“I know that you have a proposal. And I will listen to it. As I always do.
Then I want to take a break. It’s late. I want to phone home to say it will be even later. And when I’ve had my break, I’ll make a decision. Thorulf, please.”
They had realized
that
some time ago. Now they would understand
how
.
“I don’t want any more articles like that one.”
Winge pointed to the copies of the faxed front page of the
Washington Post
for the following day, which was still lying on the table amongst all the cups.
“I think we all agree on that. Please continue.”
The prime minister showed his irritation, which was unnecessary, and Thorulf Winge for a moment considered whether to comment, but held back. They were all tired, they all knew that no matter what the solution was and whether it was best for the country or not, they would still be accused of double standards, and none of them was without standards.
“I have a suggestion as to how this can be resolved.”
The prime minister, who was standing under the chandelier, and the minister of foreign affairs, who was sitting smoothing down his hair, listened.
“We know that Frey came here via Canada and Russia. He flew from Toronto to Moscow to Stockholm. We don’t know the reason for this route, and right now that’s not important. What is important is that Russia can be seen as a transit country. We can deport him back
there
. And he will not be executed
there
.”
The prime minister stood immobile.
“What the hell are you saying?”
“I said that Frey came via—”
“I heard what you said. But hoped that I’d heard wrong.
If
we were to send him back to Moscow, he would immediately be sent to the United States from there.”
“We know nothing about that.”
“To Death Row.”
“Speculation. That is not something we can be certain of.”
“To his death.”
“With all due respect, that is not our problem. And formally, we have not done anything that we can’t defend.
We
have not extradited him to the United States.”
Winge looked at the gilt clock that hung above the sofa. Three minutes to one. They would need this break. They would need to digest what he had just explained in order to realize that it was the only possible solution. He opened his black briefcase again, put some new papers on top of the faxed article.
“And then there’s this, before we take a break.”
The prime minister waved at him.
“Just tell us what it is.”
Winge lifted up the two pages.
“Deportation papers. From the Migration Board. I received them earlier this evening.
If
we decide to let him leave the country, that is. Then we have this, his deportation papers here, in writing.”
He smiled for the first time since he’d gotten there.
“To Russia.”
IT WAS ONE OF THOSE NIGHTS
.
Ewert Grens prowled around in his big apartment, restless and fighting the emptiness that insisted on taking up occupancy whenever he relaxed. He should have stayed on the sofa in his office in Kronoberg. He usually managed to get at least a few hours’ sleep there, even when his head was sore from thinking. It was impossible here. The building was so damn quiet that each step echoed, his right foot falling harder on the parquet and the sound bouncing around until it hit him on the neck. He had been close to calling both Hermansson and Anni—he had stood with the receiver in his hand and had even dialed the numbers only then to put the receiver down before it had started to ring. He had never been particularly bothered by loneliness, he held it at arm’s length, and on the occasions that it came to visit, he regarded it as a temporary guest. But now, it was as if the contrast had made it so obvious, the hours with Hermansson on the dance floor and with Anni on a boat on Höggarnsfjärden, so much life compared to all his unlived-in rooms.
He went into the kitchen, consumed two pieces of bread with expensive liver pâté and half a liter of orange juice. He ate too much on sleepless nights but had long since stopped caring about how it affected his appearance. When after a while the silence was concentrated on his chewing, he reached out for the transistor radio that stood at the far end of the kitchen table. He had got used to listening to P3’s night shows, the soothing voices and music, no hysterical jingles and no stupid jokers, worthy of those who for whatever reason were awake while others slept.
The sound of the phone ringing was therefore striking.
It mixed with the silence and a slow jazz piece but soon dominated as it stubbornly persisted.
“Hello.”
“Ewert Grens?”
“Depends on who I’m talking to.”
“We’ve met a couple of times before. My name is Thorulf Winge, state secretary with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.”
Grens stretched over to the transistor radio and turned down the volume as a velvet female voice announced the next record. He couldn’t remember the man who claimed he was a state secretary.
“If you say so.”
“Would you like to call me back to check?”
“I’m more interested in how you managed to get my number.”
“Would you like to call me back?”
“Just say what you’ve got to say and then we can hang up.”
He already felt uneasy. He didn’t doubt that the man was who he said he was. But it was half past two in the morning and that always meant that something had gone seriously wrong.
“It’s regarding someone you’re holding in custody, and who you are investigating. A John Schwarz. Or to be more precise, John Meyer Frey.”
“And I’ll bet you’re the bureaucrat who’s been running around handing out directives about
blackouts
and other political nonsense.”
“As I said, John Meyer Frey. I’m holding some papers here from the Migration Board. Deportation papers. Frey has to be on the other side of the border by seven o’clock this morning.”
Grens was silent at first, but then started to talk furiously and very loudly.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“The decision was made earlier this evening, at nineteen hundred hours, and has to be effective within twelve hours. I’m phoning you with a request for help in assisting his deportation.”
He was clutching the receiver.
“How the hell did you manage to get all this through within twentyfour hours?”
Winge didn’t for a moment lose his composure, he had been given a task and he was simply performing it.
“John Meyer Frey does not have a residence permit.”
“You’re sending him to his death.”
“John Meyer Frey entered Sweden illegally via Russia.”
“I will never contribute to a person who is being detained in Sweden being sent to his death.”
“And when he is deported, according to the papers in my hand, it will be to Russia.”
Sven Sundkvist should have been asleep. He seldom had difficulties in sleeping, with Anita’s breathing close to his face and her warm skin next to his, the security that he needed to relax.
They had started to get ready for bed about four hours ago. He had lain there beside her and she had asked what was wrong. He had no idea what she meant.
You’re different.
Am I?
I know that something’s up.
He hadn’t even noticed it himself. Not until Anita pointed it out. And then he had lain there and tried to find out what it was, why he wasn’t there; in his thoughts, he had gone through various questions and come to the same conclusion each time.
Schwarz.
I don’t understand, Sven. Schwarz?
I think it’s him I’m preoccupied with.
From what you’ve said, it sounds terrible. But, sweetheart, do we need to take him to bed with us?
He had really wanted her to understand. It was because of Schwarz’s son. When he realized that there was also a child involved, it suddenly became a different story. Because he had understood some time ago how it might end.
I’m not interested in whether he’s guilty or not.
Well, you should be.
I’m just thinking about the child.
The child?
I mean, why should the authorities have the right to decide whether a child should grow up without one of his parents, by imposing the death penalty?
It’s the law, Sven.
But I mean, the child, the child isn’t guilty.
That’s the system there.
Doesn’t make it any more just.
The people have voted for it, democratically. Just like here. We have life sentences. Or other long prison terms with no release for years. You often talk about that, don’t you?
It’s not the same.
It’s
exactly
the same. For the child. Death penalty or no contact for say . . . twenty years. What’s the difference?
I don’t know.
Nothing. There isn’t one.
All I know, all I understand is that Schwarz’s son, who’s just turned five, risks losing one of his parents forever if we let his father be extradited.
Don’t you understand, Anita? It’s always the family. It’s always the ones who are closest that we punish the most.
They had lain there until the argument petered out; then both got up and went down to the kitchen table, where they looked at the crossword together, as they sometimes did. She had his big black sweater on and she had been so beautiful that sometime later, once they had finished the crossword and the conversation about Schwarz was over, they had gone up to the bedroom and held each other tight as they made love. She had fallen asleep afterward. Her breathing deepened into small snores, whereas he just lay there as awake as before.
Ewert Grens stood up with the receiver in his hand and didn’t know whether to throw it at the cradle on the wall where it belonged, or smash it on the table until it broke. He didn’t do either. He just dropped it and watched it land on the chair where he’d been sitting, then opened the door onto the balcony and walked out barefoot into the snow and ice and minus twenty. He heard the cars driving past down below on Sveavägen, one by one, as he roared
fucking shitbags
until he was spent.
His bare feet were red when he went in a few minutes later and hurried toward the hall and the mobile phone that was ringing in the pocket of his winter overcoat.
He didn’t speak to his boss very often.
Grens had his own territory and worked harder and more effectively than most when left to his own devices, and over the years an unspoken agreement had gradually developed between him and the chief superintendent: you let me be and I’ll let you be. And he certainly couldn’t remember the last time they had spoken together at night.
“I talked to State Secretary Winge a short while ago, so I knew you were up.” Ewert Grens imagined his boss in front of him. Ten years younger than he was, always neat and tidy in a suit, he reminded him a bit of Ågestam, something about the way they were always so perfect that Ewert had recognized and learned to despise.
“Right.”
“And as I understand it, you didn’t fully comprehend your orders.”
“You could put it that way. No damn wannabe politician is going to take my investigation abroad when there is a person in the hospital who not long ago was hovering between life and death.”
“It was
me
who gave Winge your name. So
I
was the one who gave the orders. And . . .”
“Then you’ll already know how much I think this whole thing stinks.”
“And that is why
I
am now ordering you, on the part of City Police, to ensure that the deportation order is fulfilled.”
“Have you got your pajamas on?”
Ewert wondered whether his boss was sitting on the edge of his bed in blue-and-white striped flannel. The asshole wasn’t the type to stay up and wander around in his big house fully dressed in the middle of the night.
“Excuse me?”
“You see, it’s not my job to carry out orders that come from corrupt cowards.”
“I—”
“And what’s more, you know as well as I do that deportation equals death for Frey.”
The chief superintendent, whose name was Göransson, cleared his throat.
“He’s going to Moscow. There’s no risk of him being executed there.”
“Even you’re not that fucking stupid.”
Göransson cleared his throat again, louder this time, his voice sharper.
“To be perfectly honest, you can think exactly what you like about all this, Ewert. When you are where you are now. At home. But when you’re at work, you will follow orders. And I’ve never said this to you before. And I won’t ever do it again. But if you don’t follow my direct orders this time, Ewert, I would advise you to start looking for a new position tomorrow.”
Grens threw down the dead telephone and went over to the balcony door, opened it, and went back out. It was just as cold as before, and he didn’t notice it this time either. He sat down on one of the plastic chairs that had been left out there all autumn. Hard ice on the cushion, hard ice on the concrete floor. His bare feet almost stuck to it, his skin felt sticky against the otherwise smooth surface.
A clear, starry night.
The city lights meant that the sky was never truly dark, but tonight, it was as dark as it would ever be, every bright light in sharp contrast. It was beautiful and he rested his eyes on it for a few minutes. The sheet-metal roofs around him, cars in the distance, he realized that he didn’t sit here often enough, and had probably never done it barefoot in winter before.
It was not difficult for him to lose his temper. The anger lurked there all day. But the feeling he had now wasn’t like that, it wasn’t as simple as rage.
He was angry, frustrated, disturbed, saddened, panic-stricken, frightened, at a loss—all at once and in no particular order.
He sat out there without moving.
Until he knew what to do, at least for the moment.
He would spend the next few hours on the phone. He had to make some calls. As he dialed the first number, he looked down at his bare, red feet and discovered to his surprise that he wasn’t cold.
It was nine o’clock on Thursday evening, U.S. time, when Edward Finnigan went down to the bar of the hotel in west Georgetown where he had checked in a few hours earlier. He had stayed there every time he was in town on business, and the woman with the beautiful eyes and Mona Lisa smile had nodded in recognition when he asked whether Room 504 was available.