"Bodel," Beaurain began genially, putting an arm round the Dane's shoulder, 'you said that only Telescope had any chance of defeating the Stockholm Syndicate. I don't want you out of the way in some bar, just maybe standing over here by the kerb so you can help out if the local police arrive."
I'll stay." Marker's chubby face was grim and hard as he remembered his superior invading his office back at Politigarden in Copenhagen, recalled how he had been told to drop this case, remembered what the Syndicate had threatened to do to his wife and son. "And I'm armed," he said.
"So are a lot of people round here," Beaurain assured him.
Startled, Marker looked round the whole area. Before wandering round the back of the station to where the wagons were waiting, Kellerman had made a brief hand signal to Henderson. Give me back-up. The Scot had again raised the camera-like walkie-talkie and had given the order.
"Cover Max, surround entire action area immediately."
Fascinated, Marker watched as some of the 'hikers' with packs on their backs drifted back inside the station. He guessed that there would be exits from inside the station into the shunting zone where Foxbel had disappeared. Other 'tourists' closed in round the front of the station between the ferry terminal and the shunting zone. Henderson himself picked up his sports bag and unzipped it. Now he could have his machine-gun in action in seconds. Henderson's main fear was that Syndicate men now concealed might appear in strength at any moment. Everything depended on Kellerman.
The Danish railway man who had guided the engine with his flag was pacing up and down alongside the first wagon when Kellerman appeared. The German realised immediately that the main problem was the engine-driver waiting in his cab to shunt the two wagons aboard the ferry. He was relieved to see two of Henderson's back-up men dressed like hikers appear from the main station beyond the engine. With a swift gesture to them he indicated the engine-driver and continued walking towards the man with the flag, who shouted something in Danish.
"Don't understand the language!" Kellerman called back in English. He was still walking towards him, smiling broadly. It was amazing how a smile threw people off balance, even if only for a few vital seconds. The rail guard spoke again, this time in English.
"You are on private property and must leave at once. Go back! Go back the way you came or I will call the security police!"
"Good idea. You call them. Now! Before these wagons move!"
The back-up team had moved with their accustomed speed. Already one had engaged the engine-driver in conversation while the second man disappeared behind the locomotive, then silently reappeared climbing up into the engine cab behind the driver whose attention was distracted. A hand holding a choloroform-soaked cloth was clasped over the driver's mouth; in less than thirty seconds he was unconscious on the floor of his cab.
"You will get out of this area now!" The thin-faced rail guard slipped his hand inside his jacket and Kellerman leapt forward two paces. His right hand closed over the Dane's wrist, dragging the hand out, a hand which held a pistol. "Danish State Railways issue?" the German enquired. As he spoke he twisted the wrist, broke it and the pistol fell to the ground. The guard's mouth opened to scream and the scream was stifled by Kellerman's other hand. The German was bending the Dane backwards and suddenly he kicked the man's feet from under him. The guard fell backwards and only Kellerman's grip saved him splitting his skull open on the rail. The German lowered him gently until his neck was resting on the rail. He tried to lift his head and something sharp pricked his throat, the tip of Kellerman's knife.
Try shouting and I'll slit your throat," Kellerman hissed.
"The wagon…"
"Will move any moment now," Kellerman assured him. "It will neatly slice off your head like a guillotine. Straight across the neck, leaving your head between the tracks, the rest of your body on this side," he elaborated brutally.
"You wouldn't!"
"I would and will. And if you lift your head to get it off the rail I'll stick you. Comes to the same thing, really, doesn't it? Where's the heroin?"
"What heroin?"
The words were cut off by the prick of Kellerman's knife against his throat. He lay sprawled with the pressure of the iron rail against the back of his neck, and when he looked to the left — the direction from which death would come — he saw the wheel's rim which was now assuming enormous dimensions in his mind.
"The heroin stashed for Sweden," Kellerman said wearily, "I really believe you're stupid enough not to tell me in which case any second now: crunch!"
"They'll kill me if I speak."
The Stockholm Syndicate?"
"For Jesus Christ's sake have mercy!"
"And let all that heroin flood the streets? I'd sooner behead you."
Despite the freezing of his emotions after the murder of his wife, Kellerman was impressed by the man's terror terror of the Stockholm Syndicate even caught in this dreadful position. His gaunt face had almost aged since Kellerman had threatened him; there was the stench of the man's own sweat in the air, the sweat of fear which coursed down his face in rivulets and streamed over his neck, already dirty with rust from the rail. Still he didn't speak and the German was not sure what to do next. A bell began ringing, a steady ding-dong in slow time somewhere in the direction of the ferry terminal.
"The heroin… just above you… inside the second wadge… let me up, the train is moving!"
He jerked his head up violently, staring at the rim of the wheel to his left in gibbering terror. Kellerman withdrew the knife a second before the Dane could impale himself on its point. '… the train is moving!"
Kellerman's reflex action was to grab the man's tie, swing his head to the side away from the wheel and clear of the line. Then, streaming with his own sweat, he realised what had happened.
The steady tolling of the bell continued, warning approaching traffic that a train was on the way. But this train wouldn't be moving because the engine-driver had been knocked out with chloroform, a fact which for a terrible split second Kellerman had forgotten when the bell started its racket. It was no surprise that the Dane had fainted and was lying inert by the track. He heard a rush of feet and hoped they were the feet of friends.
"Did he talk?"
Henderson's voice. Kellerman, his face showing strain, looked up. To his right the two 'hikers' who had dealt with the engine-driver were quietly slipping away to the main station. Gunners disguised as tourists blocked off the approach from the ferry terminal.
"Stop the bell the train isn't going?" he said.
"The heroin?"
Marker's voice. A mixture of eagerness and anxiety. Kellerman used his sleeve to mop the sweat dripping off his forehead. He'd been shaken and he didn't mind admitting it. For a few seconds he'd had a vision of the head rolling free between the rails.
"We've got it," he told them, 'if he told me the truth and I think he did. I would have. In this wagon just above me the second slat back "wadge" I think he called it."
He stood up and stiffened his legs to stop himself swaying. Only Louise saw him surreptitiously wipe the damp palms of his hands on his trousers. He winked at her and she smiled sympathetically. It was at the most unexpected moments that the terrible strain of their work hit them like a sledgehammer, often when they were least prepared for it.
It was being handled with typical Telescope efficiency. Henderson had gone quickly back up the track directing the gunners to form a defensive cordon.
Beaurain had climbed up into the wagon with Marker and called down for the loan of Kellerman's knife which was handed up.
"The guard is in it up to his neck." He paused as the potentially unfortunate phrasing occurred to him, then continued, looking at Louise. "The engine-driver may be in it or he could be completely innocent. At the moment he's…" He made a gesture placing his hand over his mouth indicating he was out of action. Then, in the near distance, growing louder every second they heard the one sound Beaurain did not wish to hear, the sound of a patrol-car's siren screaming.
It was a potentially dangerous situation. Jumping down from the wagon, leaving Beaurain to wrestle with the compressed paper, Marker advanced to meet three uniformed policemen running down by the side of the wagon, waving his identification card in their faces and gesturing for them to get back. The chubby-faced Dane was magnificent in the emergency, talking non-stop in Danish, ushering the three men back towards the ferry terminal like a shepherd driving sheep.
"Get back out of this area! I have the whole place infiltrated with undercover men! Coming in here with your bloody siren wailing — you may have ruined an international operation planned for months! What the hell brought you here in the first place?"
"We received a message that there was terrorist activity in the regionof this ferry terminal."
"And the caller gave you his name and address, of course?" Marker demanded with bitter sarcasm.
"Well… no, sir," the driver of the car admitted as he continued backing away with his two companions. They had almost reached the road now. "It was the inspector on duty — said we had to get here as fast as we could we were on patrol when he radioed us."
" The inspector on duty! " Sometimes a stray shot hit the bull's eye, Marker thought with a tingle of excitement. No such order would normally be transmitted by the station inspector. The Stockholm Syndicate was here in Elsinore, its corrupt fingers reaching into the local police station. Because of one thing Marker was certain: the patrol car had been sent to disperse and interfere with Telescope's search for the huge heroin haul.
"Have you ever received a direct order personally from the inspector before over the radio?" he asked, sure that he was right in his incredible long shot.
"First time it's ever happened in my experience," the man told him, 'and I've been driving a patrol car for five years. I said to my mate it was odd."
I'm now going to tell you exactly what to do," Marker told the driver, his expression grim. "You will carry out my order to the letter or forget about any further career with the police. Wait in your vehicle. If you receive any further orders or questions from this inspector, tell him your car has broken down, that you have found nothing happening at the ferry terminal after a thorough search. And then, in a few minutes, you will drive me to your station," he looked back to where Beaurain was still inside the rail wagon and saw nothing. God he was taking a gamble!
"What is the name of this inspector?" he asked.
The man gave him a name and then the trio of policemen returned to their car. It now all depended on Beaurain finding the heroin. He made his way back to the wagon where the man he knew as Foxbel stood on guard with the girl. At the foot of the wagon he stared up at the Belgian whose head was just visible above a huge sheet of packing material.
"Get up here fast, Bodel," Beaurain called down.
"You haven't… not already?" Marker began.
"I said get up here, for Christ's sake. The timing is everything."
It was so simple Marker was overwhelmed with a mixture of disbelief and relief. In the darkened confines of the rail wagon he stared at what Beaurain's torch beam showed him. Then he was filled with sheer fury when he remembered that less than three hours earlier he had been ordered not to carry his investigations any further by one of the most powerful figures in the Danish police service.
Beaurain had used a nail file borrowed from Louise to pick the locks of the suitcase. Inside the case, which lay in a narrow defile between walls of the packing material, was a collection of transparent bags containing powder. The case was full, the haul enormous.
"Inside there? As simple as that?"
"As simple as that. I was careful not to break the seals."
The hole had been carefully hollowed out of the second wadge of packing material — just where the rail guard had told Kellerman he would find it. Propped against the wadge was the thick panel of the same material which slotted into grooves and was then held firmly in place with transparent sealing material.
"Simple but effective," Beaurain continued. "The sealing material coincides with the labels designating its alleged destination. We have to take a very quick decision, Bodel, my friend. Only you and I and the two people standing guard outside this wagon yet know we have discovered the consignment."
"Which is on its way to Stockholm apparently. If we let it go through, can your people really watch it closely enough?"
"We'll need help from Harry Fondberg, head of Sapo in Stockholm."
Sapo was the Swedish secret police, a department which operated quite apart from the normal law-enforcement agencies. It was becoming stifling inside the wagon and there was a growing stench of something unpleasant like powerful glue. Beaurain assumed it was resin inside the material.
"Who contacts Fondberg — you or me?" Marker asked simply.
It took Beaurain a moment to grasp the significance of what Marker had said. Then he was carefully closing the suitcase, re-locking it and calling for Louise to come up inside the wagon so he could instruct her.
"I'd better not hear you for the next few minutes," Bodel said. "Then if anything goes wrong you'll know I didn't betray you it has become a way of life you know — betrayal."
"You're actually leaving this enormous haul?" Louise asked when the Intelligence chief had gone. Having closed the case, the Belgian was easing it back inside its secret compartment, prior to replacing the panel and the self-adhering sealer he had taken so much trouble to preserve. "How do you know you can trust Marker?" she whispered.
"I don't — we have to gamble."
"He kept those policemen from the patrol-car away — perhaps it was to protect the consignment."
"So we don't tell him everything we plan. Now, relay all these instructions to Henderson as soon as you can." As he spoke he was continuing the delicate task of replacing the suitcase in its original hiding-place so there would be no signs it had been tampered with.
"Henderson must radio a signal to Firestorm. I want Anderson to use his Sikorsky to shadow the express hauling these two wagons all the way to Stockholm. He's to have two men on board he can land if necessary. Anderson is to be warned that the suitcase is likely to be dropped somewhere en route between here and Stockholm."
"And how's Anderson going to see all that in the dark?"
"Because it's likely to be some place out in the wilds, which means they'll need some kind of signal exchanged between the man inside the wagon and those waiting close to the track — a flare, the flashing lights of a parked car, something Anderson will be able to spot from the air."
"Anything else?"
"Plenty. Anderson must have a method of communication with Fondberg of Sapo. I'll phone Fond-berg myself as soon as we get clear of this damned wagon. He has a radio outfit and we can send a second message to Anderson letting him know how to radio signals to Stockholm. There, I really don't think anyone could tell we had tampered with their secret compartment. What is it, Max?"
"A suggestion. I travel inside this wagon." Kellerman, who had been standing just below them and listening to the conversation, had shinned up to join them. "Plenty of places to hide," he said, looking round the gloomy interior, "and that way the consignment is under close Telescope observation. Henderson gave me this water bottle."
"One man alone? It could be dangerous," Beaurain commented dubiously.
"I never thought I'd joined a kindergarten," the German said drily.
"You're right," Beaurain murmured. "And this is something we don't let Marker know about," he said firmly.
"Weapon, Max?" Louise offered the pistol she had collected while on board Firestorm. Kellerman shook his head, pulled up his right trouser leg and showed them a knife sheathed inside his sock. "If I need something it has to be quiet, I suspect. What's the priority?" he asked Beaurain. "Risking letting the consignment go or trying to track the Syndicate at all cost?"
The priority, Max," Beaurain said quietly, 'is preserving your own life. You'll be working without back-up."
"Any more instructions for Henderson?" Louise asked.
"Find out the exact route of this train from the map inside the station — I think it's Hassleholm, Nassjo, Mjolby, Norrkoping and then Stockholm. Transmit to Anderson not only route but also the timetable. And now we have one or two loose ends to tie up."
"But not Max."
Beaurain had turned to wish the German good luck but already he had vanished into the cavernous depths of the wagon without a trace. How he was going to stick the stench of resin Beaurain couldn't imagine. He leapt down to the ground beside the track. Marker was returning from the patrol-car which was still parked in the distance close to the ferry terminal.
"Everything is organised?" the Dane enquired.
"Your heroin is still aboard."
The ding-dong of the bell warning traffic to steer clear of the road crossing was continuing and the turn-round of the train ferries was very swift. He was asking a very great deal of Marker. Not twenty feet from where they stood was the biggest haul of heroin ever to pass through Denmark. If Marker confiscated it his stock in Copenhagen would rocket; it would solve any problems he might have in fighting his superior; it would quite likely end with his taking over from that same superior.
"We could lose it en route," Marker suggested tentatively, studying the Belgian's reaction closely.
"I have taken certain precautions."
"Which I don't want to know about."
"Which I have no intention of telling you about," Beaurain assured him.
"You think you have a good chance of getting away with it?"
"Providing you personally arrest and hold incommunicado for three days this rail guard and the driver. Can you hold them somewhere in Copenhagen — not here in Elsinore? And you'll need another driver."
"Certainly," Marker agreed with enthusiasm. "Those men in the patrol-car can help. They will handcuff both men and transport them to the police station. From there they will simply disappear for the required three days. You will let me know the ultimate destination of the heroin? I need as soon as possible an official report from Sapo chief Fondberg in Stockholm."
Beaurain and Louise were waiting in the Mercedes, watching the rail wagon being attached to the Stockholm Express. In a matter of minutes it would be aboard the ferry, en route for Halsingborg where the express would move on to Swedish soil and begin its journey towards distant Stockholm.
"Do you think Max is going to be all right?" Louise asked as she accepted a few puffs from Beaurain's cigarette. "That wagon looks very tightly sealed to me."
"It is a huge gamble," the Belgian admitted, 'but it is our only definite link with the Stockholm Syndicate. Max has to follow whoever collects the heroin and see where it leads him. It may well even lead to Hugo himself — if Max is lucky."
"Is there no way to protect Max?"
"We are doing everything we can," Beaurain replied with a note of irritation. "I admit I'm worried that he is sealed up on his own in that wagon. And there is a chance that it will be handled by Horn in an uncharacteristic way. It was at Elsinore."
"I don't get your reasoning," she said, 'because there was Syndicate surveillance at Elsinore, so what different way are you referring to?"
"Horn did not have a platoon of men to back up and watch over the transshipment. If he uses the same method — and it is the more effective method — he will use the minimum number of people to take the consignment off the express when the time comes. Maybe only one man. What he loses in strength of numbers he gains by reducing almost to zero the danger that anything will be seen. And it is the normal technique for handling large dope consignments. Few men, much organisation."
"What back-up does Max really have? I heard you talking to Jock Henderson before he drove back with his team."
Beaurain's face, unusually lined with fatigue, became grim as he checked his watch."Every hour that passes, while Max is inside that wagon alone and nothing happens, increases his chances. Henderson is bringing men down by car from Stockholm to board the express at every stop. Andersen's Sikorsky will be watching the train from the air as far as he can. The point is both Harry Fondberg and I expect the consignment to be off-loaded from the express somewhere before it reaches Stockholm."
"But isn't Stockholm the objective? Won't the centre of the spider's web of the distribution system be there?"
"Yes. But international expresses arriving in the Swedish capital — especially those passing through Denmark — are carefully watched and checked by the Customs and Drug Squad people. Much easier to take off that suitcase at an intermediary stop and transport it the rest of the way by air or road."
Signal from Harry Fondberg, Sapo, to all units in Southern Zone. Sikorsky helicopter hence designated as DRAGONFLY proceeding very roughly on axis Halsingborg-Stockholm to be allowed free access and under no circumstances repeat no circumstances intercepted. Regular reports of progress of DRAGONFLY to be sent to this office for personal attention Fondberg and in grade one security code. Any attempt by outside agencies to interfere with progress of DRAGONFLY to be reported personally and instantly to Fondberg. In case of emergency all Sapo units will use all resources at their command to protect and preserve DRAGONFLY. Fondberg. Sapo HQ Stockholm. 1640 hours.
The signal caused a sensation when received by local Sapo commanders in southern Sweden — which was roughly bisected by the rail route followed by the express carrying the consignment of heroin. Later, when shown a copy of the signal alerting the Sapo apparatus in the designated area, Beaurain considered it a typical Harry Fondberg ploy — clever, ingenious and misleading. It was what was omitted from the signal rather than what was included which was significant.
Chief Inspector Harry Fondberg of Sapo was one of the best friends Jules Beaurain had made during his years in the Brussels police force — and he personally knew every key police and security chief in Western Europe, to say nothing of the counter-espionage people and his contacts inside the United States.
Fondberg was exactly forty years old. Undoubtedly he would have won the prize for the Most Unpopular Man of the Year had a poll been taken of leading Swedish politicians. In a country which prided itself on its tradition of neutrality in all things, Fondberg was the least neutral of men.
"I am not dealing with gentlemen," he once said. "So my methods have to be adapted to my customers."
"Tell me no more," his Minister of Justice had replied. Before he left the Sapo chief's office he added, "But get results."
Now, at the very moment when Beaurain and Louise were expecting the imminent arrival from Stockholm of Peter Lindahl, Fondberg was starting his long wait inside his office. He was prepared to stay up all night until something developed. A methodical man, he faced a wall-map of southern Sweden which showed with a system of pins and string the exact course the train would follow — and, consequently, roughly the route the Sikorsky, Dragonfly, would take. The phone rang. It was Erik Lebert, his assistant.
"The American entered Gamla Stan again. Same address. Still no-one there. He watched for a while and then returned to his hotel. I'm speaking from the lobby. Will I continue surveillance?"
"Yes. You will be relieved later."
Fondberg replaced the receiver and squeezed his chin with his hand as he gazed into the distance, a typical gesture when concentrating. The carefully-worded message told him that Ed Cottel, the American CIA man had once more surveyed an apartment near St. Gertrud Church in Gamla Stan, the Old City on an island joined to the main part of Stockholm by a bridge near the Grand Hotel.
Cottel was trying to locate Dr. Theodor Norling, antique book dealer and a member of the three-man directorate which controlled the ever-expanding criminal organisation, the Stockholm Syndicate.
"Washington on the line, sir," the operator informed Fondberg.
He was about to ask her to find out exactly who was calling, when it occurred to him that someone might have got round to informing him of Ed Cottel's arrival. He told the girl he would take the call and announced his identity when the connection was made.
"Joel Cody calling, Mr. Fondberg. You know who I am?"
His caller was the President of the United States' closest aide! There was a trailing off at the end of the question. Was he supposed to stand to attention while he took the call, showing by his tone how flattered he was that such a man would use a few minutes of his precious time calling someone so far beneath him?
"What do you want, Cody?" Fondberg asked in a blank voice, using his other hand to switch on the recorder.
There was a brief pause, no doubt while Cody patted his dignity back into shape. He recovered quickly, keeping his tone of voice amiable and hail-fellow as though they had known each other for years. It was, in fact, the first time they had spoken to each other.
"First, I want to thank you sincerely for your truly whole-hearted co-operation with DC, which is greatly appreciated. I may say that appreciation is also felt by the most eminent personages in the United States, if you follow me."
The stupid bastard meant the President. He used twenty words where five would do. There was an irritating trailing off at the end of every sentence, presumably to give Fondberg time to register due humility.
"Mr. Cody, what is the precise purpose of your call?" asked Fondberg bluntly.
"We always like to maintain normal diplomatic courtesies, and in spite of what the press of certain countries says about our playing it close to the chest and not informing our Allies of what we are doing on their territory…"
"Yes, Mr. Cody?"
Fondberg could stand it no longer. With his free hand he opened the bottom drawer, took out a pack of cigarettes, fiddled one into his mouth and used the lighter also secreted in the drawer to get it going.
"We feel you ought to know in advance…" The voice in Washington went hard. '… and not after the event, that one of our people will shortly be visiting your country."
Fondberg knew something was wrong. He gave the conversation his full attention, listening to every nuance in the words being spoken by the President's sidekick.
"The person to whom I'm referring is highly regarded by us, and we sure would appreciate it if you could extend to him all your normal facilities and co-operation. His name is Harvey Sholto and his sphere of activity is security."
"Which department?"
"Now, Mr. Fondberg, I'm sure you have found that unfortunately the telephone is not, in the world we live in, the safe instrument we all wish that it might be. May I suggest that Harvey calls you up on arrival and arranges a mutually advantageous meeting, say at the American Embassy in Stockholm?"
"He can phone and make an appointment to see me here. Please let me have the flight number and ETA of this Mr. Sholto."
"All I can say is that he will be landing in Stockholm during the course of the next three days and I will pass on to him your message to call you as soon as he has settled in. Now, if you'll excuse me, Mr. Fondberg, a certain light is flashing on my desk and I'm sure you'll understand when I say it's the one light I cannot ignore."
Fondberg thought for several minutes before he asked for an urgent call to be put through to the man he knew best at Interpol. While waiting for the call he alerted security at Arlanda Airport to be on the lookout for a passenger travelling on an American passport in the name of Harvey Sholto. When asked how quickly to activate the surveillance Fondberg replied, "At once," It was just like the Codys of this world to play it clever, to inform him only an hour or so before Sholto landed.
When the Interpol call came through he gave his contact the name Sholto, Harvey, and was promised any data before the day ended: Fondberg stared at the wall-map showing the progress of the express carrying the heroin consignment. He suddenly wondered if there could be a link between the train and the unsettling news about Harvey Sholto.
Harry Fondberg's Interpol contact phoned back from Paris at ten that night. The Swedish chief of Sapo was still waiting in his office, convinced that something was bound to happen, that it would happen soon and, pray to God, it would give him the lever he had been desperately searching for to break into the Stockholm Syndicate.
"Harvey Sholto," the Frenchman informed the Swede laconically, 'is a highly-trained killer. The Americans give him an X-l rating. It means I personally would not like to be in the sights of his high-powered rifle,
" "If you have a description… just a moment, I will take this down." Fondberg deliberately had not activated the recording machine because it was understood that each would ask the other before any mechanical record was made. In this case Fondberg did not want any record existing which someone else might get hold of and play back. He scribbled down Sholto's description in a scrawl legible only to himself.
"There is more about this Sholto," the Frenchman continued. "Washington has used him for assassination in Vietnam, Africa and Central America, but we have not been able to discover that he is assigned to any particular agency. He carries very great influence in high places in Washington which has helped him carry out his assassinations."
"Thank you," said Fondberg. He exchanged the normal pleasantries automatically, then replaced the receiver and cuddled his chin in his hand, gazing into the distance with a grim expression. It was always the same problem: too much was happening at once. But what worried Fondberg most of all was a question which kept hammering away at his brain.
Who was Harvey Sholto's new target?