Assignment - Black Viking (4 page)

Durell looked at the dark-haired giant. Olaf had a Swedish accent, despite his jet-black hair. He was a handsome man, not more than thirty, with a weathered seaman’s face and a web of lines at the corners of his pale

brown eyes. His face was brutal, despite the courteous smile. Although Jannsen spoke to him, his brown eyes flicked twice to the remarkable figure of Sigrid sunning herself nearby.

“We’re staying aboard, Olaf.”

“You and Miss Gustaffson? But I thought—”

“What is it? You seem disappointed.”

“No, sir, not at all. I merely understood that all the guests would leave tonight.”

“Well, we’re going on to Stockholm with the Baron.” Something flickered behind the hard lines of Jannsen’s face, then was erased by an expression of bland service. Durell walked on to join Sigrid.

“He’s so handsome,” Sigrid sighed.

“Olaf can’t keep his eyes off you.”

“A Black Viking. Most unusual.”

“Hardly black.”

“I meant his hair. His eyes. Uncle Eric—the one who does so much research on the sagas and the edda of our people—ran across several old runes that referred to a Black Viking. An outcast, doomed to sail the seas forever —Uncle Eric takes such tales seriously. Once, when I was a little girl, he read the poem to me, in the old tongue. It was frightening, to sit there by the great fire, with all those old helmets and shields shining on the stone walls, and hear him recite the tale. I wonder if Olaf is he?”

“What happened to the man in the poem?”

“After many cycles of years, the Black Viking returned to the Northland and, in revenge for his exile, he destroyed everything with fire and sword, then vanished into the ice.” Sigrid spoke soberly. “Then the winter came and lasted forever after.”

“Prophetic, do you think?”

“Strangely coincidental. Are you thinking as I do, thoughtful man?”

“I’m wondering how someone knew I checked into the Black Swan after I left the boat this morning.”

“You were followed, foolish man.”

“Yes. And by someone from the
Vesper
.”

She rolled over on her hip. Her dark lashes veiled her blue, innocent eyes. “And who could it be?”

“You, perhaps.”

“Yes, I already knew of your meeting. But you’re wrong, darling, and that is the truth.”

“Then Captain Jannsen, your Black Viking, is the next best candidate.”

“Why? Are you jealous because you know I find him fascinating? Truly, he may be a living Norse legend. But then, this makes him more interesting, since we Swedes are morbid and attracted to doom and death.”

“It was an expert job of tailing. You’re capable of it, Sigrid. But I like Jannsen for the job.”

“Why?”

“He came aboard only when the former captain failed to return from Brighton two days ago, when we anchored there. Valetti reported sick, but no one saw him again, did they? Then Jannsen showed up so conveniently to take his place.”

“I like the way you think, darling. You have such a nasty, suspicious mind.”

“You live longer that way.”

She moved her leg and her toes caressed him and her smile was a secret behind her thick pale hair. “But danger can sometimes be most attractive.”

“Yes, when you keep your eyes open.” He stood up. “I think I’ll fly to London tonight. I’ll be back in the morning, before we sail for Stockholm.”

“May I go with you?”

“It would be nice, but too distracting.”

“Buy me something in London, dearest man?”

“Of course. What is it?”

“Some foul-weather gear. I think we’ll need it.”

“It will be dangerous, you understand.”

“And most lonely, without all our young ladies. Such a bore. Danger may be welcome.”

Uccelatti had the fine outward graces of Palermitan nobility. Not long ago, Durell had helped to save his position as second-in-command of the Fratelli della Notte in Sicily. In some circles, Uccelatti might be regarded as the ultimate refinement of a modern criminal—a gracious, cosmopolitan façade hiding connections with dubious international “business” cartels that sheltered the gains from syndicate operations. Behind this façade, Uccelatti had a quick and deadly mind. His background did not trouble Durell. In his business, you used the tools at hand, and Uccelatti was like a fine stiletto. Their respect for each other was mutual. The Baron had even helped save his life on a recent assignment that took Durell to Sicily, and their friendship overcame their separate backgrounds.

“Poor Pietro Valetti,” the Baron said quietly. “You truly think something serious has happened to him?” “Yes, if Captain Jannsen, who took his place, is the ringer I’m looking for.”

“But I had a telephone call from Valetti himself. I sensed nothing out of the ordinary. He was ill, he had virus pneumonia, he said—”

“I’ll check it out.”

“The Witherton Circle Hospital, he told me. But I hope you are wrong, Sam.”

“I don’t,” Durell said. “I like to know the face of my enemies.”

Durell was picked up at London Airport by Tony Drum, from London Control, in a Jaguar that seemed a bit ostentatious. It was a fine night. The stars shone, and the moon was a benign silver disk in the quiet sky. It occurred to him that he was getting too weather-conscious.

“I could have done this for you by telephone, Cajun,” Drum said. He was a tidy young man with fastidious manners. “It seems a fairly routine check-out. But we’re rather shorthanded. Everyone is off, including the Chief, to somewhere on the Continent.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Are you in on it, too?”

“You ask a lot of questions, Tony.”

“Oh. Sorry. Right-o.”

There was no record of a patient named Valetti suffering from pneumonia at the Witherton Circle Hospital. No one answering the Sicilian’s description was there.

“What now?” Tony Drum asked.

“We find him.”

“Coo. Rather a job, in all of merry England.”

“Not too hard. Let’s go to Brighton.”

“Right now?”

“If it doesn’t strain your Jaguar too much.”

Three hours later, he found Valetti.

It was in the Brighton morgue.

The constable in charge accepted Tony Drum’s credentials and took them, yawning, to view the body. It was past three o’clock in the morning. Valetti had been a swarthy, stocky man, devoted to Uccelatti almost all his life. There was surprise stamped on his dark, dead face. “Where did you find him, Constable?” Durell asked. “On the beach, sir, under the pier, by some young people—cyclists, they were, having themselves a bash in the dark. Another hour, and the tide would have washed him away. A simple robbery and mugging, we think.” The constable sighed. “Usual blunt instrument did it. Do you want to talk to the youngsters who found him?”

“No. I’ve got enough. No idea who did it?”

“Not yet, sir. We’re working on it.”

“Good. Keep at it,” Durell said.

The constable covered the dead man’s face again.

The
Vesper
seemed lonely and empty when he returned across the Channel, two hours after dawn. The Riviera-type guests had all left, some resentful, others chagrined. The schooner was ready to sail. Uccelatti’s crew were all tough seamen, devoted to the Baron, members of the Fratelli della Notte. If they resented Captain Jannsen’s curt commands, they gave no sign of it. They obeyed orders and kept their silence.

Durell’s eyes were scratchy from lack of sleep as he told Uccelatti what he had discovered. Sigrid joined them in the Baron’s cabin, yawning behind pink fingers, looking flushed and rosy from her night’s rest.

“So you were right.” Uccelatti was shocked and angry. “Jannsen killed my captain to create a vacant post aboard that he could fill. What do you want done with him?” “Nothing,” Durell said sharply. “We keep Olaf with us.”

“But that could be most dangerous.”

“We know who Olaf is,” Durell explained. “But we don’t know the people he works for. Being warned about him, we’re one up on him. All we need do is keep a weather eye on him and see where he leads us.”

“You cannot tell me about your mission, Sam?”

“Not yet. Maybe never. But you’ll know all that’s needed, when the time conies.”

“I trust you, and that is enough. But it is difficult for me to leave Jannsen unpunished.”

“He won’t be,” Durell promised grimly. “You can count on that.”

VISBY

THE island of Gotland is in the Baltic Sea off the southeast shores of Sweden. The county of Gotland comprises the main islands of Gotland, Faro, Kailso, Sando and others, consisting of a few hills, steep coasts, and limestone plateaus. Principal industries are cement-making, sugar-refining, and tourism.

Vishy is the county seat, an important port and a popular resort. Ancient remains indicate that Visby was populated since the Stone Age, and was a significant pagan religious center, and then became one of the chief towns of the Hanseatic League. Roman, Arabic, and Anglo-Saxon evidence still remains to indicate its importance.

After conquest by the Swedish king Magnus Ladulas, and devastation by the Danes in 1362, Visby became a pirate stronghold that terrorized the Baltic for two centuries.

Visby is the only town in northern Europe still completely circled by its medieval walls.

There are strong indications that in the years 600 b.c. to 300 b.c., Gotland was almost depopulated by a period of extreme and intense cold.

“TERRIBLE man,” said Sigrid.

“Hmmm?”

“You work so hard.”

“Hmm.”

“Look at me, Sam.”

“I’m busy.”

“Is it so important, darling?”

“You should know.”

“Are those your orders?”

“They will be, when I decode it.”

“How many radio messages did you receive?”

“Just this one. It’s enough.”

“What does it say?”

“You should know,” he said again. He looked up. “You’ve got the radio man wrapped around your pinkie.” She giggled. “I just asked about the weather.”

“I know.”

“It’s going to be bad, isn’t it?”

“Worse than you can guess.”

“I can feel it already, darling.”

“Are you a good sailor?”

Sigrid was annoyed. “I am a daughter of Vikings. What did you tell Uccelatti?”

“None of your business.”

“Irritating man, are we not partners?”

“That remains to be seen.”

The
Vesper
groaned and plunged her sleek spoon bow into the cold Baltic seas. The wind keened bitterly in her stays; her elastic timbers creaked and worked in the violence. Yesterday they had traversed the Skagerrak and Kattegat around Denmark, made the passage through Hanobuktern and then set a course northeast-by-north for Gotland. From the moment the schooner entered the Baltic Sea, everything changed.

Durell finished decoding McFee’s radio instructions and stared at the five lines for a minute or two, committing them to memory, then struck a match and burned the yellow paper in the ashtray. The smoke was acrid in the close, chilled air of his cabin. When there was nothing but ashes left, he took a pencil and crushed them into black powder and then opened the porthole and let the bickering wind snatch what was left into the darkly blowing air. Spray dashed in his face, and he slammed the porthole shut. It was as if an intangible creature of black wind and shivering ice had momentarily struggled into his cabin. “It’s very unnatural,” Sigrid said.

“That’s why we’re here.”

She sat on his bunk, long legs curled under her rounded hip. She wore ski pants that were skin-tight and a heavy knitted sweater of pink, blue, and white wool. Her pale hair was skinned tightly back from her oval face, and knotted in a sleek bun at the nape of her neck. It made her look oddly vulnerable, but he didn’t think she was. “Are you angry with me, darling?” she asked.

“No.”

“But you don’t
trust
me!”

“No.”

“I have shown you my credentials. Desk Five, SIS, Stockholm, No. 456. You checked it out yourself.”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

She was angry. “If you do not trust me, Sam, how can we work together?”

“We’ll see how things break.”

“Hateful man. I know we are going to Visby.”

“I know you know.”

“Why do we stop there?”

“I’m sure you’ll find out.”

The
Vesper
suddenly shuddered as a violent sea took her amidships. Durell looked at his watch. It was only mid-afternoon, but the sky was dark and they had not seen the sun all day.

The deck fell away erratically under his feet. Rain thundered as if released from a waterfall, savage and incessant. It had rained like that since he awoke that morning, with a primitive force he’d never seen before. Coupled with the rain was the wind, blowing directly from ahead. It was a breath from the Arctic ice cap, and now and then ice pellets rattled on the teak deck of the
Vesper
. The Sicilian crew grumbled all day about the cold. But they were good men, peculiarly fitted to Uccelatti’s needs.

His thoughts touched on the Palermitan Baron. Quietly and with no publicity, Uccelatti was one of Europe’s wealthiest men. The fact that his business interests merely covered the disposition of spoils accumulated by the Sicilian underground fraternity was an item filed securely away in K Section’s dossier files at No. 20 Annapolis Street in Washington. Under his suave facade, Ugo Uccelatti was a man of dark steel, with command over a thousand members of the underground organization he ran. His criminal activities were of little concern either to Durell or General McFee. In Durell’s business, you often found yourself bunked in with strange bedfellows.

In some matters, he would not trust Ugo; but in this he knew that the Baron would be at his complete disposal without questions or interference. It would have been simpler, of course, to fly directly to Stockholm and take the ferry plane run by LIN to Visby. But McFee had ordered him to use the
Vesper
, and now that he’d received more detailed instructions by radio, he knew why.