The Terrorists (28 page)

The motorcade was now lined up and manned, one minute ahead of the plan.

The Senator, the Prime Minister and an interpreter got into the back seat of the bulletproof limousine. The Prime Minister
looked slightly surprised when Stoneface stepped in too, and when the man took the jumpseat opposite him so that the tip of his cigar almost touched the Prime Minister’s nose, he was on the point of becoming really annoyed. His own bodyguard had had to ride in another car.

The Prime Minister spoke perfectly good English, so the interpreter seated between them did not have much to do.

“Okay, let’s go,” said Gunvald Larsson, switching on the engine. The Porsche began to move, and Martin Beck half turned to see if the rest of the motorcade had gotten away as it should. It had.

Inside the car with blue windows, the Senator looked with interest at the countryside, but apart from policemen and an almost unimaginable number of demonstrators, he saw nothing but the somewhat dull bit of countryside between Stockholm and its distant airport. He sat for a long time trying to find something positive to say, then finally gave up, turned to the Prime Minister and smiled his best campaign smile.

The Prime Minister had already used up all his standard phrases and platitudes back in the VIP room. He smiled back.

The Senator kept straightening out the fingers of his right hand. He had never come up against anything like Gunvald Larsson’s grip before, despite hundreds of thousands of handshakes.

After a while, Gunvald Larsson drove off into a rest area and stopped, the convoy rolling past them in perfect order and at an adequate speed.

“I wonder what the hell Möller’s thinking of using the clod squad for,” he said as they sat watching the motorcade pass.

“I expect we’ll find out,” said Martin Beck tranquilly.

Gunvald Larsson started the engine, stamped on the accelerator and shot past the cavalcade of cars.

The Porsche was in fact doing one hundred and forty miles an hour on the straightaway.

“Good car,” said Gunvald Larsson. “How many of these have we got?”

“A dozen,” said Martin Beck. “At the most.”

“What are they used for?”

“Driving the Commissioner to his country place.”

“All of them? Does the bastard ride in twelve cars?”

“Actually they’re mainly used for catching speeders and drug peddlers.”

They were approaching Stockholm now, though the landscape had grown no less depressing. The Senator peered out through the window again, and then appeared to resign himself.

What had he expected? thought the Prime Minister, smiling unconsciously and maliciously to himself. Lapps in colorful costumes with silver bells on their clothes? Reindeer ridden bareback by natives with hooded falcons on their shoulders?

Then he became aware that Stoneface had moved his eyes slightly and was looking at him, so he hurriedly began to think about important discussions on the balance of payments, the oil crisis and trade agreements.

Shortly afterward, the escort stopped and yet another Porsche with the word POLICE in large letters on each side came up from behind, past the row of vehicles. Apart from Martin Beck and Gunvald Larsson, only very few people knew what was afoot when the black-and-white sports car stopped alongside the limousine and Åsa Torell, who was driving, leaned to one side and opened the door on the left. The Prime Minister changed cars. Without a word, Åsa trod hard on the accelerator and continued toward Stockholm. Immediately the motorcade started up again. The guests followed the procedure with uninterested eyes. It had all taken less than thirty seconds.

An especially large group of demonstrators had gathered at Haga northern gates, and at first it looked as if they had been in a fight with the police. On closer observation, however, it could be seen that the police were standing passively, while the demonstrators fought with a small group of counterdemonstrators waving flags of the USA, the Thieu regime and Taiwan.

“Where’s Einar?” asked Martin Beck as they passed Norrtull.

“He’s around that corner over there, on Dannemoragatan,” said Gunvald Larsson. “We’ve blocked it in both directions, but you have to leave some things to chance. Suspicious tenants and so on.”

“They’ll never get further than the emergency center or the police exchange.”

*       *       *

In the two-roomed apartment in Kapellgatan, Reinhard Heydt was satisfied that everything was going excellently. He and Levallois were in the operations center, as they called it. Both television sets were on, as were the radios, all broadcasting the same thing: the first visit in a long time of an American statesman of standing. Only one thing irritated Heydt: “Why can’t we hear the police radio?”

“They’ve stopped broadcasting. So have the cars.”

“Can there be anything wrong with our equipment?”

“Unthinkable,” said Levallois.

Heydt pondered. That Q signal must have meant radio silence. But there was no such signal on his list. It was probably very unusual.

Levallois checked everything again, though he’d already done so countless times. He also tried different wavelengths. Then he shook his head and said, “Absolutely unthinkable. They’re simply keeping radio silence.”

Heydt laughed to himself, and Levallois looked inquiringly at him.

“Wonderful,” said Heydt. “These idiots are trying to fool us by not using their radio.”

He glanced over at the television screens. The motorcade was just passing the OBS department store in Rotebro. The radio also gave this information, and added that the crowds of demonstrators were getting heavier. The television commentator didn’t say much, except when the cameras panned out over the police and the people along the east side of the route.

A police car was driving about five hundred yards ahead of the escort to clear the way, and another equally far behind to prevent passing.

Gunvald Larsson looked up through the windshield.

“There’s one of the helicopters,” he said.

“Yes,” said Martin Beck.

“Shouldn’t it be over Sergei Square?”

“Well, it’s got plenty of time. Can you guess who’s in it?”

“The Senator,” joked Gunvald Larsson. “That would have been brilliant, wouldn’t it. Lower a hook for him at Arlanda and
drop him down on the Parliament Building roof?”

“Brilliant,” Martin Beck agreed. “Well, who do you think’s in the helicopter?”

Gunvald Larsson shrugged. “How the hell should I know?”

“Malm. I told him it would be ideal for liaison, and he swallowed it.”

“Of course,” said Gunvald Larsson. “He’s a nut for helicopters.”

Reinhard Heydt was beginning to enjoy himself now. He had seen the fight at Haga north and knew the moment would soon be here.

Levallois was still intently watching his instruments and connections.

“The motorcade is now passing Haga southern gates,” said the radio announcer. “The streets are absolutely boiling with demonstrators. They’re shouting slogans in chorus. It’s even worse at Haga Courthouse.”

Heydt looked at the television screens to see for himself. The slogans could be heard less well on television and the reporter did not bother to mention them. Instead, he said, “The Senator’s bulletproof, custom-built car is now passing Stallmästareg ården, where the government is giving a gala banquet tonight.”

The moment was very close.

“At this moment, the car with the Senator and the Prime Minister is leaving Solna and crossing the Stockholm city boundary.”

Very, very close.

Levallois pointed at the little black box with its white button. He was holding two wires ready to short-circuit some system, presumably in case Heydt dropped dead or got paralysis of the fingers. The Frenchman never took risks.

Heydt let his forefinger rest very lightly on the white button as he watched the television screens.

A few seconds left. He looked at the black-and-white Porsche and thought, What a waste of a damned good car.

Now.

He pressed the button at exactly the right instant.

But nothing happened.

Levallois instantly closed the circuit with his two wires.

Still nothing happened.

The television screens showed the motorcade passing Norrtull and swinging into Sveavägen. Then a stationary camera took over and showed pictures of the crossroads at Odengatan and Sveavägen. Hundreds of demonstrators and curious bystanders behind tight cordons of police.

Heydt noticed a policeman in a safari hat and boots and thought he must be a secret agent.

Then he said calmly, “We screwed up. The bomb didn’t explode. It’s clearly not our day.”

He laughed and said, “Mr. Senator, I give you your life, for as long as it may last.”

Levallois shook his head. He had a gigantic pair of headphones on.

“No,” he said. “The charge detonated when you pressed that button, just as it should have. I can still hear earth or something falling.”

“But that’s impossible,” said Heydt.

On television, the bulletproof car could be seen passing the city library and shortly after that a large gray building. He knew that was the College of Business Administration.

The demonstrators were as densely packed as they could be now, but the police appeared quite calm and no one tried to break through their lines. There were no raised batons or drawn guns to be seen.

“Bizarre,” said Levallois.

“Impossible,” said Heydt. “I pressed the button to the right tenth of a second. What happened?”

“Don’t know,” said Levallois.

Reinhard Heydt detonated the bomb at exactly the right moment for no one to be injured. What he blew up was exactly two thousand ninety-one sandbags and a huge mountain of fireproof fiberglass insulation.

The only casualty with any human connection was Einar Rönn’s cap, which was blown to shreds and never seen again.

Rönn had had twenty-five trucks, a repair wagon from the gasworks, three ambulances and two loudspeaker cars, plus a
watertender and a firetender with ladders from the Fire Brigade, all standing in Dannemoragatan. He also had thirty hand-picked men and women, most of them from the Regular Police, all in helmets, half of them equipped with battery megaphones.

After the motorcade had passed, he’d had a period of twelve to fifteen minutes in which to dam up the section of the street under which the bomb might have been placed. He had also had to block all roads and see to it that people in the area were evacuated to safety. Twelve minutes was not enough time for all that, but fortunately the respite proved to be longer, fourteen minutes and thirteen seconds.

Rönn’s helmet fitted him badly, so he hadn’t taken his cap off until the very last moment, and then in his distraction he had put it on the heap of sandbags.

One of the trucks had not emptied its load because they couldn’t get it started, but it hadn’t made any difference. The only thing the bomb achieved was a gigantic plume of sand and a white cloud of fiberglass, plus a sizable gas leak which took several hours to repair even temporarily.

At the moment when the explosion was making several city blocks tremble as if in an earthquake, the Senator was already sitting in the Parliament Building drinking soda water. Stoneface showed his first signs of humanity by taking the unlit cigar out of his mouth, putting it down on the edge of the table and tossing back a huge gulp of whisky from his own flask. Then he clamped the cigar back between his teeth and assumed his normal expression.

The Senator glanced at his bodyguard and explained, “Ray’s trying to stop smoking. That’s why he never lights it.”

The door opened.

“And here we have the Foreign Minister and the Minister of Trade,” said the Prime Minister gaily.

The door was opened again. But this time it was Martin Beck and Gunvald Larsson who came in. The Prime Minister looked ungratefully at them and said, “Thank you, but you’re not needed here.”

“Thanks yourself,” said Gunvald Larsson. “We’re just looking for Säpo-Möller.”

“Eric Möller? He has no business here, either. You can talk
to his men. They’re all over the place. What was that awful noise I heard just now?”

“An unsuccessful attempt to blow up the Senator’s car.”

“A bomb?”

“Yes, more or less.”

“See to it that those responsible are arrested immediately.”

“Quite an order,” said Gunvald Larsson, as they walked toward the elevator.

“Reminded me of Malm,” said Martin Beck.

“Is it time to go home now?” asked Gunvald Larsson.

“Yes, indeed. And to stay there until Monday morning.”

Reinhard Heydt could not figure out what had happened, not even after he read the Friday newspapers.

He was not alone in his bafflement. The National Police Commissioner and Stig Malm immediately summoned Martin Beck and Gunvald Larsson.

Martin Beck and Gunvald Larsson were soon brought before Pontius Pilate. No more than half an hour had passed since the Senator’s arrival at the Parliament Building. Radio silence had been broken now and the emergency exchange had been inundated with reports.

Another person who was inundated—through in a more humiliating way—was Stig Malm.

“One hell of a fine liaison officer you are,” said the Commissioner. “I might just as well have been at my place in the country when everything happened. And what did happen, anyhow?”

“I don’t really know,” said Malm, who was quite noticeably shaking in his shoes. “My dear—”

“I don’t wish to be addressed as ‘my dear.’ I am the senior executive in this country’s police force. I demand to be informed
of everything that happens within the force. Did you hear? Everything. And at this moment, you happen to be in charge of liaison. What happened?”

“I told you. I don’t really know.”

“A liaison officer who doesn’t know anything,” roared the Commissioner. “That’s great, isn’t it? What
do
you know? Do you even know when you’ve wiped your ass?”

“Yes, but—”

If Malm had been about to say something, he was immediately interrupted.

“I don’t understand why the head of the Regular Police and Möller and Beck and Larsson and Packe or Macke or whatever his name is can’t find the time to come and report or even telephone.”