The Stockholm Syndicate (19 page)

"No," Kellerman replied shortly.

"It's upset you happening on your own doorstep," Beaurain said to the Dane sympathetically.

"There's more," Marker told him grimly. "Less than one hour ago while you were on your way here from the Royal Hotel two men were almost killed by a couple of professional assassins in the very centre of our beautiful Copenhagen, by God! How did the intended victims save themselves? One of them hurls this knife with great accuracy and destroys the gunman's aim."

"And the descriptions of the two potential victims fit us with remarkable closeness?" Beaurain suggested.

"We have your descriptions," Marker admitted. "And so far no-one can give us a clear description of the would-be murderers." He smiled broadly. "I'm glad you survived the attack." He picked up the knife Kellerman had put back on the desk and held it out. "This, I believe, is your property, Mr. Foxbel."

Take it," Beaurain said quickly. "I came here to ask what you know about a certain Dr. Benny Horn who

has a house on Nyhavn."

"Highly respected dealer in rare books," Marker said promptly. "The house on Nyhavn is both his shop and his home. He travels the world searching out rare volumes, so we are told. I think, Jules, you should be careful if you are investigating the Stockholm Syndicate."

Chapter Eleven

The conversation which followed was so horrifying that Beaurain could in later years repeat it word for word from memory.

"Why bring up the Stockholm Syndicate?" Beaurain asked.

"Because you mentioned Dr. Benny Horn. Nothing can be proved, but I am convinced he is a member of the directorate which controls this evil organisation. So far they have tried to kill me twice," he added casually.

"What about your family?" Beaurain asked slowly, watching Marker for any flicker of expression.

"They threatened to gouge out the eyes of my wife and cut off the legs of my ten-year-old boy below the knees. I have sent them both out of the country to a destination I will not reveal even to you."

Beaurain was shaken. He had known Marker since he had become a superintendent and he knew the man had courage, but this was appalling. He stood up, lit a cigarette and fetched himself an ash-tray to give himself time to think.

"Who are "they"?" he asked eventually.

"Voices on the phone often a girl, for Christ's sake. She was the one who spelt out the details of what would happen to my family."

Beaurain looked towards the closed inter-communicating door. "It is safe to speak, I assume?"

"There has been an armed guard on the far side of that door ever since you both entered this room. At this moment I am wearing a bullet-proof vest which I put on before I leave my flat every morning. The new system employed by the Syndicate relies on secret intimidation of the most ferocious kind - take my own example."

"The threat must have been combined with some request?"

"Of course!" Marker looked savage. "Give me one of your cigarettes, for God's sake. Thank you." He paused a moment, studying the Belgian as though taking a major decision. Then he spoke with great vehemence. "I do not expect you to comment on my statement but it is vital that Telescope smashes the Syndicate. No government agency I know of can or will - they are like tethered goats waiting for the tiger to strike."

Beaurain looked bemused. Marker sat on the edge of his desk close to the two men as though he needed the reassurance of their proximity. "No government agency at all?" Beaurain asked.

"This man fell ten storeys from a balcony one night." Marker took a small notebook from his pocket, scribbled a name on it, tore the sheet from the pad and gave it to Beaurain, concealing it from Kellerman. 'For your eyes only," he said with a mirthless smile, 'as the best spies are supposed to say. But this is for real, my friend."

Beaurain glanced at the name, refolded the piece of paper and handed it to Marker who thrust it inside his pocket. It was the name of one of the most well-known political leaders in Europe, who had do minated the Common Market before his 'accident'.

"How do you know that was the Syndicate?"

"Because when they threatened me they said he was going to die within seven days. Most people would have laughed, found it ludicrous. I took them seriously. I phoned my opposite number in the capital concerned. He thought I was mad. At least that's what he said."

"What does that mean?" Beaurain put in.

"I'll tell you in a minute." Marker continued vehemently: "I forced my way through on the phone to the man himself. I warned him to seek immediate protection. He thought I was mad. Forty-eight hours later they pushed him off the balcony and sent him ten storeys down to smash to a pulp on the concrete below. The bastards!" Marker's face was flushed and Beaurain had never known him display such emotion.

"The man he is referring to left behind a wife and several children," Beaurain informed Kellerman.

"Only an invisible organisation like Telescope can smash the Stockholm Syndicate," Marker said. It was the second time he had openly referred to Telescope.

"They rely on the threat alone?" Beaurain asked.

"The swine offered me a bloody fortune in cash if I co-operated. All the big drug runs from the Far East for Stockholm come through here. I would turn my back on that - just for one example.

"What is "the same route as always", which I believe is the phrase you used earlier," Kellerman enquired, 'in connection with the big consignment?"

"Amsterdam through to Copenhagen," Marker said promptly. "On from Copenhagen by train, across the ferry at Elsinore over the Øresund to Sweden. Then the last lap by the same train until it reaches its final destination - Stockholm. The train ferries at Elsinore are a damned nuisance. If they had to take it by scheduled air flight - or by car or truck - sooner or later we would get lucky in our searches. But you can't search a whole train and whole trains cross from Elsinore on the giant ferries."

"Thank you," said Kellerman, and withdrew from the conversation.

"You said your opposite number you phoned about the danger to a statesman's life thought you were mad.
At least he said that
, you added. What did you mean?"

"I am perfectly sure he had already sold out to the Stockholm Syndicate." Marker stood up and paced slowly round his desk. "It is so easy, is it not? You take the large bribe, salt it away in a numbered bank account, and remove whatever horrible threat has been made against your wife, family, mistress or whoever. They offer you heaven or hell. Is it so surprising that many in countless different countries accepted the former and became part of the Stockholm Syndicate system - if only as informants? Cabinet ministers have made deals. Oh, yes, Mr. Foxbel, do not disbelieve me - I have seen it in their eyes when certain subjects are raised."

"It's a kind of leprosy," Beaurain murmured. "It will have to be burned out with red-hot pokers."

"Do not underestimate them," Marker warned.

"Do something for me, please." Beaurain's manner had changed suddenly as he recovered from the shock of sensing that Marker had been close to despair. "Check back on Dr. Benny Horn's background - where he came from, how he set up in that house on Nyhavn."

"I can tell you now. He was born in Elsinore - or just outside the port. He built up his business as a dealer in rare editions and two years ago moved to Copenhagen."

"I want more than that, Marker!" Beaurain was brusque. "I want men - a whole team - sent to Elsinore to interview every person who ever knew him."

"He was something of a recluse and travelling a lot in his profession."

"I want him
pinned down
! Like a butterfly in a collection! Do you have a photograph?"

"One - he is a difficult man to catch in the camera lens. The picture is not good - taken at a distance with a telephoto lens." Marker unlocked a steel filing cabinet, took out an envelope from which he extracted a photo. Beaurain glanced at it and then showed it to Kellerman who handed it back without comment.

"Show that picture to everyone who ever knew Horn in Elsinore. Find out whether - since he arrived in Copenhagen two years ago - he has ever spoken to or been seen by anyone who knew him when he lived in Elsinore. I just have a funny feeling about Benny Horn. I can call you here?" Beaurain queried.

"Better to call my apartment after eight in the evening. Here is the number. When you call say you are Krantz and give me the number of the phone you are using. Always use a payphone. Then wait for me to call from the payphone in my street,"

Beaurain paused.
Zenith
. The terror was appalling and spread across a whole continent, the scale of the terror even greater than he had realised. How many men were there of the calibre of Bodel Marker? Men who would live alone in their own private fortress with their families sent maybe thousands of miles away for safety.

Power was being exploited quietly to enslave and manipulate whole nations. And the most horrible aspect of all on the surface everyday life proceeded as though nothing abnormal were happening.

"Contact Henderson priority, Monique. Tell him Elsinore is the present objective. Within two hours I want the place flooded with his people searching for a man and a girl. Here are the descriptions."

Speaking from a street payphone near the Royal Hotel, Beaurain reproduced in a few words the vague impression of Dr. Benny Horn obtained from the photograph Marker had shown him. The other description was more precise and was based on Kellerman's word picture of Black Helmet. The instruction to Jock Henderson was to find the couple quickly, mount a round-the-clock surveillance on them, but above all not to let them know they were being watched.

"Next request, Monique, please call Dr. Henri Goldschmidt of Bruges and ask him to provide urgently everything possible on the origins and background of Dr. Otto Berlin. Then, on my behalf, using the code word Leuven, call Chief Inspector Willy Flamen of Homicide with the same request - everything he can dig up on where Otto Berlin came from, his whole history back to his childhood. OK? I'll call you back when I can. We're on the move so forget the Royal Hotel."

Leaving the phone booth, he joined Kellerman who had been strolling up and down outside as though waiting to make his own call. He relayed the gist of his conversation to the German as they hurried back to the hotel.

"She'll get through to Henderson immediately by radio aboard
Firestorm
."

"Which is still just north of Elsinore? It sounds as though you're launching an invasion of one of Denmark's key ports."

"Almost comes to that," Beaurain agreed briskly. All his previous irritation and frustration had vanished now that he was able to set the wheels of action in motion.

Two outboard-powered dinghies had reached the shore north of Elsinore where Louise had left the Citroën the previous night. In the lead boat were Louise, Henderson and two guards armed with submachine guns. In the second boat four men, equipped with the same weapons and various other devices, watched the car which stood parked in the same position Louise had left it, the headlamps pointing out to sea.

It was eleven o'clock on a beautiful morning, the sun shining out of a clear blue sky. It was already very warm and the reflection off the wavelets was a powerful glitter. Louise walked towards the Citroën, shoulder-bag over her arm, ignition key in her hand. Henderson followed close behind while two of the guards fanned out beyond towards the forest and the track with their weapons at the ready.

"You're driving straight into Elsinore to look for those two from Nyhavn?" Henderson asked as she reached the car door.

"Yes, Jock." She turned and he was very close to her. "But only after we have gone over the car with a fine-tooth comb for explosive devices."

"Why?"

"Because I was followed by a Porsche from Elsinore. Because I think sooner or later after checking several tracks the person in that Porsche would find this Citroën. Because since then they have had plenty of time to turn it into a death-trap."

Top marks!" Jock turned to the men from the second boat who were grinning as they stood waiting and holding small toolkit bags. "Go ahead," he told them. "And for Christ's sake be careful."

Louise let Henderson lead her away by the arm a safe distance from the Citroën as the bomb squad started work assembling its equipment rapidly, including a circular mirror on a long handle for looking under the car. Louise glanced at the Scot with an amused expression.

"You really thought I was going to get inside and start the engine! If not, why were you practically hugging me when we got there?"

"You damned near fooled me, that's why! The confident way you walked up with the key held in your hand. I admit it - I was ready to haul you back fast if you'd tried to use the key."

"Why not check with me earlier?"

"I never stop testing people's alertness particularly on a major operation. I think the balloon is about to go up, and the process will start in Elsinore."

"You managed to avoid the railway police? You are sure that no-one saw you hide the consignment?" Dr. Benny Horn asked as he polished his rimless glasses and hooked them on again over his ears.

He was talking to Sonia Karnell who had just returned to his room in his new Elsinore headquarters, the Hotel Skandia. Black Helmet was dressed like a man, and wore a white nautical cap. From a paper carrier bag she took out a railway man cap and threw it on the bed. She was dressed entirely in black.

"That damned thing gave me a headache - it's too tight. Do you think I'd be here if I hadn't evaded the railway police, for God's sake? As for the consignment, all the heroin is now packed inside the wagon containing packing material."

"No need to get upset, my dear," Horn replied mildly. I was only..."

"You were only sitting in this hotel room drinking coffee and generally relaxing while I risked a prison sentence of Christ knows how many years carting that suitcase round the rail yard and secreting it aboard the right wagon. Here's the number."

She unzipped her breast pocket, took out a folded piece of paper and threw it at Horn. As she turned away he grasped her by the elbow, spun her round and threw her backwards onto the bed. Then Horn was on top of her, his eyes remote and devoid of all expression as he stared down at her like a specimen from his collection of rare editions which he suspected was a fake.

"You will never speak to me in that way again or I will arrange for a certain Gunther Baum to break your neck."

"Drive like hell to Elsinore. The main station. Use the siren to shove other traffic into the ditch!"

The uniformed policeman who drove Bodel Marker, Chief of Intelligence, dived behind the wheel of the car he had brought to the front of Politigarden. Marker had already settled himself in the back and his chubby face was still flushed with fury. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, the driver caught the expression in Marker's eyes, a look of sheer blue murder. He concentrated on getting out of Copenhagen and onto the motorway where he could make speed to Elsinore.

It had happened as soon as Marker had returned to his office. To his intense annoyance he found his superior had let himself into his private sanctum with the master key. Marker had walked round his desk, sat in his own chair and stared at the man waiting in the visitor's seat. Marker said not a word, forcing the other to take the initiative.

"Sorry to break in here, so to speak, Marker."

"Well, now you're here..." A deliberate absence of
sir
.

"This huge consignment of heroin which it is rumoured is passing through here on its way to Sweden. You know what I'm talking about, Marker?"

"I will in a minute, I expect," retorted the normally amiable Intelligence chief.

"Forget you ever heard about it, Marker."

"I need that in writing. At once. I'll call my secretary."

"Hold on a moment." The thin man with the curled lips and supercilious manner held out a restraining hand. Marker's own hand was half-way towards the intercom which would summon his secretary. "This isn't something we want on record, if you understand me."

"I don't understand you. Where does this instruction emanate from? I want the original source."

"That is hardly your business, Marker." Sharply, an attempt to wrest the initiative back from his subordinate.

"Come to think of it, my secretary isn't necessary." Marker leaned back in his chair and smiled for the first time since he had entered his office, the soul of amiability. "You see when I sat down I automatically pressed the button which set in motion my cassette recorder."

"You!" Uncontrollable rage or a shattering reaction of terror? Marker, despite the closeness with which he had watched his superior's reaction, could not decide which emotion was uppermost. Of one thing he was sure; it was a whole minute before his visitor could bring himself to speak. He pulled out a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and openly mopped his forehead which was beaded with sweat.

"I cannot persuade you ..."

To erase the tapes, to use a well-known phrase?" Marker completed for him. "On the contrary, my first action will be to hand the cassette to a certain person with instructions that in the event of a third attempt on my life being successful it will be handed immediately to a journalist working for the German publication,
Der Spiegel
. I doubt whether the Stockholm Syndicate yet controls that particular magazine," Marker added.

"I don't understand you, Marker. I must go now. As far as I am concerned this conversation never took place," he ended stiffly and left the office.

Within seven minutes Marker had also left the office and was on his way to the car he had summoned. No tape existed; no machine had been activated. But Marker would never forget the look on his superior's face when he had bluffed him that such was the case.

Arriving by train, all passengers alight at Elsinore unless aboard an international express bound for Sweden - because there the rail line ends. Its only extension is to the water's edge - across a road and up an elevated ramp inside the bowels of one of the giant train ferries which constantly ply back and forth across the Øresund.

In June the channel neck of the Øresund - at this narrowest point no more than four miles across to the Swedish port of Halsingborg - is alive with the monster train and car ferries which have several different landing points round Elsinore harbour. On the morning Beaurain and Kellerman arrived in the Mercedes, the channel was enlivened further by yachts nimbly sailing and turning to keep out of the passage of the lumbering ferries.

Beaurain's 280E, without which he always felt lost, had been driven from Brussels to Copenhagen by the English driver, Albert, who always arrived at his destination in the nick of time. He reached the Royal Hotel fifteen minutes before Beaurain was due to depart for Elsinore. "Why Elsinore?" Albert had asked as he drank his third cup of tea supplied by room service in Beaurain's room. "Isn't that Hamlet's castle?"

"Because," Beaurain explained as he completed his packing, "one of the key Danish police chiefs we have just seen has confirmed a huge Syndicate consignment of heroin is passing along the usual route on its way to Stockholm. The route? Amsterdam to Copenhagen to Elsinore - where it crosses the water to Sweden."

"A vulnerable link in the chain," Albert observed between gulps of the dark tea, 'that bit where it crosses water. Means it has to go on a boat, and where do they put the consignment aboard the train?"

"Albert has put his finger on the key factor as usual," Beaurain observed. He told the Englishman briefly about the suitcase Louise Hamilton had seen driven through the night to a house in Elsinore which backed onto the railway line.

Albert Brown, a small, wiry man of forty-two with a face permanently screwed up in an expression of concentration, was an ex-racing driver, a Londoner, and a man who never took anything at face value. He had joined Telescope when his wife had been killed brutally by a murderer released from Broadmoor lunatic asylum.

"So," he concluded after listening to Beaurain, 'the Syndicate may still have to put this whopping great consignment aboard one of the international expresses crossing these straits to Sweden?"

"If the heroin really is in that suitcase," Beaurain pointed out.

"And if it is and we can locate it, we deal the Syndicate a good jab in the jugular."

"We do more than that," Beaurain said as he prepared to leave the room. "We create such havoc we'll provoke a major reaction against Telescope by the Syndicate which is what I want. A head-on collision, as Goldschmidt phrased it. The aim is to wipe out this evil thing."

"We may be the only ones who can do it," Albert said soberly, so soberly that Beaurain stopped picking up his case and stared at him because he had never known Albert, normally chirpy, adopt such a grim tone. 'I had a word with Monique before I started my mad dash here," Albert continued. "She gave me a message she said she'd sooner not trust to a telephone conversation. The chap who she spoke to was a Dr. Goldschmidt from Bruges. Chap who controls the Syndicate answers to name of Hugo."

"Goldschmidt told me about Hugo he's one of the three-man directorate running the Syndicate," "That seems to be the point. I gathered Goldschmidt has only just come up with this piece of information - -Monique said he seemed to be working like a beaver trying to dig up data for you. This Hugo nobody has a clue as to who he is – may, according to Goldschmidt's latest information, not be one of the three-man directorate at all. He thinks there could be
a fourth man
."

With Beaurain behind the wheel, Kellerman by his side and Albert sleeping in the back, they overtook the police car containing Bodel Marker on the motorway to Elsinore.

Marker had heard about Beaurain's 280E and the way he drove it in an emergency; half the police chiefs of Europe had heard about it. Nervous about a third attempt on his life, he looked back at Beaurain who waved to him through the windscreen. Astounded, the Danish Chief of Intelligence relaxed back in his seat.

"What's Marker doing on the same road as us?" Kellerman asked.

"Something must have occurred to him later after he went back to his office - or something happened. This way we get to Elsinore much earlier. Just sit back and relax."

It was the last attitude Kellerman felt like adopting. The police car containing Marker surged ahead, its siren screaming non-stop. Beaurain pressed his foot down and followed in the wake of Marker's vehicle, using it as a trail-blazer.

They passed traffic which had pulled into the slow lane on hearing the approaching siren. Marker's car sailed along the cleared highway, far exceeding the speed limit, and behind him sailed Beaurain's Mercedes, forming a convoy of two vehicles, and when Marker kept glancing back through his rear window Beaurain met the glances with an expression of imperturbable confidence.

Both vehicles arrived at the open space in front of the entrance to Elsinore's railway station with a screech of tyres as their drivers jammed on the brakes. Beaurain had just switched off his engine when Marker jumped out of the rear of his car and strode back to the Mercedes with a grim expression. The Belgian pressed the button which automatically lowered his window and smiled up at Marker.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Marker demanded. "I could have you booked for dangerous driving."

"Along with your own driver?"

"Dammit! This is an emergency."

"If it's the heroin, we may be able to help. Don't look behind you, Bodel. Not obviously, anyway. Standing at the entrance to the station is a dark-haired girl called Louise staring watching the ferry coming into the harbour. She's wearing blue and carrying a shoulder-bag. She might just know the present whereabouts of the heroin. Incidentally, while we're asking questions, what made you suddenly decide to take a lively interest in the beautiful old port of Elsinore?"

"Heroin," Marker replied tersely, his lips scarcely moving. He leant both elbows on the edge of the Mercedes window and glanced casually at Louise Hamilton who stood watching the bucket chain of giant ferries plying back and forth across the Øresund with brightly-coloured yachts like toys sailing between the giants. Sweden was a distant stretch of flat coast, a row of miniature oil storage tanks and a plume of smoke.