Julius had no desire to see North Korea. ‘But please, dear Captain,’ he said. ‘We happen to have a bottle of champagne here. We thought it might come in handy if we were picked up as we now have been. It’s not quite as well chilled as it ought to be, but if the captain doesn’t mind that, we’d be happy to share it. We can get to know each other and see what sorts of solutions might be hiding just around the corner.’
That was well put, Allan thought, holding up the bottle in support.
The captain took it from his hand and informed them that it was being confiscated as no alcohol was allowed on board.
‘No alcohol?’ said Julius.
No alcohol? Allan thought, on the verge of asking to return to the basket.
‘You gentlemen will be interrogated for information in two hours. For the time being you are not under suspicion of any crime, but that can always change. I intend to conduct the interrogation myself. The first two questions will be, who are you and why did you elect to float around in a woven basket on the open sea? With a bottle of champagne. But we’ll deal with that then.’
Captain Pak turned to his first mate, who was told he must take his belongings and move down with the crew, since he had just been relieved of his officer’s cabin. He should instead have the two foreign men installed there. Furthermore, the first mate should make sure a sailor stood watch outside the cabin, unless he chose to guard it himself, to make sure the two gentlemen didn’t come to any harm or, for that matter, get up to causing any harm.
The first mate gave a salute. He wasn’t happy about this development. Forced to associate with the crew for the sake of two aged whites … No, the captain should have left them at sea. This could only end as poorly as it had begun.
Captain Pak Chong-un sensed trouble brewing. Once again he checked the contents within the otherwise securely locked door to the safe in the captain’s quarters. He kept the key on a chain around his neck.
The safe contained all the mandatory ship’s logs, a copy of maritime law, and a briefcase full of four kilos of lead-shielded, enriched uranium.
The task he had personally been delegated by the Supreme Leader was now only three days from completion. There were no clouds on the horizon of this task. In a literal sense, that was. Which meant, as always, that the American satellites were keeping a watchful eye on him. That was a cloud in and of itself, albeit a metaphorical one. Another was the two foreign men in the first mate’s cabin just on the other side of the wall.
Captain Pak allowed himself to sum up the situation before walking the few steps to the neighbouring cabin. ‘Ugh.’ He stared at the watchman until said watchman realized he should open the door for his captain. And then he stared again until the watchman closed the same door.
‘Gentlemen, it is time to be interrogated,’ said Captain Pak Chong-un.
‘Lovely,’ said Allan.
Congo
Congo is the second-largest country in Africa and has always been rich in two particular things: natural resources and misery.
The most miserable period of all was when King Leopold II of Belgium used the country as his private rubber farm. He enslaved everyone he encountered and had upwards of ten million people killed. That’s an entire Sweden. Or an entire Belgium, if you prefer.
When Congo gained independence many difficult years later, a certain Joseph Mobutu ended up in the president’s chair. He became most famous for selling his country’s resources to the highest under-the-table bidder, keeping the money for himself, and changing his name to ‘the All-powerful Warrior who, because of his endurance and inflexible will to win, goes from conquest to conquest, leaving fire in his wake’.
This guy, thought the United States, was the future of Congo and Africa. And, with the kind aid of the CIA, the All-powerful Warrior remained in power for several decades. Uranium succeeded rubber as the most interesting natural resource. Indeed, the USA received the uranium for the atomic bombs over Hiroshima and Nagasaki from Congo and, as thanks for the help, assisted in the installation of a Congolese nuclear research facility under the leadership of the all-powerful one who left fire in his wake. It’s possible that this was not the United States’ brightest political decision in history.
In the country where everything was corrupt, no exceptions, large quantities of enriched uranium vanished. Some of it turned up here and there and could be secured, while an unknown amount remained missing.
Time passed. The most important security services in the Western world no longer had the energy to search for what couldn’t be found. What remained was to try to keep any more from reaching the black market. Some of those with operational units found comfort in the fact that at least the missing uranium lost strength with each year that went by.
German Chancellor Angela Merkel, however, was in possession of knowledge that made her view of the whole thing rather less rosy. Frau Merkel had already been around longer than most of the world’s leaders and she was counting on being re-elected next autumn. Her background as a chemist told her that she would not be in her current position on the day the missing isotope no longer posed a potential threat to her country. To be sure, she still had a lot to give, even at the age of sixty-three, after twenty-eight years in politics. But even so, her own half-life was considerably shorter than that of enriched uranium: four point five billion years.
North Korea
Kim Jong-un had never asked to be the person he became. In fact, two older brothers were ahead of him in line, but one sealed his fate when he took his family under his wing and sneaked out of the country under a fake name to go to Tokyo for a lark. To Disneyland, to boot – he was 0 for 2. And their father, Kim Jong-il, considered his other son far too weak. That basically meant he was suspected of being gay. Here and there, it was considered questionable to love whomever you wished.
Their father Kim was quite advanced in age when he took over from Eternal President Kim Il-sung, and likely had plans for a similar run-in period for his youngest son. But the problem with life is that people both high and low die when they die. Suddenly there he was, the twenty-five-year-old son, expected to move forward the legacy of his just-deceased father. Or preferably further than that since his father had gone down in history as the man who had turned a hungry people into a starving people.
In the span of a few months, young Kim went from capable Game Boy player to three-star general. He wasn’t given terrific chances by international analysts. A puppy, commander of a series of battle-scarred officers, including the puppy’s own uncle? Surely that would never work out.
And it didn’t. For the uncle and the generals. It’s possible that they were scheming, but before they could finish they were purged, every last one. Young Kim proved to be a person not to be trifled with or herded about. The uncle was sentenced to death for, among other things, being unfaithful to his wife. Nowhere in the twelve-page verdict was there a word about the fact that young Kim’s father had had five children with three different women.
Several years earlier young Kim had attended school in Switzerland under a secret name while his mother travelled around Europe to shop for the sorts of things the average North Korean had never even seen a picture of. Kim was more interested in basketball and videogames than girls, but his grades were nothing to sneeze at. And when he hastily, and with a decent amount of enthusiasm, took over the entire nation his grandfather had created and his father had partially ruined, it was his grandfather he took after. He was an extrovert, liked to mix with his people, might thump the occasional citizen on the back when he was in the mood – he even spoke to them. Above all, he adjusted the dials of the homemade Communist system, after which the food didn’t run out on as many tables as quickly as it had before.
So, as the world continued to titter in horror over the puppy, he made sure that the citizens were no longer starving even as he realized that the country he’d inherited must either curl up and die or pick a fight with the whole rest of the world, which was striving to make sure t
hat the former occurred.
He chose the fight-picking.
But there was a slight issue with North Korea’s inadequate finances. It would cost much more than they had squirrelled away to upgrade the aged Soviet tanks and ordnance. Better, then, to speed up the pace of the project Dad had helmed with a certain level of success.
Not many bombs. Just a few. But with a decent amount of oomph in them.
Nuclear weapons, in short.
By way of the development of the nuclear weapons programme and an eternal number of test-fired missiles, he informed the scornfully smiling world that North Korea was still in the game. Young Kim was rather satisfied when the world reacted with fear, sanctions and repeated condemnations. Incidentally, he was no longer ‘young Kim’ but Supreme Leader.
As a godsend, the United States replaced a Nobel Peace Prize-winning president with one who constantly fell into Kim Jong-un’s traps. Each time Donald Trump ran his mouth about how North Korea would be struck by ‘fire and fury’, he bolstered the Supreme Leader’s position.
During his first years in power, Kim Jong-un had achieved more than his father had done in his whole life. There was really only one thing that concerned him: the fact that the domestic plutonium factory had such trouble making it. The downside to plutonium is that it does not occur naturally in the earth. Anyone who wishes to play around with it, to build nuclear weapons for example, must first make sure he can create it.
And that’s no small task.
Even the production of five tiny grams is a tough job. But say you succeed in that. Then it must be stabilized, preferably to 99 per cent or greater, with the help of the element gallium, which in turn has the troublesome tendency to melt about as easily as a chocolate bar in the sun.
To stop the entire plutonium process slipping through your fingers, you must have a fancy centrifuge, and that is almost as complicated as the very process it is meant to aid.
All this for five grams of weapons-grade plutonium 239. For a nuclear charge worth mentioning, you need more like five kilos.
Things would probably have worked out if only the Russians had stopped giving the North Koreans the run-around. They had quietly promised to deliver a centrifuge, but now they were making excuses this way and that. It was not an option to wait out their dilly-dallying for eternity upon eternity. Kim Jong-un hated being anyone’s lapdog.
Incidentally, the Russians were masters of double dealing. They might vote for sanctions against North Korea on Monday, half promise a centrifuge on Tuesday – and offer up valuable uranium contacts before the week was out.
For the alternative to homemade plutonium was enriched uranium. It could be had on the black market in the darkest parts of Africa. But the proud Democratic People’s Republic had many enemies out there. Half a ton of material for nuclear weapons was not the sort of thing you could ship intercontinentally by DHL.
And now the schizophrenic characters in Moscow had tipped them off about enriched uranium in Congo.
But could the supplier be trusted?
And would the delivery method work?
Both questions were currently under investigation.
USA, North Korea
The new president of the United States had been forced to fire his security advisor after it turned out the advisor was a security risk. Beyond this, his focus during the initial period of his presidency was to try to get the media to shape up. It was going so-so.
As a result it was basically a welcome interruption for President Trump when the Supreme Leader in Pyongyang allowed four mid-range Pukguksong-2 missiles to be fired five hundred kilometres straight out into the Sea of Japan.
On the initiative of the United States, Japan and South Korea, the UN Security Council was convened, and it soon unanimously condemned the North Korean test. The American ambassador to the UN commented that ‘It is time to hold North Korea accountable – not with our words, but with our actions.’ What those actions might be, she was happy to hand over to the president, who in turn tweeted a number of suggestions.
It so happened that little Sweden was a member of the aforementioned Security Council that year. Margot Wallström, Sweden’s minister for foreign affairs, was known for her outspokenness and enterprising nature. It was said, but not confirmed, that Benjamin Netanyahu had a picture of her on his office wall in Jerusalem and liked to throw darts at it each time he needed to work out his frustrations. This was because Sweden, on the urging of Margot Wallström, had upped and recognized the state of Palestine. A state without borders, without a functioning government and, as Netanyahu and others saw it, a state full of terrorists.
But Wallström persisted. And now, on the Security Council, she aimed high. Among her colleagues she promoted the idea that she should personally visit Pyongyang to establish a direct line of contact with the leader about the serious nature of things, as a representative of both Sweden and the UN Security Council. The visit must first be sanctioned by North Korea, and it must be completely unofficial. A high-level diplomatic game, but also a serious attempt to tone down the war rhetoric coming from both sides.
No Western country had as genuine a diplomatic relationship with North Korea as Sweden did. The Security Council gave Wallström the green light. All that remained was to convince the Supreme Leader to do the same.
* * *
If Torsten Lövenstierna had been an athlete, he would have been world-renowned and a multi-millionaire. But instead he was a diplomat, so no one had ever heard of him.
During his nearly thirty years in the Swedish foreign service, he had quietly performed his highly qualified services in Egypt, Iraq, Turkey and Afghanistan. Among his merits were a posting to the UN in New York, being a special advisor during the Iraq inspection, taking on a leadership role in Mazar-e Sharif, and serving as the Swedish consul general in Istanbul.
What Torsten Lövenstierna didn’t know about advanced diplomacy wasn’t worth knowing. Now he was Sweden’s ambassador in Pyongyang, perhaps the most complicated embassy posting of all.
According to some, he was a genius. Whatever, it was this man who had received the delicate task of bringing the North Koreans onto the track of discreet arbitration.
World peace was on the line. Torsten Lövenstierna prepared himself meticulously, as always. Following his preparations he requested, and was granted, an audience with the Supreme Leader. The ambassador wasn’t nervous – he’d been around far too long for that – but he was incredibly focused.
With great precision, deploying the right word at exactly the right moment, he conveyed the UN’s argument for why quiet arbitration in Pyongyang would be in the best interest of the aforementioned world peace. He was so skilled at his job that he managed to finish his speech without being interrupted even once. What Torsten Lövenstierna accomplished in front of the Supreme Leader was nothing other than a feat of diplomacy.
When he had finished, he expressed thanks for being allowed to take up the leader’s precious time, then awaited a response.
The leader looked the star diplomat in the eye and said, ‘A secret peace summit? Here? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.’
And with that, the audience was over.
‘Then I ask permission to withdraw,’ said Ambassador Lövenstierna, backing out of the Supreme Leader’s gigantic office.
And that would probably have been the end of that. If it weren’t for Allan Karlsson.
The Indian Ocean
Captain Pak Chong-un took the only empty chair left at the table in the first mate’s quarters. Allan and Julius were already sitting in the other two chairs.
The captain took out a pen and paper and began by enquiring what the gentlemen’s names were, where they were from, and why they had chosen to float around in a woven basket fifty nautical miles from land.
This was the sort of thing Allan was best at, Julius thought, and said nothing. Allan didn’t think much. Instead he said a lot.
‘My name is Allan. And this
is my best friend Julius. He’s an asparagus farmer. I’m not anything, except old. I’m a hundred and one today, can you imagine?’
Captain Pak could imagine. He thought that this interrogation had got off to a difficult start. There was something carefree about the man who claimed to be older than should be reasonably possible. It made the interrogator both anxious and watchful.
‘Well, Mr Allan can be as old as he likes,’ said Captain Pak. ‘Where are you from and what are you doing here?’
‘What are we doing here?’ said Allan. ‘Please, dear captain, you’re the one who doesn’t want to let us off.’
‘No quibbling,’ said Captain Pak. ‘It’s possible that I will let you off before you even know it. It probably wouldn’t take more than ten, twelve days to swim from here to East Timor, if that’s what you’d prefer.’
No, neither Allan nor Julius would prefer that. Instead Allan explained that a birthday celebration on Bali had gone awry. They were supposed to take a hot-air balloon trip over the island, but instead the wind had changed and the balloon come loose. By the time the captain and his boat had done them the kindness of passing by, only the basket was left. Allan supposed it had looked very odd indeed, but there’s an explanation behind everything.
‘Isn’t that so?’ he said.
‘What’s that?’ said the captain.
‘That everything has an explanation. Everything really does – don’t you sometimes think that too, Captain?’
Julius looked at Allan in concern. He tried to communicate that it might not be advisable to run his mouth so much: the captain still had the chance to throw them overboard.
‘So you’re saying you’re Indonesians?’ Captain Pak asked sceptically.
‘No, we’re from Sweden,’ said Allan. ‘A lovely country. Have you been there, Captain? No? Well, a visit would absolutely be worth considering. Snow in the winter and long days in the summer. Nice people too. Generally speaking, that is. There are certainly some we could have done without, even in our country. I had a frightfully bad-tempered director at the old folks’ home where I lived before we ended up here. In Bali, I mean. I shudder to think of her. Perhaps you understand what I’m talking about, Captain?’
The Accidental Further Adventures of the Hundred-Year-Old Man Page 4