The Stockholm Syndicate (23 page)

Flamen went on to explain that Otto Berlin had lived for about fifteen years in Liège before moving to Bruges. That was all Flamen had been able to come up with so far. There was an apologetic note in his voice but also, behind that, Beaurain thought he detected some other unspoken doubt. He tackled Flamen directly on the point.

The only other fact was something Flamen had obtained by phoning an acquaintance of Otto Berlin. Apparently Berlin had been excited just before he moved to Bruges, and he had conveyed this excitement over the phone without explaining the reason for it. And no, the man he had phoned had never seen Berlin again from that day to this.

Beaurain thanked Flamen, who then expressed the horror which was being felt all over the western world at "The Elsinore Massacre'. The fact that there had been not a single survivor increased the dramatic impact, which TV stations and the radio everywhere were exploiting to the full. Louise returned, holding the folder with their air tickets, just as he replaced the receiver. He told her in a few words what Flamen had found.

"Nothing, then," Louise decided after listening to Beaurain's account of the call.

"You don't notice a pattern?" the Belgian queried.

"It's almost a replica of Benny Horn's early days in Elsinore. No close friends. No family. Not at home very often because they spent so much time travelling on business. Jules, it's almost as though these people never actually existed!"

"Exactly!" Beaurain paused. "But they did do exist. We have the evidence of two of the shrewdest police investigators in Europe Marker here, Willy Flamen back in Brussels. In Liège one of these men, Otto Berlin, lived for fifteen years. In Elsinore there are people who confirm without a doubt that Dr. Horn lived there for twenty years. Then they both suddenly change their addresses and pop up in Copenhagen and Bruges."

"And almost at the same time," Louise pointed out. "Both men apparently appeared in their new lives only two years ago. Is it significant that there's a break in the pattern? Willy Flamen said Berlin was a stamp dealer in Liège and then switched to rare books as soon as he appeared in Bruges."

"Possibly."

"Who do you think is behind this monster?" Louise asked as she perched on the bed to fix her nylons. "You have the feeling there is no-one you can confide in any more in case he or she may be a member of the Syndicate, willingly or because they're under pressure."

"Which I suspect is also part of their technique. The terror spreads ever wider, sucking more and more key figures in the West into its web. As to who is behind the monster, the answer appears to be Hugo, whoever he may be." He looked up and handed back the airline folder. "I'm convinced there's only one way to find out to do what we're going to do. Fly to Stockholm and track down the location of the coming conference of the entire Syndicate. And we have Harry Fondberg of Säpo on our side, who may make all the difference."

"Can we trust him?" she asked.

He was careful to keep control of his expression: not to let her see that she had just asked what he considered could be a leading question with a sinister answer.

Chapter Fourteen

The express had been stationary for over an hour. Kellerman had no doubt that the wagon was standing in a siding at Stockholm Central: there had been shunting after the express had stopped and he'd heard the distant sound of passengers' feet clumping along a stone platform. So far no-one had come for the heroin.

Kellerman was cramped in every muscle, parched with thirst. Taking the cap off his water-bottle he swallowed a modest portion of the water still remaining, recapped the bottle and then froze. There was a strange hissing sound which he couldn't immediately identify. Then he smelt a faint aroma and saw a whitish cloud drifting from the crack between the doors. The bastards were filling the wagon with some kind of gas.

Hauling his handkerchief out of his pocket he uncapped the water-bottle again and soaked the handkerchief. He was already feeling dizzy when he clamped the damp cloth over his nostrils to minimise the effect of the gas. They couldn't know someone was inside: it was another example of the Syndicate's meticulous attention to detail, a precaution in case someone was inside waiting for them.

Everything began to blur. Wedged against sheets of compressed paper at the end of the wagon he was out of sight when they opened the doors and two men climbed inside wearing gas-masks. He could just make out the silhouette of the masks through a blurred haze and they looked hideous. Kellerman leaned against the wagon wall, incapable of any action except struggling to keep quiet.

There was a ripping sound and he guessed they were using a knife to open up the compartment secreting the suitcase of heroin. And not a damned thing he could do to stop them. At any second he knew that he might lose consciousness. If he did that he would fall down, make a noise. They would see to it that he never woke up again.

One of the men appeared briefly holding the suitcase, stood in the opening and tore off his gas-mask. Kellerman saw it all as though in a dream. The man with the heroin jumped out of the wagon, there was a brief lack of sound except for the muffled murmur of nearby traffic, then the vrooming roar of a powerful motor-bike's engine, which cut off suddenly, as though the machine had turned a corner. Kellerman eased the handkerchief away from his nostrils and found he could breathe. The gas had drifted out through the open doors. He began to feel better, able to cope, then he froze again as he realised something was not right.
The second man was still inside the wagon
.

Kellerman stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket and began to ease his way forward down the narrow passageway between the walls of compressed sheet paper. The air was bearable, but the German was horribly aware he was making noises as he moved forward. His sleeve scraped against the sides of the paper - only a slight sound, but more than enough to alert the man still in the wagon, who would be a professional. Why the hell was he still waiting?

Kellerman found him crumpled in a heap at the edge of the open doors, a short, heavily-built man still wearing the gas-mask and with a reddish stain spreading ever more widely over the uniform jacket across his chest. What the uniform might be Kellerman was not sure it looked like a policeman's but he jerked off the gas-mask and looked into a plump face with the eyes open. A familiar face, for God's sake, the face of Serge Litov. And someone had used a gun with a silencer to shoot him, although he was still just alive.

"Heroin ... Norling ... traitor," were his dying words.

Passenger who landed Arlanda Airport Flight SK407 from Copenhagen as per attached photo identified as Gunther Baum. Originates from East Germany. Poses as business executive but is independent professional assassin charging extortionate fees due to reputation for always completing assignment. Present whereabouts unknown.

Chief Inspector Harry Fondberg of Säpo studied the signal which had just arrived from Interpol. He was fuming about the incident at Stockholm Central - where someone disguised as a police despatch rider had seized the haul of heroin from under his nose and murdered his own accomplice as a bonus. Then the phone rang and he heard Jules Beaurain had arrived.

The Belgian was ushered into his office and shown to a chair. The Swede was studied by Beaurain as they shook hands: no outward sign of nerves here in Stockholm. And his host's appearance was exactly as the Belgian remembered him from their previous meeting.

Thinning hair was brushed over a well-shaped skull. He had the blue eyes of the Scandinavian which, in Fondberg's case, held a hypnotic quality. His nose was strong, his mouth firm and he had a jaw of character. The Chief of Säpo, who worked under a Director solely responsible to the Minister of Justice, showed his guest the signal from Interpol. Attached was a glossy print.

"That's a copy of the picture we radioed to them," Fondberg explained.

There were several people the photographer had caught in his lens and it was obvious they were completely unaware that their arrival was being recorded. Beaurain passed the photograph back to Fondberg.

"He tried to kill me in Copenhagen - in broad daylight close to the Tivoli Gardens. His accomplice is with him."

"Accomplice!" Fondberg grabbed the picture off the desk, glaring at it. "Those damned fools at Interpol never said anything and we radioed the complete picture. It was taken at Arlanda. The accomplice is...?"

"The ordinary-looking man behind Gunther Baum's right shoulder. You can just see he is carrying a brief-case. That is where the gun would normally be he is Baum's gun-carrier and, I suspect, only hands him the weapon at the last moment. Baum is extremely well-organised. When did he come in here?"

"On the first flight this morning from Copenhagen - what we call the businessman's flight. The distance is so short, many spend the day in Stockholm, conclude their business, and are back in Copenhagen for the night."

"Stockholm has more attractions than that, Harry."

Fondberg smiled. "Yes, indeed. But you see, the businessmen's wives also know that. So, if they are not back in their cosy little Danish houses before midnight, chop!"

"How did you happen to take that picture?" Beau-rain indicated the radio-transmitted photo of Baum and his companion.

"As you know, we have men watching Arlanda all the time for known criminals. If the watcher on duty is keen, sometimes he takes a picture of a passenger who strikes him as not quite right. Baum's was taken for that reason, I sent it to Interpol, and you see their reply."

"You have his address?"

The Swede winced and lit a cigar before replying. "The shot was random, as I have explained. Since the signal came in I have had people checking at all the hotels, but it is too early for anything yet."

"You won't get anything anyway. He'll register with false papers wherever he stays. As you know, he is a top professional. So that is the man who has travelled here for the express purpose of killing me - or so you suspect?"

"I don't know," Fondberg replied blandly. "There are other potential candidates for the job. This man, for example."

It was like the old days when they had co-operated together with or without the agreement of their respective superiors. Beaurain stared at the glossy photo pushed across the desk at him. Again taken at an airport, doubtless Arlanda. An excellent print, this one, taken with a first-rate camera operated by a top-class photographer. The man was obviously totally unaware that his arrival had been recorded.

A big man, probably six feet one, broad-shouldered and with a large round head and cold eyes. Like Fondberg, the few streaks of thin hair were carefully brushed over the polished skull but unlike Fondberg he was almost bald. Even caught unawares his demeanour was aggressive; the total lack of feeling in the blank eyes was reflected in the thin-lipped, tight mouth. The way he held himself told Beaurain that this man, in his early fifties, was in the peak of physical condition. He probably played an hour's squash before breakfast every morning and his mood would be mean for the rest of the day if he didn't win.

"Who is the candidate and when did he get in and from where?" Beaurain enquired, his eyes still imprinting the man's features and general stance on his memory.

"American, of course. The dress tells you that. He is known as Harvey Sholto. He got in at Arlanda on the overnight flight from Washington. I was informed by no less a person than Joel Cody of his imminent arrival - person-to-person call. And the bastard tried to trick me."

"Cody? The President's aide? The man who thinks that
finesse
is a French pastry? And how did he
try
to trick you?"

"By officially informing me that Sholto would be coming here within the next few days, when he had already arrived in Stockholm. He didn't allow for the closeness with which we watch all incoming passengers at Arlanda. Sholto's appearance rang a bell in the mind of one of the watchers with a camera so he took his picture. The people who are checking hotel registers for Gunther Baum are also checking for Harvey Sholto, the second killer to arrive just ahead of you."

Fondberg added the final remark casually and puffed at his cigar while he gazed at the ceiling. It was the same game they had so often played in the past and was one of the many reasons Jules Beaurain liked Fondberg as much as any of the host of international colleagues he had come to know over the years.

"You're sure this is Harvey Sholto?" Beaurain queried, tapping the glossy print. "So he's a killer too."

"One of the deadliest. Our agent in Bangkok could have vouched for that. Except that he's dead now. He was very experienced and very good." Some of the toughness briefly evaporated from Fondberg's exterior. "He left a nice Swedish wife and three children. They found him floating in one of the
klongs
- canals. His throat had been cut from ear to ear. The Stockholm Syndicate never does a second-rate job, my friend."

It was the first time Harry Fondberg had linked the Syndicate with the Swedish capital. Smoking his cigar, Teeth clenched, he stared hard at his visitor. "Are you going to do something about it?" he asked softly.

"Yes. Kill it."

"You haven't the knowledge, resources or power. Above all you haven't the knowledge. How do they run their communications system? Tell me that. An organisation which has wrapped up a good part of Scandinavia and the Low Countries and is now rapidly penetrating Germany has to have a first-rate communications system."

"Water."

"I beg your pardon."

"Water," Beaurain repeated. "It came to me finally when I was on the terrace of the Grand Hotel looking out over the Strommen. Harry, has there been an increase in illegal radio activity in recent months?"

"Here in Stockholm? Yes." Fondberg's eyes were watchful. "I also know we have been unable to track down a single one of the transmitters which we suspect are very highpowered."

"Over how long a period?"

"I'm told it started about two years ago."

"Foundation date of the setting up of the Stockholm Syndicate," Beaurain said grimly. "Has anyone kept a record of the general areas of these illegal transmissions?"

"Yes, although I don't see how that will help." Fondberg broke off to speak in Swedish into his intercom, then switched off. "Our radio-detector vans have never been able to get a fix on a transmission. We think whoever is sending the signals uses a van and keeps on the move during the period of transmission."

The Swede stopped speaking as a girl came into the room with a rolled sheet, placed it on the Säpo chief's desk, and left them. Beaurain got up and stood behind Fondberg as the latter unrolled a large-scale map of Stockholm inscribed with red circles. He snorted his disgust.

"Doesn't tell you a bloody thing!"

"Doesn't tell
you
a bloody thing," Beaurain corrected him. "But for me it's the final confirmation that I'm right. Look at all the circles."

"In so many different districts? No pattern."

"You're losing your grip. The pattern is screaming at you. All the roads and districts circled include waterways." Beaurain's tone became emphatic. "Willy Flamen in Brussels showed me a similar record of heavy illegal radio traffic and he couldn't see a pattern. Neither could I at the time but all his marked districts throughout Belgium were close to canals. Same thing in Copenhagen when Marker of Intelligence showed me his records. The activity is always close to the Øresund."

"You mean..."

"The bastards have their transmitters
afloat
. Aboard barges in Belgium which will move down the canal while they transmit. This is why they've never been caught. In Denmark they're on board fishing vessels or power-cruisers, again on the move just offshore while sending a signal. Here they're on the Strommen, on the..." Beaurain's hand hammered the city map as Fondberg studied it afresh.

"I believe you could be right," Fondberg said slowly. "If we can crack their communications system we sever the jugular of the Syndicate."

"Let's get the timing right," Beaurain suggested. "I want one smashing Europe-wide hammer blow delivered at the same hour when the transmissions are going full-blast. Everywhere taken out at once including the barges in Belgium, where, incidentally, two Syndicate operators, a man and his wife, were recently executed. Each took a bullet in the back of the neck."

"What?" Fondberg sat very upright and his intelligent eyes gleamed. "That's an old Nazi technique. It raises a hideous new possibility that the men behind this foul organisation are the Neo-Nazis! God, have we been blind!"

Harry Norsten sat behind the controls of his Cessna, ready to land in the centre of Stockholm. He had just received clearance and in the two passenger seats the man and the girl stirred as travellers do when approaching their destination. Norsten was not coming in at Arlanda, the great international airport many miles outside the city. The Swedish pilot was dropping his tiny aircraft into Bromma Airport, a short drive from the Grand Hotel.

The male passenger glanced out of the window, hardly interested in the familiar view. Of medium height, his hair blond with side-burns and a thick mane extending down his neck, the passenger wore large horn-rimmed spectacles. Dr. Theodor Norling squeezed the hand of his companion, speaking to her in French. "You are glad to be back home? You have had a busy time."

A
busy time
. The girl whose jet-black hair was cropped close to her skull shuddered at the words. She was recalling what she had read in the morning paper about what was rapidly becoming known across the world as "The Elsinore Massacre'. Then she was frightened because she realised her shudder had communicated itself to Norling who was still gripping her hand.

The blond head turned slowly. Staring straight ahead at Stockholm coming up to meet them, Sonia Karnell fought to regain her composure. Whatever she did, however she reacted, she must never show alarm, fear or repulsion.
He
disapproved of such emotions, regarded them as irrelevant in the task they were engaged on.

"Do I wait for you at Bromma or go home?" Norsten asked as he skilfully manipulated the controls for a perfect descent. He also spoke in French. The silent Dr. Theodor Norling had once told him he liked to practise the language.

"You go home and wait for my call. I may need you again at very short notice."

That was all. A typical Norling command. Clear to the point of abruptness and not a wasted word. Who the hell was he anyway? After acting as his pilot for over a year Norsten knew as little about him as the first day he had been hired except that Norling expected him to be available at all hours for a sudden trip and paid incredibly generous fees for the service - and his silence. The fact was that Dr. Norling scared Norsten ice-cold.

"And one more thing, Mr. Norsten," the Swede had told him when they first met at Bromma and concluded their arrangement. "It would be most ill-advised of you to broadcast my activities or even to mention my existence as a client of yours."

He had paused, his blond head motionless, the eyes behind the tinted glasses equally motionless as they gazed with concentrated intent at the pilot.

"You must realise that success in my business, Mr. Norsten, often depends on my competitors being unaware of my movements unaware even of when I am present in Stockholm. Indeed, it is a cut-throat trade I ply."

Cut-throat
... Norling had been staring at the pilot's throat when he used the phrase and Norsten was aware of an unpleasant prickling sensation in that region. Ridiculous! But that had been his reaction when he first agreed to do business with the book dealer.
Fear
.

They were a couple of bloody commuters, he reflected as he continued his descent - the sun glittering on the maze of waterways. Commuters between Stockholm and Copenhagen! And often at odd hours - flying through the night and landing before dawn.

He was pretty confident that at times they flew from Copenhagen to the United States. Once Norling had dropped an airline folder on the floor of the Cessna as they were descending to Kastrup. Norsten had caught a glimpse of the tickets which fell out before the girl grabbed for them. Destination: New York. So why not fly direct from Stockholm by ordinary scheduled flight instead of using the Cessna to cover the first lap to Copenhagen?