Хеннинг Манкелль - The Man Who Smiled

Human life is insignificant, then, Wallander had thought. That’s the premise on which Harderberg’s whole existence is based.

Then their discussions were over. Harderberg had turned off the computers, one after another, and disposed of some documents in a shredder. Wallander had considered running away, but the motionless shadows in the background had never left. He had to admit defeat.

Harderberg stroked the tips of his fingers over his lips, as if to check that his smile was intact. Then he looked at Wallander one last time.

“We all have to die,” he said, making it sound as if there were one exception: himself. “Even the span of a detective inspector has a limit. In this case, at my deciding.” He checked his watch before continuing. “It will shortly be dawn, even though it is still dark. Then a helicopter will land. My two assistants will board it, and so will you. But you will only be in it for a short time. Then you will have an opportunity to see if you can fly without mechanical aids.”

He never took his eyes off Wallander as he spoke. He wants me to beg for my life, Wallander thought. Well, he’s going to be disappointed. Once fear reaches a certain point, it is transformed and becomes its opposite. That’s one thing I’ve learned.

“Investigating the innate ability of human beings to fly was thoroughly researched during the unfortunate war in Vietnam,” Harderberg said. “Prisoners were dropped, but at a great height, for a brief moment, they recovered their freedom to move, until they crashed into the ground and became a part of the greatest freedom of all.” He stood up and buttoned his jacket. “My helicopter pilots are very skillful,” he said. “I think they’ll manage to drop you so that you land in Stortorget in Ystad. It will be an event recorded forever in the annals of the town’s history.”

He’s gone completely insane, Wallander thought.

“We must now go our different ways,” Harderberg said. “We have met twice. I think I shall remember you. There were moments when you came close to displaying acumen. In other circumstances I might have been able to find a place for you.”

“The postcard,” Wallander said. “The postcard Sten Torstensson somehow sent from Finland when he was actually with me in Denmark.”

“It amuses me to copy handwriting,” Harderberg said. “It could be said that I’m rather good at it. I spent a few hours in Helsinki the day young Torstensson was with you in Jutland. I had a meeting—not a successful one, I’m afraid—with senior people at Nokia. It was like a game, like sticking a twig into an anthill. A game where the aim is to cause confusion. That’s all.”

Harderberg held out his hand to Wallander, who was so amazed that he shook it.

Then he turned on his heel and was gone.

Harderberg dominated the whole room whenever he was present. Now that the door had closed behind him there was nothing left. Wallander thought he left a sort of vacuum behind him.

Tolpin was leaning against a pillar, watching Wallander. Obadia was sitting, staring straight ahead.

Wallander refused to believe that Harderberg had given orders for him to be thrown out of a helicopter above the center of Ystad. But he knew he would have to do something.

The minutes passed. Neither of the men moved.

So he was to be thrown out, alive, to plummet onto the rooftops, or possibly onto the pavement in Stortorget. Having to accept that led immediately to panic. It paralyzed him, spreading through his body like poison. He could hardly breathe. He tried desperately to think.

Obadia slowly raised his head. Wallander could hear the faint noise of an engine rapidly coming closer. The helicopter was on its way. Tolpin gestured that it was time to go.

By the time they had emerged from the castle, there was still no hint of dawn light, but the helicopter was standing on the pad, its rotors unhurriedly spinning. The pilot was ready to take off the moment they climbed aboard. Wallander was still trying desperately to fashion a way of escaping. Tolpin was walking in front of him, Obadia a few paces behind with a pistol in his hand. They had almost reached the helicopter. Its rotor blades were still slicing the chilly night air. Wallander saw a pile of old broken-up concrete at one corner they had to pass to get to the helipad: somebody had been repairing cracks but had not yet cleared away the debris. Wallander slowed down so that Obadia came momentarily between him and Tolpin. Wallander bent down and used his hands as shovels to scoop up as much of the concrete chunks as he could and hurled it up at the rotors. He heard loud, cracking bangs as fragments of concrete flew all around them. For just a moment Tolpin and Obadia thought that somebody was shooting at them and lost sight of what was happening behind them. Wallander flung himself with all his strength at Obadia and succeeded in wrestling his pistol from his grasp. He took a few steps backward, stumbled and fell. Tolpin stared wide-eyed at what was going on without it fully sinking in, but now he reached into his jacket for his weapon. Wallander fired and hit him in the hip. Obadia hurled himself at Wallander, who fired again. He did not see where he had hit him, but Obadia fell, screaming with pain.

Wallander scrambled to his feet. The pilots might also be armed. But when he pointed the pistol at the open door of the helicopter, he could see only one young man there, and he had his hands above his head. Wallander examined the men he had shot. Both were alive but unlikely to go far. He pocketed Tolpin’s pistol, then he walked up to the helicopter. The pilot still had his hands up. Wallander shouted that he should fly away. He took a few paces backward and watched the helicopter take off, then disappear over the roof of the castle, its searchlights probing the dark sky.

He seemed to be seeing everything through a fog. When he rubbed his cheek with his hand, it was covered in blood. A concrete chip had hit him in the face without his noticing it.

Then he ran toward the stables. Sofia screamed when she saw him. He tried to smile, but his face was stiff from his wound.

“Everything’s all right,” he said, trying to get his breath back. “But I’ve got to ask you to do something. Call for an ambulance. There are two men with bullet wounds lying on the helipad. Once you’ve done that, I won’t ask you to do anything more for me. You can go back to Sten and take him up on his promise. It’s all over here now.”

Then he remembered Harderberg. Time was very short.

As he ran from the stables he slipped in the mud churned up by the horses’ hooves and fell. He struggled to his feet and ran toward the gates. He wondered if he would get there in time.

She had gotten out of the car to stretch her legs, and looked up to see him coming toward her. He saw the horrified expression on her face and realized how alarming he must look. He was covered in blood and mud, his clothes torn. But he had no time to explain. Only one thing mattered, and that was preventing Harderberg from leaving the airport. He shouted to her to get back into the car. Before she had closed her door he had reversed on to the road. He forced the car through the gears, slamming the accelerator hard, and ignored the red light as he swung onto the main road.

“What’s the fastest way to Sturup?” he said.

She found a map in the glove compartment and told him the route. We won’t make it, he thought. It’s too far, we don’t have enough time.

“Call Björk,” he said, pointing at the car phone.

“I don’t know his home number,” she said.

“Then ring the goddamn police station and find out, for God’s sake!” he yelled. “Use your head!”

She did as she was told. When the officer on duty wondered if it could not wait until Björk had come in for work, she too started shouting. The moment she had it, she dialed the number. “What shall I say?” she said.