The Stockholm syndicate

Chapter Seventeen

The temperature was a comparatively pleasant 42 FV an east wind sweeping over the airport chilled the face, the expressions of the airport staff were sombre; a prejudiced observer might even have used the word 'sour'. As far as the eye could see the landscape and buildings were depressing. Scandinavian Airlines Flight SK 732 from Stockholm had just touched down at Leningrad.

Ignoring the stewardesses waiting by the exit, Viktor Rashkin left the plane and walked briskly to the waiting black Zil limousine. The KGB guard saluted, held open the rear door while Rashkin stepped inside, closed it and motioned to the chauffeur who started the machine moving at once. Rashkin was known for his impatience.

The cavalcade — a Volga car full of KGB agents preceded the Zil limousine while another followed in the rear — sped away from the airport and Rashkin glanced outside unenthusiastically. Why the hell did Brezhnev need to have personal reports on progress of Operation Snowbird? Rashkin suspected the old boy, surrounded by old-age pensioners, simply wanted a few hours of his company. He always asked for impersonations and roared his head off while Rashkin mimicked his victims.

Relaxing back against the amply-cushioned seat he gazed out through the amber-coloured curtains masking the windows. In the streets the people were curious — and resentful. Apparatchiki were on their way to some unknown destination and, ahead of the cavalcade, police were stopping all traffic to allow Viktor Rashkin swift passage. The driver of one car forced to halt by the kerb carefully waited until the second car-load of KGB men had passed and then spat out of the window.

"Arrogant sods living off our backs."

It was a common sentiment Rashkin would have seen in the eyes of the staring pedestrians had he looked up. He didn't bother. He knew what he would see. One day the lid would come off. There had to be a limit to the patience of even these stupid serfs.

Earlier at the Europe Hotel situated off the Nevsky Prospekt there had been more dissatisfaction as all visitors had been moved out of their rooms to other hotels at a moment's notice. No explanation had been given as squads of KGB agents moved in to replace the normal staff.

Now the Europe resembled more a fortress than a hotel with special squads of agents checking the identity of everyone who approached the entrance. Guards patrolled all the corridors and armed men displayed their presence aggressively. First Secretary Brezhnev was in town. His announced purpose was to visit Leningrad.

His real purpose was to confer with his protege, Viktor Rashkin.

"So," Leonid Brezhnev continued, 'the Stockholm Syndicate can be said to be flourishing?"

"We can say more than that," Rashkin announced confidently, his manner totally lacking in the usual servility shown to the master of the Soviet Union. "We can say that we have now placed puppets under our control in most of the key positions in Western Europe — chairmen of huge industrial concerns, heads of transport systems, controllers of some of the great banks and — above all — certain cabinet ministers. By involving them — through one method or another — in the Syndicate, we have compromised them so all they can do is to obey our instructions."

"A takeover without war, a takeover which is invisible and not even seen by the masses to have taken place!" Brezhnev's tone expressed his immense satisfaction with what he obviously regarded as a great victory.

"It is like Hitler's Fifth Column practised on a far vaster scale," Rashkin commented.

"These three men you found who form the directorate — Berlin in Bruges, Horn in Copenhagen and Norling in Stockholm. Why are they needed?"

Rashkin prevented a sigh of exasperation escaping. This was caused by the First Secretary's advancing years — his infuriating habit of changing the subject for no apparent reason. Yet oddly it was combined with a flair for remembering an extraordinary amount of detail over a vast range of projects. You had to watch the old boy underestimate him and he'd catch you out in the flick of a horse's tail. And that, Rashkin reminded himself grimly, only happened once. He explained crisply, careful not to appear patronising.

"These three men are essential. Each controls a certain geographical sector — Berlin, the Mediterranean up to the mouth of the Rhine, Horn the United States…"

"Yes, yes, I remember that bit."

"So any member of the Syndicate in that sector cooperates with the sector commander, who is a West European. This camouflages totally the fact that real control is in our hands.

"How do you explain to them why the conference is taking place aboard a Soviet vessel the hydrofoil, Kometa?"

A shrewd point. But oh God, we have gone all through this before! Rashkin smiled to relax himself. "They already believe that much of the Syndicate's profits will come from, surreptitious dealings in the proceeds from crime inside the Soviet Union, that there are Soviet members of the Syndicate!"

"Good, good, Comrade!" Brezhnev smiled slyly, leaned forward and squeezed Rashkin's shoulder. The younger man guessed what was coming next and was not disappointed. "Now, what about a few of your impersonations to cheer up an old Bolshevik who has to sit all day long staring at sour faces For a start, why not our esteemed Minister of Defence, Dimitri Ustinov?"

A moment later he began to laugh out loud: in that short space of time Rashkin's acting genius had transformed him into a different human being. He had become Marshal Dimitri Ustinov.

Attempt on Life of Security Chief Fails.

"God damn it, what crazy maniac acted without my orders and committed this supreme idiocy? And if ever there was a time we do not want anything like this it is now! Now! Now! Now! Do you hear me? Well, why don't you say something instead of standing there like a whore on a street corner?" Rashkin demanded. Karnell grabbed a decorative plate from the wall and hurled it at him. It shattered on the side of his head — and when he put his hand up it came away streaked with blood.

Rashkin looked at Sonia Karnell and took a handkerchief from his pocket with the other hand. He wiped the blood from his fingers, his manner suddenly frigidly calm. While talking he had been raving like a madman, shouting at the Swedish girl as though it were all her fault.

"It was a bumpy ride back from Leningrad," he told her. "The turbulence was most unusual."

"The turbulence since you arrived has not only been unusual," she said viciously. " It has been unbearable. Do you hear me, Viktor Rashkin? " she suddenly screamed at the top of her voice. "And the plate I broke over your stupid head was your present to me,"

"I know."

"I just wanted to make sure you know because I'm glad. Do you hear me, you pimp? I'm glad."

Her well-defined bosom was heaving with passion and her white face was a mask of rage. His reaction, as always, was unexpected and disarming. He sat down on a sofa, lit two cigarettes and offered her one.

"The newspaper story disturbed me," he remarked mildly. "Coming on the eve of the conference when we want everything peaceful with nothing to disturb our influential guests. Such men and women like to live without any publicity. There is only one solution, Sonia."

Karnell played with the large diamond ring he had given her and waited for his next pronouncement. She had asserted her independence; Viktor despised and mistrusted all those who played up to him. She had by now learned how to handle this brilliant and strange man.

"We quietly wipe out Beaurain's organisation, starting at once," he decided. "We now have plenty of troops in Stockholm, including Gunther Baum."

"But how are you going to find them? We know Beaurain and his tart are at the Grand but the rest?"

"Our people will call discreetly at all major hotels in the city. They will check on any new arrivals during the past week. They should not be difficult to identify we are

looking for Commando-style men, a number of whom we suspect previously belonged to the British terrorist SAS."

"Who, of course," she interjected sarcastically, 'are far worse than the KGB execution squads."

"I must leave now. You can alert our people and get the search under way at once. Gunther Baum is to be put in charge of both search and subsequent liquidations as many of them as possible to look like accidents. I am going to the house to collect all the folders before the conference commences aboard Kometa."

One of those old-fashioned houses… Gables and bulging windows like they used to build… must be at least fifty years old…

Stig Palme recalled the description the murdered locksmith had given him of the house in the country where he had seen Dr. Theodor Norling.

"At least I assume it was Norling," Palme continued while Beaurain, Harry Fondberg and Louise Hamilton listened to him as they sat eating lunch in the Opera House restaurant. It was a convenient meeting-place because it was close to the Grand Hotel and was quiet. No-one occupied a table anywhere near them.

"It's all right, Stig," Beaurain assured the Swede, "I'm damned sure it was Norling. He was personally attending to organising another of the Syndicate's "demonstrations". Don't forget poor Erika was supposed to have committed suicide but other members of the Syndicate would have known better. Now, Harry, this raid on the house in the country, which Stig can locate for us. Can it be soon? And a combined operation between my people and Sapo. Unofficially, of course?"

"It can be today!" Fondberg announced and took a deep puff on his cigar to show his satisfaction at the prospect of action.

Six cars were moving along the E3 highway beyond the outskirts of Stockholm and out in open country. Palme had been chosen to lead the assault convoy because he was Swedish, and because he knew the location of the house which the dead locksmith, Tobias Seiger, had described. In the second vehicle Jules Beaurain sat behind the wheel of his Mercedes which Albert had driven to Stockholm.

"You really think this house could be the HQ of the Stockholm Syndicate?" Louise asked as she peered eagerly out of the window.

"I'm guessing — but it would fit the basic requirements of a headquarters from Stig's own recollection of the place. Hugo won't want anywhere in Stockholm. It's OK for Theodor Norling to have his apartment in Gamla Stan I think Norling just meets people there, just like Otto Berlin meets people in Bruges."

"In mobility they find safety?"

Beaurain paused. "Something like that. But an old house right out in the country, well back off the road so it attracts no attention, and yet close to a highway which gives swift access to Stockholm. As I said, I'm gambling, but it fits the basic requirements."

"Some gamble!"

Louise twisted in her seat and looked back down the curving highway through the rear window. She could see at least two of the four cars following them and inside each car Henderson had installed a team of four men accustomed to working together as a group. And — the thought occurred to her — had Harry Fondberg known the arms concealed aboard these vehicles he would have had a fit. Sergeant Jock Henderson, riding in the third car, was organised for a small war. And he was in radio contact with all the other vehicles, using a pre-arranged code which would have meant nothing to any outside listeners.

"Of course it could all be for nothing," Louise remarked. "And where is Harry Fondberg? Incidentally, I presume you know there's a traffic helicopter flying along the highway?"

"I had noticed the chopper," Beaurain informed her solemnly. "I happen to know Harry Fondberg is aboard it. And, as you so cheerfully predict, it could all be for nothing."

*

The Cessna was waiting for Viktor Rashkin — he could see it in the distance! Throwing his peaked cap onto the rear seat, he grabbed the pilot's helmet by his side and confidently climbed out of the car, locked it in the parking zone and strode across the airfield.

In the control tower a man picked up a pair of field glasses, focused them on the figure striding towards the Cessna with a springy step and asked to be excused. Instead of heading towards the lavatories he stepped inside the nearest payphone and dialled Ed Cottel's number. In his room at the Grand the American answered with his room number.

"Westerberg here," his caller identified himself. "Ozark is just leaving. Official destination Kjula, as usual."

"Understood," Cottel replied laconically. "Goodbye. And let's hope we win a bundle."

Kjula was a small military and civil airfield about fifteen kilometres from the town of Strangnas which you reached by travelling along Highway E3 — the route Beaurain and his gunners were now moving along.

Before leaving the Grand to join the convoy Beau-rain had slipped into the CIA man's room to tell him what he planned and the location of the strange old house where the locksmith had seen a blond man with sideburns leaving. The only fact Beaurain had omitted to mention to Ed Cottel was that the locksmith had reported the fair-haired man as leaving the house for Stockholm in a Volvo estate wagon carrying American diplomatic plates.

Two minutes later Cottel was behind the wheel of his hired Renault parked outside the hotel. He was going to have to make speed to catch up with Beaurain's convoy.

They were travelling through the province of Soderman land along the E3 highway and Louise was fascinated by the beauty of the scenery. "I had no idea the countryside just outside Stockholm was so lovely."

"Yes, it's attractive," Beaurain agreed.

Louise sat entranced as the sun blazed down once again out of an immaculate sky and the highway spread ahead, passing through tiny gorges where granite crags closed in on the road, then opened out again to reveal rolling green hills covered with fir trees, fields of yellow rape, the occasional wooden farmhouse painted a strong rust-red standing out in stark contrast to the surrounding green. She glanced in her wing mirror and stiffened.

Taking the field glasses from the glove compartment she swung in her seat and aimed the glasses through the rear window at the Renault roaring up behind them. Behind tinted glasses the face of Ed Cottel came rushing towards her.

"We're being followed," she said tensely. "Ed Cottel's right behind us. Any second he'll drive through our rear window."

"I know."

The Renault was too damned close for Louise's comfort. Beaurain waved Cottel to move ahead of the Mercedes. Within minutes, moving round a curve, Beaurain spotted a road sign a large white letter "M' on a blue ground. He pointed it out to Louise.

"That indicates a lay-by coming up. We can pull in there and see what Ed is getting so excited about. I told him where we were going."

Beaurain hooted and signalled that he was pulling into the lay-by. When he had stopped he remained seated behind the wheel of his car and waited while Cottel, who had parked further along the lay-by, climbed out of his Renault and began walking back towards them.

"Wouldn't it be nice to get out and greet him?" Louise suggested.

"Not until we find out what he's up to," Beaurain replied.

They were now well out in the country and there was very little traffic on the E3. More rolling green hills capped with dark smudges of fir forest, a landscape which seemed to go on forever. The warmth of the sun beat down on the Mercedes as Cottel approached them on foot.

For his normal sober and well-cut suit he had substituted a pair of old jeans, sneakers and a shabby anorak. The American leaned on the edge of the open window, greeted Louise politely and then said, "My people tell me Viktor Rashkin — piloting his own Cessna — took off from Bromma some time ago with a flight plan giving his destination as Kjula airfield."

"Which leads you to think, Ed?"

"That if you wanted to fool someone you might fly to Kjula and then drive back from the Strangnas direction as though heading into Stockholm. Just a thought. Mind if I continue tagging on behind?"

"Suit yourself, Ed."

While Cottel walked back to his Renault, Beaurain pulled out of the lay-by and sped past the American to catch up with Palme's Saab. In his rear-view mirror he saw the car with Henderson at the wheel approaching. The other three car-loads of gunners would not be far behind.

"You were pretty rude to Ed," Louise observed.

"I merely used as few words as possible in the conversation. We are, in case you've forgotten, working to a time-table with Harry Fondberg."

"Now give me the real reason."

"Supposing you wanted to divert someone's attention from a certain direction what would be the most effective way of doing it?"

"Point them in another direction. You can't mean Cottel keeps drawing your attention to Viktor Rash-kin's movements to divert your attention from Washington, for God's sake?"

Harvey Sholto, the man from Vietnam, the man whose past and present were clouded in vagueness, and the man about whom presidential aide, Joel Cody, had taken the trouble to phone Harry Fondberg to tell him of his imminent arrival, was staying at the Hotel Reisen.

He had chosen the hotel with care. It was located on the island which contained Gamla Stan. Its front overlooked the Strommen belt of water. With a pair of field glasses used from his bedroom window the tall, heavily-built, bald-headed American could see across the water clearly to the front entrance of the Grand Hotel, the cars parked outside and anyone who entered or left the hotel. He had been sitting astride a chair watching through his field glasses when he saw Beaurain and Louise leave the hotel and climb into the Mercedes.

Hurrying downstairs, he got in behind the wheel of the Volvo he had hired and drove swiftly along the river front and over the bridge to the mainland. He arrived in time to insert his vehicle into the traffic within tracking distance of the Mercedes.

Wearing a straw hat — which completely concealed his bald head — and a large pair of shaped tinted glasses, he had changed his appearance so that only a face-to-face encounter would make him recognisable to someone he knew. Glancing to his left he saw a Renault driving briefly alongside him. The two cars were parallel for only a few seconds, but long enough for Sholto to recognise the hooked-nosed profile of CIA agent Ed Cottel.

Sensing that he was following Beaurain, Sholto changed to shadowing the CIA man. He observed the forming-up of the convoy of cars which followed a Saab being followed by Beaurain's Mercedes as they changed direction and, in a matter of minutes, were moving out in the direction of Strangnas on Highway E3.

It was Sholto who formed the invisible tail of the convoy, careful to keep the last car in sight while he lit cigarette after cigarette and his button-like eyes gleamed with concentration. As he continued driving, staring through the tinted glasses at the unrolling highway, he felt under his armpit the comforting bulge of the Colt. 45 in its sprung holster. On the seat beside him an Armalite rifle was wrapped in a blanket. It was beginning to look as though his urgent mission decided on in Washington was almost completed.

For long stretches in the open country the E3 has no barrier protecting the flat farmland alongside — the road simply merges with the level grassland. Palme had hidden his Saab by driving straight off the deserted highway over the grass and parking his vehicle behind a copse of trees. When Beaurain appeared he waved to him to follow suit and waited to guide the other vehicles in the convoy off the highway.

"What's Ed doing?" Louise asked as Beaurain skilfully and slowly manoeuvred the ton-and-a-half of metal along the same route and behind the same copse.

"Doing his own thing — as usual," Beaurain observed laconically.

The American continued along the highway and was soon out of sight beyond a curve. Overhead the traffic helicopter had appeared again, the machine carrying Harry Fondberg.

"Lose altitude," Fondberg ordered, sitting in the seat alongside the pilot. He rested his elbows on the arms of his seat to give stability and focused his high-powered binoculars on the Renault which had earlier stopped for a brief consultation with Jules Beaurain.

"Got you." Fondberg made a note of the registration number and then told the pilot to regain height. His next focus of interest was the convoy of vehicles leaving the road, ploughing over the grass and assembling behind a copse of trees to form a laager. It seemed to the chief of Sapo that interesting developments were about to take place.

Concerned with the movement of the convoy out of sight behind the trees, Fondberg missed the passage of a beige Volvo driven by a man wearing a straw hat. Having noted where the vehicles had left the road — and also aware of the traffic helicopter overhead — Harvey Sholto proceeded at a sedate pace along E3 until he was out of sight beyond the bend.

One of those old-fashioned houses… Gables and bulging windows like they used to build… must be at least fifty years old…

Concealed with the others behind a second copse of trees, Palme used his left hand to scratch at his crew-cut. The murdered locksmith had been incredibly accurate when he described both place and location. The house was just where he had expected to find it. It looked like the house in Psycho.

Even Palme, who was not overly sensitive to atmosphere, felt there was something distinctly wrong with the place.

"I don't like it," he told Beaurain who stood alongside him with Jock Henderson just beyond. The Belgian was scanning the place with his own field glasses. He was inclined to agree. It looked a little too damned quiet. Curtains at all the windows, half-drawn to keep out the strong sunlight the way people do to protect rugs and carpets — or when they are away.

The steps up to the open veranda had a rickety look and the paint was peeling, but the rest of the house looked in good condition. The tarred drive ran straight up to the base of the steps and then curved round the right-hand side of the house. On the same side there was the silhouette, partially masked by the trees, of an ancient outhouse.

"Any sign of occupation?" Louise whispered.

There was something about the atmosphere of the place which encouraged whispering, something about the heavy, hot silence which hung like a cloud over the strange building.

"Can't see a damned thing," Beaurain said as he lowered his glasses, but there was a lack of conviction in his voice. "What do you think?" he asked.

"I don't like it," Palme repeated and again scratched his head with his left hand; his right was holding a loaded machine-pistol.

"I suggest we surround it first, sir," Henderson suggested crisply. "Then move in from all sides at an agreed moment. There's a drainage ditch just behind us with grass grown up all round it — a perfect conduit if we wriggle on our bellies and head for the rear of the house and then circle round."

"There's a lake not far away," Palme observed. "A lot of them in this area. This one's reasonably large." He showed the map to Beaurain, who made a remark he was later to regret.

"Can't be of any significance. I agree, Jock, we approach with extreme caution. Surround the place and then move in from all sides. Jock, get it organised and get it moving!"

The 'traffic' helicopter with Harry Fondberg aboard had flown away some distance and when Louise shaded her eyes against the glare of the sun she saw it as little more than a speck. Fondberg was deliberately moving out of the battle area so as not to alert the opposition. Louise stood behind the trees which concealed them from the highway, staring again at the house through her field glasses.

Henderson and his team of twelve armed gunners, equipped with walkie-talkies, had already disappeared along the drainage ditch. Watching the grasses above the ditch Beaurain could not see the slightest sign of movement. He just hoped that from an upper window in the house it was not possible to see down into the ditch. He heard an exclamation from Louise, who had moved a few yards away and was still surveying the general area of the house. He joined her.

"What is it?"

"When Stig was interviewing that locksmith in his shop didn't he say he'd seen a Volvo station wagon with American diplomatic plates?"

"Yes, he tried to follow the car on its way into Stockholm and lost it. Why?" There was a note of impatience in Beaurain's tone.

"Because parked behind the house there is a Volvo station wagon the only thing is the diplomatic plates are Russian, not American."

"Seiger must have been so terrified he tried to hold back some of the truth. And that car means someone is inside that house!"