The Stockholm Syndicate (30 page)

"Any sign of occupation?" Louise whispered.

There was something about the atmosphere of the place which encouraged whispering, something about the heavy, hot silence which hung like a cloud over the strange building.

"Can't see a damned thing," Beaurain said as he lowered his glasses, but there was a lack of conviction in his voice. "What do you think?" he asked.

"I don't like it," Palme repeated and again scratched his head with his left hand; his right was holding a loaded machine-pistol.

"I suggest we surround it first, sir," Henderson suggested crisply. "Then move in from all sides at an agreed moment. There's a drainage ditch just behind us with grass grown up all round it - a perfect conduit if we wriggle on our bellies and head for the rear of the house and then circle round."

"There's a lake not far away," Palme observed. "A lot of them in this area. This one's reasonably large." He showed

the map to Beaurain, who made a remark he was later to regret.

"Can't be of any significance. I agree, Jock, we approach with extreme caution. Surround the place and then move in from all sides. Jock, get it organised and get it
moving
!"

The 'traffic' helicopter with Harry Fondberg aboard had flown away some distance and when Louise shaded her eyes against the glare of the sun she saw it as little more than a speck. Fondberg was deliberately moving out of the battle area so as not to alert the opposition. Louise stood behind the trees which concealed them from the highway, staring again at the house through her field glasses.

Henderson and his team of twelve armed gunners, equipped with walkie-talkies, had already disappeared along the drainage ditch. Watching the grasses above the ditch Beaurain could not see the slightest sign of movement. He just hoped that from an upper window in the house it was not possible to see down into the ditch. He heard an exclamation from Louise, who had moved a few yards away and was still surveying the general area of the house. He joined her.

"What is it?"

"When Stig was interviewing that locksmith in his shop didn't he say he'd seen a Volvo station wagon with American diplomatic plates?"

"Yes, he tried to follow the car on its way into Stockholm and lost it. Why?" There was a note of impatience in Beaurain's tone.

"Because parked behind the house there is a Volvo station wagon the only thing is the diplomatic plates are Russian, not American."

"Seiger must have been so terrified he tried to hold back some of the truth. And that car means someone is inside that house!"

Chapter Eighteen

Dr. Theodor Norling stared from behind the curtain of the first-floor window. There were gaps in the sea of grass alongside the drainage ditch and there he had seen the approaching men slithering along like snakes on their bellies.

He had just collected what he had come for - a sheaf of red folders which had been concealed beneath a trap-door on the ground floor. Now they were safely inside his brief-case, and he had to get away. The upper part of his body was clad in a loose-fitting hunting jacket with capacious pockets. He was holding the brief-case in his left hand; his right hand dug into one of the pockets and felt the hard metal pineapples - grenades.

Swiftly he left the room and darted down the curving staircase. The place was almost empty, barely furnished, and the heels of his shoes echoed throughout the house as he descended.

The furniture which did exist was of a curious nature. Under each window stood a large box which might have been mistaken for an old-fashioned radiator. They were nothing of the sort. Before leaving the ghostly house Norling was careful to collect a compact device with a red button and a slide. He raised the miniature aerial and moved the slide across into the 'active' position. He now had to be very careful not to depress the red button too early.

Outside he ducked behind the parked Volvo and ran under cover of some trees to cross the ditch where it turned and continued behind the house. As he had hoped the ditch was empty; the first man had not yet reached the corner. Behind him he was leaving a powder keg.

Crouched low, he was now moving directly away from the house and the highway, taking advantage of every piece of natural cover: a patch of undergrowth, a group of trees, an outcrop of granite rearing up out of the earth. When he reached the outcrop he stopped, climbing up a small ravine and peering cautiously over the rim.

Some distance behind him the blue waters of a lake rippled and glittered in the sun like mercury. This was the lake which Beaurain had thought couldn't be of any significance. From the summit of the granite crag Norling could just make out, among the reeds lining the shore, where his float-plane was hidden.

He turned his attention back to the house which he could see clearly from his position - the house, the parked estate car, and the line of men who, having encircled the house, were rising up from the ditch and staring at their objective without advancing. Norling clutched the radio-detonation device firmly in his right hand, his index finger close to the red button. One push would detonate the vast quantity of high-explosive installed inside the house.

Ed Cottel drove only a short distance beyond the drive to the house, which reminded him of the old houses still preserved in faraway San Francisco.

"Probably built about the same period," he speculated aloud - and knew immediately that the fact that he was talking to himself was a sign of tension. Wanting to use his transceiver, he drove the Renault off the highway and pulled up behind a clump of undergrowth.

He lowered the flap, exposing the dials, fiddled with them and then called his man at Kjula, the military and civil airfield fifteen kilometres from Strängnäs. "Sandpiper calling ... Sandpiper calling..."

"I read you, Sandpiper. I read you. Ozark has landed. Repeat Ozark has landed."

Cottel signed out and glared at the shimmering haze dancing over the fields. For Sweden it was getting pretty goddam hot. So - Viktor Rashkin had made his usual landfall at Kjula. The pattern was repeating itself.

It had been clearly established by the watchers at Bromma and at Kjula that the Russian made regular flights along this route. He left the Cessna - piloted by himself - at Kjula, climbed behind the wheel of a waiting Volvo 245 station wagon, and eventually drove along Highway E3 as though heading back to Stockholm - the place he had just flown from.

It hadn't made sense.

The trouble was Cottel had always lost the Volvo long before it reached the turn-off to the old house where Beaurain appeared to be about to start his own private war.

The Cessna left behind at Kjula was always flown back to its home base of Bromma by a hired pilot, presumably waiting for Rashkin's next outward flight.

Cottel caught a flash where there shouldn't be a flash. He flung open the door, ducked his head, rolled out bodily over the rough ground.

The first high-velocity bullet shattered the Renault's windscreen
, punching a hole through the glass behind where Cottel's head had been.
The second and third bullets hit their targets, destroying both front tyres
. Under shelter of the Renault Cottel loosed off three shots in rapid succession as near as he could manage to where sunlight had flashed off the lens of a telescopic sight. He waited and heard the sound of a car engine starting up. By the time he reached the highway the vehicle and the would-be assassin had gone.

Harvey Sholto was furious with himself for missing the target - something almost unique in his experience. There was a traffic control chopper floating about somewhere - he'd seen it earlier and the one thing he could do without was interference from the local pigs. Covered in the rear of the Volvo lay the Armalite rifle, its barrel still warm from the three shots he had fired. As soon as he'd realised he'd missed Cottel with the first shot he had switched his aim to the tyres.

Using one hand to drive, he removed the straw hat and mopped sweat off his bald head. This was cleaning-up time - knocking off all the loose ends. It had worked well at Stockholm Central. Wearing Swedish police uniform and equipped with the powerful motor-bike, Sholto had slipped through the cordon with the suitcase of heroin strapped to the pillion and delivered the consignment to the apartment in Rådmansgatan.

It was also Sholto who had used the silenced gun to kill Serge Litov after they had retrieved the heroin. Litov was an important part of the cleaning-up process. He rammed the wide-brimmed hat back on his head and pursed his thick lips. So, Cottel was still on his list. He would get a second chance.

"There's someone on that granite crag, Jules," said Louise urgently.

"Where?"

"That bloody great rock sticking up behind the house."

Beaurain had to take an instant decision. He had to assume that Louise
had
seen something. Instinctively he sensed there were only seconds left before something happened ... a man or men on the crag over looking the house ... a clear view of Henderson's men surrounding the house ... a clear field of fire for automatic weapons to mow down everyone ...

"
Withdraw! Withdraw! Henderson withdraw for God's sake now!
"

To make his voice carry Beaurain had cupped his hands into a man-made megaphone. He was risking blowing the whole operation. He was risking getting half his men killed if he had guessed wrong if Louise had imagined something. His desperate shout would have given the whole game away, wiped out Henderson's most important weapon the element of surprise.

Henderson reacted instantly, but used his own judgment.

"Take cover! Take immediate cover! Attack imminent..."

Beaurain and Louise saw the horror from their distant vantage point by the copse of trees.

The bay windows burst outwards, disintegrating into a hail of debris which cascaded over a huge area. The steps leading up to the front door took off like a rocket: a huge amount of explosive must have been placed underneath them to catch anyone trying to reach the veranda. The walls of the house were hurtling like shrapnel through the air, shards of wood with jagged ends. The roof rose up as though clawed skyward by a giant hand. And all this was accompanied by an ear-battering roar which temporarily deafened Beaurain.

Harry Fondberg, returning to the house area in the helicopter, stared in sheer stunned horror at the aerial view. The chopper shuddered briefly as the shock wave hit the machine. Fondberg recovered his wits swiftly, and gave the pilot a natural and humanitarian order.

Tut down on the highway at the entrance to the drive," he said into the mike. "And fast!"

And now the fire came. Like so many Swedish dwellings the house was built of wood. A fierce tongue of yellow flame speared its way up through the spreading black smoke, a tongue which danced and grew. The sinister crackle of flames spread fast, devouring the remnants of the house which had stood alone for so many years.

Dr. Theodor Norling had not waited at the top of the crag to see the result of pressing his red button. He had scrambled down the side of the crag furthest away from the house and by doing so had saved himself. At the back of the house had stood a large log-pile, ready for the coming winter. The explosion had taken these ready-made missiles and hurled them away from the house with the force of an artillery barrage. Norling heard the thunderous clatter of the logs bombarding the far side of the rock. Then he began moving towards his objective, half-running and half-crouching to escape detection.

*

The helicopter had been damaged on landing. It had been a chance in a thousand, possibly compounded by the pilot's shock at seeing a whole house fly into pieces but when he landed at the entrance to the drive the rear of his machine was a shade too close to Beaurain's parked Mercedes. It caught the car only a glancing blow, taking out no more than a sliver from the roof but it was the small tail rotor whose tip had struck the car. The rotor spun off the chopper and skittered across the highway.

"We can't fly again," Fondberg was informed. "I'm sorry - but without the tail rotor we've lost our rudder."

"Not to worry." The Säpo chief was preparing to leave the helicopter. "Be ready to radio for medical help - but not, repeat not - until I have checked the situation."

He met Beaurain returning down the drive while Louise remained near the wreckage, scanning the countryside with her field glasses. Beaurain was running and his expression was grim. He waved Fondberg back and the Swede stood where he was until Beaurain had reached him.

"Harry, get that chopper into the air and start looking."

"Rotor tail's gone. Pilot chipped your Mercedes when we were on the ground. What's happened up there?"

"Place was one gigantic booby trap Beaurain told Fondberg. "Suggest anything to you, Harry?"

"Should it?"

Beaurain was talking fast, filling Fondberg in on the position as swiftly as possible. "How long ago since the Elsinore Massacre? Another case of a large quantity of explosives detonated by remote control. The same hand pressed the button here to turn this house into a pile of rubble. I wanted your chopper in the air looking for the mass-killer - the maniac - who seems to be getting madder."

"Your men..." Fondberg spoke quietly and looked up the drive to where there was a scene like the smoke of battle.

"How are they? I can call a fleet of ambulances."

"Not necessary, but many thanks. Henderson reacted a split second too early for the killer, radioed everyone to take cover - so they dropped flat. Result - the blast-wave and the shrapnel-effect passed right over them. One or two have cuts and bruises, but nothing they can't fix up themselves. Otherwise you wouldn't see Louise back there doing her birdwatching act."

"I think she may have found an interesting specimen," Fondberg observed. "I'll stay here with the chopper to cover for you if a patrol-car arrives. They do creep about on the E3."

Beaurain turned and saw Louise beckoning him. He ran back up the drive and now the stench of charred wood was increasing. Black smoke billowed, the fire inside the smoke-filled nest was a searing, crackling inferno. As he came close to Louise who was standing where she could see behind the house, he saw the familiar figure of Henderson in the distance running towards a granite crag rearing up out of the ground.

"What is it, Louise?" Beaurain demanded.

"Norling," "Where?"

"I'll tell you if you'll shut up for ten seconds, for Christ's sake!"

"I'm mute," he told her.

To the right of that large crag Henderson is heading for with some of his men." She handed him her field glasses. "I thought I saw movement in the grass, then I thought I was wrong - then I saw it again. The trouble is his blond hair merges with the landscape. And Stig is puzzled."

Palme was standing a few yards away, his face smoke-blackened, his stubble of hair singed with the heat which had flared out from the house, holding his machine-pistol ready for action. Now Henderson had reached the base of the crag while Beaurain continued scanning the field of yellow rape Louise had indicated. Surely there was nowhere there a man could hide, let alone keep moving. Then Beaurain saw what she was driving at. And at almost the same moment something else happened. Palme began receiving a message on his walkie-talkie.

There was a deep gulley running across the field of rape and along it a fair-haired man was moving at a steady trot - not so fast that he could easily be picked out, but fast enough to be putting plenty of ground between himself and the house he had just annihilated.

"Why is Stig puzzled?" he asked Louise.

"Stig says the fair-haired man Oh, hell, it must be Norling is heading straight for a lake which bars his way."

"Message from Sergeant Henderson, sir," Palme put in, proffering his walkie-talkie.