The Stockholm syndicate

Chapter Five

The Fixer. Dr. Henri Goldschmidt, dealer in rare coins, was one of Bruges' most eminent citizens. Beaurain estimated his present age at about sixty but could only guess — the doctor guarded his private life jealously and you dared not ask him the wrong question. The penalty was to be instantly crossed off his list of social acquaintances.

"They are excluded from my milieu," he once explained. "And, of course, once excluded they can never be re-admitted."

He spoke eight languages fluently, including French, English and German; he also used his finely-shaped hands to aid his flow of conversation, gesturing with controlled deliberation to emphasize a point. He was the confidant of royalty, American millionaires and French industrialists. Less well-known was the fact that he was on good terms with some of Europe's top gangsters. This was the man Beaurain was going to meet.

One hour before dawn the huge Sikorsky helicopter took off from the Chateau Wardin. Litov — who had endured his last 'interrogation' at the hands of Dr. Alex Carder — was lying on a stretcher, as on the 'outward' journey, his damaged arm expertly protected with a splint and bandages and his left wrist and ankle handcuffed to the stretcher. His right ankle was also manacled.

There were two guards in the gunners' normal battle uniform — denim trousers, crepe-soled shoes, windcheaters and Balaclava helmets which completely masked their appearance. One was Stig Palme. The second was a twenty-nine year old German, Max Kellerman. A year earlier he had been looking forward to a brilliant career as a lawyer. Then his fiancee had been caught in terrorist crossfire when the police had been tipped off about a bank raid in Bonn. They were still unaware that the tip-off had come from Jules Beaurain. It was something he had also concealed from Kellerman, as he had once explained to Louise.

If Kellerman knew I started the whole thing off he might blame me for the death of his fiancee."

Litov had been blindfolded before he left the large cell he had occupied for over a week. Once again he was relying on sound and his sense of smell to double-check what he had learned about Telescope's main base. The same bonfire smoke had hit his nostrils when they carried him from the building to the ramp at the rear of the chopper. They took him the same way out — he felt and heard the change from carpet to stone; then the stone steps followed by an absence of sound suggesting grass. The bonfire stench didn't seem strange: from his tour of duty in London he recalled that the British kept foul-smelling fires smoking all summer.

"Don't forget to light that bonfire in good time," Beaurain had reminded Stig Palme. "Litov is bright — he must not get a whiff of the Ardennes pines while he's being carried aboard'.

It had been 3 a.m. when they had come to collect Litov. Still wearing his wrist-watch, he had managed to check the time before one of the masked guards applied the blindfold. If he was being returned to the same starting-point the flight from England should take about three hours.

When the Sikorsky landed, Litov, still imprisoned on the stretcher in the cargo hold, found himself re-living his earlier experience in reverse. There was a bump as the chopper came to earth, a pause while the rotors stopped spinning, followed by the purr of the hydraulics as the automatic ramp at the rear of the cargo hold was lowered.

His blindfold was removed by a guard with a Balaclava concealing his face. These people didn't miss many tricks, Litov thought smugly — and then he was being lifted down into broad daylight. The strong scent of Ardennes pines entered his nostrils and above he saw the tops of the trees encircling the secret helipad. The two guards carried him to the familiar van with Boucher across the rear doors. They dumped him on the same leather couch alongside the left-hand wall, the doors were closed and Kellerman and Palme sat facing their captive with machine-pistols across their laps.

"We are driving you to Brussels Midi station," Kellerman told Litov in English as the van began to move. "Here are your papers, Mr. James Lacey or whatever your name is."

Litov could hardly believe it. Kellerman bent over him and returned his wallet to his inside pocket. Was this a trick to throw him off balance, to make him relax before they subjected him to torture or a trial of endurance?

But he half-believed the guard who returned to his seat as the van gathered speed. Why should they let him go at all? The guard gestured towards the wallet he had returned.

"You will find all your money intact. Belgian francs, deutschmarks Dutch guilders. Telescope does not steal like the Syndicate."

Litov stiffened, tried to keep his face expressionless. What the hell was going on? This was the first admission that these men belonged to Telescope. And why the casual mention of the Syndicate? To test his reaction? Of one thing Litov was now certain he was being freed in the hope that he would lead them to the Syndicate's headquarters. He had trouble concealing his satisfaction. They were in for a surprise, a very nasty surprise indeed.

*

Pierre Florin, desk sergeant at Brussels police headquarters, requested a week's leave soon after the two men had accosted Louise in the reception room. It was the sight of Beaurain running up the stairs to attend the meeting and the realisation that the girl knew Beaurain which had scared Florin. Because of his long years of service his request was immediately granted.

He spent most of the seven days in his bachelor's apartment in south Brussels. One of the fake detectives visited him one evening.

"Why have you taken this leave, Florin?" he demanded. "It draws attention to you at just the wrong moment."

"I am worried. Beaurain…"

"You are a fool. Beaurain is no longer on the force."

"He carries enormous influence." Florin could not keep still, and kept moving restlessly about, fussily moving cheap mementoes of holidays in Ostend. "I would not like to be grilled by Beaurain," Florin continued, confirming the other man's opinion that he would crack under interrogation. "I want my money." The lean-faced man extracted a sealed envelope and dropped it on the floor, making Florin stoop to retrieve it. Then he left and reported his doubts to Dr. Otto Berlin.

It took Dr. Berlin several days to locate Gunther Baum, the East German whose speciality was the removal of people. Baum and his companion, a nondescript individual who carried a brief-case, arrived unannounced at Florin's apartment. Wearing dark glasses, Baum was smartly dressed in American clothes. Outside Florin's apartment he took the silenced Luger from the brief-case and held it behind his back as he pressed the bell.

Gunther Baum was medium built and deliberate in his movements. "Never hurry," he often warned his assistant. "It draws attention to you." He was wearing a straw hat which, with his tinted glasses, masked his whole upper face, revealing only a pug nose, a small thin mouth and a fleshy jaw. Cupped in his left hand he carried a photo of Pierre Florin. It was best to proceed in a methodical manner.

Florin opened the door and glanced nervously at the strangers before starting to close it again. "We are the Criminal Division. A message from headquarters. Concerning the incident there about one week ago. We may come in, yes?"

"Of course…"

Baum spoke in a sing-song French. He spoke in short sentences as though he expected everyone to accept him at face value. It never occurred to Florin to ask for some form of identification. They proceeded into the apartment, first Florin, then Baum and his companion, who carried the empty br ief-case and closed the door.

"You are alone?" Baum asked.

"Yes, I seldom…"

"Keep walking, please. We have been asked to look at your bedroom. Statements have been made that a woman visits you who keeps bad company."

"That's ridiculous."

"This we are sure of. Keep walking. Open that cupboard — I must be sure we are alone."

They were insi de the cramped bedroom and Florin reacted like a robot to Baum's instructions. He opened up the cupboard at his visitor's request. Baum pressed the tip of the silencer against the base of Florin's neck. The Belgian stiffened at the pressure of the cold metal. "Step into the cupboard slowly," Baum commanded in the same sing-song French. "You stay there out of the way while we search for evidence," Terrified, Florin stepped inside the cupboard, his face buried among his clothes. Baum pressed the trigger once.

He slammed the door against Florin's toppling body and turned the catch. Without saying a word he handed the Luger to his companion who immediately hid it inside his brief-case as Baum removed his gloves and shoved them inside his pocket. Time to go," Baum said.

It was his normal routine when working on a close-up job. Baum never kept the gun a second longer than necessary. It was his companion's task to transport the incriminating weapon so that Baum could never be compromised; it was a risk Baum's companion was paid good money to take.

"Now for the bar gee Dr. Berlin is worried about. We want to keep our employer happy, don't we?"

At 9.30 a.m. a butcher's van pulled into the kerb at Brussels Midi station. Serge Litov had been released from the handcuffs and was sitting facing Max Kellerman who was pointing his machine-pistol at the Russian's belly. Litov could still not fully believe he was about to be freed; the one thing which reassured him was the sound of heavy traffic outside.

"When you get out don't look back," Kellerman warned, 'or this van will be the last thing you'll ever see. One quick burst and we'd be away. And there is a whole team of our people outside to make sure you board a train — any train."

Stig Palme, still masked like Kellerman, unbolted the rear doors, opened one a few inches and peered out. He opened it wider, Litov stepped down into the street and the door was closed. Kellerman now moved very fast.

Stripping off the boiler suit he had been wearing, he stepped out of it. Pulling off the Balaclava helmet, he lifted the top of the couch Litov had been seated on, took out a trilby hat and jammed it on his head. He grabbed a suitcase and a fawn raincoat from inside the couch. The suitcase's corners were tipped with steel to serve as an improvised weapon. Sliding back a plate at the front of the van he spoke to the driver.

"Well?"

"He behaved went straight into the station booking-hall." Kellerman ran to the back of the van and dropped into the street. No-one noticed. Kellerman walked across to one of the swing doors and entered the booking-hall. Litov was standing at the ticket counter by the first-class window with only one man in front of him. While he waited he glanced behind and saw a Belgian woman with a poodle on a lead joining his queue. She was muttering away to herself as she burrowed in her handbag for fare money. Expensively dressed, which fitted her presence in the first-class queue. Litov noticed things like that.

"Stupid old cow," he thought. "Women never have their money ready."

The man in front of him moved away and with a quick glance at the station clock Litov asked for his ticket in a low tone. The ticket clerk asked him to speak up. Litov did so, anxious not to draw attention to himself.

"One seat on the Ile-de-France Trans-Europ Express to Amsterdam. One-way and a non-smoker. I shall have time to catch it?"

"Plenty of time." The clerk was writing out the car and seat number. "Arrives here 9.43, reaches Amsterdam 12.28."

Behind Litov the woman with the poodle was still investigating her handbag and muttering away to herself in French. She irked Litov: people like that ought to be locked up. He paid for his ticket and moved towards the platforms, glancing round at the milling crowd, trying to locate the hidden watchers he knew must be there.

Everything seemed normal. The bustle of passengers criss-crossing the large booking-hall, the general air of frustration and anxiety, the constant background voice over the speakers relaying an endless list of train arrivals and departures all over Europe.

At the first-class counter the woman apologised to the clerk. She couldn't find her purse. Would he serve the next passenger while she… She glanced across to see Litov walk out of sight onto the platforms. She hurried over the concourse, her poodle trotting briskly by her side, to Max Kellerman who stood reading a newspaper. Stopping abruptly, she let the poodle walk on and contrived to let the leash wrap itself round the German's legs.

"So sorry," she bur bled in French, her voice low as she untwined the leash, "Colette does like men. The 9.43 T.E.E.. to Amsterdam," she went on. "Five stops — Brussels Nord, Antwerp East, Roosendaal, Rotterdam, The Hague, then Amsterdam…"

"Get the news to Henderson," murmured Kellerman. Tell him I'm on my way."

Kellerman quickly joined the short queue which had formed at the first-class window. Behind him the fussy lady in her sixties had made her way to a telephone kiosk.

*

It was not long until the Ile-de-France de-luxe express would be arriving en route for Amsterdam. The T.E.E. s stopped for precisely three minutes. Nevertheless Serge Litov, after walking up and down the platform, suddenly returned to the booking-hall.

Left behind on the platform, Max Kellerman, wearing his raincoat and hat and carrying his suitcase, waited where he was in case Litov reappeared at the last moment and boarded the express. Litov might be standing watching the exit doors to see if anyone followed him. Or buying the ticket for Amsterdam might be the first of his tricks to throw off the shadows he knew were watching.

In the booking-hall Litov hurried to a phone box, shut the door and called a Bruges number. He watched to see if anyone appeared to be dogging his movements. What he didn't notice was a woman with a poodle who was perched on a nearby seat ostentatiously eating a sandwich. If Litov had happened to spot her, the sandwich would have explained her presence having booked her ticket she had a long wait for her train and preferred to spend it in the booking-hall.

"If he leaves the station, you follow him, Alphonse," she said quietly to the man sharing her seat.

"It doesn't look as though he is catching the Amsterdam express."

"He still has time," Monique replied equably.

"I'd like to know what he's saying," muttered Alphonse.

Inside the phone box Litov's Bruges number had connected and he identified himself quickly.

"Serge speaking, your friend from the Stampen. They let me out — just like that."

"Berlin here. Keep this call brief, I'm expecting another. Where are you?"

"Brussels Midi station. I've bought a ticket for Amsterdam. Which route — and can you get me a back-up? They're bound…"

"It was our friends?" Berlin interjected sharply. "And you know their home town?"

"Yes and yes. I'm short of time. I have to catch that express. Or don't I?"

"Of course. Then continue on by air, if you understand me. Help will meet you at Copenhagen — to deal with any difficulty you may encounter. Goodbye."

In the tiny terraced house at Bruges, Berlin replaced the receiver and looked across the table at Sonia Karnell pouring out coffee. He waited for the cup before satisfying her curiosity.

"Serge Litov is starting his run. He is at Brussels Midi. Telescope has let him go and he says he knows the location of their main base."

"But that's marvellous."

"Is it?" Berlin looked round the drab walls, the gilt-framed pictures you couldn't see in the gloominess caused by the looming houses on the other side of the narrow street. "We shan't know whether he has succeeded until I have questioned him. The thing now is to sever the link between Litov and Telescope's trackers. He will catch the first plane. Find out when it reaches Copenhagen and have someone waiting there — someone capable of eliminating any tracker. Today is going to be dangerous — for everyone. Including the esteemed Dr. Henri Goldschmidt — The Fixer."

The lookout in the first-floor window saw the 280E coming, wending its way through the traffic towards the heavy wooden doors at the entrance to the sub-base near Brussels Midi station. He phoned down to the guards and the doors swung smoothly inwards for Beaurain to drive into the yard. Beside him Louise Hamilton looked back and saw the doors closing off the view of the traffic beyond.

"I wonder where Litov is now?" she said.

"Let's go upstairs and find out."

The cobbled yard was small. It was entirely enclosed by old six-storey buildings. The rooms overlooking the courtyard were the property of Telescope, held in a dummy name by the Baron de Graer. The only other vehicle in the yard was the butcher's van, already refuelled from the petrol pump in the corner and turned round so it could leave immediately.

Henderson was sitting in a functional first-floor room. In one corner a wireless operator wearing his earphones sat in front of a high-powered transceiver. The Scot, who stood up as they entered, had been sitting at a table facing a large wall map of northern Europe. On the map he had marked all the possible air, road and rail routes from Brussels Midi with a red felt-tipped pen.

"What are the little blue pins?" Louise asked.

"Each one shows a gunner I can contact by radio or phone inside three minutes."

"There are scores of them!"

"Only wish I had more," the Scot replied laconically. He looked at Beaurain. "The moment of truth has arrived. Litov, code-named Leper, is at Brussels Midi. He has made one two-minute phone call. He bought a T.E.E.. ticket for Amsterdam. Train leaves 9.43." He looked at a large wall-clock. "That's about now."

Serge Litov played it cagey from the moment he returned to the platform. Carrying his ticket, he went up to the special T.E.E.. Board which illustrated the sequence of the carriages. Voiture 3 was immediately behind the engine.

From behind his newspaper Max Kellerman who was leaving Litov to do the moving about while he remained in one place watched him carefully study the ticket and then the board. It was a pantomime for the benefit of watchers.

In his mind Kellerman went over the stops the express made before arriving at Amsterdam. Brussels Nord, Antwerp East, Roosendaal, Rotterdam and The Hague. At all these stops Henderson would already have arranged to have a gunner stationed in case he got off. Kellerman's job was to stay on board until Amsterdam. The T.E.E. glided in, five de-luxe coaches preceded by its streamlined locomotive. The express stopped.

Litov climbed aboard Voiture 3 the moment the automatic doors had opened, pushing rudely past a woman waiting to alight. It was the old trick: wait until just before the automatic doors closed and then jump back onto the platform — leaving your shadow on board, carried away by the train. But Litov reappeared, descended the steps and stood on the platform. What the hell was he up to? Kellerman had one eye on Litov, the other on the red second-hand on the platform clock.

Behind him Alphonse strolled into view and took up a position on the opposite platform. Kellerman climbed aboard, joining a woman who was a late arrival, so they looked like a couple. Once inside the coach he sat down in a seat near the entrance to the next coach, Voiture 3.

There is no warning when a T.E.E.. express is due to depart; no call from the guard, no whistle blowing. The doors close, the train draws out of the station. Litov, watching the second-hand on the clock, timed it perfectly. He ran up the steps into the coach a second before the doors met.

"Triple bluff," said Kellerman to himself as the train pulled out.

The next stop, Brussels Nord, was only a few minutes away. Would Litov get off after only one station, despite booking all the way to Amsterdam? Because from Brussels Nord he could catch a train or a cab to the airport. Kellerman could have relaxed now. His assignment was to stay on board all the way to Amsterdam. Instead he sat tensely, trying to put himself inside Litov's mind, to predict how he would react at Brussels Nord.

Inside the temporary headquarters for Operation Leper the tension was rising. Louise kept pacing up and down in the small room. Beaurain sat down next to Henderson, the picture of relaxation as he lit a cigarette. They had done all they could. It was up to the men in the field.

"Who have you got aboard the train?" he asked.

"Max Kellerman. He can be a bit insubordinate."

"He's among the best we've got. Uses his brain." He stopped as the phone rang. Henderson picked up the receiver and spoke briefly in French.

"That was Louis. The Leper boarded at Midi. So he has started to run. All we can do now is wait for the next message."

At 9.53 the T.E.E.. slid into Brussels Nord station and the doors hissed open. This was a two-minute stop. Max Kellerman had made up his mind. He was standing at the exit of his coach furthest away from Voiture 3.

Kellerman was not recognisable as the man who had boarded at Midi. He had taken off his hat and light raincoat and put them inside his suitcase. He had donned a pair of glasses. His thick thatch of dark hair, previously hidden beneath the hat, was now visible.

Alighting from the express he glanced to his left, saw no sign of Litov and swung round to give the impression of a passenger about to board the train. In his mouth he had a cigarette and he was deliberately making the gas lighter misfire: it gave a reason for pausing at the foot of the steps.

"He's going to get off at Nord and head for the airport," Kellerman had decided during his few minutes on the train. "After his confinement he'll be impatient, anxious to reach home base. I would be."

He was disobeying his orders. On no account was he to leave the train before Amsterdam. Kellerman was relying on his observation of how Litov had handled his problem at Midi. And if he was continuing to Amsterdam he would surely have pretended to be leaving the express here — by getting off and loitering near the exit doors.

The German found himself watching the platform clock. In ten seconds the doors would close. Nine-eight-seven-six… Litov had fooled him. He was staying aboard. At the last moment Litov rushed down the train steps, onto the platform and hurried towards the station exit. No-one could have got out in time to follow him. Kellerman smiled grimly and strode towards the exit.

There he saw Joel Wilde, the ex-SAS gunner Henderson had sent to Nord for just this contingency. Kellerman outranked him. "He's mine," he said as he walked past.

He was through the doors in time to see Litov leaving the station on the far side of the booking-hall. He came up behind him as the Russian waited for the next cab. "The airport. Move it," Litov informed the driver and climbed into the back.

He was so confident he had overlooked the obvious precaution of waiting until he was inside the cab to give his destination. It was out of character. Or was it? They had been careful to keep Litov without food for the past twenty-four hours, giving him only fruit juice. He could be light-headed and over-confident. Or that phone call from Brussels Midi could have arranged back-up to any shadow who attached himself to Litov when he left the express. If so, Joel would sort that one out.

Kellerman glanced over his shoulder before climbing inside the next cab which drew up. Joel Wilde was close behind him. You never heard the bastard until it was too late. Kellerman lowered the window and looked up at him.

"Thanks for everything. I'm going to make the airport in good time."

"You're welcome. Our love to Sharon. A smooth flight."

Joel watched the cab pull away and turned round to face the station exits. No-one else was coming for a cab. No-one was heading for a private car. But during the next few hours the Syndicate would send someone to take out any man they detected following Litov.

I'll chew his balls off."

At the headquarters of Operation Leper, Henderson put down the phone, caught Louise Hamilton's amused eye and clapped a hand over his mouth.

"That was Joel Wilde from Nord station. The Leper left the express — as you thought he might — and has taken a cab to the airport. More to the point, Max Kellerman is running his own railway again. He got off too and he's followed the Leper in another cab to the airport."

"Max is a good man, one of our best," Beaurain commented.

"Where is the Leper heading for?"

Henderson stood up and went over to study the air routes marked on his wall-map. He moved a blue pin — Max Kellerman — to a position on the road to the airport. Just ahead of this he placed the red pin representing Serge Litov.

Beaurain joined him and checked his watch against the wall-clock. "You'll hear soon enough. Get someone to look up all the airline flights taking off within the next two hours. I don't think the Leper will linger longer than he need. You mind the shop till we get back, Jock. We're going to take a train to Bruges and have a word with my old friend, Dr. Goldschmidt. It's just conceivable he can tell us the name of the man who is running the Syndicate."