The Girl Who Saved the King of Sweden

by Jonas Jonasson

  When Fredrik Reinfeldt saw that the agent was responsive, he looked him in the eye and said:

  ‘I see that your car is sitting outside. I suggest – for the sake of the good relationship between the people of Sweden and Israel – that you immediately get into it, drive away from here and leave the country at once. I further suggest that you were never here and that you never come back.’

  The honest prime minister felt physically ill at the thought that within a few hours he had not only committed potato thievery but was also now about to send an intoxicated man out in traffic. Plus everything else.

  ‘But Prime Minister Olmert?’ said Agent B.

  ‘I have nothing to discuss with him, because you were never here. Right?’

  Agent B was certainly not sober. Moreover, he was half asleep. But he realized that he had just got his life back.

  And that he had to hurry, before the head of the Swedish government changed his mind.

  Fredrik Reinfeldt was one of Sweden’s most honest people, the sort of person who had paid his television licence fee ever since he had lived in his very first student apartment. The sort who, even as a child, had offered a receipt when he sold a bunch of leeks to his neighbour for twenty-five öre.

  No wonder, then, that he now felt the way he did as he let Agent B go. And as he made up his mind that all the rest of it should be hushed up. Buried. The bomb, too. In a bunker. If only it would work.

  Nombeko returned with an oar under one arm and said that she had just stopped the countess and the king from rowing out to poach fish. When the prime minister didn’t answer, and since Nombeko could see the tail-lights of Mossad Agent B’s hire car as it left Sjölida, she added:

  ‘Sometimes it’s impossible to do the right thing, Prime Minister. Just more or less wrong. The final clean-up of the countess’s kitchen was in the best interests of the country. You mustn’t have a guilty conscience over that.’

  The prime minister was silent for a few more seconds. Then he said, ‘Thank you, Miss Nombeko.’

  Nombeko and the prime minister went down to the dock to have a serious talk with Holger One and his Celestine. Both had fallen asleep under their blanket, and next to them, in a row and partaking of the same activity, lay the king and the countess.

  ‘Get up now, Idiot, or I’ll kick you into the water,’ said Nombeko, nudging him with her foot (she was carrying around an inner frustration that could not be relieved in any other way than by twisting his nose – at the very least).

  The two former kidnappers sat up on the dock while the rest of the knocked-out gang woke up. The prime minister began by saying that he was planning to refrain from turning the kidnapping, the threats and everything else into a police matter, as long as Holger and Celestine cooperated to the fullest from now on.

  Both nodded.

  ‘What happens now, Nombeko?’ said Holger One. ‘We don’t have anywhere to live. My studio in Blackeberg won’t work, because Celestine wants to bring her grandma along if Grandma wants to come.’

  ‘Weren’t we going to poach fish?’ said the newly awakened countess.

  ‘No, first and foremost we’re going to survive the night,’ said the prime minister.

  ‘A good ambition,’ said the king. ‘A bit defensive, but good.’

  And then he added that it might be just as well that he and the countess had never set out in that rowing-boat. KING SEIZED FOR POACHING FISH was probably a headline that malevolent journalists could not have resisted.

  The prime minister thought that no journalist on earth, malevolent or not, would voluntarily resist that headline as long as it had earning capacity. Instead he said that he would appreciate it if His Majesty dismissed all thoughts of criminal action from his mind, for the number of crimes already committed on this night could fill an entire district court.

  The king thought he could poach fish as much as he wanted, given who he was, but he had enough sense, and by a decent margin, not to say this to the prime minister.

  Thus Fredrik Reinfeldt could continue the all-round salvaging of situation and nation. He turned to Countess Virtanen and entreated her to give a short and plain answer to the question of whether she wanted to leave Sjölida with her granddaughter and her boyfriend.

  Well, the countess had noticed that her zest for life had returned. This was probably because she had got to be with her beloved Celestine for so long, and because of the king, who had turned out to be so knowledgeable about Finnish-Swedish history and its traditions. And, of course, the potato field had already been sold, and, to be honest, being the publisher of a magazine had been pretty boring for the short time it had lasted.

  ‘And besides, I’m sick of being single. Might the king know some second-hand baron to introduce me to? He doesn’t have to be handsome.’

  The king said that barons were in short supply, but this was as far as he got before the prime minister interrupted him, saying that this wasn’t the time to discuss the existence of second-hand barons, ugly or otherwise, because it was time for all of them to leave. So the countess was planning on coming along?

  Yes, she was. But where would they live? Old ladies could be lodged in any old cottage, but countesses had their reputations to think of.

  Nombeko thought things were getting out of control. But there was quite a bit of money left from the potato farm, enough for housing worthy of the countess and her court. And more besides.

  ‘Pending an available castle, I suppose we’ll have to check you into a respectable establishment. A suite at the Grand Hôtel in Stockholm – would that do?’

  ‘Yes, for a transitional period,’ said the countess, while the former MLCP(R) rebel Celestine squeezed her grimacing boyfriend’s hand hard.

  * * *

  It was six in the morning before the potato truck with the atomic bomb was once again on the road. Behind the wheel was the prime minister, the only one of them who was both a licensed driver and sober enough to drive. Nombeko was on the right, and Holger Two, his arm in a sling, was in the middle.

  In the back of the truck, the king and Countess Virtanen were still going strong. The king had a number of tips regarding her future housing. The classical palace of Pöckstein near Strasbourg in Austria was for sale and might possibly be worthy of the countess. It was just an awfully long way from Drottningholm, for afternoon tea. So Södertuna Castle would be better; it actually wasn’t too far from Gnesta. From medieval times. But maybe it would be too simple for the countess?

  The countess couldn’t say for certain. They would have to view each available lodging and get a sense of what was simple and what wasn’t.

  The king wondered if he and the queen could come on some of the planned viewings. Not least the queen could be of service with advice on what attributes any palace garden worth its name must have.

  Yes, by all means, that would be nice, if they wished. It might be nice to meet the queen in a different environment from when one was doing one’s business in an outhouse.

  The king was dropped off first, at 7.30 a.m. outside Drottningholm Palace. He rang the bell and had to argue for a while that he was who he said he was before he was finally let in by an embarrassed guard commander. Who noticed as the king passed that he had dark red spots on his shirt.

  ‘Is His Majesty hurt?’ the guard called after his king.

  ‘No, it’s chicken blood,’ said the king. ‘And a little motor oil.’

  The next stop was the Grand Hôtel. But here the logistics became thorny. Holger Two had a fever from being accidentally shot by his brother. Two ought to be put to bed and given painkillers, because the bottle of Mannerheim’s schnapps was empty.

  ‘So you think I’m going to check into a hotel and let myself be looked after by the fool who just nearly killed me?’ said Holger Two. ‘I’d rather lie down on a park bench and bleed out.’

  But Nombeko cajoled him, promising that he would get to strangle his brother, or at least twist his nose (if she didn’t get there first), but tha
t this couldn’t happen until his arm had healed. Wouldn’t it be extraordinarily ironic if he were to lie down and bleed to death on the very day they were about to get rid of the bomb?

  Holger Two was too tired to contradict her.

  By about twenty to nine, Two had been put to bed and served double Treo tablets for his fever and pain. He drained the glass and fell asleep in fifteen seconds. Holger One lay down on the sofa in the suite’s sitting room to do the same, while Countess Virtanen set about investigating the minibar in the bedroom.

  ‘You all go on. I can take care of myself.’

  The prime minister, Nombeko and Celestine were standing outside the entrance of the hotel in order to work out the details of what they had to do during the next few hours.

  Reinfeldt would leave to meet Hu Jintao. Nombeko and Celestine were supposed to spend that time driving around central Stockholm with the bomb, as carefully as possible.

  Celestine would be behind the wheel; there was no other chauffeur available. Holger Two, of course, had been shot and put to bed, and the prime minister himself couldn’t continue to drive around with the horrible weapon while also meeting the president of China.

  That left the unpredictable, formerly young, possibly just as angry woman. Under Nombeko’s supervision, but still.

  While the trio was still standing outside the entrance to the hotel, the prime minister’s assistant called to tell him that his suit and clean shoes awaited him at the government offices. But they had also had a call from the Chinese president’s staff, raising a concern. The president’s interpreter had been badly injured the evening before, and had just been operated on at Karolinska Hospital for four broken fingers and one crushed thumb. The president had asked his co-workers to suggest that the prime minister might have a convenient solution to the interpreter problem for the morning’s meeting and the following lunch. The assistant suspected that he was referring to the black woman she had met briefly outside the palace. Might that be the case? And if it was, did the prime minister know where she could be found?

  Yes, the prime minister did know. He asked his assistant to hold on for a second and turned to Nombeko.

  ‘Might you consider attending the morning meeting between me and the president of the People’s Republic of China, Miss Nombeko? The president’s interpreter is in the hospital.’

  ‘And complaining that he’s about to die?’ said Nombeko.

  Before the prime minister had time to ask what she meant by that, she added, ‘Absolutely. Of course I can do that. But what will we do with the truck, the bomb and Celestine in the meantime?’

  Letting Celestine be alone with the truck and the bomb for several hours felt . . . not good. Nombeko’s first idea for a solution had been to handcuff her to the steering wheel. But her next idea was better. She returned to the suite and was soon back.

  ‘Your boyfriend is now chained to the sofa he is snoring so beautifully on. If you do anything stupid with the truck and the bomb while the prime minister and I meet the president of China, I promise I will throw the key to the handcuffs into Nybroviken.’

  Celestine snorted in reply.

  Prime Minister Reinfeldt rang two of his bodyguards and asked them to come to the Grand to pick up Nombeko and himself in a car with maximally tinted windows. Celestine’s orders were to stay in the first car park she saw until he or Nombeko called her. It would just be a few hours, the prime minister promised, longing so hard to reach the end of the yesterday that was still going on that he was about to burst.

  CHAPTER 23

  On an angry supreme commander and a beautifully singing woman

  Fredrik Reinfeldt sat down in one of the easy chairs in his office with a sandwich and a triple espresso. He had just undergone a renovation in the form of a shower, fresh clothes and mud-free shoes. Already sitting in the other easy chair was his South African Chinese interpreter with a cup of Swedish tea in hand. In the same clothes as the day before. On the other hand, she hadn’t been digging in any potato fields.

  ‘Ah, so that’s what you looked like before you got dirty,’ said Nombeko.

  ‘What time is it?’ said the prime minister.

  It was twenty minutes to ten. There was time to prepare the interpreter.

  The prime minister said that he was planning to invite Hu Jintao to the climate change summit in Copenhagen in 2009, which would take place at the same time as he himself would become the president of the EU Council.

  ‘There will probably be some talk about the environment and various efforts in that field,’ he said. ‘I want China to be a part of the upcoming climate treaty.’

  ‘Well, how about that,’ said Nombeko.

  One controversial matter was that the prime minister also planned to discuss Sweden’s views on democracy and human rights. At those points, it was extra important for Nombeko to interpret word for word, rather than in her own words.

  ‘Anything else?’ said Nombeko.

  Well, they would also be discussing business, of course. Imports and exports. China was on its way to being increasingly important to Sweden as an exporter as well.

  ‘We export twenty-two billion kronor’s worth of Swedish goods on a yearly basis,’ said the prime minister.

  ‘Twenty point eight,’ said Nombeko.

  The prime minister emptied his espresso and inwardly confirmed that he was experiencing the most bizarre twenty-four hours of his life by a nearly infinite margin.

  ‘What else does the interpreter have to add?’ he said.

  He said this without sarcasm.

  Nombeko thought it was good that the meeting would be about democracy and human rights, because then, afterwards, the prime minister could say that the meeting had been about democracy and human rights.

  She’s a cynic, too, in all her brilliance, thought Fredrik Reinfeldt.

  * * *

  ‘Prime Minister. It’s an honour to meet you, now that circumstances are more orderly.’ President Hu smiled, extending his hand. ‘And you, Miss Nombeko – our paths cross again and again. Most agreeable, I must say.’

  Nombeko said that she felt the same, but that they would have to wait a bit longer to talk safari memories, because otherwise the prime minister would probably become impatient.

  ‘By the way, he’s planning to come out of the gate with a few things about democracy and human rights, which he thinks you aren’t very good at. And he’s probably completely on the wrong track there. But don’t worry, Mr President, I think he’ll mince along pretty carefully. Let’s get on with it – are you ready?’

  Hu Jintao made a face at what was coming, but he didn’t lose his temper. The South African woman was far too charming for that. Besides, this was the first time he’d worked with an interpreter who translated what had been said even before it had been said. Or the second time. The same thing had happened once in South Africa, many years earlier.

  Sure enough, the prime minister moved forward cautiously. He described the Swedish view of democracy, emphasized Swedish values regarding free speech, offered his friends in the People’s Republic support in developing similar traditions. And then, in a low voice, he demanded the release of the country’s political prisoners.

  Nombeko interpreted, but before Hu Jintao had time to answer, she added, on her own authority, that what the prime minister was really trying to say was that they couldn’t lock up authors and journalists just because they wrote objectionable things. Or displace people, censure the Internet . . .

  ‘What are you saying now?’ said the prime minister.

  He had noticed that her translation was twice as long as might reasonably be expected.

  ‘I was just passing on what you said, Prime Minister, and then I explained what you meant by it to help the conversation move along a little faster. Both of us are a bit too tired to sit here all day, aren’t we?’

  ‘Explained what I meant? Did I not make myself clear enough earlier? This is top-level diplomacy – the interpreter can’t just sit there
making things up!’

  By all means. Nombeko promised to try to make things up as little as possible from now on, and she turned to President Hu to say that the prime minister wasn’t happy with what she’d added to the conversation.

  ‘That’s understandable,’ said Hu Jintao. ‘But interpret this: say I’ve absorbed the prime minister’s and Miss Nombeko’s words and that I possess the good political sense to tell them apart.’

  At this, Hu Jintao began a lengthy reply, which brought up Guantánamo in Cuba, where prisoners had been sitting for five years while waiting to find out what they were charged with. Unfortunately the president, too, was fully aware of the regrettable incident in 2002 when Sweden had obediently done what the CIA told them to do and deported two Egyptians to prison and torture, whereupon it turned out that at least one of them happened to be innocent.

  The president and prime minister continued to exchange words and sentences for another few rounds of this before Fredrik Reinfeldt thought they’d done enough. And so he turned to the environment. This part of the conversation flowed more smoothly.

  A little while later, they were served tea and cake – the interpreter, too. In the informal atmosphere that a coffee circle often brings, the president took the opportunity discreetly to deliver a comment in which he expressed hope that yesterday’s drama had by now been resolved for the better.

  Yes, thanks, the prime minister said that it had, without sounding completely convincing. Nombeko could tell that Hu Jintao wanted to know more, and out of sheer politeness, she added – over Reinfeldt’s head – that the bomb had been locked into a bunker and that the entrance had been walled over for good. Then she thought that perhaps she shouldn’t have said what she’d just said, but that at least it hadn’t been completely made up.

  When he was younger, Hu Jintao had done a bit of work with nuclear weapons-related issues (it had started with his trip to South Africa), and he was curious about the bomb in question on behalf of his country. Of course, it was a few decades old, and China didn’t need a bomb; the Chinese military had plenty of megatons already. But if all the intelligence reports were correct, the bomb in disassembled form could give China a unique look into South African – that is, Israeli – nuclear weapons technology. And that, in turn, could become an important piece of the puzzle in the analysis of the relationship and relative strengths between Israel and Iran. As it happened, the Iranians were good friends to the Chinese. Or halfway good. Oil and natural gas flowed east from Iran, while at the same time China had never had more trying allies than those in Tehran (with the exception of Pyongyang). Among other things, they were hopelessly difficult to read. Were they in the process of building their own nuclear weapons? Or were they just making a lot of noise with rhetoric and the conventional weapons they already had?