The Vanishers (20 page)

Olaf stared at me for a moment after we were alone. He turned abruptly and walked over to the stove and lit one of the burners. The equipment was old-fashioned enough that he had to use a match. A sharpening steel hung beside a knife-rack on the nearby wall. It had a black plastic handle and a cross hilt to prevent you from slicing your fingers off when you were whipping the knife back and forth against the steel like a show-off chef. The business end was a tapering length of round stock about a foot long and almost half an inch in cross-section at its thickest point. Of the visible props, it was the one I’d have chosen if I’d been planning on staging the ordeal by fire. Olaf was of the same mind: he took down the steel and arranged it carefully on the stove top, with the end in the burner flame.

“The heat will do it no good, I suppose, but I have another,” he said. “While we wait for it to warm, let us discuss our problem.” He stood looking down at me. “You are an unfortunate complication, Helm. Even though the family does not like me very much—I, too, am a Stjernhjelm black sheep—they were forced to consult me because Sweden is such a peaceful country, and there was no one else available with experience in these violent matters. Unfortunately, I misjudged them; they were even more timid than I had anticipated. They took me too seriously when I suggested that we might resort to homicide, those fine gentlemen with their white manicured hands! I was only trying to prove that I had no interest in what happened to that troublesome little Karin Segerby; that I was even willing to arrange for her death if they wished to authorize such a drastic solution to their problem. However, it shocked them terribly; it made them afraid of me to the extent that they were no longer willing to leave the matter in my hands. Instead they listened to that stupid boy Torsten when he suggested your name, because you were so peaceful and reasonable that you had once refused to shoot a moose!” His voice turned accusing: “But there was no hesitation about shooting a woman this afternoon!”

“No moose ever fed me a Mickey Finn. And if you’d done your homework, you’d know what our standing orders are in that situation.” I stared back at him. “What the hell is this all about? Just how do I complicate things for you?”

He walked over to the stove and picked up the sharpening steel. He put on a show of testing it and deciding that it wasn’t as hot as it should be. He laid it back in the flame, a nice little menace bit that was designed to make me sweat and was reasonably successful. I don’t enjoy being burned any more than the next guy. Or waiting for it. Olaf returned to stand over me.

“What is this Lysaniemi business?” he asked.

I was surprised by the question, and saw no harm in letting it show. “Lysaniemi? Why would you be interested in that? As far as I know, it’s got nothing to do with you, or Astrid, or Karin Segerby, whatever it is you’ve all been up to. At least I get the distinct impression that you’ve been working together: Astrid knocks me out for you, Karin tapes me up for you, and you question me. Cooperation.” I shrugged. “But I really can’t see how Lysaniemi concerns any of you. To be honest, I can’t even figure out how it concerns me.”

Olaf regarded me bleakly. “Since Astrid called me from your Oslo motel room, I have done some research, but I have learned very little. That Lysaniemi is a village of a hundred and fifty persons in the country of Norbotten, the northernmost county in Sweden. That it lies just above the Arctic Circle, a hundred and twenty kilometers north of Highway E4, the main road to Haparanda on the nearby Finnish border. That it is not too far from our Swedish space facility at Kiruna, not to mention our big military installation at Boden. and our new communications center at Laxfors.” He had been watching me closely to see if I reacted to any item on his list. Now his eyes widened slightly with satisfaction. “Ah, you are interested in Laxfors!”

“I’d like to know what it is,” I said. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

“
Lax
means ‘salmon,’” he said, still studying my face. It seemed as if every Stjernhjelm relative I met felt compelled to teach Swedish to the stupid American cousin. He went on: “A
fors
is a ‘rapid,’ or ‘torrent.’ A loose translation would be Salmon Falls; but in fact it is too far to the east, too far from the mountains, for a true waterfall. It is simply a minor cataract on a minor stream, not even large enough or steep enough to be harnessed for electric power… You have not heard of Laxfors? It has been the subject of some controversy in the Swedish press. There have been suggestions that it is not exactly what it pretends to be; that the government is keeping secrets from the people, American secrets.” He regarded me bleakly, and threw me a question in Swedish:
“Har du faktiskt aldrig hört om Mörkrummet?”

It didn’t seem necessary to pretend not to understand. “I said, “I know, I know; don’t tell me.
Mörk
means ‘dark’;
rummet
means ‘the room.’ So
Mörkrummet
means ‘the darkroom.’ How’m I doing?” I gave him a grin. “And to answer your question, no. I’ve truly never heard of the Darkroom, whatever the hell it may be. At Laxfors?” When he nodded, I said, “I presume the name doesn’t refer to a simple photographic facility. You started out by saying that Laxfors is a communications center.”

Olaf shrugged. “There is a windowless building, there at Laxfors, with an elaborate ventilation system. An imaginative Stockholm journalist called it the Darkroom, and the name has persisted. I understand the Russians are as curious about it as anybody else. After all, it was apparently built in response to all the numerous violations of Swedish territorial waters by Soviet submarines during the past few years. As I said, there have been suggestions to the effect that it was built with American advice and cooperation, which has upset a great many people in this country, who associate America primarily with the atom bomb and nuclear warheads. Any such cooperation has, of course, been firmly denied by our government, which insists Laxfors was built strictly for purposes of military communication.”

“A communications center should have antennas,” I said, making it a question.

“To be sure,” Olaf said. “Large and conspicuous fields of tall antennas, out there on the tundra. But what transmissions are really involved? It is not as if Sweden had a global defense system. Our military forces are concentrated in a limited area, easily covered by ordinary radio. However, the American military might find good use for elaborate electronic equipment close to the Russian border… But you say that Laxfors and its Darkroom do not concern you?”

I said, “How do I know what concerns me, at this point? How close is Laxfors to Lysaniemi?”

“The distance is about eighty-five kilometers, roughly fifty-five of your English miles.”

“You’d think if my boss was interested in this mysterious Darkroom of yours, he’d have given me an aiming point that was a little closer, and spelled out his wishes a little more clearly.”

Olaf made a sharp gesture of annoyance. “Still this pretense of ignorance! You have never heard of Laxfors. You know nothing of the Darkroom. And you have no idea why you have been presented with the name Lysaniemi. You are completely mystified by the fact that your superior, now apparently
försvunnen
—vanished—considered this lonely Arctic village so important that he had the name passed to you indirectly by a courier of sorts rather than risk compromising it by giving it to you directly over the telephone. About all these things, you are totally in the dark! I am supposed to believe this?”

I said, “If my possible interference bothers you so much, why the hell did you get in touch with Astrid and ask her to help decoy me to Sweden?” A thought came to me, and I looked at him sharply. “Come to that, how did you make her acquaintance in the first place… Acquaintance, hell! You’re the demon lover who took off when she got pregnant, according to her story, leaving it up to nice Cousin Alan Watrous to pick up the pieces, and redeem the family honor by marrying her.”

He hesitated, and shrugged. “Very well. I… knew her in America. I have never said I did not. But it was not the way you suggest. When she became
enceinte
, to use that old term, I offered to do whatever she wished. What she wished was for me to leave, and let it be thought I had deserted her. She preferred Alan, and the position and security I could not provide; she was certain she could persuade him to look after her and her unborn child, and she did. But we have remained friendly enough that I was not embarrassed to ask a favor of her when one was needed.”

I studied him for a moment. Some odd relationships were involved here; but then, these were odd people, my Swedish relatives. Well, I’ve been told I’m a little odd myself.

I said, dismissing the subject, “Which brings us back to the question: why did you ask her to approach my boss and request my help, when the last thing you really wanted was my interference?”

“You are being very obtuse,” Olaf said irritably. “I had to go through the motions of doing what those important family members required, in order to retain a little of their uncertain confidence. I could not have them thinking I resented too much being bypassed in your favor. They would have summoned you anyway, even if I had refused to help. Better to remain in a position to know if you were becoming dangerously suspicious; in a position, also, to discover that your chief in Washington had not, apparently, released you from your government service to assist your aristocratic Swedish relatives entirely out of the kindness of his heart. He had another axe to grind, to use your American slang; he had another fish to fry. Lysaniemi.”

“Okay, say he’s using me to kill two birds with one stone, to keep the cliches coming; suppose he’s sent me here to solve the Segerby problem for my family and at the same time solve the Lysaniemi problem, whatever it may be, for himself; what difference does it make to you?”

Olaf shook his head grimly. “We cannot afford to have his problems conflict with our problems. We have serious plans. They will be implemented soon. We must know that nothing will interfere with them. You seem to be a dangerous man in your clumsy, blundering way. Years ago, for instance, you came to this country and managed, somehow, to smash an important Soviet espionage operation, you and your foolish guns. Although we are not dealing with Russians or espionage now, we cannot afford to have you stumbling around in the wrong places shooting everything in sight while you try to prevent Karin Segerby from bringing disgrace to the family. What an old-fashioned idea; some people still live in the Middle Ages, here in Sweden! As if the tired old Swedish nobility means anything these days!”

I said, “That ought to be my speech, Baron Stjernhjelm. I’m the democratic character who calls himself Mr. Helm.”

“And who, nevertheless, like all Americans, is tremendously respectful of any title.” He laughed shortly. “Astrid is even worse; I think she even allowed me to make love to her, at first, simply because I was a baron. She is very impressed and somewhat intimidated by us obsolete aristocrats, even though her own Finnish family is as good as any. Barons frighten her, counts positively terrify her—it was a great shock to her, working with him, when she discovered that Alan had a title, even one he had put aside to become an American—and Heaven help her if she should ever meet a prince. I suppose it is the result of being brought up in Indiana.” Olaf shook his head quickly. “But enough of that. We have more important things to discuss. Like Lysaniemi.”

“I keep telling you—”

Olaf didn’t let me finish. He interrupted: “We have you now, and we will keep you until it is too late for you to interfere personally; but we must also leave no loose ends to trip ourselves up. We must know that this other problem you have been sent here to deal with is not going to backfire without you—is that the proper word, backfire?—and damage our plans. We must know the significance of Lysaniemi.” He glanced towards the stove. “We do not like to employ such methods, but an answer we must have!”

Since the beginning of time and torture, they’ve always announced that they were too good, too pure, to use the rack and thumbscrew, or the knout, or the hot irons, and gone right ahead and used them anyway, for the simple reason that they work.

I put some desperation into my voice when I answered. It wasn’t hard to do under the circumstances, and I managed a nice scared quaver: “For Christ’s sake, can’t you get it through your head that I don’t know what it means? Lysaniemi, Lysaniemi.
Lysa
means ‘light’ or ‘shine’ in Swedish, doesn’t it. Or it could be a girl’s name, perhaps derived from Elizabeth. Elise. Elyse. Lysa.
Niemi
means ‘point’ or ‘cape’ or ‘promontory’ in Finnish. Or ‘naze’ or ‘ness,’ like in Inverness, if you want to be old-fashioned. Derived from the Scandinavian
näsa
, meaning ‘nose,’ in case you’re interested. Shining Nose, Lapland. Lizzie’s Point. If that means anything to you, you’re welcome to it.”

He backhanded me alongside the head. I was grateful that, once I’d been securely taped, he’d laid aside the pistol.

“You are playing games with me!”

I said, “Damn it, you’re the one who’s been making with the languages; I thought you liked the semantic stuff. I don’t know what the hell Lysaniemi means. If it’s a code word, I don’t have the code. As for why it was passed to me like that, by way of the lady instead of through normal channels, I, have absolutely no idea except that, as she’ll have told you, our channels aren’t very normal at the moment.”

“You will talk,” he said, stepping forward. “You will talk, I guarantee it.”

He was very systematic about it. He carefully untied my necktie and unbuttoned my shirt. Then he took out a small penknife, opened the larger of the two blades, and slit my undershirt down the front from throat to waist. He pulled it open to bare my chest, and frowned.

“Those old scars. You have been burned before.”

I said bravely, “Sure, the last guy used an electric soldering iron plugged into the wall, very modern. The hot ends of lighted cigars and cigarettes are also very popular for the purpose, as I’ve discovered the hard way. But don’t be bashful, carry on with your old-fashioned branding-iron technique.”