The Stockholm syndicate

Chapter Two

Sitting by herself at the window table in the Auberge des Roses, Sonia Karnell had witnessed the violent events in the rue des Bouchers with the aid of her compact mirror. Constructed of the finest glass and always kept highly polished, the mirror was one of the tools of her trade. While all the other diners were enjoying their meal and noticing nothing, Sonia was giving an imitation of a vain thirty-year-old who could not stop looking at herself.

She watched the swift and decisive assault on Serge Litov. The murderous efficiency of Telescope's operation impressed Sonia and she decided she must include this in her report. She waited ten minutes and called for her bill.

As she left the restaurant, she ignored the admiring glances of several males. She walked rapidly to the hired Peugeot she had parked a quarter of a mile away. With the roads almost clear of traffic once outside the city, she reached her destination in under two hours.

Entering Bruges was like travelling back through a time machine five hundred years. The old city was a labyrinth of waterways and medieval streets and squares. Her nerves started to play up as she approached the Hoogste van Brugge. It was the man she had come to see who worried her. He did not take kindly to the bearers of bad tidings.

It was two in the morning when she parked the car and walked a short distance down a side street and then turned into the confined and cobbled alley which was the Hoogste van Brugge. Dr. Otto Berlin resided at No. 285 during his rare visits to Bruges.

As she used the key to open the heavy door of No. 285 Sonia Karnell never gave a thought to the building opposite.

The cine-camera equipped with an infra-red tele-photo lens was operated by a patient Reming. He started up the camera as soon as she approached the building although he then had no idea whether the dark-haired woman had any connection with No. 285. He kept it running until she had closed the door behind her. The windows opposite were masked by heavy curtains.

"It didn't work Litov failed. Worse still, Telescope captured him alive and took him away in a van they had ready waiting."

Sonia was anxious to get over the worst at once, not knowing how her chief would react. Dr. Berlin sat behind a baize-covered table in a tiny room on the first floor. The only light came from a milky globe on the table, shaded with dark red cloth. She faced him across the table, her chair drawn up close to support her back. As he said nothing she went on talking, to appease him. Although a native of Stockholm, she was speaking in fluent French.

Telescope had men everywhere. I saw it all from the restaurant Litov told me to go to. Beaurain came up the street on foot again… it all seemed so innocent and natural… the van I hadn't taken any notice of, but that was where some of them were hidden… they poured out of it when Litov was about to shoot at point-blank range. Litov of all people! How could he walk into such a trap?"

"He didn't."

Berlin was a fat man, no longer forty certainly but probably not sixty.

His greasy black hair hung across his forehead. He wore a dark moustache curved down to the sides of his mouth and his glasses had heavy rims and thick pebble lenses. He wore a pair of pigskin gloves.

He had replied to Karnell in the language she had been speaking. She stared in amazement at the reply.

"He didn't?" she repeated.

"But I'm sure it was Litov!"

"It was Litov," Berlin agreed.

"Then if it was Litov I don't understand," she burst out.

"His job was to kill Beaurain and escape."

"No. His job was to infiltrate Telescope and locate its main base.

Only then can we mount a plan to destroy Telescope and all its works."

"And Litov," Karnell protested, 'having been taken to this base, simply has to observe its location, escape and come running back to us with the information? Litov, of course, will have no trouble escaping…"

Berlin leaned across the table. By the glow of the lamp his huge shadow loomed across the ceiling. He hit the side of her face with the back of his hand.

"Never speak to me in that tone again," he said.

"It was just the shock of what you said," she stammered.

"The fact that you had not trusted me."

"You know how we work, my dear Sonia." His voice was a soothing purr now, but still with the guttural accent which could not disguise completely the harsh menace he conveyed.

"Each knows only what is necessary to know to do his or her job at the time. I think we will leave now. You have parked the car in the T'Zand? Good. On the way we will warn the entire network to keep alert for Beaurain's next move."

The blow to the side of her face had not really hurt her; it had been little more than a rather bear-like caress. Had Berlin really struck out, she would have ended up sprawled on the floor against the wall, possibly with her neck broken. He stood up and she wrinkled her nose at his soiled and crumpled suit. Berlin took two hand grenades from a cupboard, each of which he examined with care before depositing one in either jacket pocket. They were primed ready for use.

He led the way down the staircase, squeezing between banister rail and the peeling wall-plaster.

Sonia Karnell checked the time. 2.30 a.m. Berlin was a man who preferred to conduct his business and to travel by night.

"Who lives during the dark hours?" was one of his favourite sayings.

She turned on the pocket torch always kept in her handbag and followed Berlin into the street. The houses in the Hoogste van Brugge, all joined together and all built centuries ago, were like up-ended matchboxes the thin side facing the street. Berlin had taken a beret from somewhere and crammed it on his head.

"You're sure you mean the word is to go out at all levels?" she said.

"Right up to the top?"

"Right up to the top," he assured her.

There was no change of expression behind the thick pebble glasses as her torch caught the lenses for a second, but Berlin knew the reason for her checking, for her surprise. The word would now go out which was rarely invoked, the word which would alert a whole army of watchers to observe and report on the activities, movements and conversations of Jules Beaurain, head of Telescope. The code-word was Zenith.

It would go out to hotel receptionists, airport personnel, railway staff, petrol station attendants, Customs and Immigration officials at ports. Theoretically it would be impossible for Jules Beaurain to move in western Europe without his movement immediately being reported to Berlin.

But the word would also go out to a much more exalted level. Most important of all and this was what had so shaken Sonia Karnell when she had fully grasped this was a Zenith call the word would go out to men controlling banks and industries who, with the same urgency and motivated by the same fear as the lowliest baggage handler, would report on all and any contact they might have from now on with Jules Beaurain. It would become known throughout western Europe that the Belgian was a marked man. The next codeword would be the one sent out to kill him.

From the first-floor window of the house opposite, Fritz Dewulf had busily operated his cine-camera. The pictures of the woman would be good. The results on the man should be even better — Dewulf was confident. He had him on film full-face as he had stared up and down the street. He hoped it was the man Dr. Goldschmidt was most interested in because the doctor paid according to value — the market value.

An d I wonder who Goldschmidt hopes to sell these pretty pictures to in due course, Dewulf mused as he settled down to wait out the rest of the night vigil. It was just possible the owner of No. 285 would return later, although Dewulf doubted it; there had been an air of finality about the way the fat man had shuffled off down the street. For the next few hours at any rate. A sudden thought crossed the photographer's mind and he grinned. Maybe Goldschmidt would sell the film to the fat man who starred on the reel! It had happened before.

It was not a conclusion Dewulf would have drawn had he known anything about the personalities involved.

Berlin sat silent and motionless in the passenger seat of the Peugeot as Sonia Karnell headed towards Ghent and Brussels. Sonia, who could drive almost any car with the expertise and panache of a professional racing driver just one of her many talents which Berlin appreciated was careful not to break the silence. Experience had taught her to be sensitive to her chief's moods; the slightest misjudgement could provoke a vicious outburst. When taking a decision he might not speak for an hour.

"The darkness helps my concentration," he had once explained.

"I am a natural creature of the night, I suppose. Most people fear it. I like it."

They were passing open fields on both sides with no sign of human habitation visible in the dark when she turned off the main road, slowing as she negotiated a sharp downward incline and proceeded cautiously along a cinder track with her headlights full on. Berlin stirred as though emerging from a coma.

"We are there already?" he demanded in some surprise.

"Yes, you have been thinking." She said it in the way someone might say, You have been sleeping.

Turn the car round so if there is an emergency…"

Only with a considerable effort of will was she able to stop herself bursting out in irritation. Unlike Berlin, who never seemed fatigued, she was tired and edgy and the prospect of bed seemed infinitely desirable. Of course she would have turned round. And what Berlin meant was that if she ran into trouble where she was going he must be in a position to drive away from the danger, leaving her to fend for herself. Sonia did not resent this; she understood the necessity for it. But the fact that he thought she needed reminding infuriated her.

She dipped the headlights, switched off the engine and left the key in the ignition. Next, without a word, she reached under her seat for the Luger. She placed the weapon in his lap and turned away, opening her door.

"Be careful to check that Frans and that bitch are alone before you go on board."

The warning astonished her. Something momentous was imminent, or he wouldn't treat her like this. They must be close to the climax of the operation against Telescope, she decided. Gripping a torch she made her way down the little-used track. The stench of the canal was in her nostrils. Now she had to climb again, to mount the embankment to where Frans Darras' barge was moored. As she reached the top of the track her thin torch beam shone on the large bulk of the barge. Then a searchlight so it seemed to her — blazed on and glared into her eyes.

She could see nothing at all, for Christ's sake. Was it the police?

And inside her bag was a Walther automatic with a spare magazine. She raised one hand to fend off the fierce glare. From nearby she heard Frans' voice speak in French.

"It is her, Rosa. You can put out the light."

Sonia, blinded still, gave full vent to her feelings.

"You stupid bitch! You could have called out instead of lighting up the whole world with that bloody lamp."

It w as Frans who came out of the darkness, holding a shotgun, and with her own torch pointed the way onto the barge.

"We've got a Zenith, Frans. That's why I'm here."

" Zenith! "Keep your voice down, man."

Frans took the lamp from Rosa and handed her the shotgun.

"Keep a lookout on deck," he said. He continued in hushed tones to Sonia, gesturing to where the car was parked.

"He is here?"

"He is here. He won't be pleased with that idiocy with the searchlight." They went below-deck.

"It was my fault I told her to aim the lamp while I stayed in the dark with the shotgun. We heard the car how could we be sure it was you and not the police or the other people?"

"Wh at other people?"

Sonia forced herself to speak casually, but could not meet his eyes for fear of revealing her shock at what he had just suggested he knew.

"I mean Telescope, of course…" He stopped in mid-sentence.

"I will transmit the signal," he mumbled, opening a cupboard.

"What is the complete message? I'll write it down."

"Yes, you had better do just that," she said coldly, watching his every movement now. Transmit over the whole network, "Jules Beaurain ex-Chief Superintendent Belgian police lives apartment off Boulevard Waterloo Brussels Zenith repeat Zenith".'

Removing a bundle of screwed-up clothing from the lower shelf of the cupboard, Darras fiddled with a corner of the roof and the apparently solid back slid aside, exposing a high-powered transceiver. He pressed another button and a power-operated aerial emerged on deck and climbed into the night alongside the TV mast. Now he was ready to transmit and the signal he would send out was so strong it could reach any part of western Europe. He also set a clock-timer for three minutes, which must be the duration of the transmission. Police radio-detector vans normally n eeded five minutes to get a fix on any transmission their listening posts picked up.

"I will leave you," Sonia said in the same cold voice.

"You will get the barge moving before you actually transmit?" she demanded of Darras.

"I was just waiting for you to leave."

"Then hurry."

Climbing the greasy steps to the deck, she felt the planks under her feet vibrate gently as Darras started up his ancient engine. Rosa was nowhere to be seen. Sonia scrambled back down the path and then up the nettle-bordered cinder track. Berlin had put out the side-lights. He was clasping the Luger which he handed to her without a word. His hand closed over hers as she reached for the ignition.

"You were longer than usual. And what was that with the light?"

Being careful to keep her story concise he couldn't stand long-windedness she told him what had happened. With shoulders hunched forward he listened with great concentration.

"What do you think?" he asked eventually.

"I'm worried. I don't like the Rosa woman, but that's not relevant but I think she has influence over Frans."

"And Frans himself?"

"He worried me even more. I think he's losing his grip. I'm sure he was going to operate his transmitter while the barge was stationary."

"That was the point which struck me," Berlin said thoughtfully. Turn on the engine now."

"You think we should cut the Darrases out of the network?" she asked as she started the car up the track towards the road.

"It is more serious than that," Berlin decided.

"I think we shall have to send a visitor."