The Girl Who Saved the King of Sweden

by Jonas Jonasson

  The king wasn’t happy to leave his countess, but of course he would agree to a night-time conversation with Miss Celestine and the man whom he wasn’t allowed to call ‘the idiot’ if they wished to have one and if it might lead things in the right direction.

  Holger One began the conversation on the dock by saying that the king ought to be ashamed that he couldn’t behave like a king.

  ‘We all have our shortcomings,’ said the king.

  One continued, admitting that his beloved Celestine had allowed herself to be happy about the . . . lively relationship the king had established with Gertrud.

  ‘The countess,’ the king corrected him.

  Well, no matter what she was called in various camps, she was one reason why it was no longer obvious that they must blow up the king and parts of the country, even if His Majesty were to refrain from abdicating.

  ‘That’s great then,’ said the king. ‘I guess I’ll choose that.’

  ‘Abdicating?’

  ‘No, refraining from abdicating, since it will no longer have the dramatic consequences you had previously indicated.’

  Holger One cursed himself. He had started at the wrong end: he’d begun by discarding the only trump card he had in his hand – the threat of the bomb. Why did everything always have to go wrong – no matter what he tried to do? It was becoming more and more clear to him that he was what people called him.

  The king could see that Holger One was suffering from inner turmoil and added that Mr Idiot shouldn’t be too upset about the way things had turned out. After all, history shows us that it’s not enough to chase a king away from the throne. It’s not even enough when an entire royal line ends.

  ‘It’s not?’ said Holger One.

  * * *

  As it began to grow light in Roslagen, the king told the cautionary tale of Gustav IV Adolf, for whom things had not gone especially well, and what this had led to.

  It all started when his father was shot at the Royal Opera House. The king’s son had two weeks to get used to his new role while his dad lay there dying. This turned out to be far too little time. In addition, his father had succeeded in hammering into the boy that the Swedish king was given his post by the grace of God and that the king and God worked as a team.

  A person who feels the Lord watching over him finds it to be a minor thing to go to war in order to defeat both the Emperor Napoleon and Tsar Alexander – all at once. Unfortunately, the emperor and the tsar also claimed to have divine protection and acted accordingly. Assuming they were all correct, God had promised a little too much in too many directions at the same time. All the Lord could do about that was to let their true relative strengths settle the matter.

  Perhaps that was why Sweden took a pasting twice over, ended up with Pomerania occupied, and lost all of Finland. Gustav himself was chased off the throne by enraged counts and bitter generals. A coup d’état, to put it simply.

  ‘Well, fancy that,’ said Holger One.

  ‘I’m not finished yet,’ said the king.

  The former Gustaf IV Adolf became depressed and took to the bottle. What else could he do? Since he was no longer allowed to be named what he no longer was, he started calling himself Colonel Gustavsson instead, and wandered around Europe until he died alone, alcoholic and penniless at a Swiss boarding-house.

  ‘Well, that’s excellent,’ said Holger One.

  ‘If you didn’t keep interrupting me, you would already have realized that there’s a different point to my story,’ said the king. ‘For instance, the fact that another king was put on the throne to replace him.’

  ‘I know,’ said Holger One. ‘That’s why you have to get rid of the whole family at once.’

  ‘But not even that can help,’ said the king, continuing his story:

  ‘Like father, like son’, as they say, and this wasn’t a risk the coup-makers wanted to take. So they declared that the exile of the incompetent Gustav IV Adolf went not only for the king himself but also for his entire family, including the ten-year-old crown prince. They were all declared to have forfeited the right to the Swedish crown for all time.

  The man placed on the throne instead was the brother of the murdered father of Gustav IV.

  ‘This is starting to get out of hand,’ said Holger One.

  ‘Not much longer until I make my point,’ said the king.

  ‘That’s good.’

  Anyway, the new king was called Karl XIII, and everything would have been fine and dandy if not for his only son, who lived for just one week. And no new sons seemed to be forthcoming (or perhaps they did come forth, but not from the right woman). The royal line was about to die out.

  ‘But of course he had a solution to that, right?’ said Holger.

  ‘Oh, yes, first he adopted a princely relative, who also had the poor taste to die.’

  ‘And the solution to that?’

  ‘To adopt a Danish prince, who also died right away of a seizure.’

  Holger said that if he didn’t know better, he would say that the king’s story was shaping up to end well.

  Instead of answering, the king continued: after the fiasco with the Danish prince, they turned to France, where it turned out that Emperor Napoleon had an extra marshal. When all was said and done, Jean Baptiste Bernadotte was the crown prince of Sweden.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he became the first member of the new dynasty. I’m a Bernadotte, too. Jean Baptiste was the great-grandfather of my great-grandfather Gustaf the Fifth, you know.’

  ‘Ugh, yes.’

  ‘It’s pointless to try to kill off royal dynasties, Holger,’ the king said politely. ‘As long as people want a monarchy, you can’t get rid of it. But I respect your views – after all, we do live in a democracy. Why don’t you join the largest political party, the Social Democrats, and try to influence them from within? Or become a member of the Republican Association and shape public opinion?’

  ‘Or build a statue of you and let it fall on top of me so I can be spared everything,’ Holger One mumbled.

  ‘Pardon?’ said the king.

  * * *

  The sun came up before anyone in Sjölida had been even close to going to bed, except for Agent B, who was having a restless sleep while sitting on the sofa.

  Nombeko and Holger Two replaced the king on the dock on Vätösund. This was the first time Holger and Holger had had a chance to exchange a few words with each other since the kidnapping.

  ‘You promised you wouldn’t touch the bomb,’ Holger Two said angrily.

  ‘I know,’ said Holger One. ‘And I kept that promise all these years, didn’t I? Until it ended up in the back of the truck along with the king while I was at the wheel. Then I couldn’t keep it any more.’

  ‘But what were you thinking? And what are you thinking now?’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking. I seldom do – you know that. Dad was the one who told me to drive.’

  ‘Dad? But he’s been dead for almost twenty years!’

  ‘Yes – it’s strange, isn’t it?’

  Holger Two sighed.

  ‘I think the strangest thing of all is that we’re brothers,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t be mean to my darling!’ said Celestine.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Holger Two.

  Nombeko could see that One and Celestine’s conviction that the best thing for the country was to obliterate themselves and an entire region was starting to waver.

  ‘What are you thinking about doing now?’ she asked.

  ‘All this damn talk about thinking,’ said Holger One.

  ‘I don’t think we can kill someone who makes my grandma laugh,’ said Celestine. ‘She hasn’t ever laughed in her life.’

  ‘And what would you be thinking, Idiot, if you were to try after all?’

  ‘I told you not to be mean to my darling,’ said Celestine.

  ‘I haven’t started yet,’ said Nombeko.

  Holger One was silent for a few seconds; then he said:

 
; ‘To the extent that I think, I think it would have been easier with Gustaf the Fifth. He had a silver cane and a monocle, not chicken blood on his shirt.’

  ‘And motor oil,’ said Celestine.

  ‘So you want to get out of this in the best possible way. Have I understood correctly?’ said Nombeko.

  ‘Yes,’ Holger One said quietly without daring to look her in the eye.

  ‘Then start by handing over the pistol and the keys to the truck.’

  Holger gave her the keys first, but then he managed to drop the pistol on the dock, whereupon a shot was fired.

  ‘Ow, damn it,’ Holger Two said, and collapsed.

  CHAPTER 22

  On a final clean-up and breaking camp

  It was nearly three in the morning when the prime minister returned to Sjölida after a trip to the country road on Countess Virtanen’s moped. His mobile phone had enough coverage out there for the prime minister to make a few short calls to inform the king’s staff and his own, as well as the world’s most relieved director of security police, that the situation was under control, that he was counting on being at the government offices some time in the morning, and that he would like his assistant to have a suit and clean shoes waiting for him.

  The most acute phase of the drama seemed to be over, and no one seemed to have been hurt, except for Holger Two, who had been accidentally shot in the arm by his brother and who was now swearing in his bedroom next to the countess’s kitchen. It was a substantial flesh wound, but with the help of Marshal Mannerheim’s schnapps (as a combination of disinfectant and anaesthetic) and a bandage, there was reason to believe that Two would be as good as new in a few weeks. Nombeko noted lovingly that Holger Two hadn’t milked his injury one bit. In fact, he was lying in bed and using a pillow to practise the art of strangling someone with just one hand.

  The victim he had in mind, however, was keeping a safe distance. He and Celestine had lain down to sleep under a blanket on the dock. Meanwhile Agent B, who had been so threatening for a minute or two, was still partaking of the same activity in the kitchen. To be on the safe side, Nombeko had worked his pistol out of its holster inside his jacket. Without any further mishaps.

  The king, Countess Virtanen, Nombeko and the prime minister gathered in the kitchen with the sleeping agent. The king wondered happily what was next on the agenda. The prime minister was too tired to become more irritated with the king than he already was. Instead he turned to Nombeko and requested a private conversation.

  ‘Shall we go and sit in the cab of the potato truck?’ she said.

  The prime minister nodded.

  The head of the Swedish government turned out to be as bright as he was good at drying dishes. He first confessed that what he wanted to do most of all was report everyone at Sjölida to the police – including the king for his general lack of concern.

  But upon closer consideration, the prime minister had looked at things more pragmatically. For one thing, kings can’t be prosecuted. And perhaps it wouldn’t be quite fair to try to get Holger Two and Nombeko locked up; if anything, they had done their best to bring order to the chaos. Nor was the countess really guilty of any crime either, the prime minister reasoned. Especially if one refrained from checking to see if she had a valid licence for that moose-hunting rifle she had waved around earlier.

  That left the agent from a foreign nation’s intelligence agency. And the idiot and his girlfriend, of course. The latter two probably deserved a few hundred years each in as secure a facility as possible, but it might be both easiest and best if the country dispensed with this tempting vendetta. After all, any legal action would require a prosecutor to ask questions, and in this case the answers risked causing lifelong trauma to tens of thousands of citizens, no matter how such answers were formulated. An atomic bomb on the loose. Right in the middle of Sweden. For twenty years.

  The prime minister shuddered; then he continued his argument. The fact was, he had found yet another reason to refrain from legal action. When he was out on the country road with the moped, he had first called the director of Säpo to calm him down; then he called his assistant with a practical question.

  But he hadn’t raised the alarm.

  An overzealous prosecutor, egged on by the opposition, might very well try to claim that the prime minister himself had prolonged the drama and contributed to something unlawful.

  ‘Hmm,’ Nombeko said thoughtfully. ‘Such as “causing danger to others”, according to the third chapter, ninth paragraph of the criminal code.’

  ‘Two years?’ asked the prime minister, who was starting to suspect that Nombeko knew absolutely everything.

  ‘Yes,’ said Nombeko. ‘Considering the potential for devastation, one probably shouldn’t hope for a single day less than that. Not to mention driving a moped without a helmet. If I know Sweden, that might be another fifteen years.’

  The prime minister thought about the future. He was hoping to take over as president of the Council of the European Union in the summer of 2009. Sitting in prison until then would not be the best way to prepare for that. Not to mention the part where he would be fired as prime minister and party leader.

  So he asked the clever Nombeko for her opinion on how they could all get out of this, given that their goal was to send as much as possible of as many of the last twenty-four hours’ events as possible into eternal oblivion.

  Nombeko said that she didn’t know anyone who could clean up as well as the prime minister. The kitchen was sparkling clean after the chicken casserole, beer, schnapps, coffee and everything. All that was left was . . . to clean up the sleeping agent, wasn’t it?

  The prime minister frowned.

  Along the same lines, Nombeko thought that the most pressing matter was to separate the idiot and his girlfriend from the bomb. And then to lock it up in some bunker somewhere.

  The prime minister was tired; it was so late that it would be more accurate to say it was early. He confessed that he was having trouble formulating his thoughts and words. But he’d had time to think about that bunker part himself while his brain was still working. About having the bomb disarmed there, or at least walling it in and suppressing the memory of its existence.

  Now, the fact is that time is no kinder to prime ministers than it is to anyone else. Sometimes, in fact, it’s the opposite. The next thing on Fredrik Reinfeldt’s official agenda was a meeting with President Hu at the government offices; it was to begin at ten o’clock, and it would be followed by lunch at the prime minister’s residence, the Sager House. Before then, he wanted to have a shower so he didn’t smell like a potato field and to change into clothes and shoes that weren’t covered with mud.

  If the group managed to get going soon, it might work. But it was going to be hard to find time to locate a deep and remote bunker to hide and forget the atomic bomb in along the way. That would have to wait until the afternoon – no matter how important it was.

  The prime minister was ordinarily a man who listened, seldom speaking very much. Now he was surprised at how frank he was being with Nombeko Mayeki. Although maybe it wasn’t that surprising after all. We all need someone to share our innermost thoughts with, and with whom could he discuss the three-megaton problem that was weighing on them if not with the South African woman and perhaps her boyfriend?

  The prime minister realized he needed to increase the number of people who knew about this greatest of secrets. He planned to start with the supreme commander of the armed forces, who had the ultimate responsibility for that bunker, wherever it might be. Since the SC probably couldn’t disarm the bomb or wall up the bunker entrance behind himself all on his own, another person or two would need to be involved. That meant that the following people, at the least, would know what they ought not to: (1) the supreme commander, (2) disarmer A, (3) bricklayer B, (4) the illegal immigrant Nombeko Mayeki, (5) the nonexistent Holger Qvist, (6) his far-too-existent brother, (7) the brother’s irascible girlfriend, (8) a former potato farmer and current c
ountess, (9) His Unconcerned Majesty the King, as well as (10) a retired Mossad agent.

  ‘There is no way this can end well,’ said Prime Minister Reinfeldt.

  ‘Yes it can,’ said Nombeko. ‘Most of the people you just listed have every reason in the world to keep quiet about what they know. Plus, some of them are so confused that no one would believe them if they did tell.’

  ‘Are you thinking of the king?’ said the prime minister.

  The prime minister and Hu Jintao were to enjoy lunch at the Sager House in the company of some of Sweden’s most important industry leaders. Afterwards, President Hu would go straight to Arlanda Airport, where his very own Boeing 767 was waiting to transport him to Beijing. Only then would the supreme commander be summoned to the government offices.

  ‘In this case, do I dare trust Miss Nombeko with the bomb while I’m with Hu and for the time it will take to bring the SC in on the matter?’

  ‘Well, Prime Minister, I’m sure you know best what you do and do not dare to do. But I’ve been jointly responsible for that thing for twenty years already, and it hasn’t blown up yet. I’m sure I can manage a few more hours.’

  At that very moment, Nombeko saw the king and the countess leaving the kitchen and making their way down to the dock. It was possible that they were up to something. Nombeko thought fast.

  ‘Dear Mr Prime Minister. Go to the kitchen and deal with the Mossad agent in accordance with the intelligence I know you possess. Meanwhile, I’ll go down to the dock and make sure that the king and his countess don’t get up to anything stupid.’

  Fredrik Reinfeldt understood what Nombeko was getting at. His entire being told him that one couldn’t do something like that.

  Then he sighed – and went in to do something like that.

  ‘Wake up!’

  The prime minister shook Agent B until he opened his eyes and remembered, with great horror, where he was.