Between Summer's Longing and Winter's End by Leif G. W. Persson

Author:Leif G. W. Persson
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Death, Mystery & Detective, Assassination, Political, Assassination - Investigation - Sweden, Fiction, Palme, Sweden, Prime ministers - Sweden - Death, Investigation, Crime, Prime ministers, General, Olof - Assassination
ISBN: 9780307377456
Publisher: Random House Digital, Inc.
Published: 2010-09-14T04:00:00+00:00

Not a thing, according to both conspirators. They had just sat there—true enough, in the front seat of a Dodge delivery van but watchful as two eagles—until the radio operator had made contact and told them to break it off and call it a day and then it was past ten o’clock.

“Twenty-two-zero-eight hours,” Göransson clarified with a fresh throat clearing and after another look in his little black book.

“It’s all in our surveillance memo,” Martinsson assisted obligingly. “It’s sitting in the usual folder.”

“But that was very good, wasn’t it?” said Waltin, nodding and leaning back. Lying with all the practice that the profession had given them, he thought, and now it was crucial to just be rid of them before the natural stupidity that qualified them for this same profession also made a mess of things for him.

“I have a special assignment for you gentlemen,” said Waltin. “A very urgent one, abroad, might take a week, maybe two. The thing is that the ministry of foreign affairs needs help with a little discreet surveillance of a somewhat mixed delegation of politicians, people from the foreign ministry and the military, and I have to have a couple of lads that I can really rely on. Through thick and thin,” he added gravely.

“Yes,” said Göransson. “We’re listening, chief.” The thought of a fat foreign per diem had put life into his tired eyes.

“Abroad,” said Martinsson, who was younger, had a harder time concealing his enthusiasm, and was already packing his bathing trunks.

“We can be at Arlanda in two hours, packed and ready,” Göransson agreed obligingly.

“That won’t be necessary,” said Waltin dryly. “It’s good enough if you can be at the central train station before six o’clock.” For further transport to a place where there aren’t any hamburgers and where it’s guaranteed that you’ll be freezing your asses off, thought Waltin, but he didn’t say that.

“Train,” Göransson burst out, and the light in his eyes had gone out.

“Train,” echoed Martinsson, who seemed so taken aback that he forgot to check his reaction in Waltin’s mirror.

“I think it’s going to be a very interesting journey,” said Waltin, nodding with conviction, “and you’ll receive further information accordingly and on a need-to-know basis.”

It will be a fantastic journey, he thought. In the middle of a bitterly cold winter on one of those fine old Russian trains and with all the service that has made their hosts famous among their Western visitors.

“He who makes a journey always has something to tell,” said Waltin, smiling amiably. “In addition the ministry of foreign affairs has arranged passports for you, so you don’t need to mess around with visas,” he added consolingly.

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