by Colin Forbes
"How long had he lived in Elsinore?" Beaurain persisted.
"About twenty years. And he had his place a short distance outside the town in a very quiet area. That's all I could find out." He stopped suddenly on the sidewalk and turned to Beaurain, his brow crinkled in perplexity and frustration. "It doesn't make sense at all, does it?" he burst out.
"No, it doesn't."
"What doesn't? Am I being dim?" Louise enquired.
"No," Beaurain replied, 'but I think Bodel means this. For at least twenty years we have a man leading an apparently respectable and sober existence. All right, he keeps himself to himself, a bit like Silas Marner. Then this same man moves to Copenhagen -when would you say, Bodel?"
"About two years ago."
"He moves to Copenhagen two years ago," Beaurain went on, 'and what happens - almost overnight? He becomes one of the three men we think control the Stockholm Syndicate,"
"I see what you mean," Louise said slowly. "No, it doesn't make any sense."
They had reached the concourse in front of the station where they had left the 280E parked, and Marker forced himself to speak with false exuberance. "Well, what are you going to do now, Jules? Is there any way in which I can help you?"
"Drive back to Copenhagen after we've had lunch and think things over a bit. Thanks for your help and I know where to find you. I suppose you'll be staying on here for a while,"
Beaurain nodded in the direction of where a fleet of rescue and police craft were beyond the harbour poking around among the rapidly dispersing wreckage. Marker said yes, he would be staying on in Elsinore, shook them both solemnly by the hand and walked away slowly back to where his car was waiting.
"What are we actually going to do?" Louise asked. "I know you didn't tell Marker the truth. And where are Henderson and his team of gunners?"
"Back on board Firestorm by now. I told him to leave once we had seen the ferry carrying the heroin depart. And Captain Buckminster has fresh instructions - to sail through the Øresund and wait at anchorage off Copenhagen. As for us, you are right, of course. I wasn't at all frank with Marker and not because I don't trust him. But suppose the Syndicate did locate where he has hidden his family. How long do you think he would resist their pressure for information?"
"How long could you expect him to?" Louise shuddered and compelled herself to look out to sea where the flock of boats was milling round aimlessly. One large launch was trawling over the side what looked to Louise like a shallow net. "What is that thing, Jules? The boat with a loud-hailer keeping other craft away?"
"That will be Forensic. They will be gathering specimens of the debris for later analysis in the laboratory. That way they hope to discover what explosive was used."
"Let's get back to Copenhagen and then?"
"Stockholm,"
Beaurain paused as he took one last look at the confused armada beyond the harbour as if he wanted to imprint the scene on his memory. There was a set look to his expression; in some odd way he seemed to have grown younger rather than older, a youthfulness tinged with a merciless ferocity.
Beaurain made one more phone call before he left the Royal Hotel while Louise obtained flight reservations from the SAS airline counter in the hall adjoining the ground floor of the hotel. The call was to Chief Inspector Willy Flamen of Homicide in Brussels.
As he expected, Flamen was ready with the information he needed; in a very short time he had thoroughly investigated the early history and background of Dr. Otto Berlin, dealer in rare books.
Berlin came from Liège, one of Belgium's largest cities, where he had built up a small but apparently lucrative business as a dealer in rare stamps. Part of his success lay in the fact that, unlike some of his European competitors, he was willing to travel any distance to conclude a worthwhile deal.
"You did say stamp dealer, Willy," Beaurain queried. "He's in rare books now surely?"
"Quite correct. He switched from stamps to books immediately on his arrival in Bruges about two years ago."
Goldschmidt's photograph of Otto Berlin had been shown to the few people who had known Berlin in Liège. Flamen explained that Berlin was a bachelor, apparently totally absorbed in developing his business and with no close friends. Shown the photograph, the few people who had known him by sight had roughly divided into two sections those who firmly said the picture was of Otto Berlin and those who said they didn't recognise it.
Flamen went on to explain that Otto Berlin had lived for about fifteen years in Liège before moving to Bruges. That was all Flamen had been able to come up with so far. There was an apologetic note in his voice but also, behind that, Beaurain thought he detected some other unspoken doubt. He tackled Flamen directly on the point.
The only other fact was something Flamen had obtained by phoning an acquaintance of Otto Berlin. Apparently Berlin had been excited just before he moved to Bruges, and he had conveyed this excitement over the phone without explaining the reason for it. And no, the man he had phoned had never seen Berlin again from that day to this.
Beaurain thanked Flamen, who then expressed the horror which was being felt all over the western world at "The Elsinore Massacre'. The fact that there had been not a single survivor increased the dramatic impact, which TV stations and the radio everywhere were exploiting to the full. Louise returned, holding the folder with their air tickets, just as he replaced the receiver. He told her in a few words what Flamen had found.
"Nothing, then," Louise decided after listening to Beaurain's account of the call.
"You don't notice a pattern?" the Belgian queried.
"It's almost a replica of Benny Horn's early days in Elsinore. No close friends. No family. Not at home very often because they spent so much time travelling on business. Jules, it's almost as though these people never actually existed!"
"Exactly!" Beaurain paused. "But they did do exist. We have the evidence of two of the shrewdest police investigators in Europe Marker here, Willy Flamen back in Brussels. In Liège one of these men, Otto Berlin, lived for fifteen years. In Elsinore there are people who confirm without a doubt that Dr. Horn lived there for twenty years. Then they both suddenly change their addresses and pop up in Copenhagen and Bruges."
"And almost at the same time," Louise pointed out. "Both men apparently appeared in their new lives only two years ago. Is it significant that there's a break in the pattern? Willy Flamen said Berlin was a stamp dealer in Liège and then switched to rare books as soon as he appeared in Bruges."
"Possibly."
"Who do you think is behind this monster?" Louise asked as she perched on the bed to fix her nylons. "You have the feeling there is no-one you can confide in any more in case he or she may be a member of the Syndicate, willingly or because they're under pressure."
"Which I suspect is also part of their technique. The terror spreads ever wider, sucking more and more key figures in the West into its web. As to who is behind the monster, the answer appears to be Hugo, whoever he may be." He looked up and handed back the airline folder. "I'm convinced there's only one way to find out to do what we're going to do. Fly to Stockholm and track down the location of the coming conference of the entire Syndicate. And we have Harry Fondberg of Säpo on our side, who may make all the difference."
"Can we trust him?" she asked.
He was careful to keep control of his expression: not to let her see that she had just asked what he considered could be a leading question with a sinister answer.
Chapter Fourteen
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 hi
ssing 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 Säpo 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 Säpo, 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 A
rlanda. 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."
