The Hundred-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out of the Window and Disappeared (29 page)

‘Excuse me, but what the hell are you saying?’ said President de Gaulle loudly, but not so loudly that Fouchet, smoking out on the terrace, and his right hand man, also smoking out on the terrace, could hear.

Allan told him how he had had the dubious pleasure of dining with Misters Stalin and Beria almost exactly twenty years earlier, and that the interior minister’s right hand man was quite definitely on that occasion Stalin’s interpreter.

‘It was of course twenty years ago, but he looks just the same. I, however, looked different. I didn’t have a magpie’s nest on my face in those days, with my hair sticking out in all directions. I recognise the spy but the spy doesn’t recognise me, because I hardly recognised myself when I looked in the mirror yesterday.’

President de Gaulle went bright red in the face, excused
himself
, and then immediately requested a private conversation with his interior minister (‘No, private conversation, I said, without your special advisor! Now!’).

President Johnson and the Indonesian interpreter were left behind. Johnson looked very pleased. He decided to shake the interpreter’s hand, as thank you for him having made the French president lose his mask of superiority.

‘A pleasure to meet you,’ said President Johnson. ‘What was your name?’

‘I am Allan Karlsson,’ said Allan. ‘I once knew your
predecessor’s
predecessor’s predecessor, President Truman.’

‘Well, what do you know!’ said President Johnson. ‘Harry is on his way to ninety but he is alive and well. We are good friends.’

‘Give him my regards,’ said Allan, and then made his excuses so that he could find Amanda (he wanted to tell her what she had said to the presidents at the table).

The lunch with the two presidents came to a rapid end and everyone went home. But Allan and Amanda had only just
reached their embassy when President Johnson himself phoned and invited Allan to dinner at the American Embassy at eight o’clock that same evening.

‘That would be nice,’ said Allan. ‘I had anyway intended having a good square meal this evening, because whatever you say about French food, it soon disappears from your plate without your actually having eaten much.’

That was an observation President Johnson completely agreed with, and he looked forward very much to the evening’s events.

There were at least three good reasons for President Johnson to invite Allan Karlsson to dinner. First, to find out more about the spy and about Karlsson’s meeting with Beria and Stalin. Second, Harry Truman had just told him on the phone what Allan Karlsson had done at Los Alamos in 1945. That alone was of course worth a dinner. And third, President Johnson was personally extremely pleased with what happened at the Élysée Palace. At very close range, he had been able to enjoy seeing de Gaulle look aghast and discomfited, and he had Allan Karlsson to thank for that.

‘Welcome, Mr Karlsson,’ said President Johnson as he greeted Allan with a double handshake. ‘Let me introduce Mr Ryan Hutton, he is… well, he is a bit secret here at the embassy, one could say. Legal advisor, I believe he is called.’

Allan shook hands with the secret advisor and then the trio went to the dining table. President Johnson had ordered beer and vodka to be served with the food, because French wine reminded him of Frenchmen and this was meant to be an
enjoyable
evening.

While they were eating the first course, Allan related some of his life story, up to the dinner in the Kremlin, the one that went wrong. It was there that Interior Minister Fouchet’s right hand
man had fainted instead of translating Allan’s final insult to the already furious Stalin.

President Johnson was no longer so amused by the revelation that Claude Pennant turned out to be a Soviet spy in the vicinity of the French president, because he had just been informed by Ryan Hutton that the specialist Monsieur Pennant had in all secrecy also been an informer for the CIA. In fact, Pennant had up to then been the main CIA source of the information that there was not an imminent communist revolution in France although the country was deeply infiltrated by communists. Now the entire analysis would have to be reconsidered.

‘That, of course, was unofficial and confidential
information
,’ said President Johnson, ‘but I can count on Mr Karlsson to keep a secret, can’t I?’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that, Mr President,’ said Allan.

And then Allan told of how during that submarine journey in the Baltic he had been drinking with a really extraordinarily nice man, one of the Soviet Union’s leading nuclear physicists, Yury Borisovich Popov, and that in the rush of things there had been a bit too much talk about nuclear technology.

‘Did you tell Stalin how to build a bomb?’ asked President Johnson. ‘I thought you ended up in a prison camp precisely because you refused.’

‘I refused to tell Stalin. He wouldn’t have understood anyway. But the day before with that nuclear physicist I may have gone into more detail than I ought to have done. That’s what happens when you drink a bit too much vodka, Mr President. And it wasn’t really apparent what a nasty man that Stalin could be, not until the following day.’

President Johnson had his palm on his forehead, and pushing his fingers through his hair he thought that the revelation of how you build atomic bombs wasn’t something that just happened because alcohol was involved. Allan Karlsson was in
fact… he was in fact… a traitor. Wasn’t he? But… he was not an American citizen so what did you do then? President Johnson needed time to think.

‘And then what happened?’ he asked, as he had to say
something
.

Allan thought it best not to miss out too many details now that a president was asking him. So he told him about Vladivostok, about Marshal Meretskov, about Kim Il Sung, about Kim Jong Il, about Stalin’s fortunate death, about Mao Tse-tung, about a pile of dollars that Mao had been so kind as to supply him with, about the calm life on Bali and about the not so calm life on Bali, and finally about his journey to Paris.

‘That’s about all, I think,’ said Allan. ‘But with all this talking I’ve become really parched.’

The president ordered some more beer, but added that a person who spilled atomic secrets in a state of inebriation ought to consider becoming a teetotaller. Then he asked:

‘You had a fifteen-year-long holiday, financed by Mao Tse-tung?’

‘Yes. Sort of. Really it was Chiang Kai-shek’s money, and he had got it from our mutual friend Harry Truman. Now that you mention it, Mr President, perhaps I ought to phone Harry and thank him.’

President Johnson had enormous problems with the knowledge that the bearded and long-haired man opposite him had given Stalin the Bomb. And had lived a life of leisure paid for by American foreign aid. And on top of it all, you could now faintly hear how demonstrators on the street outside the embassy were shouting: ‘USA out of Vietnam! USA out of Vietnam!’ Johnson sat there in silence, his face a picture of misery.

Meanwhile, Allan emptied his glass while he studied the worried face of the American president.

‘Can I be of any help?’ he asked.

‘What did you say?’ President Johnson said, deep in his own thoughts.

‘Can I be of any help?’ Allan repeated. ‘The president looks dreadful. Perhaps he needs some help?’

President Johnson was on the point of asking Allan Karlsson to win the Vietnam War for him, but then he returned to reality and what he saw before him again was the man who gave the Bomb to Stalin.

‘Yes, you can do one thing for me,’ said President Johnson in a tired voice. ‘You can leave.’

Allan said thank you for the dinner, and went on his way, leaving behind President Johnson and the European CIA director, the oh so secret Ryan Hutton.

Lyndon B. Johnson was horrified at the way Allan Karlsson’s visit had developed. First such a nice start but then Karlsson sat there and admitted he had given the Bomb not only to the USA but also to Stalin. Stalin! The communist of communists!

‘Now, Hutton,’ said President Johnson. ‘What should we do? Shall we pick up that damned Karlsson again and boil him in oil?’

‘Yes,’ said secret agent Hutton. ‘Either that or we could make sure to put him to good use.’

Secret agent Hutton was not only secret, he was also well-read on most things of politically strategic interest from the
perspective
of the CIA. For example, he was very well aware of the existence of the physicist that Allan Karlsson had had such a pleasant drinking session with on the submarine between Sweden and Leningrad. Yury Borisovich Popov had made quite a career from 1949 onwards. And his first big break might very well have been thanks to the information that Allan Karlsson had delivered — in fact it was highly likely that such was the
case. Now, Popov was sixty-three years old and technical director of the entire atomic arsenal of the Soviet Union. As such, he had knowledge that was so valuable to the USA that you couldn’t even put a price on it.

If the USA could find out what Popov knew and thereby determine whether the West was in advance of the East when it came to atomic weapons – well, then President Johnson could take the initiative to mutual disarmament. And the path to such knowledge went via – Allan Karlsson.

‘You want to make Karlsson an American agent?’ said President Johnson while he thought about how some serious disarmament could do a great deal of good for how he would be remembered as a president, regardless of that damned war in Vietnam.

‘Yes, exactly,’ said secret agent Hutton.

‘And why would Karlsson go along with that?’

‘Well… because… he seems the type. And just a moment ago he sat there and asked the president if there was anything he could do to help.’

‘Yes,’ said President Johnson. ‘He actually did.’

The president was silent again for a few moments. Then he said:

‘I think I need a strong drink.’

Initially, the French government’s hard-line attitude towards the popular dissatisfaction did indeed lead to the country grinding to a halt. Millions of Frenchmen went on strike. The docks in Marseilles closed down, as did international airports, the
railway
, and all department stores.

The distribution of gas and oil came to a halt and rubbish
collection
stopped. From every side there were workers’ demands. For higher wages, of course, and shorter working hours, and better job security, and more influence.

But in addition there were demands for a new system of
education
. And a new society! The Fifth Republic was threatened.

Hundreds of thousands of Frenchmen demonstrated in the streets, and it wasn’t always peaceful either. Cars were set on fire, trees were felled, streets were dug up, barricades were built… There were gendarmes, riot police, teargas and shields…

That was when the French president, the prime minister and his government did a quick about-turn. Interior Minister Fouchet’s special advisor no longer had any influence (he was imprisoned secretly in the premises of the secret police where he had considerable difficulty in explaining why he had a radio transmitter installed in his bathroom scales). The workers on general strike were suddenly offered a big increase in the minimum wage, a general increase of wages of ten per cent, a three-hour reduction of the working week, increased family allowances, more trade union power, negotiations on
comprehensive
general wage agreements and inflation-adjusted wages. A couple of the government’s ministers had to resign too, among them Interior Minister Fouchet.

With this array of measures, the government and president neutralized the most revolutionary factions. There was no
popular
support to take things further than they had already gone. Workers went back to work, occupations stopped, shops opened again, the transport sector began to function. May 1968 had now become June 1968. And the Fifth Republic was still there.

President Charles de Gaulle personally phoned the Indonesian Embassy in Paris and asked for Mr Allan Karlsson, in order to award him a medal. But at the embassy they said that Allan Karlsson no longer worked there and nobody, including the ambassador herself, could say where he had gone.

Prosecutor Ranelid had to try to salvage what could be saved of his career and honour. He arranged a press conference that same afternoon to say that he had just cancelled the warrant for the arrest of the three men and the woman in the case of the disappearing centenarian.

Prosecutor Ranelid was good at lots of things, but not at admitting his shortcomings and his mistakes. The prosecutor turned and twisted in his explanation, which consisted of the information that while Allan Karlsson and his friends were not under arrest (they had, incidentally, been found that same afternoon in Västergötland), they were probably guilty
anyway
, that the prosecutor had acted properly, and that the only thing that was new was that the evidence had changed so dramatically that the arrest warrants for the time being were no longer valid.

The representatives of the media wondered in what way the proof had changed, and Prosecutor Ranelid described in detail the new information from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs with regard to the fate of Bylund and Hultén in Djibouti and Riga respectively. And then Ranelid finished by saying that the law sometimes required that arrest warrants be withdrawn, however offensive that may feel in certain cases.

Prosecutor Ranelid sensed that he had not closed the matter entirely. And that impression was immediately confirmed when the representative of the major national
Dagens Nyheter
peered over his reading glasses and reeled off a monologue containing a host of questions that made the prosecutor especially uneasy.

‘Have I understood correctly that despite the new circumstances you still consider Allan Karlsson guilty of murder or
manslaughter? Does that mean that you believe that Allan Karlsson, one hundred years old as we know, has forced the thirty-two-year-old Bengt Bylund to follow him to Djibouti on the Horn of Africa and there blown the said Bylund – but not himself – to bits as recently as yesterday afternoon, and then in all haste gone to Västergötland? Can you describe what means of transport Karlsson is meant to have used, considering that to the best of my knowledge there are no direct flights between Djibouti and the west of Sweden, and considering that Allan Karlsson is said not to have a valid passport?’

Prosecutor Ranelid inhaled deeply, and said he had not made himself clear. There was no doubt whatsoever as to the fact that Allan Karlsson, Julius Jonsson, Benny Ljungberg and Gunilla Björklund were innocent of what they were accused of.

‘No doubt whatsoever, as I said,’ Ranelid repeated, having at the last second managed to convince himself of the matter.

But those damned journalists were not satisfied with that.

‘You have previously in some detail described the chronology and geography of the three presumed murders. If the suspects are now suddenly innocent, what does the new course of events look like?’ wondered the reporter from the local paper.

Enough was enough. The representative of the local paper should not think he could beat up on Prosecutor Ranelid.

‘For technical reasons in connection with the investigation, I am unable for the time being to say any more,’ was Prosecutor Ranelid’s closing comment before he got up from his chair.

‘Technical reasons in connection with the investigation’ had more than once saved a prosecutor in a tight spot, but this time it wouldn’t work. For several weeks, the prosecutor had
trumpeted
the reasons why the four were guilty, and now the press thought it only right that he devote at least a minute or two to explaining their innocence. Or as the know-it-all from
Dagens
Nyheter
put it:

‘How can it be secret “for technical reasons” to tell us what a number of innocent people have been doing?’

Prosecutor Ranelid stood there on the edge of a precipice. Almost everything indicated that he would fall over, straight away or in a day or two. But he had one advantage over the journalists. Ranelid knew where Allan Karlsson and the others were holed up. After all, Västergötland was a large county. This would be his final chance. Prosecutor Ranelid said:

‘If for once you could let me have my say! For technical reasons in connection with the investigation I am, for the time being, unable to say any more. But at three tomorrow, I shall arrange a new press conference in these premises and on that occasion I intend to describe exactly what happened, as you have asked me to do.’

‘Where exactly in Västergötland is Allan Karlsson just now?’ asked one journalist.

‘I am not saying,’ said Prosecutor Ranelid and left.

How could it possibly have ended up like this? Prosecutor Ranelid sat in his room with the door locked and smoked a cigarette for the first time in seven years. He had been going down in Swedish criminal history as the first prosecutor to convict murderers whose victims’ bodies had not been found. And then suddenly, the bodies had turned up. And in the wrong places too! And besides, victim number three was still alive, the one who had been the deadest of them all. Just think, what damage number three had done to Ranelid.

‘I should kill the devil as a punishment,’ the prosecutor muttered to himself.

But now it was a matter of saving his honour and his career, and for that reason a murder was not the best solution. The prosecutor went over the catastrophic press conference in his mind. In the end, he had been very clear about the fact that
Karlsson and his henchmen were innocent. And all of this was because he… actually didn’t know. What had actually happened? Bolt Bylund
must
have died on that inspection trolley. So how the hell could he die again several weeks later a whole continent away?

Prosecutor Ranelid cursed himself for being so quick to meet the press. He ought to have talked to Allan Karlsson and his henchmen first, investigated everything – and then decided what the media needed to know.

And in his current predicament – in the aftermath of the catastrophic statements about the innocence of Karlsson and his henchmen – if he were to pull them in ‘to help with enquiries’ it would be seen as simply harassing them. Yet Ranelid didn’t have many options. He had to find out what had happened… and he had to do so before three the following day.

Otherwise, in the eyes of his colleagues he would no longer be a prosecutor but a clown.

Chief Inspector Aronsson was in excellent spirits sitting in the hammock at Bellringer Farm drinking coffee, and with a pastry to dip into it too. The hunt for the disappearing centenarian was over; besides, the sympathetic old man no longer had a warrant out for his arrest. Why the old guy had climbed out of his window almost a month ago, and what had happened since then remained to be discovered, if it needed to be discovered at all.

Nevertheless, there was surely time for a little more small talk first. The man who had been run over and killed and was now risen from the dead, Per-Gunnar ‘The Boss’ Gerdin, turned out to be a perfectly regular sort of guy. He had immediately proposed that they should drop the formal titles, and be on
first-name
terms, and that he in that case preferred to be called Pike.

‘That’s fine with me, Pike,’ said Chief Inspector Aronsson. ‘You can call me Göran.’

‘Pike and Göran,’ said Allan. ‘That rolls off the tongue nicely, perhaps you two should go into business together?’

Pike said that he wasn’t so sure that he had the necessary respect for the internal revenue authorities and their taxes to be able to run a company in partnership with a police chief
inspector
, but that he nevertheless thanked Allan for the advice.

The mood had thus immediately become jovial. And it didn’t get worse when Benny and The Beauty joined them, and shortly after, Julius and Bosse too.

They talked about all manner of things there on the veranda, except how the events of the past month fitted together. Allan scored a success when he suddenly led an elephant around the corner and together with Sonya put on a short dance
performance
. Julius became more and more pleased not to be wanted by the police any longer, and started to cut off the beard that he had felt obliged to cultivate before he had dared show himself in Falköping.

‘To think that I have been guilty all my life and now I am suddenly innocent!’ said Julius. ‘What a delightful sensation!’

And Bosse, for his part, thought this was reason enough to fetch a bottle of genuine Hungarian champagne for his friends and the chief inspector to toast each other. The chief inspector lamely protested that he had his car at the farm. A room was reserved at the central hotel in Falköping, but as a chief inspector he could hardly drive there if he was a bit tipsy.

But then Benny came to the rescue and said that teetotallers in general – according to Allan – were a threat to world peace, but that they were useful to have at hand when you needed a lift somewhere.

‘Have a glass of champagne, Inspector, and I shall make sure that you get safely to your hotel.’

The inspector didn’t need further persuading. He had long suffered from a chronic lack of social life and now that he
finally found himself in pleasant company he couldn’t sit there and sulk.

‘Well now, a little toast for the innocence of all of you, I suppose the police force can go along with that,’ he said. ‘Or even two toasts if necessary; there are quite a lot of you…’

Thus passed a couple of hours of general merriment before Chief Inspector Aronsson’s telephone rang again. Once more, it was Prosecutor Ranelid. He told Aronsson that on account of unfortunate circumstances in the presence of the press, he had just announced that the three men and the woman were
innocent
, and he had done so in a manner that hardly allowed for retraction. Besides, within less than twenty-four hours he must know what had actually happened between the day when the old geezer Karlsson climbed out of his window and the present day, because that was what the press were being summoned to hear at three tomorrow.

‘In other words, you are well up shit creek,’ said the slightly drunken chief inspector.

‘You must help me, Göran!’

‘How? By moving corpses geographically? Or by killing people who have had the poor taste to not be as dead as you would have wished them to be?’

Prosecutor Ranelid admitted that he had already considered that last solution, but that it probably wouldn’t work. No, he hoped that Göran could cautiously sound out Allan Karlsson and his… accomplices about whether Ranelid would be
welcome
at the farm the following morning for a little – completely informal – chat about this and that in order to bring clarity as to what had recently taken place in the forests of Södermanland and Småland. And for good measure, Prosecutor Ranelid
promised
that he would apologize to the four innocent citizens on behalf of the Södermanland Police Force.

‘The Södermanland Police Force?’ said Chief Inspector Aronsson.

‘Yes… Or, no, on my own behalf,’ said Prosecutor Ranelid.

‘Understood. Just take a deep breath, Conny, and I’ll ask. I’ll call you back in a few minutes.’

Chief Inspector Aronsson turned to his companions and announced the happy news that Prosecutor Ranelid had just held a press conference where he had emphasized how
innocent
Allan Karlsson and his friends were. And then he passed on the prosecutor’s request to visit.

The Beauty reacted with an animated lecture saying that no good would come of describing in detail the developments of the last few weeks for the prosecutor. Julius agreed. If you had been declared innocent, then you were innocent, and that was that.

‘And I’m not used to that. So it would be too bad if my
innocence
lasted less than twenty-four hours.’

Allan said that he wished his friends would stop worrying about every little thing. The newspapers and TV would
certainly
not leave the group in peace until they had their story. So wouldn’t it be better to tell it to a solitary prosecutor, than to have journalists all over the place for the next few weeks?

‘Besides, we’ve got all evening to come up with a story,’ said Allan.

Chief Inspector Aronsson would have preferred not to hear the last bit. He got up from his chair to emphasize his presence and stop them from saying any more. It was time to call it a day, he said. If Benny would be so kind as to drive him to his hotel, he would be most grateful. From the car, Aronsson intended to phone Prosecutor Ranelid and tell him that he would be welcome at about ten o’clock the following morning, if that was what the group agreed upon. In any case, Aronsson
intended to come in a taxi, if only to collect his car. Incidentally, would it be possible to have another half-glass of that exquisite Bulgarian champagne before he left? What? It was Hungarian? Well, it didn’t really matter, to be honest.

Chief Inspector Aronsson was served yet another glass, filled to the brim, which he downed in all haste before rubbing his nose and then getting into the passenger seat of his own car, already driven up to the door by Benny. And then, he declaimed some lines from the Swedish poet Carl Michael Bellman about good friends and Hungarian wine.

Benny, an almost-expert on literature, nodded.

‘John 8:7, don’t forget that tomorrow morning, Chief Inspector,’ Bosse called out in a sudden burst of inspiration. ‘In the Bible, John 8:7.’