2004 11 09
Do a Technic Dive!
Hide a Convicted
It was a dark and misty morning. Parliamentary librarian Erik Stattin jumped off his Scott Sportster Limited at the corner of Västmannagatan and Storkyrkobrinken, the small Stockholm street between the House of Nobility, built 1641 – 1672 by Jean de la Vallée, and Storkyrkan, the Stockholm cathedral, once the place where Laurentius Petri had held the first flaming antipapal sermons in Sweden, situated at the ill-fated and ominous market place where the Danish king decapitated the leaders of the Swedish nobility, above all the followers of Sten Sture, in 1520. Stattin strapped off his helmet and rushed up the library stairs – he had a long night behind him, blogging all over the place, and was rather late. Little did he know the fateful events that he would have to go through before the foggy autumn day would come to its tragic end.
In S:t Basil’s cathedral, at the south end of the Moscow Red Square with its unique cluster of colors and shapes, in some lights ominous and foreboding, in other joyous and playful, but always the ultimate symbol of Russia, a group of 12 monks, covered in dark cloaks had gathered in a small chapel at the far end of the main nave. The leader bade silence and imparted on his followers the frightful news:
'Putanashvili has found the secret documents! His agents will lay rhubarbs on them this very day!'
Each member of the group, the terrible OD, knew what this meant. Putanashvili’s agents must be incapacitated or preferably killed at all costs.
Res ipsa loquitur!
No clients yet. Stattin was leisurely sipping his cup of
Orange Pekoe when he suddenly woke up from his daydreams about social software. He turned abruptly and saw a young woman approaching. She was moving down the corridor towards him dressed casually in a knee-length, cream-colored Irish sweater over black leggings. Her thick burgundy hair fell unstyled to her shoulders, framing the warmth of her face. ‘My God’, thought Stattin,’ it is Yvonne Ruwaida!
Oh Draconian devil! Oh lame saint!’
Stattin studied the beautiful young woman before him. But before he could say anything she started to speak in a low husky voice not unlike that of Marlene Dietrich: ‘Mr. Stattin, Erik, I may call you Erik, yes? Are you man enough to help me to detect one of the most earth shattering secrets on earth? Of course you are.’ Yvonne opened her handbag and took out what looked like an old parchment from the beginning of the 20th century and gave to Stattin. He studied it carefully. At first the text seemed utterly meaningless:
PÅ IS KET
shook his head. Obviously an anagram but for what? TEPÅS..no, that didn’t work. SIT PÅ EK, could that be it? Something sitting on something made out of oak wood? No. But suddenly it dawned upon him, he grabbed Ruwaida by the hand and dragged her to an old brown cupboard that had moved many times with the library through its various wanderings through the city. No one had ever opened it before but on the top shelf lay a dusty old document case. Stattin took it out carefully . Ruwaida looked at him in amazement and admiration. ‘How did you know?’ ‘I solved the anagram’ said Erik smilingly. His smile, however, froze on his lips when he saw the text on the label of the document case:
DETECT NORSE SCUM
“une autre anagramme –merde, alors!” he cursed silently to himself. Could the text have something to do with the dissolution of the Union with Norway – maybe the box contained a list of Norweigan traitors? But Ruwaida had another suggestion. ‘It should probably be
DESTRUCTS CEO MEN
- certainly some information that can be used in order to redress the gender balance in executive management. Or perhaps it could be a distress call from someone called Ernst who has been attacked by a female university student and should read:
COED CUTS ME ERNST
But Erik had already found the solution. ‘No my warm-faced burgundy-colored princess, the anagram reads simply:
Yvonne was silent for a minute but then she cried out: ‘Oh great-grandfather, so you were right after all!’
President Vladimir Putin, the virtual dictator of the vast Russian empire, sat in his private Ilushin X 47 and sipped leisurely on a glass of Moet et Chandon. Any moment now, his most trusted confidant would lay rhubarbs on the file of secret documents, hidden in the Parliamentary Library of Stockholm since 1905. ‘And then’, he thought. He would finally have the means to exterminate the only group that could prevent him from grabbing absolute power over the oil industry: the ancient and illustrious order of OD, Oligarchi Dudodeci, the twelve oligarchs.
Ruwaida looked Erik deep into his eyes and told him the following story. ‘My great-grandfather participated in the 5th conference of the Russian social democratic party in Stockholm 1905. He told me that Stalin, who was also present, knew that he was going to be arrested by the Swedish police at hotel Bristol on Klara Östra Kyrkogata, in the heart of the old Klara district situated approximately where the perfumery department of Åhlens’ department store now is. Before he was arrested he succeeded to smuggle certain important papers to his friend Z. Höglund who hid them in this Library but no one knew exactly where.’
Suddenly they heard a noise as if someone was coming up the stairs . Yvonne grabbed Erik’s hand and throw herself into his arms. ‘You must help me’, she said, ‘he is coming after me and the papers. He is going to kill me or at least verbally harass me.’
Sobbing and crying (the sacred feminine
, thought Erik), Yvonne told him the rest of the story. ‘There are papers in there showing that Putin's real name is Volodja Putanashvili and that he is the direct descendant of Josip Vissarionovitch Dugashvili, better known as Stalin and the famous Spanish resistance fighter Dolores Ibarrui, better known as la Putana
. He is the legitimate heir to all of Stalin’s wealth.’
Yvonne paused and continued. ‘Before he died my grandfather gave me a key to a safety box in Enskilda Banken which contains enormous amounts (50 million rubles!) of gold and foreign currencies put together by Lenin in the event that the Soviet Empire would collapse. It was sent by Stalin to Stockholm in 1928. I was going to use it to develop renewable sources of energy! But Putin’s agent is coming up the stairs right now to lay rhubarbs on the secret papers and the loot!’
Erik knew this story to be true since
it had once been told to him by an old friend from Midsommarkransen
. But there was little he could do now because at this very moment an evil-looking man with a cruel and contemptuous smirk on his face approached the library reception desk. ‘My God’, whispered Ruwaida, ‘it is Lars Ohly!
Chapters 6 – 147 somewhat later.
Vienna Nov 2004 11 09
Bengt O. Karlsson
(all mistakes, geographical and other are intentional and used as a means of style imitation).