The Stockholm syndicate

Chapter Eight

Beaurain and Louise found Ed Cottel finishing a meal in an elegant cafe on the Hilton's ground floor. Overlooking a glassed-in veranda with a dense wall of trees and shrubberies, the Cafe d'Egmont had the atmosphere of somewhere in the country. It was safe to talk — Cottel was almost the only diner.

"Can I get you something?" he asked without ceremony.

"Just coffee, thank you," Louise said. Beaurain also asked for coffee and declined anything to eat. They were short of time; the Belgian was anxious to return to Henderson's headquarters to check on the progress of Serge Litov.

"I hear, Jules, they're thinking of charging you with multiple murder, rape and God knows what other mayhem. I must say you've been busy while I was away."

"Who told you these interesting tit bits Voisin?"

"Who else? He spent the whole time I was with him telling me what an outrage it was that you should control the investigation into the Syndicate. I think what particularly infuriated him is my insistence that he report this fact to all West European police chiefs and heads of counter-espionage. Now, he's trying to unseat you."

"Was he… nervous?" Beaurain enquired casually.

Cottel crinkled his brow and rubbed his crooked nose, which Louise always found attractive. Now that you mention it," the American decided, "I guess the answer is "yes". Like a man who felt threatened." He sipped at his coffee. "Sounds pretty goddam ridiculous."

"Maybe. Have you dug up any more information about the Syndicate, Ed?"

He waited until their coffee had been served and then started talking.

"First thing is that our latest satellite pictures taken over the Baltic show that big hydrofoil — the Soviet job, Kometa — creeping along the coast of Poland and heading for East Germany. It looks as though its ultimate destination could be the port of Sassnitz. And from there it's only a short distance to Trelleborg, a small port in Sweden. There also happens to be a ferry service between Sassnitz and Trelleborg."

"What about that list of people for Voisin — the list you thought might lead to the personnel of Telescope?"

"Dammit! Never did get round to that — you've no idea how these transatlantic trips disappear — you get back and wonder what the hell you accomplished." Cottel drank more coffee. I told Voisin that as soon as I hit his office got in first before he asked."

"You always were a good tactician, Ed," murmured Beaurain. "Do you now have Washington's backing to track down the Stockholm Syndicate?"

"In a word, no." The American looked grim and wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Queer atmosphere back home — especially close to the President. No-one wants to know. They all say wait till after the election — concentrate on exposing Telescope. One reason is they're upstaged by Telescope. But more important is the election. The man in the Oval Office isn't exactly the president of the century and there are people who would like to dump him before the Convention. If news of the Stockholm Syndicate ever leaked to the press — the fact that a huge piece of its finance is coming from American conglomerates looking for huge tax-free profits…" Cottel made a gesture with his napkin and then crushed it. "Out of the window would go any chance of the President being re-elected. You can trace a line from the Stockholm Syndicate almost up to the Oval Office."

"You mean that?" Beaurain asked sharply. "You're not guessing?"

"Do I ever guess?" asked Cottel. "I have more news."

"Less unnerving than what you've told us so far, I hope," said Louise.

"Viktor Rashkin fits into this thing somewhere," Cottel said, keeping his voice low. "We keep a close eye on Viktor, who is not a nice person. I can tell you he has just left Brussels Airport this evening aboard his Lear jet."

"Alone?" Beaurain queried.

"No, not alone. He was accompanied by a fat man very muffled so you couldn't see his features — and also a girl, likewise with her features concealed." He finished his coffee. "I wondered whether anyone was interested in the flight plan Rashkin's pilot filed. His destination."

"You're going to tell us anyway," Louise said.

"Copenhagen — and then Stockholm. Which is why I'm catching the first plane out of here for Stockholm in the mor ning," Cottel informed them. "When you need me, you can find me at the Grand Hotel."

"We're going to need your help?" Louise asked innocently.

"We're all going to need each other's help before this develops much further," the American predicted.

The jet taxied to a halt at Copenhagen's Kastrup Airport. Inside the passenger cabin Viktor Rashkin lit a cigarette and gazed at his companion.

"What is your next move, Viktor?" she enquired. "Isn't the opposition beginning to show some teeth?"

"The opposition — Beaurain in particular — is reacting just as I expected." His dark eyes examined the tip of his cigarette. "The important thing is to keep him away from Denmark for the next few days. The big consignment is on its way and nothing can — must — stop it."

"How much is it worth?"

"On the streets something in the region of forty million Swedish kronor. I think we should leave the plane, my dear."

To go where?" Sonia Karnell asked.

"To pay a discreet call on our friend, Dr. Benny Horn."

"Max here, Jock. Speaking from Kastrup Airport. The subject left the flight here instead of proceeding on to Stockholm."

"How can you be sure?" Henderson interjected tersely.

"Because you wait on the plane if you're going on — and the flight is now airborne for Stockholm. Because at this moment I'm watching Serge Litov…"

The large and heavily-built man he was over six feet tall but like other men conscious of their excessive stature he stooped — had entered the booking-hall and now stood holding a short telescopic umbrella. His gross form was topped by a large head and a tan-coloured hat which partially concealed his strong-boned face. English was the language he used when he conversed with Serge Litov. He appeared unconnected with the Russian.

"Where is the man requiring my attention, sir?" His jowls were heavy and fleshy; he was about sixty years old and the personification of a successful stockbroker. Litov could hardly believe this was the intermediary sent to cut out any intervention he might have spotted.

"Do I know you?" Litov asked sharply, covering his mouth with his hand as he lit a cigarette. The fool had not used the code. Had he himself walked into a trap? But in that case why had the Telescope people released him in the first place?

"I am, of course, sir, George Land. Coining from London you must know and appreciate as I do the beauties of St. James's Park at this time of the year."

His mouth hardly moved — and yet Litov had heard every word quite clearly. St. James's Park — that was Land's identification.

"The lake is what I like in St. James's Park," Litov responded, and the word 'lake' completed the code check. "How did you know someone was following me?" George Land gave him the creeps, though he was not easily disturbed. Like a perfect English butler — and he was just about to despatch a fellow human being permanently.

"I knew someone was following you because I watched from outside the entrance doors. I observed your furtive glances in a certain direction. Also, I see now there is perspiration on your brow, if I may make mention of the fact, sir."

The constant use of 'sir' did not help. Land was so cool and collected; his restrained courtesy was beginning to get on Litov's nerves. "You see that man in the payphone?"

"I can see the gentleman quite clearly."

"Get rid of him — permanently. As soon as I've got out of this place."

"It would be helpful if you would remain where you are until I have reached the phone box. In that way he will notice no change in what interests him — yourself."

Land briefly grasped the dangling umbrella with his left hand. And then Serge Litov understood as though he had been trained to use the weapon all his life. The umbrella was a camouflaged dagger, spring-loaded and designed so the blade projected from the tip at the touch of a button.

"I'll wait here," he said reluctantly.

"It has been a most profitable conversation, sir," said Land discreetly and proceeded across the almost deserted booking-hall as though bent on making a phone call.

"I said I was watching Litov," repeated Kellerman to Jock Henderson from inside the payphone. "He appears to be waiting for someone to collect him."

"Or he could be playing a game," the Scot pointed out. "He'll still have that ticket to Stockholm."

A large English-looking man was wandering across the hall towards the pay phones He was close enough for Kellerman to see his fleshy cheeks. As he walked with a slow deliberate tread he swung a telescopic umbrella back and forth from his right wrist. Otherwise, the booking-hall was empty. The other passengers had departed for Copenhagen via the airport bus or taxis and no other flight was due to land or take off.

"He's waiting here," Kellerman repeated, 'and…" "You keep repeating yourself, Max," Henderson said sharply. "Is anything wrong?"

"No. From Litov's behaviour I'm sure he's going into Copenhagen — maybe just for the night. I anticipate an attempt to evade surveillance while he's here — then he moves on to his next destination, which may not be Stockholm."

"You think he's spotted you, then?"

"I didn't say th at…" Kellerman's brow was wrinkled as he tried to talk to Henderson and think at the same time."But with a man of Litov's experience I'm assuming he'll expect surveillance."

Kellerman suddenly grasped what had been worrying him outside the payphone. It was the huge English-looking man advancing on the bank of pay phones He hadn't once looked at the booth occupied by Kellerman. Which simply wasn't natural behaviour. In fact he was deliberately not looking at Kellerman's payphone even as he continued his steady, doomsday-like tread towards it. Beaurain came on the line, crisp, decisive.

"Beaurain. Trouble at your end?"

"Yes…"

"Louise books into the Royal Hotel later this evening. Goodbye."

Kellerman carefully did nothing untoward. The large man was close to the door of his box, staring fixedly at an empty booth as his outsize feet continued their purposeful advance. By now Kellerman had noticed the telescopic umbrella swinging back and forth. The man wasn't a poof, he was certain.

He maintained his stance until the last moment: phone held to ear, head half-turned away, suitcase propped against side of payphone with one leg. George Land, jowls shaking, took one final glance round the booking-hall, a sweeping gaze which told him it was empty and that Litov was leaving without looking back. He pressed the button and the spring-loaded stiletto blade shot out of his umbrella which he held like a fencer about to make a savage lunge.

His thick lips slightly parted, he turned back to use his left hand to pull open the door of the booth occupied by Max Kellerman. The door was open.

Kellerman was inside the box, stooping to pick up the suitcase. Land stared at the side of the German's neck. He moved in closer, and took a strong grip on the umbrella ready for the lunge.

Everything moved rapidly out of focus for Land as Kellerman straightened up and slammed the steel-tipped edge of his suitcase into the giant's right kneecap. Land gulped with pain but did not cry out. His large face convulsed in fury. Like a handcuff Kellerman's right hand closed over the wrist which held the umbrella. The handcuff twisted and jerked upward in one violent arc of ninety degrees. The vertical stiletto-like blade entered Land's throat and his eyes bulged.

Kellerman had already transferred his grip to the two lapels of the Englishman's jacket and he spun him round before he could fall and heaved him inside the payphone. The receiver was still swinging from its cord as the Englishman's body began to slide down the rear wall, its feet projecting into the booking-hall over the umbrella on the floor.

Kellerman pulled a soft cap from his pocket and rammed it on his head as he moved swiftly across the still deserted booking-hall with only one idea in mind. To catch up with Serge Litov. The cab carrying Litov was just leaving the kerb as he came into the open air. Kellerman climbed into the next cab and closed the door before giving his instructions.

"Please follow that cab. Do not lose it the passenger inside is responsible for an incident in the airport hall."

The driver was quick-witted. While he checked on the identity of his passenger he was driving away from the airport, making sure he did not lose the vehicle ahead. He could take his passenger back to the airport if the replies were unsatisfactory. His passenger over-rode his questions by volunteering information.

"You will read about the airport incident in the morning papers. I am Kriminalpolizei working in liaison with the Belgians and your own people. Here is my card." Kellerman flashed an identity paper which the driver hardly saw. To build up confidence and dispel all doubts, keep talking fluently, confidently…

"Do not crowd that cab, please. It is vital the passenger does not know he is being followed. There will, of course, be a large tip for your co-operation. Please, also, be careful when the cab approaches its destination. I must not be just behind when it stops. I appreciate it will not be easy."

"I will manage it. No problem," the Dane replied. Kellerman sank back into his seat and kept quiet. It had worked. Near the end of the conversation give them a problem to occupy their minds, then shut up!

"Serge Litov should be here by now. I cannot imagine what is detaining him. One thing I insist on is punctuality."

The Danish antiquarian book dealer, known by the few Danes who met him as Dr. Benny Horn, sat in the darkened room polishing his rimless spectacles and fidgeting as he checked the illuminated hands of his watch. His companion, a girl, smiled in the dark and listened to the gentle lapping of the water which came through the open window from the basin of the Nyhavn harbour outside.

"There could have been trouble at the airport," he fussed.

"Let us suppose Litov was followed it is to be expected…" "Then George Land will have dealt with the follower. And that might explain the delay."

"Unless Litov involved himself in the fracas."

"He has his instructions which he won't disobey." The girl was amused by his exhibition of an irritable and pedantic dealer in rare books. Outside the open window headlights appeared, an engine stopped. Sonia Karnell saw a cab had arrived. "Make sure he has not been followed," Horn called to her.

"We are very close to Nyhavn," Kellerman's driver said. They had driven through a maze of streets and squares lined with ancient buildings and the German would have been hard put to it to trace the route on a map. He was fairly sure they were moving in a northerly direction. What the hell was Nyhavn? He waited, hoping the driver would elaborate, and the Dane obliged.

"Nyhavn is the old port area — seamen's bars to the left of the water and tourist trap shops to the right. That's our friend's likely destination."

The cab ahead was the only vehicle in sight now. If they kept on driving much further it was only a matter of time before Litov spotted that he had a tail. The cab in front turned sharp right and the German guessed they had reached Nyhavn.

The middle of the street was occupied by a long, straight basin of water with its level well below that of the street, like a canal in Amsterdam. A forest of masts projected into the night sky. On either side of the brightly-lit street overlooking the waterway was a wall of seventeenth-century houses.

Kellerman's driver earned his tip. Instead of turning right alongside the basin he drove straight on past the end of the water, round a corner, and stopped. The brilliant lighting vanished. There were shadows everywhere.

"He would have seen us. I'm sure he's stopping somewhere down Nyhavn and it's a short distance before you're on the waterfront."

"Thank you." Kellerman gave him money. "Would you wait? I shan't be long."

The problem was that he would be conspicuous walking along Nyhavn carrying a suitcase. It also restricted his movements if he were attacked — and he had not forgotten the assault with the umbrella. That weapon was reminiscent of Bulgarian techniques.

Free of his suitcase, he strolled round the corner back into the lights. Litov was climbing a short flight of steps to a house at the far end. Tourist trap shops on the right…" his driver had said. The Russian was entering one of the houses on the right — easy to pinpoint even from a distance because each house was painted a different colour. A most helpful arrangement.

It was also helpful that there were people about. Kellerman strolled a short distance down the left-hand side and saw the flights of steps leading down to the basement bars. Returning the way he had come, he walked round the end of the harbour basin and continued down the tourist-trap side until he drew level with the house Litov had disappeared into. At the top of a short flight of steps in the blaze of street lights Kellerman could make out a name engraved in large letters on a plate. Dr. Benny Horn. He had located the base of another of the three-man directorate running the Stockholm Syndicate.

It was time to meet Louise at the Royal Hotel.

When Serge Litov climbed the steps at the Nyhavn address he was relieved to see the name engraved on a plate to the right of the heavy door. Dr. Benny Horn. Litov pressed the bell.

"Come in quickly."

The door closed behind him and he stood in darkness. There was the sound of a lock being turned, of bolts being shot home. Then a blaze of light illuminated the narrow hallway, so strong it made Litov blink. He looked quickly behind him. A slim, dark-haired girl, her hair cut close like a helmet, stood aiming a Walther pistol. It was Sonia Karnell.

Li tov had expected to meet Dr. Otto Berlin, the man who had issued him with his instructions to penetrate Telescope's headquarters. Instead, facing him in the hallway, stood a man wearing a skullcap, a bow-tie and a neat suit which was in considerable contrast to Berlin's careless dress. He was also clean-shaven and stood with his hands clasped across his slim stomach while he contemplated Litov in a manner which irritated the Russian.

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded brusquely. "I've come a long way and I'm damned tired."

He stopped as he felt the muzzle of Sonia's Walther press against the back of his neck.

"You are also damned impolite," the man facing him remarked in a cold distant voice. "I am Benny Horn, the man Dr. Berlin ordered you to report to when you had completed your mission, as I believe the phrase goes in your circles."

Litov flinched at the sneer in Horn's voice; he flinched also as he felt the gun barrel jabbing into his neck.

"Come into this room and report at once what you have discovered," Horn ordered and led the way into a room overlooking Nyhavn. Litov sat down in an armchair indicated by Horn, who himself occupied a stiff-backed chair behind an antique desk. Unlike Berlin, who slouched all over the place, Horn sat erect and again clasped his hands as he stared at the new arrival.

"Coffee, Litov?"

Sonia did not wait for a reply as she poured a cup of black coffee from a percolator and added a generous spoonful of sugar. She knew his tastes, Litov observed. The Walther pistol had disappeared. Unlike the hallway, where he had been so dazzled by the glare he had hardly been able to focus on Horn, here in the book-lined room the lighting was dim, but Horn sat in one of the shaded areas. He waited until Litov had drunk half the cup of coffee and then began to fire a barrage of questions at him.

"You located Telescope's base?"

"It is in southern England near Guildford in the county of Surrey."

"How do you know that?"

Litov explaine d how he had seen the red bus with the destination Guildford on the front. Horn seemed more interested in the pillar box where letters had been collected. What time of day had the postman collected? Had he seen anyone post a letter in the box? The barrage of questions went on and on — almost as though Horn were hoping to catch him out in a lie. Litov couldn't understand the ferocity of the cross-examination.

"How were you able to time the flight of the helicopter in both directions?" Horn demanded at one stage.

"Fortunately they let me keep my watch."

"They let you keep your watch? You had it with you all the time? The watch you are wearing at this moment?"

Litov barely concealed his irritation, but remembered the cold, detached look in Horn's eyes and the cold pressure of the p istol against the back of his neck. "Yes," he said. "While I was at the house near Guildford the interrogator, Carder, even mentioned the watch once. He said it would stop me becoming completely disorientated if I knew the time."

Horn went on asking Litov again and again to repeat the story of his experiences since his capture in Brussels. Then it ended abruptly. Horn stood up and came round to the front of his desk, staring down at Litov as he polished his rimless spectacles.

"Wait here," he said suddenly. "On no account attempt to leave this room."

Horn hurried out into the hall followed by the girl who shut the sound-proof door. They went into a room at the back and sat facing each other across a table. "What do you think?" Horn asked, removing his skull-cap.

"The bus convinces me."

"We must send a heavy detachment of specialized troops by air to locate and destroy that base." He stopped speaking as the front door-bell rang. Sonia Karnell slipped into the hall and returned shortly. "It is Danny."

Waiting in the hall was the cab-driver who had transported Kellerman from Kastrup to Nyhavn when they followed Serge Litov.

Max Kellerman had settled himself into Room 1014 at the Royal Hotel — but he was ready for an emergency departure. He chose the quick-service restaurant — where the service lived up to its name and the food was on a par with the service — for several reasons. It was part of the shopping and reception hall complex, which meant that as he ate he was able to observe the reception counter from a discreet distance. This could pay life-saving dividends — as Kellerman had discovered in the past. It enabled you to observe who booked in at the hotel after your own arrival. A method of assassination employed all over the world was for the hired killer to take a room in the same hostelry as his victim.

If — as Kellerman had done — you left your room key with reception while you ate and watched you could sometimes spot a caller making an enquiry about you. The receptionist would swivel his head to see whether your key was on the hook. It was impossible to be sure the receptionist had checked your key but if you were already suspicious it was added confirmation.

Kellerman lingered over his meal, savouring the Scandinavian food. He was already beginning to enjoy the relaxed atmosphere he sensed in the Danes who inhabited Copenhagen, which was refreshingly free of the normal multitude of high-rise blocks. The multi storey Royal Hotel, oddly enough, was an exception. Jules Beaurain and Louise Hamilton arrived at the reception desk at precisely 10.30 p.m.

*

"Louise, I've been to the scene of the murder aboard the barge near Bruges there was a witness, a boy who spends half his time in a tree-house he's built."

"Hold on a minute, Willy, here is Jules."

The call came through at the Royal Hotel in response to an earlier call from Beaurain to Willy Flamen at his home address. Flamen had been on his way home and his wife had promised that he would call back the moment he arrived. Beaurain emerged steamily from the bathroom where he had just taken a shower.

"It's Willy Flamen," Louise told him. "About that bar gee and his wife. He says he's found a witness."

"I'll take it. You go downstairs and keep Max from feeling lonely. He's still drinking coffee in that restaurant, watching reception."

Time you gave up," she said to the German when she had joined him and had ordered coffee. Only one man on duty now and a general atmosphere of boredom and closing-down for the night.

"It comes when you least expect it," he replied.

"What does?"

"The breakthrough. The incident which means nothing at the time and everything later on. Waiting is the key to success. Any policeman will tell you that."

"And when you were a lawyer in Munich did you meet a lot of police?"

A flicker of pain crossed his face. He responded in a slightly grating voice behind which she detected a hint of menace — not for herself, but for some unknown killer. She really had blown it. "I'm sorry, Max. It was in the Munich shoot-out that your wife was killed. What was she like?"

"Irreplacea ble."

"Sorry again. I'll keep my big mouth shut."

"You don't have to," he assured her. "And I'm sitting here for a reason I don't understand why the Syndicate mob didn't have more back-up at Kastrup Airport when I arrived with Serge Litov."

"Where is Louise?" asked Beaurain, slipping into the chair alongside Kellerman in the ground floor restaurant.

"She took off after someone."

"What the hell are you talking about?" asked Beaurain, his face devoid of expression.

"It's strange," the German commented. "I was just saying it comes when you least expect it. A breakthrough. I was just coming up to your room to tell you. We were sitting here when a girl went up to the reception counter and we saw the clerk turn round and look towards where my key was hanging. She rolled his pen onto the floor behind the counter to keep him busy while she checked the register of guests. She could have been anything European. She had a distinctive hairdo — very black hair cut short and close to her head — like a helmet. What's wrong, Jules?"

Beaurain's eyes were hard. I'm waiting for you to get to the point," he said with an unnerving quietness.

"After she had gone outside, Louise followed her and waited at the door for my signal."

"Why not the other way round? Why didn't you take the tail job?"

"For a reason I'll give you in a minute." The German met Beaurain's gaze levelly. "I went up to the receptionist and spun him a story about thinking I'd recognised the girl as a friend of my wife's. He opened up immediately — strange coincidence and all that. The girl was looking for a man who had dropped a wallet her husband had picked up. She described me perfectly and said her husband thought I'd come into this hotel. He — the fictitious husband — had been rushing to a business appointment and would come back in the morning."

"So she got your name?"

"She got that — and my room number."

"And Louise?" asked Beaurain.

"I gave her the go-ahead. The "black helmet" girl got into a car and Louise followed her in the car you hired. I couldn't — just in case I was recognised from the incident at Kastrup."

"I've just heard someone else call the girl Black Helmet, and since it was an intelligent child's description it is likely to be accurate. She was visiting a couple on a barge near Bruges just before they were murdered."