The Stockholm Syndicate

by Colin Forbes

  "What is really worrying you, Harry?"

  "Normally we have good relations with the CIA. But Ed Cottel arrives without a word from Washington. I repeat it's

  the wrong way round. They tell me about Sholto, a very dangerous and suspect character. Why focus attention on Sholto and hide Cottel?"

  "You're assuming they know Cottel is here," Beaurain commented.

  "You mean...?"

  "I'm not sure what I mean, Harry. Do you have a photo of Sholto? An earlier one from his Far East days I mean."

  Fondberg reached into a drawer, took out a folder and produced two photographs. One of them was the picture of Sholto taken arriving at Arlanda. The big, broad-shouldered man with the large, round, almost bald skull and the cold eyes.

  It was the second photo which interested Beaurain, a photo with crinkled edges and creases which showed a man taken against a background of a hut in a jungle. The build was the same, as was the shape of the head, but it was difficult to believe it was the same man. For one thing he had a thatch of thick hair and a moustache.

  "How long ago was this taken and who took it, Harry?"

  Two years ago. A clandestine shot taken by our man in Bangkok. He could have been one of the top European contact men in the drug-smuggling circuit originating in the Golden Triangle. Drugs which eventually end up on the streets of Stockholm, Malmö, Gothenburg and so on."

  "This Far Eastern shot is definitely Sholto?"

  "That's the name our man in Bangkok attached to it. And there's something else which makes me worry about having Harvey Sholto free on the streets. I told you that our man in Bangkok was found floating in one of the klongs?"

  "Well, I phoned someone else in Bangkok who hears all the rumours. Remember," Fondberg warned, "I used the word rumours. The word out there is that the man who killed our agent flew in from Manila. He used to be one of Harvey Sholto's contacts when he was out there."

  "You're not suggesting the Americans "I'm not sure. But the one who is blanketing this city with eyes is Ed Cottel."

  "May I take these photos of Sholto? You have copies? Good." Beaurain took the envelope the Swede had slipped the prints inside and pocketed it before Fond-berg could have second thoughts. Only now did he raise the subject which he knew would embarrass the Säpo chief enormously. "Thank you for releasing my man so quickly at Stockholm Central. The drug consignment from Elsinore was ..."

  "Boy, did we balls that one up!" Fondberg slapped the top of his desk to emphasize his chagrin. "I surround the whole area with police. I play it clever and tell them to keep well back from the wagon containing the drug haul. The Syndicate sends in two men wearing Swedish police uniforms. Jules, I let it slip through my fingers - forty million kroner. And what is there to show for it?"

  "A great deal, Harry," Beaurain said soothingly. "A direct link between Norling and the drugs and therefore with the Stockholm Syndicate. Remember Serge Litov's last cryptic words Heroin ... Norling ... traitor. At long last Norling is tied in with the whole infamous business."

  "Except that's not evidence," Fondberg pointed out with unusual bitterness. "The last words of a now-dead Russian. Why a Russian? And on top of that the drug haul is gone."

  "Harry, have you any information on Norling?"

  "Yes. He poses as a dealer in rare editions."

  "Poses?"

  "May well, indeed, be a genuine book dealer to cover his real activities. It would explain his long absences away from Stockholm, since an international dealer travels a lot. He has an apartment in Gamla Stan - the Old City. Very close to the Church of St. Gertrud." The Swede took a street plan of Stockholm from another drawer. "Here, I'll show you." He drew a cross on the plan. "I have also heard that the real power behind this organisation is a shadowy figure called Hugo."

  "Hugo?"

  "Yes, identity completely unknown. The word is he terrifies even the members of the Syndicate."

  The phone rang. Fondberg, normally slow-moving and deliberate, grabbed for the instrument. He listened, spoke several times in Swedish, then slammed it down as he stood up behind his desk.

  "Norling has been seen in Stockholm. He's in a Renault heading for what we call Embassy Row -where all the foreign embassies are. Not far away is a large marina with a whole fleet of boats. A car is waiting for us."

  In the living-room of Sonia Karnell's first-floor apartment in Rådmansgatan the blond man was checking the mechanism of a Walther .765 automatic. The girl watched him: ironically, the weapon was a police issue pistol. For the third time he rammed home the magazine into the gun and then slipped it inside his shoulder holster.

  "As I told you, my dear, Beaurain and Hamilton are in Stockholm - just as the first of our distinguished visitors from the States are beginning to fly in for the conference."

  "What are you going to do about it?"

  "Ensure that within a few hours no matter where they go they will be paid a visit."

  "So much blood."

  "Your favourite play is Macbeth?" Norling asked genially. He lifted a hand as he saw her preparing to leave with him. "This time I go alone. We must not be seen together any more than can be helped while we are in Stockholm. San Francisco will be a different matter, but I am a little nervous while I have this in my possession." He hoisted the suitcase which had been waiting for him at the apartment. "After all, my dear, forty million kronors' worth is not to be treated lightly."

  "And you are going where?"

  "First to collect the Renault. It is in the garage with the Volvo? Good. The time has come - and this I will handle personally - to send out a Nadir signal on Louise Hamilton and Jules Beaurain. They are to be executed on sight."

  Sonia Karnell folded her arms quickly and forced herself to relax, to show no sign of the mounting tension she felt. Tension to Norling meant a person's nerve could be cracking - as he had suggested might be the case with the pilot, Harry Norsten. And to safeguard the Syndicate's security he would not hesitate to send out a Nadir. The person named could then never survive - often his worst move would be to seek police protection.

  "The Renault has a full petrol tank," she assured him as his left hand rested on the door latch. "You still haven't told me where you're going."

  To the marina, of course. The one near Embassy Row."

  Chapter Fifteen

  At the moment when the sighting of Dr. Theodor Norling behind the wheel of a Renault was reported to Harry Fondberg, activity in Stockholm was building up a steadily increasing momentum in many districts.

  Unmarked cars carrying Beaurain, Fondberg and other officers left police headquarters and sped through the city, weaving in and out of the traffic and causing drivers to jam on brakes and curse. The cars were heading for the Royal Motorboat Club, the marina in the Djurgardsbron district. In the front car, which he was personally driving, Fondberg explained to Beaurain: "We have a written description of Norling and one photo taken with a telephoto lens. Both have wide distribution among officers I hope I can trust."

  "You can't trust everyone inside the police?" asked Beaurain quietly.

  "What do you think?" replied Fondberg. "My department, of course, comes under the ultimate control of the

  Minister of Justice. I had to go over the head of my superior to get some freedom of action. Can you guess what the Minister asked me to do if he agreed to let me quietly probe into the Stockholm Syndicate?"

  "I'd rather not."

  "Mount a twenty-four hour guard on his home with Säpo men. And these days he travels everywhere in a bullet-proof limousine with Säpo outriders on motorbikes. That was the price for keeping me in business."

  "It is happening in other countries."

  Fondberg's normally controlled voice rose to a pitch of fury. "I don't care. It's time it was stopped!"

  "That's why I'm here. Be ready to look the other way. Aren't we close to the Grand Hotel? Good. Can we stop there for a couple of minutes? There may be someone I want to pick up if they've returned to the hotel,"

 
Behind the wheel of his Renault, Dr. Theodor Norling was making slower progress than he had hoped, but he was driving more carefully than Fondberg's cavalcade surging through the city. He had no desire to be stopped by a Polis car for a traffic offence - bearing in mind the contents of the suitcase by his side.

  Even so, he was close to Diplomatstaden, the foreign embassy area which was very close to his ultimate destination - the boat marina where a whole cluster of vessels would be bobbing at anchorage. He checked his watch. He should be there in about ten minutes with a little luck.

  *

  Sitting in the rear of the Saab which Stig Palme was driving back to the Grand Hotel, Louise eyed the cloth-covered weapon at her feet. It was Stig Palme's favourite gun and in standard use in the Swedish Army. A model 45 9-mm. machine-pistol, it was equipped with a movable shoulder-grip, could be used for single shots with a gentle pressure on the trigger - or fire a lethal continuous burst of thirty-six bullets in six seconds.

  Telescope had gradually built up secret caches of arms and ammunition all over Europe. It was too dangerous to move across borders with weapons -although the steam yacht, Firestorm, purchased from a Greek millionaire, had been cunningly re-designed to provide so many hiding-places it was a floating armoury. In Sweden, Stig Palme's weapons cache was in the cellar of a house out in the country just off the E3 highway leading to Strängnäs.

  "Here we are," Palme called out cheerfully.

  "The Grand Hotel."

  "Stop here!"

  The Swede reacted instantly and smoothly, pulling in at the kerb before he reached the main entrance. To the right there was the usual row of Mercedes and Citroëns parked, their well-waxed surfaces gleaming. To the left the window boxes of geraniums gave a splash of brilliant red, and a gardener was trimming them ruthlessly.

  "Beaurain is waiting for us," said Louise.

  She had just spoken when the Belgian opened the rear door, pushed his head inside and spoke quickly.

  "The hotel said you were out - I had a feeling you might be back any minute. We're on an emergency -Theodor Norling has been spotted by himself in a Renault."

  "He came in to Bromma Airport in a Cessna with Black Helmet! She seems to turn up everywhere. Her name could be Sonia Karnell. Address of apartment is Rådmansgatan 490. Norling was carrying a suitcase, hugging it."

  "Christ! Has he fooled us? Was it about the same size as ..."

  "The one which was hidden aboard the express for Stockholm? Yes, it was."

  "You see that Saab over there, with the man behind the wheel carefully not taking any notice of us? That's Harry Fondberg. Don't lose him, Stig. We think Norling's destination could be the boat marina near Embassy Row."

  "I know it."

  Beaurain forced himself to stroll casually the short distance back to Fondberg's car although his legs were screaming at him to run. He got inside, closed the door and lit a cigarette. "Norling has a suitcase which sounds exactly like the one snatched from the wagon you surrounded at Stockholm Central station. He flew into Bromma from somewhere."

  "God Almighty!" Fondberg had started up his car which was the signal for the other two cars parked further back to prepare to move. "You mean he could be carrying the big consignment, the one for which my man in Bangkok died? Hold on to your seat-belt!"

  The American behind the wheel of the hired Citroën wore a Swedish-style nautical cap. In his mirrors he had observed everything - Beaurain waiting inconspicuously on the sidewalk after a brief dash into the hotel; the arrival of the Saab which contained Louise Hamilton in the back and two unknown men in the front. He had noted the urgent conversation between Beaurain and Louise; the Belgian's careful stroll back to another Saab, with Harry Fondberg waiting behind the wheel. He waited until the convoy departed with the second Saab carrying Louise bringing up the rear - then he drove out from the row and followed. Ed Cottel of the CIA knew a crisis when he saw one.

  From the moment they left police headquarters they preserved radio silence. Fondberg had taken the precaution of sending a message to the man who had spotted Norling that only if the target was not heading for the marina was he to send a brief message over the radio.

  There had been no signal by the time the 'convoy' left the Grand Hotel, a convoy consisting of two unmarked police cars, followed by Stig Palme and Louise Hamilton who, in their turn, were closely followed by Ed Cottel's Citroën - equipped with a radio that had been skilfully attached after the hiring of the vehicle. It kept Cottel in touch with what Fondberg had called his 'eyes'. Remaining one vehicle behind Stig Palme's Saab he was using his radio link.

  "Carmel calling. You read me? Good. Any sign of Ozark?"

  "Monterey here, Carmel. No, repeat, no sign of Ozark. Am continuing surveillance pending further instructions."

  "OK, you do that."

  With an expression of resignation the hooked-nosed American replaced the microphone and concentrated on not losing the Saab. It had been going on for days and the only thing to do was to persist; sooner or later something had to break.

  Ozark was the code-name for Viktor Rashkin, First Secretary at the Soviet Embassy in Stockholm. The odd thing was he seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth.

  "Pass me the gun - lay it on the seat beside me," Stig Palme made the request to Louise as they continued in the wake of two unmarked police cars. Palme knew that they were close to Embassy Row, which meant they were close to the marina. Without asking why, Louise lifted the weapon wrapped in oilcloth and gently laid it on the empty seat in front.

  "I may need Christine," he remarked. It was typical that Palme should confer a girl's name on his favourite weapon. When using her in action he was accustomed to use some pretty racy language."We're being followed. Don't look round. He's driving a cream-coloured Citroën."

  "Any idea since when?"

  "He was parked with his back to us outside the Grand Hotel. And he's been using the usual technique of keeping one vehicle between us all the way. The Syndicate obviously has a team watching the Grand Hotel."

  "Just one man, you said?"

  "With a highly-trained killer they only need one man. Better for getting away after he's done the job. Beaurain could be the target," he said, and relapsed into silence.

  Fascinated she watched while Palme drove with one hand and used the other to unwrap the oil-cloth and expose Christine. The machine-pistol was already fully-loaded. "We're on top of the possible target area," Palme warned and then stopped the car.

  Dr. Theodor Norling pulled in at the kerb by the landing stage. The marina was vast. There was a breeze coming off the water which freshened the air and countered the blaze of the high sun glaring down out of a cloudless sky. For a few seconds he paused after locking the car, standing quite still with the suitcase in his hand.

  Arne, reliable as usual, was walking towards him. Norling was trying to sense anything unusual in the scene before committing himself to water. A whole fleet of craft of varying sizes and types bobbed at anchor, a galaxy of vibrating colour in the intensity of the sun. Already Norling could feel its heat on the back of his neck. There were expensive cruisers equipped with all the latest electronic devices, small power-boats, larger launches, a whole diversity of yachts, some with coloured sails.

  "The power-boat is ready to take you out to the Ramsö," Arne informed his employer.

  "I'm in a hurry," Norling replied curtly.

  Behind him, beyond a screen of shrubs and trees and across the unseen road rose the buildings of the American Embassy with a flight of steps leading up to them. From a flagpole the Stars and Stripes fluttered in the breeze. Before getting into the power-boat Arne held waiting for him, Norling turned and gave the flag a brief salute. An onlooker would have found it impossible to decide whether the gesture was ironic or serious.

  "God, that's him and he's getting away!"

  Three cars had arrived alongside the marina. It was Louise, jumping from the third car and running up to where Beaurain and Fondberg stood, who confirme
d the worst. Before leaving Stig Palme, who had pulled up a cautious distance from the police vehicles, she had snatched a pair of field glasses from the glove compartment, nearly dislocating herself leaning over the seat. Focused on the receding powerboat, the lenses brought up the two figures on board only too clearly.

  She had not recognised the man steering the craft towards the powerful cruiser riding at anchor. The second man, nursing a suitcase, was only too horribly familiar. The encounter outside the shop on Rådmansgatan when he had stared at her through his gold-rimmed glasses. In the lenses the sun - for a brief second - flashed a hint of gold off those same glasses.

  "It's him," she told Palme, and ran to Beaurain to repeat the warning.

  "Are you quite sure?" asked Beaurain, glancing uncertainly towards Palme.

  "Bloody hell, do you think I'm blind!" she screamed at him. "I was as close to him as I am to you!"

  "Harry, can you have that cruiser intercepted if that's what he is headed for?"

  Fondberg shook his head dubiously and there was a grim look on his face. "Point One, I have no authority or reason to intervene. I could always argue I didn't know it was Norling, but ... Point Two, that vessel can really move - and the river police are never where you want them."

  "Then this, Harry, is where you look the other way."

  The power-boat carrying Dr. Norling had now arrived alongside the cruiser. Through her binoculars Louise watched the Swede move nimbly aboard, holding the suitcase in his left hand. Crewmen had appeared on the bridge of the vessel which was clearly about to depart.

  "Forty million kronors' worth of heroin in that suitcase," the Belgian hammered home. "Soon it will be flooding the streets of Stockholm, creating more untold misery."

  "For Christ's sake!" protested the exasperated Swede. "Don't you think I feel helpless enough?"

  Louise studied the so-called dealer in rare books through her field glasses. Beaurain was standing next to her and behind Fondberg's back. She lowered the glasses and saw him make a brief gesture describing the outline of a suitcase. Suddenly she looked behind her and over to the right where Stig Palme had parked the Saab.