Assignment - Black Viking

by Edward S. Aarons

  Sigrid stood to one side as he put his key into the ornate bronze latch.

  The moment the lock clicked, the world dissolved in a blast of red flame and thunderous, explosive noise.

  5

  SIGRID’S scream echoed through the ringing in Durell’s ears. He picked himself up from the landing. He felt a pain in his chest as if someone had taken a plank and slammed it across his body. He examined himself for blood and wounds, and saw Sigrid rush toward him from the other side of the shattered doorway.

  “Are you all right, darling?”

  “I think so.”

  “What was it? I mean—”

  “A bomb. Set for me. Stand back.”

  He had escaped the full force of the blast, but every muscle in his body vibrated in reaction. Anger and chagrin mingled in him as he drew his gun and plunged through the smoking, broken doorway. The lovely diamond-paned windows of his room were bulging and shattered. He heard shouts and running feet below, but he ignored them. He’d had nothing in the room, but it had been thoroughly searched. The bomb, powerful as it was, could not have opened the drawers and doors of the heavy wardrobe chest against the plastered wall. He saw the small radio McFee had ordered left for him against contingencies in the North. It was wrapped in plain brown paper, tied with a string. He picked it up gingerly. It was not another boobytrap. Then he went to the window and looked down at the narrow street and the canal beyond.

  A man was running away under the trees there. Durell swung abruptly and bumped into Sigrid. “Come along.”

  “What is it?”

  “Our bomber. Let’s go.”

  “Darling, you look awful. Your clothes—”

  “I feel awful. Hurry.”

  He went down the stairs three at a time. The girl’s heels clattered behind him. The fat Flemish host of the Black Swan Inn, wearing a cook’s apron, barred his way with waving hands and a spate of excited questions. Durell shoved him aside and plunged outdoors with Sigrid. Anger roweled him, spurred him to more speed.

  His chest ached and his left arm tingled. The street in front of the inn was empty except for some cars parked diagonally on the brick sidewalk. He ran along the front of the inn and charged down a narrow slot to the canal. By the time he turned the corner, however, the man who had been running away was gone.

  He did not check his speed. He had not seen the man’s face, and had only a vague impression of a stout body and dumpy legs in a brown sack suit. He ran under a row of copper beech trees, dodged the parked cars, and came to the next street. A flicker of brown caught his eye. But the blank wall of a church made a dead end here. Durell glimpsed a white, strained face, open-mouthed, turned his way. Then the man darted to the left, down a small alley. Durell followed. Sigrid’s sharp, clattering heels were close behind him.

  The bell of a police car clanged near the inn. Shadows flickered in the alley. Puffy white clouds sailed in the serene blue sky. Another canal, another bridge, showed at the end of the alley. The running man in the brown sack suit was almost to the bridge when Durell fired. He heard an echo to his shot as Sigrid, who had somehow managed to get a gun from her black shoulder bag, shot at the fugitive, too.

  He never knew which bullet found its mark.

  The man suddenly lifted on his toes like a ballet dancer, his face a pale moon of astonishment. Durell had aimed high, as a warning, in case he had mistaken his quarry.

  But the fugitive suddenly spun toward the bridge rail and reached for it as if to clamber up on it. His hand went to his mouth and he chewed violently, his face convulsed. Then he grabbed his throat. He was choking to death when Durell caught up with him.

  “Who is he?” Sigrid panted.

  Durell had never seen him before. The man drew up his knees in a foetal position, shaking and jerking. He had taken a poison pill that worked with implacable speed. His eyes rolled and his lips were skinned back to bare all his teeth. He was about forty, bald, and he could have passed for any stolid citizen of Flanders.

  “He’s dead,” Sigrid whispered.

  Durell checked the bullet wound. It was high in the shoulder, hardly mortal. It was rare, he thought, for an agent to actually follow orders to the point of choosing suicide instead of capture. A remorseless terror of reprisal had to be built up for this to take place. He felt angry and frustrated.

  “Watch the streets,” he told Sigrid.

  The canal nearby gleamed peacefully in the warm sunlight. Swans floated under the bridge. The voices of a choir lifted dimly in the air from a nearby convent.

  The face was meaningless, anonymous. Durell, whose memory was capable of almost total recall, could not place it in the files he often pored over in K Section’s archives. He searched the dead man’s pockets. They were empty. The labels were from the Bon Marche, Brussels’ big department store. The suit was new, but it was probably a cash sale and impossible to trace.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he told the girl.

  “Do we just—just leave him here?”

  “He wouldn’t be an ornament aboard the Vesper.”

  The yacht was moored off the pleasure beaches at Ostend, and the guests were taking advantage of the warm sunshine to swim and sun themselves on the polished teak deck. Durell had checked out the tiny radio transmitter McFee had left for him. It was the size of a pack of cigarettes, operating on only one microwave frequency. He wondered when he might have to use it to summon an American nuclear submarine to the Arctic wastes.

  Up on deck, Sigrid had donned her bikini again and sprawled like something out of a Viking saga near the bow. A radio played American jazz, and some guests were dancing while others splashed about the float that the crew had obligingly lowered for them. There was a general blanket of laughter, music, and amorous murmurings as Durell made his way forward toward the Swedish girl.

  “Sir? Mr. Durell?”

  It was the new captain, Olaf Jannsen. He touched his white cap respectfully.

  “What is it, Olaf?”

  “I just wondered, sir, if you and Miss Gustaffson were leaving with the others. Baron Uccelatti has ordered a float plane to take those who wish to go over to London. You can be flown anywhere you like, compliments of the Baron, sir, if you do not wish to proceed with the cruise.”

  Durell looked at the dark-haired giant. Olaf had a Swedish accent, despite his jet-black hair. He was a handsome man, not more than thirty, with a weathered seaman’s face and a web of lines at the corners of his pale

  brown eyes. His face was brutal, despite the courteous smile. Although Jannsen spoke to him, his brown eyes flicked twice to the remarkable figure of Sigrid sunning herself nearby.

  “We’re staying aboard, Olaf.”

  “You and Miss Gustaffson? But I thought—”

  “What is it? You seem disappointed.”

  “No, sir, not at all. I merely understood that all the guests would leave tonight.”

  “Well, we’re going on to Stockholm with the Baron.” Something flickered behind the hard lines of Jannsen’s face, then was erased by an expression of bland service. Durell walked on to join Sigrid.

  “He’s so handsome,” Sigrid sighed.

  “Olaf can’t keep his eyes off you.”

  “A Black Viking. Most unusual.”

  “Hardly black.”

  “I meant his hair. His eyes. Uncle Eric—the one who does so much research on the sagas and the edda of our people—ran across several old runes that referred to a Black Viking. An outcast, doomed to sail the seas forever —Uncle Eric takes such tales seriously. Once, when I was a little girl, he read the poem to me, in the old tongue. It was frightening, to sit there by the great fire, with all those old helmets and shields shining on the stone walls, and hear him recite the tale. I wonder if Olaf is he?”

  “What happened to the man in the poem?”

  “After many cycles of years, the Black Viking returned to the Northland and, in revenge for his exile, he destroyed everything with fire and sword, then vanished into the ice.�
�� Sigrid spoke soberly. “Then the winter came and lasted forever after.”

  “Prophetic, do you think?”

  “Strangely coincidental. Are you thinking as I do, thoughtful man?”

  “I’m wondering how someone knew I checked into the Black Swan after I left the boat this morning.”

  “You were followed, foolish man.”

  “Yes. And by someone from the Vesper.”

  She rolled over on her hip. Her dark lashes veiled her blue, innocent eyes. “And who could it be?”

  “You, perhaps.”

  “Yes, I already knew of your meeting. But you’re wrong, darling, and that is the truth.”

  “Then Captain Jannsen, your Black Viking, is the next best candidate.”

  “Why? Are you jealous because you know I find him fascinating? Truly, he may be a living Norse legend. But then, this makes him more interesting, since we Swedes are morbid and attracted to doom and death.”

  “It was an expert job of tailing. You’re capable of it, Sigrid. But I like Jannsen for the job.”

  “Why?”

  “He came aboard only when the former captain failed to return from Brighton two days ago, when we anchored there. Valetti reported sick, but no one saw him again, did they? Then Jannsen showed up so conveniently to take his place.”

  “I like the way you think, darling. You have such a nasty, suspicious mind.”

  “You live longer that way.”

  She moved her leg and her toes caressed him and her smile was a secret behind her thick pale hair. “But danger can sometimes be most attractive.”

  “Yes, when you keep your eyes open.” He stood up. “I think I’ll fly to London tonight. I’ll be back in the morning, before we sail for Stockholm.”

  “May I go with you?”

  “It would be nice, but too distracting.”

  “Buy me something in London, dearest man?”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “Some foul-weather gear. I think we’ll need it.”

  6

  BARON UCCELATTI said: “I am desolate, Sam. Everyone leaves us, except you and Miss Gustaffson. If it were anyone else, I would refuse to sail my Vesper into the Baltic. But you say your business requires the cruise, and since I owe you much for past favors, it is little enough that I can do.”

  “It will be dangerous, you understand.”

  “And most lonely, without all our young ladies. Such a bore. Danger may be welcome.”

  Uccelatti had the fine outward graces of Palermitan nobility. Not long ago, Durell had helped to save his position as second-in-command of the Fratelli della Notte in Sicily. In some circles, Uccelatti might be regarded as the ultimate refinement of a modern criminal—a gracious, cosmopolitan façade hiding connections with dubious international “business” cartels that sheltered the gains from syndicate operations. Behind this façade, Uccelatti had a quick and deadly mind. His background did not trouble Durell. In his business, you used the tools at hand, and Uccelatti was like a fine stiletto. Their respect for each other was mutual. The Baron had even helped save his life on a recent assignment that took Durell to Sicily, and their friendship overcame their separate backgrounds.

  “Poor Pietro Valetti,” the Baron said quietly. “You truly think something serious has happened to him?” “Yes, if Captain Jannsen, who took his place, is the ringer I’m looking for.”

  “But I had a telephone call from Valetti himself. I sensed nothing out of the ordinary. He was ill, he had virus pneumonia, he said—”

  “I’ll check it out.”

  “The Witherton Circle Hospital, he told me. But I hope you are wrong, Sam.”

  “I don’t,” Durell said. “I like to know the face of my enemies.”

  Durell was picked up at London Airport by Tony Drum, from London Control, in a Jaguar that seemed a bit ostentatious. It was a fine night. The stars shone, and the moon was a benign silver disk in the quiet sky. It occurred to him that he was getting too weather-conscious.

  “I could have done this for you by telephone, Cajun,” Drum said. He was a tidy young man with fastidious manners. “It seems a fairly routine check-out. But we’re rather shorthanded. Everyone is off, including the Chief, to somewhere on the Continent.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Are you in on it, too?”

  “You ask a lot of questions, Tony.”

  “Oh. Sorry. Right-o.”

  There was no record of a patient named Valetti suffering from pneumonia at the Witherton Circle Hospital. No one answering the Sicilian’s description was there.

  “What now?” Tony Drum asked.

  “We find him.”

  “Coo. Rather a job, in all of merry England.”

  “Not too hard. Let’s go to Brighton.”

  “Right now?”

  “If it doesn’t strain your Jaguar too much.”

  Three hours later, he found Valetti.

  It was in the Brighton morgue.

  The constable in charge accepted Tony Drum’s credentials and took them, yawning, to view the body. It was past three o’clock in the morning. Valetti had been a swarthy, stocky man, devoted to Uccelatti almost all his life. There was surprise stamped on his dark, dead face. “Where did you find him, Constable?” Durell asked. “On the beach, sir, under the pier, by some young people—cyclists, they were, having themselves a bash in the dark. Another hour, and the tide would have washed him away. A simple robbery and mugging, we think.” The constable sighed. “Usual blunt instrument did it. Do you want to talk to the youngsters who found him?”

  “No. I’ve got enough. No idea who did it?”

  “Not yet, sir. We’re working on it.”

  “Good. Keep at it,” Durell said.

  The constable covered the dead man’s face again.

  The Vesper seemed lonely and empty when he returned across the Channel, two hours after dawn. The Riviera-type guests had all left, some resentful, others chagrined. The schooner was ready to sail. Uccelatti’s crew were all tough seamen, devoted to the Baron, members of the Fratelli della Notte. If they resented Captain Jannsen’s curt commands, they gave no sign of it. They obeyed orders and kept their silence.

  Durell’s eyes were scratchy from lack of sleep as he told Uccelatti what he had discovered. Sigrid joined them in the Baron’s cabin, yawning behind pink fingers, looking flushed and rosy from her night’s rest.

  “So you were right.” Uccelatti was shocked and angry. “Jannsen killed my captain to create a vacant post aboard that he could fill. What do you want done with him?” “Nothing,” Durell said sharply. “We keep Olaf with us.”

  “But that could be most dangerous.”

  “We know who Olaf is,” Durell explained. “But we don’t know the people he works for. Being warned about him, we’re one up on him. All we need do is keep a weather eye on him and see where he leads us.”

  “You cannot tell me about your mission, Sam?”

  “Not yet. Maybe never. But you’ll know all that’s needed, when the time conies.”

  “I trust you, and that is enough. But it is difficult for me to leave Jannsen unpunished.”

  “He won’t be,” Durell promised grimly. “You can count on that.”

  VISBY

  THE island of Gotland is in the Baltic Sea off the southeast shores of Sweden. The county of Gotland comprises the main islands of Gotland, Faro, Kailso, Sando and others, consisting of a few hills, steep coasts, and limestone plateaus. Principal industries are cement-making, sugar-refining, and tourism.

  Vishy is the county seat, an important port and a popular resort. Ancient remains indicate that Visby was populated since the Stone Age, and was a significant pagan religious center, and then became one of the chief towns of the Hanseatic League. Roman, Arabic, and Anglo-Saxon evidence still remains to indicate its importance.

  After conquest by the Swedish king Magnus Ladulas, and devastation by the Danes in 1362, Visby became a pirate stronghold that terrorized the Baltic for two ce
nturies.

  Visby is the only town in northern Europe still completely circled by its medieval walls.

  There are strong indications that in the years 600 b.c. to 300 b.c., Gotland was almost depopulated by a period of extreme and intense cold.

  7

  “TERRIBLE man,” said Sigrid.

  “Hmmm?”

  “You work so hard.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Look at me, Sam.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “Is it so important, darling?”

  “You should know.”

  “Are those your orders?”

  “They will be, when I decode it.”

  “How many radio messages did you receive?”

  “Just this one. It’s enough.”

  “What does it say?”

  “You should know,” he said again. He looked up. “You’ve got the radio man wrapped around your pinkie.” She giggled. “I just asked about the weather.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s going to be bad, isn’t it?”

  “Worse than you can guess.”

  “I can feel it already, darling.”

  “Are you a good sailor?”

  Sigrid was annoyed. “I am a daughter of Vikings. What did you tell Uccelatti?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Irritating man, are we not partners?”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  The Vesper groaned and plunged her sleek spoon bow into the cold Baltic seas. The wind keened bitterly in her stays; her elastic timbers creaked and worked in the violence. Yesterday they had traversed the Skagerrak and Kattegat around Denmark, made the passage through Hanobuktern and then set a course northeast-by-north for Gotland. From the moment the schooner entered the Baltic Sea, everything changed.