Catch Me If You Can

CHAPTER TEN. 
Put Out an APB – Frank
Abagnale Has Escaped!
 
The two gendarmes were transfixed in amazement, two grizzly bears suddenly
challenged by a chipmunk. I myself stood gaping at the lovely apparition who demanded
that I be released from my chains and who seemed determined to take me from my
tormentors.
She extended a slender hand and placed it on my arm. “I am Inspector Jan Lundstrom
of the Swedish police, the national police force,” she said, and gestured to the pretty girl
behind her.
“This is my assistant, Inspector Kersten Berglund, and we are here to escort you back
to Sweden, where, as I am sure you are aware, you face a criminal proceeding.”
As she talked, she extracted a small leather folder from her pocket and opened it to
display to the French officers her credentials and a small gold badge.
The gendarme, perplexed, looked at his partner. The second gendarme displayed the
sheaf of papers. “He is her prisoner,” he said with a shrug. “Take off the chains.”
I was unshackled. The crowd applauded, an ovation accompanied by a whistling and
stamping of feet. Inspector Lundstrom drew me aside.
“I wish to make some things perfectly clear, Frank,” she said. “We do not normally
use handcuffs or other restraints in Sweden. I never carry them myself. And you will not
be restrained in any way during our journey. But our flight makes a stop in Denmark and
my country has had to post a bond to ensure your passage through Denmark. It is a normal
procedure in these cases.
“We will be on the ground only an hour in Denmark, Frank. But I have a
responsibility to the French Government, to the Danish Government and to my own
government to see that you are brought to Sweden in custody, that you do not escape.
Now, I can assure you that you will find Swedish jails and prisons far different from
French prisons. We like to think our prisoners are treated humanely.
“But let me tell you this, Frank. I am armed. Kersten is armed. We are both versed in
the use of our weapons. If you try to run, if you make an attempt to escape, we will have
to shoot you. And if we shoot you, Frank, we will kill you. Is that understood?”
The words were spoken calmly and without heat, much in the manner, in fact, of
giving directions to a stranger, cooperative but not really friendly. She opened the large
purse she carried on a shoulder strap. Bulking among its contents was a.45 semiautomatic
pistol.
I looked at Inspector Berglund. She smiled angelically and patted her own purse.
“Yes, I understand,” I said. I really thought she was bluffing. Neither of my lovely
captors impressed me as an Annie Oakley.
Inspector Lundstrom turned to the clerk behind the ticket counter. “We’re ready,” she
said. The girl nodded and summoned another clerk, a young man, from a room behind her.

---

He led us through an office behind the counter, through the baggage area, through
operations and to the plane’s boarding stairwell.
Save for the shabby clothing I was wearing, we appeared to be just three more
passengers. And from the lack of interest in my appearance, I was probably regarded as
just another hippie.
We were fed on the plane before we landed in Copenhagen. It was the usual meager
airline meal, but deliriously prepared, and it was the first decent meal I’d had since being
committed to prison. For me, it was a delightful feast and I had to force myself to refuse
my escorts’ offer of their portions.
We had a longer layover in Denmark than was expected, two hours. The two young
officers promptly escorted me to one of the terminal’s restaurants and ordered a lavish
lunch for the three of us, although I’m sure they couldn’t have been hungry again. I felt it
was strictly an attempt to appease my still ravenous hunger, but I didn’t protest. Before we
boarded the plane again, they bought me several candy bars and some English-language
magazines.
Throughout the trip they treated me as if I were a friend rather than a prisoner. They
insisted I call them by their given names. They conversed with me as friends, inquiring
about my family, my likes, my dislikes and other general subjects. They probed only
briefly into my criminal career, and then only to ask about my horrible treatment in
Perpignan prison, I was surprised to learn I had served only six months in that hellhole. I
had lost all track of time.
“As a foreigner, you were not eligible for parole, but the judge had discretion to
reduce your term, and he did so,” said Jan. I was suddenly grateful to the stern jurist
who’d sentenced me. Knowing that I had served only six months, I realized I would not
have lasted a full year in Perpignan. Few prisoners did.
The plane landed in Malmo, Sweden, thirty minutes after leaving Copenhagen. To
my surprise, we disembarked in Malmo, retrieved our luggage, and Jan and Kersten led
the way to a marked police car, a Swedish black-and-white, parked in the terminal lot, a
uniformed officer at the wheel. He helped load our luggage-the girls’ luggage, really, since
I had none-into the trunk and then drove us to the police station in the village of Klippan, a
short distance from Malmo.
I was intrigued by the Klippan police station. It seemed more like a quaint old inn
than a police precinct. A ruddy-faced, smiling sergeant of police greeted us, Jan and
Kersten in Swedish, me in only slightly accented English. He shook my hand as if he were
greeting a guest. “I have been expecting you, Mr. Abagnale. I have all your papers here.”
“Sergeant, Frank needs a doctor,” said Jan in English. “He is very ill, I’m afraid, and
needs immediate attention.”
It was nearly 9 p.m, but the sergeant merely nodded. “At once, Inspector Lundstrdm,”
he said, beckoning to a young uniformed officer who stood watching the scene. “Karl,
please take the prisoner to his quarters.”