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She had been deceived so many times, had paid friendship premiums which, when the insurance policy matured, turned out to contain nothing but unpaid deductibles. Now was another time—the time of freedom— and no police officer in the world, however well-meaning she seemed, was going to be allowed to alter Laura’s plans.

A couple of days, then she would conquer that little restaurant by the sea. A small pub, whose crooked doors never closed properly, with one table that leaned worryingly and where the staff never asked if you wanted the check. An establishment that at the next severe fall storm risked being pulled out to sea and churned into firewood.

This pub existed. Laura knew it. She had seen it once.

Twenty-four

Gusten Ander had no blood ties to the infamous murderer, the one who was the last man to be executed in Sweden. The fact that they shared the same name was something that Ander had had pointed out to him many times, but more so before. Now it was rare that anyone joked about his name. It was because of the worsening school system, he believed, or because oral storytelling traditions had changed. One hundred years ago the hunt for Alfred Ander and the dramatic execution was the climax of a thrilling tale. Now it was everyday fare. Who reacted if someone was executed? That happened on TV every day.

Therefore he was amazed when his young opponent, after some hesitation, posed the question. Gusten Ander smiled enigmatically and continued setting up his pieces.

“Could be,” he said after a while.

The young man, Tobias Sandström, who Ander judged to be about nineteen years, gave him a quick glance, dropped the black queen on the floor, and blushed.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

“I’m amazed you’ve heard the story.”

“We read about it at school and of course it’s a pretty exciting thing,” Tobias said and overturned both of Ander’s theories in one blow.

“White or black, that is the question,” he said and held out both hands.

Tobias pointed to the right one and got black. Ander made a move immediately and Tobias started by thinking and that made Ander thoughtful in turn. Is it really so much to think about? he thought irritably.

Then Tobias made his move and Ander countered at once.

“Are you new to the club?” Ander asked and broke one of his own principles: never to begin a personal conversation during a game.

Tobias nodded and moved.

“Recently moved,” he said curtly, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes.

Ander smiled quietly to himself and made his move.

The unexpected attack came at the eleventh move. But perhaps it wasn’t so unexpected, Ander had seen almost everything, but the way in which the young player proceeded bewildered Ander for several moments.

He countered immediately and was convinced the game would be over in a dozen more moves. He sighed, another strike against his own rules, and waited for the next move, which was what he had foreseen.

A couple of minutes later he lost his second piece. Sandström attacked with a pawn and left the board free for a bishop that now threatened a white knight.

Ander bounced off his chair.

“I have it!” he cried.

All the players in the room looked up in terror. Afterward Jonasson would tell over and over again for those that could be bothered to listen how the silence after Ander’s outburst had felt intensely frightening.

“You are trying the variant from Barcelona!” he said loudly.

Ander looked around the large room. He could not complain about the lack of attention.

“You remember it, right?”

Everyone looked blank except Lind, who was a chess historian of a high order.

Lind left his game, came over, and stopped to study the board.

“Do you remember the name of that Basque?” he asked.

“Sure,” Ander said absently.

“In the middle of a raging civil war. Do you remember what Lundin wrote?” Lind continued, and lost himself in a discussion of the late nineteen thirties. He had written an article about the world championships in Argentina that started on the same day as World