Лейф Перссон - Another Time, Another Life

“What was it that caused Berg to change his mind?” asked the GD.

“There were several reasons, according to him,” said Johansson. “That on closer consideration he started to doubt his own cleaning of the files — anyone who is dead can’t be affected personally. But mostly it was because he had been promised that more would be coming and he didn’t want to take the risk that significant future information would be left hanging in the air. And if you ask me personally, I think his illness was also a contributing factor.”

“That he might have lost his edge,” said the GD.

“Partly, but also that he had become far too cautious, that he simply didn’t dare turn it down,” said Johansson.

“But you think this is really about something else,” the GD observed.

“Yes,” said Johansson. “I don’t know if I’m starting to get paranoid, but I get the idea that they actually wanted to open a door so they could send us information about Stein. I have a hard time understanding that this would be about anyone other than her, considering the connection to the West German embassy.”

“So what did Berg think about that?” asked the GD.

“That I was wrong,” said Johansson. “The fundamental political prerequisites were now lacking, given that the Russians have retreated.”

“And what do you think about Berg’s view of the matter?” the GD persisted.

“That he’s wrong, and after hearing your description of Stein I’ve only been strengthened in that conviction,” said Johansson.

“But has anything else come in?” asked the GD. “About Stein, I mean, because considering her probable appointment, wouldn’t it be high time?”

“No,” said Johansson. “Nothing yet.” It has been as silent as the grave, he thought.

“And how do you interpret that?” asked the GD, who now appeared both interested and amused.

“Either I’ve got the whole thing turned around,” said Johansson, “or else they don’t know that she’s going to be appointed and they’ve simply missed the opportunity. Or else they do know about it but are still choosing to wait to turn the screw until she’s in her new position.”

“So which of those do you think it is?” asked the GD.

“Alternative number three,” said Johansson. “That they will let her be appointed — see to it that both she and those who appointed her get raised high enough that it would be a pure catastrophe for both her and the government if any harmful information about her past were to come out — and only then will they start to advance their demands about what she and the rest of us ought to do and not do.”

“They don’t sound like nice people, if you’re right,” the GD observed.

“There’s yet another complicating factor in that case,” said Johansson. “We’re talking of course about our American friend, the ultimate bulwark for the democracies of the Western world, a highly esteemed friend raised above all suspicions.”

“You’ve never met her,” the GD said suddenly.

“You mean Stein?” said Johansson.

“Yes,” said the GD.

“No,” said Johansson. “I’ve never met her.” Although I may have to soon, he thought.

“Maybe you ought to do that,” said the GD. “Take a discreet look at our object Helena Stein.”

“Yes, maybe,” said Johansson. A discreet look is never wrong, he thought.

“I’ll arrange it then,” said the GD, who had a hard time concealing his enjoyment. “A discreet look at Undersecretary Helena Stein when she visits the suspected robber in his own den.”

On Thursday the sixth of April, Holt and Wiklander interviewed Undersecretary Helena Stein at the Ministry of Defense. Johansson’s secretary decided on the time and place with Stein’s secretary, and neither had come as a surprise to Johansson, Holt, or Wiklander.

The undersecretary had an extremely busy schedule, but since the secret police were asking, she nonetheless managed to squeeze them in for half an hour between six and six-thirty in the evening. Because the undersecretary was supposed to be at a reception later that night, she proposed that the police come to her and not the other way around. So the two chief inspectors went to the Ministry of Defense offices on Gustaf Adolf Square in Stockholm.

Helena Stein’s secretary conveyed them to the undersecretary’s own conference room, asked whether they wanted coffee or water, which they declined, then asked them to sit and wait. After a quarter of an hour Helena Stein strode into the room where they were sitting. She nodded and smiled, apologized for being late. Holt was completely convinced that Stein had no idea what they wanted to talk with her about.

At worst she thinks something has come up in connection with her background check, thought Holt. Something she’s prepared for, something she knows she can work her way out of. She’s attractive, trim, well dressed, self-confident, and obviously quite intelligent, thought Holt. She could see it in her eyes. Goddamnit, thought Holt.

After the introductory remarks into the tape recorder, a few words from “Interview leader Chief Inspector Anna Holt” to the effect that “Helena Lovisa Stein is being interviewed for informational purposes in connection with an ongoing security matter,” it was finally time to begin.

“We’re here because we want to talk with you about an old acquaintance of yours, one Kjell Göran Eriksson,” said Holt, trying to concentrate on Stein’s reaction.

“Kjell Eriksson,” said Stein. “Must be a million years since I saw him. You mean the Kjell Eriksson who was... well... that awful story from sometime in the late eighties? You want to talk with me about him? I don’t even remember what he looked like.”

You did it, thought Holt. That tenth of a second when your gaze faltered and then the words came tumbling out. You were trying desperately to keep him away from you, to get control over the situation in which you’ve suddenly landed. I know you remember Kjell Eriksson. If nothing else, after the West German embassy you must have spent hundreds of hours of your life thinking about Kjell Eriksson, what he was like, who you are. That can’t have been easy, she thought.

“We’ve reopened the case,” said Holt. “I’m prevented from going into the reasons why.”

“But why in the name of heaven are you asking me about him? I hardly knew him,” said Stein. “A cousin of mine, Theodor Tischler — I don’t know if you know who that is but he was a businessman — worked at a brokerage firm started by his father — he lives abroad now. He was the one who knew him. And... it wasn’t even really him, either, it was his best friend, Sten Welander. He was an academic to start with... worked as a reporter at Swedish Television. He’s dead too actually. Died of cancer five or six years ago.”

“But you have met Eriksson?” Holt asked.

“Yes, of course,” said Stein, clearly surprised by the question. “But that must have been more than twenty years ago. During my radical youth,” she said, smiling faintly. “I met hundreds of people during those years who were working for the same political goals — Sten and Theo and obviously Eriksson too. I think I even remember him being out with Theo at our country place one summer. I can’t have been very old... ten maybe... but I remember. Theo brought him out to the country.”

It’s that photograph you’re suddenly remembering, thought Holt, and you probably still hope that’s the only reason we’re here. And you’re probably thinking that now you’ll have to go on the offensive, she thought.

“You’ll really have to excuse me,” said Stein, “but I am somewhat surprised. Has someone alleged that Eriksson and I were old acquaintances, or what? In that case I can assure you it’s a lie.”