Two days before the formal opening of the Church of Anders, it was time to launch the latest priestly idea—that is, another donation with national uproar as the intended consequence. Taxi Torsten behind the wheel, the priest, the receptionist, and Hitman Anders in a row in the back seat. In the lap of the latter, a carefully wrapped package containing 500,000 kronor and a personal greeting to the recipient.
The tourist season hadn’t yet arrived, but the area surrounding the palace in Stockholm is never completely deserted. Above all, the main guard is always standing there, and has been doing so uninterrupted since 1523 (it’s not always the same guard, and one has to imagine that the guards were allowed a break when the palace burned down around the turn of the eighteenth century and wasn’t rebuilt until fifty years later).
Taxi Torsten was a creative motorist. He veered off Slottsbacken, drove up onto the cobblestones, and slowly cruised up to the soldier who was standing at attention in his dapper dress uniform, a gleaming bayonet on his rifle.
Hitman Anders stepped out and held up his package. “Good day,” he said solemnly. “I am Hitman Anders and I am here to hand over half a million glorious kronor to Her Majesty the Queen and her World Child . . . something . . . Foundation. I’ve forgotten the name even though we recited it all the way here in the car from . . . Well, it doesn’t matter where we came from. The long and the short of it is that . . .”
“Just hand over the goddamn package,” the receptionist shouted from the car.
But that was easier said than done. The soldier did not accept suspicious packages. But he did press his panic button and start to recite a memorized statement: “He who desires admittance to protected property or who loiters in the vicinity of protected property is bound by law to state his name, birthdate, and place of residence upon the request of any guard who protects said property, and must submit to a bodily search from which letters or other private documents are exempt, and must submit to a search of any vehicle, ship, or aircraft.”
Hitman Anders stood there with his package and stared wide-eyed at the soldier. “Are you feeling okay?” he said. “Can’t you just accept this damn thing in the name of Jesus so we can get out of here?”
The soldier at the sentry box took another breath. “In order to ensure that his task is properly executed, the guard of a protected property may also, to the extent necessary, refuse entry, remove, or, if these are not sufficient, temporarily detain a person within or in the vicinity of the protected property . . .”
“Well, you can try to detain me, you fucking tin soldier,” Hitman Anders said angrily, as the terrified guard continued with his lesson: “. . . if the person in question infringes any prohibition that is in effect based on any decision according to this law, refuses to give information upon request, or gives information that can reasonably be assumed to be false, refuses to submit to a bodily search, or . . .”
That was about when Hitman Anders shoved the silly soldier aside and placed his package for the Queen in the sentry box. “Now you make sure that this gets to the Queen,” he said to the soldier, who had tumbled onto his bottom. “You’re welcome to give it a body-search if you must, but don’t you touch the money, or else!”
Then Hitman Anders returned to the priest, the receptionist, and Taxi Torsten, who managed to disappear into the traffic along Skeppsbron just seconds before the toppled soldier’s backup arrived from the other direction.
* * *
At first it was said that Hitman Anders had “attacked the palace,” but only until the Queen held a press conference in which she thanked him for the fantastic (and X-rayed) gift of 494,000 kronor for children in need by way of the World Childhood Foundation.
“When are you planning to learn to count to five hundred?” the receptionist asked Hitman Anders, who chose to look surly instead of responding.
The publicity had been unparalleled, with a first wave of references to a potentially threatening situation, a second wave in which the Queen herself cleared up the matter, and a third wave in the form of a complete recap of the unique life story of Johan Andersson, a.k.a. Hitman Anders, a.k.a. Pastor Anders. “Or should I call myself Reverend?” he wondered.
“No,” said the priest.
“Why not?”
“Because I said so.”
“How about Dean?”