by Colin Forbes
"Water," Beaurain repeated. "It came to me finally when I was on the terrace of the Grand Hotel looking out over the Strommen. Harry, has there been an increase in illegal radio activity in recent months?"
"Here in Stockholm? Yes." Fondberg's eyes were watchful. "I also know we have been unable to track down a single one of the transmitters which we suspect are very highpowered."
"Over how long a period?"
"I'm told it started about two years ago."
"Foundation date of the setting up of the Stockholm Syndicate," Beaurain said grimly. "Has anyone kept a record of the general areas of these illegal transmissions?"
"Yes, although I don't see how that will help." Fondberg broke off to speak in Swedish into his intercom, then switched off. "Our radio-detector vans have never been able to get a fix on a transmission. We think whoever is sending the signals uses a van and keeps on the move during the period of transmission."
The Swede stopped speaking as a girl came into the room with a rolled sheet, placed it on the Säpo chief's desk, and left them. Beaurain got up and stood behind Fondberg as the latter unrolled a large-scale map of Stockholm inscribed with red circles. He snorted his disgust.
"Doesn't tell you a bloody thing!"
"Doesn't tell you a bloody thing," Beaurain corrected him. "But for me it's the final confirmation that I'm right. Look at all the circles."
"In so many different districts? No pattern."
"You're losing your grip. The pattern is screaming at you. All the roads and districts circled include waterways." Beaurain's tone became emphatic. "Willy Flamen in Brussels showed me a similar record of heavy illegal radio traffic and he couldn't see a pattern. Neither could I at the time but all his marked districts throughout Belgium were close to canals. Same thing in Copenhagen when Marker of Intelligence showed me his records. The activity is always close to the Øresund."
"You mean..."
"The bastards have their transmitters afloat. Aboard barges in Belgium which will move down the canal while they transmit. This is why they've never been caught. In Denmark they're on board fishing vessels or power-cruisers, again on the move just offshore while sending a signal. Here they're on the Strommen, on the..." Beaurain's hand hammered the city map as Fondberg studied it afresh.
"I believe you could be right," Fondberg said slowly. "If we can crack their communications system we sever the jugular of the Syndicate."
"Let's get the timing right," Beaurain suggested. "I want one smashing Europe-wide hammer blow delivered at the same hour when the transmissions are going full-blast. Everywhere taken out at once including the barges in Belgium, where, incidentally, two Syndicate operators, a man and his wife, were recently executed. Each took a bullet in the back of the neck."
"What?" Fondberg sat very upright and his intelligent eyes gleamed. "That's an old Nazi technique. It raises a hideous new possibility that the men behind this foul organisation are the Neo-Nazis! God, have we been blind!"
Harry Norsten sat behind the controls of his Cessna, ready to land in the centre of Stockholm. He had just received clearance and in the two passenger seats the man and the girl stirred as travellers do when approaching their destination. Norsten was not coming in at Arlanda, the great international airport many miles outside the city. The Swedish pilot was dropping his tiny aircraft into Bromma Airport, a short drive from the Grand Hotel.
The male passenger glanced out of the window, hardly interested in the familiar view. Of medium height, his hair blond with side-burns and a thick mane extending down his neck, the passenger wore large horn-rimmed spectacles. Dr. Theodor Norling squeezed the hand of his companion, speaking to her in French. "You are glad to be back home? You have had a busy time."
A busy time. The girl whose jet-black hair was cropped close to her skull shuddered at the words. She was recalling what she had read in the morning paper about what was rapidly becoming known across the world as "The Elsinore Massacre'. Then she was frightened because she realised her shudder had communicated itself to Norling who was still gripping her hand.
The blond head turned slowly. Staring straight ahead at Stockholm coming up to meet them, Sonia Karnell fought to regain her composure. Whatever she did, however she reacted, she must never show alarm, fear or repulsion. He disapproved of such emotions, regarded them as irrelevant in the task they were engaged on.
"Do I wait for you at Bromma or go home?" Norsten asked as he skilfully manipulated the controls for a perfect descent. He also spoke in French. The silent Dr. Theodor Norling had once told him he liked to practise the language.
"You go home and wait for my call. I may need you again at very short notice."
That was all. A typical Norling command. Clear to the point of abruptness and not a wasted word. Who the hell was he anyway? After acting as his pilot for over a year Norsten knew as little about him as the first day he had been hired except that Norling expected him to be available at all hours for a sudden trip and paid incredibly generous fees for the service - and his silence. The fact was that Dr. Norling scared Norsten ice-cold.
"And one more thing, Mr. Norsten," the Swede had told him when they first met at Bromma and concluded their arrangement. "It would be most ill-advised of you to broadcast my activities or even to mention my existence as a client of yours."
He had paused, his blond head motionless, the eyes behind the tinted glasses equally motionless as they gazed with concentrated intent at the pilot.
"You must realise that success in my business, Mr. Norsten, often depends on my competitors being unaware of my movements unaware even of when I am present in Stockholm. Indeed, it is a cut-throat trade I ply."
Cut-throat... Norling had been staring at the pilot's throat when he used the phrase and Norsten was aware of an unpleasant prickling sensation in that region. Ridiculous! But that had been his reaction when he first agreed to do business with the book dealer. Fear.
They were a couple of bloody commuters, he reflected as he continued his descent - the sun glittering on the maze of waterways. Commuters between Stockholm and Copenhagen! And often at odd hours - flying through the night and landing before dawn.
He was pretty confident that at times they flew from Copenhagen to the United States. Once Norling had dropped an airline folder on the floor of the Cessna as they were descending to Kastrup. Norsten had caught a glimpse of the tickets which fell out before the girl grabbed for them. Destination: New York. So why not fly direct from Stockholm by ordinary scheduled flight instead of using the Cessna to cover the first lap to Copenhagen?
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 stat
ioned 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 apartmen
t. 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."
