“Sam, look out!”
It was Sigrid again.
Another shot followed on the heels of her warning. Durell felt a snap of air as the bullet winged by. He threw himself forward toward an outcrop of stone. A man yelled in triumph. Another replied with a grumble of words he could not understand. It was not Swedish. Footsteps came toward him through the grass. He tightened his grip on the gun. The fog distorted sight and sound. The swinging probe of the searchlight across the channel vanished, and he blinked to adjust his eyes to the lesser glare of the fog.
“Sam? Sam, over here!”
Sigrid’s words echoed all around him. He looked back and saw Elgiva sheltered behind a small pinnacle of wind-carved rock. A shadow moved, distorting the radiance of the fog. As Durell rose, another shot cracked, but he ran forward, saw a figure rise before him, and fired twice, aiming at the belly. The man slammed backward, hands splayed out. Another man made a sound like a neighing horse and went reeling toward the edge of the cliff. Clutching his stomach, he blasted a series of shots inland, toward something Durell could not see. He fired again, and the man vanished as if seized by an invisible, giant hand, swept from the edge of the cliff. He made no sound as he fell.
Durell ran toward the house. Another figure intervened. He almost shot Sigrid before he recognized her.
“Foolish man!” she gasped.
She held a knife, and it had blood on it. She had used it on the second man. Her long, pale hair glistened with the fog. She wore a seaman’s jacket and a jaunty beret.
“Are you all right, darling man?” she asked.
“I had two men here—Mario and Gino, from the yacht—”
“I sent them back to the boat,” she said.
“You sent them away?”
“I told them you had ordered it.”
He controlled his anger. “Why?”
“I wanted to prove something to you. I know you’ve had strange thoughts about me. I know you don’t trust me. But I saved your life, you see.”
“You weren’t needed,” he said shortly.
She pouted. “You need me more than you think. Those men would have killed you. If they had killed Elgiva, I wouldn’t care; but you are precious to me, cruel Cajun. I like you so much better alive.”
Durell took her knife and threw it away. She did not resist. He did not put down his gun. He did not know what to make of her. Her relief at finding him seemed genuine enough.
“Who were those people?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Foreigners. I do not know their language. But I heard them move toward the cliff after I sent Mario and the boy back to Visby, so I followed, after making sure Elgiva’s house was empty. Oh, I hate that woman! You made a mistake, appealing to her. Did Olsen suggest it?”
“You know a lot that you shouldn’t know,” he said grimly. “Come with me.”
But Sigrid hung back. “We must return to the boat. I don’t want to meet that woman. Don’t be angry with me, darling man. Of course I know all about Olsen. Desk Five knows and tolerates him. Although Sweden must be officially neutral, that is no reason why we should blind ourselves to what is going on.”
He wanted to shake her in his frustration. But her face looked innocent of all guile. Nothing she had said made him feel easier about her, but he had orders to work with her. He turned away to examine the man he had shot.
The face was alien to this Scandinavian island of tall blonds. The cheekbones were high, the eyes faintly slanted, the moustache drooping. The clothes had no labels. Aside from a Luger, the dead man had no identification. The face had a definite Tartar cast, a hint of deep Asia in its broad contours. Such a man might have ridden west with the hordes of Genghis Khan centuries ago.
The body was a problem. In Durell’s business, you worked quietly, without attracting public attention. A police spotlight on these events, especially on a woman of such renown as Elgiva Nielsen, might end all hope of contacting his Soviet counterpart. On the other hand, he could not be sure who had sent these men after him. They were simply hired hands, gunmen. It was the mind and brain and plan behind them that he had to identify.
Sigrid made a small sound of distaste.
Elgiva approached them with her gliding, graceful walk, wrapped tightly in her dark cloak.
He knew at once that there was an implacable hostility between these two women. Yet the younger Sigrid immediately smiled with apparently complete and sincere pleasure.
“Elgiva, dear, I am so happy you are safe!”
The other’s smile matched Sigrid’s, and they pressed their cheeks together briefly in greeting. “I do not understand what happened. Why should anyone wish to kill me?”
“Maybe it was just Sam they were after.”
Elgiva turned her great amber eyes to Durell. “Does this have to do with Peter and Eric? What we discussed?” “I’m sure it has,” he returned.
“And little Sigrid? Her work is peculiar. Is it the same
as yours, Mr. Durell?”
“Somewhat. We’re working to find Peter and bring him home.” He turned to Sigrid. “Why did you say Professor Peter is your uncle? I know he’s your father.”
She bit her lip. “I am sorry. It just seemed better not to seem so close to this problem—”
“Sigrid often tells strange lies,” Elgiva said coolly. “She is a very strange child.”
“Elgiva, you never liked me, but that is not reason for you to—"
Their claws were showing. Durell intervened. “Let’s get inside. Elgiva, I’m sure you want to help us now. You didn’t believe how serious it was before. Peter is in grave danger. He’s a prisoner, and his machinery for weather control is being used by enemies of all society, against all humanity. Surely you see this now.”
“I will not go with Sigrid,” Elgiva said.
“Then fly to Stockholm with me, in the morning. Sigrid will join us there later in the day.”
Sigrid started to protest, then pressed her lips together angrily. “It’s all your fault, Elgiva. You filled Daddy with idealistic nonsense, until he saw the world in the same distorted perspective you show it in your silly, old-fashioned poetry. They say you are a witch, and I believe it. You hypnotized poor Daddy and you want to marry him. But you never shall, I promise you that!”
It was a side of Sigrid that she had not shown before. Under her calm voice was an icy contempt. But her words defeated her own purpose. Elgiva stiffened, her face paled.
She tucked her hand in Durell’s arm and watched Sigrid’s hostile reaction to the possessive gesture.
“You do not want me along, Sigrid?”
“Stay here and spin your foolish tales of the olden days. You’ve done enough harm.”
“But I think I shall accompany Mr. Durell. In Stockholm I shall decide just what to do.”
Sigrid bit her lip in exasperation. “Do not trust her, gullible man. She will bewitch you, too.”
“Maybe I’d like it,” Durell said.
12
OLE OLSEN had gone into Visby, according to the desk clerk at the Snacksgarsbaden Hotel. Durell knew he had a small furniture shop on one of the town’s old streets, for sales to Visby tourists. It was part of Olsen’s cover, and there seemed nothing unusual about his going there.
He needed Olsen’s help in disposing of the Tartar’s body and covering up the affair at Elgiva’s isolated house. Explanations to the police would be awkward. There were enough rumors in the world about the weather. If the public knew of the great official concern, there could easily be panic.
He dismissed his taxi and used Elgiva’s Mercedes for the foggy drive back into town. It was not a comfortable trip. Elgiva drove, and he sat between her and Sigrid. Both women maintained a stony silence. He had explained to Elgiva that the isolation of her house made it dangerous for her to stay there; and after Sigrid minimized the danger, Elgiva perversely agreed to obey all of Durell’s orders. Sigrid ground her teeth and was silent.
It was after ten, and true nightfa
ll had come over the Baltic at last. Most of the shops in the cobbled streets
of the walled town were shuttered for the night. Tourists were in rare supply these days.
Durell told Elgiva to park around the corner in an alley that led downhill toward one of Visby’s battlements. He was reluctant to leave the two women alone together, and decided it could do no harm to take them with him. They maintained a silent truce as they walked toward the shop.
The small display window in the medieval building was dark and partly curtained. Polished modern mahogany chairs were glimpsed inside. But Durell saw no lights within.
“Your resident agent is not here,” Sigrid said.
“He is. Ole wouldn’t get out of touch tonight.”
He led the way down a dark alley to the back entrance. A cat ran across their path and leaped over a wooden fence. Sigrid shrank back for a moment.
“Perhaps he has gone to the Vesper.”
Elgiva spoke coldly. “If you are anxious to go, then leave us. Your blood is not that of a true Viking woman. I will stay with Durell.”
“Oh, you talk such nonsense, darling.” Sigrid went with them to the back door of the furniture shop.
A dim light shone inside. The wide service door was locked. Durell frowned. Visby, a town marked by many churches, suddenly came awake with the sound of old church bells tolling in the misty air. The iron clanging was just what he needed. He found a slat of wood near the door, wedged it between the two panels, and shoved against the bolt. There came a snapping sound, drowned out by the carillon. Something clattered to the floor inside, and the door swung open.
Sigrid started forward. He caught her arm. “Stand back.”
“I am not afraid!” she retorted.
“Well, I am.” He was a cautious man, and he knew better than to ignore his hunches or the technique of IPE—Illegal, Perilous Entry. He moved in at a fast crouch, his gun at hip level cocked up at an angle that would hit a man in the lower abdomen if he had to fire. His leg grazed a crate, he turned left, and then paused. There were dark geometric shapes of crated furniture stacked to the ceiling, and a smell of wood shavings and steel nails. The nails glittered on the plank floor where they had been strewn to trap the unwary. He was grateful for his caution.
“What is it?” Sigrid called softly.
“Stay where you are. Both of you.”
A door stood open at the far end of the storage room, the source of light he had seen outside. He moved around a wood-working bench cluttered with mahogany shavings and a partly built modern chair, then used his technique on the second door.
Nothing happened.
He followed a corridor to a flight of old wooden steps that creaked no matter how carefully he placed his feet. Sigrid came in behind him, disobeying his orders, and he halted, anger in him. Sigrid raised a great many questions in his mind. Before all this was over, he thought tiredly, he might have to kill her.
Someone breathed with a deep, irregular effort in a room at the far end of the upper hall. He could see a modern desk, an aluminum pole lamp, a corner of a splashy op art painting on the wall. The breathing halted. There was silence. Then it began again.
“Ole?” he called softly.
It began to rain again, a sullen drumming on the roof just overhead. Through the sound came a grunt, a gasp, a dragging noise. Durell went into the office.
“Ole?”
The Stockholm agent was trying to crawl from behind the desk where he had fallen. His narrow, bald head gleamed in the light. His eyes were odd crescents, tilted up to look at him. His mouth was a jagged red smear with broken teeth above his lantern jaw.
Durell walked around him, not touching him, and opened a door behind the desk, checked a lavatory, found nothing inside, then crossed to a door opposite and checked the coat closet. Nothing. Ole was alone with his torment. Durell dropped to one knee beside the man. Olsen now lay with his face against the Oriental rug.
“This is Sam,” Durell said. “What happened?”
“He came—surprised me—too old for this sort of— thing now, Cajun—”
“Who was it?”
“Big fellow—silent—just beat me—”
“You’re not shot?”
“Don’t—think so—”
Durell straightened. His eyes were dark. “I’ll get you a doctor, Ole.”
“Wait.”
Thick blood came from Olsen’s broken mouth. He grunted each time he breathed, and Durell suspected several broken ribs. One hand looked crushed, as if a brutal boot had stepped on it.
“I called—Stockholm—about Miss Sigrid. Professor Peter’s daughter. She was—in Hong Kong with him— when he vanished—”
“Good.”
“But so was—so was Elgiva.”
“All right, Ole. I’ll get you to a hospital.”
“Sam, he—the man—still here, somewhere—”
Durell straightened, knees loose, his hand up with the gun. Sigrid and Elgiva spoke in whispers at the head of the stairway behind him. He felt surrounded by intangible dangers. He did not know friend from enemy. Ole shuddered and lay still. His cadaverous figure and face made him look corpse-like in the dim office light. The rain grew heavier, drumming over any other sounds in the old house. Then Sigrid screamed.
There came a sudden clattering rush of heavy feet in the corridor, moving away toward the stairs and the girls. Durell dove for the office door. A dim shape loomed in the stairwell. The man had been hiding near the front of the house, in one of the storage rooms. A rectangle of darkness showed where a hatch was open in the attic ceiling. He had been up there, most of the time.
Durell cursed and spun toward the stair rail. He saw Sigrid falling, bowled over by the man’s downward rush. Elgiva was flattened against the yellow-painted wall. The man’s broad back was strong and familiar.
“Hold it!” he called.
The man leaped the last eight steps, arms wide for
balance, and jumped for the back exit. Durell squeezed off one shot. The man fell to his knees with a thump that shook the house, then, incredibly, stood up again. He turned his head to look back up at Durell. His lips were skinned back in a savage grin.
It was Olaf Jannsen. Olaf, whom Sigrid had hurled to his death in the stormy sea off the deck of the Vesper.
Durell jumped after him, but he knew he was too late. Olaf vanished into the alley, running through the night. Durell went as far as the back door. The rain hid everything. He drew a thin breath. It was incredible that Olaf had survived his plunge into the Baltic and managed to swim ashore to Visby. But he had to believe the evidence of his own eyes.
He turned back to the two women on the stairs. Sigrid sat on the lowest step, her face uplifted to him.
“Sam, was it—was it really Olaf?”
“It was,” he said shortly.
She buried her face in her hands and began to cry.
STOCKHOLM
The Town Hall is its trademark. The city lies on the eastern shores of Lake Maleren, twisting on peninsulas and islands that give it a unique air of spaciousness. It was originally settled in the tenth century, on Staden Island, by warlike Varangians. In medieval times, they extended their influence into Russia as far down the Volga as the ancient Byzantine Empire, where many Varangians served as elite bodyguards for the Emperor there.
Stockholm is a showcase of Swedish cleanliness, efficiency, and the “Middle Way” of constitutional monarchy. The city has spacious squares, green parks, and wide boulevards. The modem buildings are in harmony with the Swedish seventeenth-century baroque of the medieval section known as the “City between the Bridges.” The channels and bays are dotted with small white steamers that use the waterways as alternate transportation to swift, modern buses and subways.
There are long hours of daylight in the spring. The climate in May is normally much the same as in New England. The temperature ranges from a low of 40° to a high of 57°, with an average of 49°. The days of rain average 12.
&n
bsp; Despite the security of one of the world’s most highly developed welfare states, Sweden has one of the highest suicide rates in the world.
13
THE sun was shining.
But the wind blew with irregular ferocity from the north, ruffling the channels and bays, pinning the yachts in their basins near the tall, clean apartment buildings across from Stockholm’s Old Town. Near the Riddarsholm Church, where Sweden’s ancient kings are entombed, was a sprawling complex of glass and concrete hospital wards served by helicopter ambulances on the roofs. The hospital was so big that the nurses rode to and from their wards on bicycles. The helicopters were not flying today. The nurses had difficulty balancing on the bicycles because of their flapping capes torn by the strong gale winds.
It was four in the afternoon when Durell left the hospital. He had flown via Linjeflyg from Visby to Stockholm’s new airport, Arlanda, with Olsen, Sigrid, and Elgiva. A doctor had pronounced Ole in reasonable condition to travel, but recommended a week under strict medical care. The flight across the Gsterjon and up Sweden’s coast took only forty-five minutes, and an ambulance met them to take Olsen from Arlanda.
The Vesper, following from Visby, was due to dock that evening. The storm damage proved to be easily repaired in Visby’s competent boatyards.
Durell spent an hour with Olsen at the hospital, with one of Ole’s young men from Stockholm Central. Ole’s assistant was Mark Talmage, a button-down-collar, tidy Princeton type. Talmage carried the usual fine attaché case cluttered with folders, dossiers, and flimsied orders in quadruplicate. Durell surveyed the snowfall of douments with distaste.
“You meet your counterparts at Skansen Park,” Talmage said briskly. “That’s the open-air museum. Do you know the place, sir?”
Durell nodded. “I was there some time ago.”
“They’ve gone to a lot of trouble to arrange the meet. They believe in all the routine precautions.” Talmage wore black-rimmed glasses and he pushed them up on his snub young nose. “They seem to distrust you, Mr. Durell.”
“I don’t exactly regard them as Snow Whites, either,” Durell said.
Assignment - Black Viking Page 7
