The Terrorists (29 page)

“The exchange never lets people through to you unless it’s your wife,” said Malm, insinuatingly, having collected himself a bit.

“Well, tell me about the attempted assassination.”

“I don’t actually know anything about it. But Beck and Larsson are supposed to be on their way here.”

“Are supposed to be? A liaison officer who doesn’t know a damned thing. That’s almost sublime. But who winds up being the scrapegoat?”

The same man as always, thought Malm. Then he said, “Our man’s name is Benny Skacke, not Macke. And the expression is
scapegoat
. And ‘sublime’ is a word that usually means almost supernatural.”

Malm was beginning to get almost angry.

The Commissioner lurched and strode rapidly across to one of the heavy curtains by the windows.

“No one corrects me!” he said furiously. “And if I say ‘scrape-goat,’ then ‘scrapegoat’ it is. If any correcting’s going to be done, I’ll do it myself.”

Climbing the drapes again, thought Malm resignedly. I hope they fall on his head.

There was a knock on the door and Martin Beck and Gunvald Larsson came in.

Martin Beck was no small man, but compared to Gunvald Larsson he looked harmless.

Gunvald Larsson surveyed the scene and said, “Oh, I see the time has come now. Don’t let us stop you.”

The Commissioner pulled himself together. “Now,” he said, “I want to know all about this bomb.”

“From the outset, we worked according to Gunvald’s theory and recent experiences,” said Martin Beck. “There was much to indicate that he was right. ULAG had never before operated in Europe and had only recently begun striking in large cities, despite the increased concentration of police forces. In addition, our honored guest is natural prey for all kinds of terrorist organizations.”

“All kinds?”

“Yes. We know that many militant liberation and leftist groups would like to protest against his reactionary attitudes. At the same time, some right-wing elements would like to hit him just to provoke a crisis. Same with pacifist groups, who think he’s a threat to world peace. He’s the type of politician lots of people are scared of—not scared of him personally, that is, but of what he represents. All of that would tempt ULAG. When he was nominated for president a few years back, a lot of people were ready to vote for almost any other candidate out of fear for what this man’s foreign policies might lead to—a direct confrontation between the superpowers and China, for example. He has always been the most active of what they call hawks in Vietnam, and there’s no doubt that he worked for the fascist junta in Chile, which was responsible for the murder of President Allende and thousands of other people. The only good thing to be said for him is that he shows a certain amount of moral courage, that he’s well-educated and personable.”

“I thought you were nonpolitical,” said the Commissioner when Martin Beck had finished this long summary.

“I am. I’m just recounting certain facts. I should add that despite the collapse of the Nixon administration, he has maintained his strong political position, in the Senate, in his home state and in the country as a whole.”

Martin Beck looked at Gunvald Larsson, who nodded.

“Now we come to the assassination attempt,” said Martin Beck. “Quite early on, we realized that ULAG or a similar organization, one of the illegal Palestinian groups for instance,
might be about to strike. Since the assassination in June—the one Gunvald witnessed—succeeded despite comprehensive security measures, we became more and more convinced that the same modus operandi—as you always term it, Malm—would be used here. Our inner group consisted of five people with considerably experience, namely Benny Skacke and myself from Västberga, Gunvald Larsson and Einar Rönn from the Violence Division, and an invaluable administrator and appraiser, Fredrik Melander from Larceny. We five each made our own calculation of the most likely place for a bomb attempt on the Senator’s car. It turned out that we all hit on exactly the same place.”

“Norrtull?”

“Exactly. And if the motorcade was diverted, it would probably have passed other bombs—which, incidentally, we haven’t yet been able to find. We decided, therefore, on other measures, of two different kinds.”

Martin Beck began to feel his throat going dry. He looked at Gunvald Larsson, who at once took over.

“After the June assassination, I came to two conclusions. One was that the bombs couldn’t be located with detectors. More important, I concluded that the person who detonated the bomb was far away from the place, at least out of sight, and that he had no assistants who kept him informed via shortwave radio about just where the victim’s car was. How then would he know at what moment the bomb should be detonated? The answer is very simple. He listened to the ordinary radio and television programs, which broadcast live the president’s arrival and trip from the airport to the palace. He got further information through the police radio, which had not been silenced. In this way he could see with his own eyes where the motorcade was, and at the same time listen to it on the radio.”

Gunvald Larsson cleared his throat, but Martin Beck made no attempt to take over, so he went on.

“With these theories as a starting point, we took a number of steps. First of all, we had a long and involved discussion with the head of broadcasting, who finally agreed not to send anything live. Instead, the general public would see and hear it all on tape just fifteen minutes later. A couple of technicians were sent for and they made a number of objections before they
agreed. We then spoke to the news commentators who were to cover the event. They said that as far as they were concerned it didn’t make the least bit of difference.”

This time Martin Beck was prepared to take up the narrative.

“We stressed the importance of absolute secrecy to all those people. When it came to police radio silence, I spoke to the chief of the Stockholm Police as well as the chiefs in neighboring districts, and although a few raised some objections, they finally went along.”

Gunvald Larsson interrupted. “The most difficult assignment we gave to Einar Rönn. Norrtull is heavily trafficked at that hour and we were going to have to evacuate the whole area and simultaneously dampen the effect of the bomb itself as well as a possible and much more dangerous gas explosion.”

Gunvald Larsson paused. “It was no easy task, because it had to be completed within fifteen minutes. Rönn had thirty police, half of them women, in Dannemoragatan. He also had two loudspeaker vans, two fire engines, and a large number of trucks loaded with sandbags, mats and fireproof insulation material.”

“And no one was injured?”

“No.”

“And material damage?”

“A few windowpanes. And the gas pipe, of course. It’ll take time to repair that.”

“That man Rönn did a fine job,” said the Commissioner. “Where’s he now?”

“Asleep at home, I imagine,” said Gunvald Larsson.

“Why did the Prime Minister change cars without our knowledge?” asked Malm.

“We just wanted him and the Senator to pass the critical spot separately,” said Martin Beck.

Malm did not reply.

Gunvald Larsson looked at his watch. “In thirty-three minutes, the ceremony at Riddarholm Church starts. That’s Möller’s baby, I know, but I’d very much like to be around.”

“Speaking of Möller,” said the Commissioner, “have any of you seen him?”

“No,” said Martin Beck, “but we’ve been looking for him.”

“Why?”

“It’s a special matter,” said Gunvald Larsson.

“What are the chances of another bomb attempt?” asked the Commissioner.

“Very small,” said Martin Beck. “But that’s no reason to let up on full security.”

“You could say we’ve managed the first stage,” said Gunvald Larsson. “What remains may turn out to be considerably more difficult.”

“What do you mean?” said Malm, obviously keen to establish liaison.

“Laying our hands on these terrorists,” replied Gunvald Larsson.

The floral tribute designed by the Senator was truly immense. It was the largest wreath Martin Beck and Gunvald Larsson had ever seen and probably also the most vulgar.

The combination of colors created an astonishing impression, even if the Senator’s intention had been quite logical. At a distance, the whole arrangement looked like a gigantic life preserver painted by a mentally disturbed seaman.

It was made in four large sections, the first and third made up of red, white, and blue (or rather turquoise-colored) carnations, the second and fourth of cornflowers and yellow daisies. In the borders between the sections representing the star-spangled banner and the Swedish flag, the five kinds of flowers had been mixed, and here and there bunches of green leaves inserted, which were already beginning to wilt. The wreath was surrounded with silvered spruce sprigs, and the whole bordered with elaborately plaited gilded laurel leaves.

On the top rim of the wreath was a large gilded shield with a bald eagle, and behind this emblem protruded the American and Swedish flags arranged in a V. On the lower edge hung a watery blue silk ribbon on which was written in somewhat
cramped gilt letters:
To the Memory of a Great Man His Majesty King Gustaf VI Adolf of Sweden from the Hearts of the People of the United States
.

The wreath was lying on the flat bed of a truck parked at the top of Tryckerigatan, and when Martin Beck and Gunvald Larsson arrived, they placed themselves on the steps of Svea Court of Appeals, where the wind whipped their faces. After gaping at the phenomenon on the back of the truck, they went on to study their surroundings.

Riddarholm, which is a small island containing ten or so public buildings, constitutes the most westerly part of the Old City. The railway and the narrow Riddarholm Canal separate it from the rest of the Old City and there are only three ways to reach it by land. A person could come across the pedestrian walkway on the railway bridge, or from Munkbro harbor up Hebbe steps, or drive to the island across Riddarhus Bridge over the railway and the canal.

These three points were blocked. It had been a simple matter for Eric Möller and his special group to block off the area and prevent unauthorized people from reaching it. Apart from those involved in the official proceedings, only people working in the various offices were allowed through. Demonstrators and bystanders had to remain in Riddarhus Square, on the other side of the bridge.

Ten minutes before the motorcade was to arrive, Möller had sent two men into the church with instructions that no Japanese with cameras round their necks were to be allowed in during the ceremony. These two men chosen from the “commando section” list, were Karl Kristiansson and Detective Assistant Aldor Gustafsson. The former was incredibly lazy by nature, and the latter a lackadaisical young man with a very high opinion of himself.

Gustafsson placed himself inside the entrance and lit a cigar, while Kristiansson wandered around looking at the sacrosanct historical surroundings. He remembered how as a schoolboy he’d been forced to go to museums and such places that bored him almost to death, and then had to write essays on his experiences. It also occurred to him that he hadn’t been inside a church since his confirmation.

He returned to his companion, who was still standing by the door, rocking on his heels, enveloped in cigar smoke.

“That Yankee guy’ll be coming in five minutes,” said Gustafsson. “We’d better get into place.”

Kristiansson nodded and loped along behind Gustafsson.

Meanwhile, Martin Beck and Gunvald Larsson were still standing in the freezing wind, looking out over Birger Jarl Square. Security guards were posted around the square, and there was another line of armed men from the truck to the entrance of the church.

Gunvald Larsson suddenly wiped the rain off his face and nudged Martin Beck with his elbow. “Hell’s bells!” he said. “I knew it. Look—the clod squad!”

Martin Beck saw Gustafsson sauntering out of the church with Kristiansson in tow and caught sight of Richard Ullholm hurrying along from Wrangel Hill toward the bridge.

Martin Beck looked at the time. Five minutes left. “There’s nothing much we can do about it now, except see how things go,” he said. “Where is Möller, anyhow?”

Gunvald Larsson pointed at the church and clapped his hand to his forehead. “He’s over there,” he said, “with the real kingpins of the idiot list.”

Eric Möller was striding briskly toward the entrance of the church, followed by Bo Zachrisson and Kenneth Kvastmo. They stopped, and Möller inspected his little troop.

Martin Beck and Gunvald Larsson stayed where they were and watched while Möller spoke to the four men in turn. He did not appear to be his usual calm self, and kept looking at his watch and glancing uneasily over toward Riddarhus Square, where the motorcade would shortly be appearing. He was evidently issuing final orders. Zachrisson and Kristiansson placed themselves on one side of the doors, Gustafsson and Kvastmo on the others.

“I’m not going to budge an inch,” said Gunvald Larsson. “Möller will have to deal with this. My God, what a detail! And what a god-awful wreath. Just as well old Gustaf isn’t here to see it.”

Martin Beck turned up his collar and thrust his hands into his pockets. “Several generations of monarchs will turn in their
graves when they lay that thing,” he said. “What kind of idiot idea was it to lug it all the way from over there?”

Gunvald Larsson peered through the sleet at the four naval officers, who had now moved over to the truck. “I suppose they thought it would be grander with a procession across the square,” he said. “And we’ve got box seats. I wonder if we’re supposed to applaud.”

Martin Beck looked over toward the group of press and television men gathered at the end of the bridge beyond the church. Richard Ullholm stood gesticulating in their midst. Eric Möller was on his way toward the bridge to see that the barriers were taken down and to give the people in the television van their instructions.

They were all peering in the direction of Myntgatan, when shouts came from the demonstrators in Riddarhus Square and the motorcade appeared.