The Stockholm Syndicate (28 page)

"Check him for other weapons!" he snapped. "Or do I have to do the whole damned job for you? He came within an ace of killing your boss."

Chaos broke loose. The room erupted into movement as the mob of reporters stormed towards the doorways. Beaurain hauled Louise back out of the path of the turbulent crowd and pressed her back against the wall. In thirty seconds the room was occupied by only three people: Beaurain, Louise and Harry Fondberg.

The Swede jumped agilely from the platform and ran towards the Belgian, holding out his hand. 'For saving my life I can only say thank you,"

"We stage-managed that rather well. Maybe we should go into the theatrical business," Beaurain whispered.

"I have the information you asked me to dig up on Dr. Theodor Norling's background before he came to Stockholm. It tells us nothing," Fondberg informed his listeners.

Beaurain and Louise were sitting at a round table in the Säpo chief's office, eating hungrily from a selection of dishes which Fondberg had ordered from a nearby restaurant. Beaurain nodded at Fondberg's remark as the Swede studied the report without enthusiasm.

"It is the same with all these provincial police forces - they think we live the high life here and they can't even answer a civil request without grumbling at how busy they are," "Tell us what there is to know about Norling," Beaurain suggested.

"Born in Gothenburg, his parents moved when he was seven years old to Ystad," he looked at Louise. "That is an old medieval port on the southern coast in the province of Skåne. The people in Skåne are very different."

He might have been talking about the end of the world, as certain New Yorkers refer to the Deep South. Perhaps this was the Deep South of Sweden, Louise reflected. Fondberg continued reading from his folder.

"When I say Ystad I mean a small place close to it. The first thing Theodor Norling's parents did when they arrived from Gothenburg was to separate. His mother ran off with a ship's engineer while the father managed to get himself killed in a traffic accident a few weeks later. Young Norling was taken in by some aunt who had money and he was partly educated abroad. He returned to Skåne when he was twenty, attended the funeral of his aunt who had just died, and promptly used the legacy she had left him to set up in business as a collector."

"Let me guess," interjected Beaurain. "A collector of editions of rare books?"

"Wrong!" Fondberg chuckled delightedly at having scored a point when he saw Beaurain's expression. "As a collector and dealer in old coins."

"And he travelled a lot," Beaurain persisted, 'during the course of his business."

"Yes," Fondberg admitted.

"And most of his business was done abroad and locally he was known as a bit of a hermit and he never got married?"

"Yes," Fondberg agreed, almost reluctantly. "It is a waste of time my reading this folder since you seem to know the contents. It is true he was a hermit - and disliked on that account since he gave the impression he felt himself superior to the locals." The Swede chuckled again. "The truth of the matter probably is that he was very superior! Any more predictions?"

"Only one. He arrived suddenly in Stockholm to set up business as a dealer in rare books about two years ago."

Ten out of ten!" Fondberg did not even bother to refer to the folder.

"So," Beaurain suggested, 'to sum up, Theodor Norling has now no known living relatives. Correct? And have your people down there in darkest Skåne found any close friends he left behind who could identify a picture taken of him?"

"Yes - and no. As you suggested I sent the picture we have of Norling, a picture which had to be taken secretly because of a directive from higher up. The Ystad police showed it to the very few people who knew Theodor Norling when he was in business down there. Some immediately identified him from the photo. Others said they didn't think that was the man they had known as Dr. Theodor Norling."

"
The man they had known as Dr. Theodor Norling
." Beaurain repeated the words slowly as though relishing every syllable. The chief of Säpo was now looking thoroughly piqued. Louise did nothing to enlighten him.

"It's bloody uncanny," was her unladylike remark.

"What is?" Fondberg pounced.

"How we've heard this story before. Twice to be precise." She looked at Beaurain who nodded giving her permission to go ahead. "What you have told us about the background and origins of Dr. Theodor Norling is an almost exact replica - with a few minor variations - of the background histories of the other two members of the so-called directorate controlling the Stockholm Syndicate."

"You mean these men are sleepers who are now activated?"

"No, oddly enough, the other way round." It was Beaurain who spoke.

"You mean someone has invented dummy men?" Fondberg suggested.

"Not even that, Harry. Dr. Berlin certainly existed, was quite definitely brought up in Liège in his early days and started his business as a book dealer there. There are still people who remember him. Vaguely."

Fondberg shook his head and lit a cigar. "I am lost. Which, I suspect, is your intention, you bastard." He turned to Louise and bowed formally. "Please excuse my language, but you work with him, so..."

"I agree with you," Louise assured him.

"Let's try to find you since you're lost, Harry," Beaurain continued imperturbably. "Dr. Theodor Norling's background is vague because his parents vanished from his life early on, because his life-style was that of a hermit, because he travelled a lot on business and was seen very little before he came to live permanently in Stockholm.
Two years ago
."

"All that is in the goddam folder," Fondberg pointed out.

"Or Otto Berlin's background is vague because Liège is a large city, because he had no relatives and few acquaintances, because he also travelled a lot owing to the nature of his business. His character, too, was hermit-like. Perhaps it goes with the trade. So again, as with Norling, old acquaintances shown a photograph say "Yes, that's him," or "No, doesn't look much like him." Only one photograph is available of Berlin. These men seem to be very camera-shy."

"I am still lost," Fondberg growled.

"The third man was note the past tense Dr. Benny Horn who now lives in Copenhagen but originally came from Elsinore. And while I remember it, when do you think Dr. Otto Berlin moved himself from Liège to Bruges?
About two years ago!
"

"It is getting interesting," Fondberg was compelled to admit. He glanced at Louise. "This dishonest and devious man you choose to work for plays these games with me whenever he gets the opportunity. In England I think they call it dangling you on a string."

"Benny Horn's background antecedents are equally vague when you go into them with a sceptical eye," Beaurain continued. "He was in the book dealer business for fifteen years in Elsinore before he moved suddenly to Copenhagen. Since then, no-one in Elsinore has seen him - not that there are many who would be interested."

"Another hermit?" Fondberg enquired.

"As I said, it seems to go with the trade. So, although he has a solid background of fifteen years' residence on the outskirts of Elsinore you can't track down many who actually knew him and then only vaguely. The local police produce his photograph and we get a repeat performance. Some say "yes" and some say "no" when asked to identify Horn. It's quite normal, as you know."

"I still don't understand it," complained Fondberg. "They're not sleepers, they're not dummy men."

"Someone went to a lot of trouble in Belgium, in Denmark, and here in Sweden searching out these men, Harry. The whole thing is quite horribly sinister - worked out by a brilliant mind and manipulated in a diabolical manner. What we are actually looking for is the fourth man."

"
The fourth man?
"

"The one they call Hugo, the man whose very name evokes terror, sheer terror."

Chapter Seventeen

The temperature was a comparatively pleasant 42 FV an east wind sweeping over the airport chilled the face, the expressions of the airport staff were sombre; a prejudiced observer might even have used the word 'sour'. As far as the eye could see the landscape and buildings were depressing. Scandinavian Airlines Flight SK 732 from Stockholm had just touched down at Leningrad.

Ignoring the stewardesses waiting by the exit, Viktor Rashkin left the plane and walked briskly to the waiting black Zil limousine. The KGB guard saluted, held open the rear door while Rashkin stepped inside, closed it and motioned to the chauffeur who started the machine moving at once. Rashkin was known for his impatience.

The cavalcade - a Volga car full of KGB agents preceded the Zil limousine while another followed in the rear - sped away from the airport and Rashkin glanced outside unenthusiastically. Why the hell did Brezhnev need to have personal reports on progress of Operation Snowbird? Rashkin suspected the old boy, surrounded by old-age pensioners, simply wanted a few hours of his company. He always asked for impersonations and roared his head off while Rashkin mimicked his victims.

Relaxing back against the amply-cushioned seat he gazed out through the amber-coloured curtains masking the windows. In the streets the people were curious - and resentful. Apparatchiki were on their way to some unknown destination and, ahead of the cavalcade, police were stopping all traffic to allow Viktor Rashkin swift passage. The driver of one car forced to halt by the kerb carefully waited until the second car-load of KGB men had passed and then spat out of the window.

"Arrogant sods living off our backs."

It was a common sentiment Rashkin would have seen in the eyes of the staring pedestrians had he looked up. He didn't bother. He knew what he would see. One day the lid would come off. There had to be a limit to the patience of even these stupid serfs.

Earlier at the Europe Hotel situated off the Nevsky Prospekt there had been more dissatisfaction as all visitors had been moved out of their rooms to other hotels at a moment's notice. No explanation had been given as squads of KGB agents moved in to replace the normal staff.

Now the Europe resembled more a fortress than a hotel with special squads of agents checking the identity of everyone who approached the entrance. Guards patrolled all the corridors and armed men displayed their presence aggressively. First Secretary Brezhnev was in town. His announced purpose was to visit Leningrad.

His real purpose was to confer with his protegé, Viktor Rashkin.

"So," Leonid Brezhnev continued, 'the Stockholm Syndicate can be said to be flourishing?"

"We can say more than that," Rashkin announced confidently, his manner totally lacking in the usual servility shown to the master of the Soviet Union. "We can say that we have now placed puppets under our control in most of the key positions in Western Europe - chairmen of huge industrial concerns, heads of transport systems, controllers of some of the great banks and - above all - certain cabinet ministers. By involving them - through one method or another - in the Syndicate, we have compromised them so all they can do is to obey our instructions."

"A takeover without war, a takeover which is invisible and not even seen by the masses to have taken place!" Brezhnev's tone expressed his immense satisfaction with what he obviously regarded as a great victory.

"It is like Hitler's Fifth Column practised on a far vaster scale," Rashkin commented.

"These three men you found who form the directorate - Berlin in Bruges, Horn in Copenhagen and Norling in Stockholm. Why are they needed?"

Rashkin prevented a sigh of exasperation escaping. This was caused by the First Secretary's advancing years - his infuriating habit of changing the subject for no apparent reason. Yet oddly it was combined with a flair for remembering an extraordinary amount of detail over a vast range of projects. You had to watch the old boy underestimate him and he'd catch you out in the flick of a horse's tail. And that, Rashkin reminded himself grimly, only happened once. He explained crisply, careful not to appear patronising.

"These three men are essential. Each controls a certain geographical sector - Berlin, the Mediterranean up to the mouth of the Rhine, Horn the United States..."

"Yes, yes, I remember that bit."

"So any member of the Syndicate in that sector cooperates with the sector commander, who is a West European. This camouflages totally the fact that real control is in our hands.

"How do you explain to them why the conference is taking place aboard a Soviet vessel the hydrofoil,
Kometa
?"

A shrewd point.
But oh God, we have gone all through this before!
Rashkin smiled to relax himself. "They already believe that much of the Syndicate's profits will come from, surreptitious dealings in the proceeds from crime inside the Soviet Union, that there are
Soviet
members of the Syndicate!"

"Good, good, Comrade!" Brezhnev smiled slyly, leaned forward and squeezed Rashkin's shoulder. The younger man guessed what was coming next and was not disappointed. "Now, what about a few of your impersonations to cheer up an old Bolshevik who has to sit all day long staring at sour faces For a start, why not our esteemed Minister of Defence, Dimitri Ustinov?"

A moment later he began to laugh out loud: in that short space of time Rashkin's acting genius had transformed him into a different human being. He had become Marshal Dimitri Ustinov.

Attempt on Life of Security Chief Fails
.

"God damn it, what crazy maniac acted without my orders and committed this supreme idiocy? And if ever there was a time we do not want anything like this it is now! Now! Now! Now! Do you hear me? Well, why don't you say something instead of standing there like a whore on a street corner?" Rashkin demanded. Karnell grabbed a decorative plate from the wall and hurled it at him. It shattered on the side of his head - and when he put his hand up it came away streaked with blood.

Rashkin looked at Sonia Karnell and took a handkerchief from his pocket with the other hand. He wiped the blood from his fingers, his manner suddenly frigidly calm. While talking he had been raving like a madman, shouting at the Swedish girl as though it were all her fault.

"It was a bumpy ride back from Leningrad," he told her. "The turbulence was most unusual."

"The turbulence since you arrived has not only been unusual," she said viciously. "
It has been unbearable. Do you hear me, Viktor Rashkin?
" she suddenly screamed at the top of her voice. "And the plate I broke over your stupid head was your present to me,"

"I know."

"I just wanted to make sure you know because I'm glad. Do you hear me, you pimp? I'm glad."

Her well-defined bosom was heaving with passion and her white face was a mask of rage. His reaction, as always, was unexpected and disarming. He sat down on a sofa, lit two cigarettes and offered her one.

"The newspaper story disturbed me," he remarked mildly. "Coming on the eve of the conference when we want everything peaceful with nothing to disturb our influential guests. Such men and women like to live without any publicity. There is only one solution, Sonia."

Karnell played with the large diamond ring he had given her and waited for his next pronouncement. She had asserted her independence; Viktor despised and mistrusted all those who played up to him. She had by now learned how to handle this brilliant and strange man.

"We quietly wipe out Beaurain's organisation, starting at once," he decided. "We now have plenty of troops in Stockholm, including Gunther Baum."

"But how are you going to find them? We know Beaurain and his tart are at the Grand but the rest?"

"Our people will call discreetly at all major hotels in the city. They will check on any new arrivals during the past week. They should not be difficult to identify we are looking for Commando-style men, a number of whom we suspect previously belonged to the British terrorist SAS."

"Who, of course," she interjected sarcastically, 'are far worse than the KGB execution squads."

"I must leave now. You can alert our people and get the search under way at once. Gunther Baum is to be put in charge of both search and subsequent liquidations as many of them as possible to look like accidents. I am going to the house to collect all the folders before the conference commences aboard
Kometa
."