Лейф Перссон - Another Time, Another Life

“What do the ones who decide think?” Johansson appeared genuinely curious about the reply.

“The government offices thought your name was an extraordinary suggestion,” said Berg. “I’ve talked with the responsible undersecretary... you must have met him, by the way, around the time Palme was shot. As you know it’s the government that controls the appointment, and we were in complete agreement.”

“That’s a relief,” said Johansson, who now seemed rather amused. Times are changing, he thought. “What does the GD say then?” said Johansson. The new general director was nonetheless head of the secret police.

“The general director,” said Berg, who had a hard time concealing his surprise. “There’s never been any problem with him.” It didn’t matter what title they gave these high-level bosses (and personally he was now on his fifth), though naturally he couldn’t say that, he thought. Johansson would certainly figure that out all on his own as soon as he got his feet wet.

“As head of operations you’re the one who will lead the work itself, and in the government offices they have great confidence in you as an individual,” Berg clarified, nodding seriously.

And I’m easily flattered too, thought Johansson.

After that they talked about other things that Johansson wanted said before he decided. That he wasn’t a politician but a police officer. That for him it was about putting people who were involved in serious crimes in jail before they had a chance to cause even more mischief, and that the only reason for him to change jobs was that he wanted finally to get involved in a few serious operational assignments.

That was no problem at all, according to Berg. On the contrary, the political client, top-ranking police leadership, and, obviously, Berg himself were of the exact same opinion.

“I think you’re going to appreciate this job and I’m quite certain that you’re going to be pleasantly surprised. I know that a horrifying lot of nonsense gets talked about us among our colleagues in the open operation, but that should be taken with a large grain of salt,” said Berg, nodding decisively. “This is a job for a real policeman.” Someone like you and me, he thought.

A real policeman, thought Johansson. That sounds good.

Then they proceeded to practical details. Higher rank? Yes. Salary? Obviously higher, which by the way was a natural consequence both of the higher rank as well as the fact that those who worked in the closed operation had always earned more than those who were part of the regular police.

The possibility of choosing his own coworkers? Of course. Assuming that Johansson only spit out a little three-letter word he was the one who was the boss and it was no more difficult than that.

Despite everything, one somewhat sensitive detail remained.

“How long do you intend to stay?” said Johansson. You look tired, he thought. You’ve lost a lot of weight too.

“I can go tomorrow if you want,” said Berg, smiling. Today if it were up to me, he thought, but naturally he didn’t say that.

“And here I was hoping for a guided tour,” said Johansson, smiling.

“I’ll be glad to give you one,” said Berg. “I was hoping you’d ask, actually.” What’s a few weeks more or less after all these years? he thought.

Johansson nodded. He really seems worn out, he thought.

“Oh well,” said Berg, looking almost a little solemn. “What do you say? Could you see yourself doing it?”

“Yes,” said Johansson.

And that was how the whole thing started.

Johansson’s existence as a transient resource within the police department was over. He was no longer a police jack-of-all-trades whom the government offices and National Police Board could call in whenever it was time to clean up after some highly placed colleague who had been discreetly dismissed or had simply thrown in the towel because he’d had enough. Now he was an established man with operational management responsibility for what was called the closed operation in police talk, and for anyone who coveted police authority there was no better place to be.

He himself did not give much thought in particular to that part of it. He had plenty to do recruiting coworkers to the free investigation and detective team he intended to have in his immediate vicinity. He would need the help of his best friend Bo Jarnebring because it had been years since Johansson had worked in the field himself and there must be many capable new people whose existence he didn’t even know about. In that way he acquired ten or so new coworkers, and the only fly in the ointment was that Jarnebring himself steadfastly resisted all his friend’s attempts at recruitment.

“I don’t look good in a fake beard,” said Jarnebring, shaking his head. “Besides, I’m starting to get too old.”

“Say the word if you change your mind,” said Johansson. I guess we all get old, he thought.

“Not this time,” said Jarnebring. “On the other hand I wonder what’s happened to you?”

“What do you mean?” asked Johansson.

“How long have we known each other? How long is it since you and I met for the first time out at the old police academy?”

“Thirty years,” said Johansson, shrugging his shoulders.

“If I don’t remember wrong you were the class socialist. You were more or less alone in that besides, and I seem to recall that you wanted to shut down the secret police.”

“You don’t say,” said Johansson. How time flies. It actually is more than thirty years now, he thought.

“If I don’t remember wrong, you couldn’t have something like the secret police in a democratic, lawful police organization. It was absolutely unthinkable, and if anyone had asked you at that time if you could imagine working as a spook, I know exactly what would have happened.”

“What?” asked Johansson, despite the fact that he already knew the answer.

“The person in question would have been socked on the jaw,” said Jarnebring, not mincing words.

“Oh well,” said Johansson, shrugging his shoulders.

“And because you’ve never been particularly good at such things, I would have had to jump in and help you, too,” Jarnebring declared.

“Sure,” Johansson agreed. “I’m sure I would have been counting on that.”

“But now you’ll be head of the whole thing,” said Jarnebring. “What’s happened?”

“These are new times now,” said Johansson. New and I hope better times, he thought.

“I don’t believe that for a moment,” said Jarnebring. “Possibly these are different times.”

Of course Johansson spoke with his wife before he decided to change course in his police life. Ten years earlier, after almost fifteen years as a divorced man — or a single man or a bachelor or whatever you want to call it — he had proposed to her after an emotionally charged week of basically uninterrupted togetherness. In that way he had settled accounts with the solitude he had come to consider a natural part of both his individuality and his existence. Disregarding the fact that he might still miss that solitude when their togetherness became too much or when he simply felt like being by himself for a while.

She had said yes despite the fact that he couldn’t offer her a new job but only his heart, and because Lars Martin Johansson was a person who knew how to distinguish between great and small he had subsequently devoted himself to his “marital community” — that was how he looked at it — with great seriousness and considerable energy. It hadn’t been easy, not all the time, but who ever said we humans should have it easy? We make a choice, and important choices have major consequences, thought Johansson. Like now.