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

On a shelf near the coats stood a row of around forty briefcases, all identical to one another – and to the uranium briefcase in the laboratory. It appeared that North Korea produced one model of briefcase alone.

‘Communism has its upsides,’ said Allan. He picked one up.

Julius realized that the hundred-and-one-year-old had just made up his mind to switch one briefcase for the other.

The third floor contained nothing of interest. On offer there were toys and various types of stationery and art supplies. Allan was first, Julius a few steps behind him, with the apparently bored driver a few steps behind Julius.

On the fourth floor, Julius picked up a roll of lead tape. ‘What do you say about this, Allan?’

‘Clever boy. I think we’ve finished shopping now.’

Back on the ground floor, a young woman stood at the cash register, waiting for customers. When Allan and Julius placed their coats, briefcase and lead tape on the counter, the driver said she should send the bill to the Supreme Leader, at which the woman fainted. The driver picked her up off the floor, apologized to the Swiss men and said he ought to have known better.

On the brief trip back to the hotel, the driver had time to emphasize to Julius in the back seat and Allan, who still insisted on sitting in the front, that it was strictly forbidden to bring anything from the breakfast table into the car the next morning.

‘Not even kimchi?’ said Allan.

‘Especially not kimchi.’

‘We hear what you’re saying, Mr Nameless. We’ll get up extra early to make sure we’re full and in fine form next time we see one another.’

Allan spent the rest of the evening sitting at his desk in the hotel room with the black tablet. This time he had paper and pen as well. He seemed to be writing down chemical formulas. And giving a contented ‘Hmm’ now and then. Meanwhile Julius searched the room for a suitable object to wrap in lead tape. At last he settled on the black box of toiletries he’d found next to the sink.

‘Good choice,’ Allan praised him. ‘The right size and everything.’

The shape and appearance of the box were rather like the engineer’s enriched uranium. It weighed a good deal less, to be sure, but what would the guard at the door know about that?

Just before midnight, Allan had finished surfing and writing. ‘There we go. Now the engineer and I will have a lot to avoid talking about tomorrow.’

It was clear that Allan had some sort of plan, after all. And, what was more, Julius had partly gathered what it would involve. But only partly.

In the breakfast room the next day, Allan found a lidded plastic box full of teaspoons under one of the serving tables. He dumped its contents onto the table with the aim of keeping the box, at which point a waitress who had heard the clatter hurried over and asked what he was doing.

Allan instructed Julius to bribe the waitress with the gold lighter he’d stolen from the Indonesian hotel manager.

‘I didn’t steal it,’ Julius protested, as he made a quick deal with the woman. ‘It just ended up in my pocket.’

Allan didn’t bother to start a discussion on the definition of kleptomania. Instead he gave instructions to the overjoyed waitress: ‘Fill this box with muesli and milk, please. Then put the lid on good and tight and leave the rest to the man whose lighter you have just inherited.’

The young woman stopped looking at her reflection in her new possession and dashed off.

‘Muesli and milk must be the last thing our driver wants in his car,’ Julius said.

‘We’re on the same page,’ said Allan.

The mixture was necessary to lure the driver out of his car. Neither Allan nor Julius had the muscles to lift him out, and two things were certain: first, the driver would never leave his car voluntarily; second, he was not going to drive them to the airport, no matter how hard they tried.

Minister for Foreign Affairs Wallström joined them. She had a cup of coffee and a French-Korean croissant while standing at the gentlemen’s table, saying she was in a rush. The diplomatic passports had arrived as they should. The minister handed them over, wrapped in a napkin.

‘Much obliged, Madame Minister,’ said Allan. ‘When might the departure take place? We have a few things to take care of today. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to know.’

Minister for Foreign Affairs Wallström was just getting to that. Kim Jong-un had conveyed the message that their next meeting would not only be their last but would be followed by her departure from the country that very afternoon.

‘In short, he doesn’t want anything to do with me. In contrast to President Trump, whose staff have given me orders to come and explain a few things. The airport has confirmed that my plane will take off at fifteen thirty.’

‘Today?’ Julius asked anxiously.

‘What is it the American president wants explained?’ Allan asked.

‘I can’t rule out the possibility that your name may come up, Mr Karlsson.’

The minister looked sad. Julius felt sorry for her. But mostly he felt sorry for himself.

‘As I said, fifteen thirty,’ said the minister. ‘I hope you will be there.’ She wasn’t sure she would ever see Messrs Jonsson and Karlsson again.

Julius wasn’t either. ‘Today?’ he repeated. ‘How on earth are we going to have time—’

‘Don’t start, Julle,’ said Allan. ‘Either this will all work out or it won’t. I have a hard time envisaging any other option. Come on, it’s already nine, and we have a job to mismanage. And bring the muesli.’

‘My name is not Julle,’ said Julius.

The guard at the entrance to the plutonium factory had strict and detailed instructions. Everyone who came and went got the same treatment.

On day two, Karlsson and Jonsson showed up, each in a new coat. The guard went through all the pockets and corners but found nothing remarkable.

Karlsson, in addition, was carrying a briefcase that contained a silver package of some sort, as well as a few documents full of handwritten formulas.

‘What are these?’ the guard enquired, of the formulas.

‘These are the proud Democratic Republic’s nuclear future,’ said Allan.

The guard put back the papers in horror. ‘And this?’

He held up the package.

‘Those are toiletries,’ Allan said truthfully. ‘Wrapped up as a gift for Mr Engineer. But please don’t say anything – it’s supposed to be a surprise.’

This was extraordinary and mundane at once. On the one hand, the nation’s future, on the other… What?

The guard allowed himself to become suspicious. He carefully unwound the tape until he was able to confirm that the strange old man had told the truth. In the black box he found a razor, shaving cream, soap, shampoo, conditioner, a comb, a toothbrush and toothpaste. He opened a few of the bottles to sniff their contents.

‘Do you think he’ll like it?’ Allan asked.

The toothpaste smelt like toothpaste; the shampoo smelt like shampoo. The razor was clearly a razor.

‘I don’t know…’ said the guard. Could it truly be proper to bring in unfamiliar liquids like this?

‘I’m going to have to ask you to tape this up again,’ said Allan. ‘Mr Engineer might arrive at any moment, and it would certainly be a nuisance if…’

And then he arrived. Peevish. ‘What is going on? We were supposed to start ten minutes ago.’

The guard, in all haste, taped up the gift again as Allan entertained the engineer with the story of how what was going on was quite simply that the guard was just doing his job, and honourably at that. Mr Engineer ought to think seriously about whether it wasn’t time to promote the man. As far as Allan could tell, the guard was primed to take on greater tasks. Lead guard, at the very least. Although that would necessitate increasing the number of guards by at least one or he would have no one to lead.