The Terrorists (37 page)

In Malmö the situation was quite different. The route to Copenhagen included a train ferry to the free port; two shipping companies with medium-sized passenger boats which sailed right into the inner harbor of the Danish capital; and the famous hydrofoils, which in critical situations—for instance on national holidays—commuted back and forth with double trips and no special timetable. On top of all this, there were the car ferries from Limhamn to Dragør in Amagar, a line that on the days before Christmas often ran no fewer than five ships.

Gunvald Larsson stretched and thought for a while longer. If he were in Heydt’s position, he wouldn’t hesitate very long. He would get himself to Oslo by car, or preferably by train, and then continue by boat to Copenhagen. Stopping him there would be the business of the Danish police and thus almost impossible. Once he got to Copenhagen, the whole world would lie more or less open to him.

But Heydt might be thinking differently, and perhaps had never been a seaman. In which case he would probably make use of the most crowded route, and that was in Helsingborg or Malmö.

Gunvald Larsson rose and folded up the map.

Control would have to be concentrated on three points; the roads to Oslo and the ports in Malmö and Helsingborg.

*       *       *

The next morning, Gunvald Larsson spoke to Martin Beck.

“I lay awake all night studying the map,” he said.

“So did I.”

“And what conclusion did you come to?”

“That we should ask Melander,” said Martin Beck.

They went into the next room, where Melander was trying to get his pipe to draw.

“Were you up all night looking at the map?” Gunvald Larsson asked him.

It was a stupid question, as everyone knew that Melander never lay awake at night; he had more important things to do, namely sleeping.

“No,” said Melander. “I certainly wasn’t. But I looked at it this morning while Saga was getting breakfast, and for a while afterward.”

“And what conclusion did you come to?”

“Oslo, Helsingborg or Malmö,” said Melander.

“Mmm,” said Gunvald Larsson.

They left Melander fiddling with his pipe and went back to Martin Beck’s still temporary office.

“Did that agree with your own conclusions?” said Martin Beck.

“Exactly,” said Gunvald Larsson. “And yours?”

“Yes.”

They were silent for a moment, Martin Beck standing in his usual old place by the file, pinching the bridge of his nose between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, Gunvald Larsson over by the window.

Martin Beck sneezed.

“Bless you,” said Gunvald Larsson.

“Thank you. You think Heydt’s still here?”

“Certain of it.”

“Certain,” said Martin Beck. “That’s a strong word.”

“Maybe,” said Gunvald Larsson. “But I feel certain. He’s here somewhere and we can’t find him. Not even his damned car. What do you think?”

Martin Beck didn’t reply for a long time. “Okay,” he said
finally. “I think he’s still here, too. But I’m not certain.” He shook his head.

Gunvald Larsson said nothing, staring gloomily out at the almost completed colossus outside.

“You’d like to meet Reinhard Heydt, wouldn’t you?” Martin Beck said.

“How do you know that?”

“How long have we known each other?” asked Martin Beck in return.

“Ten or twelve years. Maybe a little longer.”

“Exactly. And that answers your question.”

Another silence, a long one.

“You think a lot about Heydt,” said Martin Beck.

“All the time. Except when I’m asleep.”

“But you can’t be in three places at once.”

“Hardly,” said Gunvald Larsson.

“Then you’ll have to choose. Which one do you think’s the most likely?”

“Oslo,” said Gunvald Larsson. “They’ve got a mysterious booking on the Copenhagen boat for the evening of the twenty-second.”

“What sort of boat?”

“King Olav V
. Luxury boat.”

“Sounds all right,” said Martin Beck. “What sort of booking?”

“An Englishman. Roger Blackman.”

“Norway’s lousy with English tourists all year round.”

“True, but they seldom travel that way. And this Blackman can’t be traced. At least the Norwegian police can’t find him.”

Martin Beck thought, then said, “I’ll take Benny with me and go to Malmö.”

“Skacke?” said Gunvald Larsson. “Why don’t you take Einar instead?”

“Benny’s better than you think. And he also knows Malmö. There are a number of other good men there, too.”

“Really?”

“Per Månsson’s good, for instance.”

Gunvald Larsson grunted, as he often did when he didn’t
want to say yes or no. Instead he said, “Which means that Einar and Melander will have to go to Helsingborg. Helsingborg’s damned difficult.”

“Right,” said Martin Beck. “So they’ll need proper backing. We’ll have to arrange for that. Do you want Strömgren to go with you to Norway?”

Gunvald Larsson stared stubbornly out the window and said, “I wouldn’t want to go piss with Strömgren. Not even if we were alone together on a desert island. And I’ve told him so.”

“Your popularity is easily explained.”

“Yes, isn’t it?”

Martin Beck looked at Gunvald Larsson. It had taken him five years to learn to put up with him, and equally long to begin to understand him. In another five years, maybe they would like each other.

“Which are the critical days?”

“The twentieth to the twenty-third inclusively,” said Gunvald Larsson.

“That means Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday?”

“Probably.”

“Why not Christmas Eve itself?”

“All right. Christmas Eve too.”

“We’ll have to figure on full alert,” said Martin Beck.

“We’re already on full alert.”

“—full alert, plus the five of us from tomorrow evening on,” said Martin Beck. “Right on through the Christmas holiday if nothing happens before that.”

“He’ll go on Sunday,” said Gunvald Larsson.

“According to you, yes. But what’s Heydt thinking?”

Gunvald Larsson raised his arms, placed his large hairy hands on the window frame and went on staring out into the gray misery outside.

“In some funny damned way, it’s like I knew Heydt,” he said. “I think I know how he thinks.”

“Do you really?” said Martin Beck, moderately impressed. Then he thought of something else. “Think how pleased Melander will be,” he said. “Freezing at the ferry station in Helsingborg. On Christmas Eve.”

Fredrik Melander had at his own request been transferred
first from the National Homicide Squad and then from the Violence Division in order to avoid having to be away from home, despite the fact that he was miserly and the transfers had cost him a raise in salary as well as a promotion.

“He’ll have to put up with it,” said Gunvald Larsson.

Martin Beck said nothing.

“You know, Beck,” said Gunvald Larsson, without turning his head.

“Yes, what?”

“If I were you, I’d be careful. Especially today and tomorrow.” Martin Beck looked surprised. “What the hell do you mean? Should I be scared? Of Heydt?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You’ve been in the newspapers a lot, and on radio and television lately. Heydt’s not used to being tricked. And it might be in his interest to pin our attention down. Here. To Stockholm.”

“Oh, shit,” said Martin Beck, and left the room.

Gunvald Larsson sighed deeply and went on staring out the window with his unseeing china-blue eyes.

Reinhard Heydt was standing in front of the bathroom mirror. He had just shaved, and now he was combing his sideburns. For a moment it occurred to him that perhaps he ought to shave them off, but he immediately abandoned the thought. The idea had come up before, in different circumstances. His superior officer had suggested it, almost ordered it. He studied his face in the mirror. His suntan was fading a little more every day. But there was nothing wrong with his appearance. He had always approved of it himself, and no one else had ever commented adversely on it. Let them try.

From the bathroom he went into the kitchen, where he had
just breakfasted, then on into the bedroom and out into the large room where he and Levallois had had their operations center about a month earlier, now rather bare and empty.

As he never went out, he knew nothing about what was in the newspapers, but television and radio were devoting a great deal of attention to the capture and the court proceedings, returning again and again to the subject. Now it seemed clear that the man Olsson was at most an administrator. The really dangerous person seemed to be the policeman who was mentioned so often—Martin Beck. Beck must also have been the one who thwarted the assassination attempt the month before. It seemed incomprehensible that such a person should exist in a country like Sweden.

Heydt strode with long silent steps from room to room in the none too spacious apartment. He was barefooted and wore only a white undershirt and white briefs. He hadn’t brought much in the way of clothes, and since he never went out now anyhow, there wasn’t much reason to dress. He washed his underclothes in the bathroom every evening.

Heydt had two problems that had to be solved immediately. The first was the question of his escape from the country. He knew exactly when he was going to leave, but was still hesitating over which route to take. He’d made up his mind that today, the nineteenth of December, he would decide. It would probably be via Oslo and Copenhagen, as he had thought from the first, but the other possibilities were still open.

Question number two was even more delicate; he had not even begun to contemplate it until Kaiten and Kamikaze were captured.

Should he liquidate Beck?

What would be the advantages?

Heydt never thought in terms such as revenge. For one thing, he completely lacked such emotions as disappointment, jealousy, humiliation and fear. For another, he was a pure realist; all his actions were dictated by practical considerations. In training camp he had learned to make his own decisions, weigh them carefully and put them into action without hesitation. He had also learned that careful planning was at least half the battle.

Still without having decided, he fetched the first volume of
the telephone book from the shelf, sat down on the bed and leafed through it until he came to the right page. It was no more difficult than that. He read:
Beck, Martin, Chief Inspector, Köpmangatan 8, 22 80 43
.

He took the blueprint of the city plan from the shelf in the wardrobe. He had a good memory, and he recalled walking along that particular street six weeks or so ago. It was quite near the Royal Palace. The city plan was very detailed and he at once found the right building. It was in a kind of alley, not facing the street, and the surrounding buildings looked promising.

He spread out the blueprint on the floor, then took his rifle from under the bed. Like all ULAG equipment, the gun was perfect, of English manufacture and equipped with a night telescopic sight. He dismantled the weapon and packed it in his briefcase. Then he sat down again on his bed and thought.

The point of taking Martin Beck out of circulation was twofold: one, the police would be robbed of one of their best and most dangerous men; and two, their attention would focus on Stockholm.

But there were some disadvantages, too. First of all, police activity would be sure to be enormous. And secondly, every possible exit would be even more effectively checked. On the other hand, these measures would only be taken in time if the elimination of Martin Beck was discovered almost at once.

One thing was certain: If Chief Inspector Beck was to be eliminated, it should happen at his home. Early on in his researches, Heydt had discovered that Beck was divorced from his wife and lived alone.

It was a difficult decision. Heydt looked at his wristwatch. He still had a few hours left before definitely having to decide either question.

Then he wondered whether the police had found the car. There’d been no mention of it in the news reports, so perhaps it was still standing where Levallois had abandoned it. The beige Volkswagen purchased in its stead was parked not far from the apartment.

He thought about it for a few seconds, then again began his wandering through the rooms.

*       *       *

On the morning of the same day, Martin Beck sent Benny Skacke on ahead to Malmö. Skacke went by car because he wanted a chance to pad his mileage expenses, but Martin Beck usually felt ill on long car journeys and decided to take the night train. Another, perhaps more telling factor in this decision was that even if Christmas was spoiled, he would at least have half an evening with Rhea. If she put in an appearance. He never knew for sure whether she would.

Rönn and Melander had gone to Helsingborg by train, with the gloomiest expressions he had ever seen on their faces, and Gunvald Larsson, who liked driving, had left very early in the morning in his peculiar East German luxury car from Eisenacher Motorwerke. The make was in fact EMW, but nearly everyone thought it was a BMW misspelled.

If Rönn and Melander had been as sour as vinegar, Gunvald Larsson had seemed expectant, and Skacke simply happy. Benny Skacke was a merit-point hunter, and here perhaps was another within reach.

Martin Beck had not been able to get hold of Rhea, but had left a message at the Social Service headquarters’ exchange. He thought he’d go home, but before he got his overcoat on, the telephone rang. Torn between duty and more human instincts, he went back to his desk and lifted the receiver.

“Beck.”

“Hammargren,” said someone with a Gothenburg accent.

The name meant nothing to Martin Beck, but he presumed the man must be a policeman. “Yes, what is it?”

“We’ve found the car you’re looking for. A green Opel Rekord, with false plates.”

“Where?”

“Skandia harbor, here in Gothenburg. Where the
Saga
ties up. Lloyd’s boat. It could have been standing there for a couple of weeks before anyone noticed.”

“And?”

“Well, there aren’t any fingerprints. Wiped off, I guess. All the papers were in the glove compartment.”