The Terrorists (23 page)

But Martin Beck had come up through the ranks, and had been a good policeman even when he began patrolling the Jakob precinct over thirty years before. He had always found it easy to talk to people; many problems were easy to solve with the aid of humor and intelligence, and the occasions when he had been compelled to use force could be counted on one hand.

Later on he had developed increasingly as an officer, often having to compromise with stupid superiors, but enduring both that and various inexplicable disciplinary decisions without great injury to his soul. On one point, however, he had always refused to compromise. He liked to work in the field, in direct contact with people and their surroundings.

Shortly after 1950, when he became a detective, he was transferred to the Homicide Squad. He had begun to study criminology and psychology on his own time, and the work in Homicide had interested him. Until the state takeover, he had had the good fortune to have understanding superiors and good colleagues. He had not lost his ability to talk to people and thus had become known as one of the best interrogators on the force.

Although Martin Beck himself had often demonstrated a brilliant and a highly deductive mind, these were not abilities he demanded either of himself or of his colleagues. In fact, if anyone had asked him what was most important to the profession, he would in all probability have replied, “a systematic mind,
common sense, and conscientiousness,” in that order.

Even if Martin Beck was largely in agreement with Lennart Kollberg about the role of police in society, resignation was unthinkable for him; he was simply too conscientious. His awareness of this caused him to think of himself as an almost painfully dreary figure, and he often got depressed. Things had been considerably better lately, but he was certainly no cheerful Charlie, and had no aspirations to become one.

Among the many characteristics that made Martin Beck an especially good policeman must be mentioned his good memory; his obstinacy, which was occasionally mulelike; and his capacity for logical thought. Another was that he usually found the time for everything that had anything to do with a case, even if this meant following up small details that later turned out to be of no significance. Occasionally these minute considerations led to important clues.

Once he had Lennart Kollberg’s positive opinion of their overall plan, he left with a certain feeling of satisfaction, because Kollberg was still the one person he relied on most when it came to questions of policy. It had been a brief meeting and he suddenly decided to pay a call that he had contemplated for a long time but had not had time for until now. Actually, he really didn’t have time for it now either, but the rest of the group ought to be quite capable of handling all the other more or less meaningless visits and telephone calls.

With only two days left until the great event, Martin Beck had been supplied with a special official car. It was green, and the policeman at the wheel was a civilian. He asked to be driven to David Bagaresgata, and five minutes later he was standing outside the door to Hedobald Braxén’s office.

The bell did not work, so he knocked. A hollow voice called out, “Come in.”

Braxén looked absently at Martin Beck, then pushed the blotter to one side of his gigantic desk.

“About six months ago, I testified on your behalf in a case against a girl named Rebecka Lind,” said Martin Beck.

“Yes, that girl,” said Crasher. “It was good of you to testify. Had a decisive influence.”

Crasher was famous for calling curious witnesses. Among
others, he had several times tried to get the National Commissioner to testify in cases that involved fighting between police and demonstrators, but naturally that had been unsuccessful.

“You also called a witness who didn’t appear. A film director called Walter Petrus.”

“Did I?”

“Yes,” said Martin Beck, “you did.”

“I remember now,” he said. “That’s quite right, but he was dead, I believe, or was prevented from coming in some other way.”

“That’s not quite right,” said Martin Beck. “He was murdered, the day after.”

“Really?” said Crasher.

“Why did you want him to give evidence?”

Crasher did not seem to have heard. After a while Martin Beck opened his mouth to repeat the question, but at that moment the other man raised his hand.

“You’re quite right. Now I remember it all. I had intended to use him as a witness to the girl’s character and general attitude. But he refused to appear.”

“What was his connection with Rebecka Lind?”

“It was like this,” said Braxén. “Shortly after Rebecka became pregnant, she saw a newspaper ad offering young girls of attractive appearance well-paid jobs with very good prospects. Her situation was desperate, so she answered the ad. She promptly received a letter instructing her to present herself at a certain address at a certain time. I’ve forgotten both time and address, but the letter was written on a film company’s letterhead and signed by this Petrus. The company was called Petrus Films, I think. She still had the letter and it looked very respectable, printed letterhead and all that.”

Braxén fell silent, got up, went over to the cats and poured out some more milk.

“Yes,” said Martin Beck. “Then what happened?”

“A pretty typical story,” said Crasher. “The address was an apartment that had obviously been used as a studio. When she got there, this Petrus was there with a photographer. Petrus said he was a film producer with international connections. Then he told her to undress. She did not think this all that remarkable,
but she wanted to know what sort of film it was.”

Braxén returned to his breakfast.

“Go on,” said Martin Beck.

Crasher took a gulp from the cup. “According to Roberta, Petrus replied that it was an art film that was to be shown abroad, and that she would immediately receive five kronor if she undressed, so that they could see if she would do. She did so, and they inspected her. The photographer said that she would perhaps do despite the difficulty of the part, but that her breasts were too meager and her nipples too small. Then Petrus said that they could stick on plastic nipples. Then the photographer said he would do a trial performance with her on the couch in the room, and he also began to undress. At that point she got scared and began to collect her clothes. They never touched her, but the photographer said that it would be just as well if Petrus told her what it was all about, because if she didn’t want to sleep with him, she would never agree to act in the film. So Petrus told her there was nothing to worry about because the film was only going to be shown in sex clubs abroad, and all she had to do was copulate with a dog.”

Braxén sat silent for a moment, then said, “There really are extraordinary ways of becoming a millionaire these days. Petrus described a lot of unpleasant things she was supposed to do. She was to be given two hundred and fifty kronor for the first film, but then there would be larger and better parts, he said. The girl … what’s her name again?”

“Rebecka.”

“That’s it, Rebecka, yes. She began to get dressed and asked for her five kronor. Petrus said that had only been a joke. She spat in his face and they pushed her out of the apartment half naked, wearing nothing but her socks and sandals. They flung the rest of her clothes down the stairs, and since it was an ordinary apartment house, several people passed her as she was collecting her clothes and putting them on. She told me this while she was under arrest, and asked if it wasn’t against the law to treat a person like that. I told her that unfortunately it wasn’t. But I went to see this Petrus at his office. He was very haughty and said the whole trade was thick with crazy whores, but that it was in fact true that one of them had spat at him. I tried to
get him to testify and he was sent a summons, but he never came. But she was released all the same.” He shook his head gloomily.

“And Walter Petrus was killed,” said Martin Beck.

“It’s not legally justifiable to kill people, is it?” said Crasher. “And yet …” He broke off. “Has anything happened to Rebecka? Is that why you’re here?”

“No, nothing’s happened to her, as far as I know.”

Braxén shook his head gloomily again. “I’m a bit worried about her,” he said.

“Why?”

“She came here at the end of the summer. She’s had difficulties over that American, the one who fathered her child. I tried to explain certain things to her and wrote a letter on her behalf. She finds it a bit difficult to understand this society of ours, and you can hardly blame her.”

“What’s her address?” asked Martin Beck.

“I don’t know. When she was here, she had no permanent address.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. When I asked her where she lived she said, ‘Nowhere at the moment.’ ”

“She didn’t give you any hint at all?”

“No, none at all. It was still summer then, and as far as I can make out, a lot of young people live together, either in the country or else with friends who happen to have an apartment in town.”

Braxén pulled out one of his desk drawers and took out a thick notebook with a black cover and an alphabetical register in the margin. He must have had it a long time, because it was frayed with age and a great many thumbings.

He leafed through it and said, “What’s her name again?”

“Rebecka Lind.”

He found the right page and pulled his old telephone toward him. “We could try her parents.”

One of the cats leaped onto Martin Beck’s knee and he mechanically stroked the animal’s back while trying to follow the telephone call. The cat at once began to purr.

Braxén put down the receiver. “That was her mother,” he
said. “Neither she nor her husband has heard anything from Rebecka since the trial in June. She also said that it was best that way, since no one in the family understood the girl.”

“Nice parents,” said Martin Beck.

“Yes, aren’t they? Why are you so interested in her, anyhow?”

Martin Beck put the cat down on the floor, got up and went toward the door.

“I don’t really know,” he said. “But thanks for your help, anyhow. If she turns up, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know, or at least tell her I’d like to talk to her.”

Reinhard Heydt, like Kollberg, thought that everything seemed to be ready. He had moved to a two-room apartment in Solna, acquired by the same front firm that had arranged the apartment in Södermalm.

The Japanese had stayed on in the other apartment. With extreme thoroughness, they had assembled their sophisticated bombs, and their next task was to place them in the selected places, as late as possible.

Long before the information was released to the press, Heydt had purchased all the details of the Senator’s schedule, as well as most of the security plans, again from the double agent with the mysterious little firm in Östermalm.

The radio expert arrived slightly late. He was transported by a hired Danish fisherman from Gilleleje to the district of Torekov, passing under the very nose of the National Police Commissioner, who at that moment was pondering his responsibilities in solitude.

The man’s name was Levallois and he was considerably more conversational than the two Japanese. He had, however, also brought some rather disturbing news. ULAG’s weakness was its communications, which were as yet insufficiently developed; otherwise Heydt would probably have heard earlier. A leak had
occurred somewhere, and the police had begun to gather up various bits of information into quite an interesting picture.

Heydt had been seen at the action in India and had also been observed leaving the country after the assassination in Latin America. Ever since, the police had stubbornly tried to establish some kind of identification by circulating through Interpol in Paris what meager information they had to practically every government with a serviceable police or security force.

The leak could not have come from within ULAG, but must have originated in one of the countries in which Heydt had previously been active as a guerrilla mercenary. In any case, they had finally linked his real name with his description. The police in Salisbury were still insisting they had no idea whatsoever who he was, which was probably true, but the authorities in Pretoria, who certainly did not know what he was doing, said that he was a South African citizen, that his name was Reinhard Heydt, that he had not been convicted of any crime in his native country and as far as they knew was not involved in any criminal activity.

Up to that point, the leak did not appear to be especially dangerous, but unfortunately just after that Frelimo in Mozambique, who had him on their blacklist, produced a photograph of him which was sufficiently good to be reproduced and sent out by Interpol. He was not wanted for any crime. Interpol merely stated that the police in the Latin American state were interested in speaking to him and in receiving any information on his present whereabouts.

Heydt silently cursed the occasion when he had been photographed. It had happened two years earlier—a singularly unfortunate accident. During a raid on Lourenço Marques, his group had been split up and he and several others had been taken prisoner by Frelimo guerrillas. They were released a few hours later, but meanwhile someone had photographed them. The photo in question must have been an enlargement of this picture, and if Interpol had sent it out, then the Swedish police would certainly have a copy. This did not, as far as he could make out, complicate the operation itself; but on the other hand, he could hardly leave the country as easily as he had slipped in.

One thing was clear. During the few remaining days, his freedom of movement would be severely limited; in fact he could hardly risk going out. Up to now he had been able to move around Stockholm unhindered, but his outings were over now. And if he absolutely had to go out, he would have to go armed. To be recognized and arrested by a Swedish policeman would have been an ignominious end to a promising career, even though it would not save the famous American’s life. The operation was much too carefully doublechecked for that.

Heydt’s first response was to get rid of the green Opel. He got Levallois to drive it down to Gothenburg, abandon it and legally buy a used Volkswagen.