Assignment - Black Viking by Edward S. Aarons Page B

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