Юнас Юнассон - The Accidental Further Adventures of the Hundred-Year-Old Man

He called his business partner, the Indian Gustav Svensson. The call went through, but instead of a ringtone followed by Gustav, voicemail took over.

Julius recorded a few irritated sentences. In his haste, he forgot to mention that he was still alive, but perhaps his partner would work that out for himself.

Then he took off his shoes and lay down on the bed. He yawned and closed his eyes, trying to aim his thoughts in a direction other than that of asparagus and alphabet soup.

It didn’t work.

How’s the asparagus?

Three deliveries this month too?

Any return shipments?

Will we make it to five hundred million before the year is half out?

On the top floor of a fourteen-storey building in the city of Goyang, north-west of the South Korean capital, a man and a woman wearing headphones sat in front of quadruple computer screens and various instruments. Both were civil servants. Nothing remarkable so far, except possibly the location: a simple two-bedroom apartment. And the fact that the state served by the civil servants was not the Republic of Korea but Germany.

The woman was a low-ranking diplomat; the man was the same, only a little lower. Officially they were involved in a number of German-Korean housing projects, but they were seldom seen in such contexts. Instead they sat where they sat on order of the Bundesnachrichtendienst, the BND. They were distant colleagues to an arrogant site director and his meek colleague in Dar es Salaam.

The two fake diplomats’ primary task, in the apartment in Goyang, was to make recordings of the Americans’ wiretaps in North Korea. By doing so they avoided having to do the job themselves, and also got a dash of pleasure out of it. Winding up American intelligence services was one of life’s little joys.

One of their easier targets was the permanently unfinished showpiece Ryugyong Hotel in Pyongyang. Seldom, bordering on never, did anything of interest come from there.

Today was an exception.

From room 104, a guest unknown to the BND had left a message on a powered-down cell phone in Indonesia that belonged to an equally unknown recipient. The message was in English, in code, and consisted of four questions.

How’s the asparagus?

Three deliveries this month too?

Any return shipments?

Will we make it to five hundred million before the year is half out?

What asparagus was code for, the fake diplomats couldn’t say. But the sum – five hundred million! – suggested narcotics or worse. The Germans knew that a small load of enriched uranium had just reached Pyongyang. It could hardly have cost half a billion. But what if this was a case of several ongoing deliveries? Such as three? Per month?

What was Kim Jong-un up to? Was he planning to start a war with the whole world? And where was he getting the money? Five hundred fucking million dollars! And 104 unfinished floors in the country’s only luxury hotel.

More questions without answers. A return shipment? What, in that case, was supposed to be transported out of North Korea? And how? And where was it going? Indonesia? Well, shit.

Julius was involuntarily imprisoned in the capital of North Korea, and he longed for the peace and petty thievery he had known back on Bali. His goal of five hundred million rupiah – almost forty thousand dollars – had been realistic once, but perhaps not now that he wasn’t there to keep an eye on things.

On the other hand, his and Allan’s debts to the hotel and the boat-renter were much greater than that. In this sense it was economically advantageous to keep their distance, although visiting North Korea was certainly overdoing it.

When this mess was all over, perhaps they could move the asparagus operation to an area where they didn’t owe anyone any money.

‘Thailand?’ Julius said aloud, just as the door opened.

Allan held it open and allowed Minister for Foreign Affairs Margot Wallström to enter first. ‘Allow me to introduce my friend Julius Jonsson,’ said Allan. ‘He’s single, if the minister feels so inclined.’

Margot Wallström shot an angry look at Allan. ‘Thanks, but no thanks. I have been happily married for over thirty years.’

Julius greeted the minister with the comment that she would have to forgive Allan. It must have to do with his age. The strangest things came out of his mouth sometimes. Most of the time, really.

Minister Wallström nodded and said she had noticed as much.

In the limousine after the horrid press conference, she had formed an approximate idea about Karlsson and Jonsson. The hundred-and-one-year-old really did seem to be a nuclear weapons expert, or at least he had been once upon a time. The only good news of the day was that he aspired not to help Kim Jong-un.

The truly bad part was that he had no plans about how to avoid doing so.

The general impression in the UN building was that North Korea had the capacity for nuclear weapons but so far that capacity was limited; the Supreme Leader was trying to make such a rumpus that no one would notice. In any case, the threat was real. Nuclear weapons are so powerful, of course, that even a small, half-failed load could destroy an entire city. Like Seoul, for example. Or Tokyo. Or a whole island, like Guam.

Margot Wallström shuddered at the thought. And at the apparent truth that the man who could sort out the North Korean nuclear weapons programme was in this very hotel room, digging through the empty minibar. And, furthermore, he was Swedish. Was Sweden going to be the primary reason behind a shift in the balance of worldwide power?

No, she had to stop it happening if she could. Preferably without ending up imprisoned in this country for thirty years or more, accused of espionage or whatever the Supreme Leader happened to dream up.

‘Do you think you could come with me on my plane out of here?’ she asked. ‘Twenty-nine of the thirty seats in the cabin are available.’

Julius lit up.

Allan stopped looking for liquor. ‘As empty as the minibar in this hotel room,’ he said. ‘The whole hotel, in fact.’

The minister for foreign affairs went on. ‘I can try to help you get diplomatic passports. I’m afraid you’ll have to sort out the rest on your own.’

‘The rest?’ said Julius.

‘Getting to the plane when it’s time to take off.’

Allan hadn’t listened beyond the first part of what had just been said. ‘Diplomatic passports?’ he said. ‘I haven’t had one of those since 1948, when Churchill and I flew home from Tehran together. Or ’forty-seven. No, ’forty-eight.’

‘ Winston Churchill?’ said the minister.

‘Yes, that’s his name. Or it was. I suppose he’s been dead a long time, like most people.’

The minister for foreign affairs suddenly felt as if she was in a movie. And it made her stomach hurt to think of what she was about to do. Espionage wouldn’t be an entirely inaccurate charge. But she took portraits of Allan and Julius with her phone camera and promised them passports within a few days.

‘Sign the back of my business card so they’ll have something to go on at home.’

She’s one results-oriented woman, thought Julius. And delightful. Shame she’s taken.

The Swedish UN representative had been assigned room 105, next door to Allan and Julius. Once she was in the room, ostensibly to prepare herself for the evening’s dinner, she spent more time pondering how she could rescue the two Swedes and trick Kim Jong-un out of knowledge he shouldn’t have. It seemed as if the Supreme Leader didn’t want her around any longer than necessary, but she had to give Karlsson and Jonsson time to come up with a plan. Plus the diplomatic passports had to make it over. She wouldn’t be able to order them until she got to the embassy several hours later. Time seemed to be her greatest enemy right now. Although it was in serious competition with everything else.