The Terrorists Read online

The National Commissioner was no longer smiling. “We’ll probably have to be prepared for something more violent than egg-throwing this time,” he added grimly. “You should bear that in mind, Eric.”

  “We can take preventive measures,” said Möller.

  The Commissioner shrugged. “To some extent, yes,” he said. “But we can’t eliminate and lock up and intern everyone who might make trouble. You know that as well as I do. I’ve got my orders to go by and you’ll be getting yours.”

  And I’ve got mine, thought Martin Beck gloomily. He was still trying to read the letterhead on the letter in the green file. He thought he could discern the word “police” or possibly “policia.” His eyes ached and his tongue felt as rough and dry as sandpaper. Reluctantly he sipped at the bitter coffee.

  “But all that will come later,” said the Commissioner. “What I want to discuss today is this letter.” He tapped the paper in the open file with his forefinger. “It is in every way relevant to the problem at hand,” he said. He gave the letter to Stig Malm, to pass around the table before he continued.

  “It is, as you see, an invitation, in response to our request to be allowed to send an observer during an impending state visit. As the visiting president is not particularly popular in the host country, they will be taking all possible measures to protect him. As in many other Latin American countries, they have had to deal with a number of assassination attempts—of both native and foreign politicians. Consequently, they have considerable experience, and I would think that their police force and security services are the best qualified in that area. I’m convinced that we could learn much by studying their methods and procedures.”

  Martin Beck glanced through the letter, which was written in English in very formal and courteous terms. The president’s visit was to take place on the fifth of June, hardly a month away, and the representative of the Swedish police was welcome to arrive two weeks earlier, so that he could study the most important phases of the preparatory work. The signature was elegant and totally illegible, but elucidated in typescript. The name was Spanish, long, and appeared in some way to be noble and distinguished.

  When the letter had been returned to the green file, the Commissioner said, “The problem is, who shall we send?”

  Stig Malm thoughtfully raised his eyes to the ceiling, but said nothing.

  Martin Beck feared that he himself might be suggested. Five years earlier, before he had broken out of his unhappy marriage, he would have been delighted to undertake an assignment that would take him away from home for a while. But now, the last thing he wanted to do was to go abroad, and he hastened to say, “This is more of a Security Service job, isn’t it?”

  “I can’t go,” said Möller. “In the first place, I can’t be absent from the department—we’ve got some reorganizational problems in Section A that will take some time to clear up. In the second place, we’re already experts on these matters and it would be more useful if someone went who was unfamiliar with security questions. Someone from the Criminal Investigation Bureau, or maybe someone from the Regular Police. Whoever goes will pass on what he learns to the rest of us when he gets back, so everyone will benefit anyway.”

  The Commissioner nodded. “Yes, there’s something in what you say, Eric,” he said. “And, as you point out, we can’t spare you at the moment. Nor you, Martin.”

  Martin Beck inwardly sighed with relief.

  “In addition, I cannot speak Spanish,” said the chief of Security Police.

  “Who the hell can?” said Malm, smiling. He was aware of the fact that the Commissioner did not master the Castilian language, either.

  “I know someone who can,” said Martin Beck.

  Malm raised his eyebrows. “Who? Someone in Criminal Investigation?”

  “Yes. Gunvald Larsson.”

  Malm raised his eyebrows yet another millimeter, then smiled incredulously and said, “But we can’t send him, can we now?”

  “Why not?” said Martin Beck. “I think he’d be a good man to send.”

  He noticed that he sounded slightly angry. He did not usually speak up for Gunvald Larsson, but Malm’s tone of voice had annoyed him and he was so used to disagreeing with Malm that he opposed him almost automatically.

  “He’s a bungler and totally unrepresentative of the force,” said Malm.

  “Does he really speak Spanish?” asked the Commissioner doubtfully. “Where did he learn it?”

  “He was in a lot of Spanish-speaking countries when he was a sailor,” said Martin Beck. “The city we’re talking about is a large port, so he’s almost certainly been there before. He speaks English, French and German, too, all fluently. And a little Russian. Look in his file and you’ll see.”

  “He’s a bungler all the same,” insisted Stig Malm.

  The Commissioner looked thoughtful. “I’ll look at his qualifications,” he said. “I thought of him myself, as a matter of fact. It’s true he has a tendency to behave somewhat boorishly, and he’s much too undisciplined. But he’s undeniably one of our best inspectors, even if he does find it difficult to obey orders and stick to regulations.”

  He turned to the chief of the Security Police. “What do you say, Eric? Do you think he’d be suitable?”

  “Well, I don’t like him much, but generally speaking I’ve no objections.”

  Malm looked unhappy. “I think it would be extremely inappropriate to send him,” he said. “He would disgrace the Swedish force. He behaves like a boor and uses language more suited to a longshoreman than a former ship’s officer.”

  “Perhaps not when he’s speaking Spanish,” said Martin Beck. “Anyway, even if he does express himself a little crudely sometimes, at least he chooses his moments.”

  That was not strictly true. Martin Beck had recently heard Gunvald Larsson call Malm “that magnificent asshole” in the man’s presence, but fortunately Malm had not realized that the epithet was intended for him.

  The Commissioner did not seem to take much notice of Malm’s objections. “It’s perhaps not a bad idea,” he said thoughtfully. “I don’t think his tendency to uncivilized behavior will be much of a problem in this case. He can behave well if he wants to. He has a better background than most. He comes from a wealthy and cultured family, he’s had the best possible education and an upbringing that has taught him how to behave correctly in all possible circumstances. That shows, even if he does his best to conceal it.”

  “You can say that again,” mumbled Malm.

  Martin Beck sensed that Stig Malm would very much have liked the assignment and that he was annoyed at not even being asked. He also thought it would be good to be rid of Gunvald Larsson for a while, as he was not much liked by his colleagues and had an unusual capacity for causing rows and complications.

  The Commissioner did not seem wholly convinced even by his own reasoning, and Martin Beck said encouragingly, “I think we should send Gunvald. He has all the qualifications needed for the job.”

  “I’ve noticed that he’s careful of his appearance,” said the Commissioner. “His way of dressing shows good taste and a feeling for quality. That undoubtedly makes an impression.”

  “Exactly,” said Martin Beck. “It’s an important detail.” He was conscious of the fact that his own clothing could hardly be called tasteful. His trousers were unpressed and baggy, the collar of his polo sweater was wide and limp from many washings, his tweed jacket was worn and missing a button.

  “The Violence Division is well-staffed and ought to be able to manage without Larsson for a few weeks,” said the Commissioner. “Or does anyone have any other suggestion?”

  They all shook their heads. Even Malm appeared to have perceived the advantage of having Gunvald Larsson at a safe distance for a while, and Eric Möller yawned again, apparently pleased that the meeting was drawing to a close.

  The National Commissioner rose to his feet and closed the file. “Good,” he said. “Then we are agreed. I shall personally inform Larsson of our decisi
on.”

  Gunvald Larsson received the information without much enthusiasm, nor was he especially flattered by the assignment. His self-esteem was pronounced and imperturbable, but he was not entirely unaware that some of his colleagues would heave a sigh of relief when he left, and regret only that he was not leaving for good. He was aware that his friends on the force could be easily counted. As far as he knew, there was only one. He also knew that he was regarded as insubordinate and troublesome, and that his job often hung by a thread.

  This fact did not disturb him in the slightest. Any other policeman of his rank and salary grade would at least have felt some anxiety over the constant threat of being suspended or actually dismissed, but Gunvald Larsson had never spent a sleepless night over the prospect. Unmarried and childless, he had no dependents, and he had long since broken off all communication with his family, whose snobbish upper-class existence he despised. He did not worry much about his future. During his years as a policeman, he had often weighed the possibility of returning to his old profession. Now he was nearly fifty and he realized that he would probably never again go to sea.

  As the day of his departure approached, Gunvald Larsson discovered that he was genuinely pleased about the assignment, which, while regarded as important, could hardly be expected to be especially difficult. It involved at least two weeks’ change in his daily routine, and he began to look forward to the journey as if to a holiday.

  On the evening before his departure, Gunvald Larsson was standing in his bedroom in Bollmora, clad in nothing but underpants, looking at his reflection in the long mirror on the inside of his wardrobe door. He was delighted with the pattern on the underpants, yellow moose against a blue background, and he owned five more pairs. Half a dozen of the same kind, though green with red moose, were already packed in the large pigskin case that lay open on his bed.

  Gunvald Larsson was six feet tall, a powerful and muscular man with large hands and feet. He had just showered and routinely stepped onto the bathroom scales, which registered two hundred and twenty-four pounds. During the last four years, or perhaps it was five, he had put on about twenty pounds, and he looked with displeasure at the roll of fat above the elastic of his underpants.

  He pulled in his stomach and it occurred to him that he ought to visit the station gym more often. Or begin swimming when the pool was completed.

  Except for the spare tire, though, he was really quite pleased with his appearance.

  He was forty-nine years old, but his hair was thick and abundant and his hairline had not crept back and made his forehead higher. It was low, with two marked lines across it. His hair was cut short and so fair that the gray in it didn’t show. Now that it was wet and newly combed, it lay smooth and shiny across his broad skull, but when it had dried it would rise and look bristly and untidy. His eyebrows were bushy and of the same fair color as his hair, and his nose was large and well formed, with wide nostrils. His pale china-blue eyes looked small in that rugged face and were a trifle too close together, which sometimes, when they were empty of expression, made him look deceptively stupid. When he was angry—and that was often—a furious crease appeared between his eyes, and his light-blue eyes could strike terror into the most hardened of criminals, as well as into the hearts of subordinates.

  The only person who had never been on the receiving end of Gunvald Larsson’s fury was Einar Rönn, a colleague in the Stockholm Violence Division and his only friend. Rönn was a placid and taciturn northerner with a perpetually running red nose, which dominated his face to such a degree that one hardly noticed the other details of his appearance. He carried about within him an inextinguishable longing for his home district around Arjeplog in Lapland.

  As Gunvald Larsson and Rönn served in the same department, they saw each other nearly every day, but they also spent a good deal of their spare time together. When it was possible, they took their leaves at the same time and went to Arjeplog, where they mostly devoted themselves to fishing. None of their colleagues was able to understand this friendship between two such different personalities, and many wondered how Rönn, with stoic calm and few words, could turn a raging Gunvald Larsson into a meek and mild lamb.

  Now Gunvald Larsson inspected the row of suits in his well-filled closet. He was well acquainted with the climate of the country he was to visit, and he remembered several suffocatingly hot spring weeks in that port many years before. If he was to endure the heat he would have to be lightly clothed, and he had only two suits that were sufficiently cool. For safety’s sake, he tried them on and discovered to his dismay that he couldn’t get the first on and that the trousers of the second would only just fasten if he made an effort and inhaled deeply. They were also tight across the thighs. At least he could button the jacket without difficulty, but it was tight across the shoulders and either it would limit his freedom of movement or the seams would split.

  He hung the useless suit back in the wardrobe and laid the other one across the lid of his case. It would have to do. He had had it made for him four years earlier, from thin Egyptian cotton, nougat-colored with narrow white stripes.

  He completed his packing with three pairs of khaki trousers, a shantung jacket and the suit that was too tight. In the pocket on the inside of the lid, he put one of his favorite novels. Then he closed the lid, fastened the brass buckles on the wide straps, locked the case and took it into the hall.

  He cared about his own EMW too much to let it stand in the airport parking lot, so Einar Rönn was to pick him up in his car the next morning and drive him to Stockholm’s Arlanda Airport. Like most Swedish airports, Arlanda was a dismal and misplaced establishment and succeeded excellently in giving expectant visitors an even more distorted view of Sweden than the country deserved.

  Gunvald Larsson threw the blue-and-yellow moose underpants into the hamper in the bathroom, put on his pajamas and went to bed. He did not suffer from travel fever and fell asleep almost immediately.

  2

  The security expert did not reach even to the middle of Gunvald Larsson’s upper arm, but he was very neat and elegant in his light-blue suit with its flared and beautifully pressed trousers. With the suit, he wore a pink shirt, shiny torpedo-toed black shoes and a lilac-colored tie. His hair was almost black, his skin light brown and his eyes olive-colored. The only discordant note was the pistol holster bulging under his left armpit. The security expert’s name was Francisco Bajamonde Cassavetes y Larrinaga; he came from an extremely distinguished family.

  Francisco Bajamonde Cassavetes y Larrinaga spread the security plan out on the balustrade, but Gunvald Larsson was looking instead at his own suit; it had taken the police tailor seven days to make it, and the result was excellent, as this was a country where the level of the art of tailoring was still high. Their only difference of opinion had been over the space for a shoulder holster, which the tailor had taken for granted. But Gunvald Larsson never used a shoulder holster. He carried his pistol in a clip in his belt. Here abroad, of course, he was not armed, but he would be using the suit in Stockholm. There had been a brief dispute and naturally he had had his way. What else? With deep satisfaction he glanced down at his well-tailored legs, sighed contentedly and looked around at his surroundings.

  They were standing on the eighth floor of the hotel, a spot chosen with great care. The motorcade would pass below the balcony and stop at the provincial palace a block away. Gunvald Larsson glanced politely at the plan, but without much enthusiasm, as by now he knew it all by heart. He knew that the harbor had been closed to all traffic from five o’clock that morning and the civilian airport had been closed since the presidential plane had landed.

  Straight ahead lay the harbor and the azure-blue sea. Several large passenger liners and cargo boats were anchored at its outer edges. The only ships moving were a warship, a frigate and a few police boats in the inner harbor. Below them lay the paseo, edged with palm and acacias. Across the street was a rank of taxis, and beyond that a row of colorful horse-drawn cab
s. All these had been thoroughly checked.

  Every person in the area, apart from the military police and gendarmes forming an arm’s-length barrier along each side of the paseo, had passed through metal detectors of the kind with which most larger airports were now equipped.

  The gendarmes’ uniforms were green, while the military police wore blue-gray. The gendarmes wore boots, the military police high shoes.

  Gunvald Larsson suppressed a sigh. He had done a dummy run along this stretch at the rehearsal that morning. Everything had been in its place except the President himself.

  The motorcade was made up as follows. First a motorcycle party of fifteen specially trained security police. After that, an equal number of motorcycle police from the regular force, followed by two cars loaded with security men. Then came the presidential car, a black Cadillac with bulletproof blue glass. (During the dummy run, Gunvald Larsson had sat in the back seat as a stand-in, unquestionably an honor.) Next came an open car full of security men, on the American pattern. And finally, more motorcycle police, followed by the radio reporters’ bus and cars full of other authorized journalists. In addition, civilian security men were spread along the road from the airport.

  All the street lamps were decorated with pictures of the President. The route was fairly long, indeed very long, and Gunvald Larsson had had time to become quite bored with that bull-necked head, puffy face and black enamel steel-framed glasses.

  That was the ground protection. The airspace was dominated by army helicopters at three levels, with three choppers in each group. In addition, a division of Starfighters was sweeping back and forth, guarding the upper airspace.

  The entire operation was organized with such perfection that unpleasant surprises ought to be fairly unthinkable.

  The heat at this time of the afternoon was, to put it mildly, oppressive. Gunvald Larsson was sweating, but not excessively. He could not imagine that anything could go wrong. Preparations had been singularly detailed and thorough, and planning had been going on for several months. A special group had been assigned to look for faults in the planning, and a number of corrections had been made. Add to this the fact that every attempted assassination in this country—and there had been quite a few—had failed. The National Commissioner had probably been right when he said that they were the world’s greatest experts in their field.