The express had been stationary for over an hour. Kellerman had no doubt that the wagon was standing in a siding at Stockholm Central: there had been shunting after the express had stopped and he'd heard the distant sound of passengers' feet clumping along a stone platform. So far no-one had come for the heroin.
Kellerman was cramped in every muscle, parched with thirst. Taking the cap off his water-bottle he swallowed a modest portion of the water still remaining, recapped the bottle and then froze. There was a strange hissing sound which he couldn't immediately identify. Then he smelt a faint aroma and saw a whitish cloud drifting from the crack between the doors. The bastards were filling the wagon with some kind of gas.
Hauling his handkerchief out of his pocket he uncapped the water-bottle again and soaked the handkerchief. He was already feeling dizzy when he clamped the damp cloth over his nostrils to minimise the effect of the gas. They couldn't know someone was inside: it was another example of the Syndicate's meticulous attention to detail, a precaution in case someone was inside waiting for them.
Everything began to blur. Wedged against sheets of compressed paper at the end of the wagon he was out of sight when they opened the doors and two men climbed inside wearing gas-masks. He could just make out the silhouette of the masks through a blurred haze and they looked hideous. Kellerman leaned against the wagon wall, incapable of any action except struggling to keep quiet.
There was a ripping sound and he guessed they were using a knife to open up the compartment secreting the suitcase of heroin. And not a damned thing he could do to stop them. At any second he knew that he might lose consciousness. If he did that he would fall down, make a noise. They would see to it that he never woke up again.
One of the men appeared briefly holding the suitcase, stood in the opening and tore off his gas-mask. Kellerman saw it all as though in a dream. The man with the heroin jumped out of the wagon, there was a brief lack of sound except for the muffled murmur of nearby traffic, then the vrooming roar of a powerful motor-bike's engine, which cut off suddenly, as though the machine had turned a corner. Kellerman eased the handkerchief away from his nostrils and found he could breathe. The gas had drifted out through the open doors. He began to feel better, able to cope, then he froze again as he realised something was not right. The second man was still inside the wagon.
Kellerman stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket and began to ease his way forward down the narrow passageway between the walls of compressed sheet paper. The air was bearable, but the German was horribly aware he was making noises as he moved forward. His sleeve scraped against the sides of the paper — only a slight sound, but more than enough to alert the man still in the wagon, who would be a professional. Why the hell was he still waiting?
Kellerman found him crumpled in a heap at the edge of the open doors, a short, heavily-built man still wearing the gas-mask and with a reddish stain spreading ever more widely over the uniform jacket across his chest. What the uniform might be Kellerman was not sure it looked like a policeman's but he jerked off the gas-mask and looked into a plump face with the eyes open. A familiar face, for God's sake, the face of Serge Litov. And someone had used a gun with a silencer to shoot him, although he was still just alive.
"Heroin… Norling… traitor," were his dying words.
Passenger who landed Arlanda Airport Flight SK407 from Copenhagen as per attached photo identified as Gunther Baum. Originates from East Germany. Poses as business executive but is independent professional assassin charging extortionate fees due to reputation for always completing assignment. Present whereabouts unknown.
Chief Inspector Harry Fondberg of Sapo studied the signal which had just arrived from Interpol. He was fuming about the incident at Stockholm Central — where someone disguised as a police despatch rider had seized the haul of heroin from under his nose and murdered his own accomplice as a bonus. Then the phone rang and he heard Jules Beaurain had arrived.
The Belgian was ushered into his office and shown to a chair. The Swede was studied by Beaurain as they shook hands: no outward sign of nerves here in Stockholm. And his host's appearance was exactly as the Belgian remembered him from their previous meeting.
Thinning hair was brushed over a well-shaped skull. He had the blue eyes of the Scandinavian which, in Fondberg's case, held a hypnotic quality. His nose was strong, his mouth firm and he had a jaw of character. The Chief of Sapo, who worked under a Director solely responsible to the Minister of Justice, showed his guest the signal from Interpol. Attached was a glossy print.
"That's a copy of the picture we radioed to them," Fondberg explained.
There were several people the photographer had caught in his lens and it was obvious they were completely unaware that their arrival was being recorded. Beaurain passed the photograph back to Fondberg.
"He tried to kill me in Copenhagen — in broad daylight close to the Tivoli Gardens. His accomplice is with him."
"Accomplice!" Fondberg grabbed the picture off the desk, glaring at it. "Those damned fools at Interpol never said anything and we radioed the complete picture. It was taken at Arlanda. The accomplice is…?"
"The ordinary-looking man behind Gunther Baum's right shoulder. You can just see he is carrying a brief-case. That is where the gun would normally be he is Baum's gun-carrier and, I suspect, only hands him the weapon at the last moment. Baum is extremely well-organised. When did he come in here?"
"On the first flight this morning from Copenhagen — what we call the businessman's flight. The distance is so short, many spend the day in Stockholm, conclude their business, and are back in Copenhagen for the night."
"Stockholm has more attractions than that, Harry."
Fondberg smiled. "Yes, indeed. But you see, the businessmen's wives also know that. So, if they are not back in their cosy little Danish houses before midnight, chop!"
"How did you happen to take that picture?" Beau-rain indicated the radio-transmitted photo of Baum and his companion.
"As you know, we have men watching Arlanda all the time for known criminals. If the watcher on duty is keen, sometimes he takes a picture of a passenger who strikes him as not quite right. Baum's was taken for that reason, I sent it to Interpol, and you see their reply."
"You have his address?"
The Swede winced and lit a cigar before replying. "The shot was random, as I have explained. Since the signal came in I have had people checking at all the hotels, but it is too early for anything yet."
"You won't get anything anyway. He'll register with false papers wherever he stays. As you know, he is a top professional. So that is the man who has travelled here for the express purpose of killing me — or so you suspect?"
"I don't know," Fondberg replied blandly. "There are other potential candidates for the job. This man, for example."
It was like the old days when they had co-operated together with or without the agreement of their respective superiors. Beaurain stared at the glossy photo pushed across the desk at him. Again taken at an airport, doubtless Arlanda. An excellent print, this one, taken with a first-rate camera operated by a top-class photographer. The man was obviously totally unaware that his arrival had been recorded.
A big man, probably six feet one, broad-shouldered and with a large round head and cold eyes. Like Fondberg, the few streaks of thin hair were carefully brushed over the polished skull but unlike Fondberg he was almost bald. Even caught unawares his demeanour was aggressive; the total lack of feeling in the blank eyes was reflected in the thin-lipped, tight mouth. The way he held himself told Beaurain that this man, in his early fifties, was in the peak of physical condition. He probably played an hour's squash before breakfast every morning and his mood would be mean for the rest of the day if he didn't win.
"Who is the candidate and when did he get in and from where?" Beaurain enquired, his eyes still imprinting the man's features and general stance on his memory.
"American, of course. The dress tells you that. He is known as Harvey Sholto. He got in at Arlanda on the overnight flight from Washington. I was informed by no less a person than Joel Cody of his imminent arrival — person-to-person call. And the bastard tried to trick me."
"Cody? The President's aide? The man who thinks that finesse is a French pastry? And how did he try to trick you?"
"By officially informing me that Sholto would be coming here within the next few days, when he had already arrived in Stockholm. He didn't allow for the closeness with which we watch all incoming passengers at Arlanda. Sholto's appearance rang a bell in the mind of one of the watchers with a camera so he took his picture. The people who are checking hotel registers for Gunther Baum are also checking for Harvey Sholto, the second killer to arrive just ahead of you."
Fondberg added the final remark casually and puffed at his cigar while he gazed at the ceiling. It was the same game they had so often played in the past and was one of the many reasons Jules Beaurain liked Fondberg as much as any of the host of international colleagues he had come to know over the years.
"You're sure this is Harvey Sholto?" Beaurain queried, tapping the glossy print. "So he's a killer too."
"One of the deadliest. Our agent in Bangkok could have vouched for that. Except that he's dead now. He was very experienced and very good." Some of the toughness briefly evaporated from Fondberg's exterior. "He left a nice Swedish wife and three children. They found him floating in one of the klongs — canals. His throat had been cut from ear to ear. The Stockholm Syndicate never does a second-rate job, my friend."
It was the first time Harry Fondberg had linked the Syndicate with the Swedish capital. Smoking his cigar, Teeth clenched, he stared hard at his visitor. "Are you going to do something about it?" he asked softly.
"Yes. Kill it."
"You haven't the knowledge, resources or power. Above all you haven't the knowledge. How do they run their communications system? Tell me that. An organisation which has wrapped up a good part of Scandinavia and the Low Countries and is now rapidly penetrating Germany has to have a first-rate communications system."
"Water."
"I beg your pardon."
"Water," Beaurain repeated. "It came to me finally when I was on the terrace of the Grand Hotel looking out over the Strommen. Harry, has there been an increase in illegal radio activity in recent months?"
"Here in Stockholm? Yes." Fondberg's eyes were watchful. "I also know we have been unable to track down a single one of the transmitters which we suspect are very highpowered."
"Over how long a period?"
"I'm told it started about two years ago."
"Foundation date of the setting up of the Stockholm Syndicate," Beaurain said grimly. "Has anyone kept a record of the general areas of these illegal transmissions?"
"Yes, although I don't see how that will help." Fondberg broke off to speak in Swedish into his intercom, then switched off. "Our radio-detector vans have never been able to get a fix on a transmission. We think whoever is sending the signals uses a van and keeps on the move during the period of transmission."
The Swede stopped speaking as a girl came into the room with a rolled sheet, placed it on the Sapo chief's desk, and left them. Beaurain got up and stood behind Fondberg as the latter unrolled a large-scale map of Stockholm inscribed with red circles. He snorted his disgust.
"Doesn't tell you a bloody thing!"
"Doesn't tell you a bloody thing," Beaurain corrected him. "But for me it's the final confirmation that I'm right. Look at all the circles."
"In so many different districts? No pattern."
"You're losing your grip. The pattern is screaming at you. All the roads and districts circled include waterways." Beaurain's tone became emphatic. "Willy Flamen in Brussels showed me a similar record of heavy illegal radio traffic and he couldn't see a pattern. Neither could I at the time but all his marked districts throughout Belgium were close to canals. Same thing in Copenhagen when Marker of Intelligence showed me his records. The activity is always close to the Oresund."
"You mean…"
"The bastards have their transmitters afloat. Aboard barges in Belgium which will move down the canal while they transmit. This is why they've never been caught. In Denmark they're on board fishing vessels or power-cruisers, again on the move just offshore while sending a signal. Here they're on the Strommen, on the…" Beaurain's hand hammered the city map as Fondberg studied it afresh.
"I believe you could be right," Fondberg said slowly. "If we can crack their communications system we sever the jugular of the Syndicate."
"Let's get the timing right," Beaurain suggested. "I want one smashing Europe-wide hammer blow delivered at the same hour when the transmissions are going full-blast. Everywhere taken out at once including the barges in Belgium, where, incidentally, two Syndicate operators, a man and his wife, were recently executed. Each took a bullet in the back of the neck."
"What?" Fondberg sat very upright and his intelligent eyes gleamed. "That's an old Nazi technique. It raises a hideous new possibility that the men behind this foul organisation are the Neo-Nazis! God, have we been blind!"
Harry Norsten sat behind the controls of his Cessna, ready to land in the centre of Stockholm. He had just received clearance and in the two passenger seats the man and the girl stirred as travellers do when approaching their destination. Norsten was not coming in at Arlanda, the great international airport many miles outside the city. The Swedish pilot was dropping his tiny aircraft into Bromma Airport, a short drive from the Grand Hotel.
The male passenger glanced out of the window, hardly interested in the familiar view. Of medium height, his hair blond with side-burns and a thick mane extending down his neck, the passenger wore large horn-rimmed spectacles. Dr. Theodor Norling squeezed the hand of his companion, speaking to her in French. "You are glad to be back home? You have had a busy time."
A busy time. The girl whose jet-black hair was cropped close to her skull shuddered at the words. She was recalling what she had read in the morning paper about what was rapidly becoming known across the world as "The Elsinore Massacre'. Then she was frightened because she realised her shudder had communicated itself to Norling who was still gripping her hand.
The blond head turned slowly. Staring straight ahead at Stockholm coming up to meet them, Sonia Karnell fought to regain her composure. Whatever she did, however she reacted, she must never show alarm, fear or repulsion. He disapproved of such emotions, regarded them as irrelevant in the task they were engaged on.
"Do I wait for you at Bromma or go home?" Norsten asked as he skilfully manipulated the controls for a perfect descent. He also spoke in French. The silent Dr. Theodor Norling had once told him he liked to practise the language.
"You go home and wait for my call. I may need you again at very short notice."
That was all. A typical Norling command. Clear to the point of abruptness and not a wasted word. Who the hell was he anyway? After acting as his pilot for over a year Norsten knew as little about him as the first day he had been hired except that Norling expected him to be available at all hours for a sudden trip and paid incredibly generous fees for the service — and his silence. The fact was that Dr. Norling scared Norsten ice-cold.
"And one more thing, Mr. Norsten," the Swede had told him when they first met at Bromma and concluded their arrangement. "It would be most ill-advised of you to broadcast my activities or even to mention my existence as a client of yours."
He had paused, his blond head motionless, the eyes behind the tinted glasses equally motionless as they gazed with concentrated intent at the pilot.
"You must realise that success in my business, Mr. Norsten, often depends on my competitors being unaware of my movements unaware even of when I am present in Stockholm. Indeed, it is a cut-throat trade I ply."
Cut-throat… Norling had been staring at the pilot's throat when he used the phrase and Norsten was aware of an unpleasant prickling sensation in that region. Ridiculous! But that had been his reaction when he first agreed to do business with the book dealer. Fear.
They were a couple of bloody commuters, he reflected as he continued his descent — the sun glittering on the maze of waterways. Commuters between Stockholm and Copenhagen! And often at odd hours — flying through the night and landing before dawn.
He was pretty confident that at times they flew from Copenhagen to the United States. Once Norling had dropped an airline folder on the floor of the Cessna as they were descending to Kastrup. Norsten had caught a glimpse of the tickets which fell out before the girl grabbed for them. Destination: New York. So why not fly direct from Stockholm by ordinary scheduled flight instead of using the Cessna to cover the first lap to Copenhagen?
It didn't make sense. But Norsten, a prudent man, had long since decided not to question any of the book dealer's actions, or to probe into his background in any way.
As he landed he saw the beige-coloured estate car was waiting for them, empty. As usual. A most methodical man, Dr. Theodor Norling. Who brought the Volvo to the airfield Norsten had no idea, but whoever it was always took good care to be well away from the scene before he landed his passengers. It was almost as though no-one was permitted to see what Dr. Theodor Norling looked like unless it was essential. The fact that he possessed that knowledge sometimes woke up Norsten during the night in a cold sweat.
"The pilot, Harry Norsten, is developing a dangerous sense of curiosity about my identity and my life-style."
Dr. Theodor Norling made the remark to Sonia Karnell as she drove away from Bromma Airport behind the wheel of the Volvo and headed into the city. Removing his tinted glasses, he replaced them with a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. From his suitcase he extracted a dark trilby hat and settled it on his head despite the blazing sun which was causing Karnell to drive with narrowed eyes. It gave him a professional air, this slight change in his appearance. Taking a pipe from his pocket he gripped it between his Teeth, completing the transformation.
"Do we have to take any action?" Karnell asked.
"I have already made all the necessary arrangements to take him out at the appropriate time."
The watchers stationed at Bromma Airport followed the Volvo with great skill, employing the leapfrog technique. Nor ling, an expert in surveillance, constantly checked in his wing mirror but was unable to detect any signs that they were being followed.
Ironically enough, it was Harry Norsten the Swede was checking for. Although well aware of the leapfrog technique, Norling noticed nothing. It was, in fact, ideal for the watchers in their vehicles in heavy city traffic it was most unlikely they could ever be spotted since they were using as many as three cars and one delivery van.
There was a second factor which made it impossible for the ever-suspicious Norling to detect what was happening — the distance involved from Bromma to their destination was comparatively short. Even in heavy traffic, over a greater run Norling might well have eventually spotted what was happening as the four shadow vehicles continued their 'musical chairs' act.
"I drop you this side of the apartment?" Karnell queried.
"Of course. The usual precaution."
They had entered Radmansgatan, a good-class residential street consisting of old four- or five-storey buildings, all of which had been converted into flats. The street was also quiet and deserted as Sonia Karnell pulled in at the kerb, a good two minutes' walking distance to her apartment at Radmansgatan 490. Norling slipped out of the car holding his case and within seconds she was driving away to park it. A Saab drove sedately by.
Without moving his head Norling registered every detail. Registration number; the two men sitting in the front, one of whom was yawning while the other stared straight ahead, concentrating on his driving. Both were dressed in casual Swedish clothes and Norling could see nothing odd about the car which vanished round a corner.
"Sonia will be able to confirm whether they followed her to the garage," he murmured to himself, then crossed the street and walked at strolling pace towards the entrance.
"I'll drop you off here, Louise," Stig Palme said. "God we got lucky at Bromma."
Louise Hamilton was most uncomfortably doubled up on the back seat and out of sight of anyone studying the passing car from the street. She sat up and eased the ache out of her legs as Palme pulled in at the kerb.
"Not lucky, Stig," she remarked, checking her hair quickly in a hand mirror. "Jules is just a superb organiser. And I can recognise Black Helmet I should be able to spot the bitch by now."
Take care," Palme warned.
Then she was gone, walking back down Radmansgatan carrying a shopping-bag with NK, the name of a leading Stockholm department store, printed on the side. She also carried, looped over her shoulder, the bag which contained the automatic supplied to her after her arrival by air at Arlanda. God, what a rush to reach Bromma! She turned a corner which hid the rest of the street and the blond man with gold-rimmed spectacles who had left the Volvo was facing her.
This was the risk they had foreseen — that she would come face-to-face with him. Which was why Louise had done her best to change her appearance. She had discarded her trousers and windcheater and was wearing a bright yellow summer dress. Her hair was concealed under a silk scarf. Half her face was masked with enormous goggle-like sunglasses. Norling was only feet away from her, standing in front of the entrance to an apartment building. In his free hand he held a bunch of keys, one of them ready to insert into the lock. From behind gold-rimmed glasses distant eyes stared straight at her.
On her side of the apartment entrance there was a shop door. Praying it was open for business, she grasped the handle, turned it and walked inside, closing the door without a glance back.
Norling opened the front door leading into the apartment block and then glanced swiftly into the shop. The girl with the absurdly huge glasses was standing with her back to him ordering something from the woman behind the counter. He frowned, moved out of sight quickly, went into the apartment block and closed the front door. Inside, a flight of stone steps led upwards. It was very quiet and apparently deserted. Norling paused, one foot on the lowest step, his blond head cocked to one side. He was listening for the slightest sound.
Satisfied, he ran lightly up the steps, making scarcely a sound. Arriving on the silent first floor he paused again, this time to look out through a pair of double windows giving onto a curious enclosed roof-like area. There existed, he knew, access to that roof from another staircase.
Again satisfied, he unlocked the door, which involved two separate keys for two separate locks. Norling walked into a pleasant, roomy apartment and closed the door behind him.
The living-room — which overlooked Radmansgatan — had a polished wood-block floor covered with colourful rugs. A curious Oriental lantern hung from the ceiling for night-time illumination. Norling sat in a chair, picked up the phone and dialled a Stockholm number.
He had just replaced the receiver when Sonia Karnell's keys rattled in the locks. Norling made no assumptions: when she pushed the door open he was facing her directly, both hands raised and clasping the Luger pistol.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Arlanda has reported the arrival of Jules Beaurain and his mistress in Stockholm."
In the patisserie Louise Hamilton had slipped inside to avoid recognition by the blond man, she was now ordering slowly a range of cakes and pastries. It was a quality shop and the woman behind the counter clearly expected her customers to choose carefully. Louise wanted to give the blond man plenty of time to get off the street before she emerged.
Then it happened. Sonia Karnell appeared on the pavement outside the window and stopped to search in her handbag for her door keys. As she had seen the blond man peer in earlier, Louise now had an excellent view of the dark-haired girl — in the mirror lining the wall behind the counter.
But the girl outside had only to glance into the shop and she might recognise the single shopper: Louise instinctively knew she would be recognised. She stopped herself moving in time. The slightest movement would be caught out of the corner of the dark-haired girl's eye. Was all this frenetic search inside the handbag a cover for the fact that she had already recognised Louise? The English girl became aware that the woman behind the counter was staring at her strangely. She hadn't spoken for half a minute.
"I'll have some of the chocolate gateau, the one with cherries. About a quarter of the cake. — I see it's cut…"
A clear and direct look at the mirror image of Black Helmet would have told Louise exactly what the situation was — and that was the one thing she knew she must not do. Her head was bent over the counter, examining the display while the woman packed what she had ordered into a carrier. Black Helmet disappeared, moved past the window to the apartment block entrance. Louise pretended to have trouble with the currency, to give the girl time to get well inside the building, then left the shop.
Before she left she was careful to pick up the carrier full of the food she had purchased with her left hand. Her right hand hovered over the unbuttoned flap of her shoulder bag over the compartment holding the 9-mm. gun. She stepped into the street.
It was empty. Quite empty.
She hurried to the door to the apartment block. Swiftly she ran her eye down the small metal plates with the occupants' names. Only one woman. Apartment 2. Sonia Karnell. She walked back up the street to where the Saab was parked with Stig Palme behind the wheel.
"Get me back to the Grand Hotel," she told him as she climbed stiff-legged into the back and slammed the door shut. Stiff-legged with tension, God damn it.
Without being told, Palme chose a different route, one which would not take them past the apartment block so anyone watching from a window overlooking the street would not see the Saab pass the building a second time. In the mirror Louise caught Palme's eyes and the Swede winked. He had detected the tension she was struggling to control. She began speaking to Palme and his companion as though delivering a report.
"If anything happens to me the address is Radmansgatan 490. I'm pretty sure the hideaway is Apartment Two — occupied by a Sonia Karnell. Only woman shown as occupying an apartment. Not conclusive — it could be in a man's name."
"She parked the Volvo," Stig pointed out. "Again, not conclusive, but I think you're right. We're moving in on them."
"Or they're moving in on us." Bloody hell, she was still talking through clenched Teeth. That episode in the patisserie had been murder. She went on giving her 'report' for Beaurain in the same clipped tone. "Male passenger, fair-haired, sideburns, hair thick on neck, wears gold-rimmed spectacles. A little taller than Dr. Benny Horn or Otto Berlin. He could just be Theodor Norling, but I'm guessing. That apartment wants a round-the-clock stake-out."
While Louise Hamilton and her two companions were following the Volvo from Bromma Airport, Beaurain was still at police headquarters with the Sapo chief, Harry Fondberg. The Belgian had just called London and was talking to Detective Chief Inspector Swift of Special Branch.
Swift had known Beaurain for years and, like many of his international colleagues, still treated the Belgian as though he were in charge of the Brussels anti-terrorist squad. His news was a tonic to Beaurain at whose suggestion Swift had sent a special team to the Woking-Guildford area of Surrey. Their task seemed strange they had travelled backwards and forwards on single-decker buses in the hope of detecting suspicious foreign visitors.
"The score so far, Jules, is fifteen — all with false passports and all carrying concealed weapons. Some very tough characters."
The trick played on Litov had been two-edged. Primarily planned to lead Beaurain to the Syndicate's base, it had also been hoped it would syphon off to England a number of the Syndicate's top soldiers — who would not be available if and when the main clash took place. Special Branch had scooped the pool.
"It's all the wrong way round!" Fondberg poured more coffee as he shook his head. "I get this oily bastard of a presidential aide, Joel Cody, on the phone like he's admitting me to some exclusive club. He says Harvey Sholto is on his way to Stockholm when he has already arrived — I told you, my people at Arlanda saw him."
"What is really worrying you, Harry?"
"Normally we have good relations with the CIA. But Ed Cottel arrives without a word from Washington. I repeat it's the wrong way round. They tell me about Sholto, a very dangerous and suspect character. Why focus attention on Sholto and hide Cottel?"
"You're assuming they know Cottel is here," Beaurain commented.
"You mean…?"
"I'm not sure what I mean, Harry. Do you have a photo of Sholto? An earlier one from his Far East days I mean."
Fondberg reached into a drawer, took out a folder and produced two photographs. One of them was the picture of Sholto taken arriving at Arlanda. The big, broad-shouldered man with the large, round, almost bald skull and the cold eyes.
It was the second photo which interested Beaurain, a photo with crinkled edges and creases which showed a man taken against a background of a hut in a jungle. The build was the same, as was the shape of the head, but it was difficult to believe it was the same man. For one thing he had a thatch of thick hair and a moustache.
"How long ago was this taken and who took it, Harry?"
Two years ago. A clandestine shot taken by our man in Bangkok. He could have been one of the top European contact men in the drug-smuggling circuit originating in the Golden Triangle. Drugs which eventually end up on the streets of Stockholm, Malmo, Gothenburg and so on."
"This Far Eastern shot is definitely Sholto?"
"That's the name our man in Bangkok attached to it. And there's something else which makes me worry about having Harvey Sholto free on the streets. I told you that our man in Bangkok was found floating in one of the klongs?"
"Well, I phoned someone else in Bangkok who hears all the rumours. Remember," Fondberg warned, "I used the word rumours. The word out there is that the man who killed our agent flew in from Manila. He used to be one of Harvey Sholto's contacts when he was out there."
"You're not suggesting the Americans "I'm not sure. But the one who is blanketing this city with eyes is Ed Cottel."
"May I take these photos of Sholto? You have copies? Good." Beaurain took the envelope the Swede had slipped the prints inside and pocketed it before Fond-berg could have second thoughts. Only now did he raise the subject which he knew would embarrass the Sapo chief enormously. "Thank you for releasing my man so quickly at Stockholm Central. The drug consignment from Elsinore was…"
"Boy, did we balls that one up!" Fondberg slapped the top of his desk to emphasize his chagrin. "I surround the whole area with police. I play it clever and tell them to keep well back from the wagon containing the drug haul. The Syndicate sends in two men wearing Swedish police uniforms. Jules, I let it slip through my fingers — forty million kroner. And what is there to show for it?"
"A great deal, Harry," Beaurain said soothingly. "A direct link between Norling and the drugs and therefore with the Stockholm Syndicate. Remember Serge Litov's last cryptic words Heroin… Norling… traitor. At long last Norling is tied in with the whole infamous business."
"Except that's not evidence," Fondberg pointed out with unusual bitterness. "The last words of a now-dead Russian. Why a Russian? And on top of that the drug haul is gone."
"Harry, have you any information on Norling?"
"Yes. He poses as a dealer in rare editions."
"Poses?"
"May well, indeed, be a genuine book dealer to cover his real activities. It would explain his long absences away from Stockholm, since an international dealer travels a lot. He has an apartment in Gamla Stan — the Old City. Very close to the Church of St. Gertrud." The Swede took a street plan of Stockholm from another drawer. "Here, I'll show you." He drew a cross on the plan. "I have also heard that the real power behind this organisation is a shadowy figure called Hugo."
"Hugo?"
"Yes, identity completely unknown. The word is he terrifies even the members of the Syndicate."
The phone rang. Fondberg, normally slow-moving and deliberate, grabbed for the instrument. He listened, spoke several times in Swedish, then slammed it down as he stood up behind his desk.
"Norling has been seen in Stockholm. He's in a Renault heading for what we call Embassy Row — where all the foreign embassies are. Not far away is a large marina with a whole fleet of boats. A car is waiting for us."
In the living-room of Sonia Karnell's first-floor apartment in Radmansgatan the blond man was checking the mechanism of a Walther. 765 automatic. The girl watched him: ironically, the weapon was a police issue pistol. For the third time he rammed home the magazine into the gun and then slipped it inside his shoulder holster.
"As I told you, my dear, Beaurain and Hamilton are in Stockholm — just as the first of our distinguished visitors from the States are beginning to fly in for the conference."
"What are you going to do about it?"
"Ensure that within a few hours no matter where they go they will be paid a visit."
"So much blood."
"Your favourite play is Macbeth?" Norling asked genially. He lifted a hand as he saw her preparing to leave with him. "This time I go alone. We must not be seen together any more than can be helped while we are in Stockholm. San Francisco will be a different matter, but I am a little nervous while I have this in my possession." He hoisted the suitcase which had been waiting for him at the apartment. "After all, my dear, forty million kronors' worth is not to be treated lightly."
"And you are going where?"
"First to collect the Renault. It is in the garage with the Volvo? Good. The time has come — and this I will handle personally — to send out a Nadir signal on Louise Hamilton and Jules Beaurain. They are to be executed on sight."
Sonia Karnell folded her arms quickly and forced herself to relax, to show no sign of the mounting tension she felt. Tension to Norling meant a person's nerve could be cracking — as he had suggested might be the case with the pilot, Harry Norsten. And to safeguard the Syndicate's security he would not hesitate to send out a Nadir. The person named could then never survive — often his worst move would be to seek police protection.
"The Renault has a full petrol tank," she assured him as his left hand rested on the door latch. "You still haven't told me where you're going."
To the marina, of course. The one near Embassy Row."