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

‘Perhaps not,’ his friend admitted. ‘But what’s done is done.’

What had once seemed like a good idea was about to bite them in the butt. One or more true nuclear weapons tests in North Korea, while the United States and China were talking trade agreements, was meant to mess things up for them. It was not in Russia’s best interest for the Americans and the Chinese to enjoy each other’s company.

The risk now was that they would realize they had a common enemy. And Xi Jinping had found a way to talk to Trump. Or maybe he’d just made sure to lose by the proper number of strokes on the golf course. Whatever he was doing, it appeared to be working.

‘What’s done is done,’ Gennady Aksakov said once more. ‘Let it go, Volodya. Let’s focus on Europe.’

Putin nodded. ‘You swung by Sweden, then? How are things there?’

Gena made a face. ‘You don’t want to know. Let’s talk about Spain and Germany instead. I have some good German news for you.’

Putin smiled. ‘Oh, really? Does that mean Merkel isn’t sitting as securely on her fat arse as she thinks?’

Journalist Bella Hansson with Eskilstuna-Kuriren wanted readers. What was the point of her job, otherwise? To realize this goal on a day like today meant delivering something terrorist-related. People didn’t want to read about anything else anyway.

She browsed through the incident reports from the police. A bar fight from the day before? No. Alleged maltreatment of animals on a farm? Upsetting just about any other day of the year, but not this one.

Nor was it possible to make terrorism out of two cars that had backed into each other in the car park outside a department store, even if one of the drivers was Muslim.

But perhaps here was something.

A hearse had been searched just a few hours after the attack in Stockholm. No measures taken, case closed.

But there had been an interrogation.

Why?

In Sweden there’s something called the principle of public access. It means that everything a public official does, writes, says and almost thinks must promptly be reported to any citizen who wishes to know. Citizens in general seldom go to the trouble. But journalists are a different matter.

The pockmarked lead interrogator-slash-Inspector Holmlund was on his way home after a long day – a Saturday, to boot – but had the misfortune of running into young reporter Bella Hansson at the door. With an inaudible sigh he invited her into the office.

He was far too experienced to lie to the reporter’s face. However, he did elect to leave out parts of the truth. In doing so he imagined she would lose interest in the story and he would be spared extra work with troublesome follow-up questions.

The truth was, then, that a car transporting a coffin had been stopped at a routine checkpoint, and an interrogation had been held. No, the coffin had not contained any deceased person: the inspectors had ascertained this on site. But at least one of the people had been unbelted.

‘You brought in an undertaker for questioning because he or she wasn’t wearing a seatbelt?’ Bella Hansson asked.

The fact was, they weren’t undertakers but coffin manufacturers, yet Holmlund opted not to correct the reporter. ‘It’s been a very special day, as you know.’

Bella Hansson gave Inspector Holmlund a sceptical look. ‘Where did the interrogation lead? Were you in charge of it?’

‘Yes, I was. Honestly it led to nothing but a talking-to from me to the man who’d neglected to use a seatbelt.’

Of course, it wouldn’t be possible to turn this story into terrorism either, but after Bella had asked a few more questions, and received answers, she changed perspective. She’d had an idea that felt even better. The article she’d almost finished composing in her mind was really too good to be put online. The problem was that the physical copy of the paper didn’t come out on Sundays.

Online it would be. But Bella sat on her story until the next morning so it would remain at the top of the news feed for as long as possible. In the new world, it was important to amass clicks.

Yes, indeed, Olekorinko was more active than ever. It appeared a lucrative business to be a witch doctor of his calibre. But to copy his ideas Sabine needed to study them on-site. And since Africa wasn’t exactly next door, she would have to stick to what she already knew for the time being.

First they had to find out what the clairvoyant competition looked like. Sabine spent the evening and half their night at the pension on market analysis. It was depressing work. Not just because Allan whined non-stop about how she had stolen his toy, but also because it was all there in black and white, how the market for various types of clairvoyance had just about exploded in the past year. The supply was enormous. It would be easy to enter the branch anew, but it would be hard to position herself for financial viability, even ignoring the fact that Sabine had no talent for running economically viable businesses.

Julius left her in peace, partly because he believed she needed it and partly because he was busy wondering about the bloody asparagus. The old lady at the pension had an old-fashioned telephone on a table in the hall. It would have been possible to borrow it for an intercontinental call while she was out shopping, if the scrap of paper with Gustav Svensson’s number on it wasn’t missing. It must have been left behind on the table at the restaurant in New York.

Without Gustav’s number, and without Gustav having a number at which to reach Julius (who didn’t even have a phone), there was a considerable risk that the friends and business partners would never meet again. Julius thought some more and realized it was almost certain they never would. This was tragic on several levels. After all, he liked the Swedish Indian. And he also felt the need to hit him on the head with something hard.

While Sabine and Julius were otherwise occupied, Allan found a sofa in the pension’s common room upon which to settle himself. He lay there waiting for Sabine’s short breaks from the tablet so he could catch up on his surfing. Among other things, about the Swedes’ fury that postal delivery wasn’t working as it should. Far too many letters took two days to arrive rather than the stipulated one. The postal service’s solution was to change the rules rather than the routines. Now all letters would take two days, in accordance with the new regulations. Suddenly, delivery assurance was approaching a hundred per cent. Allan guessed the director of the postal service had a considerable bonus coming.

In other news, a leader of the National Front in France had sat down at a North African restaurant to eat couscous. And liked it! This was considered beyond unpatriotic. Soon the leader had been kicked out of the party, or perhaps he had stepped down of his own accord. Allan wasn’t sure what couscous was. Perhaps the Arab world’s answer to pea soup with ham. Too much of that stuff and he, too, would probably have stepped down. From what, however, was unclear.

Before Sabine demanded the tablet back, Allan also managed to read about the Swedish military’s investment in a fleet of helicopters so expensive that there was no money left to use it. But the helicopters looked nice sitting on the ground.

After the night’s work, Sabine had a list of forty-nine women and one man who all offered services in the same arena as her mother had.

‘How’s it going?’ Julius wondered, as they breakfasted together. He noticed how grim Sabine looked.

‘Not great.’

She expounded her statement. The world outside was swarming with angel cards, tarot cards and pendulums. Women devoting themselves to long-distance healing. Breaking up blockages in the soul. Speaking with animals. Telling love fortunes. Giving telepathic guidance. Having the universal laws of energy down pat. Seeing the past, present and future in glowing ash, coffee grounds or crystal balls.