The Stockholm Syndicate (24 page)

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 Rådmansgatan, 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 Rådmansgatan 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 Rådmansgatan 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 Rådmansgatan - 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 Rådmansgatan 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 Säpo 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, Malmö, 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 Säpo 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 Rådmansgatan 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."