by Colin Forbes
Other men were now wandering across the road towards the ferry terminal. One of them, tall and sandy-haired, carrying a long sports bag, walked with a distinctly military carriage.
Crossing the road, he walked a short distance further on beyond the ferry terminal. Marker's eyes narrowed as he watched him put the bag down on the floor and raise a small compact object like a camera to his eyes while he scanned the harbour with the eagerness of a photographic buff always on the lookout for new subjects. It occurred to Marker that the camera could easily be a camouflaged walkie-talkie. ;, Beaurain's face was expressionless as he also watched ;; Jock Henderson take up the best strategic position for viewing the ferry terminal, its approaches, the railway station and the two wagons waiting to be put aboard the next ferry, which was entering the harbour and |s|| turning slightly to head for the landing. Everything so normal. The sun beating down, radiating warmth out of a perfectly clear sky. The steady thump of the wheels of the engine approaching the two wagons it would push across the road and up inside the bowels of the ferry once the vessel had berthed and was ready for its new cargo.
"You said "this is it". I see nothing out of the ordinary," said Marker.
"You're not supposed to."
"The man with the flag guiding the engine," said Louise. "He's been waiting there for fifteen minutes. He kept looking towards that man on the motor-bike who picked up the girl."
Thunk! The slow-moving engine hit the rear of the two wagons and the railway man dropped his flag to indicate contact. A shade late, Beaurain noted. The railway man rolled up his flag. Behind them they could hear a massive gushing as the incoming train ferry displaced quantities of harbour water, the vessel's propellers already in reverse to slow her down and ensure a gentle contact with Danish soil. Customs officials and Immigration men holding brief-cases were moving restlessly in the vicinity of the landing point. All perfectly normal.
"Have you any men with you?" Beaurain asked suddenly.
"No," Marker admitted reluctantly. "I'm not supposed to be here, remember?" He glanced at Louise but she was staring in the direction of the shunting yards and apparently not listening. "I couldn't bring a team that would have alerted my chief. So, if the Syndicate is here in strength "
"We'll deal with them and you'll vanish," Beaurain told him crisply. "Officially you were never here."
"I bloody well was - and am! You may need some official backing if it comes to a shoot-out. Where is the dope?"
"The first wagon full of packing materials," said Louise quietly. "Great sheets of it perched on end. That rail guard who flagged down the engine before it arrived he was patrolling up and down beside the first wagon. During the night those two wagons were further down the track behind the house I followed Horn to. Work it out for yourself."
"Packing materials?" Marker repeated.
"Ideal for cutting out a secret compartment to take the suitcase with the heroin. And I saw Horn carry just such a suitcase out of his house on Nyhavn only last night if that was Horn behind the wheel of the Volvo."
"That was Horn," Marker agreed. "This suitcase ..."
"It was driven to Elsinore by that black-haired girl who tried to chop me."
They were running short of time. Already the train ferry from Sweden had stopped its engines, its ramp was being lowered to connect with the rail lines on the quay.
"She tried to chop me," Louise continued tersely, 'because I was in the exact position to observe the heroin for her to risk what she did I had to be in a most sensitive area." She lost patience as Marker looked unconvinced. "Dammit, do I have to draw you a picture? What the hell was Horn showing himself in this area for? Because it's his responsibility to see the consignment gets through. The money and effort they have invested in this load must be enormous. If we can take it away from them we'll have dealt them a savage blow."
"And possibly just before the first full meeting of the entire Syndicate is held," Beaurain murmured. Aloud he said, "So what do we do as the first step, Louise?"
"Scare the guts out of that railway man with the flag," Louise replied instantly. "I'm convinced he knows where the heroin is hidden, that he's been guarding it until it's safely on its way to Sweden. And we may have only minutes to do it. Any suggestions, Max?" She looked at the German, who nodded and began to move.
Beaurain walked a few paces away and beckoned Louise over. They stopped and stared out at the regatta-like scene in the glittering Øresund.
"We are here in Elsinore for another reason- to meet our chief man in Stockholm, Peter Lindahl. For over a year his whole task has been to locate the head man behind the Stockholm Syndicate. Last night he phoned me at the Royal Hotel from somewhere between Stockholm and Halsingborg. He has discovered the identity of Hugo."
"Why didn't he tell you on the phone?"
"You must be tired," Beaurain chided. "You think that Lindahl is going to trust a hotel switchboard? Our
conversation was well wrapped up, but that's what he meant. He's driving now to Halsingborg and he'll soon be coming over. He told me he has a car space reserved on Delfin II for its midday crossing."
"So within an hour we'll know the monster who is responsible for so much terror and cold-blooded killing,"
Chapter Twelve
"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 th
e 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 o
f 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 Säpo in Stockholm."
Säpo 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.
