Another Time, Another Life by Leif G. W. Persson Read Free Book Online

activity as well, then he (for it was almost always a he) or (in exceptional cases) she would have discovered that as a rule the sitting was in vain. It was exactly like hunting or fishing, uncertainty and waiting were basically the whole idea, and whether or not you got anything it was, at least to start with, exciting enough.
    The catch that their informant had promised this time wasn’t bad either. According to the informant, who in the name of discretion lacked all identifying features but in reality was almost always a man with a criminal record, an internationally wanted Iranian drug dealer atthe wholesale level would show up around six p.m. to have dinner and discuss a little business with a like-minded countryman.
    Jarnebring, who had neither been born yesterday nor recently fallen off a cart, had of course asked the informant why in such a case the Iranians would choose to hold this get-together at a restaurant that with good reason was known for its Swedish home cooking, but the informant had an answer: “Saddam is an ace at not giving himself away, likes sort of exotic settings you know, and besides he’s crazy about Swedish meatballs.”
    Sounds almost too good to be true, Jarnebring had thought. Because he was also an incorrigible optimist and interested in both hunting and fishing, he had been sitting there for the past two hours. The last half hour, however, had felt a little long, and to get a break from the tedium he had turned on the police radio to listen to the action playing out down in City.
    Despite the cacophony on the radio he had also heard the call about an ongoing violent crime in an apartment on Rådmansgatan, but because he was familiar with the address and those who lived there—a nice block with conscientious middle-aged, middle-class residents—he understood at once that the person who had called was certainly an older woman who would not get worked up unnecessarily.
    He still thought that when the second call came in, but he also noted that the voice of his female colleague on the radio was starting to sound a trifle dejected. So when a short time later she dispatched the call for the third time, now actually sounding a little beleaguered, he sighed, took the radio microphone from its holder, and replied.
    “Jarnebring here,” he said into the microphone. “Can I help you, little lady?” What meatballs, he thought sourly.
    So the Iranian lived on, and presumably he and the informant were sitting in a completely different part of the city chowing down couscous and roast goat, or whatever that sort usually ate, while they laughed their heads off at all the dumb cops cultivating their hemorrhoids in the worn-down front seat of an increasingly chilly unmarked car.
    “Let’s forget about the gook,” said Jarnebring to his colleague. “Drive to Rådmansgatan.”
    She merely nodded without answering. She looked surly, thought Jarnebring. Probably because of that “little lady” remark. She was rather good-looking, if you liked dark-haired ladies. Personally he preferred blondes. And the occasional redhead, provided she was a genuine redhead. Although of course they weren’t that common, he thought.
    But she could drive a car, he had to admit that, for in just over two minutes and after two U-turns she had taken them from the west end of Tegnérgatan to the address in question on Rådmansgatan. And en route he had obtained an entry code to the outside door from the “little lady” at the command center. On the other hand she had not produced a key to the apartment door, but he could take care of that with the help of the bag of police accessories he kept in the storage compartment of the car.
    “Let’s do this,” said Jarnebring as she stopped the car outside the entryway on Rådmansgatan. “I’ll take the walkie-talkie and check the apartment, and you kill anyone who tries to sneak out onto the street.”
    Now she actually smiled. She really is good-looking, thought Jarnebring