by Maj Sjowall
Martin Beck asked to be connected to the Violence Division. The phone was answered immediately.
“Larsson here.”
“Heydt’s in town.”
“Yes,” said Gunvald Larsson, “I just heard. A woman police assistant in the Investigation Bureau had the good taste to sleep with him on the night of the fourth. She seems certain it was him. He made out he was Danish. Nice guy, she said. Spoke a kind of Scandinavian.”
“I’ve got a witness, too,” said Martin Beck, “a woman who saw him in Köpmangatan in the Old City about three weeks ago. She saw him getting into a car with Swedish plates in Slottsbacken and she thinks he drove south.”
“Your witness,” said Gunvald Larsson, “does she seem reliable?”
“The most reliable person I know.”
“Oh-ho, yes.” Gunvald Larsson was silent for a moment. “The bastard,” he said. “He’s beaten us and we don’t have any time. What do we do?”
“We have to think,” said Martin Beck. “If you’ll send a patrol car, I’ll be with you in twenty minutes.”
“Shall I alert Skacke and Melander?”
“No, let them sleep. Someone has to be rested tomorrow. How are you feeling yourself?”
“I was dead beat a moment ago, but I’m ready to go again now.”
“Same here.”
“Mmm,” said Gunvald Larsson. “I don’t think we’re going to get much sleep tonight.”
“It can’t be helped. If we can get Heydt, a lot of risks will be eliminated.”
Martin Beck hung up and began to get dressed.
“He’s that important?” asked Rhea.
“Vitally. Bye, and thanks for this and that. See you tomorrow evening? At my place?”
“Sure,” she said cheerfully. She had planned to go there anyhow to watch the news coverage of the event on Martin Beck’s color television.
After he’d gone, she lay there thinking for a long time. She had been in a good mood a minute or two before, but now she was feeling depressed.
Rhea was exceptionally intuitive, and she did not like the situation.
19
Gunvald Larsson and Martin Beck spent the early hours of the morning thinking intensely, but unfortunately they were handicapped by self-reproach, humiliation and deadly fatigue. Both realized that they were no longer young.
Heydt had entered the country despite all their rigorous precautionary measures. It seemed logical that the rest of the sabotage group were also in Stockholm and had been there for quite some time, since it was highly unlikely that Heydt would be alone.
They knew quite a lot about Reinhard Heydt, but they had no idea where he was and could only guess at what he was going to do. Worst of all, they had no time to find out.
He had at his disposal a green car of unknown make with Swedish plates, possibly with the letters GOZ. Where had he got the car? Stolen it? That seemed an unnecessary risk to have taken, and Heydt was probably not a man to take unnecessary risks. Nevertheless, as soon as possible they checked up on all reports of stolen cars. None matched.
He might also have bought or rented it, but to check all those possibilities would take days, perhaps weeks. They had only a few hours, and during those hours, their quiet offices were to be transformed into a scene of sheer chaos.
Skacke and Melander arrived at seven, listened with gloomy faces to this new development, then set to work on their telephones. But it was all much too late, because in the tracks of messengers came a veritable torrent of people who now suddenly considered their presence highly necessary. The National Commissioner arrived followed closely by Stig Malm, the chief of the Stockholm Police and the chief of the Regular Police. Soon after that Bulldozer Olsson brought his beaming visage into the office, and then came a representative of the Fire Brigade, whom no one had invited; two police superintendents, who as far as could be made out were simply curious; and to crown everything, a government secretary sent by the cabinet, apparently as some kind of observer.
For a brief moment, Eric Möllen’s unique wreath of hair could be glimpsed in the crowd, but by then everyone had given up hope of being able to do anything properly at all.
Gunvald Larsson realized quite early on that he would never get back home to Bollmora to shower and change. And if Martin Beck had similar plans, they were soon spiked by the fact that from half-past eight on he was forced to talk on the telephone without a break, mostly to people who had extremely peripheral connections with the Senator’s visit.
In the general uproar, a couple of accredited crime reporters also managed to get into headquarters, where they were trying to collect some tidbits of news. These journalists were considered to have favorable attitudes toward the police, and everyone shied away from the very thought of offending them in any way. With one of the reporters no more than a few feet away, the Commissioner turned to Martin Beck and asked, “Where’s Einar Rönn?”
“Don’t know,” lied Martin Beck.
“What’s he doing?”
“Don’t know that, either,” said Martin Beck, if possible even less truthfully.
As he tried to elbow his way away, he heard the Commissioner muttering to himself: “Remarkable. Remarkable way of assuming command.”
Shortly after ten, Rönn telephoned, and after a great many ifs and buts managed to get hold of Gunvald Larsson.
“Hi, it’s Einar.”
“Is everything ready now?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Good, Einar. You must be beat.”
“Yes, I must admit I am. And what about you?”
“About as bright as a slaughtered pig,” said Gunvald Larsson. “I never got to bed last night.”
“I’ve had about two hours’ sleep.”
“Better than nothing. Be careful as hell now, won’t you?”
“Yes. You too.”
Gunvald Larsson said nothing to Rönn about Heydt, partly because far too many outsiders were within earshot, but also because the information would only have served to make Rönn even more nervous than he was already.
Gunvald Larsson pushed his way over to the window, demonstratively turning his back on the others, and stared out. All he could see was the new police super-headquarters under construction and a tiny sliver of a gray and dismal sky. The weather was about what could be expected: temperature about freezing point, a northeasterly wind and repeated showers of sleet. Not especially encouraging for the gigantic number of police on duty out of doors, but hardly encouraging for demonstrators, either.
By half-past ten, Martin Beck had managed to extract his three remaining colleagues from the melée and pilot them into one of the nearby rooms, where Gunvald Larsson at once locked the door and took all the telephone receivers off their hooks.
Martin Beck made a very short statement:
“Only the four of us know that Reinhard Heydt is in town, and that in all likelihood a complete trained terrorist group is also here. Do any of you think that these facts should in any way alter our plans?”
No one replied, until Melander took his pipe out of his mouth and said, “As far as I can see, this is the very situation we always figured on. So I can’t see why we should revise our plan at this stage.”
“What sort of risk are Rönn and his men running?” asked Skacke.
“A pretty considerable one,” said Martin Beck. “That’s my personal view.”
Only Gunvald Larsson said something off the point.
“If this goddamn Heydt or any of his gang get out of this country alive, I’ll take it as a personal defeat. Whether they blow this American to pieces or not.”
“Or shoot him,” said Skacke.
“It should be impossible to shoot him,” said Melander placidly. “All the long-range security is designed to prevent precisely that. On the occasions when he appears outside the bulletproof car, he will have a strong protective guard of policemen with automatics and bulletproof protection. All the areas concerned have been searched continually according
to the plan since midnight last night.”
“And at the banquet this evening?” said Gunvald Larsson suddenly. “Are they serving the bastard champagne in bulletproof glasses?”
Only Martin Beck laughed, not loudly, but heartily, and was himself surprised that he could laugh in such a situation.
Melander said patiently, “The banquet is Möller’s business. If I’ve got the plan right, then practically every person on duty at Stallmästaregården this evening will be an armed security man.”
“And the food?” said Gunvald Larsson. “Is Möller going to cook it himself?”
“The chef and cooks are reliable and will also be searched and carefully supervised.”
There was a moment’s silence. Melander puffed on his pipe, Gunvald Larsson opened the window, letting in the icy wind plus a little rain and snow and the normal dose of oil specks and industrial fumes.
“I have one more question,” said Martin Beck. “Do any of you think we ought to warn the chief of Security that Heydt, and probably also ULAG, are in Stockholm?”
Gunvald Larsson spat contemptuously out the window.
Again it was Melander who provided a logical summary.
“Getting that information at the last moment won’t alter Eric Möller’s or the close-range security plans for the better, will it? Probably the other way around; there might be confusion and contradictory orders. The close-range-protection people are already organized and quite aware of their task.”
“Okay,” said Martin Beck. “As you know, there are a few details—more than a few—that only we four and Rönn have the slightest idea about. If things go wrong, we’ll be the ones to bear the brunt.”
“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.