Brundin couldn’t understand the fuss over the old customs house at the far end of Blasieholmen. What did it matter whether they knocked it down? It wasn’t as if they needed it any longer. On the other hand, she couldn’t understand the point of building a Nobel Centre either. As was so often the case, she thought both sides were wrong. She considered herself to be neutral in this matter. Or perhaps calm and balanced.
And it wasn’t the customs house they were heading for, even if they parked right by it.
In all the years that Quintus Nyman had been her boss, they had only travelled together in a car on a couple of occasions, and he had never driven. But today he did. He parked at the far end of Blasieholmen with the waters of the Nybrokviken bay on one side, the island of Djurgården dead ahead of them and the rear of the Lydmar Hotel in the other direction. He adjusted the rear-view mirror so that he could see his own reflection and then he combed his grey mane with his fingers, smoothed his beard and slightly adjusted his glasses. Brundin had never thought of her boss as vain, but that trait was apparently present even in the greyest of bureaucrats.
They set off on foot along Hovslagargatan, but almost immediately, before they had reached the Lydmar, Nyman turned into a small, cobbled courtyard surrounded by green bushes. There was a three-storey red-brick building with a garage door and a brown door to its left – 4 Hovslagargatan. He hadn’t said where they were going, but now she knew.
Nyman climbed the steps and rang the bell. FADO, it said on a small metal plaque by the bell, with the clarification underneath of ‘Food from the Middle East Export & Import’. The lock buzzed and Nyman opened the door. When she stepped inside, Brundin noted the tiny camera lens in a crevice at the edge of the window by the door.
A pale man with a beard and wavy hair appeared to receive them, but he didn’t greet them.
The building seemed to consist solely of long, winding corridors, at least on the lower floor. A staircase led to the upper floors but was protected by a locked gate with a palm scanner beside it.
Finally they reached a poorly lit meeting room with posters displaying various foods of the Middle East, a board table made from dark oak and a bulky black leather sofa suite. The tall windows were all darkly tinted and covered by curtains. Brundin assumed they were bulletproof.
They were directed to the sofa and the pale man vanished without asking whether they wanted coffee. They sat in silence as was their habit when unsure whether they were being bugged.
After ten minutes, an older man entered the room. He was wearing an elegant three-piece suit and bow tie, as well as reading glasses on a chain around his neck. An academic, Brundin thought to herself contemptuously.
Nyman stood up, smiled in recognition and shook the old man’s hand.
‘Brundin – Schönberg,’ Nyman said, introducing them to each other. Then Schönberg offered them fruit from the company’s range.
‘Do you know much about the restaurant trade in Stockholm?’ said Schönberg. ‘We have far too few customers in the city. It’s a miracle that we manage to stay in business here.’
Schönberg laughed at his own comment and Nyman joined in. Brundin managed to produce a smile, realising that Nyman thought it was part of the social game.
They warmed up with a little small talk. Was the family well? What a pity to hear about Schönberg’s wife, condolences. Brundin’s German wasn’t as good as Nyman’s, but when she didn’t understand something all it took was a quick glance to her boss and he translated.
Once personal matters had been attended to, it was time to talk shop and swap old war stories. Schönberg carefully filled a pipe and lit it without asking whether his guests minded. Then he leaned back and puffed away on it pleasurably. Smoking in the workplace. Definitely not OK, Brundin thought to herself, but she couldn’t help taking a little enjoyment from someone so flagrantly disregarding the rules.
‘I didn’t actually know you had this place,’ said Nyman, looking around.
‘It’s a different section. I’ve been on the move of late. It was considered desirable for me to step aside after the misfortune with Abu Rasil.’
‘Yes, that didn’t quite go according to plan.’
‘We used to have the building next door,’ Schönberg said in English, turning to Brundin, a new pair of ears to tell old stories to. ‘But it came with a lot of history.’
When Brundin didn’t react, a small wrinkle of irritation appeared on Schönberg’s brow and he leaned forward to explain.
‘During the Second World War, Germany’s embassy was in the adjacent building – at number 2 – which is now a hotel. And there were spies running around the place day in, day out. As the capital of a neutral country, Stockholm was a real spy centre – and a good transit between the conflicting sides. But after the War, we wanted to distance ourselves from Nazi Germany and the rather brutal activities that occurred in the embassy. So we got a new embassy. But since so few people knew that the intelligence services had this building at their disposal, we kept it. Well, I say we. It was before my time. Organisation Gehlen, as the agency was called to begin with. It’s said that the real reason we kept this building was that the local bureau chief, who carried on after the War as if nothing had happened, was so fond of the food at the Grand Hôtel that he wanted to remain close by.’
Brundin made an effort not to reveal how uninteresting she found all this. At the same time, she didn’t want to look so interested that he would continue. A curt nod was her compromise.
Nyman had forewarned Brundin that there was always some small talk up front with the Germans before they got to the point. But this wasn’t small talk, it was an entire lecture. One she had no use whatsoever for.
Finally, after more than half an hour’s discussion of espionage back in the day, the best way to store fruit and cereals, and the issues around keeping up with technological advances, they got to the point.
‘Sara Nowak.’
‘We have eyes on her,’ said Nyman.
‘Don’t,’ said Schönberg.
Nyman and Brundin looked quizzically at the doyen of German intelligence.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Nyman.
‘Don’t have your eyes on Nowak. Leave her alone. Occupy yourselves with other matters.’
There was a period of silence while his words sank in.
‘May I ask why?’ Nyman said.
Schönberg puffed on his pipe and looked out of the tall windows.
‘She has managed to dig up the name of Otto Rau. That is most unfortunate.’
‘Do you want us to stop her?’ said Nyman.
‘I don’t think we can,’ said Brundin. ‘I don’t think she’ll give up.’
Nyman flashed an irritated glance at Brundin.
‘Of course we can,’ he said.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Schönberg. ‘Rau won’t be satisfied with that. Sara Nowak must manage by herself in this matter. Do not attempt to rescue her.’
‘Are you also after Rau?’ said Nyman. ‘We can help you to find him.’
‘My dear Quintus, it is far more complicated than that. But in no circumstances should you get involved in what is about to pass.’
‘You’re using her to lure out Rau?’ said Brundin, to Nyman’s great annoyance. ‘Just like with Abu Rasil?’
Schönberg shook his head.
‘There’s no point in guessing. Just keep out of the way.’