The Terrorists (27 page)

“I’ve no objection to that,” said Skacke.

Gunvald Larsson again spat contemptuously out the window.

Melander nodded to himself. He had been a policeman for thirty-four years and would soon be fifty-five. He had quite a lot to lose by suspension or possible dismissal.

“No,” he said finally. “I can’t say like Benny that I’ve no objection. But I’m prepared to take calculated risks. This is one.”

Gunvald Larsson looked at his watch. Martin Beck followed his glance and said, “Yes, it’ll soon be time.”

“Shall we stick strictly to the plan?” Gunvald Larsson asked.

“Yes, as long as the situation doesn’t suddenly change in some dramatic way. I’ll leave that to your own judgment.”

Skacke nodded. Martin Beck said, “Gunvald and I will take one of the really fast police cars, a Porsche, because we’ll have to be able to pass along the motorcade quickly, and even swing back if necessary.”

There were no more than half a dozen of those black-and-white miracles of speed.

“You two, Benny and Fredrik, go in the radio vans. Place yourselves at the head of the motorcade, between the motorcycle escort and the bulletproof limousine. There you’ll have a chance to follow both radio and television, and also to check with our own radio. Apart from the driver, you’ve also got a radio location expert who’s supposed to be tops.”

“Good,” said Melander.

They returned to their own base, where there was now no one but the chief of the Stockholm Police. He was standing in front of the mirror combing his hair with great care. Then he eyed his tie, which as usual was of plain colored silk. Today it was pale yellow.

The telephone rang. Skacke answered. After a brief, incomprehensible conversation, he put down the receiver and said, “That was Säpo-Möller. He was expressing his surprise.”

“Get a move on, Benny,” said Martin Beck.

“He was astounded that one of his own men was on the commando section list.”

“What the hell’s the commando section?” said Gunvald Larsson.

“The man’s name is Victor Paulsson. It seems Möller was here this morning and snatched the CS list. He says he needed the group for an important close-range-security assignment. He simply placed his man Paulsson on the list, so from now on it’s under his command.”

“By all the gods and saints in hell!” cried Gunvald Larsson. “No, it just goddamn can’t be true! He’s pinched the idiot list! The clod squad. The tic-tac-toe players! The ones who were to be confined to station duty!”

“Well, he’s got them now,” said Skacke. “And he didn’t say where he was calling from.”

“You mean he thought your abbreviation for ‘clod squad’ stood for ‘commando section,’ ” said Martin Beck.

“No!” said Gunvald Larsson, thumping his forehead with his fist. “It just can’t be! Did he say what he wanted to use them for?”

“Just that it was an important assignment.”

“Like guarding the King?”

“If it concerns the King, then we’ve still got time to fix it,” said Martin Beck. “Otherwise …”

“Otherwise we can’t do a damned thing,” said Gunvald Larsson, “because now we must go. Hell’s blasted bells! Goddammit!”

When they were in the car and driving through town, he added, “It was my own fault. Why didn’t I write it out—IDIOT LIST? Why didn’t I lock it up in my desk?”

The escort vehicles went separately to the airport. Gunvald Larsson chose to take the route via Kungsgatan and Sveavägen to get an overall view. There were a great many uniformed police about, as well as many in civilian clothes, mostly detectives and police officers from the country. Behind them were already a number of demonstrators with placards and banners, and an even larger number of ordinary curious spectators.

On the edge of the sidewalk in front of the Rialto movie house, opposite the city library, stood a person whom Martin Beck knew well and whose presence astonished him. The man was not large for a policeman, and had a weatherbeaten face and short bowlegs. He was wearing a duffle coat and gray-brown-green-striped tapering trousers, the bottoms tucked into long green rubber boots. On the back of his head perched a safari hat of indefinite color. No one would have guessed he was a policeman.

“Stop a moment, will you?” said Martin Beck. “By that guy in the lion-hunter’s hat.”

“Who is it?” said Gunvald Larsson, braking. “A secret agent, or chief of the Korpilombolo Security Service?”

“His name is Content,” said Martin Beck. “Herrgott Content. He’s a police inspector in Anderslöv, a place between Malmö and Ystad in the Trelleborg police district. What the hell is he doing here?”

“Maybe he’s planning to hunt moose in Humlegården,” said Gunvald Larsson, stopping the car.

Martin Beck opened the door and said, “Herrgott?”

Content looked at him in astonishment. Then he snatched at the brim of his safari hat, so that it came right down over one of his lively eyes.

“What are you doing here, Herrgott?”

“Don’t know, really. I was flown up early this morning in a charter plane full of policemen from Malmö, Ystad, Lund and Trelleborg. Then they put me here. I don’t even know where I am.”

“You’re at the corner of Odengatan and Sveavägen,” said Martin Beck. “The escort’s coming this way, if all goes well.”

“A moment ago a drunk came along and asked me to go the liquor store for him. I suppose he’s been shut off. I must look like a real yokel.”

“You look in top form,” said Martin Beck.

“Lord save us, what weather!” said Content. “And what a grisly place.”

“Are you armed?”

“Yes, had orders to be.” He loosened his coat and revealed
a large revolver clipped to the belt of his trousers, just as Gunvald Larsson liked to wear his, though he preferred an automatic.

“Are you boss of this circus?” said Content.

Martin Beck nodded and said, “And what happens in An-derslöv when you’re away.”

“Oh, it’ll be okay. Evert Johansson’s taken over, and everyone knows I’m coming back the day after tomorrow, so no one will dare do anything. Anyhow, nothing happens in Anderslöv since that business a year ago. When you were there.”

“You treated me to a fantastic dinner,” said Martin Beck. “Would you like to have dinner with me this evening?”

“That time we hunted pheasants?” Content laughed, then answered the questions. “Yes, I would. It’s just that I keep getting lots of peculiar orders. I’m supposed to sleep in some empty house, with seventeen others. Quarters, they said. Dear Lord, I don’t know.”

“It’ll be okay,” said Martin Beck. “I’ll have a word with the chief of the Regular Police. At the moment he’s actually my subordinate. You’ve got my number and address, haven’t you?”

“Yep,” said Content, patting one of his back pockets. “Who’s that guy in there?” He peered inquisitively at Gunvald Larsson, who did not react at all.

“His name’s Gunvald Larsson. He usually works in the Violence Division.”

“Poor devil,” said Content. “I’ve heard about him. What a job. Very big man for such a small car, by the way. Herrgott Content’s my name. It’s a silly name, but I’ve gotten used to it, and at home in Anderslöv no one laughs anymore.”

“We have to go now,” said Gunvald Larsson.

“Okay,” said Martin Beck. “Then we’ll see you at my place tonight. If there’s any mix-up, we’ll call each other.”

“Great,” said Content. “But do you think anything special will happen?”

“It’s pretty certain that something will happen, but it’s hard to say just what.”

“Mmm,” said Content. “I just hope it doesn’t happen to me.”

They said their farewells and drove off. Gunvald Larsson drove fast; the car was made for high speeds.

“He seemed okay,” Gunvald Larsson commented. “I didn’t think there were any cops like him left.”

“We’ve got one or two. But not many.”

At Norrtull, Martin Beck said, “Where’s Rönn?”

“Well hidden. But I’m a bit worried about him.”

“Rönn’s okay,” said Martin Beck.

The whole route was lined with policemen, and beyond them, spread along the route, were what the police calculated to be ten thousand demonstrators, a figure which was probably a gross underestimate. Thirty thousand was more likely.

As they drove up to the foreign-arrivals building they saw the plane, just about to land.

The operation had begun.

Over the police radio, they heard a metallic voice: “All radio units are to observe signal Q from now on. I repeat: Signal Q to be observed until counterorders given. Only instructions from Chief Inspector Beck will be forwarded. They are not to be answered.”

Signal Q was highly unusual. It involved total silence on the police radio.

“Hell, I didn’t have time to shower or change,” said Gunvald Larsson. “That’s that damned Heydt’s fault.”

Martin Beck glanced over at his colleague and noticed that Gunvald Larsson nevertheless looked considerably better than he did himself.

Gunvald Larsson parked outside the terminal. The plane was not quite down yet. Despite everything that had happened, they had plenty of time. At least several minutes.

The shining aluminum jet landed twelve minutes and thirty-seven seconds early. Then it taxied over to the place that Eric Möller had personally designated as not dangerous.

The mechanical steps were lowered and, still twelve minutes,
thirty-seven seconds ahead of schedule, the Senator stepped out of the cabin. He was a tall, sunburnt man with a winning smile and sparkling white teeth.

He looked around the desolate airfield and scrubby forest surrounding it. Then he raised his white ten-gallon hat and waved gaily at the demonstrators and policemen on the spectator’s terrace.

Maybe his sight’s bad, thought Gunvald Larsson, and he thinks it says “Long Live the Next President” on the placards and banners, instead of “Yankee Go Home” and “Motherfucking Murderer.” Maybe he thinks those portraits of Mao and Lenin are pictures of himself, although the likeness isn’t especially great.

The Senator descended from the plane and, still smiling, shook hands with the airport chief and a governmental secretary. Behind him on the steps was a large bulky man in a wide checked overcoat. His face seemed hewn from granite, and out of this granite face stuck a huge cigar that looked almost like an extra limb. Despite his overcoat’s capacious dimensions, it bulged considerably below the left armpit. This must be the Senator’s personal bodyguard.

The Prime Minister of Sweden also had a bodyguard, the first prime minister ever to have one. The political leader of the country had chosen to remain in the VIP room with three other members of the government.

A bunch of Möller’s elite agents conducted the Senator and his stonefaced protector to an armored car, borrowed from the army, and they were driven the few hundred yards to the VIP room. (Möller was taking no chances.)

There, the Senator and the Prime Minister shook hands, lengthily and cordially, for the benefit of television and press photographers, but there was no orgy of kissing as when the Russians were around.

The Prime Minister was a slightly edgy, nervous type, with effeminate and slightly sorrowful features. Whatever he radiated, it was not the paternalism for which some of his predecessors had been known and adored. Those who had tried to analyze in depth his appearance and behavior maintained there
was clear evidence of a guilty conscience and childish disappointment.

On the other hand, it was immediately noticeable that the Senator was a trained handshaker. With an interpreter from the embassy at his heels, he went up to each person in the room and pressed that person’s hand. Martin Beck was the first to benefit, and his immediate reaction was surprise at how firm and trust-inspiring the handshake was.

Only Gunvald Larsson showed a certain annoyance. He had turned his back on the whole gathering and was staring out the window. Outside, Möller’s agents were swarming about in the slush while the motorcade vehicles were being backed into place, the bulletproof limousine just outside the door.

A moment or two later he felt a determined tap on his shoulder, turned and found himself staring at Stoneface with the cigar.

“The Senator wants to shake hands,” said the bodyguard, the cigar whipping slightly as he spoke.

The Senator smiled even more captivatingly and looked straight into Gunvald Larsson’s china-blue eyes. His own were yellow, like those of a Tibetan tiger.

Gunvald Larsson hesitated only a moment, then stretched out his hairy right fist and gripped as hard as he could. It was something he had amused himself with in the navy, and he held on until the politician’s smile stiffened into an extremely strained grimace. Stoneface followed the procedure with his eyes, but the cigar did not move as much as a millimeter. The man obviously did not have more than one expression.

Behind the Senator’s back, Gunvald Larsson heard the interpreter mumbling something about “commander” and “special police.” When he let go of the hand, their foreign guest’s features looked set, as if their owner were sitting in a privy.

The photographers were running all over the place, crouching down to get interesting angles. One even lay clicking on his back. The Prime Minister was rushing around too, his bodyguard at his heels. He was anxious to get away, but first the champagne had to be drunk, and they were at least twelve
minutes ahead of schedule, a fact the television producer present kept pointing out.

Outside, the motorcycles hummed. Their riders comprised a special corps within the police. They had joined the force because they thought it was fun riding around on motorcycles. They often gave demonstrations on Police Day and similar occasions.

Melander and Skacke did not consider themselves qualified for the VIP room, but were sitting in the radio van. Silence was total on the police wave bands, but the regular radio and television broadcasts all had commentators in action, describing in solemn and important voices the extensive political career of the ex-presidential candidate. They didn’t mention his ideological attitudes or reactionary domestic and foreign-policy activities, but they did tell their listeners where he lived, what his dogs were like, how once upon a time he had almost been a baseball star, how his wife had almost become a film star, how his daughters looked like most daughters, how he himself usually did the shopping in the supermarket, how—at least during election campaigns—he wore off-the-rack clothes, how large his private fortune was (very large) and how at one time he would probably have been brought before a Senate committee investigating tax frauds if he had not happened to be chairman of it himself. His wife had opened a charitable home for orphans whose fathers had been killed in the Korean War. As a young man he had advised President Truman to drop the first atom bombs, and when older had been indispensable to a number of different administrations. He started every morning with an hour’s ride on his horse, and under normal circumstances swam a thousand yards every day. He had taken an active part in the “solutions” in Thailand, Korea, Laos, Vietnam and Cambodia, said one television reporter—clearly not one of those who leaned to the left—and was also a breath of fresh and youthful air in a world in which political senility was all too commonplace.