The Stockholm syndicate

Chapter Ten

Henderson himself was in command of the dinghy crossing the calm sea under the moonlight to the remote beach where Firestorm had seen the flash of Louise Hamilton's headlights from the Citroen. Two other men were aboard and all three were armed with sub-machine guns and hand grenades.

Louise's manoeuvre for losing the Porsche seemed to have worked — for a time. That depended on the determination and ingenuity of the other driver. Everything had hinged on conditioning the Porsche's driver to approaching bends with great caution and at low speed. On the third occasion Louise had accelerated as she came up to the bend, swung round the curve, saw the road immediately ahead clear to the next bend and had rammed her foot through the floor. As she roared through the dark she counted the right-hand turnings which were little more than tracks.

Approaching the third, she checked again in her mirror, saw no sign of headlights coming up behind her, slowed and veered sharply off the highway down a tree-lined track which crunched under her wheels. She kept up the maximum possible speed until she had turned a sharp bend in the track, out of sight of the highway. Now she only hoped to God she had chosen the track which led to the remote beach and the sea where Firestorm was waiting for her. Five minutes later, standing by the Citroen and watching the incoming outboard, she knew she had chosen well.

Stealthy footsteps in the night — behind her and coming down the track. Above the mutter of the outboard Louise was sure she had heard the hard crunch of slow-moving footsteps, the steps of someone who is careful where they place their feet — but is forced by the thick undergrowth on both sides of the track to make their way along the gravel.

She looked out to sea again and saw the outboard already cutting its motor. Henderson climbed out over the side. Another man disembarked, took hold of the side of the craft and held it in the shallows ready for swift departure. Louise moved along the water's edge towards the Scot who ran to meet her, crouched low and grasping a sub-machine gun in both hands.

"Anything wrong?" were his first words. As he spoke his eyes were scanning the woods and the entrance to the track.

"I thought I heard footsteps — I must be jittery."

"Anyone follow you from Elsinore?"

"One person — in a Porsche."

"Get into the outboard. Tell Adams to start it up."

Stealthy footsteps. Henderson distinctly heard them before the outboard flared into power. The crunch of footsteps on gravel as someone came closer to the parked Citroen. He ran back, keeping a low profile, giving the order as he scrambled aboard in his half-length rubber boots.

"Masks on. Assume we're observed."

Louise looked back briefly to the hired Citroen which looked sad and abandoned on the lonely beach. But she would be returning soon: to pick up that car and drive back to Elsinore.

Sonia Karnell was irked by the crunching sound of the gravel as she moved forward with her gun held out before her. She could normally move as silently as a cat — but confined to the gravel track she made a noise.

But the fact that the track had been made up of pebbles had been of enormous help. When she had lost the girl in the Citroen, Sonia Karnell's stupefaction had been quickly overtaken by the realisation she had been tricked.

There was a series of turnings off to the right — towards the nearby sea. The problem had been to locate which track the bitch had used. Karnell was convinced she had not driven much further along the highway — since she could see too far for the Citroen to have vanished to the north. No, it had been swallowed up by one of the tracks cut through the woods to the sea. The only question: which track?

Crawling along, losing valuable time, but knowing she had to proceed in a systematic manner, the Swedish girl stopped at the entrance to each track, got out of the car and examined it with her torch. At the third track she found skid marks where a car had turned sharply off the highway. She followed her torch beam only a few yards checking the very clear indentations of a car's tyres. When she returned to the Porsche she even saw stones and dirt scattered over the highway.

She drove the Porsche down the track far enough to conceal it from the highway. The last thing she needed at this stage was a Danish patrol-car — and the discovery of the bomb, which would be rather difficult to explain. Then she crunched her way cautiously down towards the beach, her Walther at the ready.

"Oh, I should have bloody known!"

Through the gap in the trees at the end of the track she saw what was responsible for the sudden burst of engine sound — an outboard rapidly growing smaller as it headed for the tip of a headland to the north. Whipping a pair of night glasses from her shoulder-bag, she focused them with expert fingers.

"You clever Telescope bastards! Bastards!"

In the twin lenses the four people crouched in the dinghy came up clearly, but they were all wearing Balaclava helmets which concealed their features. Even with the field glasses, only the eyes showed through slits in the woollen helmets.

There was no vessel in sight they could be making for. What she did not know was that immediately after the outboard had been winched over the side in response to the flash of Louise's headlights, Captain Buckminster — on Henderson's orders — had withdrawn Firestorm out of sight behind the tip of the headland.

"Just in case Louise has been followed," Henderson had observed to the ex-naval captain, "I suggest you pull north behind the headland when we head for the shore."

Then you lack my support," Buckminster had objected.

"At this stage I think it may be more important to conceal from the Syndicate our main and most deadly weapon Firestorm."

And so Sonia Karnell was left swearing on the foreshore as the dinghy disappeared. She vented her fury by taking great care over her actions during the next few minutes.

She would have taken great care in any case: you do not fool about with bombs. The extra care she took was to plant the device underneath the Citroen without leaving any clue to its existence. Once the job was complete, she wriggled herself from under the car and shoved the torch back inside her pocket. She had activated all the systems and she walked round the vehicle before leaving it, to make sure there were no tell-tal e traces.

The bomb was controlled by a trembler. If the Citroen were driven at reasonable speed and had to pull up sharply for any reason: Bang! If the Citroen were taken up or down an incline at an angle exceeding twenty degrees, no matter how slowly: Bang! Before leaving the booby-trapped car she took one last look out to sea where Louise Hamilton had vanished on the outboard.

"Don't forget to come back for your car, darling. I just wish I could be here."

On the sidewalk outside the Royal Hotel two men stood studying a street map of Copenhagen. It was 8.30, a glorious morning on the following day, the sun shining brilliantly out of a clear blue sky with a salty breeze in the air.

Rush hour had begun, streets were crowded with traffic, sidewalks crowded with pedestrians, and the two men merged with the background. They were patient men and they had stood in different positions for over an hour — but each position always gave them a clear view of the main exit from the Royal Hotel.

An observer could have concluded that they were used to working together: they rarely exchanged a word. One man was dressed like an American. His companion carried a brief-case.

On the same morning Dr. Henri Goldschmidt of Bruges arrived in Copenhagen aboard a flight from Brussels. A car was waiting for him and the chauffeur transported him to the Hotel d'Angleterre.

He always stayed at the Angleterre when he visited the Danish capital and the manager was waiting to greet his distinguished guest and accompany him to his suite. After seeing that he was satisfied, the manager informed the reception desk that the normal instructions applied: in case of enquiry from the outside world Dr. Goldschmidt was not staying at the hotel.

Up in his suite, the coin dealer was well aware that Jules Beaurain and Louise Hamilton were in the same city. Immediately the couple had left his house in Bruges he had summoned Fritz Dewulf, the Fleming who had operated the camera in the house facing No. 285 Hoogste van Brugge.

"Fritz," he had said, "I want you to proceed immediately to Brussels Airport and take up residence, so to speak."

"Who am I waiting for?"

"Jules Beaurain and, possibly Louise Hamilton. You can obtain their photos from our files."

Among the most important tools of his trade, The Fixer counted his very considerable collection of photographs, many of people who believed no photographs of them existed. Armed with the prints, Dewulf departed for Brussels Airport.

He had to wait for many hours, snatching bites at the buffet, and by evening his eyes were prickling from the strain of checking people's faces. Then he saw both of them Beaurain and Louise boarding a flight for Copenhagen.

"Copenhagen?" Goldschmidt repeated when Dewulf phoned him. "It really is a beautiful city. I think it is time I visited it again."

Jules Beaurain ordered a large breakfast for two and then called Max Kellerman to his bedroom. The sun shone in through the wide picture windows high above the city as they wolfed down the food and consumed cup after cup of steaming coffee. The Tivoli Gardens seemed to be almost below them, although several streets away.

"I've talked to Monique," Beaurain had informed Kellerman when he arrived, 'and she confirmed that Henderson radioed her from Firestorm. Louise was picked up and taken aboard. They are landing her again later this morning after I have contacted them again. First, we see Superintendent Bodel Marker at police HQ."

"I don't see the connection," Kellerman said through a mouthful of bacon and eggs.

"I can't decide whether Louise should wait for us in Elsinore or drive all the way to Copenhagen and link up with us here. Elsinore could be a diversion, something to distract us from the real action elsewhere."

"I don't see it," said Kellerman. "Louise said when she called us last night that she had followed the girl we saw at the reception counter downstairs. She also mentioned a passenger who could well be Dr. Benny Horn, the Dane your friend Goldschmidt named as one of the three men controlling the Syndicate. They're enough to go after, surely."

Beaurain wiped his mouth with a napkin, dropped it on the trolley and went over to stare out across the city. "The van, Max. The van which prominently carries the legend Helsingor — and nothing else on the outside. It's too obvious — like a finger pointing us. In the wrong direction."

"Louise did follow it to Elsinore, though."

"Yes, I suppose so. Now, time for us to keep our appointment with my old friend Bodel Marker at police headquarters."

"I thought he was in Intelligence," said Kellerman as he swallowed the rest of his coffee.

"Deliberate camouflage. There he has plenty of protection. No-one is going to notice him coming and going. And he has his own set-up, including his own system of communications."

The phone rang just before they left. It was the American CIA man, who had arrived in Stockholm. His conversation with Beaurain was short.

"Jules, I still can't track down Norling. I'm convinced he's not in Stockholm, but he's expected. I don't think Viktor Rashkin is here either. I gather from certain sources I've screwed the hell out of, that both are expected soon."

"Something wrong, Ed?"

"A funny atmosphere in this city. Noticed it as soon as I began looking up old contacts. Don't think I've gone over the top, but the atmosphere smells of naked and total fear as soon as the Stockholm Syndicate is mentioned. And I've had a weird warning from a Swede I've known for years and whose life I once saved. Oh, I don't know."

"Go on, Ed," Beaurain said quietly, gripping the receiver tightly.

"I was told a signal had been sent naming me. The word Zenith was mentioned. Does it mean anything?"

"It means you're on the Syndicate's list. It means you'll be spied upon and your every move reported. It means you're in grave danger. Ed, you need to be armed. There's a place in Stockholm where you can buy…"

Teach your grandmother to suck eggs," Cottel said quickly. "What the hell is this Zenith thing? People make it sound like I have the plague."

"That's how you'll be treated unless you use every ounce of clout when you want something from the authorities. I'm about to find out whether there's a Zenith signal out for me in Copenhagen. So, from now on, trust no-one. And the higher you go the more dangerous it could get."

"Great. Just great. Anything else before you tell me to have a nice day?" enquired Cottel.

"Yes. Any idea where the Zenith signal originated?"

"Washington, DC' There was a glazed look in Beaurain's eyes as he replaced the receiver. A thought occurred to him. Kellerman was gazing out of the window down the street where crowds of cyclists had joined the cars, and the pedestrians were hurrying along the sidewalks. In Denmark people seemed anxious to get to work. Beaurain picked up the receiver again and was put through to Monique in Brussels almost immediately.

"Monique. Check something for me, please. Contact Goldschmidt in Bruges and ask him whether he knows if Dr. Otto Berlin has been seen there — or in Brussels, for that matter — since Louise and I were last there. Call you back later."

He put on his jacket and turned to Kellerman. "We'll leave the second car I hired in the parking lot and walk out the main entrance. It's only a few minutes on foot and I could do with the exercise."

The front entrance to the Royal Hotel debouches onto a side street. Leaving by this entrance, Beaurain and Kellerman turned right and began walking towards the main street leading to the nearby Radhuspladsen, the main square in the centre of Copenhagen. On the opposite side of the street from the Royal Hotel which rises into the sky on a corner site, is the main railway station. The station building stands back a short distance from the street and in front is a large well about thirty feet deep through which the rail tracks pass.

It was this curio us local layout Kellerman had been studying as he looked out of the bedroom window while the Belgian had been phoning. Reaching the street, they paused at a pedestrian crossing.

"We cross over here," Beaurain explained. "Go down that street over there and the police headquarters complex is ten minutes walk, if that. What's wrong, Max?"

The lights were still against them. Other pedestrians were waiting for the lights to change. Kellerman had his hand in his jacket pocket and now his face was tense. Beaurain followed his gaze and saw only the crowd waiting on the other side of the crossing.

Two men," Kellerman said. "One with a brief-case which contains the weapon. Wasn't that how a little boy described the men who murdered the bar gee Frans Darras, and his wife Rosa?"

Gunther Baum had come to the conclusion that both the Belgian, Beaurain, and the German, Kellerman, were professionals. Their maximum alertness would be when they were in deserted alleys, lonely country lanes conversely their minimum alertness would be in a crowded street at rush hour first thing in the morning after a good breakfast with the sun shining down and the promise of another glorious day opening out before them… aum was an exceptional psychologist — but he had not grasped that in confronting Telescope he was dealing with exceptional men. He would have been appalled to know that his fellow-countryman had already observed a false note in the manner of the two men constantly studying the large street plan of Copenhagen. The oddity in their stance he had seen from the tenth floor bedroom of the Royal Hotel. At the time, waiting for Beaurain to complete his phone call, Kellerman merely noted the position of the couple.

One with a brief-case which contains the weapon…

The lights had changed, the pedestrians were swarming over the crossing. Beaurain and Kellerman were caught up in the swirl. Beaurain grasped who Kellerman meant at once and scanned the oncoming crowd. Zenith! Desperately Beaurain went on scanning faces, with Kellerman a step or two ahead as though he had some urgent purpose. Beaurain did not distract the German in any way. He had learned to give his trained gunners their heads in an emergency situation. He had almost reached the sidewalk, the crowd had thinned out, when he saw…

One man of medium height and build dressed in a suit of American cut, wearing a straw hat — apt in this weather — and dark, shell-shaped glasses. He already had his hand inside the brief-case his compan ion held towards him. They had emerged from behind the map, which was mounted on two high wooden posts with an open gap below. It was through this gap that Kellerman had first noticed the two pairs of legs, had remembered the odd couple he had seen from the tenth floor. The German had watched and seen them come into view seconds before he began to move over the crossing. He'd just had time to make his remark to Beaurain.

As always, Baum had timed his move perfectly; he had been known to plan executions with a stop-watch. Appear from behind the street plan just as the lights changed. Be ready for the targets as they stepped onto the sidewalk. Two shots with the silenced Luger in the confusion of the morning traffic and minutes could pass before people realised what had happened.

Beaurain was not armed. He knew Kellerman was not carrying a gun. He saw Baum, who wore thin brown gloves, withdraw his right hand from the brief-case gripping the butt of a silenced Luger. Baum and his companion were about thirty feet away from their twin targets.

Kellerman was still several paces ahead, striding forward now the crowd had cleared out of his way. His long legs covered the ground at astonishing speed, although he did not appear to be hurrying. And he was striding straight towards Baum, who was taking aim with his left arm extended at right angles to act as a perch for the weapon. Max was going to be shot down in cold blood and there was nothing Beaurain could do to save him.

Suddenly Kellerman's right hand whipped out of his pocket holding the knife he had been nursing. In a blur of movement Beaurain saw Kellerman hoist his arm backwards then the knife was sailing through the air with the thrust of all the German's considerable strength behind it. The missile struck Baum's right shoulder, jerked his elbow and arm upwards and caused him involuntarily to press the trigger. Phut!

A bull's-eye! The silenced bullet hit a street light suspended high over the crossing. Sprays of shattered glass fell on pedestrians and there were shouts of surprise and annoyance. Baum still held on to the Luger and snapped off one more shot. His bullet missed Kellerman by a mile and shattered the windscreen of a passing Volvo. The car swerved across the line of oncoming traffic and ended up inside the window of a jewellery shop. Then the screaming began in earnest.

Pulling the knife from his shoulder, Baum dropped the Luger inside the brief-case which his companion still held open and they turned and ran. Kellerman sprinted forward to stop them, crashed into a French tourist who appeared from nowhere and both men fell sprawling. Kellerman dispensed with apologies and was on his feet again as Beaurain reached him.

"Where have they gone?"

Towards the railway station," Beaurain replied and they both ran — in time to see Baum and his companion, who still carried the brief-case, vanish inside the main entrance to the old station building. Behind them they left traffic blocked in both directions, several cars which had crashed together when the Volvo swerved across their lane, and a growing crowd of tourists and locals forming a mob of sightseers, none of whom had the slightest idea of what had happened.

"We can't miss that American bastard in that garb. Bloody great checks,"

"So noticeable you never think he could be anything but normal. Now, watch it — you haven't got your knife now."

They walked casually into a large reception area with places to eat, book stalls banks of phone booths, rows of ticket counters. After a swift glance round, Beaurain headed straight for some steps which led down onto the platforms. The flight of steps was crowded with people.

"There they are, Max!"

"Let's get to hell after the bastards!"

"Too late."

The couple had just boarded a red train which started to move into the well-like area they had looked down on from the Royal Hotel. Kellerman was in a rage of frustration increased by the Belgian's outward coolness and resignation.

"Your friend, Bodel Marker, we're going to see. Call him, for God's sake, and get police to check that train."

"Let's see if that's practical, Max."

"How can we see?"

"By checking the timetable here."

Beaurain led the German to a series of wall timetables. He ran his eyes down one timetable after checking his watch and shook his head, pointing with his finger.

"They'll be getting off any second now. That's the train they boarded and it's a local. You can see for yourself where the next stop is — just the other side of the Royal Hotel. We'd never get there in time and I don't think we wish to talk to the local police after what happened back there in the street."

"And I think I can hear police sirens."

"So we walk quietly towards the exit," Beaurain suggested, 'trying to look as though we've just arrived in Copenhagen. Someone may have seen us run in here."

And as they calmly walked out, the jackets they had removed during the short walk folded over their arms, two patrol cars screamed to a halt by the kerb and uniformed men went briskly inside.

Police headquarters in Copenhagen is known as Politigarden. A grim, triangular building constructed of grey cement, it faces a square called Polititorvet. Beaurain and Kellerman surveyed it from a distance before they went inside.

"Looks like a prison," Kellerman commented.

"Most inviting."

"They're not in the holiday camp business," replied Beaurain.

"And I see they have a wireless mast on the roof."

"It's that wireless mast I'm counting on — on that and Superintendent Marker of the Intelligence Department. He sounded friendly enough on the phone — but he didn't know then what I was going to ask him."

They approached the five arched entrances beneath the flat-topped roof. A patrol car pulled in at the kerb as they were crossing the square and a uniformed policeman carrying a small package dashed inside, leaving his companion behind the wheel.

Beaurain led the way to a side-door which carried the legend Kriminal Politiet. He pushed open the door and entered an austere office where a policeman in shirt-sleeves sat behind a desk.

"My identity… Jules Beaurain… Superintendent Bodel Marker

…"

He kept his voice low because there was another man in shirt-sleeves who had slipped into the room just ahead of them. The policeman behind the desk seemed to grasp the need for discretion.

"And the person with you?" he mouthed silently.

"My assistant — in charge of an undercover section. Marker will particularly wish to hear from him personally certain events he has witnessed. Name Foxbel."

There followed a brief conversation on the policeman's internal phone. Beaurain could not understand a word he said because he was speaking in Danish. The German nudged him in the back as the policeman stared at his desk. When Beaurain glanced round, Kellerman's eyes pinpointed the man who had entered the room before them: he was studying a notice on the wall. The policeman behind the desk finished his conversation, replaced the receiver and proceeded to fill in a form.

"He is waiting to see you," he informed Beaurain. The man who had been looking at the notice moved towards the door. Kellerman timed it perfectly. One foot projected at the last moment, the man tripped and fell, half-saving himself by grabbing the edge of the policeman's desk.

"I will come back later. I have an urgent call of nature — something I ate this morning."

A small, weasel-faced man with a leathery complexion and the agility of a monkey. Before anyone could react he had left the office. Kellerman heaved open the door and ran into Polititorvet. He was in time to see the patrol-car which had just arrived driving away, but there was no sign of the weasel. The man had vanished. Kellerman glanced up the curving flight of steps which led to the various departments in the building. He met Beaurain coming out, holding the form.

"Disappeared into thin air, Jules. He couldn't have escaped over the square — I was out too quick. He must have gone up there."

Kellerman pointed up a spiral staircase of stone steps which disappeared round a bend. From previous visits to Politigarden Beaurain knew the staircase led to all the main police departments. He also knew that before you could enter any of the departments, there was a police checkpoint you had to pass. The only conclusion left was that the weasel-faced man was a member of one of the many departments. Beaurain explained this briefly.

"Then he must have an official position here. Has the Syndicate penetrated here too?" Kellerman speculated.

"Why do we have to suspect him?" asked Beaurain.

"Because I deliberately tripped him up, he never protested and his reaction was to get to hell out of that room as fast as his legs could carry him."

"You're quite right. Let's get up and see Marker."

Mounting the spiral, they reached the first floor. There was a barrier and a uniformed policeman behind the desk. The form was essential: it was checked carefully and then they were told to continue up to the second floor and turn right along the inner corridor until they reached Room 78.

"What is worrying you?" Kellerman asked quietly as they went on up the second spiral which, like the first, was entirely enclosed by a curving stone wall.

"The Syndicate knew we were coming," Beaurain said grimly."Their organisation and thoroughness is incredible we've never been up against anything like this before. In some ways the extent of their reach is frightening. The only answer is to go over onto the offensive and hurl them off balance."

Beaurain's reaction was characteristic. Kellerman was intrigued about the reasons for his comment.

"Why is the organisation and thoroughness incredible? Have I missed something?"

"First, as I've just said, they had a man waiting for us here. But we were never supposed to get here, Max. We were supposed to be dead — gunned down near the station by that couple with the brief-case. And that means the man downstairs was simply backup — warned to keep a look-out purely on the off-chance that the assassination set-up misfired. Next point, how did they know we were on our way to see Marker? Only two possible answers — they have someone on the switchboard at the Royal Hotel or — worse still — they have someone on the central switchboard here at Politigarden. This bloody Zenith thing is encircling us with a stranglehold."

They had arrived at the second floor. Beaurain pushed open another heavy door and they found themselves out in the open air on a terrace-like corridor with a railing on the inner side. Kellerman thought it a curious arrangement: on the outside the building had been triangular in shape; now the centre was hollowed out into a huge circular courtyard entirely cut off from the outside world and open to the sky.

The courtyard, resembling the interior of an amphitheatre, was eerily deserted. They turned to the right and along their right-hand side the wall of the building continued in a circular sweep with more heavy doors at intervals.

"Weird building," Kellerman remarked.

"Unique in my experience," Beaurain agreed.

"I'll be glad when we get off this bloody platform. Anyone could use us for target practice and we're both unarmed."

"Room 78. Relax, Max. You'll like Marker." Beaurain turned the door handle and walked into the large room beyond. Kellerman was behind him when they both glanced into the room next door through an open doorway at the single object on a large desk. A knife.

"Forty million Swedish kronor worth of heroin."

The man who had spoken the words and then paused was in his mid-fifties, a man of medium height and rounded stomach whose hair and eyebrows were grey and bushy. His pink complexion and his chubby cheeks, with the brilliant sparkle in his very blue eyes, suggested the keen walker or cyclist. Amiability radiated from him. This was Superintendent Bodel Marker, Chief of Intelligence and the man responsible for some of the Copenhagen police force's greatest coups.

His guests, Beaurain and Kellerman, who had been introduced as Toxbel', were seated in comfortable chairs, smoking excellent cigars and drinking delicious coffee. Kellerman was forcing himself not to stare at the knife which still occupied the central position on Marker's desk, an object to which no-one had so far made any reference. The door to the outer office was closed and only the three men occupied the room.

"One of the largest consignments of heroin ever moved in this part of the world," Marker continued in his excellent English. "It is on the move now at this very moment following the same route as always, I am informed."

"Would forty million Swedish kronors' worth of heroin fit inside a suitcase measuring roughly something like this?" Kellerman's nimble hands described in air roughly the dimensions of the case Louise had described the man who had travelled by van from Nyhavn to Elsinore as carrying. Marker looked at Beaurain before replying.

"He is my close associate and friend and I would trust him with my life, Bodel," Beaurain replied quietly.

"Just as you did this morning!"

"Bodel?" Beaurain managed to inject just the right note of enquiry into his voice.

"Yours, I believe, Mr. Foxbel."

Marker lifted the knife, threw it across the desk so it fell over the edge and Kellerman was compelled to pick it up. He looked at the knife with a blank expression, gazed at the Dane, and then at Beaurain. Marker's amiability disappeared and his voice was thunderous.

"Less than one hour ago! Before you two arrive we enjoy peace and quiet and…" he paused, his fist crashed on his desk. '… I hear that within less than twenty-four hours of your landing we have a murder at Kastrup Airport!"

"Who was killed, Bodel?" asked Beaurain, quite unperturbed.

"George Land. Professional assassin according to Interpol. A big man. Carrying a British passport. He was found lying half-inside a telephone booth killed by his own favourite weapon an umbrella with a built-in trigger mechanism which operated a knife." Marker leaned forward over his desk and stared hard at each of his visitors in turn, "Mr. Foxbel… that's right, isn't it? Did you see anything odd when you flew in?"

"No," Kellerman replied shortly.

"It's upset you happening on your own doorstep," Beaurain said to the Dane sympathetically.

"There's more," Marker told him grimly. "Less than one hour ago while you were on your way here from the Royal Hotel two men were almost killed by a couple of professional assassins in the very centre of our beautiful Copenhagen, by God! How did the intended victims save themselves? One of them hurls this knife with great accuracy and destroys the gunman's aim."

"And the descriptions of the two potential victims fit us with remarkable closeness?" Beaurain suggested.

"We have your descriptions," Marker admitted. "And so far no-one can give us a clear description of the would-be murderers." He smiled broadly. "I'm glad you survived the attack." He picked up the knife Kellerman had put back on the desk and held it out. "This, I believe, is your property, Mr. Foxbel."

Take it," Beaurain said quickly. "I came here to ask what you know about a certain Dr. Benny Horn who has a house on Nyhavn."

"Highly respected dealer in rare books," Marker said promptly. "The house on Nyhavn is both his shop and his home. He travels the world searching out rare volumes, so we are told. I think, Jules, you should be careful if you are investigating the Stockholm Syndicate."