Konovalenko poured himself and Tania another glass of vodka. Rykoff refused, since he was going to prepare the explosives and did not want to be affected by the alcohol. Besides, he was going to drive to Limhamn later to collect Sikosi Tsiki.
“Let’s put on a welcoming dinner for the man from South Africa,” said Konovalenko. “None of us enjoys sitting at dinner with an African. But sometimes you have to do it for the sake of the job in hand.”
“Victor Mabasha didn’t like Russian food,” said Tania.
Konovalenko thought for a moment.
“Chicken,” he said eventually. “All Africans like chicken.”
At six o’clock Rykoff met Sikosi Tsiki at Limhamn. A few hours later they were all sitting around the table. Konovalenko raised his glass.
“You have a day off tomorrow,” he said. “We get started on Friday.”
Sikosi Tsiki nodded. The replacement was just as silent as his predecessor.
Quiet guys, thought Konovalenko. Ruthless when the chips are down. Just as ruthless as I am.
Wallander devoted most of the first few days after his return to Ystad to planning various forms of criminal activities. He paved the way for Victor Mabasha’s escape from Sweden with dogged persistence. After much soul- searching he had decided it was the only way to get the situation under control. He had severe pangs of guilt, and could not avoid being constantly reminded that what he was doing was downright reprehensible. Even if Victor Mabasha had not killed Louise Akerblom himself, he was present when the murder was committed. Moreover, he had stolen cars and robbed a store. As if that were not enough, he was an illegal immigrant in Sweden, and had been planning to commit a serious crime back home in South Africa. Wallander convinced himself that in spite of everything, this was a way of preventing the crime. In addition, Konovalenko could be prevented from killing Victor Mabasha. He would be punished for the murder of Louise Akerblom once he was caught. What he intended to do now was to send a message to his colleagues in South Africa via Interpol. But first he wanted to get Victor Mabasha out of the country. So as not to attract unnecessary attention, he contacted a travel agency in Malmo to find out how Victor Mabasha could get a flight to Lusaka in Zambia. Mabasha had told him he could not get into South Africa without a visa. But with a fake Swedish passport, he did not need a visa to enter Zambia. He still had enough money for both an airline ticket and the next stage of the journey from Zambia, via Zimbabwe and Botswana. Once he got to South Africa he would slip over the border at an unguarded point. The travel agent in Malmo explained the various choices. They decided in the end that Victor Mabasha would go to London and then take a Zambia Airways flight from there to Lusaka. It meant Wallander would have to get him a false passport. That caused him not only the severest practical problems, but also the worst pangs of conscience. Arranging a false passport at his own police station seemed to him a betrayal of his profession. It did not make things any better to know he had made Victor Mabasha promise to destroy the passport as soon as he had gone through the checks in Zambia.
“The very same day,” Wallander had insisted. “And it must be burned.”
Wallander bought a cheap camera and took passport photographs. The big problem that could not be resolved until the last minute was how Victor Mabasha would get through Swedish passport control. Even if he had a Swedish passport that was technically genuine and did not appear on the blacklist held by the border police, there was a big risk that something could go wrong. After a lot of thought Wallander decided to get Victor Mabasha out via the hovercraft terminal in Malmo. He would buy him a first-class ticket. He assumed the embarkation card might help to ensure that passport officials were not especially interested in him. Linda would play the role of his girlfriend. They would kiss goodbye right under the noses of the immigration officials, and Wallander would teach him a few phrases of perfect Swedish.
The connections and the confirmed tickets meant he would be leaving Sweden on the morning of May 15. Wallander would have to produce a false passport for him by then.
On Tuesday afternoon he completed a passport application form for his father, and took with him two photographs. The whole procedures for issuing passports had recently been revised. The document was now produced while the applicant waited. Wallander hung around until the woman dealing with passports had finished with the last of her customers and was about to close.
“Excuse me for being a little late,” said Wallander. “But my dad is going on a senior citizens trip to France. He managed to burn his passport when he was sorting some old papers.”
“These things happen,” said the woman, whose name was Irma. “Does he have to have it today?”
“If possible,” said Wallander. “Sorry I’m late.”
“You can’t solve the murder of that woman either,” she said, taking the photos and the application form.
Wallander watched closely as she created the passport. Afterwards, when he had the document in his hand, he was confident he could repeat exactly what she had done.
“Impressively simple,” he said.
“But boring,” said Irma. “Why is it that all jobs get more boring when they’re made easier?”
“Become a cop,” said Wallander. “What we do is never boring.”
“I am a cop,” she said. “Besides, I don’t think I’d want to change places with you. It must be awful, pulling a body out of a well. What does it feel like, in fact?”
“I don’t really know,” said Wallander. “I suppose it feels so awful you get numb and so you don’t feel anything at all. But you can bet your boots there’ll be some committee in the Ministry of Justice looking into what policemen feel when they pull dead women out of wells.”
He stayed chatting while she locked up. All the things you needed to make a passport were locked away in a cupboard. But he knew where the keys were kept.
They had decided Victor Mabasha would leave the country as the Swedish citizen Jan Berg. Wallander had tried out endless combinations of names to find out which ones Victor Mabasha found easiest to pronounce. They went for Jan Berg. Victor Mabasha asked what the name meant. He was satisfied with the translation he was given. Wallander had realized during their conversations these last few days that the man from South Africa lived in close contact with a spirit world that was completely alien to him. Nothing was coincidental, not even a chance change of name. Linda had been able to help him with some explanations of why Victor Mabasha thought as he did. Even so, he thought he was looking at a world he had absolutely no basis for understanding. Victor Mabasha talked about his ancestors as if they were alive. Wallander was sometimes unsure whether incidents had taken place a hundred years ago, or yesterday. He could not help but be fascinated by Victor Mabasha. It became more and more difficult to comprehend that this man was a criminal preparing to commit a serious crime in his home country.
Wallander stayed in his office until late that Tuesday evening. To help the time pass he began a letter to Baiba Liepa in Riga. But when he read through what he had written, he tore it up. One of these days he would write a letter and send it to her. But it would take some time, he realized that.
By about ten o’clock only those on night duty were still at the station. As he did not dare to switch the light on in the room where the passports were assembled, he had acquired a flashlight that produced a blue light. He walked along the corridor, wishing he was on his way to someplace quite different. He thought of Victor Mabasha’s spirit world, and wondered briefly if Swedish cops had a special patron saint who would watch over them when they were about to do something forbidden.
The key was hanging on its hook in the filing cabinet. He paused for a moment, staring at the machine that transformed the photographs and the application forms with all their completed answers and crosses into a passport.
Then he put on his rubber gloves and started work. At one point he thought he heard footsteps approaching. He ducked down behind the machine and turned off his flashlight. When the footsteps died away, he started once again. He could feel sweat streaming down under his shirt. In the end, though, he had a passport in his hand. He switched off the machine, returned the key to its rightful place in the cabinet, and locked the door. Sooner or later some check would show that a passport template had disappeared. Bearing the registration numbers in mind, it could even happen the very next day, he thought. That would cause Bjork some sleepless nights. But nothing could be traced to Wallander.
Not until he was back in his office and slumped down behind his desk did it occur to him that he had forgotten to stamp the passport. He cursed himself, and flung the document down on the desk in front of him.
Just then the door burst open and Martinson marched in. He gave a start when he saw Wallander in his chair.
“Oh, excuse me,” he said. “I didn’t think you were here. I was just going to see if I could find my cap.”
“Cap?” asked Wallander. “In the middle of May?”
