The Abominable Man (22 page)

Hult said nothing more and his face was expressionless, but he clenched his meaty red fists so the knuckles stood out like bone-white spots beneath the skin.

As far as anyone knew, the man on the roof hadn’t made a move since taking target practice on the abandoned patrol car an hour before.

Despite the fact that they were now studying the building through field glasses, no one actually knew if he was even still alive. And so far the police hadn’t fired a single shot.

“But the net is closing,” said Malm, looking pleased.

This cliché was so moth-eaten that no one even had the strength to smile inwardly. What’s more, for once it gave a fairly accurate picture of the situation.

Police had infiltrated the entire block the apartment house stood in. Most of them were equipped with walkie-talkies and could maintain contact with each other and with the mobile radio control parked outside the old hospital gate. There were tear-gas experts in the attics of the nearest buildings, and sharpshooters lay ready at what were considered important strategic points.

“There are only two such points,” said Gunvald Larsson. “The roof of the Bonnier Building and the cupola of Gustav Vasa Church. Do you think the minister will let us send a sniper up in his steeple?”

No one was really listening to him.

The immediate plan had been determined. First, the man on the roof would be given a chance to surrender. Failing that, he would be taken by force, or shot. No more policemen’s lives were to be risked. The decisive action would be taken from outside the building.

Hook-and-ladder trucks stood waiting on Observatoriegatan and Odengatan, ready to go into action if the situation seemed to demand it. They were manned by firemen, since someone had to operate the machinery, but also by policemen in firemen’s uniforms.

Martin Beck and Rönn were able to contribute some important information. Namely that Eriksson—if it was Eriksson, that reservation still had to be made—was armed with an American-made Johnson automatic rifle
and an ordinary army model semi-automatic rifle, both of them probably equipped with telescopic sights. Also with a target pistol, type Hammerli.

“Johnson automatic,” said Gunvald Larsson. “Jesus Christ. It weighs less than fifteen pounds and it’s exceptionally easy to handle and it’s as good as a machine gun. Has a short recoil and raps out a hundred and sixty rounds a minute.”

The only one listening was Rönn, who grunted thoughtful assent.

Then he yawned. No one got the better of nature.

“And with the Mauser he can hit a louse on a visiting card at six hundred meters. With good visibility and a little luck he could hit a man at over a thousand.”

Kollberg, who was leaning over a map of the city, nodded.

“Imagine what he can do just to amuse himself,” said Gunvald Larsson.

Gunvald Larsson had been amusing himself by working out ranges. From the roof where he’d entrenched himself, Eriksson lay 150 meters from the intersection of Odengatan and Hälsingegatan, 250 from the central hospital at Mount Sabbath, 300 from Gustav Vasa Church, 500 meters from the Bonnier Building, 1,000 from the first skyscraper at Hötorget, and 1,100 from the City Hall.

Malm waved away these observations patronizingly and irritably.

“Yes, yes,” he said. “Don’t worry about that now.”

The only one who wasn’t thinking much about tear-gas bombs and helicopters, water cannon and walkie-talkies was Martin Beck.

He was standing quietly in a corner, and not just because of his usual claustrophobia and aversion to crowds.
He was thinking about Åke Eriksson and the circumstances that had driven the man into the absurd and desperate situation in which he now obviously found himself. It was possible that Eriksson’s mind was now completely in eclipse, that he was beyond communication and human contact, but it wasn’t certain. Someone was responsible for all of this. Not Nyman, because he had never understood what responsibility for human beings actually meant, or even that such an idea existed. Not Malm of course, for whom Eriksson was quite simply a dangerous madman on a roof, with no other connection to the police than that it was their job, one way or another, to put him out of action.

And Martin Beck felt something growing stronger and stronger in his mind. A sense of guilt, a guilt he might actively have to come to terms with.

Ten minutes later, the man on the roof shot a patrolman standing on the corner of Odengatan and Torsgatan, five hundred meters from the window from which the shot had clearly been fired. The surprising thing was not so much the distance as the fact that he’d been able to get a clear shot through all the leafless branches in the park.

However it happened, the shot went home, striking the patrolman in the shoulder. Since he was wearing a bulletproof vest, the wound was not too serious, at least not critical.

Eriksson fired just that one shot—maybe it was some kind of a show of strength, or a purely reflex action. A demonstration of the fact that he shot at policemen wherever he could find them.

“Is it possible he’s got the little girl up there with him?” Kollberg asked suddenly. “As a hostage?”

Rönn shook his head.

The child was in good hands, out of danger.

Out of danger from her father? Had she ever been in danger in his presence?

A little while later everything was ready for the crucial assault.

Malm inspected the specially trained policemen who were to carry out the capture itself. Or liquidation, if that proved to be necessary. In all probability it would prove to be necessary. No one seriously believed that the man on the roof would simply surrender. But of course the possibility existed. Many similar situations in criminal history had ended with the desperado—the universally accepted term for persons of Eriksson’s type—suddenly growing tired of the whole affair and giving himself up to superior force.

The specialists who were to put an end to the terror—the same old well-worn expressions cropped up again and again, there didn’t seem to be any others—were two young policemen with comprehensive training in hand-to-hand combat and surprise attack.

Martin Beck also went out and talked to them.

One of them was a redhead named Lenn Axelsson. His smile had a sort of hard-won self-assurance that was very likable. The other was blonder and more serious but inspired equal confidence. Both were volunteers, though the special branch of the force they represented took it for granted that even difficult assignments would be executed promptly and voluntarily.

They both seemed clever and pleasant, and their faith in their own ability was infectious. Good, dependable men, with first-rate training. The department had no great abundance of such men—capable, brave, and far more intelligent than average. Thanks to both theoretical and practical instruction, they were well acquainted with
what was expected of them. It seemed somehow that the whole exercise would go off smoothly and easily. These boys knew their special job and were very sure of themselves. Axelsson joked and even told and laughed at a story of how, as a cadet, he had approached Martin Beck with a show of camaraderie, and less than the most fortunate results. Martin Beck couldn’t remember the incident at all, but to be on the safe side he laughed anyway, if somewhat weakly.

The two men were well equipped, with bulletproof vests as well as bulletproof breeches. Steel helmets with plexiglass visors, gas masks and, as their primary armament, light, effective automatic weapons of the kind called machine-pistols in Sweden. They also carried tear-gas grenades for all eventualities, and their physical training guaranteed that in case of hand-to-hand combat, either one of them could easily overpower a person like Åke Eriksson.

The plan of attack was seductively simple and direct. The man on the roof was first to be put out of action by a concentrated rain of tear-gas cartridges and grenades, then the helicopters would fly in low and set down the two police commandos on either side of the criminal. He would be taken from two directions and, already incapacitated by gas, his chances should be minimal.

Only Gunvald Larsson seemed opposed to the plan, but he couldn’t manage or wouldn’t take the trouble to state any objection other than that, in spite of everything, he still preferred the idea of trying to get at Eriksson from inside the building.

“We’re going to do this the way I say,” said Malm. “I don’t want any more risky schemes and personal heroics. These boys have been trained for situations like this. We know they’ve got a ninety percent chance of succeeding.
And the prospects of at least one of them making it completely uninjured are just about one hundred percent. So no more amateurish objections. Understood?”

“Understood,” said Gunvald Larsson. “Heil Hitler!”

Malm jumped as if someone had run him through with a red-hot poker.

“I won’t forget that,” he said. “You can count on it.”

Everyone in hearing looked at Gunvald Larsson reproachfully. Even Rönn, who was standing beside him.

“That was a hell of a dumb thing to say, Gunvald,” he said under his breath.

“Says you,” said Gunvald Larsson dryly.

So the final phase began, calmly and systematically. An amplifier truck was driven up through the hospital grounds to almost in sight of the roof. But only almost. The speaker horn was aimed, and Malm’s voice thundered up toward the besieged building. He said exactly what everyone had a right to expect him to say.

“Attention, please! This is Superintendent Malm. I don’t know you, Mr. Eriksson, and you don’t know me. But I can give you my word as a professional that it’s all over. You’re surrounded, and our resources are unlimited. But we don’t want to use more force than the situation demands, especially considering all the innocent women and children and other civilians who are still in the danger area. You’ve already caused enough, more than enough suffering, Eriksson. You now have ten minutes in which to surrender of your own free will. Like a man of honor. I beg you, for your own sake, show some compassion, and accept the compassion we offer you now.”

It sounded fine.

But there was no answer. Not even a shot.

“I wonder if he’s acted in anticipation of events,” Malm said to Martin Beck.

Yes, the language really was impoverished.

Exactly ten minutes later the helicopters took off.

They whirled out in wide arcs, at first quite high, and then moved in toward the roof with its small balconies and two penthouse apartments. From two directions.

At the same time, tear-gas projectiles began to rain down on the building from every side. A few of them broke windows and exploded inside, but most of them landed on the roof and the balconies.

Gunvald Larsson was in perhaps the best position to follow the events of the final phase. He had gone up to the roof of the Bonnier Building and was lying behind the parapet. When the tear-gas bombs started popping and the sickly clouds of gas began spreading out across the roof, he stood up and put his field glasses to his eyes.

The helicopters carried out their pincer movement impeccably. The one from the south arrived a little before the other, but that was according to plan.

Now it was already hovering over the south part of the roof. The plexiglass bubble opened and the crew started lowering the commando on a line. It was the redhead, Axelsson, and he looked formidable in his bulletproof clothing, his machine gun grasped firmly in both hands. Gas grenades hooked to his belt.

Two feet from the ground he lifted his face guard and started putting on his gas mask. He came closer and closer to the roof, the machine gun at the ready in the crook of his right arm.

And now Eriksson, if that’s who it was, should come stumbling out of the cloud of gas and throw down his weapons.

When likable, red-haired Axelsson was six inches from the roof, a single shot was fired. Bulletproof clothing may be all very well, but it can never protect the entire face.

In spite of the distance, Gunvald Larsson could see all the details. The body, which gave a start and went limp, even the bullet hole between the eyes.

The helicopter leaped upwards, paused for several seconds, then swept across the tops of the buildings and in over the hospital complex, with the dead policeman dangling on a line from the body of the ship. The machine gun was still hanging on its sling, and the dead man’s arms and legs swayed limply in the wind.

He had never got the gas mask more than halfway on.

For the first time, Gunvald Larsson now caught a glimpse of the man on the roof. A tall figure in some kind of an overall shifted position quickly not far from the chimney. He couldn’t spot any weapon, but he saw clearly that the man was wearing a gas mask.

The second helicopter had broken off its part of the pincer movement from the north and now hovered motionless several yards above the roof, the door in its plexiglass bubble already open, stormtrooper number two ready to descend.

And then came the fusillade. The man on the roof had gone back to his Johnson automatic and in less than a minute fired off at least a hundred rounds. The shots could not be seen, but the range was so short that almost all of them must have struck.

The helicopter swept away toward Vasa Park, wobbled, and lost altitude. Missed the top of the Eastman Institute by inches, tried with a roar to right itself, slipped sideways and crashed thunderously in the middle of the park, where it lay on its side like a shotgunned crow.

The first helicopter was already back at the takeoff point with a dead policeman swinging between its landing gear. It came down on the gas works lot. Axelsson’s
body bounced on the ground and was dragged for several yards.

The rotors stopped.

Then came the impotent substitute for revenge. Hundreds of different weapons belched out bullets toward the building on Dalagatan. Few of them with any definite target, and none of them with any effect.

The police opened fire, futilely, but presumably to regain their courage. Shots were fired from hopeless angles and impossible ranges.

No shots were fired from the Bonnier Building or from Gustav Vasa Church.