Once in Mariehamn, I dumped the Jeep at the edge of town and continued on foot, rushing through the crowd towards the museum. Twelve noon was only minutes away.
90
There were police everywhere and a helicopter hovering above, but considering that the local police force only had 2.5 officers, I should be able to avoid them. I suspected they wouldn’t give up that easily though, and it didn’t take long before I spotted Ernst scanning the crowd. I quickly slipped into a massive hedge. I’d noticed that everyone was looking at me – I was a wreck and covered in dirt. I quickly scrubbed my face with some snow to clean the blood off my hands and face, but the splatter stains on the clothes wouldn’t shift.
Pretending to zip up my trousers, I came out of the greenery on the other side of the hedge to join a group of pensioners getting off a coach, waving Swedish flags. I slipped into the coach and borrowed a long coat from an old geezer dozing at the back, obviously a man who knew to dodge a crowd when he saw one. Going out again, I picked an old lady in need of assistance and held her arm, while taking in the surroundings. She tried to shake me off, but I insisted on helping her to the museum.
We joined the stream of people walking along the road to the festival centre. I watched out for Ernst, but it was practically impossible to distinguish anyone in the blur of faces, bodies and colours. I gathered from the crowd movement that the King was approaching and I even caught a glimpse of Carl XVI Gustav as he walked down the middle of the road towards the museum. While he was taking his time shaking hands with the Ålanders, I dashed to the museum. I might still have a chance to beat him to it. I did, but the museum was surrounded by police. Fortunately, they were almost exclusively reinforcements from the Finnish mainland or from Sweden for the King’s security detail, which meant they were unlikely to be Boeck’s henchmen.
There was a security check 15 meters from the museum entrance. I’d had enough action antics for one day and needed to get in unnoticed. I had to play myself this time. I took out my wallet with my laminated BBC staff card, which had survived the Baltic crossing. It must be the best quality staff card on the planet and hopefully good old ‘Auntie’ would help me through the check. I was an accountant, but my job was unspecified and I was relying on the BBC reputation doing the trick.
‘BBC.’
The policeman scrutinised the card before looking me in the eye and frowning. I wasn’t exactly smart-looking, but I could pass for a shabby – not chic – reporter.
‘We’re doing er… a documentary on the popularity of the Swedish Royal family. We’ve been having trouble since Princess Diana. King Carl Gustav is so much more human… closer to the people.’
The police officer pulled a face. I was convinced my bluff had gone pear-shaped. I should have figured Finnish police wouldn’t fancy Swedish Royalty.
‘Closer….? You definitely need a proper look.’
I was in, the gamble had worked, but I didn’t know what or who to look for. The only certainty was that Boeck would be looking to maximise the pain. The question was how. He was a conscientious man who wouldn’t have left anything to chance.
91
I’d been too optimistic. There was a second police check before the doors and I had to get it right, because once they caught me, they wouldn’t let go. Meanwhile, the King was slowly making his way to the museum entrance surrounded by an army of bodyguards. Since the Palme murder, Scandinavian public figures took security seriously, but they were still more lax than most continental police forces, or so I kept telling myself to boost my confidence.
The security was watertight and I really needed the BBC card to work its magic a second time. To avoid surprise visitors, the Royal Couple would enter last and the doors would shut behind them. They’d passed the first police check and were waiting for the police officers by the museum doors to scrutinise me. I showed my BBC card to a relaxed-looking policeman with an old-fashioned handlebar moustache.
‘You need an invite.’
‘I’m here to prepare…’
‘Not without an invite.’
Unfortunately his charm didn’t stretch further than his facial hair. He shoved me through a side gate and pushed it to behind me. Another police officer took over and led me to a second gate. Meanwhile, the King and Queen arrived at the last check-point. They were a dozen meters away, only separated by the side gate. I could have shouted to warn them about the impending threat, but I would have been apprehended and the King would probably still have gone in. If I wanted to stop Boeck, I had to be as bold as he was ruthless. I had to forget my Scandinavian inhibitions and display English rudeness and bravura to the full. I had to be a lion, a British lion of the Baltic.
When the King reached my level, I nearly blurted out that there was an assassin waiting inside, but I didn’t, as I would only be considered a madman. The moment passed and the Royal couple entered the museum.
92
He sighed with relief as he saw the King coming into the museum. This was it. Everything was under control, quadruple and quintuple-checked. He was so near that nothing could go wrong. The doors closing behind the King signalled that the stage was set. He followed the Royal Couple with his eyes as they walked through the aisle, stopping to greet people, exchanging a few friendly words. He’d anticipated every movement to perfection. He was tense with excitement. Now it was only a matter of timing and execution – four minutes left.
93
Watching the royal couple disappear into the museum, I seized my last chance and – pushing open the side gate – dashed back to the closing doors. The moustached police officer was taken by surprise as I barged past him.
‘Stop!’
A police officer and a body guard blocked me, but I tackled them like a rugby player going for a touch. Thanks to the surprise momentum, I managed to squeeze through the doors at the last second. This was one occasion where my London tube experience really came into its own. But once inside, I was immediately caught by a plain clothes policeman. I could smell him before seeing him – Ernst. His aftershave was even more disgusting in close-up, reminiscent of a mix of piss and sweetened chlorine. Why anyone wanted to walk around reeking like a toilet deodorant was beyond me. He held my arm behind my back.
‘If you try anything I’ll kill you.’
He pulled my arm up, making me shriek with pain. Once it ebbed away, I scanned the museum for Boeck. There must have been 200-300 people gathered in the main exhibition hall. Seats had been set up between the exhibited items with a lectern at the front by the submarine and the Viking ship. The huge hall was crawling with police.
94
I didn’t know Boeck’s plan, but I hadn’t done all this running and barging to remain idle. Ernst held my arm in a firm grip and kept pushing it upwards at regular intervals, making me cringe. All I could do was use the means I had left – my voice. The King was walking up the aisle and I’d already waited too long.
‘THERE’S A KILLER! BOECK IS GOING TO KILL THE KING! THE MUSEUM DIR…’
Ernst muffled me with his hand, but I kept looking everywhere for Boeck. My shouting caused a commotion in the crowd and people were looking around in confusion. The King was instantly shoved behind a pillar in a corner of the hall and covered with a bullet proof blanket by his security men, while the head of the King’s security came over to Ernst, who promptly reassured him.
‘I’ve got him.’
He did – I was muffled with my arm wedged up my back. After short exchanges via earpiece and visual contact with security men placed around the hall, the head of security gave an all clear to his men. The blanket was removed from the King and his security men started moving him towards the exit, but the monarch refused to leave the opening – the premises had been thoroughly checked, hadn’t they? He wasn’t going to quit because of some lunatic. The show must go on. The guards remained on edge and the audience was looking around restlessly. The King smiled at the guests, trying to reassure them, before taking his place in the front row as
the Swedish national anthem started playing and the lights faded out. The combination of the music and the darkness seemed to have a calming effect on the audience. They were in familiar territory – ‘Du gamla, Du fria’ (Thou Ancient, Thou free) was associated with official ceremonies and most frequently heard at international ice hockey tournaments. But I still wasn’t reassured.
95
His vantage point was ideal. Everyone would be blown away by his appearance. It would defuse any worries or unrest in the sheep who’d come to see the King. In the past, Carl XVI had been accused of running away at the slightest hint of a threat. It hadn’t done anything to improve his public image, which was why he’d started acting more boldly in recent times. Unfortunately the Bernadotte boldness was too little too late – it should have come 200 years ago when Finland was let down by the newly-adopted Swedish monarch. The Bernadottes’ time was up. The King had better enjoy the anthem, because it was the last time he’d hear it:
“You rest upon memories of great olden days
When all around the world your name was honoured
I know that you are and will be the way you were
Yes, I want to live, I want to die in my Nordic land
Yes, I want to live, I want to die in my Nordic land”
Written in 1844, the lyrics conveyed a pan-Scandinavian spirit still yearning for the greatness betrayed by the Bernadottes. The Nordic countries belonged together and Sweden was their spine. The King had let his nation down and yes, he had lived and he was about to die in his Nordic land. Two minutes.
96
Hearing the national anthem in the museum gave me the creeps. I’d always felt uncomfortable with the quasi-religious reaction it triggered in people. It was probably to do with the blind faith Swedes seemed to have in their national symbols from the cradle to the grave.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Shut up!’
Again, Ernst pulled up my arm against my back, harder this time. It felt as if it was going to break. He only loosened his grip as the hall went silent and spotlights suddenly revealed a grand-looking Boeck standing in the cage hanging above the lectern. The museum director was wearing what must have been a 17th century military uniform covered in medals. A Swedish flag unfurled from the cage as he appeared, but none of this put my mind at rest, because I knew what Boeck was about and opening exhibitions it was not. This must be a rather more sinister ritual. The audience was transfixed and all my systems were on red alert as he spoke.
‘Welcome everyone. Welcome to the multicultural festival. Perhaps you’ve had time to glance at the exhibition, in which case you know the territory.’
He paused to look at the crowd and the exhibited objects before continuing.
‘As you also know, the Swedish Kingdom was once a great country. It rests upon memories of great olden days / when all around the world its name was honoured / I know that it is and will be the way it was.’
I was petrified by Boeck’s pronunciation of the lyrics. There was poise, rhythm and great emphasis on the last words of each line quoted from the national anthem. It was as if his voice suddenly moved into another dimension. He paused to stare at the King before resuming his speech.
‘Pockets of greatness still remain, but they are mainly memories and the decline has been continuous for the last 200 years. It’s time to turn the tide, to return Sweden to the Swedes. I’d like to thank you all beforehand for your contribution. I should add that of course this opening is streamed to the internet through the museum’s night vision CCTV, the objective being to ensure maximum attention from our Nordic land. If you wonder why we have night vision CCTV, it’s because burglars tend not to switch on the lights. Our Nordic land must always prepare to fight the darkness.’
Boeck fiddled with something in his hand and the lights started to fade.
‘Let battle commence.’
The hall went pitch-black, the darkness lasting ominously, while everyone was waiting, anticipating another spectacular contribution, but nothing happened. I tried to slip out of Ernst’s grip, but he reacted instantly, pressing my arm up my back again. This time, it really felt like it was going to snap.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’
He grabbed my throat with his other hand and squeezed.
‘I’m going to kill you.’
At first I didn’t believe he was going to strangle me on the spot, but as his double grip on my back and throat tightened, I was convinced he would and kicked like mad to free myself. In vain, I was trapped and there would be no witnesses to my impromptu send-off. I would die in the dark. He didn’t let go and my only chance was to play dead. I did, trying to relax as much as possible to become a dead weight in his arms. Holding my breath, I let my head drop, hoping the dark would help me pull it off, but he was a thorough thug and I thought he’d never let go. I couldn’t hold my breath much longer. Eventually he dumped me on the floor and rushed off, leaving me for dead. I couldn’t see where he’d gone, but assumed he was joining Boeck.
Meanwhile, the volume of the national anthem was mounting. People were agitated, panicking. I could hear the security men communicating frantically, their radios crackling. A man shouted that the lights didn’t work. I knew something was about to happen and a few people had looked worried before the lights went out, but I couldn’t figure out what Boeck was up to. It had thrown me that he was in the cage this time.
What was he waiting for? As the darkness persisted, I could hear the Royal Couple being herded towards the exit and it soon became clear that all exits had been blocked by metal shutters. There was no way out – Boeck had us all locked up in a gigantic cage. We were trapped in the hall and all communication seemed to have been jammed too, because none of the body guards or police officers could get through to the outside. I crept in the direction of the ice cage.
By now, everyone in the museum knew something was seriously wrong. People were banging on the metal shutters that had come down all around the building or desperately trying to get through on their mobiles. Police officers shouted for everyone to stay calm, while systematically testing all exits and trying to access Boeck’s cage. By now, the national anthem was blaring and reinforcing the general panic. People had to scream to make themselves heard. I was convinced that Boeck was watching us all the time. The darkness wasn’t accidental. He’d mentioned night vision CCTV. I had to find him, stop him. The delay, the wait for something horrible – that’s all I expected from Boeck – was surreal. He wanted us to be in the dark, grasping for clues, fearing the worst. He loved being in control. He’d already played me like a rat when I’d broken into the museum. I wasn’t going to sit passively and let him get away with it this time. Feeling my way in the general direction of the cage, I passed the King and his men. I know, because one of them blinded me with a torch, checking who I was.
I tried to explain that the King was in real danger, that Boeck had told me personally that he hated him and wanted him eliminated. The bodyguard wouldn’t listen to me and when the head of security recognised me as the lunatic who’d shouted earlier, I was immediately frisked and held down on the floor.
97
He could see Magnus’ searching eyes trying to distinguish the cage in the dark. Magnus’ doggedness was impressive, but the plan was foolproof now. Once again, it had been confirmed that no one could be entrusted with crucial elements of the cause. Ernst had let him down with his sloppiness. Boeck would deal with him afterwards.
The shutters had secured the set and he was about to stage a turning point in Swedish history. The Nordic Land was going to rise again. He adjusted the medals on his bullet-proof jacket, pulled the visor down on his helmet and saluted before finally grabbing his rifle. The time had come.
98
I almost jumped out of my skin as the first shot rung through the air. Like most people in the museum, I didn’t realise what it was. It was followed by a moan. Because of the darkness it took a while to understand what was going on, but when on
e of the body guards shouted that the King was down, everyone knew we’d landed in a nightmare. The security men were in total panic, with torch beams criss-crossing anxiously around the body of Carl XVI Gustaf, which was lying on the floor covered by the blanket. It all appeared to happen in slow-motion, the blood, the searching torches, the fear.
Then everything accelerated as people started screaming and the bodyguards shot back at Boeck’s cage. They tried focusing the torches on him. Someone even managed to switch on the searchlight on the tracked army support vehicle standing in the middle of the hall, but the bullets kept coming and Boeck immediately took out any light that was directed at him. He was a killing machine. Nothing was going to stop him until he was done. The security detail stood no chance and had to retreat as more and more men fell to prey to Boeck’s hatred. Not that there was anywhere to hide – we were all stuck in the hall. People were desperately squeezing behind screens, vehicles and other exhibited objects. The concrete statues probably offered the best protection.
The bodyguard holding me down was shot and fell on top of me. I could hear blood splattering onto the floor all around and felt blood on my face, even tasting the salt on my lips as the blood gushed from his wound and onto me. I felt his whole body convulsing when he was hit again, probably taking a bullet destined for me. Using the dead security guard’s torch – sparingly, because every time I switched it on a bullet followed – I took cover under the JAS Gripen fighter Jet.
At first, I thought – hoped – that Boeck’s shots were random, defensive bullets in the dark, that his main and sole objective had been the King, but when they kept coming at regular intervals, killing and injuring people, it became increasingly clear that he must have some kind of night goggles, which gave him a bird’s eye view of the entire hall. I thought I could feel his eyes on me. I kept moving, dodging his bullets, creeping under the cars, hiding behind the concrete statues, under IKEA furniture, behind displays, anything to try and reach a position under the cage, an angle where he couldn’t see me.
The Ice Cage — A Scandinavian Crime Thriller set in the Nordic Winter (The Baltic Trilogy) Page 19