The Stockholm Syndicate (26 page)

Aboard the
Ramsö
Norling had given the order to move! Again he looked at the hand which had been holding the suitcase, still unable to believe he was completely unscathed. When the bullets started coming he had felt a hard tug, the case had been wrenched from his grasp as though by supernatural forces, then came the cascade of fragments, a cloud of precious powder. All gone! As the cruiser started moving he could actually
see
a white scum on the water. He hastily went below decks into his cabin and sank into a chair. He was shaking with uncontrollable rage. Alone in his luxuriously-furnished cabin he sat with both hands gripping the arms of his chair.

"Beaurain! First in Brussels, then Copenhagen and Elsinore now here in Stockholm itself!"

He was talking to himself, a habit of which he was fully aware and of which he occasionally made use as a safety valve. It had started long ago with another life, so far away from Sweden. Behind the lenses of his gold-rimmed spectacles his eyes were remote and cruel. He looked up as a man descended the steps and came into the cabin, Olof Konvall, the wireless operator.

I'm sorry, sir." Konvall, a small, highly-strung man with a grizzled face, took a step back when he met Norling's gaze. The venom in the stare was scaring. "I didn't intend to intrude - but normally when you come on board you have a signal you wish to send."

"Stay where you are, for God's sake!" Norling's show of rage was most unusual; his normal manner was an icy calm. Tell the captain I wish to switch to another vessel at the earliest possible moment."

"I will tell him at once."

"Don't go! I haven't finished yet." Norling paused, forced himself to loosen his clenched grip on the wooden arms of the chair, to let his fury dissipate itself. Now he had himself under perfect control. His voice became remote, detached, like a chess-player who has decided on the next move.

"You are to send out immediate
Nadir
signals on Jules Beaurain. The other recipient is his mistress, Louise Hamilton. Let the word go forth. And first Hamilton alone is to be subjected to a demonstration at grade three level. Now you may go."

"
Oh my God, how horrible!
"

Louise froze with shock and revulsion, the key to her bedroom door still in her hand. Like most people in a hotel she had walked in and closed the door behind her under the odd delusion that this was - temporarily at least - a safe refuge.

"
Christ! I think I'm going to be sick!
"

She leant back against the door and forced herself to recover. Her stomach obeyed her and then she caught sight of herself in the mirror and was shocked by her appearance: her lips were drawn back over her teeth in an expression of murderous fury - and she knew in that second that if the person responsible for the outrage had still been in the room she would have killed them. Someone rapped on the self-locking door.

She stood to one side and turned the door handle. Palme walked into the room and stared at the gun aimed point-blank, then his gaze swivelled. He closed the door.

"Isn't it sickening," she said as lightly as she could, but she didn't fool the Swede as she slipped the gun back inside her shoulder-bag. He said the one thing which could have lightened the atmosphere.

"I think the management will agree to changing your room."

There was a second knocking on the door. Stig Palme motioned her to slip into the bathroom, which was a mistake because it was even more hideous there than in the bedroom. She gritted her Teeth, then thankfully heard Beaurain's voice, a sharp tone. "Where's Louise? Has she seen ...?"

"She's in the bathroom. I sent her in there when..."

He found her sitting on the bathroom stool with her legs crossed, one arm supporting the other as she gazed directly at him and calmly smoked the cigarette she had just lit, her only concession to the experience she had just undergone.

"Only a sick mind ..." she began.

It was - if possible - even worse in the bathroom. An aerosol paint spray had been the weapon used -used with such diabolical skill that Beaurain suspected the perpetrator must be a trained artist. Sprayed over every surface in the bathroom were obscene pictures involving a woman indulging in every type of perversion imaginable. And in every instance the face depicted was a caricature - but immediately recognisable - of Louise Hamilton.

The bedroom walls and every other available surface had been similarly treated. Beaurain watched her smoking her cigarette and then reacted in just the right way.

"We must at once reserve another bedroom on a different floor and with an entirely different layout. In actual fact, as long as we stay at this place I suggest you spend each night in my room. God knows the bed is big enough."

"Thank you," she said gratefully.

"Can I have a word with you in a minute?" Palme asked Beaurain.

"After we've got the room business sorted out."

"What are you going to tell the manager?" Louise enquired.

Beaurain knew instantly what was worrying her that the manager was bound to wonder what sort of people she knew who could act in this way. She felt besmirched by such vile obscenity. Again he knew exactly the right reply. "That my ex-wife is insanely jealous and has already in another country been charged with the same type of offence. Also," he paused to smile, 'that she will by now have left Sweden to escape the attention of the police."

Fifteen minutes later they had ensconced Louise in an entirely different room, this time on the second floor. It overlooked the street up which marched the mounted horse troops after the changing of the guard at the Royal Palace, explained an assistant manager who was obviously going out of his way to make her forget her recent experience. At the door he paused before leaving.

"May I take it that Madame had not propped her door open for a short time while she left the room?"

Louise smiled, her face still bloodless: "No, I certainly had not propped the door open in any way."

"Of course! Madame does not, I trust, mind my asking? Thank you. Ah, here is a bottle of champagne. Please accept it as a small present from the management."

Stig Palme was conferring with Beaurain as they sat in the Swede's Saab parked outside the hotel. The choice of locale for their conversation had been Palme's.

"This way we know we are not being recorded. You have seen how the bedroom doors lock, how from the outside you must turn the key before you can enter the room? I think," Palme continued, 'it is possible the Stockholm Syndicate have committed their first major blunder - opening up a trail I can follow which just might blast their organisation wide open."

"It's going to be a race against time," Beaurain warned. "I have the strongest feeling Hugo is going to launch an all-out offensive to wipe
us
out."

"Because we've just lost him his major heroin delivery?"

"Partly - but maybe even more because of this." Beaurain nodded towards a large Mercedes which had just glided to a halt outside the Grand Hotel. Out of the rear door a short stout man holding a brief-case had emerged while two other men, who had left the car seconds earlier, took up positions near the foot of the steps and were staring in all directions.

"Who is the little fat man who needs armed guards?" Stig asked.

"That is Leo Gehn, president of the International Telecommunications and Electronics Corporation of America. One of the richest and most powerful industrialists inside the States - they say he contributed a million dollars to the President's electoral campaign. Maybe he contributes even larger sums to the Stockholm Syndicate."

"I don't follow, Jules."

"After leaving the marina we returned to police headquarters - to see if Fondberg's Säpo people had any further information. They had. A whole list of European and American power élite are arriving aboard a stream of aircraft - some aboard scheduled flights, some in their private jets - putting down at Arlanda. They seem to be staying at two hotels - the Saltsjöbaden Hotel and here at the Grand. So far, apart from Leo Gehn, the presidents or chairmen of five of America's biggest corporations have flown in to say nothing of men like Eugene Pascal from Paris and a score of others. Fondberg suspects they are here for the secret meeting of the Stockholm Syndicate that they're all men who have either voluntarily contributed money in return for the vast profits they'll gain from international crime or they have been subjected to the most hideous intimidation. I need just one I can crack, Stig just one."

Taking the cigarette out of his mouth, he stared through the windscreen at the person alighting from another chauffeur-driven limousine at the entrance to the Grand Hotel. Out of the rear door stepped one of the most elegant and striking women Palme had ever seen, her jet-black hair piled up on top of her head.

"I said I needed just
one
! That, Stig, is the Countess d'Arlezzo,"

"But surely her husband is the man who will run their affairs?"

"Her husband, Luigi, was bought by Erika for his aristocratic connections. She personally runs the banking empire she inherited from her father. Wait here."

The Countess lingered on the sidewalk at the foot of the flight of steps, dismissing all attempts to hurry her inside with a casual wave of her slim hand while she drank in the view of the Royal Palace and the Houses of Parliament. Beaurain grinned to himself as he saw the gesture; how like Erika. He was within a few feet of her when a heavily-built man in a dark suit stood in his way.

"Stay back an' 'old da position," he ordered.

"Out of my way or I'll break your arm," Beaurain said politely and smiled.

"Jules!" The woman, in her early forties, had swung round at the sound of his voice and stepped forward. Impetuously she embraced him while the guard stared in confusion.

"You must come up to my suite," she continued, linking her arm in his. "Luigi? I expect he's somewhere with a bottle - didn't you know? These days he's hardly ever sober."

When her cases had been brought up and they were alone she took him by the hand and was about to lead him into the bedroom. He shook his head, turned on the radio loud to counter any possible concealed microphones and faced her as he threw the question in her teeth.

"I take it that your banking consortium has contributed money to the coffers of the Stockholm Syndicate?"

"The equivalent of several million pounds," she replied without the slightest hesitation. "It is supposed to be a loan but I don't regard Hugo as a particularly good risk."

He studied her for a moment. She stood very erect and, while she spoke, inserted a cigarette in a long holder. He lit it for her. Of all the people caught up in the labyrinth of the Syndicate, she was possibly the only one with the nerve to tell him the truth without a second's hesitation. So why had she given in to them in the first place?

"I was one of the people who was told over the phone about the death of the Chief Commissioner to the Common Market - one week before he died in his so-called "accident". That was how it began."

"And how did it go on?" he pressed.

I was told what would happen to me if I refused to transfer funds to Stockholm. The murder of the Chief Commissioner convinced me they meant what they said. I am a coward, so I gave in."

"What did they threaten you with?" the Belgian demanded.

"That I would be found - I can remember the exact phrase - hung and twisting like a side of meat turning in the wind. I didn't fancy that too much, Jules."

"Why are you here?"

To attend the meeting, of course. The conference of the Syndicate, if you like. I gather Hugo or his representative will carve up the loot, allocate territories to different groups, and then the profits from these will be shared among investors in proportion to the funds supplied. That is what he calls us," she remarked, her expression bitter. "Investors as though we were engaged in a legitimate enterprise."

"And you are engaged in?"

"Prostitution, gambling, drug-trafficking, blackmail, extortion, you name it, we're in it - up to our lousy necks." The bitterness in her manner increased as she stubbed out her cigarette, inserted a fresh one in the holder and again waited while Beaurain lit it for her. They were still standing close together in the beautifully-furnished room and the tension of their discussion seemed to preclude any thought of sitting down.

"Thank you," she said after he had lit her cigarette and continued, her voice low and vehement, which was unlike Erika: in the past he had always admired her sense of detachment. "And one crime is cleverly dovetailed in to aid another."

"How do you mean?" he asked sharply.

"Oh, the high-class prostitutes - and they are among the classiest and most expensive in Europe - are used to compromise leading political figures, who then have to do the Syndicate's bidding or be publicly ruined. You remember there was a man in Milan."

"I know who you mean, Erika. You were rather fond of him."

"Not as much as of you, but yes, I was fond of him, Jules. A week before the scandal broke I was phoned and told that he was about to be ruined. I called him to warn him but there was nothing he could do - the photos had already been taken, the pictures which were then sent to the newspapers and TV. He shot himself - so it appeared."

"And what does that mean?" Beaurain was startled. It had always been his understanding that the Milanese politician concerned had committed suicide.

"He was murdered by the Syndicate and his death faked to look like suicide. In ruling circles in Rome it was clearly understood this was simply another "demonstration" organised by the Syndicate - like the fatal fall of the Chief Commissioner. Can you imagine the horror of it? Even we who have so much money and once controlled international businesses are now puppets of this foul thing, the Stockholm Syndicate,"

"Who do you deal with? Hugo?"

"No. I have no idea who Hugo is. On the rare occasions when I am contacted, it is by the member of the directorate who is in charge of the Mediterranean Sector - a Dr. Otto Berlin."

"And, finally, where is this so-called summit meeting to be held?"

"We have not been informed yet - but I have been told to be ready to fly to the south coast of Sweden as soon as the instruction comes." Again the bitter note. "Yes, that is what they give us instructions. At least I
tried
in Rome."

"You must not reproach yourself. Does Luigi...?"

"Know anything about it? Of course not! Can you imagine what sort of help I'd get from that broken reed? Within a day of being told anything he would probably be blabbing it to the world in a drunken stupor. Jules ..." She came very close to him, so close he could savour to the full the very faint aroma of the scent she was using. "Jules, can you do anything?"

"Yes, and first I want you under my protection. You will put on a coat and walk straight out of this hotel with me. Leave everything else and come with me this instant. I have people outside and we'll hide you until this is all over,"

"I can't, Jules."

"Why the hell not!" The exasperation was genuine. This was not like Erika.

"Because of Luigi. If I disappear they will kill him. He is in Rome."

"One phone call and I can have him scooped up and flown out of Italy."

"No, Jules!" She put her index finger over his mouth, removed it as he relapsed into silence and kissed him full on the lips. He found he could even remember her taste. "I must act normally, go to the meeting but if you give me a phone number I will call you and tell you where the meeting is being held as soon as I know."

Beaurain didn't like it. He felt uneasy but he couldn't budge her. Eventually he gave her Harry Fondberg's private phone number and the code-word
champagne
which she must use if she found it was impossible to reach Beaurain; then she could leave a message. As he walked out of her room and closed the self-locking door, he passed a man who was slowly pushing a service trolley along the corridor. The trolley's contents were concealed under a large white cloth. It was only later that he remembered the man. Too late.

Stig Palme drove his compact car up the steep road alongside the Royal Palace and turned into Stortoret, the main square where an ancient stone pump stood protected by stone bollards. A few minutes later he parked the Saab close to the entrance to one of the maze of alleyways in this medieval quarter of Stockholm.

The tiny shop he was visiting was situated half-way along the deserted alley, cobbled underfoot and so narrow he could have easily reached out his arms and touched both sides. He entered without ceremony, noted that the place was empty except for the owner and shut the door. He then turned the card hanging against the glass to indicate Closed.

Outside the shop over the door hung a huge key symbol. And the man who supplied master keys in Stockholm was its owner, Tobias Seiger. The price varied according to the status of the hotel and Seiger's estimate of how much he could screw out of the buyer. In return, complete secrecy was guaranteed. It was this wall of secrecy Stig Palme had to break down.

His mission was not helped by the fact that Seiger knew and disliked Palme. A short, bull-headed man, Seiger had a jeweller's glass in his right eye when Palme entered. Observing Palme's action in closing his shop Seiger carefully removed the jeweller's glass and placed it in an open drawer below Palme's eye level. Palme moved. His left hand whipped over the counter, gripped the pistol Seiger had been feeling for and pocketed it. Seiger found himself staring into the barrel of Palme's own gun.

"I have very little money on the premises," he began.

"We're going to talk, Tobias." The locksmith stood in a permanent stoop, brought on by years of cutting keys. His manner was a mixture of aggressiveness and oily persuasion. He had the morals of a brothel-keeper. "The Grand Hotel..."

"Did you say the Grand?"

The shop was cluttered with cupboards and there was dust and grime everywhere, including a film of dirt on the outside windows so it was very dark. Even so Palme's sharp eyes caught the brief flicker of expression which vanished off Seiger's slack-lipped face almost before it appeared.
Alarm. Terror
? This was going to be more difficult than he had anticipated.

To overcome Seiger's fear he was going to have to produce an atmosphere of hideous terror to prise open the oily bastard's mouth. Palme pressed the muzzle of his gun into Seiger's left ear.

"I can make you a key - the master key," Seiger babbled.

"Don't get naughty with me, Tobias. You know exactly what I'm after - I saw it in your eyes. The identity of the person who has recently asked you to do just that supply him with a master key for the Grand Hotel."

When discussing the horrific vandalisation of Louise's room, both Beaurain and Palme had realised only one explanation was possible. The culprit had obtained a copy of the master key and probably from a nearby source. And, Palme thought to himself, where could be nearer than the establishment of Tobias Seiger in Gamla Stan just across the water from the hotel itself?

"I cannot tell you! It would cost me my life. The people involved are ruthless, totally ruthless."

The terror was in Seiger's eyes, in his tone of voice, in the way he physically cringed away from Palme until the wall prevented him retreating any further. Palme's left hand caught hold of Seiger's necktie and tightened it, his knuckle pressed against the locksmith's Adam's apple.