by Colin Forbes
"May I know the reason?"
"I'm just coming to it. I'm gambling everything on two people being right Goldschmidt in Bruges and Ed Cottel of the CIA. They both state that a full meeting of the Stockholm Syndicate is taking place somewhere in Scandinavia in less than two weeks' time. Telescope must be there in force to confront them."
"Why should Goldschmidt and Cottel be right?" Louise objected.
"They don't have to be," Beaurain said, 'but we have to take a decision and it's bound to be a gamble. The point is they have entirely different sources - literally in different continents. But they both say the same thing. About two weeks away a meeting. Locale - Scandinavia."
"Hence you're moving Firestorm towards the Baltic?"
"It's so packed with men and equipment it has become a mobile version of Telescope. We now have a force at sea we can land almost anywhere in the Scandinavian zone. My huge gamble," Beaurain admitted, 'is that this will be the scene of Gold-schmidt's predicted collision between Telescope and the Stockholm Syndicate. Our next move," he told Louise, 'is to pay a brief visit to Ed Cottel who is now back at the Hilton."
"If you can reach it alive," commented Henderson.
"It's the Baltic - just as I suspected," said Captain "Bucky' Buckminster, Captain of the steam yacht Firestorm, to his First Mate as he read the decoded signal. "At the moment we sail through the Kattegat and wait at the entrance to the Øresund ..." His wiry hand traced the course on the chart spread out on the chart-table. "On arrival we anchor off Elsinore unless we're ordered to proceed at full speed into the Baltic, which wouldn't surprise me,"
Buckminster was a tall, restless man of fifty who had commanded a destroyer in the Royal Navy before retiring at his own request.
"We do realise the murder of your daughter in Beirut must have come as a great shock, Bucky," one of his superiors had told him. "But why don't you give your decision more time? You'll lose your pension, you love the sea, and who's going to give you another command like the one you're resigning?"
"No-one, sir," Buckminster had lied, meeting the Admiral's eyes without flinching. It would not have done to reveal that he would be taking over command of a vessel which carried at least as heavy a punch as the destroyer whose command he was relinquishing, even if it was concealed under the guise of a powerful steam-ship built and operated for the Baron de Graer.
Seen from the air, the impression of idle luxury was confirmed by the blue swimming pool. It would have taken a very keen pilot's eye to notice the size of the helipad aft, capable of landing the largest type of Sikorsky in the world, the chopper which the Americans in Vietnam had called a gunship.
The same keen pilot's eye might also have wondered about why so formidable a winch was needed aboard a Belgian millionaire's floating plaything. And had he happened to be flying over when the giant hatch had been open, something else might well have caused him to lift his eyebrows the size of the hold and the fact that it contained a small float-plane, a very large launch complete with wheelhouse and several power-boats.
Before agreeing to join Telescope, Buckminster had gone secretly to Brussels to discuss what had been presented to him as 'an interesting proposition in view of the brutal and tragic murder of your daughter'. On his arrival in Brussels he had learned to his dismay that he was meeting a Belgian. Impossible for him to imagine himself taking orders from someone who wasn't British. He received a further shock when he was introduced to Jules Beaurain, who, dressed casually in a polo-necked sweater and slacks, became the image of an Englishman when he opened his mouth. Buckminster agreed to take command of Firestorm even before he had seen the vessel.
Now he stuffed the signal from Henderson in his pocket. The powerful rotors of the giant helicopter could be heard in the sky.
"Dead on time, sir, as always," First Mate Adams observed, checking his watch.
"Has she brought everything we need?" demanded Buckminster.
"The earlier signal - didn't feel it was necessary to report that to you - confirmed that Anderson airlifted from the Scottish coast two bazookas, extra submachine guns, extra ammunition, a supply of hand-grenades and various small-arms. No alcohol was included in the consignment," Adams said with a grin.
Buckminster shaded his eyes as he watched the incoming chopper whose sheer size never ceased to surprise him. His reprimand was the more devastating for being delivered as he stared upwards.
"Adams, I decide what is and is not necessary. In future you will show me all - repeat all - signals reaching this vessel."
"Of course, sir. Fully understood, sir."
"Another point. I run a dry ship, therefore your presumably humorous reference to alcohol is not appreciated."
"Really am very sorry indeed, sir."
In his best quarterdeck manner Buckminster lowered his hand and glared at his First Mate.
"Just so long as it doesn't happen again. Now, I leave you to see to it that Anderson and that bloody great chopper of his land safely on the helipad."
Turning his back on Adams, he studied the chart again and taking a pencil from his pocket drew his projected course. The Sikorsky lowered its great bulk onto the helipad. The sea was calm, a sheet of rippling blue which sparkled and glittered in the reflection from the sun shining out of a clear sky. All this was lost on Buckminster as he studied the chart. Nor was he dwelling on the fact that below deck he was carrying some of the most deadly killers in the world a large nucleus of ex-Special Air Service men, and men from various nations who all had their own reasons for hating terrorism.
"Who and where is our opponent?" was the question he was asking as Firestorm increased speed and headed for Elsinore.
At precisely the same hour and also in the glare of a blazing sun - the 2,000-ton Soviet hydrofoil MV Kometa was proceeding at twenty knots off the Polish coast near Gdansk. Captain Andréi Livanov turned as Sobieski came onto the bridge and concealed his dislike of the newcomer with an effort. Livanov was a Muscovite and proud of it. Having to consort with such people as Poles did not suit his temperament.
"Is there some problem, Sobieski?" he asked.
"None whatsoever, Comrade."
"Then you had better return to your control headquarters to make sure no problem does arise."
Peter Sobieski, a well-built man of forty with a cheerful and extrovert personality, glanced at his temporary - and nomin al - captain and then lit a cigarette.
"If a problem arises you will not be able to eat. If an emergency occurs you will have a nervous breakdown," thought Sobieski, who disliked Russians as much as Livanov disliked Poles. He did not say the words out loud. Instead he blew smoke across the bridge, an action which touched off Livanov's edgy nerves. "You will not smoke on my bridge!"
Sobieski added insult to injury by grinding the cigarette under his heel. At that moment a radio signal received from the shore station was handed to Livanov. It did not improve his temper. The signal asked why Kometa was cruising like an ordinary vessel and not using her surface-piercing foils.
Captain Livanov concealed his anger. First the man in charge of the sonar room had been replaced by Sobieski. The Pole undoubtedly knew his job; Livanov had to admit that he was at least as good as the regular man. But Sobieski was Viktor Rashkin's creature. And Viktor Rashkin, the wond er boy of the Soviet political world, was Leonid Brezhnev's creature.
It was Rashkin, the second most powerful man in the Soviet Union, who had ordered Kometa to proceed along the Baltic shore on its way to Germany. And it was the brilliant Rashkin who had come aboard briefly before Kometa departed from Leningrad, bringing with him Peter Sobieski.
"He will take control of the sonar during this voyage of your remarkable ship," he had informed Livanov.
Livanov was on the verge of asking Is he qualified? before he realised the danger of the question. He hoped he was. He dared not cast doubt on Rashkin's judgement.
"He is my assistant," Rashkin had said. "He is also a Pole. Do not look surprised, Comrade Livanov. We and our
European allies are one big happy family - so why should we not co-operate?"
Had there been a note of cynical irony in Rashkin's remark? The captain of Kometa had glanced quickly at him and a pair of shrewd eyes had met his own. Livanov did not understand this man whose expression changed with alarming suddenness. They said he had been an actor before he served his apprenticeship with the KGB.
Livanov was thinking of this conversation as he cruised off Gdansk and read the signal from shore control. Very well, he would show them. Sending Sobieski back to his sonar room, Livanov issued his instructions and the huge vessel began to pick up speed. He himself operated the lever which transformed Kometa from a normal vessel with her hull deep in the water to a streak of power elevated above the sea on massive steel blades like giant skis.
Onshore several pairs of eyes watched the spectacle through field-glasses. Some of the watchers had never seen a hydrofoil. There were expressions of sheer astonishment as Kometa flew across the vast bay. Fresh signals were despatched to the captain - this time of congratulation. Livanov chose to ignore them. He was thinking now of the passengers he would be taking on board at his next port of call. A detachment of MfS - members of the dreaded state security from East Germany.
Chapter Eight
Beaurain and Louise found Ed Cottel finishing a meal in an elegant café on the Hilton's ground floor. Overlooking a glassed-in veranda with a dense wall of trees and shrubberies, the Café d'Egmont had the atmosphere of somewhere in the country. It was safe to talk - Cottel was almost the only diner.
"Can I get you something?" he asked without ceremony.
"Just coffee, thank you," Louise said. Beaurain also asked for coffee and declined anything to eat. They were short of time; the Belgian was anxious to return to Henderson's headquarters to check on the progress of Serge Litov.
"I hear, Jules, they're thinking of charging you with multiple murder, rape and God knows what other mayhem. I must say you've been busy while I was away."
"Who told you these interesting tit bits Voisin?"
"Who else? He spent the whole time I was with him telling me what an outrage it was that you should control the investigation into the Syndicate. I think what particularly infuriated him is my insistence that he report this fact to all West European police chiefs and heads of counter-espionage. Now, he's trying to unseat you."
"Was he ... nervous?" Beaurain enquired casually.
Cottel crinkled his brow and rubbed his crooked nose, which Louise always found attractive. Now that you mention it," the American decided, "I guess the answer is "yes". Like a man who felt threatened." He sipped at his coffee. "Sounds pretty goddam ridiculous."
"Maybe. Have you dug up any more information about the Syndicate, Ed?"
He waited until their coffee had been served and then started talking.
"First thing is that our latest satellite pictures taken over the Baltic show that big hydrofoil - the Soviet job, Kometa - creeping along the coast of Poland and heading for East Germany. It looks as though its ultimate destination could be the port of Sassnitz. And from there it's only a short distance to Trelleborg, a small port in Sweden. There also happens to be a ferry service between Sassnitz and Trelleborg."
"What about that list of people for Voisin - the list you thought might lead to the personnel of Telescope?"
"Dammit! Never did get round to that - you've no idea how these transatlantic trips disappear - you get back and wonder what the hell you accomplished." Cottel drank more coffee. I told Voisin that as soon as I hit his office got in first before he asked."
"You always were a good tactician, Ed," murmured Beaurain. "Do you now have Washington's backing to track down the Stockholm Syndicate?"
"In a word, no." The American looked grim and wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Queer atmosphere back home - especially close to the President. No-one wants to know. They all say wait till after the election - concentrate on exposing Telescope. One reason is they're upstaged by Telescope. But more important is the election. The man in the Oval Office isn't exactly the president of the century and there are people who would like to dump him before the Convention. If news of the Stockholm Syndicate ever leaked to the press - the fact that a huge piece of its finance is coming from American conglomerates looking for huge tax-free profits..." Cottel made a gesture with his napkin and then crushed it. "Out of the window would go any chance of the President being re-elected. You can trace a line from the Stockholm Syndicate almost up to the Oval Office."
"You mean that?" Beaurain asked sharply. "You're not guessing?"
"Do I ever guess?" asked Cottel. "I have more news."
"Less unnerving than what you've told us so far, I hope," said Louise.
"Viktor Rashkin fits into this thing somewhere," Cottel said, keeping his voice low. "We keep a close eye on Viktor, who is not a nice person. I can tell you he has just left Brussels Airport this evening aboard his Lear jet."
"Alone?" Beaurain queried.
"No, not alone. He was accompanied by a fat man very muffled so you couldn't see his features - and also a girl, likewise with her features concealed." He finished his coffee. "I wondered whether anyone was interested in the flight plan Rashkin's pilot filed. His destination."
"You're going to tell us anyway," Louise said.
"Copenhagen - and then Stockholm. Which is why I'm catching the first plane out of here for Stockholm in the mor ning," Cottel informed them. "When you need me, you can find me at the Grand Hotel."
"We're going to need your help?" Louise asked innocently.
"We're all going to need each other's help before this develops much further," the American predicted.
The jet taxied to a halt at Copenhagen's Kastrup Airport. Inside the passenger cabin Viktor Rashkin lit a cigarette and gazed at his companion.
"What is your next move, Viktor?" she enquired. "Isn't the opposition beginning to show some teeth?"
"The opposition - Beaurain in particular - is reacting just as I expected." His dark eyes examined the tip of his cigarette. "The important thing is to keep him away from Denmark for the next few days. The big consignment is on its way and nothing can - must - stop it."
"How much is it worth?"
"On the streets something in the region of forty million Swedish kronor. I think we should leave the plane, my dear."
To go where?" Sonia Karnell asked.
"To pay a discreet call on our friend, Dr. Benny Horn."
"Max here, Jock. Speaking from Kastrup Airport. The subject left the flight here instead of proceeding on to Stockholm."
"How can you be sure?" Henderson interjected tersely.
"Because you wait on the plane if you're going on -and the flight is now airborne for Stockholm. Because at this moment I'm watching Serge Litov ..."
The large and heavily-built man he was over six feet tall but like other men conscious of their excessive stature he stooped - had entered the booking-hall and now stood holding a short telescopic umbrella. His gross form was topped by a large head and a tan-coloured hat which partially concealed his strong-boned face. English was the language he used when he conversed with Serge Litov. He appeared unconnected with the Russian.
"Where is the man requiring my attention, sir?" His jowls were heavy and fleshy; he was about sixty years old and the personification of a successful stockbroker. Litov could hardly believe this was the intermediary sent to cut out any intervention he might have spotted.
"Do I know you?" Litov asked sharply, covering his mouth with his hand as he lit a cigarette. The fool had not used the code. Had he himself walked into a trap? But in that case why had the Telescope people released him in the first place?
"I am, of course, sir, George Land. Coining from London you must know and appreciate as I do the beauties of St. James's Park at this time of the year."
His mouth hardly moved - and yet Litov had heard every word quite clearly. St. James's Park - that was Land's identification.
"The lake is what I l
ike in St. James's Park," Litov responded, and the word 'lake' completed the code check. "How did you know someone was following me?" George Land gave him the creeps, though he was not easily disturbed. Like a perfect English butler - and he was just about to despatch a fellow human being permanently.
"I knew someone was following you because I watched from outside the entrance doors. I observed your furtive glances in a certain direction. Also, I see now there is perspiration on your brow, if I may make mention of the fact, sir."
The constant use of 'sir' did not help. Land was so cool and collected; his restrained courtesy was beginning to get on Litov's nerves. "You see that man in the payphone?"
"I can see the gentleman quite clearly."
"Get rid of him - permanently. As soon as I've got out of this place."
"It would be helpful if you would remain where you are until I have reached the phone box. In that way he will notice no change in what interests him - yourself."
Land briefly grasped the dangling umbrella with his left hand. And then Serge Litov understood as though he had been trained to use the weapon all his life. The umbrella was a camouflaged dagger, spring-loaded and designed so the blade projected from the tip at the touch of a button.
"I'll wait here," he said reluctantly.
"It has been a most profitable conversation, sir," said Land discreetly and proceeded across the almost deserted booking-hall as though bent on making a phone call.
"I said I was watching Litov," repeated Kellerman to Jock Henderson from inside the payphone. "He appears to be waiting for someone to collect him."
"Or he could be playing a game," the Scot pointed out. "He'll still have that ticket to Stockholm."
A large English-looking man was wandering across the hall towards the pay phones He was close enough for Kellerman to see his fleshy cheeks. As he walked with a slow deliberate tread he swung a telescopic umbrella back and forth from his right wrist. Otherwise, the booking-hall was empty. The other passengers had departed for Copenhagen via the airport bus or taxis and no other flight was due to land or take off.