The Stockholm Syndicate (18 page)

It was this curio us local layout Kellerman had been studying as he looked out of the bedroom window while the Belgian had been phoning. Reaching the street, they paused at a pedestrian crossing.

"We cross over here," Beaurain explained. "Go down that street over there and the police headquarters complex is

ten minutes walk, if that. What's wrong, Max?"

The lights were still against them. Other pedestrians were waiting for the lights to change. Kellerman had his hand in his jacket pocket and now his face was tense. Beaurain followed his gaze and saw only the crowd waiting on the other side of the crossing.

Two men," Kellerman said. "One with a brief-case which contains the weapon. Wasn't that how a little boy described the men who murdered the bar gee Frans Darras, and his wife Rosa?"

Gunther Baum had come to the conclusion that both the Belgian, Beaurain, and the German, Kellerman, were professionals. Their maximum alertness would be when they were in deserted alleys, lonely country lanes conversely their minimum alertness would be in a crowded street at rush hour first thing in the morning after a good breakfast with the sun shining down and the promise of another glorious day opening out before them …

aum was an exceptional psychologist - but he had not grasped that in confronting Telescope he was dealing with exceptional men. He would have been appalled to know that his fellow-countryman had already observed a false note in the manner of the two men constantly studying the large street plan of Copenhagen. The oddity in their stance he had seen from the tenth floor bedroom of the Royal Hotel. At the time, waiting for Beaurain to complete his phone call, Kellerman merely noted the position of the couple.

One with a brief-case which contains the weapon ...

The lights had changed, the pedestrians were swarming over the crossing. Beaurain and Kellerman were caught up in the swirl. Beaurain grasped who Kellerman meant at once and scanned the oncoming crowd.
Zenith!
Desperately Beaurain went on scanning faces, with Kellerman a step or two ahead as though he had some urgent purpose. Beaurain did not distract the German in any way. He had learned to give his trained gunners their heads in an emergency situation. He had almost reached the sidewalk, the crowd had thinned out, when he saw ...

One man of medium height and build dressed in a suit of American cut, wearing a straw hat - apt in this weather - and dark, shell-shaped glasses. He already had his hand inside the brief-case his compan ion held towards him. They had emerged from behind the map, which was mounted on two high wooden posts with an open gap below. It was through this gap that Kellerman had first noticed the two pairs of legs, had remembered the odd couple he had seen from the tenth floor. The German had watched and seen them come into view seconds before he began to move over the crossing. He'd just had time to make his remark to Beaurain.

As always, Baum had timed his move perfectly; he had been known to plan executions with a stop-watch. Appear from behind the street plan just as the lights changed. Be ready for the targets as they stepped onto the sidewalk. Two shots with the silenced Luger in the confusion of the morning traffic and minutes could pass before people realised what had happened.

Beaurain was not armed. He knew Kellerman was not carrying a gun. He saw Baum, who wore thin brown gloves, withdraw his right hand from the brief-case gripping the butt of a silenced Luger. Baum and his companion were about thirty feet away from their twin targets.

Kellerman was still several paces ahead, striding forward now the crowd had cleared out of his way. His long legs covered the ground at astonishing speed, although he did not appear to be hurrying. And he was striding straight towards Baum, who was taking aim with his left arm extended at right angles to act as a perch for the weapon. Max was going to be shot down in cold blood and there was nothing Beaurain could do to save him.

Suddenly Kellerman's right hand whipped out of his pocket holding the knife he had been nursing. In a blur of movement Beaurain saw Kellerman hoist his arm backwards then the knife was sailing through the air with the thrust of all the German's considerable strength behind it. The missile struck Baum's right shoulder, jerked his elbow and arm upwards and caused him involuntarily to press the trigger. Phut!

A bull's-eye! The silenced bullet hit a street light suspended high over the crossing. Sprays of shattered glass fell on pedestrians and there were shouts of surprise and annoyance. Baum still held on to the Luger and snapped off one more shot. His bullet missed Kellerman by a mile and shattered the windscreen of a passing Volvo. The car swerved across the line of oncoming traffic and ended up inside the window of a jewellery shop. Then the screaming began in earnest.

Pulling the knife from his shoulder, Baum dropped the Luger inside the brief-case which his companion still held open and they turned and ran. Kellerman sprinted forward to stop them, crashed into a French tourist who appeared from nowhere and both men fell sprawling. Kellerman dispensed with apologies and was on his feet again as Beaurain reached him.

"Where have they gone?"

Towards the railway station," Beaurain replied and they both ran - in time to see Baum and his companion, who still carried the brief-case, vanish inside the main entrance to the old station building. Behind them they left traffic blocked in both directions, several cars which had crashed together when the Volvo swerved across their lane, and a growing crowd of tourists and locals forming a mob of sightseers, none of whom had the slightest idea of what had happened.

"We can't miss that American bastard in that garb. Bloody great checks,"

"So noticeable you never think he could be anything but normal. Now, watch it - you haven't got your knife now."

They walked casually into a large reception area with places to eat, book stalls banks of phone booths, rows of ticket counters. After a swift glance round, Beaurain headed straight for some steps which led down onto the platforms. The flight of steps was crowded with people.

"There they are, Max!"

"Let's get to hell after the bastards!"

"Too late."

The couple had just boarded a red train which started to move into the well-like area they had looked down on from the Royal Hotel. Kellerman was in a rage of frustration increased by the Belgian's outward coolness and resignation.

"Your friend, Bodel Marker, we're going to see. Call him, for God's sake, and get police to check that train."

"Let's see if that's practical, Max."

"How can we see?"

"By checking the timetable here."

Beaurain led the German to a series of wall timetables. He ran his eyes down one timetable after checking his watch and shook his head, pointing with his finger.

"They'll be getting off any second now. That's the train they boarded and it's a local. You can see for yourself where the next stop is - just the other side of the Royal Hotel. We'd never get there in time and I don't think we wish to talk to the local police after what happened back there in the street."

"And I think I can hear police sirens."

"So we walk quietly towards the exit," Beaurain suggested, 'trying to look as though we've just arrived in Copenhagen. Someone may have seen us run in here."

And as they calmly walked out, the jackets they had removed during the short walk folded over their arms, two patrol cars screamed to a halt by the kerb and uniformed men went briskly inside.

Police headquarters in Copenhagen is known as Politigarden. A grim, triangular building constructed of grey cement, it faces a square called Polititorvet. Beaurain and Kellerman surveyed it from a distance before they went inside.

"Looks like a prison," Kellerman commented.

"Most inviting."

"They're not in the holiday camp business," replied Beaurain.

"And I see they have a wireless mast on the roof."

"It's that wireless mast I'm counting on - on that and Superintendent Marker of the Intelligence Department. He sounded friendly enough on the phone - but he didn't know then what I was going to ask him."

They approached the five arched entrances beneath the flat-topped roof. A patrol car pulled in at the kerb as they were crossing the square and a uniformed policeman carrying a small package dashed inside, leaving his companion behind the wheel.

Beaurain led the way to a side-door which carried the legend
Kriminal Politiet
. He pushed open the door and entered an austere office where a policeman in shirt-sleeves sat behind a desk.

"My identity ... Jules Beaurain ... Superintendent Bodel Marker ..."

He kept his voice low because there was another man in shirt-sleeves who had slipped into the room just ahead of them. The policeman behind the desk seemed to grasp the need for discretion.

"And the person with you?" he mouthed silently.

"My assistant - in charge of an undercover section. Marker will particularly wish to hear from him personally certain events he has witnessed. Name Foxbel."

There followed a brief conversation on the policeman's internal phone. Beaurain could not understand a word he said because he was speaking in Danish. The German nudged him in the back as the policeman stared at his desk. When Beaurain glanced round, Kellerman's eyes pinpointed the man who had entered the room before them: he was studying a notice on the wall. The policeman behind the desk finished his conversation, replaced the receiver and proceeded to fill in a form.

"He is waiting to see you," he informed Beaurain. The man who had been looking at the notice moved towards the door. Kellerman timed it perfectly. One foot projected at the last moment, the man tripped and fell, half-saving himself by grabbing the edge of the policeman's desk.

"I will come back later. I have an urgent call of nature - something I ate this morning."

A small, weasel-faced man with a leathery complexion and the agility of a monkey. Before anyone could react he had left the office. Kellerman heaved open the door and ran into Polititorvet. He was in time to see the patrol-car which had just arrived driving away, but there was no sign of the weasel. The man had vanished. Kellerman glanced up the curving flight of steps which led to the various departments in the building. He met Beaurain coming out, holding the form.

"Disappeared into thin air, Jules. He couldn't have escaped over the square - I was out too quick. He must have gone up there."

Kellerman pointed up a spiral staircase of stone steps which disappeared round a bend. From previous visits to Politigarden Beaurain knew the staircase led to all the main police departments. He also knew that before you could enter any of the departments, there was a police checkpoint you had to pass. The only conclusion left was that the weasel-faced man was a member of one of the many departments. Beaurain explained this briefly.

"Then he must have an official position here. Has the Syndicate penetrated here too?" Kellerman speculated.

"Why do we have to suspect him?" asked Beaurain.

"Because I deliberately tripped him up, he never protested and his reaction was to get to hell out of that room as fast as his legs could carry him."

"You're quite right. Let's get up and see Marker."

Mounting the spiral, they reached the first floor. There was a barrier and a uniformed policeman behind the desk. The form was essential: it was checked carefully and then they were told to continue up to the second floor and turn right along the inner corridor until they reached Room 78.

"What is worrying you?" Kellerman asked quietly as they went on up the second spiral which, like the first, was entirely enclosed by a curving stone wall.

"The Syndicate knew we were coming," Beaurain said grimly."Their organisation and thoroughness is incredible we've never been up against anything like this before. In some ways the extent of their reach is frightening. The only answer is to go over onto the offensive and hurl them off balance."

Beaurain's reaction was characteristic. Kellerman was intrigued about the reasons for his comment.

"Why is the organisation and thoroughness incredible? Have I missed something?"

"First, as I've just said, they had a man waiting for us here. But we were never supposed to get here, Max. We were supposed to be dead - gunned down near the station by that couple with the brief-case. And that means the man downstairs was simply backup - warned to keep a look-out purely on the off-chance that the assassination set-up misfired. Next point, how did they know we were on our way to see Marker? Only two possible answers - they have someone on the switchboard at the Royal Hotel or - worse still - they have someone on the central switchboard here at Politigarden. This bloody
Zenith
thing is encircling us with a stranglehold."

They had arrived at the second floor. Beaurain pushed open another heavy door and they found themselves out in the open air on a terrace-like corridor with a railing on the inner side. Kellerman thought it a curious arrangement: on the outside the building had been triangular in shape; now the centre was hollowed out into a huge circular courtyard entirely cut off from the outside world and open to the sky.

The courtyard, resembling the interior of an amphitheatre, was eerily deserted. They turned to the right and along their right-hand side the wall of the building continued in a circular sweep with more heavy doors at intervals.

"Weird building," Kellerman remarked.

"Unique in my experience," Beaurain agreed.

"I'll be glad when we get off this bloody platform. Anyone could use us for target practice and we're both unarmed."

"Room 78. Relax, Max. You'll like Marker." Beaurain turned the door handle and walked into the large room beyond. Kellerman was behind him when they both glanced into the room next door through an open doorway at the single object on a large desk. A
knife
.

"Forty million Swedish kronor worth of heroin."

The man who had spoken the words and then paused was in his mid-fifties, a man of medium height and rounded stomach whose hair and eyebrows were grey and bushy. His pink complexion and his chubby cheeks, with the brilliant sparkle in his very blue eyes, suggested the keen walker or cyclist. Amiability radiated from him. This was Superintendent Bodel Marker, Chief of Intelligence and the man responsible for some of the Copenhagen police force's greatest coups.

His guests, Beaurain and Kellerman, who had been introduced as Toxbel', were seated in comfortable chairs, smoking excellent cigars and drinking delicious coffee. Kellerman was forcing himself not to stare at the knife which still occupied the central position on Marker's desk, an object to which no-one had so far made any reference. The door to the outer office was closed and only the three men occupied the room.

"One of the largest consignments of heroin ever moved in this part of the world," Marker continued in his excellent English. "It is on the move now at this very moment following the same route as always, I am informed."

"Would forty million Swedish kronors' worth of heroin fit inside a suitcase measuring roughly something like this?" Kellerman's nimble hands described in air roughly the dimensions of the case Louise had described the man who had travelled by van from Nyhavn to Elsinore as carrying. Marker looked at Beaurain before replying.

"He is my close associate and friend and I would trust him with my life, Bodel," Beaurain replied quietly.

"Just as you did this morning!"

"Bodel?" Beaurain managed to inject just the right note of enquiry into his voice.

"Yours, I believe, Mr. Foxbel."

Marker lifted the knife, threw it across the desk so it fell over the edge and Kellerman was compelled to pick it up. He looked at the knife with a blank expression, gazed at the Dane, and then at Beaurain. Marker's amiability disappeared and his voice was thunderous.

"Less than one hour ago! Before you two arrive we enjoy peace and quiet and.. ," he paused, his fist crashed on his desk. '... I hear that within less than twenty-four hours of your landing we have a murder at Kastrup Airport!"

"Who was killed, Bodel?" asked Beaurain, quite unperturbed.

"George Land. Professional assassin according to Interpol. A big man. Carrying a British passport. He was found lying half-inside a telephone booth killed by his own favourite weapon an umbrella with a built-in trigger mechanism which operated a knife." Marker leaned forward over his desk and stared hard at each of his visitors in turn, "Mr. Foxbel ... that's right, isn't it? Did you see anything odd when you flew in?"