Bob Lundin looked out of the office window and saw his boss returning from lunch. Loklinth walked with short steps across the gravel and seemed to be deep in thought. His back had straightened somewhat after his moment of weakness that morning. It looked like he was devising a new plan and had the usual ironic smile playing on his lips. He looked neither to the left nor the right as he walked.
He has retaken the initiative, Lundin thought, while I’ve had no time to eat lunch. I am expected to soften the blow, while Loklinth himself goes out in the sun and licks his wounds.
With the help of several employees, Lundin had made an inventory. Loklinth obviously wanted to know if anything was missing. Loklinth himself would check his personal office, make sure that the room was properly cleaned up, and that the royal portrait was hanging straight.
Lundin had used the time wisely and kept his head cool. His efforts would be remembered in the future, even if they’d all lose their jobs for this fiasco.
The unpleasant fact that the metal box, which contained top classified documents, was missing was an issue of epic proportions. When Loklinth finally came back, Lundin broke the news.
“The metal box is nowhere to be found.”
“You kidding me?”
“I’m afraid not,” Lundin answered his head lowered and gaze looking for dust at the floor.
“Do we have any clue at all about who could be behind this?” Loklinth asked, spreading the fingers of both hands on his desk.
“No, not yet. Forensics is looking through the technical evidence. We’ll know late this evening if they’ve found anything.”
“Not until this evening?”
“Could be a foreign intelligence agency,” Lundin said. “In which case, things have gotten pretty darn ugly.”
“It’s bad enough even if it’s locals, like the Serbian mafia,” Loklinth said. “They love such material. If a mafia kingpin gets hold of the box, he’ll be immune from prosecution for the rest of his life. He’ll never be prosecuted while he’s in possession of secret documents.”
Lundin saw Loklinth’s spidery fingers nervously pull out the top drawer of his desk. Something caught Loklinth’s eye; he snatched up a white slip of paper, unfolded it, and read. The afternoon sun was pouring in through the window; dust particles were still in the air after the explosion. The light appeared grainy, like in an old black and white movie. Chris Loklinth was back in the nightmare of that same morning. His lips moved, yet someone seemed to have turned down the volume. Lundin couldn’t hear what he said, but noticed that Loklinth’s complexion slowly shifted from paleness to a flushed state of anger. His hands started to shake and he began to squirm in his chair. He could explode at any moment.
“I’m going to kill him!”
He sprayed saliva, which appeared to become black gravel in the dust. Lundin took a couple of steps back. He saw how Loklinth balled up the slip of paper and threw it onto the floor before going to the bathroom.
Lundin picked up the ball of paper and unfolded it, ironing out the creases:
Hi Dad,
when you read this I will be lying at a depth of 300 feet, sleeping. I sleep deeply because it is cold down here. Sis and mom are right next to me. They look so peaceful. There are lots of us lying down here in the dark. You should have seen what it looks like. I miss you, dad. Give Loklinth my greetings and tell him the radiation from the car deck is getting stronger by the day. Everything is rusting down here. He should come down and see for himself.
A big hug, Dad, take care of yourself. I love you.
Alexander Modin.