by Per Wahlöö
‘And?’
‘The outposts proved to be unmanned.’
‘What’s happened to the foreign embassies?’
‘A lot of them were evacuated during the disturbances. The police and army couldn’t, or wouldn’t, protect them.’
‘Sounds unlikely.’
‘It’s true, nonetheless. The remaining residences were closed when the rumours of an epidemic started to spread.’
‘What happened to the medical volunteer expeditions from other countries?’
‘They haven’t come back. And there’s been no word from them.’
‘Are the internal communications working?’
‘Evidently not. Three military aircraft and one from the civil aviation side have crashed in foreign territory. Nobody knows why.’
Jensen sat in silence for a few moments. Then he said:
‘Is this information correct?’
‘Yes. Unfortunately.’
Nobody said a word. Jensen did not move a muscle.
‘One more thing,’ he said.
‘What’s that?’
‘Could they all be dead?’
‘No. We know there’s considerable activity, particularly in the capital.’
‘How do you know that?’
The Minister for Education glanced quickly at the senior minister, who gave a resigned shrug.
‘I can’t answer that question without giving away a military secret.’
Jensen said nothing.
‘But I shall answer it, all the same. It so happens that a friendly superpower has been carrying out systematic, high-altitude surveillance operations over our country for a number of years. Its reconnaissance planes are fitted with comprehensive surveillance equipment. We have been able to share their observations through informal channels.’
‘And?’
‘As I say, there’s no shortage of activity.’
‘Military?’
‘Not in the capital. There is, however, evidence of some military deployment in the countryside.’
‘What’s happening in the capital?’
‘We don’t know. But we know something’s going on there.’
‘Something organised?’
‘Yes.’
Jensen went back to his starting point.
‘Why are we here?’
The politician’s reply was shockingly honest.
‘Because no one wants anything to do with us.’
‘Why don’t you try to get home?’
‘Because we daren’t.’
CHAPTER 8
Jensen stood up and went over to the window. He stared out into the rain. Without turning round, he said:
‘What do you intend to do?’
‘Assign you the task of finding out as much as possible about what’s happened.’
‘You haven’t the authority to assign me tasks here.’
‘No. We know. But we’re doing it anyway. We want you to try to get an overview of the situation as quickly as possible and report back here.’
‘How?’
‘We have certain contacts here. Since this country doesn’t officially exist for us, we don’t need to stick too rigidly to protocol. A helicopter will transport you to a particular point, which naturally you can choose for yourself. It will then return to the same place at a pre-appointed time and pick you up. You will come back here. You can be away three days at most, or find some other way to report back, otherwise …’
‘What happens otherwise?’
‘Otherwise we shall have to resort to different methods.’
‘What sort of methods?’
Behind him he could hear the politicians muttering amongst themselves. He did not turn round but contented himself with waiting for their answer. It took about a minute or so.
‘The friendly superpower that I referred to just now has significant interests of both a political and an economic nature in keeping our country under surveillance. It is, however, extremely tied up in other parts of the world and has no wish to intervene without due cause, particularly not in the current confused situation. If, on the other hand, it turns out that antisocial elements are attempting to exploit the situation, then we can request … military assistance. I hope. On a limited scale. This superpower is, as I say, extremely committed elsewhere. But it will help us, we are sure of that. If it’s politically expedient. Always assuming the antisocial elements don’t manage to take over the administration, which is basically out of the question anyway.’
‘What do you mean by antisocial elements?’
The answer was the only thinkable one.
‘Communists.’
Silence. It had all gone quiet out on the airfield, too. The only sound was the rain.
‘Well, Jensen. Will you go?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now? Right away?’
‘Yes.’
‘Excellent.’
Jensen made no reply.
‘Are you armed?’
‘No.’
‘Perhaps you should be.’
‘Why?’
‘You never know. We’ll take care of that detail.’ Jensen still did not move.
‘One more thing,’ he said.
‘What’s that?’
‘Immediately before I went on sick leave, I was ordered to arrest forty-three doctors working in my district, among them my own police doctor. I assume similar orders were issued to all districts.’
‘We don’t know anything about that,’ His Excellency hastened to say. ‘That’s a police matter.’
‘Could those arrests conceivably have anything to do with subsequent developments?’ Jensen asked, unruffled.
‘Definitely not,’ said the Minister for Education.
‘I’ve already said there was no connection,’ said His Excellency.
Renewed silence. It was the minister who broke it. The minister was a youthful forty-year-old with blue eyes, a slight squint and an effeminate look around the mouth. He was clearly the one who made the decisions.
‘Where do you plan to land?’
‘The airport.’
‘You haven’t any imagination,’ His Excellency said in a petulant, reproachful tone.
‘That’s right,’ said Jensen. ‘I haven’t.’
CHAPTER 9
It was a jet-powered helicopter, but the journey was still a slow one. The weather conditions were poor, with mist and low, fast-moving cloud, and the ground remained largely out of sight. Violent gusty showers of rain and wet snow beat against the Plexiglas windscreen, and the pilot took the aircraft up to a less turbulent height.
Jensen stopped looking out. There was nothing to see. Instead he took out the gun that was weighing down his jacket pocket in an annoying manner.
The gun was a 7.65 millimetre Beretta pistol. It was old, but he had selected it because he was familiar with the mechanism. He had also been given three extra magazines and a brown leather holster.
Jensen hadn’t fired a shot since he graduated from police college. He had kept his police-issue gun in the glove compartment of his car, but a few years before he had moved it to a locker at the police station. During his training he had been an excellent shot. He had once won a medal in a competition.
He pulled his suitcase towards him and opened it, put the pistol into the holster and placed them both neatly on top of his private possessions. Then he shut the lid and locked the case.
The helicopter had stopped lurching; the engine droned evenly and soporifically. There was nothing to see but the clouds and the back of the pilot’s leather jacket.
Jensen was no longer in pain. The skin around the operation scar was pulling a bit, and he felt weak. It didn’t hurt any more. What remained was a strange emptiness, as if a close relative had died. For many years the pain had been his constant companion; now it was gone. The fact brought him no relief or satisfaction.
He fell asleep with his head leaning on the back rest of the seat.
The pilot woke him half an h
our later.
‘As far as I can tell, we’re there.’
Outside the cockpit there was nothing to be seen but thick grey fog.
‘The control tower isn’t answering,’ said the man at the controls. ‘The radar isn’t working. Visibility’s almost zero and it’ll soon be dark. Shall I try to land?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is going to be very dodgy. I suppose we’d better go down and have a look.’
Jensen nodded. He took his wallet out of his inside pocket, located his police ID badge and put it in his breast pocket.
The helicopter pilot gave him a surprised sideways glance. He was about thirty, a small man with unkempt hair and a frank, open face.
He had presumably thought Jensen was about to give him some money.
Below them, something was taking shape out of the fog.
‘Uh-oh,’ said the pilot. ‘Right on top of the terminal. How about that for navigation? No lights, either.’
The machine pulled sharply back into the air. The fog closed in on them again.
‘Okay, we’ll try a bit further out on the airfield.’
He brought the machine down with the greatest of care. It took a minute or so, and then they could see the ground, the grass and the concrete landing strips. To their right, a red and white object emerged from the gloom.
‘A tanker,’ said the pilot. ‘Parked right across the runway. They’ve blockaded the airport.’
He peered out into the fog.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘This’ll be fine.’
Jensen got up and put on his overcoat. He picked up his hat.
The helicopter touched down. The pilot reached out an arm and opened the cabin door.
‘Can you see the landing beacon over there? There’s a number on it. A black four. We’ll take that as a landmark.’
He looked at his watch.
‘The day after tomorrow and the day after that I’ll be here at exactly nine in the morning. I’ll wait for two minutes. From 09.00 to 09.02.’
Jensen took his suitcase and climbed out on to the ground.
‘Bye,’ said the helicopter pilot. ‘Best of luck.’
‘Goodbye.’
The machine took off in a roaring swirl of air and was swallowed by the mist. The engine sound died away.
The silence was then complete. There was nothing to see. It was starting to get dark and the visibility was worsening still further.
Inspector Jensen put on his hat and set off towards the terminal building.
CHAPTER 10
When Jensen reached the terminal, it was almost dark. The big glass doors were locked. There were no lights on, and nothing to indicate there was any living being in the vicinity.
On the concrete forecourt were six baggage trucks and a tank painted in camouflage colours. Its crew had left it without even stopping to close the hatch. He climbed up and looked in. Everything seemed normal.
Out on the airfield he had seen the burnt-out wreck of a crashed passenger plane, and numerous lorries and army buses lined up across the runways.
He walked round the outside of the building and came to a tall wire fence. He followed it until he came to a gate. It was locked. Jensen threw over his suitcase and climbed after it. As he launched himself at the ground, the sleeve of his coat caught in the barbed wire on top. A long rip was torn in it. He stood there in the dark, feeling along the fabric with his fingers. The damage seemed irreparable.
Jensen worked his way back along the fence until he reached the front of the terminal building.
The street lights weren’t working. It was entirely dark and he had to feel his way along the wall. The air was raw and cold, and it was drizzling. He stopped and tried to get his bearings. He did not know the airport very well, but he had a good memory. From what he could remember, he was less than ten metres from the main entrance. Outside it there were telephone boxes and a taxi rank. He left the wall, crossed the pavement and walked into the side of a car. Found the handle and opened the front door. When he reached his hand in, it came up against something soft.
Jensen knew at once what it was. It did not make him jump. He was neither scared nor surprised, but put down his case and began feeling around with both hands. He confirmed there was a dead body slumped over the steering wheel.
He shut the car door, picked up his case and cut back across the pavement. The phone boxes were where he had expected to find them. He went into the first, fished a coin out of his pocket. He heard the coin fall into place, but got no tone in the receiver. The telephone was unusable. He moved on to the next one. Same thing there.
Jensen had just gone into the third phone box when he heard the howl of a siren. It started somewhere not too far away and approached at speed. Within a few minutes, the beam of light from a pair of headlamps cut through the mist and drizzle. The vehicle braked and came to a stop with its front wheels on the pavement and its headlights directed on the terminal building, no more than fifteen metres from the phone boxes. The glare was reflected by the wall of glass, shedding a diffuse light. Through the steamed-up glass of the phone box he could see that the vehicle was a standard ambulance, white with a red cross on the side and a flashing blue light on top. The siren stopped wailing and the ignition was turned off, but the headlights were left on and the rotating light on the roof continued to cast its flashes of blue lightning into the darkness. Two people in white coats got out.
Jensen picked up his suitcase and was about to push open the swing door when he stopped.
Both had blue armbands and one was a woman. He had never seen a female stretcher-bearer before. He froze, listening.
‘They must have heard wrong,’ said the woman. ‘Could anyone really land in this weather?’
‘Seems pretty unlikely, but we’d better check.’
They switched on their torches and went in separate directions. The woman passed close by the telephone box. Jensen remained motionless. Her movements were quick and elastic. She seemed quite young. The sound of her footsteps faded away. It was quiet for a moment. Then the steps approached again.
‘Hello?’ called the woman.
‘Yes?’
‘Bring your torch over here. There’s a dead body in this car.’
The ambulance man passed right by the phone box, too. Jensen couldn’t see them any longer, but he could hear their voices clearly.
‘Some old bloke,’ the man said sadly. ‘Fancy sitting here dying in your taxi outside a barred and bolted airport. He had his cap on, too.’
‘Very odd that people can’t learn to do as they’re told,’ said the woman.
‘We’ll have to take him with us to the central unit.’
‘Yep. Give me a hand here.’
‘Hadn’t I better get a stretcher?’
‘No need. I’m stronger than I look.’
‘Hey, hang on a minute.’
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘This old guy’s sick.’
‘Well, he’s dead.’
‘I know that, but look at him. He’s blue. Must have had a heart attack.’
‘Well we’ll take him to the central unit anyway.’
They carried the dead man to the ambulance, opened the back doors and heaved in the body. The woman wiped her forehead with the sleeve of her coat and looked about.
‘Have you got treatment tonight?’ she said.
‘Yes, at twelve.’
‘Good. We’ll have time for sex beforehand, just a quickie.’
‘Fine by me. What did you say your name was?’
‘I didn’t.’
They climbed into the front of the ambulance again, the engine started and the ambulance backed off in a wide arc, its headlights sweeping across the immediate surroundings. Jensen saw there were three cars parked a little way off.
One was a police patrol car.
The ambulance drove off. The growl of the engine was soon drowned out by the noise of the rain, but then the siren began to wail again.
T
he sound receded.
Jensen waited until it was completely silent. Then he left the phone box and walked purposefully towards where he had seen the police car parked. He knew that model well and as long as there was petrol in the tank he’d be able to jump-start it.
But there was no need. The car was unlocked and the key had been left in the ignition. He switched on the interior light and could see nothing special or unusual. The tank was almost full. The glove compartment contained a half-empty packet of cigarettes, a pistol and a torch. He looked at the patrol car number below the dashboard. As he had guessed, it belonged to the police unit stationed at the airport.
The engine started at once. He switched on the headlights, left the airport and joined the motorway, driving moderately fast. After about twenty minutes an ambulance came speeding up behind him with its blue light flashing and its siren on. As it tried to overtake, Jensen put his foot down and had soon left it far behind. A while after that, he met an oncoming grey bus and two more ambulances. They passed so fast that he had no time to register any details.
The rain got heavier and the visibility grew worse than ever. In one place, however, he thought he could see flickering lights in the windows of a tower block in one of the self-clearance areas. He was only three kilometres from the district where he lived when he met a roadblock improvised out of a row of lorries, parked close together and blocking the motorway.
In the middle of the roadblock a big, crudely painted sign announced: INFECTION RISK – HELP STATION 4KM – FOLLOW ROUTE 73. Under the words was a painted arrow, pointing to the right. Jensen saw the roadblock so late that he only just had time to stop. Some earlier motorist had not been so lucky, for he saw the crushed wreck of a little car jammed between the big lorries.
He backed away from the abandoned lorries and turned down the slip road leading off the motorway. He passed a few more signs directing people to the help station, but soon turned off route 73 on to a narrow back road.
Inspector Jensen was entirely at home in the area, but it still took him a couple of hours to find a back way into the estate where he lived. The torrential rain made observation impossible. He parked in his usual place. Took with him the pistol, the torch and the patrol car log, which was where it should be, in the compartment under the driving seat. He locked the car, took the suitcase out of the boot and went up to his flat. Neither the lift nor the stairwell lighting was working. Nor were the lights in the flat.