Hitman Anders and the Meaning of It All (11 page)

T
he priest turned off at another sufficiently deserted rest area on the outskirts of Borås to discuss their impending and absolutely necessary change of vehicle. Instead, what arose was a 100-percent chance for the priest and the receptionist to be rid of the unwanted portion of their baggage once and for all.

Because the camper had no sooner stopped than Hitman Anders opened the door and hopped out.

“Aaaah,” he said, stretching his arms and body. “I'll be jiggered if I'm not going have a little stroll in God's beautiful creation!”

Yes, he certainly would be. Jesus had given his approval at once, but he also pointed out that the air was chilly and it would probably be a good idea to bring along a bottle of something warming. For example, a far too cold Pinot Noir.

“I'll be gone for half an hour. Or even longer if I find any porcini mushrooms,
Boletus edulis
, along the way. Just so you know, in case you want to have a spot of hanky-panky while I'm out,” Hitman Anders said, as he put the bottle into his back pocket and departed.

When he was out of eye- and earshot, the priest said to the receptionist, “Who taught him what porcini mushrooms are called in Latin?”

“Not me. I didn't know it until just now myself. But who
hasn't
taught him that you can't find them in April?”

The priest was silent. Then she said, “I don't know. I don't know anything anymore.”

The plan had been to take the first possible chance to separate themselves and the money permanently from the man who was, at that moment, wandering around nearby on the hunt for mushrooms that were at least four months away.

But now there was a note of fatigue in the conversation between the priest and the receptionist. Or of resignation. And it was mixed up with a faint hint of . . .

What?

Possibilities?

Should they just take off now, as fast as the camper allowed, when so many parameters had shifted in such a short space of time? Like the fact that Hitman Anders had gone from being Sweden's least favorite person to its most favorite in just a day or two.

They needed a fresh analysis of the situation. Suddenly they were driving around with a man whose fame rivalled that of Elvis Presley.

“Although Elvis is dead,” the receptionist mused.

“From time to time I find myself thinking that life would be more peaceful if Hitman Anders were keeping him company. Preferably along with most of the rest of humanity, but what can you do?” said the priest.

The inherent threats of being in Hitman Anders's vicinity were clear. But the same went for the possibilities. A person who dearly loved money couldn't just dump the next Elvis in the nearest ditch.

“Let's wait for Mr. Wandering-Around-in-the-Woods to come back and then I think we should start by driving into BorÃ¥s to buy a bigger camper, as different from this one as we can find,” said the receptionist.

The priest agreed. Logistics was more Per Persson's specialty than her own. But then she changed her mind. “Or else we start by doing what he suggested.”

“Who?”

“The mushroom picker.”

“You mean . . . hanky-panky?”

Yes, that was what she meant.

T
he priest and the receptionist walked arm in arm into the offices of BorÃ¥s's leading, and possibly only, RV dealership. They called each other “darling” and “dearest,” respectively, in the presence of the dealer and gave the impression of being more or less genuine. This took place while Hitman Anders was hiding two blocks away with the vehicle that had nearly reached the end of its life. Without mushrooms, but with a Bible and a bottle of communion for company.

Both the priest and the receptionist fell for a Hobby 770 Sphinx. Not least because of the option for a
chambre séparée
.

The price, 660,000 kronor, was not an issue. Or, rather, it was.

“Cash?” said the dealer, looking discouraged.

This was the type of situation that brought out the best in the priest. She started by loosening the scarf that had hidden her clerical collar until that moment. And then she asked what was wrong with cash. The day before, the police had had to give back the very cash that
Hitman Anders
—God bless him!—had donated to the Red Cross and the Salvation Army.

The dealer was, of course, fully up to date on the nation's number-one news story and hesitantly admitted that the priest had a point. But 660,000 kronor?

If he thought the amount was troublingly high, she was sure they could agree on a lower one. In which case the difference would, of
course, be given in full to the international work done by the Church of Sweden. “Which, incidentally, has no problem with cash payments. But if this dealership doesn't want to sell a vehicle to be used in our battle against hunger, I suppose we'll have to look elsewhere.”

The priest nodded in farewell, took her receptionist by the arm, and began to walk away.

Ten minutes later, all the paperwork was done. Priest and receptionist got into their new camper and drove away—upon which the receptionist was finally able to ask, “Our battle against hunger?”

“I was improvising. Listen, I'm hungry. What do you say to the McDonald's drive-thru?”

* * *

Everyone who longed to meet the new national hero Hitman Anders (and that was a lot of people!) took an extra look each time an RV happened to pass. The more professionally inclined private investigators posed questions like, Was that a 2008 Elnagh Duke 310 that just drove by? And, if so, what kind of wheel rims did it have? Were they original or not?

The trio would shake off the pros by ditching the count's vehicle, and that was the next item on their agenda.

But for the blissfully ignorant, a camper was a camper. Change of vehicle or no, the priest, the receptionist, and the people's hero would constantly be subjected to the eyes of curious citizens. Could Hitman Anders be seen in the front seat? Was that a woman (who, according to witness testimony, looked as women usually look) behind the wheel?

The only solution was to leave the count's camper behind and to do so as vociferously as possible. And, to be on the safe side, at a good distance from Borås.

After a drive through a fast-food joint followed by a trouble-free
stop at Systembolaget and another at a gas station, to fuel both humans and vehicle, the journey continued on towards the northeast. The plan for the next day was locked, loaded, and ready to go.

Hitman Anders had been an endless nag ever since the Queen had suggested he give away another half-million kronor in Jesus's name. To the children this time! The priest and the receptionist had finally given in. Not so much for the children's sake, but because it would give them the chance to make a scene when they left the count's camper behind. They could do it outside the headquarters of Save the Children in Sundbyberg, north of Stockholm.

After a number of run-throughs, Hitman Anders said he understood the plan. Three run-throughs later, the priest and the receptionist started to believe him. All that remained was the journey there.

The receptionist sat behind the wheel of the old camper; the priest was in the new one, with Hitman Anders hidden behind the curtains in the company of his Bible.

Somewhere near the halfway point, the entourage stopped for the night. Hitman Anders snored in one vehicle; the priest and receptionist would soon do the same in the other, but first . . . Well, a couple had to cuddle when the opportunity arose.

* * *

One had to give Hitman Anders credit—he would sit for long periods, paging through his Bible. He especially liked to collect quotations that included examples of generosity. It had felt so good to give. And now he felt the same about the gratitude that washed over him via newspapers and social media.

Night became morning: time to cruise on towards Sundbyberg. The priest returned to the vehicle that contained Hitman Anders and found he was already awake, with his nose in Exodus.

“Good morning to you, Mini-Jesus. You haven't forgotten the plan, have you?”

“Just think how much of a beating you would have gotten for that only a few weeks ago,” said Hitman Anders. “No, I haven't forgotten. But I want to write the letter to Save the Children myself.”

“Well, get to it, then. We have just a few hours to go. That book you're reading is several thousand years old, not likely to change.”

The priest was feeling annoyed for no reason. It was no use provoking the saved man. It was just that . . . this was never the way it was supposed to turn out . . . The hitman wasn't supposed to be part of her life with the receptionist . . . and their little group was not supposed to be attracting the attention of Sweden and parts of the rest of the world.

But that was how it was. And she had to find her footing in this new situation. After all, there was some power to be found in the fact that the hitman had become a superstar and Scandinavia's most admired man of the moment. A power that could lead to something good—that is, money—in the priest and the receptionist's tiny personal war against humanity. Or whichever label one wanted to attach to their lifelong battle.

But every war (even those waged against existence as such) required soldiers to fight it. And soldiers were most useful if they were kept content.

“Sorry,” said the priest to Hitman Anders, who was already in the process of authoring his letter.

“Sorry for what?” he said, without looking up.

“Sorry I was so irritable,” said the priest.

“Were you?” said Hitman Anders. “I finished my letter. Want to hear? ‘Dear Save the Children. In Jesus's name I want to give you five hundred thousand kronor so more children can get saved. Hallelujah! Exodus 21:2. Regards, Hitman Anders PS: Now I'll get in my red Volvo and drive away.'”

The priest grabbed the hitman's Bible, looked up Exodus 21:2,
and wondered what he was trying to get across with “When you buy a male Hebrew slave, he shall serve for six years, but in the seventh he shall go out a free person, without debt.”

Hitman Anders said he had liked the part about being set free for free . . . Didn't the priest think there was something generous about that?

“After six years as a slave?”

“Yes?”

“No.”

The letter was more than a little stupid, but that wasn't a battle the priest wanted to fight. The part about the Volvo, Hitman Anders said, was a way to make people stop looking for him in a camper.

The priest said she'd understood that.

* * *

And then they arrived. The priest parked the count's camper at an angle, halfway up on the sidewalk, just outside the entrance to Save the Children on Landsvägen 39 in Sundbyberg. They left a parcel labeled “To Save the Children” on the driver's seat. Inside the package: Hitman Anders's letter, with 480,000 kronor (because he had miscounted).

While the priest and the receptionist waited around the corner with the camper that should not be linked to Hitman Anders at any price, the hitman walked through the doors, took the elevator up, and was greeted by a friendly woman at the reception desk who didn't immediately recognize him.

“God's peace,” said Hitman Anders. “They call me Hitman Anders, although I'm not a hitman anymore and I don't do other stupid stuff either, at least not on purpose. Instead, I hand out money to good causes in Jesus's name. I think Save the Children is a good cause.
I want to give you half a million kronor . . . Well, actually, I want to give you more, but for now it's half a million and that's not exactly cat piss. Excuse my language. You learn so many bad words when you're inside. Where was I? Oh, yeah, the money's in a package in my camper, and it's right outside . . . Well, it's not my camper. The name of the man who owns it is the count, no, it's not, but he's called the count, and you're welcome to give the camper back to him later on as long as you take the money out first. Well, I guess that's it. I wish you a blessed day in Jesus's name . . . Hosanna!”

With the concluding “Hosanna!” Hitman Anders gave a pious smile and turned around to take the elevator back down. All while the woman at the reception desk continued to not say a word.

Once he was out on the street, the hitman walked around the corner and was very thoroughly gone by the time the police's sniffer dog indicated, one and a half hours later, that the package in the front seat of the white camper outside the entrance to Save the Children was safe to open.

While the dog worked, the police tried to coax the bewildered woman into telling them what Hitman Anders had said beyond “Hosanna.”

* * *

“Hitman Anders Strikes Again!” read one of the many headlines but, ambiguity notwithstanding, no one misunderstood the context. Everyone was in the know; everyone was aware that a killer was on the loose and that this killer handed out money to those in need instead of dispatching them.

Yet another PR success, with one minor flaw: Save the Children had received not the promised half-million kronor, but only 480,000. Oh, well, they were still happy.

The police's coaxing of the woman at the desk had brought results. After a few hours, she had managed to share just about everything Hitman Anders had told her. This included the nonsense about how the camper was owned by a count who wasn't a count. This information ended up in the newspapers as well, and led not only to the restoration of the camper to its owner (officially, it belonged to one of the countess's dealerships) but also to a literate civil servant with the Tax Authority, who was able to open a dormant tax case, find the count, and serve him a notice of unpaid back taxes for 1,064,000 kronor.

“We said we were going to carve him up slowly, from the bottom up, right?” said the count.

“Yes,” said his countess. “Very slowly, please.”

* * *

Given the circumstances, the priest was satisfied with this development. While she, the receptionist, and their new Elvis continued to travel around in a camper (albeit of a different sort), all of the hero's fans were now looking for a red Volvo. What was more, a certain blogger in Hässleholm had completely lost her grip and gone to stand outside the local police station, shouting, “A red Volvo! I told you I saw a red Volvo!” until she was chased off with the help of a dog.

At this point, as the priest saw it, they had two paths to choose from. One was that which they had already discussed: make sure to separate the priest, the receptionist, and the suitcases from the hitman and go up in smoke. That would be the most peaceful choice.

The other path was to reap the fruits of the hitman's enormous popularity. And the priest had thought of a way to make that happen.

“Start a church? And name it after Hitman Anders?” said the receptionist. “The Church of Hitman Anders?”

“Yes. Or maybe we'll get rid of the ‘hitman' part. That could easily send the wrong signal,” said the priest.

“Why would we start a church? I thought your life—like my own—was based on hating as many people as possible as much as possible, including God, Jesus, and all of that.”

The priest muttered that it was difficult to hate what doesn't exist, but the receptionist was perfectly correct beyond that.

“But this is about running a business,” she said. “Have you ever heard the word ‘collection'? Elvis is back. And he loves to give away money. Who doesn't want to be like Elvis?”

“Me?”

“Who else?”

“You?”

“Who else?”

“Not many people,” the receptionist admitted.