The Terrorists (34 page)

“Not since that dreadful murder on Riddarholm.” She struck her forehead and said with undisguised interest. “You don’t think—”

“No, no, not at all,” Rönn said immediately.

“Anyhow, the person who committed the murder was caught right away,” Skacke reminded her.

“Of course,” said the woman. “That girl couldn’t have dressed up as two Japanese, could she?” She laughed, then said, “I’ve nothing against those two yellow men, really. Nor the man in the photo. He was a good-looking man, actually.”

Seventeen days had passed since the bombing and the astounding murder, and headquarters now had two difficult problems.
First, was Heydt still in the country or had he managed to get out? And second, how would they tackle the problem of the two Japanese, who were surely armed to the teeth and probably had orders to resist to the last. They might even blow themselves and any possible assailants to pieces rather than give themselves up.

“I want to get those devils alive,” said Gunvald Larsson, gazing gloomily out the window.

“Do you think that’s the whole terrorist group?” Skacke asked. “These two and Heydt?”

“They were probably four,” said Martin Beck. “And the fourth has no doubt gotten away.”

“What makes you think that?” asked Skacke.

“I don’t know.”

Martin Beck often guessed correctly, and many people called it intuition. But according to his own view, intuition did not play an important part in practical police work; he even doubted that such a quality existed.

Einar Rönn was in the Tanto area, in an apartment the police had almost had to expropriate by force. They finally succeeded with bribery, which included paying the tenant’s full board at one of the most luxurious hotels in town.

Rönn was protected from observation by a net curtain which could not be seen through as long as he didn’t switch on a light or strike a match. He did neither. Rönn was no smoker, and the half-pack of Danish cigarettes he carried around in his jacket were only a service for especially nicotine-hungry suspects.

In six hours he had seen the Japanese twice through his excellent field glasses as they moved about in the apartment across the way. On both occasions they had been armed with machine pistols. The distance between the buildings was about four hundred yards and if Rönn had been a good shot, which he certainly was not, and if he had had a good rifle with a telescopic sight, he would have been able to put at least one man out of action, the large one perhaps, who had first moved the curtain.

Rönn was relieved by Skacke ten hours later, and by then he was fairly tired of the whole affair. Skacke was not entirely satisfied with his instructions.

“Gunvald Larsson says we’ve got to take them alive,” he said
acidly. “But how are we going to do that?”

“Well, Gunvald doesn’t like killing people,” said Rönn, yawning. “You weren’t in on that roof job in Dalagatan four years ago, were you?”

“No, I was working in Malmö then.”

“Malmö,” said Rönn. “The city where even the police superintendents are corrupt. Nice place.” He added hastily, “I didn’t mean that you had anything to do with that, of course. Of course not.”

He put on his overcoat and walked to the door, then turned. “Remember, don’t touch the curtain,” he warned.

“No, of course not.”

“And if anything important happens, dial the number on that paper there at once. You’ll be put through directly to Beck or Larsson.”

“Sleep well,” said Skacke, seeing before him ten hours of apparently pointless vigil.

As the night wore on, the lights dimmed in the windows across the way. At first Skacke thought the two men had gone to sleep, but one light was still on and he gradually realized this probably meant they were sleeping in shifts. This was confirmed shortly after midnight, when for the first time he caught sight of one of the men. It was the smaller of the two, drawing back the curtain and looking out. He apparently saw nothing much of interest, but Skacke had a good pair of night binoculars and clearly saw the machine pistol resting in the angle of the man’s right elbow. Skacke thought about the fact that the men had to keep watch in two directions, while the police could limit themselves to covering one side of the building, where the front and basement entrances were.

After a while, Skacke saw one of the increasingly common gangs of delinquents coming along the street, smashing the globes on the streetlights until the whole area lay in darkness. There were boys as well as girls in the mob, but at this distance it was not easy to tell which was which. One of the Japanese, again the smaller one, peered out to see what was happening, and that was the last Benny Skacke saw of the pair that night.

When Rönn came at seven in the morning, Skacke told him, “I’ve seen one of them twice. He was armed, but he seemed
pretty peaceful in comparison with our own hooligans.”

Rönn pondered the word “hooligan”; he had probably not heard it since Field Marshal Mannerheim had spoken on the radio, and that must have been a very long time ago.

Benny Skacke left and Einar Rönn took his place by the net curtain.

They were not exactly having an amusing time at the police station in Kungsholmsgatan, either. Fredrik Melander had gone home shortly after midnight, but he lived close-by and could easily—well, with some difficulty—be recalled.

Martin Beck and Gunvald Larsson stayed long after the dismal, dirty, gray and depressing dawn began to creep up over the roofs, leaning over photostats, plans of buildings, drawings and maps of the Tanto district, sunk in their thoughts.

Just before Melander left, he had made a remark: “And that’s a standard apartment building is it, with emergency stairs?”

“Yes, it is,” said Gunvald Larsson. “So what?”

“And the emergency stairs back onto the apartment, don’t they?”

Now it was Martin Beck’s turn to ask, “So what?”

“I happen to have a brother-in-law who lives in one of those buildings,” said Melander, “and I know how they’re built. When I was going to help him put up a mirror, quite a big one I must admit, half of it fell straight through the wall out into the emergency stairway, and the rest of the wall collapsed into their neighbor’s living room.”

“What did the neighbor say to that?” said Gunvald Larsson.

“He was a bit surprised. He was watching TV. Soccer.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is that perhaps that’s something to think about, especially if we’re going to take them from three or four directions.”

Then Melander had gone home, obviously anxious about his indispensable night’s sleep.

While things were comparatively calm at Kungsholmsgatan, Martin Beck and Gunvald Larsson began transforming Melander’s
idea into what with a certain goodwill might be called the embryo of a plan.

“Their attention will be concentrated on the door, especially as there’s only one,” said Martin Beck. “They’ll be expecting someone, you for instance, to kick down the door and come hurtling in with a posse of policemen at your heels. If I’ve got those guys’ methods right, they’ll kill as many as possible. Then, when all hope is gone, they’ll blow themselves to pieces, hoping to take some of us with them free of charge.”

“I still want to take them alive,” said Gunvald Larsson darkly.

“But how? Shall we starve them out?”

“Good idea,” said Gunvald Larsson. “And then on Christmas Eve we’ll send the Commissioner in dressed as Santa Claus with a big dish of rice pudding. They’ll be so surprised, they’ll give themselves up at once. Especially if Malm joins in with twelve helicopters and three hundred and fifty men with dogs and armor plate and bulletproof vests.”

Martin Beck was standing by the wall in his usual stance, elbow propped on the old metal filing cabinet. Gunvald Larsson was sitting at his desk picking his teeth with a letter opener.

Neither of them said more than one word at the most for the next hour.

Benny Skacke was a good shot. He’d had the chance to demonstrate this not only at the shooting range, but also on the job. If he had been a headhunter, his collection would have been enhanced by the somewhat ugly head of a Lebanese who had at the time been considered one of the ten most dangerous men in the world.

Skacke also had excellent night vision. Although it was black as soot outside and the Japanese were very economical with the light, he could see they were going to have a meal. Dinner was clearly a ritual affair. They put on white clothes, rather like judo costumes, and knelt on each side of a square cloth apparently covered with plates and small bowls.

It looked peaceful and leisurely. Until he discovered that they each had a machine pistol with spare magazine within easy reach.

His own rifle was standing out in the hall, a Browning High Power Rifle Medallion Grade 458 Magnum. Skacke was convinced he had a chance of hitting both men before they had time to take shelter or shoot back.

But what would happen then? And what about his instructions?

Skacke reluctantly gave up any sharpshooting ideas and stared gloomily out into the darkness.

Martin Beck and Gunvald Larsson had a very hard nut to crack. But first they had to get a few hours’ sleep. They went and lay down in two of the empty cells, having issued orders that they were not to be disturbed by anyone except mass murderers and other perpetrators of especially serious crimes.

Shortly before six they were on their feet again. Gunvald Larsson telephoned Rönn, who had also just awakened and sounded slightly punchy.

“Einar, you needn’t go to Tanto today.”

“Um? Really? Why not?”

“We need to have a talk with you down here.”

“Who’ll relieve Skacke?”

“Strömgren or Ek’ll have to do that. It’s not exactly an overwhelmingly difficult assignment.”

“When do you want me to come?”

“As soon as you’ve read the newspaper and had your coffee, or whatever you usually do in the mornings.”

“All right. Fine.”

Gunvald Larsson hung up and stared at Martin Beck. “Three men should be enough,” he said finally. “One from the balcony, one through the door and one from that emergency stairway.”

“Through the wall.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re good at crashing through locked doors,” said Martin Beck. “But what about walls?”

“Whoever goes through the wall is going to have to have a pneumatic drill with a silencer. Artificial sound effects probably won’t wholly cover the noise even then, and all the time they’ll be keeping an eye on the door, too, so in my view the man
coming from the balcony has the best chance. Doesn’t that sound right to you?”

“Yes, but which three men do we use?”

“Two seem obvious,” said Gunvald Larsson.

“You and me.”

“It was our idea, and it’s going to be difficult to carry out. Can we put that responsibility onto anyone else?”

“Hardly. But who …?”

“Skacke?” Larsson suggested with considerable hesitation.

“He’s too young,” said Martin Beck, “and he’s got small children. He’s learning, but he’s still pretty inexperienced, especially in practical matters. I couldn’t stand to see him lying dead in that apartment the way I saw Stenström lying dead in that bus.”

“Then who
could
you stand to see lying dead up there?” said Gunvald Larsson with unusual sharpness.

Martin Beck did not reply.

“Melander’s too old,” said Gunvald Larsson. “He would volunteer, of course, but he’ll soon be fifty-five, and he’s done more than his share of that kind of work. He’s a bit slow, too. Of course, we’re not so young either, for that matter, even if we aren’t slow.”

“So that leaves—”

“Einar,” said Gunvald Larsson. He sighed deeply. “I’ve thought about it for hours,” he said. “Einar has certain disadvantages which we both know perfectly well, but he has one great advantage. He’s worked with us for a long time and knows how we think.”

Martin Beck longed for Kollberg. It was no doubt true that Rönn knew how Gunvald Larsson thought, but it was just as certain that he didn’t know how Martin Beck thought—or if he did, he never showed it.

“We’ll have to talk to him,” said Martin Beck. “This isn’t the sort of assignment you just give to people and say, ‘Now just do this and that.’ ”

“He’ll be here soon,” said Gunvald Larsson.

While they were waiting, Strömgren was sent to the apartment in Tanto. Skacke was too tired to show any surprise. He put his fine rifle into a case that looked as if it held some kind
of musical instrument. Then he left the building, got into his fairly new car and went home to bed.

Rönn’s red nose did not appear in the doorway until just before nine. He had taken his time, among other things because of Gunvald Larsson’s tone of voice, which had not promised any happy surprises, and also because it had been a long time since he’d had a chance to relax. Then he had taken the subway into town, since he basically disliked driving a car.

After greeting the other two men he sat down, guardedly, watching his colleagues. Martin Beck decided that as Gunvald Larsson had been a buddy of Rönn’s for years, he could do the talking. Gunvald Larsson thought so too.

“Beck and I have been thinking for several hours about how we’re going to get at those guys in Tanto, and we think we’ve come to a possible solution.”

“Possible” is the word, thought Martin Beck, as Gunvald Larsson began to outline the plan.

Rönn sat silently for a long time, and then looked at them, a swift glance at Martin Beck, as if he had already seen him too many times and knew what he was about, and a far longer examination of Gunvald Larsson. The silence was almost unbearable. As they had told Melander from the start to take all calls, there was not even the hope that a telephone ring would break the tension.

Finally, after what must have been several minutes, Rönn said, “Where I come from, they call that suicide.”

Then he said, “Have you shown this so-called plan to Melander?”

“Yes,” said Martin Beck. “The basic idea was his, as a matter of fact.”

“What basic idea? That he wouldn’t have to get involved himself?”

Gunvald Larsson and Martin Beck had a hard time hiding their disappointment at Rönn’s opinion of their plan. But Rönn suddenly walked across to the window, peered out into the sleet and said sorrowfully, “Well, I suppose I’ll do it. Bring the wretched thing here so I can read it through again.”