The Vanishers (19 page)

I disentangled myself painfully and pushed myself up and around with numb hands so I could swing my almost inoperative legs over the rear lip of the trunk. Olaf was facing me, still in his dark business suit, with one of my automatics in his hand. Well, on second thought, I don’t suppose the agency weapons were exactly mine, considering how I had obtained them; I’d merely had custody of them for a few days. Now this pistol had entered Olaf’s service, for the time being.

Off to my left stood Karl. He was as young as he’d sounded; but it wasn’t really a question of age. There are street-smart, street-tough kids in their teens who’re effectively older than I am—older in wickedness, let’s say—but this wasn’t one of them. This was just a nice, slim, blond, young fellow in his early twenties, wearing jeans and a big ski sweater and a matching knitted cap, who undoubtedly considered himself a fully adult male who’d been with girls and everything; but the question of sexual maturity was not relevant here. What counted was the way he held his knife, a medium lock blade, letting everybody know that he could whittle real good and would never, ever cut himself; but that he didn’t know much about cutting other people…

Then he lifted his head and looked at me; and I changed my mind about him abruptly. He had those nice, clear, blue, Scandinavian eyes; but they didn’t really see me. They didn’t see anybody. They were fanatic’s eyes that saw only a shining cause, a glorious goal in the remote distance towards which this boy was marching; and if he had to kill you and wade through your blood to get there, that was your problem. I don’t think I scare more easily than the average guy, but true believers always give me chills, regardless of what they happen to believe in at the moment. There is no reason or mercy, and more important, there is no humor, in them.

He looked away, and he was just a nice-looking Swedish boy once more; one to whom you’d entrust your young daughter without hesitation. I glanced around. It was night, I realized belatedly, and we were in a well-lighted courtyard surrounded by brick buildings that seemed to be apartment houses, three and four stories high. Not new. It was apparently a service court. Our corner was sheltered by some trash bins—I seemed to be spending a lot of time associating with Nordic garbage. Olaf spoke in Swedish, instructing Karl to take the car and pick up Greta; they should put Olaf s vehicle away in the parking garage across Torsvägen and join him in the apartment.

“Torsvägen, that is Thor’s Way,” Olaf translated for my benefit. “But you know some Swedish, I believe. Parking is very difficult here in Stockholm. The police are very strict… What is it, Karl?”

The boy spoke in English too rapid for me to follow. However, I caught the general drift: he wanted to come with us and let Greta park the car. His attitude hinted that he might not have complete faith in his older colleague, probably because Olaf, whatever his reason for being here might be, was not so emotionally involved in the cause that had earned Karl’s fierce loyalty, whatever that movement might be.

Cousin Olaf made a gesture of annoyance, and said sharply, “I can manage him alone, I do not need an assistant. The lift only accommodates two in any case. Now put away that knife and do as you were told.” He watched Karl get into the car. After the door had slammed shut, he glanced at me and laughed shortly. “What are you thinking, Helm?”

I said, “It must be fun, running a Children’s Crusade.”

“They are running it. I am merely an adviser.”

“Sure. There are nations down in Central America that are full of advisers like you, loaded down with weapons till they walk bowlegged.”

He shook his head. “Do not underestimate these young people, Helm. They do not have the training or the experience, but they have the attitude. They are not only willing to die for this thing they believe in. They are willing to kill for it; and that is rare among the idealistic youth of today, brought up to think that inflicting death upon anything, for any reason, is unforgivable. Considering that death will be inflicted upon us all eventually, it is an odd philosophy; and these young men and women have rejected it. They realize that some must always die a little earlier in order that others may live a little later.”

I asked, “What is this thing they believe in?”

He shrugged. “Peace, what else? They all seek it now, just as other generations have searched for Eldorado or the Holy Grail.”

I sensed that I’d extracted all the benefit I could from his chatty mood. It was no time to get greedy and ask, for instance, what young Karl’s ruthless peace organization was called. Patience, patience.

I merely grinned, therefore. “That’s a hell of a thing for you to be helping them with. If they ever manage to achieve their peaceful world, you’ll be out of business.”

“And you,” he said curtly. For a moment we’d been seasoned veterans together, considering the vagaries of youth; but now he realized that he’d been talking too freely and brought the meeting to order: “This way, Helm. That door over there. No tricks, please.”

I found that I was capable of walking in a shuffling manner; but it was a good thing the courtyard was well sheltered, since a gust of wind would have blown me down. Behind me, I heard the car drive away—the Mercedes I’d seen at Torsäter. I opened the door to which I’d been directed. There were half a dozen steps inside, leading up to another door, which I also opened, on command, finding myself in a small hallway, actually a stairwell. The stairs wound upwards around an elevator shaft protected by grill-work that let you see the greasy cables inside. The elevator was awaiting us, the kind of tiny two-man job you often find over there. There was a swing-out metal door and, inside, a folding metal gate operating on the principle of a baby’s folding playpen. The whole contraption looked ancient and insubstantial; it scared me more than the gun in Olafs hand. I’ve always been allergic to heights and depths. Olaf spoke behind me: “Enter, please… Now push the button for Number Four.”

At my signal, the little cage began to rattle upwards uncertainly. It was a cosy fit even for two people; I could see why Karl’s offer of help had been rejected. There was no room for reinforcements here. In theory, in such close quarters, a break might have been possible; but my captor was, for the moment at least, in much better shape for combat than I. With half-paralyzed hands and feet, I couldn’t match him for strength; and I didn’t really want to.

I mean, there were more things to be learned here; and I’d come a long way to learn them. If these people had wanted me dead, they’d have given me real poison instead of the sleepy-stuff they’d used. They could have hauled away my cold body as easily as my warm one. It would have been taken for granted, up at the big house, that I’d simply slipped off to embark upon the job I’d let myself be talked into, with my attractive female companion—at least I assumed Cousin Olaf hadn’t left her bleeding there to upset the folks. Since they hadn’t killed me there, it wasn’t likely they’d brought me all this way just to kill me here. At least not right away.

The rattletrap elevator came to a shaky halt, missing the fourth-floor landing by a couple of inches. Having entered last, Olaf backed out first.

“Very well, you may come out,” he said. “Now close the doors and send the lift back down; that is the custom. The lower button. NED means down, but you know that. Now knock on the door to the right, if you please.”

There were two apartments off this landing. I knocked on the door Olaf had indicated. It was opened by a rather small, intriguingly well-shaped female figure with blue eyes, and blonde hair that was cut boyishly short but didn’t make the wearer look a bit boyish—an observation I remembered making once before. She was wearing snug black pants and a big white turtleneck sweater that was not really designed to keep her neck warm; the collar was much too dramatic, large and loose.

“Come inside,” she said. “I am Karin Segerby. I hope you remember me.”

“How could I forget?” I said.

“I thought, in your work, you must meet so many awkward little girls with guns that one more might not make any impression. But I understand that our family has brought you here to deal with me, to prevent me from besmirching the sacred name of Stjernhjelm.” Then her voice changed, losing its playful tone. “You were considerate the day we met in Hagerstown. Why could you not have been equally considerate today? It was not necessary, what you did to Astrid!”

“We’ll see,” I said. “In a day or two, I’ll know how necessary it was. If I’m still around.”

“We did not drug you and bring you here to kill you, Mr. Helm.”

It was nice to have my optimistic theories confirmed; but I said, “So let’s get on with what you did bring me here for, Cousin Karin. Or is Cousin Olaf going to do the honors? I assume an interrogation is next on the agenda.”

She frowned quickly. “What makes you think—”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” I said. “Do you know how long I’ve been in this racket? What else would you want me for? And when they say they’re not going to
kill
you, with that emphasis, it always means just one thing: you’re going to get your face rearranged or your feet toasted. Well, I don’t know what the hell I know that you want to know, but I’m sure I’ll find out shortly. Just do me one favor, Cousin Karin.”

“What is that?”

“Don’t tell me how it hurts you more than it hurts me, please. I wouldn’t want to think of your suffering so.”

She stared at me for a moment with wide, shiny, blue eyes; then she turned and hurried away through one of the doors opening onto the entrance hall. I heard Olaf chuckle behind me.

“You were not very kind to the sentimental little girl.”

“If that’s a terrorist,” I said, “I’ll eat it.”

“Maybe not,” Olaf said. “Maybe she is just a pretty girl with a social conscience. But aside from being decorative, she has one quite valuable attribute.”

“What’s that, money?”

“Well, that, too; but more valuable is her name. With that name, not the one with which she was born but the one she acquired by marriage, she will be happily received by any organization interested in weapons and explosives. Who’ll reject a member, an impressionable and cooperative member, with connections at SVAB?”

“Makes sense,” I said. “I guess a Mrs. Krupp, or a Mrs. Remington, would be just as welcome.”

Waiting for instructions, I looked around the little hallway, and saw two familiar, inexpensive suitcases. One was open, mine. Above it, on a rather handsome little veneer table, lay the guns I’d collected along the way. There was also, I noted, the snub-nosed .38 Special revolver I’d lent to Astrid. Well, at least they were tidy; they’d apparently removed all our belongings from the guest villa at Torsäter including the firearms.

Olaf came forward and regarded the display for a moment. “You travel well armed, Helm. One would think you were planning a revolution.”

“People keep giving them to me,” I said.

“It would be interesting to know how you smuggled all these weapons into the country.”

“No sweat,” I said. “Nobody really looked.”

“So typically American, this obsession with firearms!”

I glanced at the pistol in his hand. “You’re not exactly walking around naked,” I said. “A gun is a useful tool. I wouldn’t leave a good hammer or saw lying around to rust either. I might need to drive a nail or cut some wood. Same principle.”

“Well, you do not hold one of your pretty guns now, you trigger-happy Yankee assassin!”

He was quick, but it had been easy to see he was working himself up to something, and I managed to duck a little as he slammed the High Standard against the side of my head, so the blow was a glancing one. Nevertheless, it made things go bright red for a moment. I let myself stagger back against the wall and slide down to a graceless sitting position, legs apart. It’s always best to let them have the fun of knocking you down a few times and making you look foolish. It relaxes them and makes them feel more tolerant than if you insist on being brave and stubborn and staying on your feet no matter what. I’m referring to a simple intimidation-beating now, of course, not a fight to the death in which the boots may be a factor.

Olaf stood over me, glaring down at me. “There was no need for you to shoot Astrid over a little harmless sedative,” he said harshly. “You murdering swine!”

That was a nice old-fashioned word. I hadn’t been called a swine in years. I touched my head gingerly and found that the safety catch or slide release of his weapon, or maybe the front sight, although it’s pretty low on those silenced jobs, had gouged my scalp, causing considerable bleeding. Fine. I could spare a little gore. The more helpless and bloody and terrified I looked, the shorter the coming ordeal would be, I hoped.

The kitchen was big and old-fashioned, like that of the guest villa at Torsäter. It had a well-worn gas range and an ancient refrigerator, manufactured back in the days when, to paraphrase Henry Ford, you could get a kitchen appliance in any color you wanted as long as it was white. The Swedes, at least the ones with whom I was associating, had apparently not yet joined the disposable society; they believed in hanging on to stuff as long as it was working, whether or not it had long since gone out of style.

There was a wooden table against the wall and three wooden chairs. Although everything was old and showed evidence of hard use, it was quite clean; and the thin white curtains on the single window were crisp and immaculate. I found myself attributing this to Olaf’s bachelor fussiness, although I had no really good reason to think he didn’t have a wife somewhere around. They marry the damnedest guys, I reminded myself; one even married me, once. I’m not counting the times, including a recent night in Oslo, when I’ve faked the man-and-wife routine in the line of duty.

Olaf called through the door in Swedish, telling Karin to blow her nose and haul her ass in here. Well, that’s a loose translation. She came in reluctantly and, on instructions, turned on the lights and pulled down the heavy roller-blind.

“In that chair,” Olaf said to me. “Sit down, please.”

I sat down. Karin came over; and shortly I found myself attached to the sturdy wooden chair by two-inch duct tape, the immensely strong, silvery stuff that has largely transformed the prisoner industry, rendering obsolete the old-fashioned methods of restraint employing ropes, wires, chains, or manacles. Then the small blonde girl disappeared silently, closing the kitchen door behind her. I wondered how many people there were in the apartment; I sensed the presence of some I hadn’t seen. Certainly two more would be coming as soon as Karl and Greta got the Mercedes tucked away in its garage. Well, they had the troops. I could only hope it would make them overconfident.