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

‘You bought soil? For here? What kind?’ said Julius.

‘What kind?’ said Gustav.

‘What kind?’ said Fredrika Langer.

Allan had been surfing around, got tired of all the moaning and groaning, and decided to do something about it. There was plenty of sandy soil in Nairobi, and with a few clicks it had been ordered. Four hundred tons, to start. That ought to go pretty far, right?

‘Let me ask you again. With what money did you just buy four hundred tons of soil?’ said Sabine.

‘None at all,’ said Allan. ‘Things aren’t so advanced here in Africa. They’ll send an invoice.’

‘And who were you thinking would pay for it?’

‘Oh, that’s what you meant. Don’t we have some money left from the coffin business?’

‘No.’

‘Then I will ask you to let me think about it.’

Sabine’s financial objections were drowned by the topic at hand. Fredrika Langer had grown most eager of all. ‘Hell’s bells!’ she said. ‘Four hundred tons would be enough for almost the entire field beyond the organic garden. We’ll have to make sure to keep watch at night, so the baboons don’t ruin our fun.’

Gustav Svensson’s entire face lit up. ‘Four hundred tons!’ he said, without truly comprehending how much this actually was.

Meanwhile, Julius had already entered the next phase. ‘Let’s see, how can we best guide the trucks? The slope begins almost immediately on the other side of the garden, so maybe it’ll be best to squeeze them between the souvenir shop and the office. What do you all think?’

No one but Sabine considered the fact that there were not sufficient assets in place to pay for the soil. Nor did anyone manage to recall that they didn’t live where they were staying, and that at least one of them, Fredrika, had another life, far away.

‘What kind of mess have you made this time?’ Sabine said, once she had left the enthusiastic group and strolled over to the old man on the veranda.

‘Mess?’ said Allan. ‘They’re happy as Larry.’

‘But we don’t have any money.’

‘We haven’t had it before. Relax, Sabine! We only live once. That’s the only certainty in life. How long, though – that varies.’

Fredrika Langer was sitting on a win. That is to say, the uranium. And the phone number to the chancellor, the one that wasn’t to be used except in an emergency.

‘Emergency this, emergency that,’ Allan had said. ‘Shall I handle the phone call?’

So he did. He would call again the next morning. This was all as surreal as it was uplifting.

Her boss had sent her into the savannah hundreds of miles from where one might reasonably expect any action, even as he had placed himself in the perfect position. And then everything had gone topsy-turvy. At any moment, he would be calling from Madagascar to reassure himself that she was on her way. Not that he cared about her, but without her around he had no one upon whom to dump all the small matters and the even tinier ones.

Fredrika asked John at the bar for a glass of water; he poured it and she managed to take her first sip before her phone rang.

‘Fredrika Langer, how may I be of service?’ she said, with the aim of annoying her boss from the start.

‘It’s me, you idiot. Have you reached Musoma yet? You were supposed to—’

She interrupted him. ‘No. I’m skipping Musoma. Sticking around here instead. Me and the uranium.’

Agent A wondered if he’d misheard. Had Langer found the uranium? Up there?

‘Yes. These things happen, you know.’

‘Don’t touch it! I’m coming straight away. Where are you?’

‘In Kenya.’

‘But where in Kenya, for Chrissake?’

Agent Langer looked around. ‘On the savannah, I think.’

‘Answer me properly, Langer, or I’ll bash in your head when I get there.’

‘You’ll have to find me first.’

What was going on? Was she obstructing her boss?

‘If you don’t want to be fired, you will give me your exact position this minute !’

That threat didn’t land where it was intended to.

‘Fired? If anything, Chancellor Merkel was hinting at a promotion last time we spoke.’

Agent A was struck by a sudden breathlessness. Had that dunce Langer spoken to the chancellor behind his back? Where had she got the phone number?

‘Yes, of course, you should have been the one to have it, not me. After all, you’re the boss, for heaven’s sake, but you didn’t think it befitted the boss to carry around our operations folder. And I certainly understand – it must weigh nearly a hundred grams.’

This was pure catastrophe.

‘Give it to me this instant!’ he said. ‘That is an order.’

‘No, I can’t. This line isn’t secure. It’s such a shame you were forced to send me in the wrong direction. Should I call her for you? No, silly me, I’ve already done that.’

She could hear her boss breathing heavily.

‘The chancellor mentioned something about a medal. For me, that is, not for you.’

‘Listen here,’ Agent A tried.

‘But what would I do with a medal? I resign instead. I probably have about a year’s worth of overtime to use up, so I think I’ll start straight away. You won’t have to see me ever again. And, better still, I won’t have to see you.’

Fredrika Langer’s description of events wasn’t quite accurate: Allan had been the one to make the phone call to Berlin. But anything that would torment Agent A was fair game. The part about resigning had felt extra good to say. Might as well make it true as soon as possible.

‘But, please, Langer,’ said Agent A. ‘Just… tell… me… where… you… are…’

Her boss took it one word at a time, doing his best to breathe.

‘I told you. Kenya. I think. But I’m busy now. Angela’s calling on the other line, you know. Awfully nice woman. Bye.’

She hung up and threw her phone into the stream that meandered prettily from the camp to the watering-hole.

‘Is all well?’ wondered Allan, who had seen what she’d just done.

‘Very well, thank you,’ said Former Agent Langer. ‘Very well.’

Exactly twenty-four hours after his first call to the chancellor, Allan called again. Merkel answered after the first ring.

‘Good morning, Chancellor. I suppose it’s best I call the chancellor “Chancellor” as often as possible while I still can – you never know what may happen on Sunday.’

‘Good morning, Mr Karlsson,’ said Chancellor Merkel.

‘I’m calling to inform you, Madame Chancellor, of where your people can fetch the package. Or the box, rather. The boxes. The uranium, in short.’

‘Good. Let’s hope you manage to do so this time, before you slam down the receiver in my ear again. Tell me,’ she said, gripping her pen at the desk outside her bedroom, wearing the same dressing-gown as she had worn the previous morning.

He recommended that the Federal Republic sneak in at low altitude and land in the dark at the Keekorok Airport in Maasai Mara.

‘If you come straight down from Berlin, then hang a slight left over Kampala, Keekorok is not far into the countryside, just after Lake Victoria. Alternatively you can come in an arc from the other direction. In that case, it’s directly to the right from Lamu, along the coast of Kenya. After an hour or so, Keekorok will show up beneath you.’

Was Karlsson out of his mind?

‘Perhaps a slightly more legal arrangement would be to explain the situation to the Kenyan government in Nairobi. But there’s the chance it might be overthrown between the informing and the fetching.’

Chancellor Merkel had no intention of confirming over the telephone their prospective plans to trespass illegally on the territory of another nation, especially not two days before the election. Instead she responded: ‘I hear what you’re saying. Please give me the coordinates.’