth and onto the floor. ‘Because the prime minister will be visiting the GDR in June. That was decided this morning. If that’s where the computers are bound for, then there will be an almighty rumpus if we don’t put a spanner in the works.’
Paul straightens out a crease in his trouser leg. It looks nonchalant, almost provocative. The Director studies the cigarette, lying there smouldering beside his left foot. He sighs, before extinguishing it with the sole of his shoe, his hands staying firmly in his pockets.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Paul says, ‘aren’t we taking a risk, having them sitting there in Bagarmossen? They’re going to be there for at least a couple of months. Deals like this, regardless of whether they’re going to the GDR or somewhere else in the Eastern Bloc, always take time.’
‘We’re always taking risks. It comes with the job.’
‘But … can we leave electronic equipment standing there like that? Considering it’s equipment that in all probability is intended to be used for military purposes, I mean?’
‘What the hell are we supposed to do? Bring them here?’
‘Obviously not.’ Paul furrowed his brow. ‘I just mean …’
‘I know what you mean.’ The Director interrupts. ‘You mean that it would be better to keep them moving, get the crooks to move them around at irregular intervals. The way we used to do it.’
‘I just want to draw attention to a potential risk in our strategy. A risk that might be avoidable.’
‘Having a bunch of unreliable gangsters moving that kind of gear around, is that not risky?’
‘Well, yes.’ Paul throws up his hands in frustration. It looks genuine, which is surprising, and, strangely enough, impressive. ‘Sure.’
The Director slumps back in silence.
‘There is one good reason to get them to move the computers,’ Charles says slowly.
‘What might that be?’
Careful now.
‘A move like that takes a lot of hands. They’d need to bring in help. We could cast the net wider, get at even more of their people. If we make a good job of it, we might even get at some of the East Germans themselves.’
The Director pulls out another cigarette, and rolls it between his fingers.
‘That’s a nice thought.’
He’s quiet again, for a long time. Charles is dizzy and nauseous. His mouth is watering. He swallows.
‘How do we get them to move the computers?’ says the Director. ‘How are we going to get people who don’t know that we know what they’re up to, to move those things without revealing ourselves?’
Paul laughs — maybe because it’s all an act, like playing games of strategy as a kid and delighting in having been able to predict the opponent’s moves and lure him into a trap.
‘Details always work themselves out,’ he says.
‘Details,’ the Director repeats to himself and then gives a little giggle — an old man who, for a second, is all too reminiscent of a little boy.
JUNE 2014
I’ve bought a car. A beige 1978 Opel Kadett — four cylinders, two doors, and a carburettor.
I got it cheap from a dubious character in Högdalen, a man I’d had previous dealings with concerning an assault, where it took a long time to establish whether he had been the victim or the perpetrator. The car sounds like an old hoover, and no one moves out of its way in traffic. Sam hates it and Birck just rolled his eyes when he saw it, but I like it, maybe because it looks roughly how I feel.
Bruket lies a long way inland, like an overgrown clearing in an enormous forest. Pine woods line the trunk road that leads there, so tall and so dense that many of the smaller trees are brown, as the canopy above is so thick that the sun doesn’t make it through to them. The warm air, dry and hot at first, has gradually become damp and close. It’s the twentieth of June — Midsummer’s eve.
There was a glass factory here once, I remember. That must be why the name rings a bell. As I follow the road, the forest opens up until I pass the old factory site. It’s huge, much bigger than I expected, and the buildings rise up beyond the high fence like grey skeletons. The road itself is poorly maintained, and tar bleeds from the cracks and gashes.
The sight that meets you as you turn into Bruket’s square is more like a gloomy recollection of a little town than an actual little town.
The contrast between the car’s dark interior and the stark sunlight on the square makes me squint. It really is unnaturally hot here.
I don’t know what I was expecting. That everything would come to a standstill when a stranger’s car rolled into town and parked, that eyebrows would be raised, and that people might approach me with faltering steps and cautious stares? That someone might prod me in the chest with an outstretched finger and point out that I must be in the wrong place, that the best thing to do would be to chug on out of there?
None of that happens. Nothing happens.
Kit is in the passenger seat, in his cage. I had to bring him with me.
He wasn’t my idea, but Sam insisted, and a lot of the time it’s impossible to say no to the one you love.
Now, at the stage when we’re getting to know each other again, Sam knows that I’m fragile and unstable; she knows that we are, too. The few people who know us say that we’ve always been an unpredictable couple, which is true. Knowing what the next day is going to be like has never been straightforward, but it’s getting easier and easier.
‘Do you really want kids?’ she asked me one night, a little over two months back.
‘Yes,’ I said. It was true. I think. ‘You?’
‘Yes.’ She hesitated. ‘But I don’t know if we’re up to it.’
The result: a fucking cat.
So, as I was saying, not my idea.
Sam bought him from an old tattoo-artist colleague whose cat had just had kittens. Kit is a mix of something and something else; no one’s sure what. He has a dark-brown coat and green eyes, is about four months old, and to put it bluntly, isn’t much good at anything in particular. He seems not to hear very well, has pretty bad sight, and has absolutely no interest in doing things that cats usually do. Mostly, he just wanders around looking blankly at the world. Sam says we’re alike.
Now he raises his head and blinks, slowly. Then he yawns and slumps back into his cage.
In my pocket is a list, handwritten by Sam: how not to kill the cat while I’m away.
I roll the window down a bit, have a cigarette, and contemplate what I’m going to say if anyone asks what I’m doing here.
The houses surrounding the square are low and old. I get out of the car, put the cig out, open the cat’s cage, leave the window a little bit open for Kit, and notice how everything that would usually matter is reduced to white noise.
An unsettling quiet hangs over Bruket on Midsummer’s eve. Back when the glass factory was in full swing and everyone had something to be getting on with — a purpose — it was a hectic day, where people struggled to get done whatever they needed to do before they could go home or go away for the weekend. At lunchtime, you could see them walking home from the plant, all in line, almost like a train. Tove used to stand by that path, the route the workers always took, and she’d wait to catch sight of her dad’s face among them. Nowadays, the whole day is spent in deep hibernation, a feeling that somehow finds its way into your head, making everything sluggish.
I don’t trust anyone anymore, Tove thinks to herself. Maybe that’s the problem.
That occurs to her at lunchtime. She’s sitting there, making phone call after phone call to people in the area to see whether they’re at home, and whether she can come round and show them a picture of a car, to see if they recognise it. She crosses out the names of the handful she’s managed to get hold of, marking the ones who didn’t answer with a cross.
And she thinks that, for some reason, the vast majority are hiding something. We all do that sometimes; everyone has secrets. A good police officer ought to know when she can trust someone and when she can’t, but in Tove’s case the boundaries have become blurred.
More than twenty-four hours have passed since Charles Levin was found dead. For an accomplished perpetrator, that is a head start that will be difficult to claw back.
Master, Liar, Traitor, Friend: a Leo Junker case Page 7