The Stockholm syndicate

Chapter Twenty-Three

The signals went out from Firestorm at midnight. Beaurain sent them in prearranged codes to Fondberg waiting in Stockholm, to Marker waiting at the strangely-shaped police headquarters in Copenhagen, and also to Chief Inspector Willy Flamen in Brussels.

By ten minutes after midnight the biggest dragnet ever launched on the continent was under way as detector vans and fleets of patrol cars waited for a spate of Syndicate transmissions. They started at exactly three in the morning. Fondberg phoned Beaurain over the ship's radio-telephone shortly afterwards.

"What was the significance of your timing?" the Swede asked.

"Because someone must have reached Bornholm about midnight. His first task would be to send a message warning what is left of the Syndicate of the catastrophe."

"What catastrophe?"

"Wait for news from Bornholm tomorrow morning."

"Anyway you were right! It's working!"

Fondberg sounded excited. All over Europe the detector vans were homing in on the sources of the mysterious transmissions — because for the first time they were not looking on the roads. They were concentrating on the waterways. And due to the emergency the transmissions were prolonged.

In Belgium, France and Holland, barges were being boarded as the Syndicate's radio operators were caught in the middle of transmitting. In Denmark, ships in the Oresund were being boarded. In Sweden, launches and cruisers on the waterways inside Stockholm were being raided. In Germany the barges were on the Rhine. And by launching synchronised attacks at precisely the same moment there was no opportunity for one section of the Syndicate to warn another. At one sweeping blow the entire communications system — without which the Syndicate could not operate — was wiped out.

"A fair-haired girl left the apartment at Radmansgatan 490 and took the airline bus to Arlanda. She is expected to arrive in Copenhagen at…"

Fondberg called Beaurain again on Firestorm as the vessel raced westward away from Bornholm, heading for the Oresund and Copenhagen. As arranged with Beaurain earlier, Fondberg had mounted a round-the-clock surveillance on the Radmansgatan apartment. Two of his men had followed her and, on arrival at Arlanda, they had watched her check in at the Scandinavian Airlines counter for the next flight to Copenhagen.

'… 08.30," Fondberg continued. "And the first Danair flight out of Bnne on Bornholm is Flight SK 262 departing Bonne at 08.10 and arriving Copenhagen at 08.40. Who do you expect to be aboard that aircraft?"

"Better you don't know, Harry," Beaurain had replied. "And thanks for the information on the blonde girl. Be in touch."

He broke the connection on the radio-telephone and looked at Louise who had been listening in. She was frowning with perplexity.

"Blonde?" Louise queried. "Can that be Sonia Karnell?"

"It can be — and it is," Beaurain assured her as he rubbed his bloodshot eyes. When had he last slept? He couldn't be sure. "A blonde wig," he explained.

"Of course. God, I must be losing my grip. But I'm completely shattered. What did you mean by saying we must break the American connection before Harry Fondberg phoned? And who is flying into Copenhagen from Bornholm?"

"Answer both your questions when I'm sure." Beau-rain took one of his sudden decisions.

"I think we'll get to Kastrup Airport ahead of everyone — we'll get Anderson to fly us there in the Sikorsky. And we'll take some back-up, including Stig."

He checked his watch. Four o'clock in the morning. It had been daylight for over an hour and the sky had all the appearance of yet another glorious, cloudless day of mounting heat. They should be at Kastrup by five o'clock; there would be very little activity at that hour and — with a little luck — no-one to observe their arrival in the Danish capital.

They had passed perfunctorily through Customs and Immigration and were moving into the main reception hall when Louise stopped and gripped Beaurain's arm. Gently she pulled him back behind a pillar, then gestured with her head towards a closed bookstall. Beaurain peered cautiously round the pillar while Palme and the other three men froze behind them. Beaurain studied a man standing in profile by the bookstall, holding a magazine which he appeared to be reading.

"Ed Cottel," he murmured.

The American connection," Louise said.

They retreated out of the reception hall and deeper inside the airport buildings. Palme conducted his reconnaissance and returned with the news.

"They have troops all round the airport," he reported. "All possible exits are covered and we're heavily outnumbered. Men in cars apparently waiting for passengers. Men in taxis. There are two men out on the highway pretending to deal with a defective street lamp."

"Where did you get the boiler suit from, Stig?" Louise asked.

Palme looked apologetic. "I found a cleaner in the toilets,"

"You knocked him out cold and hid him in a closet," Louise told him.

"Yes. But in this I was able to wander everywhere — especially when I was carrying the pail. No-one ever notices a man in a boiler suit carrying a pail," Only Beaurain appeared unperturbed. Palme looked round to make sure they were unobserved, then produced from his jacket underneath the boiler suit three guns a Colt. 45, a Luger and a small 9-mm. pistol which Louise promptly grabbed as Beaurain took the Luger.

"The mechanic who handled the chopper when we landed here," Palme explained, 'is a friend of mine and keeps weaponry for me so he can slip it to me after we've passed through what are pompously known as official channels," "Ed Cottel is going to take us out through his own troops," said Louise. She took a firm grip on the pistol with her right hand and covered the weapon with her folded coat. "Any objection?" she asked Beaurain.

"Go ahead,"

She walked briskly back into the main reception hall and Beaurain followed more casually. She made no attempt to conceal her presence and marched straight towards where Ed Cottel was still standing pretending to read his magazine. Not for the first time Beaurain admired her sheer nerve, her audacious tactics. She reached Cottel who looked up and spoke.

"Don't any of you leave the airport, Louise, for God's sake. It is surrounded by extremely professional killers."

"Under this coat I have a gun aimed at you point-blank. Now, as a matter of academic interest, who are these killers?"

"They're the American connection," said Cottel matter-of-factly. "But that's not me. I guess I still have some explaining to do."

Beaurain was behind her. He took Louise's arm and squeezed it.

"I'm going to use that payphone over there for a minute," he said. "While I'm doing it, why don't you two exchange experiences — and maybe it would be safer to walk back further inside the building complex and join Sag and the rest of them."

They sat on a seat by themselves while Cottel explained it to Louise. A short distance away Palme kept watch. It had all started when Washington had asked Ed Cottel to come out of retirement and do one last job for them — track down the Telescope organisation. He had agreed and then at the last minute, when it was too late to substitute anyone else, had informed his superiors he was combining the Telescope mission with a personal investigation into the Stockholm Syndicate.

"When Harvey Sholto said "What's that?" in front of certain top aides who are next to our President — and they all tried to look as though they didn't know what the hell I was talking about — I knew something was wrong. From that time on I was a marked target on a limited schedule,"

"What does that mean?" Louise asked.

"That I would be allowed to proceed to Europe in the hope that I'd expose Telescope." He gave a lopsided grin.

"Whatever that might be. Once I'd done that, I'd be liquidated — probably by Harvey Sholto himself. Luckily the Sapo chief's men in Sweden spotted the early arrival of Sholto so I took extra precautions to keep underground. Once they realised I was devoting all my energies — using all the network of informants and helpers I built up over twenty years — to crack the Stockholm Syndicate, my limited schedule, as they so nicely phrase it, ran out. They sent out a Nadir signal on me. To be terminated with extreme prejudice."

"Why is Washington so worried?"

"Because most of the President's electoral campaign funds come from precisely those American industrial corporations who are members of the Syndicate." Cottel's voice became briefly vehement. "You know how our President avoids issues likely to embarrass him — he looks the other way, pretends they don't exist."

"I still don't understand it fully, Ed. This Harvey Sholto — how much power has he? What is his official position?"

"No official position at all any longer. More power than anyone else in Washington below the rank of president because of what he knows. Christ, Louise, I've as good as told you — that's the guy who photocopied all Edgar J. Hoover's files! Those files had all the dirt on every influential figure in the country. He's built up dossiers so dangerous, no-one in Washington dare touch him. But what was the use of just scaring people? And then he thought up the idea of the Stockholm Syndicate. He contacted Viktor Rashkin in Stockholm — I suspect they must have met secretly in the Far East earlier."

He broke off as Beaurain reappeared, his former fatigue no longer apparent, and he checked his watch as he came up to the seat. "We'll be out of here in five minutes, maybe less."

"How?" Cottel asked sceptic ally

"By courtesy of Superintendent Marker of Danish police Intelligence. At the moment a fleet of police cars full of armed men is racing to Kastrup. I told him where Sholto has placed his troops it is Sholto, isn't it, Ed? I thought so. Those two pretending to repair a street lamp are in for a shock."

"There'll be shooting?" Cottel queried.

"Not a shot fired would be my guess. Viktor Rashkin is due here aboard a Danair flight from Bonne and they won't want the place swarming with police. I think I can hear police sirens now."

"You can't touch Rashkin," the American warned. The bastard can always claim diplomatic immunity."

"So we wait a few hours and I think Rashkin will solve the problem for us. Yes, you can hear the sirens. Sound to be a hell of a lot of them,"

There was no shooting. Bodel Marker had sent an overwhelming force to Kastrup and none of the men waiting for Beaurain put up resistance. The fact that they carried firearms was more than sufficient reason, for putting them behind bars. Beaurain then explained the final move in detail to Marker, one of the key men responsible for smashing the Syndicate's communications system. He obtained the Dane's full agreement to his plan, not all of which was strictly in accordance with the law. And it was Marker who provided transport in the form of unmarked police cars for Beaurain and his companions to move into the city.

"What was all that about?" Louise asked as they drove away from Kastrup.

Marker had provided them with three cars. In the lead vehicle, a Citroen, Beaurain was driving with Louise beside him while in the rear sat Palme and Anderson, the laconic Sikorsky pilot. The two cars following them, both Audis, contained Max Keller-man and five of Henderson's gunners. Henderson was driving the third car, guarding their rear.

"I will guide you to the arms depot," Palme announced.

"Here in Copenhagen?" queried Louise.

"Over this bridge and turn right," said Palme calmly. "Into the Prinsesse Gade." The three cars pulled into a drab side street and parked. Minutes later Palme had returned with his suitcase and they were on their way again, heading back to the main road.

"Where are we going now Stig has tooled up, as he would say?" Louise enquired.

"To the house on Nyhavn — which is where the whole horrendous series of events is going to end unless I've guessed wrong."

"You wouldn't care to elaborate?" They drove over the Knippels Bro into the heart of Copenhagen.

"The American connection is Harvey Sholto Ed explained about the Edgar Hoover dossiers. With those and his high-level connections Sholto organised the Syndicate membership in the States. He links up with Rashkin, who organises the European end; I suspect that Rashkin has been running a one-man band."

"With the aid of a three-man directorate?"

"Let's see what happens at the house on Nyhavn," Beaurain said.

Ed Cottel, who had stayed behind at Kastrup, watched through a pair of high-powered glasses the arrival of the DC-9 jet Danair Flight SK 262 from Bonne. As he watched passengers filing off the plane he began to worry. He couldn't identify Viktor Rash-kin. Then he had an idea. He hurried to the main exit where cabs waited for fares.

He was rewarded for his flash of inspiration or so he thought, when he saw a Mercedes with Soviet diplomatic plates pull in at the kerb. A slim man carrying a Danair flight bag appeared, the rear door was opened by the chauffeur, closed, and the limousine glided away, followed by one of Superintendent Marker's 'plain-clothes' cars when Cottel gave the driver a signal. Sweating with the anxiety he had felt, Cottel waited a little longer, watching the departing passengers before he walked rapidly along the airport building front to a parked car which was Marker's control vehicle and equipped with a transceiver. He slid in beside the man behind the wheel.

"I'd like to report to Jules Beaurain."

"Be my guest," the Dane invited, handing him the microphone. "If you can get through it will be a miracle — on a clear day like this the static is bloody murder — what with the high pressure area over Scandinavia."

Talking of high pressure…" Cottel mopped his damp forehead as he called Beaurain. The Belgian replied at once with great clarity.

"The big R.," Cottel began, referring to Viktor Rashkin, 'had a Merc with CD. plates waiting to pick him up. Our friends have followed. Funny thing, when I watched the passengers disembarking earlier I couldn't spot him through the glasses."

It was just one of those throwaway observations you make, particularly when you have been keyed up, when you are short on sleep, when you thought you had blown it and then found you hadn't. The Belgian's reaction was tense, almost explosive.

"Listen to this description, Ed. A grey-haired man of medium build. Probably a snappy dresser, could even be wearing a velvet jacket with gold buttons. Rimless glasses. May be wearing a skull-cap like Orthodox Jews go in for."

Cottel stared at the microphone open-mouthed, then got a grip on himself. "A guy just like that got into a beat-up Volkswagen as the limousine took off. I didn't take much notice of him — and he wasn't carrying a Danair bag."

"He wouldn't be," Beaurain informed him. "You wouldn't recognise him, but Dr. Benny Horn has just arrived in Copenhagen. You're waiting now for the flight bringing in Sonia Karnell from Stockholm? Good. I think we're all going to meet up at the house on Nyhavn. And good luck — no-one has yet located Harvey Sholto,"

"You think he's in the city too?" Cottel asked grimly.

"He has to be."

For the first time in weeks the weather changed as they approached Nyhavn. The sky clouded over, a faint hint of mist drifted in from the sea and, as they arrived at the familiar basin of water, the seamen's bars on the left and tourist shops on the right, it began to drizzle. A fine spray of moisture descended on the tangle of ship's masts in the basin. The stones in the street were moist. The convoy of three cars drove a short distance past the end of the basin, out of sight of Nyhavn, and then parked.

"They may have watchers observing Horn's house," Beaurain warned, 'so our first task is to locate them and take them out."

" May? " Louise queried. "The Syndicate always has watchers."

"That was before this morning."

"But they still had Kastrup airport staked out with men," she objected. "You had to get Marker to send out a whole team to pick them up."

"That was because Rashkin was coming in. He would have phoned Copenhagen from Bornholm and asked for protection — heavy protection — to be laid on after what happened to Kometa. But the Syndicate in Europe is coming to the end of its resources, its power is broken, the leaders went down with the Soviet hydrofoil."

"Then who are we expecting to see at the house on Nyhavn?"

"Hugo."

Palme opened the suitcase from the arms deposit flat in Prinsesse Gade, and handed out weapons and ammunition. All hand-guns were equipped with silencers. He conferred briefly with Max Kellerman.

"There is a man watching from the flat almost opposite — there. I'll take him. Then there is a man on the deck of a fishing vessel making too much of looping up coils of rope. He's moored outside Horn's place. You take him."

It was very quiet in the drizzle as Palme and Kellerman moved off down different sides of the basin, both of them adopting a sailor's way of walking, merging with the odd man who even at that hour came staggering up the steps from one of the basement bars. Palme went into the building and up to the first floor flat where he had spotted his watcher. He kicked the flimsy door in and let the force of his own momentum carry him straight across the sparsely furnished room. In his right hand he held a Luger with a silencer. A man who had been staring out of the open window, sprawled on a sofa, grabbed for the automatic weapon by his side. Palme shot him twice and peered out of the window.

The seaman tending coils of rope had disappeared from the deck of the fishing vessel. In his place crouched Max Kellerman who was now doing the same job. It put him immediately facing the front door leading into Dr. Benny Horn's house.

A few minutes later he signalled to Beaurain and Louise as they stood looking into the window of an antique shop. The area was clean. And, standing on the top step and close to the front door of Horn's house, Palme had found the right skeleton key to open the expensive security lock. He walked in ahead of Beaurain and Louise, Luger extended in front of his body, eyes flickering up the narrow staircase, along the narrow hallway, his acute hearing sensitive to the slightest sound. The place smelt empty to Palme; occupied not so long ago but empty for the moment.

The calm waters of the shipping basin were dappled with drops of fine rain — and Max Kellerman laboriously coiled rope on the deck of the fishing vessel. Louise stepped over the threshold of Dr. Benny Horn's house and Beaurain closed the door.

"The place is clean."

In an astonishingly short space of time Palme had checked the ground floor, run upstairs, checked the first floor, returned to the hallway, vanished down a flight of steps behind a door leading to the basement and reappeared to make his pronouncement. He was a big man, Louise thought, yet he could move with the grace and speed of a gazelle.

"A kind of library room at the front," Palme explained, pointing to a door. "Bookshelves from floor to ceiling, heavy lace curtains masking the window overlooking the front… Kitchen and dining-room at the back with rear door on the first floor opening onto a fire escape down into a small yard. There is an exit into a side street from the yard. One of the gunners found it and stationed himself there. No-one gets in here without us knowing."

"Then the front room to await our guests?" Beaurain suggested.

Outside the drizzle continued to fall and Max

Kellerman ignored the fact that he was getting wetter and wetter.

Sonia Karnell was the first to arrive at Nyhavn. She arrived in a taxi from Kastrup Airport, paid off the driver and climbed the steps, the drizzle forming a web of moisture on her jet black hair. In her left hand she had the key ready; in her right she carried a suitcase and from a strap dangled a shoulder-bag.

It was the shoulder-bag Louise Hamilton was studying as she kept well back inside the library room and watched through the heavy lace curtains. Beau-rain was also inside the room, standing pressed flat against the wall close to the opening edge of the closed door.

"She's suspicious of something," Louise hissed.

The Swedish girl had looked back at the deck of the fishing vessel moored to the quay. She saw the wrong man coiling rope. She saw Max Kellerman.

Kellerman reacted instinctively. From under a fishing net he raised the barrel of his sub-machine gun, one of the weapons Palme had distributed from his arms deposit. No-one else was close enough to see it. Karnell saw it. She turned the key, dived into the hallway, slammed the door shut behind her and leant for a moment against the side wall. Louise walked out of the library room.

"Hello, Sonia. A long way from the Radmansgatan."

Louise was holding the pistol aimed point-blank, but the Swedish girl was either a suicide case or guessed these people did not want the sound of shooting yet. She leapt at the English girl like a tigress, dropping the suitcase, her hands extended like the claws of an animal. She aimed for the eyes. Louise hit her with the barrel of the pistol across the side of the temple. Karnell felt the side of her face and blood oozed between her fingers, the colour matching the tint of her nail varnish.

"Drop the shoulder-bag, Sonia," Louise ordered. "Slowly — try and grab your weapon and I'll shoot you in the stomach."

She watched while the shoulder-bag dropped on the hallway floor to join the suitcase. She was alone with the girl; Beaurain had remained invisible inside the library room and Palme had not shown himself at the top of the narrow staircase. It would be easier to scare the guts out of Karnell if the girl thought she was alone with Louise. Then Louise got it! Of course! A signal that the coast was clear, that it was safe for Horn to come inside when he arrived. Of course!

"What's the signal?" Louise asked viciously, advancing closer so that Karnell backed against the wall.

"Signal?"

" You stupid bitch! " Louise raised her pistol. "And you had good bone structure! This gun should re-arrange it so no man will look at you, let alone…"

Louise's mouth was slightly open, her teeth clenched tight; her gun arm began to move, the gunsight aimed to rake over the bridge of Karnell's nose, which like the rest of her was perfectly shaped. Karnell screamed, "The front room… a card in the window… it means everything OK. Come on in!"

" What card? "

"In the drawer…" In her terror she pushed past Louise, ran into the library and opened a drawer. Louise was close behind her but the only thing Karnell took out of the drawer was a postcard of old Copenhagen. Running to the window, she pulled aside the curtain, perched the card on the window and let the curtain fall into its original position.

Then she saw Beaurain for the first time.

"You know — don't you?" she said.

"I know," Beaurain agreed, 'so now we just wait." Louise body-searched the Swedish girl but the only weapon she was carrying was a pair of nail-scissors. Presumably she would have found a weapon in the house, given time.

Harvey Sholto came to Nyhavn unseen and took up his position unnoticed. Flying in from Copenhagen on the same flight as Sonia Karnell, he mingled with the other travellers on arrival at Kastrup, selected a cab, gave the driver careful instructions and a generous tip, then settled in the back seat with the tennis bag he had collected from a locker at Kastrup.

His large bald head was concealed beneath a black beret and he was wearing a shabby raincoat he had taken from the suitcase he had left inside the locker. Most people asked to guess his nationality would have said Dutch or French.

"I drop you here?" the cab driver checked.

"Yes. And don't forget where you pull up for a short time. I want to surprise my girlfriend as I explained."

"Understood."

The cab had stopped a few yards before Nyhavn came into view round the corner and Harvey Sholto stepped out and left the cab parked at the kerb. The drizzle suited him well; it linked up with his shabby raincoat. He paddled past the end of the basin and walked down the left-hand street, past numerous seamen's bars. He drooped his shoulders, which made him appear a shorter man.

He walked head down, like a man absorbed in his own thoughts, but his eyes were everywhere. The place had to be crawling with that bastard Beaurain's troops. Yes, he was pretty sure one of them was stationed on the fishing vessel moored to the quay outside Horn's house. The cab arrived just in time before the man looked up and saw him, crawling past Sholto as though unsure of its destination.

Aboard the fishing vessel Max Kellerman slipped one hand under the net concealing the sub-machine gun. There was something wrong about this cab. He watched it crawl past, reach the end of the basin, and then stop. No-one got out. It just stopped while the driver gazed up the basin. The driver!

Out of the corner of his eye Kellerman watched while the driver took his time over lighting a cigarette and flicked the match into the water. Kellerman revised his opinion. The man was due to pick up a fare and was early so he was enjoying a quiet puff and a few minutes' peace. The cab drove off out of sight.

It was during this charade that Harvey Sholto slipped into the doorway Palme had gone through himself before killing the watcher on the first floor. The sight of the dead body shook him, but only for a second.

He next dragged the sofa over to the window to act as a back support. From the tennis bag he took the Armalite rifle which was separated into its various components and assembled the weapon. At this range the telescopic sight he screwed on was superfluous, but Harvey Sholto was a careful man.

Checking that everything was arranged to his satisfaction he settled down to wait. They were all coming to the house on Nyhavn. As Cottel mounted the steps he would blow him away with one shot. Then he need only lower the firing angle a few degrees and he could blow away the man on the deck of the fishing vessel before he recovered from the shock. He lit a cigar and willed himself to stay still.

The Volkswagen also crawled alongside the Nyhavn basin, but this vehicle was moving down the tourist-trap side of the street. When Kellerman saw it coming he ducked out of sight. At the wheel Dr. Benny Horn drove on past the entrance to his house and then parked at the kerb. Clambering out of his ancient vehicle, he adjusted his skull-cap, screwed up his face at the drizzle and walked back to the house with the plate bearing his name. Like Sonia Karnell he had the key in his hand when he reached the top step. Inserting it, he walked inside and closed the door. Beaurain appeared from the open doorway leading to the library, holding his Luger and aiming it point-blank the new arrival.

"Welcome at last, Viktor Rashkin,"

Ed Cottel, who had followed Sonia Karnell from the airport and then lost her in a traffic jam, was further delayed by a puncture in one of the busiest sections in the city. He was then delayed by traffic police until he persuaded them to use the transceiver in his car to call headquarters. Eventually he found himself a cab.

In the first floor flat on Nyhavn, Harvey Sholto was satisfied he could do the job. He had stood well back in the shadows of the small room and zeroed in the Armalite telescopic sight on the front door of Horn's house. It was like taking candy from a baby. Then he saw the cab approaching on the other side and took a firmer grip on his weapon.

The cab blocked off his view while Cottel was paying off the driver and Sholto took one final puff on his cigar and ground it under his large foot. The cab moved off, Cottel glanced round and then mounted the steps. Sholto zeroed in on the centre of his back and between Cottel's shoulder-blades, slightly to the left. His finger took the first pressure. He spoke under his breath without realising he was doing it.

"It's been a long time, bastard, well, here it comes."

It hit Harvey Sholto in the middle of the chest, lifted him clear off his feet and jerked him ceiling wards like a manipulated marionette. In mid-air his large body jack-knifed. Gravity brought him back to the floor which he hit with a tremendous thud. He lay still, outstretched, like one of the chalk silhouettes police draw to show where the corpse was found.

It was the cigar smoke which had attracted Kellerman's attention to the open window originally. Little more than a wraith, dispelled by the drizzle as soon as it came into the open air, the movement of the smoke had been sufficient for him. Someone was waiting inside the room supposedly occupied only by a dead man. At the sight of the rifle aimed at Ed Cottel he had sprayed the window with one short burst from his sub-machine gun.

Beaurain pushed the man with the skull-cap against the wall of the passageway and stuck the barrel of his Luger into his prisoner's throat. Cottel slipped into the house, and at the head of the staircase Palme appeared. Louise closed the door and Beaurain ushered Horn into his own library, followed by Ed Cottel.

"Sharpshooter opposite," Palme explained as he came down the stairs. "His target was Mr. Cottel. Max took him out."

" Viktor Rashkin? "

They had entered the library and it was Louise who repeated the name Beaurain had used with incredulity in her voice. Beaurain used his left hand to remove the skull-cap, to tug free the wig of false grey hair. The rimless spectacles he unhooked and threw on the floor.

"It's not as though he needs them to see. Let me introduce Dr. Benny Horn, better known as Viktor Rashkin, First Secretary at the Soviet Embassy in Stockholm. And we mustn't forget other people know him as Dr. Otto Berlin of Bruges and Dr. Theodor Norling of Stockholm. A trio of eminent and murderous dealers in rare books."

The light in the library was dim. It would always be dim behind the heavy lace curtains, but the drizzly morning made it even more difficult to see. Louise had no trouble seeing what she still found almost incredible stripped of his guise as Benny Horn, the man she was staring at was a young forty, eyes intensely observant, his prominent cheekbones Slavic, and even with Beaurain's gun at his throat he exuded an air of authority and confidence. He met her gaze boldly. Then Beaurain said something else and Louise thought she saw a flicker of fear for the first time on Rashkin's face.

"This is also Hugo, controller of the Stockholm Syndicate and the man who masterminds bloodbaths like the Elsinore Massacre,"

"Are you sure?" Louise began. "Why the elaborate deception?"

To give him three different "front" men for dealing with the members he was recruiting for the Stockholm Syndicate. No-one at the outset would be happy dealing with a Soviet Communist. But most important of all to fool the Kremlin — especially Comrade Leonid Brezhnev, his patron."

This time Louise, who was studying Rashkin closely, saw all expression leave his face; it went completely blank. Beaurain was striking very close to home.

"And why would he do that?" Louise asked.

"Because he was going to defect from Russia once the Syndicate was set up!" The accusation came viciously from Sonia Karnell who had remained silent up to this moment. "Billions of dollars you said we would have, and now look where we are!"

"Shut your trap," he told her. It was the calm, detached manner in which he uttered the words which Louise found so frightening. And Rashkin did not look frightened. She noticed Palme had left the room with Ed Cottel after a whispered remark from Beaurain. They were alone with Rashkin and his Swedish mistress, Sonia Karnell. Why did the Russian still seem so confident?

"He was going to defect," Sonia repeated. "He knew he'd never make the Politburo with all those old men standing in his way. He deceived the Politburo — and Brezhnev especially — into believing he had formed a directorate while he remained at a remote distance as Hugo. Once the Syndicate was organised we would leave for America and run it from there. Yes he's Hugo. And yes, he secretly worked with Harvey Sholto who used the J. Edgar Hoover files brought up-to-date to persuade key Americans to join the Syndicate. Not that they were reluctant when they realised the enormous non-taxable profits they'd make."

"But he didn't invent Berlin, Horn and Norling, did he?" Beaurain queried gently. "They were murdered, weren't they?"

"I had nothing to do with that!" Karnell burst out. "He looked for recluses, men who wouldn't be missed if they suddenly "moved away" — men he could disguise himself as reasonably well."

"How did you find out, Beaurain?" Rashkin asked, again calm.

"All their backgrounds were similar, too similar. When you vanished off the Brussels express from Bruges I later realised you had disguised yourself. Litov's dying words at Stockholm Central " Heroin

… Norling… traitor " pointed to a Russian. Otherwise why should he, a Russian, use the final word? As Norling, you blew up the house outside Stockholm and left behind an elevated heel — to vary your height from your other two "creations". Also your reported movements as Rashkin always coincided with the appearance of one of your three "inventions"," The Belgian moved as Rashkin aimed a blow at Karnell.

Rashkin gave a gulp and a grimace of pain. Beau-rain had tapped his Adam's apple with the Luger. Then he smiled, a smile which was grotesque because it reflected the pain. But the will-power which had enabled him to come so far still showed. With an immense effort he spoke the words.

"You cannot touch me. I am Viktor Rashkin. I am First Secretary at the Soviet Embassy in Stockholm. I have diplomatic immunity."

"He's carrying a French passport in the name of Louis Garnet," Sonia Karnell screamed. "I can testify against him. He's a mass murderer."

"Oh, I agree," Beaurain interrupted. He searched Rashkin carefully for weapons and extracted from an inner pocket a French passport. Karnell had been telling the truth. It was made out in the name of Louis Garnet. He returned it to the Russian's pocket.

"But I agree," he said. "Viktor Rashkin has diplomatic immunity and is, therefore, untouchable." Keeping his Luger aimed at Rashkin he stared again through the window, and Louise saw he was looking across the basin to where Ed Cottel stood in front of the house where Harvey Sholto had positioned himself. Pulling back the curtain, Beaurain showed himself. Cottel gave a thumbs up gesture, which seemed to combine the signal for all's well with a gesture pointing towards the window of the room where Sholto's body lay. Rashkin watched him like a cat but he did not see the American or his gesture.

"You know where the front door is," Beaurain told him.

Rashkin did not hesitate. He gave Sonia Karnell a glance which terrified her, then left the room. They heard him open the front door, close it and run down the steps. Beaurain beckoned Louise to join him at the window. Karnell seized her chance to run out into the hallway and up the stairs. There was a rear exit from the building, a flight of iron steps which was the fire escape leading to the cobbled yard. In the library Beaurain gripped Louise's arm.

"Let her go."

"But she'll get away. She tried to kill me."

"No-one is going anywhere. The whole of Nyhavn is sealed off. And from the front window of the room above this one Stig — with a pair of binoculars — got a good view of the position in the room across the way."

Outside Viktor Rashkin had run down the steps and walked rapidly to his parked Volkswagen. He was confident his reference to diplomatic immunity had checkmated the Belgian. Slipping behind the wheel of his car he switched on the engine, started the wipers to clear drizzle from the windscreen and backed to a bridge crossing over the basin.

At the far end of Nyhavn where he had planned to turn right for the city centre he had seen a cordon of cars blocking the route. He crossed the bridge and turned down the other side of Nyhavn.

He pulled up in front of the building where Harvey Sholto had settled himself in position to take out Ed Cottel. As the Russian left the car he saw again what he had spotted in his rear view mirror on entering his car — another cordon closing off the other end of the basin. What he overlooked was Ed Cottel concealed in a nearby basement area. He was Beaurain's backup — in case the Belgian's basic plan didn't work out.

Beaurain and Louise continued watching from the library window. "Rashkin saw that both ends of the street are blocked so now he's gone into his safe house to decide his next move," Beaurain commented. He turned as Palme came into the room.

"There has been a tragedy," the Swede said with a wooden face. "The Karnell woman tried to get away via the fire escape. She was in a hurry — somehow she lost her balance on the top step and went all the way down. I am afraid she is dead. Her neck is broken. What is happening to Benny Horn?"

"I don't know." The words were hardly out of Beaurain's mouth before he jerked his head round to stare at the house opposite.

Inside the house, Viktor Rashkin, whose whole success in life had hinged on his supreme self-confidence, his conviction that he was capable of out manoeuvring any opponent on earth, had run up the stairs with his springy step. He reached the door leading into the room, pushed it wide open and stood framed in the doorway.

Harvey Sholto was not dead, although he had taken terrible punishment from the fusillade of bullets Max Kellerman had fired up at the window. Since then, as more blood seeped onto the sofa onto which he dragged himself, he had been waiting with the Armalite rifle propped in readiness, the muzzle aimed at the door, his finger inside the trigger guard.

The door flew open, a man stood there, a blurred silhouette, the silhouette of the man on the fishing vessel who had emptied half a magazine into him. He pressed the trigger. The bullet struck Viktor Rashkin in the chest. He reeled backwards, broke through the flimsy banister rail and toppled all the way down to the hall below. He was dead before he was half-way down.

Later

The Baron de Graer, president of the Banque du Nord of Brussels, arrived in Copenhagen by plane the same afternoon as the events just described took place in Nyhavn. He met Jules Beaurain, Louise Hamilton and Ed Cottel in a suite at the Royal Hotel. At the request of Beaurain he handed to Cottel photocopies of a whole series of bank statements, many emanating from highly-respected establishments in the Bahamas, Brussels and Luxembourg City. They showed in detail the movements of millions of dollars transferred via complex routes from certain American conglomerates to the Stockholm Syndicate.

"I'll take these at once, if I may," Cottel said, and left for another part of the hotel. The reporter he had earlier contacted from the Washington Post had just arrived and wished to fly back to Washington the same night with the photocopies.

"People are impressed with documents, Jules," the Baron said as he drank the black coffee Louise had poured.

"Documents can be concocted to say anything you want them to say. But print them in a newspaper and they are taken for gospel."

"It's the end result that counts," Beaurain agreed.

Ed Cottel also returned to Washington the same evening. In addition to the incriminating bank statements, he had handed the reporter photocopies of the contents of the red file Viktor Rashkin had dropped from his brief-case when disguised as Norling he had fled in his float-plane from the devastated house outside the Swedish capital. The file named names — the company executives of American and European conglomerates who had approved the contributions to the Stockholm Syndicate. Unfortunately many were financial supporters of the President of the United States.

In Copenhagen Superintendent Marker was spared any hint of an international incident since the dead body of Viktor Rashkin was in due course buried as that of an unknown Frenchman, Louis Garnet, identified by the passport found on him. The same neat solution also was applied to the man armed with the Armalite rifle. Marker did later hint to an exceptionally inquisitive reporter that information from Paris led him to believe the deaths of the two Frenchmen were a gangland killing, something to do with the Union Corse. The reporter filed his story but it never appeared; a plane crash with a high casualty rate took over the space instead.

On 4 November in the United States the incumbent president was defeated in a landslide victory by his opponent. Much of the credit for the victory was laid at the door of the Post reporter who had, after a relentless search, come up with evidence suggesting the holier-than-thou occupant of the White House had not lived up to his image.