The Stockholm syndicate

Chapter Nine

Kellerman was shaken by Beaurain's news. He sat staring at the reception counter where the girl they had christened Black Helmet had played her tricks on the receptionist.

"Who is this intelligent child?" he asked in a toneless voice.

"I was talking on the phone to Willy Flamen when Louise came down to join you. A boy he interviewed had built a makeshift cabin in the branches of a tree overlooking the Darras' barge."

"How does this tie up with Black Helmet?"

"If you'll keep quiet until I've finished, I'll explain," Beaurain told Kellerman coldly.

"This boy lives nearby and he sounds a loner. He makes a habit of creeping out of his bedroom after dark and spending half the night in his hidey-hole. The Darras' barge has been moored to the same place on the towpath for quite some time."

"Perhaps their role was to act as a link for the Stockholm Syndicate."

"That was my thought too. Now, this boy — who impressed Willy, I gather — was hiding in his cabin, probably snooping on what the Darras' were up to, when a car arrives long after dark. He saw a girl visit the Darras', someone shone a lamp full on her face. The description fits Black Helmet perfectly," "It's a long way from Bruges to Copenhagen."

"Well, Louise and I made the trip. Why not Black Helmet? The kid was also there when Darras and his wife were murdered — although he didn't realise what happened at the time. He probably saw the killer and his companion arrive at the barge: an odd-sounding couple from his description."

"This precocious child is a veritable mine of information," Kellerman said cynically, not fully convinced of the danger to Louise.

"The killer," Beaurain continued, ignoring the interruption, 'was dressed like an American according to the kid. Also he wears a straw hat and dark glasses and is of average height and build. His companion is thin that was all Flamen could get on him. They operate in a strange way. The kid actually saw the thin man take from a brief-case what he called "a big gun with a bulging nozzle" and hand it to the "American" as they stepped onto the barge. My own theory — and Flamen is inclined to agree is that Black Helmet called on them a few days earlier, gave them some final instructions, and they then became a liability to Dr. Otto Berlin who ordered the two killers in to deal with them."

Kellerman pushed away his cup which a Filipino waitress had refilled with coffee. "It's all speculation, though. You still haven't conclusively linked them — or the girl — with the Syndicate."

"Black Helmet's description fits perfectly the pictures Dr. Henri Goldschmidt showed us of the two people leaving a house in Bruges. One was Dr. Berlin. With him was a girl. Black Helmet."

"Forty million Swedish kronor worth of heroin," said Benny Horn. "Intriguing how much money you can carry in one suitcase," He was facing Sonia Karnell in the narrow hallway and carried the case in his right hand. On her return she had locked the door behind her and was eager to make her announcement. Horn had been waiting for over an hour, however, and his impatience overrode her sense of the dramatic.

"I have news."

"Tell me quickly. The van for Elsinore is waiting outside. This consignment is so huge I won't be happy till it's outside Copenhagen."

"Armed with Danny's description of the man who followed Litov here from Kastrup, I checked the King Frederik Hotel where Danny left him. His passenger played it clever obviously a professional. He didn't book in at the King Frederik. I had to start hunting, hoping to God he'd chosen a large place and not some fleapit."

"I have understood you so far," Horn said quietly.

"I tried the Palace. Told my story and gave them Danny's description of the man. All I had going for me was that few people book in as late as this. No luck at the Palace. But I struck gold at the Royal Hotel."

"Yes?"

The excitement in her manner made Horn contain his impatience. She must have uncovered something important. Which was a blasted nuisance when he wanted to leave Copenhagen fast. The consignment of heroin had arrived by a small boat, which had briefly docked at the end of Nyhavn while Sonia was out searching for the mysterious shadow.

"He's staying at the Royal," Karnell continued. "Description fits Danny's. But I got a chance to read the register upside down and two more people arrived even later. One is Jules Beaurain, the other Louise Hamilton." Dr. Benny Horn slowly put the suitcase down on the carpet and stared at the girl.

"You have interesting company in town with you tonight, Jules," Ed Cottel of the CIA told him over the phone.

"Viktor Rashkin landed at Copenhagen in his Lear jet after flying from Brussels."

Beaurain sat on the edge of the bed in his room at the Royal Hotel, listening closely to his American friend. He had phoned the Grand Hotel in Stockholm on the off-chance that Ed might have arrived. It occurred to him that Cottel didn't seem to worry much about the security of an open telephone line.

Max Kellerman, perched on the edge of a wooden chair, looked stiff and serious, and Beaurain knew he was worried sick about what was happening to Louise. There had been no word from her since she had followed Black Helmet out into the night.

"Ed," Beaurain replied into the mouthpiece, 'was there anyone with Rashkin when he left the Lear jet at Kastrup?"

"Yes, a girl. Difficult to see at a distance — just as it was with the big R, apparently. She had dark hair, cut short. End of description."

"So where did they go when they left the plane? And is it still at Kastrup, waiting to take him on somewhere tomorrow maybe?"

"My man lost them again when they left the airport. They had two cars waiting — one for passengers, one to set up interference if anyone tried to tail them. The girl left with the big R. And the man I hoped to contact here isn't at home in his apartment in Gamla Stan — that's Swedish for the Old City. He's a book dealer. Rare editions."

"Has he a name?"

"Dr. Theodor Norling. Keep in touch. Bye, Jules,"

It was 10.30 p.m. when Beaurain broke his phone connection with Ed Cottel in Stockholm. In Washing-| ton, DC, it was only 4.30 p.m. And the atmosphere in the Oval Office at the White House was tense. The President, who faced an election in less than six months' time, had long become accustomed to seeing the world entirely through electoral glasses. His every action was judged by one criterion: would it gain or lose him votes in November?

The fact that he was already being called 'one of the worst presidents in the history of the United States' had only bolstered his determination to see that his country — and the world — was subjected to four more years of the mixture as before. Seated behind his desk, his legs raised, his ankles crossed and resting on it, he looked at the only two other people with him.

His wife, Bess, sat upright in an easy chair, leaning slightly forward in a characteristic manner which an unkind columnist once described as "Bess rampant and ready for blood'. The second person, equally unpopular with the press, was his chief aide, Joel Cody from Texas. The subject of the conversation, which like so many White House conversations — had been initiated by the President's wife, was Ed Cottel.

"You're sure this Ed Cottel was checked out before he was sent to Europe, Joel?" the President demanded.

"Right down to his underpants. He's West Coast — not Ivy League, thank God — and he has a leaning towards this private organisation, Telescope, and its objectives, although he tries to conceal it. He also believes the real menace is the Stockholm Syndicate and that we should concentrate all our fire on that,"

"For Christ's sake, Joel!" Tieless, his shirt front open, the most powerful man in the western world sat up straight, whipping his feet off the desk together with a sheaf of papers which fluttered to the floor. "Until we've won the election we don't want to know about that Stockholm Syndicate. There are rumours that some of the top contributors to our campaign chest may have dabbled their fingers in that thing."

"So when the crunch comes we want Telescope to be the target, not the Syndicate?" Cody suggested. "And this way that's what we get."

"You wouldn't care to explain that, Joel, would you?"

"I think you'll find Joel knows what he's doing," Bess reassured her husband and then subsided, for the moment.

"Cottel is sympathetic to these Telescope people, whoever they may be," Cody explained. "We do know further that he is a personal friend of this Belgian, Beaurain — rumoured to be one of the chiefs of this Telescope outfit. So, while officially Cottel is locating the key personnel of Telescope — ready for the western security services to swoop when the time comes he will really be trying to help the Telescope organisation all he can. We're having him watched — that way he leads us to the whole outfit pretty soon now."

"Why don't we send this Harvey Sholto you keep recommending — you said Sholto hates the guts of Telescope."

"Which is well known," Cody assured the President smoothly, 'so Sholto wouldn't get anywhere near them. Ed Cottel only took this assignment so he could secretly keep the heat off Telescope — and he'll end up leading us to the capture and exposure of the whole goddam underground organisation."

"I like it, Joel, I like it." The well-known smile suddenly left his face. "Haven't you overlooked something? Supposing Cottel digs up information we'd just as soon he didn't such as names of some of the big companies whose chairmen have contributed money to the Syndicate?"

"That's all taken care of," Joel assured him confidently. "If Cottel gets out of line we send over Sholto to take care of him. I may even send him in any case."

"Don't give me those sort of details," the President said hastily. "In fact, I don't know anything about this Harvey Sholto. And I don't really understand what you've just said, so let's change the subject."

Louise Hamilton felt sure she would lose the dark-haired girl. The same girl she and Beaurain had seen outside Bruges station when they took her vacated taxi. Leaving Kellerman with hardly a word, she walked out the back way and got behind the wheel of the hired Citroen.

"I want hired cars waiting for me at Copenhagen, Stockholm, Helsinki and Oslo," Beaurain had instructed Henderson. Thankful for his foresight, Louise drove round near the main entrance and stopped. Seconds later the dark-haired girl came out, summoned a passing cab and got inside. As Louise followed the cab, keeping a rough check on its route with the aid of the Copenhagen street map open on the seat beside her, she soon began to suspect the girl's destination. The house on Nyhavn Kellerman had described.

Within minutes she knew she had guessed correctly. The cab ahead turned right, the basin of water was there in the middle of the street, the forest of masts above fishing boats tied up to the quays. Louise took a quick decision. Tooting her horn, she speeded up and overtook the cab with inches to spare. It was not the act of someone who wished the cab's passenger to be unaware of her presence — and inside the cab Sonia Karnell hadn't even noticed the Citroen as she felt inside her handbag for the front door key. Coming close to the main waterfront, where the wall of houses ended, Louise pulled in at the kerb and watched the cab coming up behind her in the rear-view mirror.

"If you have guessed wrong, my girl," she told herself, 'you've had it." The cab stopped a dozen yards behind where she was parked. She watched while the short-haired girl paid off the cab, went up the steps, inserted a key and went inside, closing the door behind her. The cab drove past her and was turning right along the waterfront on its way back into the centre of Copenhagen.

Louise didn't hesitate. The moment to check on a place is when someone has just arrived. Nobody expects a shadow to have the audacity to approach so close when the person they have followed has just entered a building.

She was walking along the pavement within less than twenty seconds of the door closing. She reached the bottom of the short flight of steps, the smell of brine in her nostrils, saw the engraved plate to the right of the heavy door and tiptoed swiftly up the steps.

Dr. Benny Horn. The same name Max Kellerman had mentioned. This was the house which had swallowed up Serge Litov after his dash from Brussels. Was this journey's end for the Russian? She doubted it very much. Glancing down she saw a squalid-looking basement area, the glass of the windows murky with grime, the steps streaked with dirt. It was in great contrast to the freshly-painted front door and surrounding walls of the house.

She returned to the Citroen at once, climbed behind the wheel, locked all the doors from the inside, took out a peaked cloth cap and rammed it loosely over her head. With her strong jaw-line the cap gave her a masculine appearance; in the bad light — she was midway between two street lamps — she could easily be mistaken for a man. She slumped down behind the wheel as though asleep and waited, her eyes fixed on the rear-view mirror.

Beaurain felt one satisfaction which offset the considerable anxiety he felt about Louise. He sat on his bed and drank more coffee, watching Max Kellerman pace back and forth with the restlessness caused by enforced inaction. Beaurain voiced his satisfaction to try and cheer up the German.

"At least I guessed right when I sent Firestorm into the Kattegat. Serge Litov headed for Copenhagen as soon as he thought he'd shaken himself loose."

"Where will Firestorm be at this moment?"

Beaurain checked his watch. "Just after midnight. She'll be just about off Elsinore. It's the narrowest passage between Denmark and Sweden."

"And Henderson?"

"He and his men from Brussels should by now be aboard her. They caught the flight before us as soon as I heard Litov had alighted from the Stockholm flight here."

"And how did they get from here to Firestorm?"

"By courtesy of Danish State Railways. They came from Kastrup straight into Copenhagen. From the main station just across the way from this hotel they caught an express to Elsinore, which is less than an hour's journey due north of the city and straight up the coast. I'd told Buckminster by radio what to expect and when. At a remote point on the coast just north of Elsinore, Henderson's party onshore exchanged signals by lamp with Firestorm, which promptly sent a small fleet of inflatable dinghies powered with out-boards to pick them up."

"How do you manage it?" Kellerman had stopped pacing and was sitting in a chair as he poured them both more coffee.

"I'm lucky," Beaurain smiled grimly. "It helps if you have the pieces on the board in the right squares at the right time. In this case particularly Firestorm. Goldschmidt in Bruges was emphatic that a meeting of the Stockholm Syndicate is due to take place in Scandinavia. There was mention of it at Voisin's meeting, the one I had to fight my way into." He frowned. "That was the first time they tried to grab Louise. What the hell can have happened to that girl?"

"I'm sorry." Max spread his hands.

"Shut up! I've already told you it's not your fault. And you both took the right decision."

They were waiting for the van. Dr. Benny Horn, wearing a dark-coloured raincoat and a soft, wide-brimmed hat, stood once again in the hallway holding the suitcase which contained heroin to the value of forty million Swedish kronor. He had just completed making several phone calls.

"Have you fixed up anything for Beaurain and Co.?" asked Sonia Karnell, who had changed into a different trouser suit.

"Gunther Baum is now in Copenhagen. He will pay them a visit at the appropriate moment."

She shuddered as always at the mention of Baum. "I thought he was in Brussels."

"He was. Guessing that Beaurain would follow Litov to Copenhagen, I instructed him to make himself available here. I have just talked with Baum on the phone. The great thing is to have one's servants available at the right time," Horn remarked.

"Is it sensible to have our destination Helsingor — painted in large letters across the side of the van?"

"Yes, it merges into the background at Helsingor which," Horn continued in a contemptuous tone, 'is a provincial town, always feeling that cosmopolitan Copenhagen looks down on it."

He stopped speaking as the doorbell rang in a particular way, a succession of rings. Karnell had extracted the automatic from her handbag, switched off the hall light and opened the door. The van had arrived — she could see the bloody great name she objected to: Helsingor.

The driver, a short bulky man wearing a blue boiler suit and a beret, handed her the ignition keys and went inside. Out of the corner of her eye Karnell saw Dr. Horn make a brief gesture with his head in the direction of the shuttered room where Litov was still waiting for fresh instructions.

Helsingor. Shakespeare's Elsinore where Kronborg Castle was linked with Hamlet's name. No historical foundation for the myth, but it was very good for Elsinore's tourist industry. Louise saw the van out of the corner of her eye as it passed down Nyhavn, heading for the waterfront where it would turn right or left.

Back into the centre of Copenhagen? In her rear-view mirror Louise had seen the couple, the man with the suitcase and the dark-haired girl, come out of the house and climb into the front of the van delivered by the man in the boiler suit.

She had observed that the girl climbed in behind the wheel, that the man clutched the suitcase, casting a quick glance up and down the street and a final look over his shoulder before climbing into the cab as passenger. The final look over his shoulder had been in the direction of the nearest fishing vessel moored to the quay. On the deck stood a seaman looping a cable for no very obvious reason.

Was he a guard who watched the house for the occupants? Who would look twice at a seaman? Louise felt sure there had been a signal exchanged between the girl's companion and the sailor. To her relief the seaman immediately went below deck as the van was leaving. He would not be there to see her own departure.

She set off as soon as the van had disappeared round the corner. The word Helsingor was obviously a blind: wherever she tracked the van to it would not be Elsinore. There was very little traffic about at this late hour so she was able to follow the red lights of the van at a distance. Was the passenger who had clutched the case so possessively Dr. Benny Horn? She shrugged; Jules had taught her the futility of wasting energy speculating to no purpose.

After driving through a district of wealthy suburbs they came out onto the coast road. On her right the dark waters of the Oresund rippled placidly by the light of the moon. There were the coloured navigation lights of an occasional vessel passing up or down the Sound.

The van and the shadowing Citroen were travelling north. Louise knew that with the sea on her right there was only one route they could be taking — and that route took them to Elsinore! Could the name on the van be a piece of double bluff? Or was Dr. Benny Horn running an apparently legitimate business which had offices in Copenhagen and Elsinore? Jules had repeatedly said idle speculation was a waste of time.

My God! Jules — he would be doing his nut back at the Royal Hotel! She hadn't managed to inform him where she was or what she was doing. It couldn't be helped; the van ahead was almost the only link Telescope had left with the Stockholm Syndicate.

"Have it out with Jules later," she told herself. "And just hope to God following this van turns out to be worthwhile. Then he can't say one damned thing,"

It was one o'clock in the morning when the phone rang in Beaurain's bedroom. Kellerman had fallen asleep in a chair instead of returning to his own room. Beaurain had just checked the empty coffee pot with an expression of disgust. He grabbed for the receiver, almost knocking the instrument on the floor in his haste. It was Louise.

"I'm going to talk fa st, Jules," he understood her meaning: at night, hotel operators, bored and idle, had been known to listen in on calls. "I'm in Elsinore you've got that?"

"Yes," he said tersely.

"The girl at the reception counter took me to the place where Max was a few hours ago. On Nyhavn."

"Understood."

"She drove a man in a van with the word Helsingor on the side — nothing else, just the name — to Elsinore. He's hugging a suitcase like a gold-brick. Just south of the town they have stopped at a house which backs onto the rail track. There are shunting yards and loaded freight cars. Two have a large consignment of what looks like compressed paper — packing materials."

"Got you."

She was gabbling on, throwing all sorts of details at him irrespective of whether they seemed significant to her. He understood what she was doing exactly; they had used the same technique before.

"My position is a bit exposed. I'm actually inside Elsinore and no-one's about at this hour. The only hotel I've seen is closed."

Position exposed. She was signalling danger to him. Beaurain recalled the chairman of the Banque du Nord who had warned him about the Zenith signal. He told her to hold the line for a second. Checking a map of Denmark, he picked up the receiver.

"Still there? Can you drive north out of the place a few miles?"

"Yes, I'd drive back to Copenhagen but I'm short of petrol."

He gave her the name of a tiny place on the coast, instructed her how to get there by road. "You drive down to the beach, Louise, and wait there with your headlights pointed out to sea. At fifteen minute intervals precisely commencing on the hour you flash your lights six times at five second intervals. Henderson will be coming to collect you himself."

"From the sea?"

"From Firestorm in a small motor-boat. Now, have you got it?"

"I'm leaving at once."

She broke the connection. No prolonged conversation, no asking of a dozen questions which flooded into her tired mind. Just obey orders. And something in Jules' tone had said, get the hell out of there fast. Inside his bedroom, high up in the Royal Hotel, Beaurain replaced the receiver and looked at Kellerman who still sat upright in his chair.

"She's followed two people to Elsinore one is the girl, Black Helmet, the other could be Benny Horn — who, incidentally, was carrying a suitcase. I'm guessing because there was no time to ask her for descriptions. I think she's in danger. I just hope Henderson reaches her in time."

He put in another call to the address near Brussels Midi station from where, earlier, Henderson had directed the watching operation on Serge Litov. As he had anticipated, it was Monique who answered the phone. She had taken over control of the command centre in Brussels. In as few words as possible he told her the signal to be sent to Jock Henderson aboard Firestorm, now somewhere just north of Elsinore. He replaced the receiver again and yawned loudly.

Time you caught up on your sleep," Kellerman suggested. "You take my room and I'll wait here for Monique to phone back."

"Thanks, but I can't sleep until I know Louise is safe aboard Firestorm. You go get some sleep."

"You think I'll sleep until I know she's safe?" the German demanded.

Beaurain grunted tiredly and grinned. Then he sighed.

"It's just that I'm not sure how far the tentacles of this octopus, the Stockholm Syndicate, spread. De Graer shook me: they've threatened his niece now so how far can we really trust him? How far can we trust anyone? That's why our first call in the morning will be on an old friend of mine, Superintendent Bodel Marker of Danish police Intelligence. He runs his outfit from police headquarters. That's only ten minutes away. He's dependable."

"Of course, they do know we're here — I'm sure that girl spotted your name in the hotel register."

"So, we look out for two men — one dressed like an American, the other carrying a brief-case, the brief-case containing the killer's gun."

*

Inside the house on the outskirts of Elsinore, Dr. Benny Horn sat polishing his glasses as he watched Sonia Karnell making up her face. The room was smartly furnished with modern pieces, the walls freshly painted in white; the heavy drapes masking the windows were pulled closed.

"Do you have to keep fiddling with those glasses?" Karnell asked irritably. "What about that girl in the Citroen?"

"I'm thinking about her," Horn replied mildly. "Carl is watching her, and since he hasn't returned yet she must still be inside that phone booth."

"But isn't it madness?" Karnell became more vehement the more she saw how calm Horn was. "She is phoning the Telescope people to tell them where we are."

"I sincerely hope so. My whole plan for destroying them is based on the knowledge that they followed Serge Litov to Copenhagen. You located our primary target, Beaurain, who will be destroyed when he leaves the Royal Hotel. Litov discovered the main Telescope base in England near Guildford — and we have people already searching the area. Now the girl may lead us to the remainder of Telescope's force on the European mainland."

He broke off as a lean-faced man dressed inconspicuously in dark blue came silently into the room. "Developments, Carl?"

"The girl finished phoning. She's on her way back to the car."

Horn turned to Sonia Karnell. "So now you follow her. And use the Porsche parked at the back she will not recognise it. Carl has placed the explosive device in a box in the boot."

"Why not kill her here?" Karnell snuggled coaxingly against his velvet jacket.

"Because we don't want blood all over the place here. It is our respectable house. I've been known here for many years."

"That's a laugh," she said quickly in French, the language they invariably used together, although it was neither's mother tongue. He pushed her away roughly. The eyes behind the rimless lens had lost their placidity, were cold and darkly intense. Eyes which had frightened countless men in their time.

"You will not joke about such things. You will not argue when I give you an order." She struggled into her duffel jacket, shaken by his reaction.

"You will follow her because she may well lead you to another Telescope base in Denmark. Find out all you can, then use the device. Return here as soon as you can. There is much to do tomorrow. Understood?"

"Of course."

"Good luck. Be quick you must not lose her."

Unlocking the car, Louise Hamilton glanced round in the darkness, listened for five minutes, which is too long for anyone to keep perfectly quiet. Her next precaution was to take her small torch from her shoulder-bag and shine it on the hood. The hardly visible match was where she had left it; no-one had raised the bonnet in her absence.

As she started the engine and drove slowly out of Elsinore she had the route map of Denmark open on the seat beside her. It took her two minutes to realise she was being followed. She was not surprised. Never underestimate the enemy — one of Jock Henderson's favourite maxims. Louise Hamilton had assumed only a short time after leaving Copenhagen that the couple must suspect that her car was a tail.

To escape any risk of detection she could have hung well back and almost certainly lost the van. The other option was to subordinate every other consideration — including personal safety — to making sure she did not lose the van. She had chosen the second option, and must have been spotted within ten minutes of leaving Copenhagen.

Now the roles were reversed. Heading north from Elsinore towards the remote rendezvous on the shoreline with Henderson, Louise was aware of the Porsche following at a discreet distance but not so discreet that there was any danger of the sports car losing her.

Karnell concentrated on the red lights ahead, flicking her eyes away from them at intervals to maintain night vision. The Citroen puzzled her — because of the direction it was taking. The girl behind the wheel then disconcerted her more severely because of a sudden change in her way of driving. The car accelerated and disappeared round a bend in the road. Karnell pressed her foot down, tore round the corner and then jammed on her brakes.

"You stupid little cunning tart."

The contradictions of her insult didn't bother the Swedish girl. Coming round the bend she had found the red lights immediately ahead, the Citroen cruising very slowly like someone looking for a turning.

It wasn't that at all, and Karnell knew it. The girl had speeded up and then braked as soon as she was out of sight beyond the bend. Just far enough from the bend to ensure that the Porsche wouldn't ram her — although it might have skidded off the road.

"Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!" Karnell snarled.

The Citroen was picking up speed again. Karnell glanced at the device on the seat beside her, a device which was protected with foam-rubber inside a cardboard box bearing the name of a well-known Copenhagen florist. Much as she disliked handling explosive, Karnell was beginning to look forward to attaching some extra equipment to the car ahead.

She kept the speed of the Porsche down as the Citroen vanished round another bend at speed. Sure enough, rounding the bend herself she saw the car was only a short distance ahead. Once again the driver had jammed on the brakes as soon as the Citroen was out of sight.

"You caught me once. Twice never, you whore," Karnell said triumphantly.

It happened about two kilometres after these two incidents. It happened without warning. Karnell saw the red lights suddenly leap away and vanish round a fresh bend in the road. It was again impossible for Karnell to see beyond the bend, which was lined with trees and undergrowth. She reduced speed and approached with great caution. Crawling round the bend she gazed stupefied ahead and in her state of shock pulled into the side of the road.

The road ahead was deserted. No red lights. No traffic at all. The Citroen had vanished into thin air.