The Ice Cage — A Scandinavian Crime Thriller set in the Nordic Winter (The Baltic Trilogy) (42 page)

P
ret
ending to zip up my trousers,
I came out of the greenery
on the other side
of
the hedge
to join a group of pensioners
getting off
a coach
,
waving Swedish flags.
I slipped into the coach and
borrowed
a
long coat from an old geezer
dozing at the back
, obviously
a man who knew to dodge
a crowd when he saw one
. Going out again,
I picked an
old lady in need of assistance and h
eld her arm
,
while taking in the surroundings. She tried to shake me off, but I insisted
on helping
her to
the
museum.

W
e
joined the
stream of
people walking along the road
to the
festival centre
. I wa
tched out for Ernst
, but it w
as practically impossible to distinguish
anyone
in the blur of faces, bodies
and colours
. I gathered from the crowd
movement
that t
he King was approaching
and
I
even
caught a glimpse of Carl XVI Gustav as he walked down the
middle of the
road
towards the museum.
W
hile
he was taking
his
time
shaking hands
with the Ålanders,
I
dashed to
the museum.
I might
still
have a
chance to beat
him to it. I did, but the museum
was
surrounded by police.
Fortunately, they were almost exclusively reinforcements from the Finnish mainland or from
Sweden
for
the King’s securit
y detail, which meant they were
unlikely to be Boeck’s henchmen
.

There was a security
check 15
meters from the museum
entrance
. I’d had enou
gh action antics for one day and
needed to get in unnoticed.
I had to
play myself
this time
. I took out my walle
t with
my laminated BBC staff card
,
which
had survived the Baltic crossing.
It m
ust be the best qua
lity staff card on the planet and h
opefully good old ‘Auntie’ would help me
through the check
. I was an accountant, but my job was unsp
ecifi
ed and I was relying on
the BBC
reputation doing
the trick
.

‘
BBC
.
’

The
po
liceman scrutinised the
card
before looking
me in the eye and
frowning
.
I wasn’t exactly smart
-
looking
,
but I could pass for
a shabby
– not chic –
reporter.

‘
We’re doing er…
a
documentary on the popularity of the Swedish Royal family. We’ve been having trouble since
Princess Diana.
King
Carl Gustav
is so much more human… closer to the people.
’

The police officer pulled a face.
I was convinced m
y bluff had gone pear
-
shaped.
I should have figured Finnish police
wouldn’t fancy Swedish Royalty.

‘
Closer….? You defini
tely need a proper
look.
’

I was in, the gamble had worked
, but
I didn’t know what or who to look for
. The only certainty was
that Boeck would be looking to maximise the pain. The question was how. He
was a conscientious man who
wouldn’t have left anything to chance
.

91

I’d been
too
optimistic. There was a second
police check before the doors and I
had to get it right, because once the
y
ca
ught me, they wouldn’t let go
.
Meanwhile, t
he King was slo
wly making his way to the museum
entrance surrounded by an army of
bodyguards
.
Since the Palme murder, Scandinavian
public fi
gures took security seriously, but t
hey were still
more lax
than
most continental
police force
s
, o
r so I kept telling myself to boost my confidence.

The security was watertight and
I really needed
the BBC card
to
work its
magic a second time
.
To avoid surprise visitors
,
t
he
Royal Couple would enter last and t
he doors
would shut behind them. They’
d pass
ed the first police check
and were waiting for
t
he police officers by the museum
doors
to scrutinis
e
me
.
I showed my BBC card
to a
relaxed
-
looking
policeman with an old
-
fashioned handlebar moustache.

‘
You need an invite.
’

‘
I’m here to prepare…
’

‘
Not without
an invite.
’

Unfortunately h
is charm didn’t stretch
further than his facial hair. He
shoved
me
through a side gate
and pushed it to behind me. Another police officer took
over and led
me to a second gate
.
Meanwhile,
the King and Queen arrived at the last ch
eck
-
point.
They w
ere
a dozen meters away
, only separated by the side gate
.
I could
have
shout
ed
to warn them
about the impending threat
,
but
I woul
d
have
be
en
apprehended
and the King would probably still
have
go
ne
in
.
If I wanted to stop Boeck, I had to be as bold as he
was ruthless
.
I had to for
get my Scandinavian inhibitions and d
isplay English rudeness and bravura to the full.
I had to be a lion
, a
British lion
of the Baltic.

When the King reached my level,
I nearly blurted out that there
was an assassin waiting inside, but I didn’t, as
I would only be considere
d a madman. The moment passed and t
he
Royal couple entered the museum
.

92

He
sighed with relief as he
saw
the
King coming
into
the museum
.
This was it.
Everything was under control, quadruple and quintuple
-
checked.
He was so nea
r that n
othing
could
go wrong
.
The doors
closing behind the King
signalled that t
he stage was set.
He followed t
he Royal Couple
with his
eyes
as they
walked through the aisle, stopping to greet people
,
exchanging
a few friendly words. He’d
a
nticipated every movement
to perfection
.
He was tense with excitement.
Now
it was only a ma
t
te
r of timing and execution
–
four
minutes
left.

93

Watching the royal couple
disappear into the museum
,
I seized my last chance and
–
pushing
open
the
side
gate
–
dashed
back
to the closing doors. The moustached police officer
was taken by surprise as
I barged past him.

‘
Stop!
’

A polic
e officer and a body guard block
ed me
, but I
tackled them
l
ike a rugby player going for a touch. Thanks to the surprise momentum, I managed to squeeze through the doors at the last second.
This was one occasion where m
y
London
tube experience really came
in
to its own. But
once inside
,
I was immediately
caught
by a plain clothes policeman
.
I could smell him before
seeing him
– Ernst.
H
is after
shave
was
even more disgusting in close-
up
, reminiscent of
a mix of piss and sweetened chlorine
.
Why anyone wanted to
walk around
reek
ing
like a toilet deodorant was beyond me.
He held my arm
behind
my
back.

‘If you try
anything I’ll kill you.’

He pulled my
arm up, making me shriek
with pain. Once it ebbed away,
I
scanned the
museum
for Boeck.
There must have been 200
-
300 people
gathered in the main exhibition
hall.
Seats had been set up between the exhibited items with a lectern at the front by the submarine and the Viking ship. The
huge
hall
was crawling with police.

94

I didn’t know Boeck’s
plan, but I hadn’t done all this running and barging to remain idle.
Ernst
held my arm in a firm grip and
kept pushing
it upwards at regular intervals, making me cringe. A
ll
I could
do was use the means I had left
–
m
y voice. Th
e King
wa
s walking
up the aisle
and
I’d already waited too long.

‘
THERE’S A KILLER! BOECK IS GOING TO
KILL THE KING!
THE MUSEUM DIR…
’

Ernst muffled me with his hand, but I kept
looking everywhere for Boeck
.
My shouting caused
a
commotion in the crowd and
p
eople
were
looking around
in confusion
.
The King was
instantly
shoved behind a pillar in a corner of the hall
and
covered with a bullet proof blanket by
his security men, while
the
head of the King’s security
came over to Ernst, who
promptly
reassured him.