MAJ SJOWALL AND PER WAHLOO.

The Terrorists.

The National Commissioner of Police smiled.

He usually reserved his smile, boyish and charming, for the press and television and only seldom bestowed it on such members of the inner circle as Superintendent Stig Malm, of the National Police Administration, Eric Moller, chief of Security Police, and Martin Beck, chief of the National Murder Squad.

Only one of the three men smiled back. Stig Malm had beautiful white teeth and liked smiling to show them off. Over the years he had quite unconsciously acquired a whole register of smiles. The one he was using now could only be described as ingratiating and fawning.

The chief of the Security Police suppressed a yawn and Martin Beck blew his nose.

It was only half-past seven in the morning, the National Commissioner's favourite time for calling sudden meetings, which in no way meant that he was in the habit of arriving at the station at that time. He often did not appear until late in the morning and even then he was usually inaccessible even to his closest colleagues. 'My office is my castle' might well have been inscribed on the door, and indeed it was an impenetrable fortress, guarded by a well-groomed secretary, quite rightly called 'The Dragon'.

This morning he was showing his breezy and benign side. He had even had a Thermos of coffee and real china cups brought in, instead of the usual plastic mugs.

Stig Malm got up and poured out the coffee.

Martin Beck knew that before he sat down again he would first pinch the crease in his trousers and then carefully run his hand across his well-cut wavy hair.

Stig Malm was his immediate superior and Martin Beck had no respect for him whatsoever. His self-satisfied coquettishness and insinuating officiousness towards senior potentates were characteristics that Martin Beck had ceased to be annoyed by and nowadays found simply foolish. What did irritate him, on the other hand, and often const.i.tuted an obstacle to his work, was the man's rigidity and lack of self-criticism, a lack just as total and destructive as his ignorance of everything to do with practical police work. That he had risen to such a high position was due to ambition, political opportunism and a certain amount of administrative ability.

The chief of the Security Police put four lumps of sugar into his coffee, stirred it with a spoon and slurped as he drank.

Malm drank his without sugar, careful as he was of his trim figure.

Martin Beck was not feeling well and did not want coffee this early in the morning.

The National Commissioner took both sugar and cream and crooked his little finger as he raised his cup. He emptied it in one gulp and pushed it away from him, simultaneously pulling towards him a green file that had been lying on the corner of the polished conference table.

'There,' he said, smiling again. 'Coffee first and then on with the day's work.'

Martin Beck looked gloomily at his untouched cup of coffee and longed for a gla.s.s of cold milk.

'How are you feeling, Martin?' said the Commissioner, with feigned sympathy in his voice. You don't look well. You're not planning to be ill again, are you? You know we can't afford to be without you.'

Martin was not planning to be ill. He already was ill. He had been drinking wine with his twenty-two-year-old daughter and her boyfriend until half-past three in the morning and knew that he looked awful as a result But he had no desire to discuss his self-inflicted indisposition with his superior, and moreover he didn't think that the 'again' was really fair. He had been away from his work with the flu and a high temperature for three days at the beginning of March and it was now the seventh of May.

'No,' he said. 'I'm fine. A bit of a cold, that's all.'

'You really don't look good,' said Stig Malm. There was not even feigned sympathy in his voice, only reproach. 'You really don't'

He looked piercingly at Martin Beck, who feeling his irritation rising said, 'Thanks for your concern, but I'm fine. I a.s.sume we're not here to discuss my appearance or the state of my health.'

'Quite right,' said the Commissioner. 'Let's get down to business.'

He opened the green file. Judging by the contents - three or four sheets of paper at the most - there was some hope that today's meeting would not drag on for too long.

On top lay a typed letter with the mark of a large green rubber stamp beneath the scrawled signature and a letterhead that Martin Beck could not make out from where he was sitting.

'As you will remember, we have discussed our to some extent imperfect experience when it comes to the security measures to be taken during state visits and in similar delicate situations - occasions when one can expect demonstrations of a particularly aggressive nature and well- and less-well-planned attempts at a.s.sa.s.sination,' the Commissioner began, falling automatically into the pompous style that usually characterized his public appearances.

Stig Malm mumbled in agreement, Martin Beck said nothing, but Eric Moller objected.

'Well, we're not that inexperienced, are we? Khrushchev's visit went off fine, except maybe for that red-painted pig someone let loose in front of Logrd steps. So did Kosygin's, organizationally as well as security-wise. And the Environmental Conference, to take a maybe slightly different example.'

'Yes, of course, but this time we're faced with a more difficult problem. What I'm referring to is the visit by this senator from the United States at the end of November. It could turn out to be a hot potato, if I may use that expression. We've never been confronted with the problem of VIPs from the States before, but now we are. The date's been set and I've already received certain instructions. Our preparations must be made well ahead of time and be extremely thorough. We have to be prepared for anything.'

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 Moller.

The Commissioner shrugged. 'To some extent, yes,' he said. 'But we can't eliminate and look 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 pa.s.s 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 a.s.sa.s.sination 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 n.o.ble 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 a.s.signment 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 Services job, isn't it?'

'I can't go,' said Moller. '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 pa.s.s 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 h.e.l.l can?' said Malm, smiling. He was aware of the fact that the Commissioner had not mastered 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 millimetre, 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 docker 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 a.r.s.ehole' 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 behaviour 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 circ.u.mstances. 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 a.s.signment 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 unconvinced 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 creased and baggy, the collar of his polo shirt was wide and limp from many washings, his tweed jacket was worn and missing a b.u.t.ton.

'The Violent Crimes Squad 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 Moller yawned again, apparency 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 decision.'

Gunvald Larsson received the information without much enthusiasm, nor was he especially flattered by the a.s.signment. His self-esteem was p.r.o.nounced 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 dependants, and he had long since broken off all communication with his family, whose sn.o.bbish upper-cla.s.s 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 a.s.signment, 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 on to the bathroom scales, which registered sixteen stone. During the last four years, or perhaps it was five, he had put on about a stone and a half, 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 tyre, 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 grey 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 colour 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 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 Ronn, a colleague in the Stockholm Violent Crimes Squad and his only friend: Ronn 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 Ronn 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 possible, they took their annual leave 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 Ronn, 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 b.u.t.ton 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-coloured 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 favourite novels. Then he closed the lid, fastened the bra.s.s buckles on the wide straps, locked the case and took it into the hall.

He cared about his own BMW too much to let it stand in the airport parking lot, so Einar Ronn 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 pyjamas and went to bed. He did not suffer from travel fever and fell asleep almost immediately.

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 tie. His hair was almost black, his skin light brown and his eyes olive-coloured. The only discordant note was the pistol holster bulging under his left armpit. The security expert's name was Francis...o...b..jamonde Ca.s.savetes y Larrinaga; he came from an extremely distinguished family.

Francis...o...b..jamonde Ca.s.savetes y Larrinaga spread the security plan out on the bal.u.s.trade, 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 s.p.a.ce 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 pa.s.s 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 harbour had been closed to all traffic that morning and the civilian airport had been closed since the presidential plane had landed.

Straight ahead lay the harbour and the azure-blue sea. Several large pa.s.senger liners and cargo boats were anch.o.r.ed at its outer edges. The only ships moving were a warship, a frigate and a few police boats in the inner harbour. Below them lay the paseo, edged with palms and acacias. Across the street was a rank of taxis, and beyond that a row of colourful horse-drawn cabs. All these had been thoroughly checked.

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

The civilian police wore green uniforms, while the military police wore blue-grey. The civilian police wore boots, the military police high-top 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 gla.s.s. (During the dummy run, Gunvald Larsson had sat in the back seat as a stand-in, unquestionably an honour.) Next came an open car full of security men, on the American model. 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 gla.s.ses.

That was the ground protection. The airs.p.a.ce 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 airs.p.a.ce.

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 a.s.signed to look for faults in the planning, and a number of corrections had been made. Add to this the fact that every attempted a.s.sa.s.sination 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.

At a quarter to three in the afternoon, Francis...o...b..jamonde Ca.s.savetes y Larrinaga glanced at his watch and said, 'Twenty-one minutes to go, I presume.'