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

‘Distract him when he comes back.’

‘Distract him?’ said Julius. ‘How?’

‘Just distract him. So I can switch the briefcases.’

‘Why not switch them now while he’s not here?’

Allan looked at his friend. ‘Because I didn’t think of that. I don’t always manage to get as far in my reasoning as those around me feel I ought to. For the most part, this suits me just fine, but on certain occasions…’

That was as far as he got before the engineer returned.

‘We have eight hectograms of gallium in storage,’ he said. ‘Now, in what way is this relevant to compressing the uranium? Please explain it to me as if I were an equal, not an idiot.’

‘Only eight hectograms,’ said Allan, a look of concern on his face.

Then Julius fell headlong to the floor. ‘Help, I’m dying!’

The engineer was thoroughly frightened. Even Allan was startled, although he was the one who’d put in the order.

‘Ow!’ Julius cried, where he lay. ‘Ow!’

Allan stayed where he was as the engineer hurried to Julius’s aid.

‘What’s the matter, Mr Jonsson?’ he said, kneeling beside the possibly dying assistant. ‘Aren’t you feeling well?’

Julius realized that Allan had already managed to exchange one thing for the other.

‘Yes, thank you,’ he said. ‘I’m fine. I just had a sudden bout of homesickness.’

‘Homesickness?’ said the engineer. ‘You collapsed in a heap on the floor.’

‘Severe homesickness. But now it has passed.’

The engineer, who had thus far considered Julius the more sensible of the two foreigners, had the feeling he was just as bad as his colleague. ‘Shall I help you up, Jonsson?’

‘Thank you, kind engineer,’ said Julius, putting out his hand.

The engineer found himself in a desperate situation. First, because he’d had only a few short minutes at the Nampo harbour to determine whether Karlsson was a charlatan, aware that if he found he was , the engineer himself would have been forced to produce results faster than he might have been ready for. So he had decided Karlsson was the genuine article, the most pressing reason being that the engineer wanted him to be so out of sheer desire to survive. Then had come the painful realization that he was probably neither a charlatan nor in full possession of his mental faculties. And that the assistant’s situation might be equally unfortunate.

The engineer toyed with the idea of explaining to the Supreme Leader that the original question was one of charlatanry, and that nothing had been mentioned about the potential levels of senile dementia. But he realized that wouldn’t work. It left the option of lying to the Supreme Leader (a mind-boggling thought) and saying that the gentlemen were no longer needed: the engineer had come to understand the mechanics of pressure and within a few weeks would be able to convert that knowledge into practical results. In which case he either had the given number of weeks left to live, or he would have to deliver on his promise.

Karlsson had proved to have chemical formulas in his aged skull, and he’d put some of them on paper. When the Swiss men left for the day, the engineer planned to take a closer look.

During lunch he’d lost his temper with Karlsson, who had been reciting from his black tablet by memory about an American TV show host who had first committed a series of sexual harassments, then said he was angry with God, who hadn’t rushed to his defence. The engineer roared his displeasure and said he didn’t give a damn about God or all the Americans in the world, or about hetisostat pressure and what it could do, because he was about to have five hundred kilos of enriched uranium to deal with. When that shipment arrived they would no longer need Karlsson. The engineer promised to drag the old man out of the laboratory if he didn’t shape up immediately.

Five hundred kilos? That was the second time Allan had heard this. Even four kilos was bad enough.

‘There, there, Mr Engineer,’ he said. ‘We don’t want to take that tone with one another, do we? Comrade Stalin in Moscow was once angry with me too, and for that sole reason sent me all the way to Siberia. But all that brought him was a stroke. A bad temper is no good for your health, I like to say.’

The engineer was not feeling well. But he didn’t drop his battle with the muddle-headed Karlsson.

At some point, the hundred-and-one-year-old took a closer look at a photograph on the wall in which the grinning Supreme Leader stood next to a mid-range missile. The Swiss man seemed to be focusing his attention on the tip of the missile; he was contemplatively mumbling another formula. Properly deciphered, it was a combination of vitamin C and smelling salts, but the unprepared engineer thought there might be hope after all.

At one minute to two, it was time. Allan had buttered up the engineer to such an extent that he didn’t even protest when the self-proclaimed expert asked him to run yet another pointless errand to the cold storage room. It was something about the use-by date of the distilled water. Bottle by bottle.

When the engineer had vanished, Allan said: ‘I think it’s time to take off. He probably won’t be back for a few minutes.’

‘Wrong shampoo,’ said Allan, placing the briefcase on the guard’s table and opening the lid. ‘It didn’t smell as much like lavender as it should have. Or whatever it was. The engineer is a quality-oriented gentleman. You can count on another package tomorrow.’

Before the guard had time to take a closer look at the package he recognized, Allan wriggled out of his coat.

‘But you had better check this properly. More than once I have stuck things into my pockets without remembering what or why. Once when I was out shopping I found a padlock in one. To this day I can’t imagine where I had been planning to hang it.’

The guard dug through Karlsson’s pockets and soon had Jonsson’s coat.

‘I’m the same way,’ said Julius. ‘Although I’m more inclined in the direction of cigarette lighters.’

The guard’s eyes darted from coat to coat as Allan calmly closed the lid of the briefcase.

‘We can’t stand here chatting all day, no matter how pleasant it may be. The Supreme Leader is waiting. Done with the coats? That’s good. Come along, Julius.’

The old men walked towards the waiting driver, Julius very eagerly, Allan at his usual pace. They got into the vehicle, which drove off while the guard stood there pondering padlocks, cigarette lighters, the Supreme Leader, and what had just happened.

Thirty seconds later, the engineer came to the entrance. Angrier than ever.

‘Where did those damned idiots go?’

‘Why, they left, Mr Engineer.’

‘Lovely. Tomorrow I’m going to throttle Karlsson.’

The nameless driver was surprised that the international guests wished to return to the hotel when it was only two o’clock.

‘Not the hotel, my dear Whatever-your-name-is. First we’re going to the palace to pick up the Supreme Leader. Important meeting. Exciting, isn’t it?’

The driver went totally pale. To a North Korean civil servant, having the Supreme Leader in your car would be the equivalent of a pastor riding around with Jesus Christ Himself. In fact, the man had orders to drive the guests to the hotel and nowhere else, but the palace was on the way.

‘I understand if this is nerve-racking,’ Allan said. ‘But I know the Supreme Leader well. He’s very amicable. There’s really only one thing that irritates him. Or two, if you include the United States.’

The nameless driver nervously asked what it might be.