The Stockholm syndicate

Chapter Sixteen

A modern complex of buildings painted in yellow and ochre, the Russian Embassy in Stockholm is cut off from all contact with the outside world by walls and wire fences which are patrolled round the clock by guards supplied, curiously enough, by A.B.A.B." one of the two leading security services in Stockholm. On the inside it is different. All entrances are controlled by the KGB. The walls of the complex are festooned with the lenses of TV cameras which watch all who approach, lenses which project towards the outside world like hostile guns.

Only a privileged elite are allowed ever to leave the confines of the embassy. From outside you may see a Russian woman with her hair in a bun walking behind the wire one of the wives of the personnel staffing the embassy. She will serve her term there and return to Russia without ever having seen anything of the beautiful Swedish capital. None of these restrictions, of course, applied to Viktor Rashkin.

"Welcome back, Comrade Secretary," greeted his assistant, Gregori Semeonov, as his chief entered his office.

"Anything to report?" Rashkin asked curtly as he sat down in his large leather-backed swivel chair behind his outsize desk. He had not given even a glance to the stunning view through the bullet-proof picture windows behind him. Heavy net curtains masked them, making it impossible for anyone in a block of nearby flats to see into the room. The view looked out across a trim area of well-kept lawn and beyond, the waters of the Riddarfjarden glittered in the noon-day sun. Rashkin was tense. Semeonov sensed it.

"There is a signal requesting your urgent presence in Leningrad. You have arrived back in Stockholm just in time the First Secretary is visiting the city tomorrow and wishes to confer with you while he is there."

Semeonov handed his chief the decoded signal. He watched while the Russian studied it with half-closed eyes.

Only forty years old, Rashkin was of medium height, average in build and his dark hair was cut very short. Clean-shaven, his eyes were penetrating and had an almost hypnotic quality. As a young man he had spent two years training to be an actor before a senior KGB talent-spotter observed his intensely analytical mind. He was recruited immediately into the elite section of the KGB where he quickly learned the wisdom of suppressing his gift for mimicry.

Despite the fact that his first-class mind swiftly assimilated the flood of information and training directed at him, Viktor Rashkin was not at home inside the KGB. But he had also become fluent in six languages by the time he met Leonid Brezhnev at a Kremlin party. The meeting of the two men was a decisive moment for Viktor Rashkin, a moment which, if mishandled, would never occur again.

Most men would have played it safe, striving to impress the master of Soviet Russia, and being careful to agree with everything he said. Rashkin gambled all on one throw of the dice. He released himself from the mental straitjacket imposed on him by the KGB and for the first time in three years became his natural self. Those nearby who witnessed his conduct were appalled.

Rashkin let his natural gift for mimicry re-assert itself, imitating members of the Politburo who were actually present in the room under the glittering chandeliers. Gradually a hush fell over the great hall in the Kremlin where the party was being held. Only two sounds could be heard — the sound of Rashkin brilliantly imitating world-famous figures on both sides of the Iron Curtain, and the roar of Leonid Brezhnev's laughter as he shook with amusement at such a wonderful contrast to the sombre expressions of the Politburo members.

From that night Viktor Rashkin's future was assured — from being an obscure but promising recruit of the KGB, he became Brezhnev's trusted and secret trouble-shooter. The fact that he was a natural linguist — and that his flair for acting made him a brilliant diplomat — helped to rocket him to the dizzy heights.

The Washington dossier on Viktor Rashkin grew thicker and thicker, but the few privileged to read it complained that despite the quantity of the data, the quality left a great deal to be desired. "It's so damn vague," the US President grumbled. "Now you see him, now you don't."

April… Believed to have spent three days in Addis Ababa. Purpose of visit: presumed discusssion of further military aid to present Ethiopian regime.

May… Reported to have made lightning visit to Angola. Dates of visit uncertain. Rumoured agreement concluded with Angolan regime.

July… Presence reported in Havana. No positive confirmation of visit. Previously reliable Cuban woman agent code-named Dora signalled arrival of important personality in Cuban capital. Strong suspicion visitor to Castro was Viktor Rashkin.

December… Presence of Viktor Rashkin positively confirmed in Stockholm where he holds position First Secretary at Soviet Embassy. This official position believed to mask his real activities. Was observed attending royal reception at Palace in Stockholm. Next day believed he left Sweden for unknown destination.

For the CIA and National Security Agency analysts it was infuriating. As one of them had expressed it after reading the above extracts from agents' reports and a host of other material, "I'm not even sure Viktor Rashkin exists. Believed to… presumed… Reported to have… Rumoured agreement… No positive confirmation of visit… Strong suspicion… What kind of dossier is this?"

The man was a will o' the wisp, a shadow flitting in the night. To his assistant, Gregori Semeonov, a senior officer of the KGB, his chief existed but he was almost as elusive as the Washington analyst had suggested. As they conferred in Rashkin's office at the Soviet Embassy in Stockholm the short, burly Ukrainian had no idea where his chief had arrived from.

"I have made your reservation on Flight SK 732 departing from Arlanda for Leningrad at 13.30 tomorrow. Normally this flight is from Gate Six," Semeonov continued pedantically. "The ticket is in your right-hand top drawer."

"A return ticket, I hope?"

Rashkin was studying the contents of a folder from another drawer to which he alone held the keys. As he expected, the stupid, peasant-like Semeonov completely missed the irony of his question.

"What is the exact location of the hydrofoil, Kometa?"

"Captain Livanov is waiting at Sassnitz until you give the order for him to proceed to the agreed position off the Swedish port of Trelleborg. I gather he has again complained that we are risking his vessel in asking him to cross the Baltic."

"I have ordered him — not asked him — to proceed to Trelleborg when I give the signal. We must remember to tell him to keep his hull below the horizon so he cannot be seen from the shore. And the Swedish liner, Silvia, is in position?"

"Yes, Comrade Secretary." Semeonov paused and Rashkin waited for the next piece of bureaucratic idiocy. He was not disappointed. "I cannot understand why we have hired the Silvia and put aboard only a skeleton crew. She is in no position to make a long voyage."

"Just so long as you have carried out my instructions. You may go now."

Rashkin had no intention of revealing his strategy to this man who was, after all, only the creature of Yuri Andropov, head of the KGB and a powerful member of the Soviet Politburo. And he was perfectly aware that it was Semeonov's chief task to report back to Andropov all Viktor Rashkin's activities, a task Rashkin was at great pains to frustrate by never revealing to the Ukrainian anything of the least importance.

Semeonov, his hair cut so short that Rashkin secretly termed him "Bristle-Brush', was not able even to leave the room without further comment. At the door he turned and spoke in his measured, deliberate manner.

"I will confirm that you may be expected in Leningrad aboard SK 732 from Arlanda tomorrow."

As the door closed Rashkin shut the folder embossed with a small gold star indicating its extreme level of secrecy, pushed back his chair and swore aloud. "Five minutes in this place and I'm screaming to get out again. Bristle-Brush is becoming impossible to live with."

*

"I can do nothing more, Jules. I have received specific orders that our distinguished guests are not to be interfered with in any way on the contrary, while visiting this country they are to be granted every courtesy and consideration. The trouble is, Sweden stands to gain a considerable amount of international business while hosting this conference."

"They admit a conference is taking place?"

Harry Fondberg and Beaurain were again in the Swedish security chief's office at police headquarters. But on this second occasion the atmosphere was quite different. To Beaurain's astonishment, Fondberg's manner was formal, as though he were covering up a deep sense of embarrassment.

"There has been a reference to a conference, yes," Fondberg admitted.

Beaurain stood up. "I presume this means I can no longer rely on you for any assistance? That is the situation, is it not?"

The plump-faced, capable Swede paused, clearly reluctant to let his old friend leave. "There was a message for you, by the way," he said. "It was phoned through to me just before you arrived. I was not able to persuade her to leave her real name."

" Her? "

"Yes, it was a woman. The message for you was simply, Offshore from the port of Trelleborg. A hydrofoil. Champagne." Fondberg excused himself as the phone rang. He listened, spoke a few words and then replaced the receiver, his expression sombre. "There has been, a death at the Grand Hotel. An important lady."

"The Countess d'Arlezzo,"

Beaurain made it a statement and Fondberg's sensitive ear did not miss the inflection. He stood up behind his desk, his eyes alert, his mouth hard as he met the Belgian's grim gaze. Beaurain continued, "Earlier today I was talking with Erika — the Countess — in her suite at the Grand. I have known her for a long time. She told me she had been threatened by the Stockholm Syndicate. That phone call tells me roughly where the conference of the Syndicate will take place. We had arranged she should use the code-word champagne to identify herself. I believe I passed the person who must have been keeping an eye on her for the Syndicate, a waiter pushing a trolley."

"One of the Grand Hotel's regular staff — a waiter — has been found trussed up and stuffed inside a broom cupboard."

"How did she die?"

Beaurain walked over to the window with hands clasped behind his back while he waited for the reply, and stared out at the sunlight which Erika would never see again. His eyes were quite still.

Fondberg was beginning to feel very uneasy. He cleared his voice before he spoke. "She was found hanging from the shower in the bathroom. She used her bath-robe cord, a common…"

" I would be found… hung and twisting like a side of meat turning in the wind." Beaurain repeated for Fondberg's benefit the words Erika had used. The Swede sank into the chair behind his desk and stared dully into the distance, tapping the stubby fingers of his right hand on the desk top, a sure sign that he was deeply disturbed. He listened while Beaurain related the whole of his conversation with the woman who had been one of the most powerful figures in Western Europe.

The Belgian's voice grew harsher as he concluded his version of his last meeting with Erika. "So these are the people to whom you are extending every courtesy and consideration that was the phrase, was it not? And they — all these members of the Stockholm Syndicate — are as guilty of Erika d'Arlezzo's murder as if they personally had tied round her neck the cord of her own bath-robe and strung her up to that shower."

"I said nothing about a murder." Fondberg wriggled uncomfortably behind his desk and, for the first time in their long friendship, he was unable to meet Beaurain's gaze.

"Christ Al-bloody-mighty!" Beaurain's fist smashed down on the desk-top. "You are not going to stoop so low that you will allow them to get away with this faked suicide?"

" No! " Fondberg came out of his mental daze and stared straight at Beaurain. "Of course I know it wasn't suicide! Had you understood Swedish you would have known I was speaking to the forensic expert who has already arrived at the Grand. I told him to send his report to me personally at the earliest possible moment. No-one else will be permitted to see it. I shall myself announce its findings to the international press now gathering here hoping for news of the "business" conference. It will cause a bombshell!"

"The Syndicate will come after you," Beaurain warned his old friend, but, he admitted privately to himself, he was also testing him. Such was the quicksand atmosphere of treachery and fear the unseen organisation had generated. Fondberg's reaction made him feel a little ashamed.

"Wrong, my friend. I am going after the Stockholm Syndicate! In committing this murder they have made a big mistake. They hoped their influence was strong enough to squash any attempt at a legitimate investigation. They overlooked the fact that I might intervene."

Events moved at bewildering speed during the next few days. On receipt of Beaurain's urgent signal sent by Stig Palme from a transceiver hidden in the basement of a house in the town of Strangnas, Captain "Bucky' Buckminster left his anchorage off Copenhagen and proceeded south and east into the Baltic.

"We have to wait off the coast near Trelleborg," he told Anderson, the chief pilot of the giant Sikorsky which they carried on the helipad. "Just below the horizon so we cannot easily be seen from the Swedish shore."

"Any exercises once we get there?" Anderson enquired.

"Yes. Intensive training with the power-boats and dinghies equipped with outboards in fact all the fleet of craft in the hold. Another activity Beaurain wants toned up is the training of frogmen in underwater warfare."

"The Countess d'Arlezzo, president of the well-known group of banks, who was discovered hanging from the shower in the bathroom of her suite in the Grand Hotel was, in the opinion of the well-known pathologist, Professor Edwin Jacoby…'

Harry Fondberg, who was addressing a press conference called at very short notice — other reporters were still arriving, pushing their way into the crowded room was possessed of a certain dramatic sense which he now used to the full. Beaurain watched him from a position at the back of the room. Heads craned as the pause was stretched out. Most of the western world's leading newspapers, TV stations and magazines were represented.

'… was MURDERED!"

Pandemonium! The small plump chief of Sapo waited as men and women milled in the room — some already rushing for phones to catch editions about to go to press with the staggering announcement. The Countess d'Arlezzo's beauty had been compared with that of Sophia Loren; her business influence with that of Onassis. As the initial reaction subsided, Fondberg ruthlessly piled on the drama. Now it was too late for anyone to try and hold down the lid on the case. It was his first promised blow at the Stockholm Syndicate.

"In a moment Professor Jacoby will tell you his reasons for stating that in his opinion the alleged suicide was faked, could not have taken place in the way meant to fool the police. Or, shall we say, certain powerful criminal groups with international connections believed their influence was so great that no-one would ever dare reveal the truth?"

Louise whispered to Beaurain. "God: That's really blasted the case wide open. Whoever Hugo is, he's going to go crazy!"

"That's Harry's tactic," Beaurain murmured. "He hopes that by throwing him off balance he'll provoke him into making yet another blunder. And listen to this!"

The questions were now coming like bullets as reporters fought to catch Fondberg's eye. High up on a platform, he selected his questioners for their influence. Someone ran onto the platform with a note — doubtless from some Minister. Fondberg waved the messenger away and stuffed the message unread inside his pocket.

"Are you saying the Countess was mixed up in criminal activities?" asked someone from Der Spiegel.

"I am saying she was being blackmailed and intimidated in a way which would only be used by animals.

I have the most reliable of witnesses that she was actually threatened with death in the form her murder took."

"Your witness?"

"Would ex-Chief Superintendent Jules Beaurain of the Brussels anti-terrorist squad, previously in charge of Homicide, satisfy you?"

"Thank you. Yes!" said Der Spiegel.

"Christ!" Louise whispered. "He's blowing the whole works."

"And the one thing the Syndicate can't stand is publicity," Beaurain whispered back. "It's a dark evil creature which operates in the darkness."

"Would you care to elaborate on the structure of these powerful criminal groups you refer to?" The Times — of London.

"Check up on likely personalities at present in Stockholm," "Names, we need names!" The New York Times.

"You are here! Do some of your own investigative work, may I suggest!"

"Leo Gehn has just arrived in the capital, I hear," The New York Times.

"I have heard that also," Fondberg replied blandly. "Next question, please,"

"Who controls the international criminal groups you referred to in reply to an earlier question?" Le Monde of Paris.

There was a prolonged pause. Tension built up in the packed room as Fondberg, one arm supporting another, a hand under his chin, seemed to be considering whether to answer the question. One thing was clear and heightened the tension until the atmosphere became electric: the chief of Sapo did know the answer…

"A directorate of three men," Fondberg spoke slowly and with great deliberation. As he paused again, the door next to Beaurain was pulled open. A man took three paces forward and stopped, holding a Smith amp; Wesson with both hands, the muzzle raised and aimed point-blank at Harry Fondberg.

Louise had a blurred impression of a short, burly figure wearing a boiler suit. Beaurain grabbed the man's wrist and elbow. There was a single explosion. The bullet fired in the tussle — which would have blown Fondberg off his feet — embedded itself in the ceiling. There was a shocked, incredulous hush which lasted several seconds, during which the only sound was the scuffle of feet as Beaurain overpowered the gunman. Uniformed guards were appearing in the hall beyond the open door. Beaurain hurled the would-be assassin with all his strength backwards into their arms.

"Check him for other weapons!" he snapped. "Or do I have to do the whole damned job for you? He came within an ace of killing your boss."

Chaos broke loose. The room erupted into movement as the mob of reporters stormed towards the doorways. Beaurain hauled Louise back out of the path of the turbulent crowd and pressed her back against the wall. In thirty seconds the room was occupied by only three people: Beaurain, Louise and Harry Fondberg.

The Swede jumped agilely from the platform and ran towards the Belgian, holding out his hand. 'For saving my life I can only say thank you,"

"We stage-managed that rather well. Maybe we should go into the theatrical business," Beaurain whispered.

"I have the information you asked me to dig up on Dr. Theodor Norling's background before he came to Stockholm. It tells us nothing," Fondberg informed his listeners.

Beaurain and Louise were sitting at a round table in the Sapo chief's office, eating hungrily from a selection of dishes which Fondberg had ordered from a nearby restaurant. Beaurain nodded at Fondberg's remark as the Swede studied the report without enthusiasm.

"It is the same with all these provincial police forces — they think we live the high life here and they can't even answer a civil request without grumbling at how busy they are," "Tell us what there is to know about Norling," Beaurain suggested.

"Born in Gothenburg, his parents moved when he was seven years old to Ystad," he looked at Louise. "That is an old medieval port on the southern coast in the province of Skane. The people in Skane are very different."

He might have been talking about the end of the world, as certain New Yorkers refer to the Deep South. Perhaps this was the Deep South of Sweden, Louise reflected. Fondberg continued reading from his folder.

"When I say Ystad I mean a small place close to it. The first thing Theodor Norling's parents did when they arrived from Gothenburg was to separate. His mother ran off with a ship's engineer while the father managed to get himself killed in a traffic accident a few weeks later. Young Norling was taken in by some aunt who had money and he was partly educated abroad. He returned to Skane when he was twenty, attended the funeral of his aunt who had just died, and promptly used the legacy she had left him to set up in business as a collector."

"Let me guess," interjected Beaurain. "A collector of editions of rare books?"

"Wrong!" Fondberg chuckled delightedly at having scored a point when he saw Beaurain's expression. "As a collector and dealer in old coins."

"And he travelled a lot," Beaurain persisted, 'during the course of his business."

"Yes," Fondberg admitted.

"And most of his business was done abroad and locally he was known as a bit of a hermit and he never got married?"

"Yes," Fondberg agreed, almost reluctantly. "It is a waste of time my reading this folder since you seem to know the contents. It is true he was a hermit — and disliked on that account since he gave the impression he felt himself superior to the locals." The Swede chuckled again. "The truth of the matter probably is that he was very superior! Any more predictions?"

"Only one. He arrived suddenly in Stockholm to set up business as a dealer in rare books about two years ago."

Ten out of ten!" Fondberg did not even bother to refer to the folder.

"So," Beaurain suggested, 'to sum up, Theodor Norling has now no known living relatives. Correct? And have your people down there in darkest Skane found any close friends he left behind who could identify a picture taken of him?"

"Yes — and no. As you suggested I sent the picture we have of Norling, a picture which had to be taken secretly because of a directive from higher up. The Ystad police showed it to the very few people who knew Theodor Norling when he was in business down there. Some immediately identified him from the photo. Others said they didn't think that was the man they had known as Dr. Theodor Norling."

" The man they had known as Dr. Theodor Norling." Beaurain repeated the words slowly as though relishing every syllable. The chief of Sapo was now looking thoroughly piqued. Louise did nothing to enlighten him.

"It's bloody uncanny," was her unladylike remark.

"What is?" Fondberg pounced.

"How we've heard this story before. Twice to be precise." She looked at Beaurain who nodded giving her permission to go ahead. "What you have told us about the background and origins of Dr. Theodor Norling is an almost exact replica — with a few minor variations — of the background histories of the other two members of the so-called directorate controlling the Stockholm Syndicate."

"You mean these men are sleepers who are now activated?"

"No, oddly enough, the other way round." It was Beaurain who spoke.

"You mean someone has invented dummy men?" Fondberg suggested.

"Not even that, Harry. Dr. Berlin certainly existed, was quite definitely brought up in Liege in his early days and started his business as a book dealer there. There are still people who remember him. Vaguely."

Fondberg shook his head and lit a cigar. "I am lost. Which, I suspect, is your intention, you bastard." He turned to Louise and bowed formally. "Please excuse my language, but you work with him, so…"

"I agree with you," Louise assured him.

"Let's try to find you since you're lost, Harry," Beaurain continued imperturbably. "Dr. Theodor Norling's background is vague because his parents vanished from his life early on, because his life-style was that of a hermit, because he travelled a lot on business and was seen very little before he came to live permanently in Stockholm. Two years ago."

"All that is in the goddam folder," Fondberg pointed out.

"Or Otto Berlin's background is vague because Liege is a large city, because he had no relatives and few acquaintances, because he also travelled a lot owing to the nature of his business. His character, too, was hermit-like. Perhaps it goes with the trade. So again, as with Norling, old acquaintances shown a photograph say "Yes, that's him," or "No, doesn't look much like him." Only one photograph is available of Berlin. These men seem to be very camera-shy."

"I am still lost," Fondberg growled.

"The third man was note the past tense Dr. Benny Horn who now lives in Copenhagen but originally came from Elsinore. And while I remember it, when do you think Dr. Otto Berlin moved himself from Liege to Bruges? About two years ago! "

"It is getting interesting," Fondberg was compelled to admit. He glanced at Louise. "This dishonest and devious man you choose to work for plays these games with me whenever he gets the opportunity. In England I think they call it dangling you on a string."

"Benny Horn's background antecedents are equally vague when you go into them with a sceptical eye," Beaurain continued. "He was in the book dealer business for fifteen years in Elsinore before he moved suddenly to Copenhagen. Since then, no-one in Elsinore has seen him — not that there are many who would be interested."

"Another hermit?" Fondberg enquired.

"As I said, it seems to go with the trade. So, although he has a solid background of fifteen years' residence on the outskirts of Elsinore you can't track down many who actually knew him and then only vaguely. The local police produce his photograph and we get a repeat performance. Some say "yes" and some say "no" when asked to identify Horn. It's quite normal, as you know."

"I still don't understand it," complained Fondberg. "They're not sleepers, they're not dummy men."

"Someone went to a lot of trouble in Belgium, in Denmark, and here in Sweden searching out these men, Harry. The whole thing is quite horribly sinister — worked out by a brilliant mind and manipulated in a diabolical manner. What we are actually looking for is the fourth man."

" The fourth man? "

"The one they call Hugo, the man whose very name evokes terror, sheer terror."