Copyright

4th Estate

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

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London SE1 9GF

www.4thEstate.co.uk

This eBook first published in Great Britain by 4th Estate in 2018

Copyright © Jonas Jonasson 2018, first published by Piratförlaget, Sweden, and upon agreement with Brandt New Agency

Translation copyright © Rachel Willson-Broyles 2018

Cover based on a series design by Jonathan Pelham

Jonas Jonasson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN 9780008275570

Ebook Edition © August 2018 ISBN: 9780008275587

Version: 2018-10-03

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Foreword

Indonesia

Indonesia

Indonesia

The Indian Ocean

The Indian Ocean

Congo

North Korea

USA, North Korea

The Indian Ocean

The Indian Ocean

Tanzania

North Korea

North Korea

North Korea

South Korea

North Korea

USA

Switzerland, USA

North Korea

North Korea

USA

USA

USA

USA, Sweden

Sweden

Indonesia

Sweden

Sweden

Sweden

USA

Sweden

Russia

Sweden, Germany

Germany

Denmark, Sweden

Russia

Sweden

Sweden

Sweden

Sweden

Sweden

Sweden

Sweden

Sweden

Russia

Sweden

Sweden

Sweden

Sweden

Sweden

Sweden

Sweden

Sweden

Sweden

Sweden

Sweden

Sweden

Sweden

Sweden, Denmark

Russia

Denmark

Sweden

Denmark, Sweden, Germany

Germany

Russia

Tanzania

Congo

Tanzania

Tanzania, Kenya

Tanzania, Kenya

Kenya

Kenya

Congo

Kenya

Kenya

Indonesia

Kenya, Germany

Kenya

Kenya, Madagascar

Kenya, Germany

Germany

Kenya

Sweden

Madagascar, North Korea, Australia, USA, Russia

Sweden, USA, Russia

Kenya

Extra thanks to:

Also by Jonas Jonasson

About the Publisher

Foreword

I AM JONAS JONASSON and I want to explain myself.

There was never meant to be a sequel to the story of the hundred-year-old man who climbed out of a window and disappeared. Many people wanted one, not least the protagonist, Allan Karlsson, who kept strolling around inside my head and calling attention to himself whenever he wished.

‘Mr Jonasson,’ he might say, out of nowhere, as I was busy with my own thoughts. ‘Have you changed your mind yet, Mr Jonasson? Don’t you want to have another round before I’m really old?’

No, I didn’t. I’d already said everything I wanted to say about what was perhaps the most miserable century ever. The idea had been that if we reminded one another of all the shortcomings of the twentieth century, maybe it would make us better at remembering and less inclined to make at least those mistakes again. I packaged this message of mine with warmth and humour. Soon the book spread all over the world.

It sure as hell didn’t make the world a better place.

Time passed. My inner Allan stopped getting in touch. All the while, humanity kept moving forwards, or whatever direction it was moving in. Event after event filled me with the sense that the world was more incomplete than ever. All the while, I was just an onlooker.

More and more I started to feel the need to speak up again, in my own way. Or Allan’s. One day I heard myself asking Allan straight out whether he was still with me.

‘Yes, I’m here,’ he said. ‘What might you have on your mind, Mr Jonasson, after such a long time?’

‘I need you,’ I said.

‘For what?’

‘For telling it like it is and, indirectly, how it ought to be.’

‘About everything?’

‘About more or less everything.’

‘Mr Jonasson, you understand that won’t help, right?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Good. Count me in.’

* * *

RIGHT, THERE’S ONE MORE THING. This is a novel about recent and present events. I make use of a number of public political figures in the plot, and of people in their immediate vicinity. Most of the characters in the book go by their real names. Others, I have spared.

Since these leaders sometimes look down upon, rather than up at, ordinary folks, it’s reasonable to poke a little fun at them. But that doesn’t make them less than human, every one, and as such they deserve a moderate amount of respect. To all these potentates, I would like to say: I’m sorry. And: Deal with it. It could have been worse. As well as: What if it is?

Jonas Jonasson

Indonesia

A life of luxury on an island in Paradise ought to be satisfactory to just about anyone. But Allan Karlsson had never been just anyone, and his hundred-and-first year of life wasn’t the time to start.

It was, for a certain amount of time, gratifying to sit in a lounger under an umbrella and be served drinks of various colours at whim. Especially when one’s best and only friend, the inveterate petty thief Julius Jonsson, was right next to one.

But soon old Julius and the much older Allan grew tired of doing nothing but frittering away the millions from the suitcase they’d happened to bring with them from Sweden.

Not that there was anything wrong with frittering. It just got so monotonous. Julius tried renting a fully staffed hundred-and-fifty-foot yacht so he and Allan could sit on the foredeck with fishing rods in hand. It would have been a pleasant break if only they enjoyed fishing. Or, for that matter, eating fish. Instead, their yacht excursions involved doing the same thing on deck as they’d already learned to do on the shore. Namely, nothing at all.

Allan, for his part, made sure to fly Harry Belafonte in from the United States to sing three songs on Julius’s birthday – speaking of too much money and not enough to do. Harry stayed for dinner even though he wasn’t paid extra for it. Altogether, this constituted an entire evening of pattern-breaking.

By way of explanation for his selection of Belafonte over anyone else, Allan pointed out that Julius had a soft spot for this newer, youthful sort of music. Julius appreciated the gesture and didn’t mention that the artist in question hadn’t been young since the end of the Second World War. Compared to Allan, he was, of course, a child.

Although the superstar’s visit to Bali provided no more than a speck of colour in their otherwise dull grey existence, it would prove to affect Allan and Julius for a long time to come. Not because of what Belafonte sang, or anything like that, but because of what he brought along and devoted his attention to during breakfast prior to his journey home. It was a tool of some sort. A flat black object with a half-eaten apple on one side, and on the other a screen that lit up when you touched it. Harry touched and touched. And grunted now and again. Then tittered. Only to grunt once more. Allan had never been the nosy sort, but there were limits.

‘Perhaps it’s none of my business to pry into the young Mr Belafonte’s private matters, but if I may be so bold as to enquire what you’re doing there … Is something happening in that … well, in that?’

Harry Belafonte realized that Allan had never seen a tablet before and was delighted to demonstrate. The tablet could show what was going on in the world, and what had already gone on, and it verged on showing what was about to happen. Depending on where you touched, up came pictures and videos of all imaginable sorts. And some unimaginable ones. If you touched other buttons, out came music. Still others, and the tablet began to speak. Apparently it was a ‘she’, Siri.

After breakfast and the demonstration, Belafonte took his little suitcase, his black tablet and himself, and headed to the airport for his trip home. Allan, Julius and the hotel manager waved adieu. The artist’s taxi had no more made it out of sight before Allan turned to the manager and asked him to procure a tablet of the same sort Harry Belafonte had been using. Its diverse contents had amused the hundred-year-old and that was more than could be said about most things.

The manager had just returned from a hospitality conference in Jakarta, where he had learned that the main duty of hotel staff was not to deliver but to over-deliver. Add to this that Messrs Karlsson and Jonsson were two of the best guests in the history of Balinese tourism, and it was no wonder that, by the very next day, the manager had a tablet ready for Karlsson. And a cellular phone to boot. As a bonus.

Allan didn’t want to seem ungrateful, so he didn’t mention that he had no use for the phone since everyone he could imagine dialling had been dead for at least fifty years. Except Julius, of course. Who had nothing to answer with. Although that particular point could be remedied.

‘Here you are,’ Allan said to his friend. ‘It’s really a gift from the manager to me, but I have no one to call but you, and until this moment you didn’t have any way to answer.’

Julius thanked him for his kindness. And chose not to point out that Allan still couldn’t call him, but for the opposite reason.

‘Just don’t lose it,’ Allan said. ‘It looks expensive. It was better before, when phones were stuck to the wall with a cord so you knew what they were up to.’

* * *

The black tablet became Allan’s most treasured possession. What was more, it was free to use since the hotel manager had instructed the staff at the computer store in Denpasar to set up the tablet and phone with all the bells and whistles. This included, among other things, linking the SIM cards to the hotel, which found its total telephone costs doubled, although no one understood why.

Once the hundred-year-old man learned how the remarkable contraption worked, he no sooner woke for the day than he turned it on to see what had happened overnight. It was the minor delightful news items from all the corners of the world that amused him most. Like the one about how a hundred doctors and nurses in Naples took turns signing each other in and out so no one had to work but everyone still got paid. Or the one about Romania, how so many government officials had had to be locked up for corruption that the country’s prisons were full. And how those officials who had yet to be arrested had a solution to the problem: legalize corruption so they would avoid the need to build more prisons.

Allan and Julius developed a new morning routine. The old one had involved Allan launching into every breakfast with complaints about his friend’s loud snoring, which he could hear through the wall. The new one involved the same, but with the addition of Allan’s reports about what he’d found out on his tablet since last time. At first Julius enjoyed the brief news updates, not least because they took the focus off his snoring. He was immediately delighted by the Romanian notion of making the illegal legal. Just think how much easier it would be as a petty thief in such a society.

But Allan quickly disabused him of that thought, because if petty thievery were to become legal then the concept would cease to exist. Julius, who had been on the verge of suggesting that he and Allan leave Bali and move to Bucharest, immediately deflated. The joy in being a small-time thief was, of course, mainly derived from tricking someone out of something, preferably someone who deserved it or at least wouldn’t suffer too much from it. If swindling could no longer be considered a swindle, what was the point?

Allan consoled him with the information that the Romanians had turned out to a man to protest against the politicians’ and officials’ plans. The average Romanian was not as philosophically inclined as those in power. He or she reasoned that those who stole should be locked up, no matter their title or position, and whether or not there was anywhere to lock them up.

Breakfast times at the hotel in Bali ended up revolving ever more often around where in the world Julius and Allan should go now that life had become so humdrum in their current location. When the leading news story on the morning in question told him that it was twenty degrees warmer than usual at the North Pole, Allan wondered if that might be an option.

Julius stuffed fried noodles into his mouth, finished chewing, then said he didn’t think the North Pole was the right place for him and Allan. Especially not if the ice was about to melt. Julius caught a cold whenever his feet got wet. And there were polar bears, and all Julius knew about polar bears was that they seemed to get out of the wrong side of bed every morning from birth onwards. At least the snakes on Bali were shy.

Allan said that perhaps it was no wonder a polar bear might lose its temper given that the ground was melting beneath its feet. If things were about to go down the tubes, that bear probably ought to stroll to solid ground while it still had time. Canada, in that case, because the United States had a new president again – had Allan already mentioned this to Julius? And, by golly, this new guy wouldn’t allow just anyone over the border.

Yes, Julius had heard of Trump. That was his name. The polar bear may have been white, but it was a foreigner first and foremost. So it shouldn’t get its hopes up.

The news on Allan’s black tablet had the curious habit of being both big and small. Mostly big, unpleasantly enough. Allan sought out the small and charming but got the rest of it into the bargain. It was impossible to see the molehills for the mountains.

During his first hundred years of life, Allan had never reflected upon the bigger picture. Now his new toy was telling him that the world was in a dreadful state. And reminding him of why he had, once upon a time, rightly chosen to turn his back on it and think only of himself.

He recalled his early years as an errand boy at the gunpowder factory in Flen. There, half the workers had devoted their free time to longing for a red revolution, while the other half was horrified at the threat from China and Japan. Their understanding of the Yellow Peril was nurtured by novels and booklets that depicted a scenario in which the white world was devoured by the yellow one.

Allan did not care about such nuances, and he continued along the same path after the Second World War when brown shirts made brown the ugliest colour of them all. He noticed this as little then as he did the next time people converged around an ideological expression. This time it was more a longing for something than away from it. Peace on earth was in, and so were floral VW buses and, frequently, hash. Everyone loved everyone else, except Allan, who didn’t love anyone or anything. Except his cat. Not that he was bitter: he just was.

The flowery era of life lasted until Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan took over in their respective realms. They thought it was more practical to love oneself and one’s own successes. But if you insisted on disliking someone it should be the Russians. Essentially there were no other threats, and when Reagan killed Soviet Communism simply by talking about sending missiles from space, it was peace and joy for all, except the half of humanity who had no daily food and the several thousand British miners who no longer had a mine to go to. The new view was that there was no reason to care about your neighbour; it was enough to tolerate him or her. And people did, until the winds of change blew once more.

A bit unexpectedly, perhaps, the brown-shirt ideology made a comeback. Not by way of Germany this time, at least not first and foremost. Or even second and middlemost. But in a number of other countries it was in. The United States wasn’t first among them, but it soon became the most noticeable, thanks to its recently elected president. It was impossible to say how much he really believed in it: that seemed to change from day to day. But the old adage about doing something yourself if you want it done right wouldn’t suffice: it was time to point out external threats to the white Western lives we all deserved to live.

Allan, of course, wanted to consider his black tablet a tool of pure entertainment, but he had a hard time shielding himself against the broader contexts he was beginning to perceive. He thought about putting the tablet down. Leaving it be for a whole day. And another. Only to admit reluctantly that it was too late. The man who had, more than anyone else, not bothered to care about the state of things had started to care about the state of things.

‘I’ll be damned,’ he mumbled to himself.

‘What’s that?’ Julius wondered.

‘It was nothing. Except what I just said.’

‘Damned?’

‘Yes.’

Indonesia

Once Allan had come to terms with his new-found relative interest in the rest of humanity, his black tablet helped him regain lost ground. It greeted him with the news of a Norwegian who had his own lake, where he fed the roach and bream pellets full of carotene. When the pike in the lake ate the recently fed fish their flesh turned pink, whereupon the Norwegian caught them, filleted them and sold them as salmon. He minimized his risks by exporting the frauds solely to Namibia where, naturally, there lived a retired health inspector from Oslo. The inspector sounded the alarm, the Norwegian was locked up, and the price of salmon in south-western Africa went back to normal.

And so on. The black tablet helped Allan enjoy life again, even as Julius continued to live in frustration. It had been months since he’d managed a single dishonourable undertaking. In his last few years as a criminal at home in Sweden, he had devoted himself to a mild form of that Norwegian pike-salmon business. He’d imported vegetables from distant lands, had them repackaged and sold them as Swedish. There was a lot of money to be made there. The cool northern climate in combination with a sun that never set meant that tomatoes and cucumbers matured slowly and developed world-class flavour. Or, as the nineteenth-century poet Carl Jonas Love Almqvist put it, ‘Only Sweden has Swedish gooseberries.’

Gooseberries in particular were not of interest to Julius; besides, there was little market for them. But the same was not true of green asparagus. When spring became early summer, people would pay four or five times as much for a bunch of asparagus, as long as it was Swedish.

Julius Jonsson’s Swedish asparagus, at that point, was shipped all the way from Peru. For a long time business was good. But then one of Jonsson’s middlemen grew too eager and began to sell Gotland asparagus on Hötorget in Stockholm at least five weeks before it was even to be found on Gotland. This led to rumours of fraud, and the Swedish foodstuffs authorities began to stir. Suddenly there were spot checks when and where there shouldn’t have been. In short order Julius lost three whole Peruvian lots, all seized and destroyed in the name of the law. Moreover, his middlemen – unlike Julius – were locked up. Such is a middleman’s lot.

But even if the long arm of the law couldn’t reach all the way to the brains behind it, Julius had lost interest. He was tired of Sweden being orderly beyond all reason. Who’d ever died of eating Peruvian asparagus?

No, honourable petty thieves might as well not bother any more. So Julius had chosen to retire. He made some moonshine, poached a moose here and there, borrowed the neighbour’s electricity without permission – and that was about it. Until a hundred-year-old man unexpectedly knocked on his door. The old man said his name was Allan, and with him he had a stolen suitcase they opened after a pleasant dinner and accompanying vodka. It had turned out to be full of millions.

So one thing had led to another, and another to the third. Julius and Allan had shaken off all the stubborn individuals who wanted their money back and ended up in Bali, where they were doing away with it at a steady pace.

Allan saw that Julius was hanging his head. He tried to inspire his bored friend by reading aloud from his black tablet about various types of immorality from all the corners of the world. Romania, Italy and Norway were already settled. President Zuma of South Africa managed to take up a whole breakfast when it turned out he’d built a private swimming pool and a theatre with taxpayers’ money. A Swedish dance-band queen received well-deserved attention after calling seven dresses and eighteen pairs of shoes a ‘business trip’ on her tax return.

But the head-hanging didn’t stop. Julius needed something to do before he became depressed for real.

Allan, who hadn’t let himself be concerned about anything at all for a hundred years, could not feel at peace, given his friend’s lost spark. Surely there must be something Julius could engage himself in.

That was as far as he got in his musings before chance stepped in. It happened one evening after Allan had crawled into bed, while Julius felt he still had sorrows in his soul to deaden. He sat down in the hotel bar and ordered a glass of local arak. It was made of rice and sugarcane, tasted like rum, and was so strong it made the eyes water. Julius had learned that one glass would blur one’s troubles and a second would chase them away. Just to be safe, he tended to have a third glass, too, before bedtime.

The evening’s first was empty and the other well on its way when Julius’s senses expanded enough for him to notice that he wasn’t alone in the bar. Three chairs away sat a middle-aged Asian man, also with arak in hand.

‘Cheers,’ Julius said, raising his glass.

The man smiled in response, whereupon both turned bottoms up and grimaced.

‘Now things are starting to look up,’ said the man, whose eyes were as full of tears as Julius’s.

‘First or second?’ Julius asked.

‘Second,’ said the man.

‘Same here.’

Julius and the man moved closer and each decided to have a third glass of the same.

They chatted for a while before the man chose to introduce himself. ‘Simran Aryabhat Chakrabarty Gopaldas,’ he said. ‘It’s a pleasure!’

Julius looked at the man who had just said his name. And had enough arak in his body to say what he was thinking. ‘Surely no one could have a name like that.’

Yes, one could. Especially if one was of Indian origin. Simran Etc. Etc. had ended up in Indonesia after an unfortunate incident with the daughter of a far-too-unsympathetic man.

Julius nodded. Dads of daughters could be more unsympathetic than most. But was that any reason to possess a name that took an entire morning to say?

The man, who was named what he was named, turned out to have a pragmatic attitude toward the significance of his own identity. Or perhaps he just had a sense of humour. ‘What do you think I should be called instead?’

Julius liked the exiled Indian. But if they were going to become friends, all those names in a row just wouldn’t do. He had to seize this opportunity. ‘Gustav Svensson,’ he said. ‘That’s a proper name, rolls off the tongue, easy to remember.’

The man said he’d never had trouble remembering Simran Aryabhat Chakrabarty Gopaldas either, but he agreed that Gustav Svensson sounded pleasant. ‘Swedish, isn’t it?’ he asked.

Yes. Julius nodded again. Couldn’t get much more Swedish than that.

And there and then, his new business idea began to take root.

* * *

Julius Jonsson and Simran Something truly hit it off as the third glass of arak took hold. Before the night was over they had decided to meet again. Same place, same time, the next night. In addition, Julius had decided that the man with the impossible name would henceforth be called Gustav Svensson. Simran Aryabhat Chakrabarty Gopaldas thought that was just as well. The name he’d had so far hadn’t brought him an overabundance of luck.

The old men went on in the same vein for several nights in a row. The Indian grew used to his new alias. He liked it.

He’d checked into the hotel under his previous name on the day the two had met, and he continued to stay there while he and Julius laid plans for their future partnership. When the hotel manager informed him, at increasing volume, that he wanted payment for the Indian guest’s stay, Gustav told Julius that he intended to depart from the place permanently. Without paying. And without announcing his intentions. The management would never understand, after all, that Gustav couldn’t be held responsible for Simran’s bill.

But Julius understood. When was Gustav planning to depart?

‘Preferably in the next fifteen minutes.’

Julius understood this too. But he didn’t want to lose his new friend, so he sent the man off with the phone Allan had given him. ‘Here’s something so you can be reached. I’ll call you from my room. Now go. Take the way through the kitchen. That’s what I would do.’

Gustav followed Julius’s advice and was gone. Later that evening, the hotel manager appeared after wandering around for at least an hour in pursuit of the now-vanished Indian guest.

Julius and Allan observed the sunset from the shore, each in a comfortable chair and with an accompanying drink. The manager apologized for the intrusion. But he had a question. ‘Mr Jonsson, is there any chance you have seen our guest Simran Aryabhat Chakrabarty Gopaldas? I’ve noticed the two of you spending some time together here at our establishment in recent days.’

‘Simran who?’ said Julius.

* * *

Thenceforth, Gustav Svensson and Julius Jonsson had to meet somewhere other than the hotel when the time came to talk business. The manager couldn’t exactly lay the blame for his vanished guest at Jonsson’s feet, but that didn’t stop him aiming a slightly raised level of suspicion at the Swedish gentlemen. In their case, there was considerably more money at stake. Thus far they had always paid up, but currently the bill was larger than usual and it seemed advisable to proceed with caution.

Jonsson and Svensson’s meetings were instead held in a filthy bar in central Denpasar. Gustav turned out to be almost as much a petty thief as Julius. Back home in India, he had spent many years living large by renting cars, switching their engines and returning them. It often took the rental agency several months to discover that the vehicle in question had become seven years older, and by then it was impossible to say which of several hundred renters was the guilty party. Unless it was someone on the staff.

In those days, fancy cars had become part of Gustav’s daily life. As a result he noticed that the nicer the car, the greater the potential to attract a beautiful girl. This equation got him into trouble more than once. To such an extent, most recently, that he had found it best to leave the automotive industry, the girl and all of India behind, since the girl had become pregnant. Her father had turned out to be both a Member of Parliament and a military man, and when Gustav, for strategic reasons, had asked for the girl’s hand in marriage, the father responded by threatening to send the seventh infantry after him.

‘What a grumpy bastard,’ Julius said. ‘Couldn’t he think of what was best for his daughter?’

Gustav agreed. A complicating factor was that the father had just noticed that his six-cylinder BMW had become a four-cylinder while he was on a business trip to Singapore.

‘And he blamed you?’

‘Yes. With no evidence.’

‘Were you innocent?’

‘That’s beside the point.’

In conclusion, Gustav said it felt right that Simran Aryabhat Chakrabarty Gopaldas was no more.

‘But it’s too bad he didn’t have time to settle up with the hotel. Cheers to you, my friend.’

* * *

Some time after their initial, cheerful meeting at the bar, Julius Jonsson and his new partner Gustav Svensson, with the help of a substantial amount of the money that remained in the suitcase, took over an asparagus farm in the mountains. Julius held the reins, Gustav was the site manager, and a great number of impoverished Balinese people bent their backs in the fields.

With the help of previous contacts in Sweden, Julius and his new partner now exported ‘Gustav Svensson’s locally grown asparagus’ in lovely bunches tied with blue-and-yellow ribbon. Nowhere did Julius or the man who had, until recently, been named something else claim that the asparagus was Swedish. The only thing Swedish about it was the price, and the name of the Indian grower. Unlike the Peru project, this wasn’t as illegal as Julius would have preferred, but you couldn’t have it all. Furthermore, he and Gustav succeeded in establishing a supplementary, and shadier, line of business. Swedish asparagus had such a good international reputation that Gustav’s Balinese variety could be shipped to Sweden, transferred into different boxes, and exported to a series of luxury hotels around the world. In Bali, for example. High-profile hotels there had their international reputations to consider, and it was worth every single extra rupiah it cost to avoid serving guests the bland, locally grown variety.

Allan was glad his friend Julius was back to his old self. And with that, life surely would have been a gas once more for both Julius and his hundred-year-old friend with the black tablet, except the money in the suitcase that never ran dry was starting to run dry. The income from the crop fields in the mountains was respectable, but life at the luxury hotel where the friends resided was anything but free. Even the imported Swedish asparagus in the restaurant cost half a fortune.

Julius had wanted to broach the topic of their finances with Allan for some time. He just hadn’t got round to it. At breakfast that morning, however, the time had come. Allan had brought his black tablet along as usual, and the day’s news was a story about the love between siblings. The North Korean leader Kim Jong-un had just had his brother poisoned to death at an airport in Malaysia. Allan said he wasn’t overly surprised: he’d had his own dealings with Kim Jong-un’s father. And grandfather.

‘Both father and grandfather did in fact intend to take my life,’ he recalled. ‘Now both of them are dead, but here I sit. Such is life.’

Julius had grown used to Allan popping up with such reflections on the past and was no longer surprised by them. He had probably heard that particular story before, but he didn’t quite recall. ‘You met the North Korean leader’s father? And grandfather? How old are you?’

‘A hundred, almost a hundred and one,’ said Allan. ‘In case that somehow escaped you. Their names were Kim Jong-il and Kim Il-sung. The one was only a child, but he was very angry.’

Julius resisted the urge to enquire further. Instead he guided the conversation towards the topic he’d been planning to discuss from the start.

The problem was, as Julius had hinted earlier, that the suitcase of money was increasingly transforming into a suitcase without money. And it had been two and a half months since they’d last settled their debts with the hotel. Julius didn’t want to think about what the bill would say.

‘Then don’t,’ Allan suggested, taking a bite of his mildly seasoned nasi goreng.

More urgent was the issue with the boat-renter, who had been in touch to say that he had throttled their line of credit and intended to do the same to Messrs Karlsson and Jonsson unless their debt was settled within the week.

‘The boat-renter?’ Allan said. ‘Did we rent a boat?’

‘The luxury yacht.’

‘Oh, right. So that counts as a boat, does it?’

Then Julius confessed that he’d been planning to surprise Allan on his hundred-and-first birthday, but their financial situation was such that the celebration couldn’t be up to Harry Belafonte standards.

‘Well, we met him once before,’ Allan said. ‘And my birthday parties and I have never quite seen eye to eye, so don’t worry about that.’

But Julius did. He wanted Allan to know he had appreciated the Belafonte gesture. It had been above and beyond. Julius was no spring chicken himself, and at no time in history had anyone done anything as nice for him as Allan had.

‘Though I wasn’t the one singing,’ Allan said.

Julius went on to say that there would absolutely be a party: he’d already ordered a cake from the one bakery he’d been able to find that would make it on credit. Thereafter awaited a hot-air balloon ride over the beautiful green island, along with the balloon pilot and two bottles of champagne.

Allan thought a hot-air balloon ride sounded pleasant. But perhaps they could skip the cake, given that their finances were strained. Even the hundred and one candles might cost a fortune.

The state of the friends’ joint capital didn’t hinge on a hundred and one birthday candles, according to Julius. He had dug through the suitcase the night before and made a rough estimate of how much was left. Then he made another based on what he expected the hotel thought they owed. When it came to the yacht, he didn’t need to make an estimate, since the lessor had been kind enough to tell him the exact amount.

‘I’m afraid we’re at least a hundred thousand dollars in the red,’ said Julius.

‘Is that with or without the candles?’ Allan asked.

Indonesia

The hundred-year-old man had always had a calming effect on those around him, except during isolated moments in history in which he had riled people beyond all rhyme and reason. Like the time he’d met Stalin in 1948. That had led to five years in a gulag. And a few years after that, it had turned out the North Koreans weren’t great fans of his either.

Oh, well, that was all in the past. Now, he had got Julius to agree that they would first celebrate his hundred-and-first birthday according to the plan (since Julius so desperately wanted to) and then they would sit down and deal with their finances. Everything would work out. With a little luck, perhaps a new suitcase full of money would turn up.

Julius didn’t believe it would, although one never knew what might happen in Allan’s company. Despite their sub-optimal financial situation, he had gone along with Allan’s suggestion that there be four bottles of champagne in the hot-air balloon rather than two. There might be a lull in the air up there, and in that case they would need some way to amuse themselves.

‘Perhaps a few sandwiches as well,’ Julius mused.

‘But why?’ said Allan.

The hotel manager was keeping a close eye on the old man and his even older friend, these days. Their unpaid bills had surpassed a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. That was only a small part of what the manager had made from the spendthrift Scandinavians in the past year, but at the same time it was far too much to let it go unpaid. He had taken certain steps and measures. A few days ago, or nights ago, he had put a man on discreet watch outside the gentlemen’s luxury bungalow, just in case they should get it into their heads to climb through one of the paneless windows and vanish.

But there was a certain amount of gratitude involved in the manager’s relationship with Messrs Jonsson and Karlsson. The former had, in a fairly believable manner, suggested that more money would be on its way before the week’s end. And, after all, this wasn’t the first time Jonsson had clung to his money just a little too long. Maybe the whole issue was simply down to him loving his cash. And who didn’t?

All in all, the manager thought it prudent and strategically smart to lie low, and to join in celebrating the older man’s birthday on the beach, with cake and a few carefully selected words.

* * *

In addition to the birthday boy, Julius and the hotel manager, the hired balloon pilot was present for the party. Gustav Svensson would have liked to attend, but he had the good sense not to.

The balloon was inflated and ready. Only a classic anchor around a palm tree kept it from taking off on its own. The heat in the balloon was regulated by the pilot’s nine-year-old son, who was deeply distressed as he would much rather have been next to the cake a few metres away.

Allan stared at the hundred and one unnecessary candles. Imagine the waste of money. And time! It took Julius several minutes to get them all lit, with the help of the hotel manager’s gold lighter (which ended up in Julius’s pocket).

At least the cake tasted good. And champagne was champagne, even if it wasn’t grog. It seemed to Allan that things could have been worse.

And, all of a sudden, they were. For the hotel manager was tapping his glass with the aim of giving a speech. ‘My dear Mr Karlsson,’ he said.

Allan interrupted him. ‘That was well said, Mr Manager. Truly charming. But surely we can’t all stand around here until my next birthday. Isn’t it high time we took off in the balloon?’

The hotel manager became flustered and Julius gave the nod to the balloon pilot, who immediately put down his piece of cake. After all, his primary purpose for being there was to work.

‘Roger that! I’ll go and make the call to the weather service at the airport. Just want to be sure that the winds haven’t changed. Back in a minute.’

The danger of a speech had been averted. Now it was time for boarding. It was easy to step into the basket, even for a hundred-and-one-year-old. There was a set of six portable stairs outside and a slightly smaller variant with three steps inside.

‘Hello there, little man,’ Allan said, ruffling the hair of the nine-year-old assistant.

The nine-year-old responded with a shy ‘Good day.’ He knew his place and was good at his job. The anchor was no longer necessary, not with the added weight of the foreigners.

Julius asked the boy for a demonstration and learned that the heat and, as a result, the balloon’s altitude, was adjusted by way of the red lever at the top of the gas line. When it was time to take off, all you had to do was turn it to the right. And back to the left when you wanted to come in for a landing.

‘First right, then left,’ said Julius.

‘Exactly, sir,’ said the boy.

And now three things happened simultaneously, within the span of a few seconds.

One: Allan noticed the nine-year-old’s longing glances at the cake and suggested that the lad run over quick and help himself. Plates and cutlery were both on the table. The boy needed no coaxing. He hopped out of the basket almost before Allan had finished speaking.

Two: Julius tested the red lever, turning it both left and right, and twisted it so hard it came off in his hand.

Three: the balloon pilot exited the hotel looking unhappy, and said that the ride would have to wait for the wind was about to become northerly. The balloon was in a poor position for such a wind.

At this, three more things happened, also rather simultaneously.

One: the balloon pilot caught sight of his nine-year-old son with his nose in the cake and scolded the poor boy for leaving his post.

Two: Julius swore at the red lever that had come off just like that. Now hot air was streaming into the balloon, which …

Three: … began to lift off the ground.

‘Stop! What are you doing?’ cried the balloon pilot.

‘It’s not me, it’s this damned lever,’ called Julius.

The balloon was at an altitude of three metres. Then four. Then five.

‘There we go!’ said Allan. ‘Now this is a party.’

The Indian Ocean

It took quite some time for Karlsson, Jonsson and the balloon to float far enough across the open sea that they could no longer hear the screaming balloon pilot. After all, the wind was at his back.

They could still see him for a while, after he ceased to be audible – he was flapping his arms. They could also see the hotel manager at his side. Not quite as flappy. But likely just as unhappy. Or even more so. He was watching a hundred and fifty thousand dollars float away before his very eyes. Meanwhile, the nine-year-old boy returned to the cake while everyone else was otherwise occupied.

A few more minutes passed, and then they could no longer see land in any direction. Julius finished cursing the red lever and threw it overboard, having given up trying to reattach it.

The gas and the flame were irreversibly on. And, in certain respects, that was a positive thing. Otherwise they would certainly fall into the ocean, basket and all.

Julius looked around. On the other side of the gas tank he found a GPS navigator. This was good news! Not that there was any way to steer the craft, but now at least they would know when land could be expected.

As Julius delved into geography, Allan opened the first of the four bottles of champagne they had brought along. ‘Whoopsie!’ he said, as the cork flew over the edge of the basket.

Julius felt that Allan wasn’t taking the situation seriously. They had no idea where they were heading.

Of course they did, Allan thought. ‘I’ve been around the world so many times that I’ve started to understand how it looks. If the wind keeps up like this, we’ll end up in Australia in a few weeks. But if it turns a little that way we’ll have to wait a few more.’

‘And where will we end up in that case?’

‘Well, not at the North Pole, but you didn’t want to go there anyway. Likely the South Pole, though.’

‘What the hell—’ Julius said, but he was interrupted.

‘There, there. Here’s your glass. Now, cheers to us on my birthday. And don’t you worry. The gas in the tank will run out long before the South Pole. Have a seat.’

Julius did as Allan said, sitting down next to his friend and staring straight ahead with a vacant gaze. Allan could tell that Julius was concerned. He was in need of comfort. ‘Yes, things look dark right now, my friend. But they’ve been dark before in my life, yet here I am. You’ll see, the wind will change. Or something.’

Julius found Allan’s inexplicable calmness a little bit helpful. Perhaps the champagne could take care of the rest. ‘Pass me the bottle, please,’ he said quietly.

And he took four liberal gulps without bothering to use a glass.

Allan was correct: the gas did run out before land was in sight. The tank began to sputter and the flame danced irregularly for some time before it went out completely, just as the friends managed to drain the contents of bottle number one.

It was a gentle journey down to the surface of the Indian Ocean, which, that day, was practically a Pacific one.

‘Do you think the basket will float?’ Julius asked, as the surface of the water grew nearer.

‘We’ll soon find out,’ said Allan. ‘Look at this!’

The hundred-and-one-year-old had been digging through the balloon’s wooden box of supplies for unforeseen incidents. He held up a brand-new fitting for the red lever.

‘Pity we didn’t find this while there was still time. And look!’

Two rocket flares.

The crash landing in the sea went better than Julius had dared to hope. The balloon basket hit the water, plunging half a metre below the surface, thanks to its speed and weight, then tilted at a forty-five-degree angle, straightened again, and bobbed like a fishing float with ever-waning movements.

Both old men were knocked over by the strike and the angle, and they ended up in a communal pile along one of the basket’s walls. Julius was quick to get up, a knife in his hand to separate the basket from the deflated balloon, which would no longer be of any use. It was temporarily spreading out on the water but would soon sink and take both basket and old men with it if it could.

‘Well done.’ Allan praised him from where he lay.

‘Thanks,’ said Julius, helping his friend back onto the bench.

Then Julius dismantled the heavy gas assembly and dumped it into the sea along with the four bracings that had held it up. With that, the vessel suddenly weighed at least fifty kilos less. Julius wiped the sweat from his brow and sank down next to his friend. ‘Now what?’ he said.

‘I think we should have another bottle of champagne so we don’t sit around here sobering up. Can’t you fire off one of those flares while I uncork it?’

Water was already seeping in through the sides of the basket, but it wasn’t so dire that they would sink before a few hours had passed, Allan thought. Or even more, if only they had something decent to bail with. ‘A lot can happen in two hours,’ he said.

‘Like what?’ Julius wondered.

‘Oh, well, a little can happen as well. Or nothing.’

Julius unwrapped the first flare and tried to make sense of the Indonesian instructions. He was tipsy and didn’t have the energy to be as desperate as he should have been. On the one hand, he knew he was soon to die. On the other, he was in the company of a man who was possibly immortal. A man who had not been executed by General Franco, had not been locked up for life by the American immigration authority, had not been strangled by Comrade Stalin (although it had been a close shave), had not been put to death by Kim Il-sung or Mao Zedong, had not been shot by the Iranian border patrol, had not had a hair touched on his ever-balder head in his twenty-five years as a double agent in the inner circles of the Cold War, had not been killed by Brezhnev’s bad breath, and had not been dragged along into President Nixon’s downfall.

The only thing to suggest that Allan might actually die, after having failed to do so for so many years, was the fact that he was sitting in a woven basket that was taking in water, in the sea somewhere between Indonesia, Australia and Antarctica. But if the recently-turned-hundred-and-one-year-old survived this too, one might reasonably expect that Julius could ride shotgun.

‘I reckon you just have to pull on this,’ he said, tugging on the right string in the wrong position, at which the emergency flare shot into the water and kept going until it presumably extinguished at a depth of a few hundred metres.

Julius considered giving up. But Allan popped the cork on the next bottle, handed it to his friend, and asked him to take a few sips – with or without a glass – because he appeared to need it.

‘Then I think you should try again with the other flare. But feel free to aim it upwards – I imagine it will be easier to see that way.’

The Indian Ocean

The official task of the North Korean bulk carrier Honour and Strength was to transport thirty thousand tons of grain from Havana to Pyongyang. A much less official task was to slow down the vessel south-east of Madagascar and, under cover of darkness, allow four kilos of enriched uranium to be brought aboard. This cargo had changed hands from courier to courier, from Congo to Burundi to Tanzania to Mozambique and on to the island east of the African continent, which Honour and Strength had a legitimate reason to pass.

The North Koreans understood that they had eyes on them. Just a few years earlier their sister ship had been caught in a rebel-controlled harbour in Libya; the captain had managed to bribe his way out, that time with a ship full of oil. To make a stop in Somalia, Iran or anywhere else with a similar reputation on the way home from Cuba would likely result in nothing but boarding by UN troops on the open sea. It had happened before, most recently outside Panama. That time there happened to be aircraft engines and advanced electronics under the grain, in violation of the current UN sanctions against the proud Democratic People’s Republic. Upset, the Koreans had informed the world that it was the world, not the Koreans, who had placed the engines and electronics there.

This time, the journey home from Cuba was going in the other direction; the earth was, after all, round. The official line was that the Democratic People’s Republic refused to allow itself to be wronged again in Panama. What was not mentioned was that they had an errand along the way.

Thus far everything had gone right instead of wrong. Captain Pak Chong-un had a hold full of high-quality grain that the Supreme Leader didn’t care about; he ate his fill anyway. But in addition there were now four kilos of lead-shielded enriched uranium, secured in a North Korean briefcase. The uranium was a necessity for the continued crucial battle against the American dogs and their allies south of the 38th parallel. The amount, four kilos, might not have been much upon which to build the nation’s future, but that was not the point. This was a test of the distribution channels as such. If all went well, the Russians promised, their efforts would be doubled many times over.

Captain Pak could feel the imperialist satellites following the ship’s path back to Pyongyang, prepared, as always, to find reasons to board, humiliate and disgrace.

Pak kept the briefcase in the safe in the captain’s quarters; the hooligans would find what they were looking for anyway, if it came to a boarding. But no sign of that yet. Still no mistakes made. Soon nothing could keep the captain from returning in triumph.

Pak Chong-un’s thoughts were interrupted when the first mate entered the room without knocking. ‘Captain!’ he said. ‘We’ve spotted an emergency flare four nautical miles to the north. What should we do? Ignore it?’

Blast! Just when everything was looking so good. Many thoughts flew through Captain Pak’s head all at once. Could it be a trap? Someone who intended to seize the uranium? Best to pretend they hadn’t seen it, of course, just as the first mate had suggested.

But some people were guaranteed to see it – the Americans. From space. And they were surely taking photographs. A North Korean ship ignoring someone in distress at sea – that would be a crime against maritime law, and an enormous PR disaster for the Supreme Leader (while Captain Pak himself would face a firing squad).

No, the least troublesome option would probably be to find out the reason for the flare.

‘Shame on you, sailor!’ said Captain Pak Chong-un. ‘Representatives of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea don’t leave those in distress in the lurch. Set a new course and prepare for a rescue action. That’s an order!’

The first mate gave a frightened salute and hurried off. He cursed himself for not doing a better job of watching his tongue. If the captain reported this, his career would be over. At best.

* * *

By now the water was up to the ankles of the friends in the basket on the sea. Allan sat with his black tablet, marvelling that it worked in the middle of nowhere. ‘Listen to this!’ he said.

And he told his friend that it wasn’t only presidents who made fools of themselves out in the world, like Robert Mugabe of Zimbabwe, for example, the man who had defined homosexuality as ‘un-African’ and decided that it ought to be worth ten years in prison so the homosexual would learn. Recently Mugabe’s wife had allegedly used an extension cord to attack a girl who had spent time with the couple’s son at a hotel room. Apparently in that family they had issues with heterosexuality as well.

Julius was too distressed to have any opinion on his friend’s latest news and was just about to ask him to be quiet, so he could sit there and die in peace, when he was interrupted by a horn. In the distance he and Allan could make out a ship. Heading straight for the basket.

‘Isn’t that the damnedest thing?’ said Julius. ‘You’re going to survive this too, Allan.’

‘And so are you, it seems,’ said Allan.

* * *

The only items that accompanied the two old men onto the ship were Allan’s black tablet and the last bottle of champagne. Allan was holding the tablet in one hand and the champagne in the other as he and Julius met Captain Pak on the foredeck.

‘Good day, Captain,’ he said, once each in English, Russian, Mandarin and Spanish.

‘Good day,’ the astonished captain responded in English.

He had command of both Russian and Mandarin and, thanks to his many excursions to and from Cuba, he knew a certain amount of Spanish, but he was the only one of the crew who spoke English, and he felt instinctively that the fewer ears that listened and understood the better. At least until this mysterious situation cleared up.

Captain Pak informed the two castaways that their lives had just been saved in the name of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea and for the glory of the Supreme Leader.

‘Say hello and thanks to the Supreme One, if you run into each other from now on,’ said Allan. ‘Where might we be let off along the way? Indonesia would be great, if it’s not too much trouble. We didn’t bring any identification papers, and it’s always a little tricky to change countries, isn’t it?’

Yes, Captain Pak knew how tricky it could be to change countries. It wasn’t the sort of thing you did with ease where he came from. But that wasn’t enough reason to fraternize with foreign gentlemen plucked from a bucket on the open sea. And certainly not in front of the crew, no matter the language.

‘As commanding officer, I am bound by law to guard the cargo of this ship carefully during our journey, as well as watch out for the cargo owners’ interests more generally. According to the same law, I am duty-bound to conduct the ship with due promptness.’

‘What does that mean?’ Julius asked nervously.

‘It means what I just said,’ said Captain Pak.

‘It means he’s not going to let us off before Pyongyang,’ said Allan.

Julius had no desire to see North Korea. ‘But please, dear Captain,’ he said. ‘We happen to have a bottle of champagne here. We thought it might come in handy if we were picked up as we now have been. It’s not quite as well chilled as it ought to be, but if the captain doesn’t mind that, we’d be happy to share it. We can get to know each other and see what sorts of solutions might be hiding just around the corner.’

That was well put, Allan thought, holding up the bottle in support.

The captain took it from his hand and informed them that it was being confiscated as no alcohol was allowed on board.

‘No alcohol?’ said Julius.

No alcohol? Allan thought, on the verge of asking to return to the basket.

‘You gentlemen will be interrogated for information in two hours. For the time being you are not under suspicion of any crime, but that can always change. I intend to conduct the interrogation myself. The first two questions will be, who are you and why did you elect to float around in a woven basket on the open sea? With a bottle of champagne. But we’ll deal with that then.’

Captain Pak turned to his first mate, who was told he must take his belongings and move down with the crew, since he had just been relieved of his officer’s cabin. He should instead have the two foreign men installed there. Furthermore, the first mate should make sure a sailor stood watch outside the cabin, unless he chose to guard it himself, to make sure the two gentlemen didn’t come to any harm or, for that matter, get up to causing any harm.

The first mate gave a salute. He wasn’t happy about this development. Forced to associate with the crew for the sake of two aged whites … No, the captain should have left them at sea. This could only end as poorly as it had begun.

Captain Pak Chong-un sensed trouble brewing. Once again he checked the contents within the otherwise securely locked door to the safe in the captain’s quarters. He kept the key on a chain around his neck.

The safe contained all the mandatory ship’s logs, a copy of maritime law, and a briefcase full of four kilos of lead-shielded, enriched uranium.

The task he had personally been delegated by the Supreme Leader was now only three days from completion. There were no clouds on the horizon of this task. In a literal sense, that was. Which meant, as always, that the American satellites were keeping a watchful eye on him. That was a cloud in and of itself, albeit a metaphorical one. Another was the two foreign men in the first mate’s cabin just on the other side of the wall.

Captain Pak allowed himself to sum up the situation before walking the few steps to the neighbouring cabin. ‘Ugh.’ He stared at the watchman until said watchman realized he should open the door for his captain. And then he stared again until the watchman closed the same door.

‘Gentlemen, it is time to be interrogated,’ said Captain Pak Chong-un.

‘Lovely,’ said Allan.