by Colin Forbes
"And where did he go in Brussels? You seem to know more about my own back yard than I do."
"Only because of the computer. We lost Rashkin the moment he left the airport with his friends."
"Friends?"
"A man and a woman and before you ask, we don't know who they are and we have no description. So we're not always that smart, Jules." He stared up at the ceiling, carefully not looking at them. "One thing you might find interesting. Voisin kept me back after the meeting had closed. I had said in a written report on Telescope that we might just be able to identify its personnel or at least the leaders. Want to hear the damn fool mistake I made?"
"Up to you, Ed," Beaurain said, with a show of indifference. Curled up again on the sofa Louise looked tense. "I could do with some more coffee if you have the strength."
"Of course."
She walked to the kitchen, able to hear the conversation through the door. Cottel's reference to identifying the people in Telescope had shaken her. How the hell could he possibly do that?
"Have another drink, Ed." Beaurain sat in Louise's place on the sofa where he could study the American without appearing too interested. He folded his arms. "You stayed behind with Voisin. That must have been entertaining."
"In my report I suggested that the key men and women running Telescope might have suffered personal losses from terrorism. Wives, sisters, husbands, girlfriends. I suggested we made a list of all those who had recently suffered personal loss through criminal and terrorist action. Among that list we may spot likely candidates because I'm sure that was the motive for starting up Telescope. Disgust with the incompetence of governments. Dammit, Jules, the motive is one of mankind's most powerful - revenge."
"That list would take years to build up."
"Not using that computer I have access to."
"Oh, I see. And you told Voisin?"
"No. Voisin asked me to use the computer to build up the list. If I don't do it, he'll ask someone else. And now I must get going I'm catching the night flight to the States." Cottel stood up. "I'll be back soon. And don't forget about Viktor Rashkin."
"You think he's a member of the Syndicate, for God's sake?"
"Not a member but I think he funnels funds through to whoever is running that outfit." He scratched his head."Don't know if it means anything," he remarked casually, 'but have you ever heard of the Kometa ?"
"No, but it sounds Russian."
"It is. One of our satellites has been following its progress down the coast of the Baltic. It's a huge hydrofoil. Normally the Soviets only use them on rivers like the Volga - but this one is now off Poland. Not so far from Sweden. Where is it headed for and why? No-one can work it out - which is what makes it worrying. See you both..."
After Cottel had left, Beaurain dialled a number. He settled himself into a chair and perched the phone amid the crockery Louise had laid. "Is that you, Jock? Jules here. The mobile cargo we picked up recently is to be put on a train early tomorrow morning at Brussels Midi. Yes, that's right - Midi ." Midi was one of the three main-line stations in Brussels. "Organise an all-round escort to supervise proper handling of the cargo. Understood? Next, stock up the floating fuel store with supplies and await instructions. Got it? And take care someone might be starting a fire and there's plenty of under about."
He put down the phone, shifted the receiver off the table and looked up, suddenly aware that all sounds from the kitchen had ceased. Louise was standing close to him, holding an empty scoop. He threw up his hands as though in self-defence.
"I know you've laid the table - but I haven't disturbed your beautiful setting."
"I want to know what's going on and quickly or the food will be ruined."
"You heard the conversation."
"Which was in code. First of all, where is Jock now? It sounds as though things are moving."
"Jock was at our sub-base near the station, although by now I expect he'll be on his way to the Château Wardin."
She glanced at her watch to check the cooking time and perched herself on his lap. For "mobile cargo" I read Litov - who's going to be dropped at Brussels Midi and allowed to run. I'm worried we'll lose him."
"Hence my reference to "an all-round escort", the full-scale dragnet I want Jock to throw round all Litov's possible escape routes - because elude us he will try to do. And, since he will assume we're tracking him, we must trick him into thinking that he's succeeded. Then see where he leads us. Tomorrow will be a big day. Satisfied?"
"Not yet." She caressed the side of his face with her scoop as she continued. "What about your reference to "the floating fuel store"? Is that the steam yacht, Firestorm ? It is? And where is she now?"
"Midway between Scotland and the mouth of the Baltic. I've kept her ready there since I first heard the phrase "Stockholm Syndicate". Jock will radio her to take on board provisions, check weapons and ammunition, above all equip her with a team of gunners. He's going to have a busy night is Jock. And now I'm hungry."
"You always are. It's chicken - cooked the way you like it. I suppose tomorrow we'll watch them plotting Litov's movements on the map."
"More than that. Later tomorrow we're visiting the Fixer in Bruges. He may be able to tell us who is the real power behind the Stockholm Syndicate."
Chapter Five
The Fixer. Dr. Henri Goldschmidt, dealer in rare coins, was one of Bruges' most eminent citizens. Beaurain estimated his present age at about sixty but could only guess - the doctor guarded his private life jealously and you dared not ask him the wrong question. The penalty was to be instantly crossed off his list of social acquaintances.
"They are excluded from my milieu ," he once explained. "And, of course, once excluded they can never be re-admitted."
He spoke eight languages fluently, including French, English and German; he also used his finely-shaped hands to aid his flow of conversation, gesturing with controlled deliberation to emphasize a point. He was the confidant of royalty, American millionaires and French industrialists. Less well-known was the fact that he was on good terms with some of Europe's top gangsters. This was the man Beaurain was going to meet.
One hour before dawn the huge Sikorsky helicopter took off from the Château Wardin. Litov - who had endured his last 'interrogation' at the hands of Dr. Alex Carder - was lying on a stretcher, as on the 'outward' journey, his damaged arm expertly protected with a splint and bandages and his left wrist and ankle handcuffed to the stretcher. His right ankle was also manacled.
There were two guards in the gunners' normal battle uniform - denim trousers, crepe-soled shoes, windcheaters and Balaclava helmets which completely masked their appearance. One was Stig Palme. The second was a twenty-nine year old German, Max Kellerman. A year earlier he had been looking forward to a brilliant career as a lawyer. Then his fiancée had been caught in terrorist crossfire when the police had been tipped off about a bank raid in Bonn. They were still unaware that the tip-off had come from Jules Beaurain. It was something he had also concealed from Kellerman, as he had once explained to Louise.
If Kellerman knew I started the whole thing off he might blame me for the death of his fiancée."
Litov had been blindfolded before he left the large cell he had occupied for over a week. Once again he was relying on sound and his sense of smell to double-check what he had learned about Telescope's main base. The same bonfire smoke had hit his nostrils when they carried him from the building to the ramp at the rear of the chopper. They took him the same way out - he felt and heard the change from carpet to stone; then the stone steps followed by an absence of sound suggesting grass. The bonfire stench didn't seem strange: from his tour of duty in London he recalled that the British kept foul-smelling fires smoking all summer.
"Don't forget to light that bonfire in good time," Beaurain had reminded Stig Palme. "Litov is bright -he must not get a whiff of the Ardennes pines while he's being carried aboard'.
It had been 3 a.m. when they had come to collect Litov. Still wearing h
is wrist-watch, he had managed to check the time before one of the masked guards applied the blindfold. If he was being returned to the same starting-point the flight from England should take about three hours.
When the Sikorsky landed, Litov, still imprisoned on the stretcher in the cargo hold, found himself re-living his earlier experience in reverse. There was a bump as the chopper came to earth, a pause while the rotors stopped spinning, followed by the purr of the hydraulics as the automatic ramp at the rear of the cargo hold was lowered.
His blindfold was removed by a guard with a Balaclava concealing his face. These people didn't miss many tricks, Litov thought smugly - and then he was being lifted down into broad daylight. The strong scent of Ardennes pines entered his nostrils and above he saw the tops of the trees encircling the secret helipad. The two guards carried him to the familiar van with Boucher across the rear doors. They dumped him on the same leather couch alongside the left-hand wall, the doors were closed and Kellerman and Palme sat facing their captive with machine-pistols across their laps.
"We are driving you to Brussels Midi station," Kellerman told Litov in English as the van began to move. "Here are your papers, Mr. James Lacey or whatever your name is."
Litov could hardly believe it. Kellerman bent over him and returned his wallet to his inside pocket. Was this a trick to throw him off balance, to make him relax before they subjected him to torture or a trial of endurance?
But he half-believed the guard who returned to his seat as the van gathered speed. Why should they let him go at all? The guard gestured towards the wallet he had returned.
"You will find all your money intact. Belgian francs, deutschmarks Dutch guilders. Telescope does not steal like the Syndicate."
Litov stiffened, tried to keep his face expressionless. What the hell was going on? This was the first admission that these men belonged to Telescope. And why the casual mention of the Syndicate? To test his reaction? Of one thing Litov was now certain he was being freed in the hope that he would lead them to the Syndicate's headquarters. He had trouble concealing his satisfaction. They were in for a surprise, a very nasty surprise indeed.
*
Pierre Florin, desk sergeant at Brussels police headquarters, requested a week's leave soon after the two men had accosted Louise in the reception room. It was the sight of Beaurain running up the stairs to attend the meeting and the realisation that the girl knew Beaurain which had scared Florin. Because of his long years of service his request was immediately granted.
He spent most of the seven days in his bachelor's apartment in south Brussels. One of the fake detectives visited him one evening.
"Why have you taken this leave, Florin?" he demanded. "It draws attention to you at just the wrong moment."
"I am worried. Beaurain..."
"You are a fool. Beaurain is no longer on the force."
"He carries enormous influence." Florin could not keep still, and kept moving restlessly about, fussily moving cheap mementoes of holidays in Ostend. "I would not like to be grilled by Beaurain," Florin continued, confirming the other man's opinion that he would crack under interrogation. "I want my money." The lean-faced man extracted a sealed envelope and dropped it on the floor, making Florin stoop to retrieve it. Then he left and reported his doubts to Dr. Otto Berlin.
It took Dr. Berlin several days to locate Gunther Baum, the East German whose speciality was the removal of people. Baum and his companion, a nondescript individual who carried a brief-case, arrived unannounced at Florin's apartment. Wearing dark glasses, Baum was smartly dressed in American clothes. Outside Florin's apartment he took the silenced Luger from the brief-case and held it behind his back as he pressed the bell.
Gunther Baum was medium built and deliberate in his movements. "Never hurry," he often warned his assistant. "It draws attention to you." He was wearing a straw hat which, with his tinted glasses, masked his whole upper face, revealing only a pug nose, a small thin mouth and a fleshy jaw. Cupped in his left hand he carried a photo of Pierre Florin. It was best to proceed in a methodical manner.
Florin opened the door and glanced nervously at the strangers before starting to close it again. "We are the Criminal Division. A message from headquarters. Concerning the incident there about one week ago. We may come in, yes?"
"Of course ..."
Baum spoke in a sing-song French. He spoke in short sentences as though he expected everyone to accept him at face value. It never occurred to Florin to ask for some form of identification. They proceeded into the apartment, first Florin, then Baum and his companion, who carried the empty br ief-case and closed the door.
"You are alone?" Baum asked.
"Yes, I seldom..."
"Keep walking, please. We have been asked to look at your bedroom. Statements have been made that a woman visits you who keeps bad company."
"That's ridiculous."
"This we are sure of. Keep walking. Open that cupboard - I must be sure we are alone."
They were insi de the cramped bedroom and Florin reacted like a robot to Baum's instructions. He opened up the cupboard at his visitor's request. Baum pressed the tip of the silencer against the base of Florin's neck. The Belgian stiffened at the pressure of the cold metal. "Step into the cupboard slowly," Baum commanded in the same sing-song French. "You stay there out of the way while we search for evidence," Terrified, Florin stepped inside the cupboard, his face buried among his clothes. Baum pressed the trigger once.
He slammed the door against Florin's toppling body and turned the catch. Without saying a word he handed the Luger to his companion who immediately hid it inside his brief-case as Baum removed his gloves and shoved them inside his pocket. Time to go," Baum said.
It was his normal routine when working on a close-up job. Baum never kept the gun a second longer than necessary. It was his companion's task to transport the incriminating weapon so that Baum could never be compromised; it was a risk Baum's companion was paid good money to take.
"Now for the bar gee Dr. Berlin is worried about. We want to keep our employer happy, don't we?"
At 9.30 a.m. a butcher's van pulled into the kerb at Brussels Midi station. Serge Litov had been released from the handcuffs and was sitting facing Max Kellerman who was pointing his machine-pistol at the Russian's belly. Litov could still not fully believe he was about to be freed; the one thing which reassured him was the sound of heavy traffic outside.
"When you get out don't look back," Kellerman warned, 'or this van will be the last thing you'll ever see. One quick burst and we'd be away. And there is a whole team of our people outside to make sure you board a train - any train."
Stig Palme, still masked like Kellerman, unbolted the rear doors, opened one a few inches and peered out. He opened it wider, Litov stepped down into the street and the door was closed. Kellerman now moved very fast.
Stripping off the boiler suit he had been wearing, he stepped out of it. Pulling off the Balaclava helmet, he lifted the top of the couch Litov had been seated on, took out a trilby hat and jammed it on his head. He grabbed a suitcase and a fawn raincoat from inside the couch. The suitcase's corners were tipped with steel to serve as an improvised weapon. Sliding back a plate at the front of the van he spoke to the driver.
"Well?"
"He behaved went straight into the station booking-hall." Kellerman ran to the back of the van and dropped into the street. No-one noticed. Kellerman walked across to one of the swing doors and entered the booking-hall. Litov was standing at the ticket counter by the first-class window with only one man in front of him. While he waited he glanced behind and saw a Belgian woman with a poodle on a lead joining his queue. She was muttering away to herself as she burrowed in her handbag for fare money. Expensively dressed, which fitted her presence in the first-class queue. Litov noticed things like that.
"Stupid old cow," he thought. "Women never have their money ready."
The man in front of him moved away and with a quick glance at the station clock Litov a
sked for his ticket in a low tone. The ticket clerk asked him to speak up. Litov did so, anxious not to draw attention to himself.
"One seat on the Ile-de-France Trans-Europ Express to Amsterdam. One-way and a non-smoker. I shall have time to catch it?"
"Plenty of time." The clerk was writing out the car and seat number. "Arrives here 9.43, reaches Amsterdam 12.28."
Behind Litov the woman with the poodle was still investigating her handbag and muttering away to herself in French. She irked Litov: people like that ought to be locked up. He paid for his ticket and moved towards the platforms, glancing round at the milling crowd, trying to locate the hidden watchers he knew must be there.
Everything seemed normal. The bustle of passengers criss-crossing the large booking-hall, the general air of frustration and anxiety, the constant background voice over the speakers relaying an endless list of train arrivals and departures all over Europe.
At the first-class counter the woman apologised to the clerk. She couldn't find her purse. Would he serve the next passenger while she ,.. She glanced across to see Litov walk out of sight onto the platforms. She hurried over the concourse, her poodle trotting briskly by her side, to Max Kellerman who stood reading a newspaper. Stopping abruptly, she let the poodle walk on and contrived to let the leash wrap itself round the German's legs.
"So sorry," she bur bled in French, her voice low as she untwined the leash, "Colette does like men. The 9.43 T.E.E.. to Amsterdam," she went on. "Five stops -Brussels Nord, Antwerp East, Roosendaal, Rotterdam, The Hague, then Amsterdam..."