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

On a bench in the departure hall at the domestic terminal of Julius Nyerere International Airport, Sabine delved into the geographical research she thus far hadn’t had time to perform. Allan had involuntarily to give up his black tablet for this purpose (with the roaming data charges still covered by an already sufficiently duped hotel manager in Bali).

The resulting decision was to take the first flight they could get to Musoma in the Serengeti, then ask their way to their destination. Olekorinko’s miracle-medicine tent city was famous throughout Africa; finding someone in Musoma to show them the way shouldn’t be difficult.

The plane had a single engine and seated thirteen passengers. Nine were from an Italian consulting firm that was celebrating its twenty-fifth anniversary by taking the staff to the Serengeti for a few days of safari (tax-deductible, since they made sure to have a fifteen-minute conference every day). Three more seats were reserved just prior to departure by a small group of Swedes.

The two agents had, on the one hand, been tasked with keeping an eye on the suspected uranium delivery to Honour and Strength . Last time, the much smaller cargo had travelled through Tanzania and Mozambique, then on to the south. On the other hand, Berlin had ordered the agents not to let Allan Karlsson out of their sight. And Karlsson was heading in the wrong direction.

Tailing someone, even a hundred-and-one-year-old, was not the sort of thing anyone wanted to do on their own. The risk of being discovered was too great. The egocentric and arrogant Lead Agent A disliked the idea of leaving in the wrong direction in relation to the uranium – just because the old hag in Berlin had got some bee in her bonnet. And why, incidentally, did he have to carry around the folder for this operation? He was the boss, unlike the woman at his side.

‘Take this,’ he said, to his meek colleague. ‘And book us two tickets. I’m going to get some coffee.’

The carrier Precision Air seemed to be on the arrogant man’s side that day. There was only one seat left. The arrogant agent was able to hand the short end of the stick to the meek one with a clear conscience (and a scornful grin). Meanwhile he intended to keep the border of Tanzania and Mozambique under surveillance. If you wanted to climb in the ranks, you had to be where the action was, when the action was.

The short end of the stick, in this case, meant tailing Karlsson to see what kind of foolishness he got up to, far away from the centre of the action.

As it happened, the loser had the misfortune of ending up in the sole empty seat, right next to the target she was absolutely not supposed to reveal herself to.

Agent B elected to enter into service rather than a deepening depression. She started a conversation with Karlsson; perhaps she would get something useful in return. She said hello and avoided giving her name but told him she was a businesswoman.

‘Well, there you go,’ said Allan. ‘Hope business is good.’

‘It is, thanks,’ said the agent, immediately turning the conversation in the other direction.

She fished for what might be bringing the gentleman to… to…

‘Musoma?’ Allan said. ‘We’re on our way to Musoma. And so is the businesswoman, I expect.’

Agent B cursed herself. Forgetting the name of their destination! But it had been such a whirlwind at the terminal. This was a big country, three times the size of Germany. She knew Dar es Salaam like the back of her hand. And the capital, Dodoma. And Morogoro, of course. And Arusha.

But Musoma, way up to the north-west? She hadn’t heard of it until today.

Allan unreservedly told her that Sabine – that lady two rows ahead – worked as a medium and was seeking fresh inspiration. There was meant to be an extraordinary healer up in the Serengeti, his name was Olekorinko, and there was nothing wrong with that – everyone had to be called something. His friend Julius, the man in the seat next to Sabine, might have changed other people’s names the way some people change shirts, but that didn’t suit Allan.

‘A healer?’ said Agent B.

‘Or maybe a witch doctor. I seldom commit difficult words to memory. I have trouble enough with the easy ones.’

The plan was to visit Olekorinko, learn from him, and gain new spiritual energy. Sabine could surely tell her more, if the businesswoman was interested. ‘I don’t suppose you’re in the clairvoyance trade yourself? Or in tourism, perhaps?’

What was this? Atomic bomb expert and potential uranium smuggler Karlsson was on his way to see a witch doctor in the savannah to get spiritual energy? If he had to sit there telling lies, couldn’t he at least do so with finesse?

No, the agent did not work in clairvoyance. She said she was a real-estate broker.

That was the cover A and B used in Dar es Salaam.

But that didn’t have the desired effect either. Allan thought it sounded interesting. He said that there must be many exciting mud huts to bid for on the Tanzanian savannah.

Was the hundred-and-one-year-old being sarcastic or just hard to read? The agent felt ill at ease in his presence. Pretending to be a real-estate broker in the largest city in Tanzania was one thing. That story would not work nearly as well in areas where there might not be any real estate to broker. Musoma?

‘Well, the mud huts there are not my primary target,’ she said, trying to sound self-assured. ‘But there is the occasional safari camp to look at.’

‘Oh, so you are in tourism after all?’

Few more words were exchanged between Allan and the agent during the rest of the flight. The German needed the time to work out the details of her cover story. Thus far it had not gone as expected. Neither did it get any better when the plane came in for landing and it turned out that Musoma was a real city with what had to be over a hundred thousand citizens and a great number of European-style buildings.

‘Look!’ Allan said, pointing out of the window. ‘There’s quite a bit to sink your teeth into around here after all, Mrs Real Estate Broker. Imagine! You didn’t know about that or where you were heading.’

The agent already hated herself. And now she hated Karlsson too, damn him.

The runway was made of earth. It was narrow, and not a single metre longer than necessary. It was in the middle of the city that turned its back on the southern shores of Lake Victoria.

Outside the small terminal building there were several taxis, whose drivers were hoping for fares. Everyone knew where Olekorinko could be found, but no one was so desperate for money that they wanted to drive the three foreigners out to see him. It was a journey of around 150 kilometres and the roads were in such poor shape that it was just about 100 per cent certain that a Fiat, Honda or Mazda would get stuck along the way.

But Sabine caught sight of a man unloading passengers and luggage from a Land Cruiser not far away. It was an open car with three rows of seats and heavy tyres that didn’t look as if they would get stuck anywhere. When the man had finished and said farewell to the owners of the luggage, Sabine approached to ask if he was available for hire.

No, he was not. He wasn’t from the area and was about to head back to camp at Maasai Mara. There would be more guests arriving in two days, and he had to be back at work by then.

Sabine didn’t give up immediately. Continued conversation indicated that the place where the man worked was in Kenya, bordering the Serengeti – and just a few dozen kilometres from Olekorinko’s camp. Suddenly the three foreigners’ suggestion was of interest. Being paid for a journey home you had to undertake anyway was a bonus, even if it did involve a short detour.