The Girl Who Saved the King of Sweden (20 page)

Nombeko liked Holger in return. If there was in fact someone there to like.

‘You’re not angry with me because of this thing about the atomic bomb, then?’

‘Nah,’ said Holger. ‘Such things happen.’

The drive from the Israeli embassy in Östermalm out to the E4 highway and south took them through Norrmalm and Kungsholmen. Through the windscreen, Holger and Nombeko could see Sweden’s tallest building, the 275-foot-tall
Dagens Nyheter
tower. Holger couldn’t help imagining what might happen to it if the bomb went off. Finally he had to ask:

‘How bad would it be if things went badly?’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’ said Nombeko.

‘Well, if I drive into a lamppost here and the bomb goes off . . . exactly what would happen? I assume you and I would be in bad shape, but what about the skyscraper over there, for instance – would it collapse?’

Nombeko replied that Holger had guessed correctly that they probably wouldn’t make it. Neither would the skyscraper. The bomb would destroy almost everything within a radius of . . . say . . . thirty-eight miles.

‘Almost everything within a radius of thirty-eight miles?’ said Holger Two.

‘Yes. Or, really, everything.’

‘Within thirty-eight miles? All of Greater Stockholm?’

‘Well, I don’t know how big Greater Stockholm is, but it does sound big. Then there are other factors to consider . . .’

‘Factors?’

‘Besides the fireball itself. Shock waves, immediate radioactivity, wind direction. And things like . . . Say you drive into a lamppost here and now and the bomb goes off . . .’

‘Or say I
don’t
, on second thoughts,’ said Holger, gripping the wheel tightly with both hands.

‘But just as an example. What would happen, I would guess, is that all the major hospitals in the Stockholm area would immediately go up in flames. So who would take care of the several hundred thousand severely injured people from the edges of the bomb’s radius?’

‘Yes, who would do that?’ said Holger.

‘Not you or me, anyway,’ said Nombeko.

Holger, wanting to get out of that thirty-eight-mile radius as quickly as possible, drove onto the E4 and speeded up. Nombeko had to remind him that no matter how fast and far he drove it would still be thirty-eight miles to safety as long as he had what he did in the truck.

Then he slowed down again, thought a little more, and asked if Miss Nombeko couldn’t disarm the bomb herself, given that she’d been there when it was built. Nombeko replied that there were two types of atomic bomb: operative ones and inoperative ones. As luck would have it, the bomb they were driving around with was an operative one; it would take four or five hours to render it harmless. There hadn’t been enough time for this when things had suddenly got rushed down there in South Africa. And unfortunately, this particular bomb’s unique disarming diagram was in the hands of the Israelis. They were – as Holger could surely understand – not in any position to call Jerusalem and ask them to fax it over.

Holger nodded, looking anxious. Nombeko consoled him by saying that she thought the bomb could tolerate a great deal, so even if Holger slid off the road, chances were that he, she and Greater Stockholm would survive.

‘You think so?’ said Holger.

‘Of course, it would be best not to find out,’ said Nombeko. ‘Where did you say we’re going, by the way? Gnesta?’

‘Yes. And once we get there, our main task will be to get my brother to understand that he can’t use what we have in the truck to bring about a revolution.’

* * *

Sure enough, Holger lived in a condemned building. Nombeko thought it was quite charming. It was an L-shaped four-storey structure, and it was connected to a warehouse that was also L-shaped. Together the buildings formed a square or courtyard with a narrow entryway that led out to the street.

Nombeko thought it would be a waste to tear down the building. Yes, there was the occasional hole in the wooden stairs up to the floor where she had been told she could live. And she had been forewarned that several of the windows in her new apartment were covered with boards instead of glass. And that there was a draught from the cracks in the wooden walls. But all in all, it would be an enormous improvement on her shack in Soweto. Just take the fact that there were real boards for a floor in the condemned building, rather than trampled earth.

Using skids, hard work and ingenuity, Holger and Nombeko managed to get the atomic bomb out of the back of the truck and into a corner of the warehouse, which otherwise housed an awful lot of pillows. She and Holger hadn’t discussed it, but one didn’t need to be nearly as gifted as Nombeko possibly was to realize that he was in the pillow-selling and pillow-distributing business.

The bomb now stood crammed into a corner of the warehouse, posing no immediate threat. As long as none of the thousands of easily ignited pillows caught fire, there was reason to believe that Nyköping, Södertälje, Flen, Eskilstuna, Strängnäs and Stockholm and its environs would endure. Not to mention Gnesta.

As soon as the bomb was in the warehouse, Nombeko had a few questions. First this nonsense about Holger’s nonexistence. Then the part about Holger’s brother. What made Holger think that his brother would be tempted to use the bomb to bring about a revolution? And who was he, by the way? Where was he? And what was his name?

‘His name is Holger,’ said Holger. ‘And he’s around here somewhere, I imagine. It’s sheer luck he didn’t show up as we were dealing with the crate.’

‘Holger?’ said Nombeko. ‘Holger and Holger?’

‘Yes. He is me, you could say.’

Holger had to straighten things out this instant, otherwise Nombeko would leave. He could keep the bomb, though; she had had enough of it.

She piled pillows onto the crate in the warehouse, climbed up, and sat in one corner. Then she ordered Holger, who was still on the floor, to explain. Or, as she put it:

‘Explain!’

She didn’t know what to expect, but forty minutes later, when Holger was finished, she felt relieved.

‘Well, that doesn’t matter. If you don’t exist just because you don’t have any papers that say you do, you have no idea how many South Africans don’t either. I only exist because the numbskull of an engineer I slaved for needed me to, for his own convenience.’

Holger Two accepted Nombeko’s comforting words and climbed onto the crate himself; he lay down among the pillows in another corner and just breathed. It was all too much – first the bomb in the crate under them and then sharing his life story. For the first time, an outsider had heard the whole truth.

‘Are you staying or going?’ said Holger Two.

‘I’m staying,’ said Nombeko. ‘If I may?’

‘You may,’ said Holger Two. ‘But now I think I need some peace and quiet.’

‘Me, too,’ said Nombeko.

And then she settled down across from her new friend, so that she could just breathe, too.

At that moment, there was a cracking sound as a board came loose on one of the short ends of the crate containing the bomb.

‘What was that?’ said Holger Two, at the same instant that the next board fell to the ground and a woman’s arm stuck out.

‘I have my suspicions,’ said Nombeko, and they were immediately confirmed as three Chinese girls crawled out, blinking.

‘Hi,’ said the little sister when she caught sight of Nombeko.

‘Do you have anything to eat?’ said the middle sister.

‘And drink,’ suggested the big sister.

CHAPTER 10

On an unbribable prime minister and a desire to kidnap one’s king

Would this absurd day never end? Two was now sitting up in his bed of pillows, looking at the row of three girls who had just crawled out of the crate.

‘What is happening?’ he said.

Nombeko had been a bit worried about the girls, and about what would happen when the security arrangements were tightened up at Pelindaba. She was afraid that they would receive the fate that had been meant for her.

‘I don’t know what will happen next,’ she said, ‘because that’s apparently how life is. But what just happened was that we found out how the large package and the small package happened to switch places. Nice escape, girls!’

The Chinese girls were hungry after four days in the crate along with the bomb, four pounds of cold rice and five litres of water. They were escorted to Holger’s apartment, where they tasted blood pudding with lingonberries for the first time in their lives.

‘Reminds me of the clay we used to make geese out of,’ the middle sister said between mouthfuls. ‘Can I have seconds?’

When they were full, all three of them were tucked into Holger’s wide bed. They learned that they had been assigned the last somewhat functional apartment in the building, the one on the top floor, but it wouldn’t be habitable until a large hole in the wall of the living room had been taken care of.

‘I’m sorry you have to sleep in such crowded conditions tonight,’ said Holger Two to the girls, who had already fallen asleep.

* * *

A condemned building gets its name because it should and will be torn down. Only in exceptional cases do people reside in condemned buildings.

So one could say it was noteworthy that a single condemned building in Gnesta, Sörmland, now housed the following: one American potter, two very similar and dissimilar brothers, one angry young woman, one escaped South African refugee and three Chinese girls with poor judgement.

All of these people found themselves in nuclear-weapons-free Sweden. Right next door to a three-megaton atomic bomb.

Thus far, the list of nuclear nations had included the United States, the Soviet Union, Great Britain, France, China and India. Experts estimated their combined number of warheads at about sixty-five thousand. The same experts were in less agreement on how many times over these could destroy the Earth; after all, the strength of the loads varied. The pessimists guessed fourteen to sixteen times. The optimists guessed it was more like two.

South Africa could be added to the above list. So could Israel, although neither of them wanted to explain how that had come to pass. Perhaps Pakistan could be added, too: they’d been promising to develop their own nuclear weapons ever since India had set one off.

And now Sweden. If involuntarily. And without knowing it.

* * *

Holger and Nombeko left the Chinese girls where they were and went to the warehouse to have a talk in peace and quiet. There was the bomb, in its crate, with the pillows on top of it making it seem like a cosy corner, even though the situation wasn’t particularly cosy.

They climbed up on the crate again and sat at either end.

‘The bomb,’ said Holger Two.

‘We can’t just keep it here until it no longer poses a danger to the general public,’ said Nombeko.

Two felt hope igniting inside him. How long would that take?

‘Twenty-six thousand and two hundred years,’ said Nombeko. ‘Plus or minus three months.’

Two and Nombeko agreed that 26,200 years was too long to wait, even if luck was on their side when it came to the margin of error. Then Two explained what a political stick of dynamite the bomb was. Sweden was a neutral country and – according to itself – the world’s foremost representative of good ethics. The country believed itself to be absolutely free of nuclear weapons, and it hadn’t been involved in a war since 1809.

According to Holger Two, two things must happen: they had to hand the bomb over to the country’s leaders, and they had to do it so deftly as to avoid starting any rumours. Furthermore, there was a third thing – this manoeuvre should happen so quickly that Two’s brother and company didn’t have time to mess anything up.

‘So let’s do it,’ said Nombeko. ‘Who is your head of state?’

‘The king,’ said Holger. ‘But he’s not the one in charge.’

A boss who wasn’t in charge. Rather like Pelindaba. The engineer there had essentially done what Nombeko told him to, without understanding it himself.

‘So who is in charge, then?’

‘Well, the prime minister, I suppose.’

Holger Two told her that Sweden’s prime minister was named Ingvar Carlsson. He had become prime minister overnight after his predecessor, Olof Palme, was murdered in central Stockholm.

‘Call Carlsson,’ Nombeko suggested.

So Holger did. Or at least the government offices, where he asked for the prime minister and was transferred to his assistant.

‘Hello, my name is Holger,’ said Holger. ‘I would like to speak to Ingvar Carlsson about an urgent matter.’

‘I see, what might that be?’

‘Unfortunately I can’t say. It’s a secret.’

In his day, Olof Palme had been listed in the phone book. Any citizen who wanted something from his prime minister could just call him at home. If it wasn’t the children’s bedtime or the middle of dinner, he would simply pick up the phone.

But that was in the good old days. And those days had ended on 28 February 1986, when the bodyguard-less Palme was shot in the back after a trip to the cinema.

His successor was protected from the average Joe. His assistant replied that Mr Holger must certainly understand that under no circumstances could she allow unknown people to speak to the head of state.

‘But it’s important.’

‘Anyone could say that.’

‘Really important.’

‘No, I’m sorry. If you like you can write a letter to—’

‘It’s about an atomic bomb,’ said Holger.

‘I beg your pardon? Was that a threat?’

‘No, for Heaven’s sake. It’s the other way round. Or, well, the
bomb
is a threat, of course – that’s why I want to get rid of it.’

‘You want to get rid of your atomic bomb? And you’re calling the prime minister to give it away?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘I can tell you that people very frequently try to give things to the prime minister. Just last week there was an obstinate appliance dealer who wanted to send over a new washing machine. But the prime minister does not accept that sort of gift, and that also goes for . . . atomic bombs? Are you quite sure this isn’t some sort of threat?’

Holger assured her once more that he didn’t mean any harm. He realized he wasn’t going to get any further, so he thanked her for nothing and said goodbye.