Лейф Перссон - Another Time, Another Life

“Although in later years he has become more of the agency’s outward face,” the police superintendent explained. “He has made several appearances on American TV, where he sometimes speaks on his employer’s behalf. He’s a very good TV personality, has a good image, and in recent years he has mostly made the circuit giving talks. Much appreciated as a lecturer, he has even done a few appearances here in Sweden. Most recently he was featured at a dinner that the military gave at Karlberg’s castle in December.”

During his period as an active agent, Liska had primarily worked abroad, almost solely in Europe, and concentrating primarily on the countries behind the Iron Curtain, although he had also been active in Scandinavia, including Sweden.

“The guy even seems to speak completely comprehensible Swedish — well, Scandinavian maybe. Altogether he seems to have spent at least a couple of years in Sweden and Norway. All at once he would show up at their embassy out on Djurgården,” said the police superintendent, seeming almost flattered by Liska’s interest in his native land.

“What kind of Swedish contacts did he have?” asked Johansson.

“You mean apart from the regular channels with our own military intelligence service and a few of the real bigwigs in the older generation?” the police superintendent asked. “That part’s on the disk.”

So it’s there, thought Johansson. Several old owls. I really ought to take up bird-watching given my job, he thought.

“Does he have a best buddy here in Sweden I ought to know about?” asked Johansson. Don’t be so damn naïve, he thought.

“Well,” said the police superintendent, smiling, “he does have one friend who is undeniably intriguing.”

“And who’s that?” said Johansson, though he had already guessed the answer.

“And you know him well, too,” said the police superintendent. “The prime minister’s own éminence grise in questions that concern national security — the not entirely unknown former special adviser, nowadays the undersecretary in the government offices.”

Strange that people never refer to him by name, thought Johansson. Is it so damn hard to remember that his name is Nilsson? With the usual spelling, too.

“So Undersecretary Nilsson and CIA agent Liska are best buddies?” asked Johansson.

“Depends on what you mean by best,” the police superintendent said evasively. “I don’t really dare say “best,” but that they’ve known each other forever is common knowledge.”

“And the contacts Mr. Nilsson had with this Liska, of what nature are they?” asked Johansson.

“We assume they have occurred with the blessing and consent of the highest authorities,” said the police superintendent, nodding piously.

“If I may now be a little nitpicky and boring,” said Johansson, “I’m wondering if there is anyone here in the building who during all these years of blessed coexistence has had the good taste, if for no other reason than the sake of good form, to inform the undersecretary of who his American friend’s employer is?” said Johansson. “I’m assuming it doesn’t appear on Liska’s business card.”

“Not the ones we’ve seen in any event,” said the police superintendent, who still seemed happy and upbeat. “I don’t think it’s a secret,” he added. “It’s clear he knows what agency Liska works for.”

“I’m sure he does,” said Johansson. “But that’s not what I’m sitting here pestering you about.”

“You mean whether we in the service have informed him about who Liska is?” asked the police superintendent, who no longer seemed as exhilarated.

“Exactly,” said Johansson. “Have we?” Finally he gets it, he thought.

“No,” said the police superintendent, suddenly seeming rather gloomy.

“Then we should change that ASAP,” said Johansson. “Make sure the documentation is clear so the analysts can make their assessment. Then make a proposal for getting a regular security intelligence report to the undersecretary. And a copy to the minister of justice for his information so they can’t put the blame on each other.”

“When do you want it?” said the police superintendent guardedly.

“It’ll be fine if I get it in a few hours,” said Johansson. So I can go through the disk in the meantime, so there, you little bastard, he thought.

“No one is going to be particularly happy,” said the police superintendent, who didn’t look too happy himself.

“That leaves me cold,” said Johansson. “If we assume, and this is purely an academic question, that Liska hadn’t been working for the CIA, but instead for the former GRU or KGB at a time when these agencies viewed Sweden as part of their own domestic politics, what would have happened to the undersecretary in that case?”

“Yes, but that’s an impossible comparison,” the police superintendent objected. “I think that—”

“Answer the question,” Johansson interrupted. “What would have happened to the undersecretary then?”

“Then naturally he would have ended up in jail,” said the police superintendent.

“Nice that we’re in agreement,” said Johansson.

“I want you to set up three meetings for me,” said Johansson to his secretary.

“As you wish, Boss,” she replied, smiling her cool smile, pen already in hand.

“First, I want to meet the GD within the next few hours at the latest, but in any event before the end of the day,” said Johansson, beginning to count by raising his right index finger. “I need half an hour.”

“Second?” asked his secretary.

“Second,” said Johansson, letting the middle finger on his right hand keep the index finger company, “I want to have a meeting in Rosenbad with our esteemed contact the undersecretary sometime tomorrow. Preferably in the morning.”

“And third...?”

“Third,” said Johansson, but without holding up the middle finger — you didn’t do that to women — “and assuming that I’ve managed to meet the person I just mentioned, I would like to have a meeting with Helena Stein, the undersecretary in the Ministry of Defense. In the evening, just the two of us, and preferably at her home.”

“My goodness,” said his secretary. “I hope it’s nothing like that.”

No, thought Johansson. Unfortunately it’s just the opposite.

At ten o’clock in the morning Johansson met with the undersecretary in his office at Rosenbad and turned over the security intelligence regarding the American citizen Michael Liska, which the colleagues in counterespionage had produced the day before and which his own general director had approved the same evening.

“I am grateful for the honor that has been bestowed on me,” said the undersecretary, nodding ironically toward the binder of papers he had received but had not even condescended to open. “I will obviously inform my highest superior of your findings.”

“You don’t seem particularly surprised,” Johansson chuckled. He had decided in advance to play along as long as it suited him. And don’t try to pressure me with your distinguished acquaintances, he thought.

“I doubt that anyone here in the building will be particularly surprised by how Liska puts food on the table,” said the undersecretary.

“If you know about more contacts he’s had that we’ve missed, I assume you’ll report them to us,” said Johansson.

“Of course, of course,” sighed the undersecretary. “I had no idea you were so formal, Johansson.”

“I guess you didn’t,” said Johansson, smiling. “Yes, I am very formal,” he continued. “I can be downright frightfully formal in a pinch, and to avoid any misunderstanding I would also like to stress that you should not view me, my superior, or our organization as some kind of free resource for you to dispose of as you choose. That goes against the constitution and I can be terribly sensitive where such things are concerned.”