Henning Mankell - The Troubled Man

“No.”

“It began outside Amsterdam at Schipol, the big airport, early in the morning. A man appeared outside the airport police’s office. He was wearing a baggy suit, a white shirt, and a tie. He was carrying a small suitcase in one hand and had an overcoat over his arm and a hat in his other hand. He must have given the impression of coming from another age, as if he had climbed out of a black-and-white film with somber background music. He spoke to a police officer who was really far too young for the job, but there was a flu epidemic and he was filling in. The man spoke bad English and announced that he was seeking political asylum in the Netherlands. He produced a Russian passport in the name of Oleg Linde. An unusual surname for a Russian, you might think, but it was correct. He was in his forties, with thinning hair and a scar along one side of his nose. The young police officer, who had never set eyes on a defector from the East before, called in an older colleague who took over. I think his name was Geert, but before he had a chance to ask his first question, Linde began talking. I’ve listened to the interrogation so many times that I know the most important parts almost by heart. He was a colonel in the KGB, the division dealing with espionage in the West, and was seeking political asylum because he no longer wanted to do work that was propping up the crumbling Soviet empire. Those were his first words. Then he came out with the bait he had prepared in advance. He knew about many of the Soviet spies working in the West, especially a number of very competent agents based in the Netherlands. After that he was handed over to the security services. They took him to an apartment in The Hague, ironically enough not far from the International Court of Justice, where he was interrogated. It didn’t take long for Säpo to realize that Oleg Linde was completely genuine. They kept his identity secret, but they immediately began informing colleagues all over the world that they had come across a marvelous ‘antique,’ which was now standing on a table in front of them. Would they like to come and take a look? To examine it? Reports came in from Moscow to the effect that the KGB was in an uproar; everybody was scuttling around like ants in an anthill poked with a walking stick. Oleg Linde was one of those people who simply couldn’t be allowed to go missing. But missing he was. He’d disappeared without a trace, and they feared the worst. Moscow figured out that he must be in the Netherlands when their spy network there collapsed. He had begun his big ‘clearance sale,’ as we called it. And he was cheap. All he wanted was a new name and a new identity. According to what I’ve heard, he moved to Mauritius and settled in a town with the wonderful name of Pamplemousse, where he earned a living as a cabinetmaker. Evidently Linde had a background as a joiner before he joined the KGB, but I’m not sure about that part of the story.”

“What’s he doing now?”

“He’s sleeping the eternal sleep. He died in 2006. Cancer. He met a young lady in Mauritius and married her, and they had several children. But I don’t know anything about their lives. His story is reminiscent of that of another defector, an agent known as ‘Boris.’ ”

“I’ve heard of him,” said Wallander. “There must have been a constant procession of Russian defectors at that time.”

Talboth stood up and went indoors. Down in the street below, several fire engines raced past, sirens wailing. Talboth came back with the jug full to the brim with ice water.

“He was the one who informed us that the spy we’d been looking for in Sweden was a woman,” he said when he had sat down again. “He didn’t know her name; she was overseen by a group within the KGB that worked independently of the other officers — that was normal practice with especially valuable agents. But he was certain that it was a woman. She didn’t work in the military or in the arms industry, which meant that she had at least one, possibly several, informers who provided her with information that she sold. It was never clear whether she was a spy for ideological reasons or if she did it purely as a business venture. The intelligence services always prefer spies who operate as a business. If there is too much idealism involved, the operation can easily go off the rails. We always think that agents with great faith in the cause are never entirely reliable. We are a cynical bunch, and we have to be in order to do our job properly. We repeat the mantra that we might not make the world any better, but at least we don’t make it any worse. We justify our existence by claiming that we maintain a sort of balance of terror, which we probably do.”

Talboth stirred the ice cubes in the jug with a spoon.

“Future wars,” he said thoughtfully, “will be over staples such as water. Our soldiers will fight to the death over pools of water.”

He filled his glass, being careful not to spill any water. Wallander waited.

“We never found her,” Talboth continued. “We helped the Swedes as much as we could, but she was never identified, never exposed and arrested. We started talking about the possibility that she didn’t exist. But the Russians were constantly finding out about things they shouldn’t have. If Bofors made some technical advance in a weapons system, the Russians soon knew all about it. We set endless traps, but we never caught anybody.”

“And Louise?”

“She was above suspicion, of course. Who would have suspected her of anything?”

Talboth excused himself, saying he had to attend to his aquarium. Wallander remained on the balcony. He started writing a summary of what Talboth had said, but then decided he didn’t need notes; he would remember. He went to the room he’d been given and lay down on the bed with his arms under his head. When he woke up, he saw that he’d been asleep for two hours. He jumped up, as if he had slept far longer. Talboth was on the balcony, smoking a cigarette. Wallander returned to his chair.

“I think you’ve been dreaming,” Talboth said. “You kept shouting in your sleep.”

“My dreams are pretty violent at times,” said Wallander. “It comes and goes.”

“I’m lucky,” said Talboth. “I never remember my dreams. I’m very grateful for that.”

They walked to the Italian restaurant Talboth had mentioned earlier. They drank red wine with their food, and spoke about everything under the sun — except for Louise von Enke. After the meal Talboth insisted they try various kinds of grappa, before insisting just as strongly on paying for everything. Wallander felt distinctly tipsy when they left Il Trovatore. Talboth lit a cigarette, being careful to turn his head away when he blew out the smoke.

“So,” said Wallander, “many years have passed since Oleg Linde talked about a female Swedish spy. It seems implausible to me that she should still be operating.”

“If she is,” said Talboth. “Don’t forget what we talked about on the balcony.”

“But if the spying was in fact still going on, that would exonerate Louise,” said Wallander.

“Not necessarily. Somebody else could have picked up the baton. There are no simple explanations in this world. The truth is often the opposite of what you expect.”

They continued walking slowly down the street. Talboth lit another cigarette.

“The middleman,” Wallander said, “the person you called the intermediary . Do you have just as little information about him?”

“He has never been exposed.”

“Which means, of course, that ‘he’ could just as well be a woman too.”

Talboth shook his head.

“Women seldom have such influential positions in the military or the arms industry. I’d bet my paltry pension it’s a man.”