mainland… we have to keep going farther out into the archipelago and away from the mainland.”
“No one in their right mind would do that.”
“Can you keep going?” she asks softly.
He nods and they begin to move again, farther into the forest, farther away from roads, from houses and people.
40
Axel Riessen unbuttons the cuff links from his stiff shirtsleeves and puts them in the bronze bowl on his dresser. The cuff links were an inheritance from his grandfather, Admiral Riessen. This design is civilian, however, a heraldry design consisting of two crossed palm leaves.
Axel studies himself in the mirror next to the closet door. He loosens his tie and then walks to the bed and sits down on the edge. The radiator hisses and he thinks he can make out snatches of music coming through the wall.
The music is coming from his younger brother’s apartment in their shared family mansion. One lone violin, Axel thinks as his mind gathers the fragments he’s heard into a whole. It’s the Bach Violin Sonata in G Minor, the first movement, an adagio, but played much more slowly than conventional interpretations. Axel hears not only the musical notes but also every single overtone as well as an accidental bump against the body of the violin.
His hands long to take up a violin. His fingers tremble when the music changes tempo. It’s been a long time since he’s let his fingers play with the music, running over the strings and up and down the fingerboard.
When the telephone rings, the music in his head falls silent. He gets up from the bed and rubs his eyes. He’s very tired and hasn’t slept much for the past week.
Caller ID reveals that the call is coming from Parliament. Axel clears his throat before he answers in a calm voice.
“Axel Riessen.”
“I’m Jorgen Grunlicht. As you may know, I’m the president of the Government Panel for Foreign Affairs.
“Good evening.”
“Please excuse me for calling so late.”
“I was still awake.”
“They told me you might be,” Jorgen Grunlicht says. He hesitates before continuing. “We’ve had an extra board meeting just now where we decided to try to
recruit you for the post of general director for the ISP.”
“I understand.”
There’s silence on the other end. Grunlicht adds hastily, “I assume you know what happened to Carl Palmcrona.”
“I read about it in the newspaper.”
Grunlicht clears his throat and says something that Axel can’t understand before Grunlicht raises his voice again. “You are already aware of our work and-if you accept our nomination-could get up to speed fairly quickly.”
“I’d have to resign my UN post,” Axel replies.
“Is that a problem?” Grunlicht’s voice seems worried.
“No, not really-I’ve been taking some time off anyway.”
“We’ll be able to discuss the terms, of course… but there’s nothing that’s off the table,” Grunlicht says. “You must already know we would like you on board. There’s no point in keeping that a secret.”
“I need to think about it.”
“Can you meet us tomorrow morning?”
“You’re in a hurry.”
“We’ll take, of course, the time needed,” Grunlicht replies. “But it must be said that after what happened… there have been hints from the economics minister about a matter already delayed-”
“And that would be?”
“Nothing unusual, just an export permit. The preliminary report was positive and the Export Control Committee has completed its work, the contracts have been signed. Unfortunately, Palmcrona wasn’t able to sign it.”
“His signature was required?”
“Only the general director can approve exports of defense materiel or products of dual usage,” Jorgen Grunlicht explains.
“But can’t the government approve certain business transactions at times?”
“Only once the general director of the ISP has decided to turn the matter over to the government.”
“I understand,” says Axel.
For eleven years, Axel Riessen served as a war materiel inspector in the old system for the Foreign Office before being assigned to the United Nations Office for Disarmament Affairs. At fifty-one, he still looks youthful. His hair, flecked with gray, is still thick. His features are regular and friendly, and the tan he picked up recently on vacation in Cape Town gives him a healthy glow. It had been an exceptional vacation: he’d sailed solo along the breathtaking, rugged coast.
Axel walks to his library and settles into his reading chair. He closes his eyes and starts to reflect on the fact that Carl Palmcrona is dead. He’d read the obituary in the morning edition of Dagens Nyheter. It was not clear what had happened, but he’d gotten the impression the death was unexpected. Palmcrona had not been ill, that much was clear. He thinks back to some of the times they’d met through the years and recalls when they’d worked together on how to combine the Military Equipment Inspection Committee with the Governmental Strategic Export Control Committee. In the end, a new agency would emerge: the National Inspectorate of Strategic Products.
And now Palmcrona is dead. Axel remembers the tall, pale man with his military air and a sense of loneliness about him.
Axel starts to worry. The rooms are too quiet. He stands up and looks around the apartment, listening for sounds.
“Beverly?” he calls in a low voice. “Beverly?”
She doesn’t answer and fear rises in his mind. He walks quickly through the rooms and heads for the hallway to put on his coat when he hears her humming to herself. She is walking barefoot over the rugs in the kitchen. When she sees his worried face, her eyes widen.
“Axel,” she says. “What’s wrong?”
“I was just worried that you’d left,” he mutters.
“Out into the dangerous world.” She smiles.
“I’m just saying there are people you can’t trust out there.”
“I don’t trust them,” she says. “I just look at them. I look at their light. If it shines around them, I know that they’re nice.”
Axel never knows what to say when she says things like that, so he just tells her he’s bought some chips and a big bottle of Fanta.
It seems as if she’s stopped listening. He tries to read her face, to see if she is restless or depressed or closed off.
“So are we still going to get married?” she asks.
“Yes,” he lies.
“It’s just that flowers make me think of Mamma’s funeral and Pappa’s face when-”
“We don’t need to have flowers,” he says. “Though I like lilies of the valley.”
“Me, too,” he says weakly.
She reddens contentedly and he hears her pretend to yawn for his sake.
“I’m so sleepy,” she says as she leaves the room. “Do you want to go to sleep?”
