The Terrorists (20 page)

The answer was simple. It had been the only job he could get with his odd education, and at the time he had also hoped to be of some use. But had he succeeded?

And why had he not married? There had been plenty of opportunities but now it was virtually too late.

Anyhow, what a time to be asking that sort of question.

He parked the car when he arrived and then took the elevator up to the Violence Division, where the special group had its headquarters. The rooms were decrepit, the walls were peeling, and the building itself appeared to be in the process of collapsing from the pressure of the ostentatious new police headquarters growing up just outside the windows.

Gunvald Larsson looked at the wall clock. Three minutes past eight. It was the fourteenth of November, exactly a week until the great day.

The headquarters had four rooms at its disposal. Martin Beck was usually there, and Gunvald Larsson and Einar Rönn were nearly always there, as were Benny Skacke and Fredrik Melander, who was otherwise a chief inspector in the Larceny Division but had many years’ experience in both National Homicide and Violence.

Melander was a strange man and an invaluable asset. His memory functioned like a computer, only better, and by letting all information pass through him they were able to guard against diverse faults, duplicated orders and much else. Personally, he was a tall, even-tempered man, slightly older than the others, who mostly sat studying his papers and fiddling with his pipe, and if he was not to be found at his desk, then he would be in the men’s room, a fact half of Stockholm’s police were aware of and considered hugely amusing.

Gunvald Larsson nodded at Rönn before going on in to Martin Beck, who was sitting on his desk, dangling his legs and talking on the telephone as he leafed through a thick bundle of reports.

“Goodbye,” he said, putting down the receiver.

Gunvald Larsson looked at him inquiringly.

“Air force,” said Martin Beck.

“Ugh,” said Gunvald Larsson.

“Yes, that’s what I was trying to tell them, only a little more politely. They wanted to know if we need more than one division of fighter planes.”

“And what did you say?”

“I happened to say that we didn’t need any airplanes at all.”

“You said that?”

“Yes. The general got a bit steamed up. ‘Airplane’ is evidently a dirty word.”

“It’s like calling the deck of a boat the floor.”

“Oh, that bad, is it?” said Martin Beck. “I’ll have to apologize to him if he calls again.

He glanced at the date indicator on his watch and said, “Your friends from ULAG don’t seem to have put in an appearance.”

Control of the borders and incoming traffic from abroad had been tremendously thorough during the last week or two.

“Mmm.”

“Was that a statement?” asked Martin Beck.

Gunvald Larsson strode up and down the room a couple of times. Finally he said, “I think we should go on the assumption that they’re here.”

“But there must be several of them. Do you really mean they’ve managed to get in without our catching even one of them?”

“It seems peculiar,” said Gunvald Larsson, “but …” He fell silent.

“Of course they may have come in before the border checks began,” said Martin Beck.

“Yes,” said Gunvald Larsson, “that’s a possibility.”

As if to steer the course of the conversation in another direction, Martin Beck asked, “Did you see any interesting films yesterday?”

Gunvald Larsson had been detailed to study a number of films the Security Service had acquired of state visits.

“Yes,” said Gunvald Larsson. “I noticed that Nixon traveled in an open car through Belgrade with Tito. Same thing in Dublin—Nixon and de Valera paraded in an ancient Rolls-Royce with an open top. As far as I could see on the film, there was only one security man. On the other hand, about half the country was barricaded off when Kissinger was in Rome.”

“Did they show the great classic, too? The Pope in Jerusalem?”

“Yes, but unfortunately I’d seen that before.”

The Pope’s visit to Jerusalem had been handled by the Jordanian
security service, who had messed things up to a degree that probably lacked any precedent in the history of the world. Not even Stig Malm could have achieved anything like it.

The telephone rang.

“Yes. Beck.”

“Hi,” said the chief of the Regular Police. “Have you seen the papers I sent up?”

“Yes, I was just looking at them.”

“As you see, there’s going to be a bit of a shortage of Regular Police in the rest of the country on those two days.”

“I can see that.”

“I just wanted you to be aware of it.”

“That’s not my business. Ask the National Commissioner if
he
realizes it.”

“Okay, I’ll call Malm.”

Rönn came in with his reading glasses on the red tip of his nose and a paper in his hand.

“This CS list that I found on my desk …”

“That should be in my ‘in’ tray,” said Gunvald Larsson. “Put it there. Who the hell moved it, anyhow?”

“Not me,” said Rönn.

“What list is that?” asked Martin Beck.

“People who should be on station duty,” said Gunvald Larsson. “The ones who are best at sitting in the duty room playing tic-tac-toe, if you know what I mean.”

Martin Beck took the list from Rönn and looked at it. It was headed by a number of not unexpected names: Bo Zachrisson, Kenneth Kvastmo, Karl Kristiansson, Victor Paulsson, Aldor Gustafsson, Richard Ullholm and so on. “I understand perfectly,” said Martin Beck. “Station duty seems like a sound idea for them. But what does CS stand for?”

“Clod Squad,” said Gunvald Larsson. “I didn’t want to express myself too directly.”

They went into the larger room, where Rönn and Melander had their desks and where they had tacked up a large copy of the city plan and drawn in the motorcade’s preliminary route. Like most command offices this one was fairly messy. The telephone rang incessantly and now and again people came in and left internal messages in brown perforated envelopes.

Melander was in the process of talking into the telephone without taking his pipe out of his mouth. When he saw them he said, “Yes, he’s just come in,” and silently handed the receiver to Martin Beck.

“Yes. Beck.”

“Glad I got hold of you,” said Stig Malm.

“Uh-huh.”

“Congratulations on the fantastically elegant solution of the Petrus murder, by the way.”

A bit late in the day, and rather overstated.

“Thanks,” said Martin Beck. “Was that what you called for?”

“No,” said Malm. “Unfortunately not.”

“What’s it about then?”

“The chief of the air force has just called the National Commissioner.”

Swift action, thought Martin Beck. Aloud, he said, “Yes?”

“The general seems to have been …”

“Annoyed?”

“Well, let’s say that he seemed disappointed in the police’s will to cooperate in this affair.”

“I see.”

Malm cleared his throat in embarrassment.

“Have you got a cold?”

What a goddamn awful superior, thought Martin Beck. Then it struck him that at present it was in fact the other way around; he could regard himself as Malm’s superior. So he said, “I’ve got quite a lot to do. What is it you wanted?”

“Well, we consider that our relations with the defense forces are both sensitive and important. So it would be desirable if conversations with the defense forces could be carried out in a spirit of cooperation. Of course, as you know, it’s not me talking.”

Martin Beck laughed. “Who the hell is it then? Some kind of answering device?”

“Martin,” said Malm pleadingly, “you know the position I find myself in. It’s not easy—”

“Okay,” said Martin Beck. “Anything else?”

“Not for the moment.”

“So long, then.”

“So long.”

The telephone rang again. Melander answered it. This time it was Möller, who wished to speak about his struggle against what he called “subversive forces.” In simpler language: communists. They let Melander handle the conversation. He was superb at that kind of job, replying briefly and patiently to everything, never swerving from the point and never raising his voice. When the conversation was over, the person who had called had had no hearing at all, and yet he had been received kindly and had nothing to complain about.

The others were studying the motorcade route.

The schedule for the Senator’s visit was very simple. His special plane, presumably checked ten times daily by selected mechanics, was to land at Stockholm Arlanda at 1:00
P.M.
A representative of the government was to meet him at the plane and they were to walk to the VIP room. The government had gracefully declined the offer of a military honor guard; instead, the government representative and the guest were to step into the bulletproof car for transport to the Parliament Building in Sergei Square. Later that same day the Senator, or rather four naval officers from an American warship which just happened to be in Oslo harbor, would be laying a wreath in memory of the former king.

There had been a good deal of fuss about this mark of respect to the dead monarch. It had all begun when the Senator was asked whether he had any special requests. He had replied that he would like to pay homage to the recently deceased King, as the latter had been regarded as the greatest Swede of his day, not only by the Senator personally but also by a large number of people in the United States.

No one had been especially pleased with this request. Several ministers had been slightly shocked by the outburst of uninhibited royalism that had occurred at the death of the old King and the proclamation of the new one. They considered that this was already more than enough, and through diplomatic channels the Senator had been asked just what was meant by “recently” (more than a year had passed since the death of King Gustaf VI Adolf) and it was strongly hinted that the government was not interested in contributing to the veneration of dead kings. But
the Senator had remained inflexible. He was hell-bent on laying a wreath and that was what he was going to do.

The United States Embassy ordered a wreath so large that two florist firms had to be brought in to do the job. The senator had himself decided on the size of the wreath and the kinds of flowers to be used. The four naval officers arrived in Stockholm on the twelfth of November and were fortunately of athletic build, not one of them less than six foot in his stocking feet. This showed some foresight, because it was possible that men of smaller size would not have been able even to shift the mountain of flowers.

After the ceremony, at which the Prime Minister, after a great many ifs and buts, had promised to be present, the motorcade was to go on to the Parliament Building. During the afternoon the guest was to meet a number of ministers for informal political discussions.

In the evening the government was to host a banquet at Stallmästaregården, where the leaders of the opposition party and their wives would also have the opportunity to speak to the man who had once almost become President of the United States. The Senator’s political caliber was such that the leader of the Swedish Left—that is, the chairman of the Communist party—had in fact declined the invitation to dine in such company.

After the banquet the Senator was to spend the night in the guest apartment at the embassy.

Friday’s agenda was brief. The King was to be host at a luncheon at the palace. The royal secretary had not yet announced exactly how this was to be organized, but the preliminary arrangements called for the King to go out and meet his guest at Logården, after which they would enter the palace buildings.

After lunch the Senator, together with one or two members of the government, was to proceed directly to Arlanda airport, say goodbye and fly back home. End of schedule.

There was nothing especially complicated or remarkable about any of this. The whole thing was to be published in the newspapers, including the actual route. Radio and television were to broadcast live the eminent guest’s arrival, as well as the motorcade into the city, the wreath-laying and the meeting with
the King. In fact, it was ridiculous that so many policemen of all ranks should have to be involved in protecting one single person.

Melander ended his telephone call and got up and joined the others in front of the map.

“Mmm,” he said. “Now, like the rest of you, I’ve read all the material available on this sabotage group.”

“And where would you place an explosive charge?” asked Martin Beck.

Melander lit his pipe and said with stoic countenance, “Where would the rest of you put this hypothetical bomb?”

Five forefingers were raised to the city map and placed on the same spot.

“Oh, dear, oh, dear,” said Rönn.

They all felt slightly silly. Finally Gunvald Larsson said, “If five people like us come to exactly the same conclusion, then it must be wrong as hell.”

Martin Beck took a few steps to the side, propped his elbow against a filing cabinet over the wall and said, “Frederik, Benny, Einar and Gunvald. Within ten minutes I want your reasons, in writing. And I want you to write them independently. I’ll do one myself, too. Very brief.”

He went into his office. The telephone rang. He let it go on ringing, put a piece of paper into his typewriter and typed with his two forefingers: