The Stockholm syndicate

Chapter Fifteen

At the moment when the sighting of Dr. Theodor Norling behind the wheel of a Renault was reported to Harry Fondberg, activity in Stockholm was building up a steadily increasing momentum in many districts.

Unmarked cars carrying Beaurain, Fondberg and other officers left police headquarters and sped through the city, weaving in and out of the traffic and causing drivers to jam on brakes and curse. The cars were heading for the Royal Motorboat Club, the marina in the Djurgardsbron district. In the front car, which he was personally driving, Fondberg explained to Beaurain: "We have a written description of Norling and one photo taken with a telephoto lens. Both have wide distribution among officers I hope I can trust."

"You can't trust everyone inside the police?" asked Beaurain quietly.

"What do you think?" replied Fondberg. "My department, of course, comes under the ultimate control of the

Minister of Justice. I had to go over the head of my superior to get some freedom of action. Can you guess what the Minister asked me to do if he agreed to let me quietly probe into the Stockholm Syndicate?"

"I'd rather not."

"Mount a twenty-four hour guard on his home with Sapo men. And these days he travels everywhere in a bullet-proof limousine with Sapo outriders on motorbikes. That was the price for keeping me in business."

"It is happening in other countries."

Fondberg's normally controlled voice rose to a pitch of fury. "I don't care. It's time it was stopped!"

"That's why I'm here. Be ready to look the other way. Aren't we close to the Grand Hotel? Good. Can we stop there for a couple of minutes? There may be someone I want to pick up if they've returned to the hotel,"

Behind the wheel of his Renault, Dr. Theodor Norling was making slower progress than he had hoped, but he was driving more carefully than Fondberg's cavalcade surging through the city. He had no desire to be stopped by a Polis car for a traffic offence — bearing in mind the contents of the suitcase by his side.

Even so, he was close to Diplomatstaden, the foreign embassy area which was very close to his ultimate destination — the boat marina where a whole cluster of vessels would be bobbing at anchorage. He checked his watch. He should be there in about ten minutes with a little luck.

*

Sitting in the rear of the Saab which Stig Palme was driving back to the Grand Hotel, Louise eyed the cloth-covered weapon at her feet. It was Stig Palme's favourite gun and in standard use in the Swedish Army. A model 45 9-mm. machine-pistol, it was equipped with a movable shoulder-grip, could be used for single shots with a gentle pressure on the trigger — or fire a lethal continuous burst of thirty-six bullets in six seconds.

Telescope had gradually built up secret caches of arms and ammunition all over Europe. It was too dangerous to move across borders with weapons — although the steam yacht, Firestorm, purchased from a Greek millionaire, had been cunningly re-designed to provide so many hiding-places it was a floating armoury. In Sweden, Stig Palme's weapons cache was in the cellar of a house out in the country just off the E3 highway leading to Strangnas.

"Here we are," Palme called out cheerfully.

"The Grand Hotel."

"Stop here!"

The Swede reacted instantly and smoothly, pulling in at the kerb before he reached the main entrance. To the right there was the usual row of Mercedes and Citroens parked, their well-waxed surfaces gleaming. To the left the window boxes of geraniums gave a splash of brilliant red, and a gardener was trimming them ruthlessly.

"Beaurain is waiting for us," said Louise.

She had just spoken when the Belgian opened the rear door, pushed his head inside and spoke quickly.

"The hotel said you were out — I had a feeling you might be back any minute. We're on an emergency — Theodor Norling has been spotted by himself in a Renault."

"He came in to Bromma Airport in a Cessna with Black Helmet! She seems to turn up everywhere. Her name could be Sonia Karnell. Address of apartment is Radmansgatan 490. Norling was carrying a suitcase, hugging it."

"Christ! Has he fooled us? Was it about the same size as…"

"The one which was hidden aboard the express for Stockholm? Yes, it was."

"You see that Saab over there, with the man behind the wheel carefully not taking any notice of us? That's Harry Fondberg. Don't lose him, Stig. We think Norling's destination could be the boat marina near Embassy Row."

"I know it."

Beaurain forced himself to stroll casually the short distance back to Fondberg's car although his legs were screaming at him to run. He got inside, closed the door and lit a cigarette. "Norling has a suitcase which sounds exactly like the one snatched from the wagon you surrounded at Stockholm Central station. He flew into Bromma from somewhere."

"God Almighty!" Fondberg had started up his car which was the signal for the other two cars parked further back to prepare to move. "You mean he could be carrying the big consignment, the one for which my man in Bangkok died? Hold on to your seat-belt!"

The American behind the wheel of the hired Citroen wore a Swedish-style nautical cap. In his mirrors he had observed everything — Beaurain waiting inconspicuously on the sidewalk after a brief dash into the hotel; the arrival of the Saab which contained Louise Hamilton in the back and two unknown men in the front. He had noted the urgent conversation between Beaurain and Louise; the Belgian's careful stroll back to another Saab, with Harry Fondberg waiting behind the wheel. He waited until the convoy departed with the second Saab carrying Louise bringing up the rear — then he drove out from the row and followed. Ed Cottel of the CIA knew a crisis when he saw one.

From the moment they left police headquarters they preserved radio silence. Fondberg had taken the precaution of sending a message to the man who had spotted Norling that only if the target was not heading for the marina was he to send a brief message over the radio.

There had been no signal by the time the 'convoy' left the Grand Hotel, a convoy consisting of two unmarked police cars, followed by Stig Palme and Louise Hamilton who, in their turn, were closely followed by Ed Cottel's Citroen — equipped with a radio that had been skilfully attached after the hiring of the vehicle. It kept Cottel in touch with what Fondberg had called his 'eyes'. Remaining one vehicle behind Stig Palme's Saab he was using his radio link.

"Carmel calling. You read me? Good. Any sign of Ozark?"

"Monterey here, Carmel. No, repeat, no sign of Ozark. Am continuing surveillance pending further instructions."

"OK, you do that."

With an expression of resignation the hooked-nosed American replaced the microphone and concentrated on not losing the Saab. It had been going on for days and the only thing to do was to persist; sooner or later something had to break.

Ozark was the code-name for Viktor Rashkin, First Secretary at the Soviet Embassy in Stockholm. The odd thing was he seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth.

"Pass me the gun — lay it on the seat beside me," Stig Palme made the request to Louise as they continued in the wake of two unmarked police cars. Palme knew that they were close to Embassy Row, which meant they were close to the marina. Without asking why, Louise lifted the weapon wrapped in oilcloth and gently laid it on the empty seat in front.

"I may need Christine," he remarked. It was typical that Palme should confer a girl's name on his favourite weapon. When using her in action he was accustomed to use some pretty racy language."We're being followed. Don't look round. He's driving a cream-coloured Citroen."

"Any idea since when?"

"He was parked with his back to us outside the Grand Hotel. And he's been using the usual technique of keeping one vehicle between us all the way. The Syndicate obviously has a team watching the Grand Hotel."

"Just one man, you said?"

"With a highly-trained killer they only need one man. Better for getting away after he's done the job. Beaurain could be the target," he said, and relapsed into silence.

Fascinated she watched while Palme drove with one hand and used the other to unwrap the oil-cloth and expose Christine. The machine-pistol was already fully-loaded. "We're on top of the possible target area," Palme warned and then stopped the car.

Dr. Theodor Norling pulled in at the kerb by the landing stage. The marina was vast. There was a breeze coming off the water which freshened the air and countered the blaze of the high sun glaring down out of a cloudless sky. For a few seconds he paused after locking the car, standing quite still with the suitcase in his hand.

Arne, reliable as usual, was walking towards him. Norling was trying to sense anything unusual in the scene before committing himself to water. A whole fleet of craft of varying sizes and types bobbed at anchor, a galaxy of vibrating colour in the intensity of the sun. Already Norling could feel its heat on the back of his neck. There were expensive cruisers equipped with all the latest electronic devices, small power-boats, larger launches, a whole diversity of yachts, some with coloured sails.

"The power-boat is ready to take you out to the Ramso," Arne informed his employer.

"I'm in a hurry," Norling replied curtly.

Behind him, beyond a screen of shrubs and trees and across the unseen road rose the buildings of the American Embassy with a flight of steps leading up to them. From a flagpole the Stars and Stripes fluttered in the breeze. Before getting into the power-boat Arne held waiting for him, Norling turned and gave the flag a brief salute. An onlooker would have found it impossible to decide whether the gesture was ironic or serious.

"God, that's him and he's getting away!"

Three cars had arrived alongside the marina. It was Louise, jumping from the third car and running up to where Beaurain and Fondberg stood, who confirmed the worst. Before leaving Stig Palme, who had pulled up a cautious distance from the police vehicles, she had snatched a pair of field glasses from the glove compartment, nearly dislocating herself leaning over the seat. Focused on the receding powerboat, the lenses brought up the two figures on board only too clearly.

She had not recognised the man steering the craft towards the powerful cruiser riding at anchor. The second man, nursing a suitcase, was only too horribly familiar. The encounter outside the shop on Radmansgatan when he had stared at her through his gold-rimmed glasses. In the lenses the sun — for a brief second — flashed a hint of gold off those same glasses.

"It's him," she told Palme, and ran to Beaurain to repeat the warning.

"Are you quite sure?" asked Beaurain, glancing uncertainly towards Palme.

"Bloody hell, do you think I'm blind!" she screamed at him. "I was as close to him as I am to you!"

"Harry, can you have that cruiser intercepted if that's what he is headed for?"

Fondberg shook his head dubiously and there was a grim look on his face. "Point One, I have no authority or reason to intervene. I could always argue I didn't know it was Norling, but… Point Two, that vessel can really move — and the river police are never where you want them."

"Then this, Harry, is where you look the other way."

The power-boat carrying Dr. Norling had now arrived alongside the cruiser. Through her binoculars Louise watched the Swede move nimbly aboard, holding the suitcase in his left hand. Crewmen had appeared on the bridge of the vessel which was clearly about to depart.

"Forty million kronors' worth of heroin in that suitcase," the Belgian hammered home. "Soon it will be flooding the streets of Stockholm, creating more untold misery."

" For Christ's sake! " protested the exasperated Swede. "Don't you think I feel helpless enough?"

Louise studied the so-called dealer in rare books through her field glasses. Beaurain was standing next to her and behind Fondberg's back. She lowered the glasses and saw him make a brief gesture describing the outline of a suitcase. Suddenly she looked behind her and over to the right where Stig Palme had parked the Saab.

Palme was leaning against the car to steady himself. He was holding at shoulder level the machine-pistol. The muzzle was aimed out across the water towards the cruiser which was still motionless. Then the silence of the peaceful morning was splintered.

It lasted six seconds — the time it took for Stig to empty thirty-six 9-mm. bullets. And Palme was a crack shot. Louise had the lenses of her field glasses screwed into her eyes. Norling was still clutching the suitcase when the hail of bullets ripped into it, shredding the casing and the contents. The suitcase was literally blasted over the side of the cruiser and into the water, scattered in a multitude of fragments which littered the surface of the water and began drifting away. And so accurate was the Swede's fire that — so far as Louise could see — not one bullet had touched Norling.

"What the hell…!"

Fondberg was sliding his hand inside his jacket and under his shoulder when he felt Beaurain's hand grip his arm: "I said, Harry, this is where you look the other way, God damn it!"

"Sorry. Instinctive reaction. I hope your man moves fast."

He called out a brief command to his men, who froze, and then turned back to watch the white cruiser. Palme was already behind the wheel of his car. The weapon had vanished. Without haste he backed the Saab and drove quietly away. A flock of birds, disturbed by the fusillade, had risen with a beating of wings and headed out over the water. In the sudden silence the noise of their ascent could be heard clearly. Then it was drowned by a distant, muted rumble as the white cruiser began to move.

"He must be mad as hell, wouldn't you say?" Beaurain observed.

Aboard the Ramso Norling had given the order to move! Again he looked at the hand which had been holding the suitcase, still unable to believe he was completely unscathed. When the bullets started coming he had felt a hard tug, the case had been wrenched from his grasp as though by supernatural forces, then came the cascade of fragments, a cloud of precious powder. All gone! As the cruiser started moving he could actually see a white scum on the water. He hastily went below decks into his cabin and sank into a chair. He was shaking with uncontrollable rage. Alone in his luxuriously-furnished cabin he sat with both hands gripping the arms of his chair.

"Beaurain! First in Brussels, then Copenhagen and Elsinore now here in Stockholm itself!"

He was talking to himself, a habit of which he was fully aware and of which he occasionally made use as a safety valve. It had started long ago with another life, so far away from Sweden. Behind the lenses of his gold-rimmed spectacles his eyes were remote and cruel. He looked up as a man descended the steps and came into the cabin, Olof Konvall, the wireless operator.

I'm sorry, sir." Konvall, a small, highly-strung man with a grizzled face, took a step back when he met Norling's gaze. The venom in the stare was scaring. "I didn't intend to intrude — but normally when you come on board you have a signal you wish to send."

"Stay where you are, for God's sake!" Norling's show of rage was most unusual; his normal manner was an icy calm. Tell the captain I wish to switch to another vessel at the earliest possible moment."

"I will tell him at once."

"Don't go! I haven't finished yet." Norling paused, forced himself to loosen his clenched grip on the wooden arms of the chair, to let his fury dissipate itself. Now he had himself under perfect control. His voice became remote, detached, like a chess-player who has decided on the next move.

"You are to send out immediate Nadir signals on Jules Beaurain. The other recipient is his mistress, Louise Hamilton. Let the word go forth. And first Hamilton alone is to be subjected to a demonstration at grade three level. Now you may go."

" Oh my God, how horrible! "

Louise froze with shock and revulsion, the key to her bedroom door still in her hand. Like most people in a hotel she had walked in and closed the door behind her under the odd delusion that this was — temporarily at least — a safe refuge.

" Christ! I think I'm going to be sick! "

She leant back against the door and forced herself to recover. Her stomach obeyed her and then she caught sight of herself in the mirror and was shocked by her appearance: her lips were drawn back over her teeth in an expression of murderous fury — and she knew in that second that if the person responsible for the outrage had still been in the room she would have killed them. Someone rapped on the self-locking door.

She stood to one side and turned the door handle. Palme walked into the room and stared at the gun aimed point-blank, then his gaze swivelled. He closed the door.

"Isn't it sickening," she said as lightly as she could, but she didn't fool the Swede as she slipped the gun back inside her shoulder-bag. He said the one thing which could have lightened the atmosphere.

"I think the management will agree to changing your room."

There was a second knocking on the door. Stig Palme motioned her to slip into the bathroom, which was a mistake because it was even more hideous there than in the bedroom. She gritted her Teeth, then thankfully heard Beaurain's voice, a sharp tone. "Where's Louise? Has she seen…?"

"She's in the bathroom. I sent her in there when…"

He found her sitting on the bathroom stool with her legs crossed, one arm supporting the other as she gazed directly at him and calmly smoked the cigarette she had just lit, her only concession to the experience she had just undergone.

"Only a sick mind…" she began.

It was — if possible — even worse in the bathroom. An aerosol paint spray had been the weapon used — used with such diabolical skill that Beaurain suspected the perpetrator must be a trained artist. Sprayed over every surface in the bathroom were obscene pictures involving a woman indulging in every type of perversion imaginable. And in every instance the face depicted was a caricature — but immediately recognisable — of Louise Hamilton.

The bedroom walls and every other available surface had been similarly treated. Beaurain watched her smoking her cigarette and then reacted in just the right way.

"We must at once reserve another bedroom on a different floor and with an entirely different layout. In actual fact, as long as we stay at this place I suggest you spend each night in my room. God knows the bed is big enough."

"Thank you," she said gratefully.

"Can I have a word with you in a minute?" Palme asked Beaurain.

"After we've got the room business sorted out."

"What are you going to tell the manager?" Louise enquired.

Beaurain knew instantly what was worrying her that the manager was bound to wonder what sort of people she knew who could act in this way. She felt besmirched by such vile obscenity. Again he knew exactly the right reply. "That my ex-wife is insanely jealous and has already in another country been charged with the same type of offence. Also," he paused to smile, 'that she will by now have left Sweden to escape the attention of the police."

Fifteen minutes later they had ensconced Louise in an entirely different room, this time on the second floor. It overlooked the street up which marched the mounted horse troops after the changing of the guard at the Royal Palace, explained an assistant manager who was obviously going out of his way to make her forget her recent experience. At the door he paused before leaving.

"May I take it that Madame had not propped her door open for a short time while she left the room?"

Louise smiled, her face still bloodless: "No, I certainly had not propped the door open in any way."

"Of course! Madame does not, I trust, mind my asking? Thank you. Ah, here is a bottle of champagne. Please accept it as a small present from the management."

Stig Palme was conferring with Beaurain as they sat in the Swede's Saab parked outside the hotel. The choice of locale for their conversation had been Palme's.

"This way we know we are not being recorded. You have seen how the bedroom doors lock, how from the outside you must turn the key before you can enter the room? I think," Palme continued, 'it is possible the Stockholm Syndicate have committed their first major blunder — opening up a trail I can follow which just might blast their organisation wide open."

"It's going to be a race against time," Beaurain warned. "I have the strongest feeling Hugo is going to launch an all-out offensive to wipe us out."

"Because we've just lost him his major heroin delivery?"

"Partly — but maybe even more because of this." Beaurain nodded towards a large Mercedes which had just glided to a halt outside the Grand Hotel. Out of the rear door a short stout man holding a brief-case had emerged while two other men, who had left the car seconds earlier, took up positions near the foot of the steps and were staring in all directions.

"Who is the little fat man who needs armed guards?" Stig asked.

"That is Leo Gehn, president of the International Telecommunications and Electronics Corporation of America. One of the richest and most powerful industrialists inside the States — they say he contributed a million dollars to the President's electoral campaign. Maybe he contributes even larger sums to the Stockholm Syndicate."

"I don't follow, Jules."

"After leaving the marina we returned to police headquarters — to see if Fondberg's Sapo people had any further information. They had. A whole list of European and American power elite are arriving aboard a stream of aircraft — some aboard scheduled flights, some in their private jets — putting down at Arlanda. They seem to be staying at two hotels — the Saltsjobaden Hotel and here at the Grand. So far, apart from Leo Gehn, the presidents or chairmen of five of America's biggest corporations have flown in to say nothing of men like Eugene Pascal from Paris and a score of others. Fondberg suspects they are here for the secret meeting of the Stockholm Syndicate that they're all men who have either voluntarily contributed money in return for the vast profits they'll gain from international crime or they have been subjected to the most hideous intimidation. I need just one I can crack, Stig just one."

Taking the cigarette out of his mouth, he stared through the windscreen at the person alighting from another chauffeur-driven limousine at the entrance to the Grand Hotel. Out of the rear door stepped one of the most elegant and striking women Palme had ever seen, her jet-black hair piled up on top of her head.

"I said I needed just one! That, Stig, is the Countess d'Arlezzo,"

"But surely her husband is the man who will run their affairs?"

"Her husband, Luigi, was bought by Erika for his aristocratic connections. She personally runs the banking empire she inherited from her father. Wait here."

The Countess lingered on the sidewalk at the foot of the flight of steps, dismissing all attempts to hurry her inside with a casual wave of her slim hand while she drank in the view of the Royal Palace and the Houses of Parliament. Beaurain grinned to himself as he saw the gesture; how like Erika. He was within a few feet of her when a heavily-built man in a dark suit stood in his way.

"Stay back an' 'old da position," he ordered.

"Out of my way or I'll break your arm," Beaurain said politely and smiled.

"Jules!" The woman, in her early forties, had swung round at the sound of his voice and stepped forward. Impetuously she embraced him while the guard stared in confusion.

"You must come up to my suite," she continued, linking her arm in his. "Luigi? I expect he's somewhere with a bottle — didn't you know? These days he's hardly ever sober."

When her cases had been brought up and they were alone she took him by the hand and was about to lead him into the bedroom. He shook his head, turned on the radio loud to counter any possible concealed microphones and faced her as he threw the question in her teeth.

"I take it that your banking consortium has contributed money to the coffers of the Stockholm Syndicate?"

"The equivalent of several million pounds," she replied without the slightest hesitation. "It is supposed to be a loan but I don't regard Hugo as a particularly good risk."

He studied her for a moment. She stood very erect and, while she spoke, inserted a cigarette in a long holder. He lit it for her. Of all the people caught up in the labyrinth of the Syndicate, she was possibly the only one with the nerve to tell him the truth without a second's hesitation. So why had she given in to them in the first place?

"I was one of the people who was told over the phone about the death of the Chief Commissioner to the Common Market — one week before he died in his so-called "accident". That was how it began."

"And how did it go on?" he pressed.

I was told what would happen to me if I refused to transfer funds to Stockholm. The murder of the Chief Commissioner convinced me they meant what they said. I am a coward, so I gave in."

"What did they threaten you with?" the Belgian demanded.

"That I would be found — I can remember the exact phrase — hung and twisting like a side of meat turning in the wind. I didn't fancy that too much, Jules."

"Why are you here?"

To attend the meeting, of course. The conference of the Syndicate, if you like. I gather Hugo or his representative will carve up the loot, allocate territories to different groups, and then the profits from these will be shared among investors in proportion to the funds supplied. That is what he calls us," she remarked, her expression bitter. "Investors as though we were engaged in a legitimate enterprise."

"And you are engaged in?"

"Prostitution, gambling, drug-trafficking, blackmail, extortion, you name it, we're in it — up to our lousy necks." The bitterness in her manner increased as she stubbed out her cigarette, inserted a fresh one in the holder and again waited while Beaurain lit it for her. They were still standing close together in the beautifully-furnished room and the tension of their discussion seemed to preclude any thought of sitting down.

"Thank you," she said after he had lit her cigarette and continued, her voice low and vehement, which was unlike Erika: in the past he had always admired her sense of detachment. "And one crime is cleverly dovetailed in to aid another."

"How do you mean?" he asked sharply.

"Oh, the high-class prostitutes — and they are among the classiest and most expensive in Europe — are used to compromise leading political figures, who then have to do the Syndicate's bidding or be publicly ruined. You remember there was a man in Milan."

"I know who you mean, Erika. You were rather fond of him."

"Not as much as of you, but yes, I was fond of him, Jules. A week before the scandal broke I was phoned and told that he was about to be ruined. I called him to warn him but there was nothing he could do — the photos had already been taken, the pictures which were then sent to the newspapers and TV. He shot himself — so it appeared."

"And what does that mean?" Beaurain was startled. It had always been his understanding that the Milanese politician concerned had committed suicide.

"He was murdered by the Syndicate and his death faked to look like suicide. In ruling circles in Rome it was clearly understood this was simply another "demonstration" organised by the Syndicate — like the fatal fall of the Chief Commissioner. Can you imagine the horror of it? Even we who have so much money and once controlled international businesses are now puppets of this foul thing, the Stockholm Syndicate,"

"Who do you deal with? Hugo?"

"No. I have no idea who Hugo is. On the rare occasions when I am contacted, it is by the member of the directorate who is in charge of the Mediterranean Sector — a Dr. Otto Berlin."

"And, finally, where is this so-called summit meeting to be held?"

"We have not been informed yet — but I have been told to be ready to fly to the south coast of Sweden as soon as the instruction comes." Again the bitter note. "Yes, that is what they give us instructions. At least I tried in Rome."

"You must not reproach yourself. Does Luigi…?"

"Know anything about it? Of course not! Can you imagine what sort of help I'd get from that broken reed? Within a day of being told anything he would probably be blabbing it to the world in a drunken stupor. Jules…" She came very close to him, so close he could savour to the full the very faint aroma of the scent she was using. "Jules, can you do anything?"

"Yes, and first I want you under my protection. You will put on a coat and walk straight out of this hotel with me. Leave everything else and come with me this instant. I have people outside and we'll hide you until this is all over,"

"I can't, Jules."

"Why the hell not!" The exasperation was genuine. This was not like Erika.

"Because of Luigi. If I disappear they will kill him. He is in Rome."

"One phone call and I can have him scooped up and flown out of Italy."

"No, Jules!" She put her index finger over his mouth, removed it as he relapsed into silence and kissed him full on the lips. He found he could even remember her taste. "I must act normally, go to the meeting but if you give me a phone number I will call you and tell you where the meeting is being held as soon as I know."

Beaurain didn't like it. He felt uneasy but he couldn't budge her. Eventually he gave her Harry Fondberg's private phone number and the code-word champagne which she must use if she found it was impossible to reach Beaurain; then she could leave a message. As he walked out of her room and closed the self-locking door, he passed a man who was slowly pushing a service trolley along the corridor. The trolley's contents were concealed under a large white cloth. It was only later that he remembered the man. Too late.

Stig Palme drove his compact car up the steep road alongside the Royal Palace and turned into Stortoret, the main square where an ancient stone pump stood protected by stone bollards. A few minutes later he parked the Saab close to the entrance to one of the maze of alleyways in this medieval quarter of Stockholm.

The tiny shop he was visiting was situated half-way along the deserted alley, cobbled underfoot and so narrow he could have easily reached out his arms and touched both sides. He entered without ceremony, noted that the place was empty except for the owner and shut the door. He then turned the card hanging against the glass to indicate Closed.

Outside the shop over the door hung a huge key symbol. And the man who supplied master keys in Stockholm was its owner, Tobias Seiger. The price varied according to the status of the hotel and Seiger's estimate of how much he could screw out of the buyer. In return, complete secrecy was guaranteed. It was this wall of secrecy Stig Palme had to break down.

His mission was not helped by the fact that Seiger knew and disliked Palme. A short, bull-headed man, Seiger had a jeweller's glass in his right eye when Palme entered. Observing Palme's action in closing his shop Seiger carefully removed the jeweller's glass and placed it in an open drawer below Palme's eye level. Palme moved. His left hand whipped over the counter, gripped the pistol Seiger had been feeling for and pocketed it. Seiger found himself staring into the barrel of Palme's own gun.

"I have very little money on the premises," he began.

"We're going to talk, Tobias." The locksmith stood in a permanent stoop, brought on by years of cutting keys. His manner was a mixture of aggressiveness and oily persuasion. He had the morals of a brothel-keeper. "The Grand Hotel…"

"Did you say the Grand?"

The shop was cluttered with cupboards and there was dust and grime everywhere, including a film of dirt on the outside windows so it was very dark. Even so Palme's sharp eyes caught the brief flicker of expression which vanished off Seiger's slack-lipped face almost before it appeared. Alarm. Terror? This was going to be more difficult than he had anticipated.

To overcome Seiger's fear he was going to have to produce an atmosphere of hideous terror to prise open the oily bastard's mouth. Palme pressed the muzzle of his gun into Seiger's left ear.

"I can make you a key — the master key," Seiger babbled.

"Don't get naughty with me, Tobias. You know exactly what I'm after — I saw it in your eyes. The identity of the person who has recently asked you to do just that supply him with a master key for the Grand Hotel."

When discussing the horrific vandalisation of Louise's room, both Beaurain and Palme had realised only one explanation was possible. The culprit had obtained a copy of the master key and probably from a nearby source. And, Palme thought to himself, where could be nearer than the establishment of Tobias Seiger in Gamla Stan just across the water from the hotel itself?

"I cannot tell you! It would cost me my life. The people involved are ruthless, totally ruthless."

The terror was in Seiger's eyes, in his tone of voice, in the way he physically cringed away from Palme until the wall prevented him retreating any further. Palme's left hand caught hold of Seiger's necktie and tightened it, his knuckle pressed against the locksmith's Adam's apple.

Seiger would have screamed with the pain but the pressure of the knuckles made it impossible for him to utter a sound. The gun muzzle was pressed lightly against his right eye and the large Swede loomed over the stoop-shouldered shopkeeper.

"You can always leave Stockholm until the trouble is ended," he said with an engaging smile. "When did you last have a real holiday? Ages, I expect. An honest man like yourself, plying his trade, deserves a holiday."

He released his grip on the necktie suddenly and Seiger collapsed in a heap against the wall, his legs spread out at an absurd angle across the stone-paved floor. He used one hand to massage his bruised throat, glaring up at the intruder, then when he saw what Stig Palme was doing his expression changed, he tried to climb to his feet, found he hadn't the strength and held up a hand as though to ward off a blow. What words had not managed a gesture was achieving. Terror!

Stig Palme stood over the collapsed figure, doing what he was doing with great deliberation and with out a glance down at the locksmith. He was screwing a silencer onto the muzzle of his Luger.

The atmosphere in the tiny shop was nauseating. On entering the place Palme had been aware of a musty, damp odour a smell associated with a place which never sees the sun and where the ventilation leaves much to be desired. Added to this now was the stink of sweat streaming down Seiger's body, staining his armpits, moistening his face, the smell Palme had encountered more than once before, the stench of terror.

"These people kill!"

"We are aware it is the Stockholm Syndicate. I need a name, an address," said Palme matter-of-factly.

The latter he had no hope of — the most was a name, the least a description he could circulate in the Stockholm underworld and hope to come up with something.

"The alternative is I blow you away."

And Tobias Seiger, who spent most of his life in this pit of semi-darkness, came up with pure gold.

"A blond-haired man I can't give you a name. It was strictly a cash transaction, of course… fair-haired with sideburns… The hair was thick on the back of his neck… and he wore gold-rimmed spectacles. A little shorter than yourself but not small… about five foot eleven. We conversed in French. I have seen him twice before

… I know where he lives."

Stig Palme was careful to maintain a perfectly blank expression. It increased the pressure, keeping a sense of detachment when he was screwing on the silencer. Christ Almighty, Seiger was actually describing Dr. Theodor Norling, one of the three men controlling the directorate of the Stockholm Syndicate. Why had he not sent some minion to get the master key? Then he recalled Beaurain telling him that Norling had an apartment not far away in the posh area near St. Gertrud's Church. When Seiger came to, I know where he lives Palme forced himself to keep silent. In interrogation the art was so often to know when to keep your mouth shut.

'… it was a strange coincidence," the locksmith babbled on, "I could hardly believe it myself when I saw him on my way to work… I often spend the night with my sister who lives in Strangnas… Driving in on the E3 highway I had an urgent call of nature. I stopped by the roadside… can I have a drink?"

"No!"

It was such a delicately poised thing: any pause could stop the flow of words if Seiger thought better of what he was doing. And what the hell was all this about the E3 and out in the country? Norling's apartment was in Gamla Stan. Denied a drink, the voice, now cracked, railed on.

"As I was behind a tree I saw this man come out of a house in the distance… I always carry a small pair of field glasses in my pocket

… my hobby is bird-watching. It was him! I waited as he got out his car and drove off in the direction of Stockholm, the way I was going. I followed in my own car until the traffic was heavier and caught him up. He did not see me! The Volvo he was driving carried American diplomatic plates."

It was coming at Palme fast but he kept his head. In a monotone he asked about the location of the house. This involved some detailed explanation even though Palme knew the route to Strangnas well. He had to pinpoint the location of the house which, apparently, stood back off the highway but in view of it and was quite isolated.

"One of those old-fashioned houses," Seiger ran on. "Gables and bulging windows like they used to build. It must be at least fifty years old."

"Stay where you are!"

Palme gave the order in a cold voice and Seiger remained on the floor behind the counter. Palme walked slowly towards the door, turned the key quietly and stepped out. As he did so he moved to his left, sliding along the glass of the shop window the last thing someone waiting for him would expect. And someone was waiting for him. Two of them. Medium height. Heavily-built. Wearing sunglasses. Something wrong with their shoes. Definitely not Swedish.

The man on the left darted forward, his knife extended from his hand. They'd made only two mistakes. They hadn't realised he'd seen the silhouette of one man from inside the shop as he glided slowly past the window. And the other man had gently tried the locked door, making the slightest of sounds.

Their second mistake was in not noticing Palme's right hand down by his side as he emerged from the shop, the hand still holding the Luger with the silencer. As the killer darted towards him he whipped up the Luger and fired. Phut! A small hole appeared in the assassin's head between his eyes. The second man had seized his chance to dash inside the shop, confident his companion would eliminate Palme. The Swede followed him inside the open door just in time to see him lean over the counter.

Had Seiger not compelled Palme to relieve the locksmith of his Walther automatic he could have saved himself. Palme had hardly re-entered the shop when the assassin rammed home the knife deep into Seiger's chest. There was a choking cry, a slithering sound as Seiger sank to the floor again out of sight. Palme pressed the muzzle of his silenced Luger into the back of the neck of the killer. It seemed rough justice: these bastards were fond of using the old Nazi method of execution.

The man froze, began to say something in German. Palme pressed the trigger once. Phut! In the silence of the unsavoury-smelling shop it sounded like no more than the expelling of a breath of air. The assassin sprawled his arms across the counter as though trying to hold himself up. Palme stood back as the man folded up and fell in a heap on the floor. Taking Seiger's automatic out of his pocket he quickly cleaned all fingerprints off it and dropped it inside the drawer which was still open.

He left the shop cautiously, using the handkerchief to wipe the handle. The gloomy alley was still deserted — except for the crumpled form of the first assassin at the foot of the window. Palme concealed his Luger inside his belt and behind his jacket. Moving swiftly back up the alley to the road where he had parked his Saab, he climbed in behind the wheel and drove slowly away.