The Stockholm Syndicate (27 page)

Seiger would have screamed with the pain but the pressure of the knuckles made it impossible for him to utter a sound. The gun muzzle was pressed lightly against his right eye and the large Swede loomed over the stoop-shouldered shopkeeper.

"You can always leave Stockholm until the trouble is ended," he said with an engaging smile. "When did you last have a real holiday? Ages, I expect. An honest man like yourself, plying his trade,
deserves
a holiday."

He released his grip on the necktie suddenly and Seiger collapsed in a heap against the wall, his legs spread out at an absurd angle across the stone-paved floor. He used one hand to massage his bruised throat, glaring up at the intruder, then when he saw what Stig Palme was doing his expression changed, he tried to climb to his feet, found he hadn't the strength and held up a hand as though to ward off a blow. What words had not managed a gesture was achieving. Terror!

Stig Palme stood over the collapsed figure, doing what he was doing with great deliberation and with out a glance down at the locksmith. He was screwing a silencer onto the muzzle of his Luger.

The atmosphere in the tiny shop was nauseating. On entering the place Palme had been aware of a musty, damp odour a smell associated with a place which never sees the sun and where the ventilation leaves much to be desired. Added to this now was the stink of sweat streaming down Seiger's body, staining his armpits, moistening his face, the smell Palme had encountered more than once before, the stench of terror.

"These people kill!"

"We are aware it is the Stockholm Syndicate. I need a name, an address," said Palme matter-of-factly.

The latter he had no hope of - the most was a name, the least a description he could circulate in the Stockholm underworld and hope to come up with something.

"The alternative is I blow you away."

And Tobias Seiger, who spent most of his life in this pit of semi-darkness, came up with pure gold.

"A blond-haired man I can't give you a name. It was strictly a cash transaction, of course ... fair-haired with sideburns ... The hair was thick on the back of his neck ... and he wore gold-rimmed spectacles. A little shorter than yourself but not small ... about five foot eleven. We conversed in French. I have seen him twice before ... I know where he lives."

Stig Palme was careful to maintain a perfectly blank expression. It increased the pressure, keeping a sense of detachment when he was screwing on the silencer. Christ Almighty, Seiger was actually describing Dr. Theodor Norling, one of the three men controlling the directorate of the Stockholm Syndicate. Why had he not sent some minion to get the master key? Then he recalled Beaurain telling him that Norling had an apartment not far away in the posh area near St. Gertrud's Church. When Seiger came to ,
I know where he lives
Palme forced himself to keep silent. In interrogation the art was so often to know when to keep your mouth shut.

'... it was a strange coincidence," the locksmith babbled on, "I could hardly believe it myself when I saw him on my way to work ... I often spend the night with my sister who lives in Strängnäs ... Driving in on the E3 highway I had an urgent call of nature. I stopped by the roadside ... can I have a drink?"

"No!"

It was such a delicately poised thing: any pause could stop the flow of words if Seiger thought better of what he was doing. And what the hell was all this about the E3 and out in the country? Norling's apartment was in Gamla Stan. Denied a drink, the voice, now cracked, railed on.

"As I was behind a tree I saw this man come out of a house in the distance ... I always carry a small pair of field glasses in my pocket ... my hobby is bird-watching. It was him! I waited as he got out his car and drove off in the direction of Stockholm, the way I was going. I followed in my own car until the traffic was heavier and caught him up. He did not see me! The Volvo he was driving carried American diplomatic plates."

It was coming at Palme fast but he kept his head. In a monotone he asked about the location of the house. This involved some detailed explanation even though Palme knew the route to Strängnäs well. He had to pinpoint the location of the house which, apparently, stood back off the highway but in view of it and was quite isolated.

"One of those old-fashioned houses," Seiger ran on. "Gables and bulging windows like they used to build. It must be at least fifty years old."

"Stay where you are!"

Palme gave the order in a cold voice and Seiger remained on the floor behind the counter. Palme walked slowly towards the door, turned the key quietly and stepped out. As he did so he moved to his left, sliding along the glass of the shop window the last thing someone waiting for him would expect. And someone was waiting for him. Two of them. Medium height. Heavily-built. Wearing sunglasses. Something wrong with their shoes. Definitely not Swedish.

The man on the left darted forward, his knife extended from his hand. They'd made only two mistakes. They hadn't realised he'd seen the silhouette of one man from inside the shop as he glided slowly past the window. And the other man had gently tried the locked door, making the slightest of sounds.

Their second mistake was in not noticing Palme's right hand down by his side as he emerged from the shop, the hand still holding the Luger with the silencer. As the killer darted towards him he whipped up the Luger and fired.
Phut!
A small hole appeared in the assassin's head between his eyes. The second man had seized his chance to dash inside the shop, confident his companion would eliminate Palme. The Swede followed him inside the open door just in time to see him lean over the counter.

Had Seiger not compelled Palme to relieve the locksmith of his Walther automatic he could have saved himself. Palme had hardly re-entered the shop when the assassin rammed home the knife deep into Seiger's chest. There was a choking cry, a slithering sound as Seiger sank to the floor again out of sight. Palme pressed the muzzle of his silenced Luger into the back of the neck of the killer. It seemed rough justice: these bastards were fond of using the old Nazi method of execution.

The man froze, began to say something in German. Palme pressed the trigger once.
Phut!
In the silence of the unsavoury-smelling shop it sounded like no more than the expelling of a breath of air. The assassin sprawled his arms across the counter as though trying to hold himself up. Palme stood back as the man folded up and fell in a heap on the floor. Taking Seiger's automatic out of his pocket he quickly cleaned all fingerprints off it and dropped it inside the drawer which was still open.

He left the shop cautiously, using the handkerchief to wipe the handle. The gloomy alley was still deserted - except for the crumpled form of the first assassin at the foot of the window. Palme concealed his Luger inside his belt and behind his jacket. Moving swiftly back up the alley to the road where he had parked his Saab, he climbed in behind the wheel and drove slowly away.

Chapter Sixteen

A modern complex of buildings painted in yellow and ochre, the Russian Embassy in Stockholm is cut off from all contact with the outside world by walls and wire fences which are patrolled round the clock by guards supplied, curiously enough, by A.B.A.B." one of the two leading security services in Stockholm. On the inside it is different. All entrances are controlled by the KGB. The walls of the complex are festooned with the lenses of TV cameras which watch all who approach, lenses which project towards the outside world like hostile guns.

Only a privileged élite are allowed ever to leave the confines of the embassy. From outside you may see a Russian woman with her hair in a bun walking behind the wire one of the wives of the personnel staffing the embassy. She will serve her term there and return to Russia without ever having seen anything of the beautiful Swedish capital. None of these restrictions, of course, applied to Viktor Rashkin.

"Welcome back, Comrade Secretary," greeted his assistant, Gregori Semeonov, as his chief entered his office.

"Anything to report?" Rashkin asked curtly as he sat down in his large leather-backed swivel chair behind his outsize desk. He had not given even a glance to the stunning view through the bullet-proof picture windows behind him. Heavy net curtains masked them, making it impossible for anyone in a block of nearby flats to see into the room. The view looked out across a trim area of well-kept lawn and beyond, the waters of the Riddarfjärden glittered in the noon-day sun. Rashkin was tense. Semeonov sensed it.

"There is a signal requesting your urgent presence in Leningrad. You have arrived back in Stockholm just in time the First Secretary is visiting the city tomorrow and wishes to confer with you while he is there."

Semeonov handed his chief the decoded signal. He watched while the Russian studied it with half-closed eyes.

Only forty years old, Rashkin was of medium height, average in build and his dark hair was cut very short. Clean-shaven, his eyes were penetrating and had an almost hypnotic quality. As a young man he had spent two years training to be an actor before a senior KGB talent-spotter observed his intensely analytical mind. He was recruited immediately into the élite section of the KGB where he quickly learned the wisdom of suppressing his gift for mimicry.

Despite the fact that his first-class mind swiftly assimilated the flood of information and training directed at him, Viktor Rashkin was not at home inside the KGB. But he had also become fluent in six languages by the time he met Leonid Brezhnev at a Kremlin party. The meeting of the two men was a decisive moment for Viktor Rashkin, a moment which, if mishandled, would never occur again.

Most men would have played it safe, striving to impress the master of Soviet Russia, and being careful to agree with everything he said. Rashkin gambled all on one throw of the dice. He released himself from the mental straitjacket imposed on him by the KGB and for the first time in three years became his natural self. Those nearby who witnessed his conduct were appalled.

Rashkin let his natural gift for mimicry re-assert itself, imitating members of the Politburo who were actually present in the room under the glittering chandeliers. Gradually a hush fell over the great hall in the Kremlin where the party was being held. Only two sounds could be heard - the sound of Rashkin brilliantly imitating world-famous figures on both sides of the Iron Curtain, and the roar of Leonid Brezhnev's laughter as he shook with amusement at such a wonderful contrast to the sombre expressions of the Politburo members.

From that night Viktor Rashkin's future was assured - from being an obscure but promising recruit of the KGB, he became Brezhnev's trusted and secret trouble-shooter. The fact that he was a natural linguist - and that his flair for acting made him a brilliant diplomat - helped to rocket him to the dizzy heights.

The Washington dossier on Viktor Rashkin grew thicker and thicker, but the few privileged to read it complained that despite the quantity of the data, the quality left a great deal to be desired. "It's so damn vague," the US President grumbled. "Now you see him, now you don't."

April ... Believed to have spent three days in Addis Ababa. Purpose of visit: presumed discusssion of further military aid to present Ethiopian regime.

May ... Reported to have made lightning visit to Angola. Dates of visit uncertain. Rumoured agreement concluded with Angolan regime.

July ... Presence reported in Havana. No positive confirmation of visit. Previously reliable Cuban woman agent code-named Dora signalled arrival of important personality in Cuban capital. Strong suspicion visitor to Castro was Viktor Rashkin.

December ... Presence of Viktor Rashkin positively confirmed in Stockholm where he holds position First Secretary at Soviet Embassy. This official position believed to mask his real activities. Was observed attending royal reception at Palace in Stockholm. Next day believed he left Sweden for unknown destination.

For the CIA and National Security Agency analysts it was infuriating. As one of them had expressed it after reading the above extracts from agents' reports and a host of other material, "I'm not even sure Viktor Rashkin exists.
Believed to ... presumed ... Reported to have … Rumoured agreement ... No positive confirmation of visit ... Strong suspicion...
What kind of dossier is this?"

The man was a will o' the wisp, a shadow flitting in the night. To his assistant, Gregori Semeonov, a senior officer of the KGB, his chief existed but he was almost as elusive as the Washington analyst had suggested. As they conferred in Rashkin's office at the Soviet Embassy in Stockholm the short, burly Ukrainian had no idea where his chief had arrived from.

"I have made your reservation on Flight SK 732 departing from Arlanda for Leningrad at 13.30 tomorrow. Normally this flight is from Gate Six," Semeonov continued pedantically. "The ticket is in your right-hand top drawer."

"A return ticket, I hope?"

Rashkin was studying the contents of a folder from another drawer to which he alone held the keys. As he expected, the stupid, peasant-like Semeonov completely missed the irony of his question.

"What is the exact location of the hydrofoil,
Kometa
?"

"Captain Livanov is waiting at Sassnitz until you give the order for him to proceed to the agreed position off the Swedish port of Trelleborg. I gather he has again complained that we are risking his vessel in asking him to cross the Baltic."

"I have ordered him - not asked him - to proceed to Trelleborg when I give the signal. We must remember to tell him to keep his hull below the horizon so he cannot be seen from the shore. And the Swedish liner,
Silvia
, is in position?"

"Yes, Comrade Secretary." Semeonov paused and Rashkin waited for the next piece of bureaucratic idiocy. He was not disappointed. "I cannot understand why we have hired the
Silvia
and put aboard only a skeleton crew. She is in no position to make a long voyage."

"Just so long as you have carried out my instructions. You may go now."

Rashkin had no intention of revealing his strategy to this man who was, after all, only the creature of Yuri Andropov, head of the KGB and a powerful member of the Soviet Politburo. And he was perfectly aware that it was Semeonov's chief task to report back to Andropov all Viktor Rashkin's activities, a task Rashkin was at great pains to frustrate by never revealing to the Ukrainian anything of the least importance.

Semeonov, his hair cut so short that Rashkin secretly termed him "Bristle-Brush', was not able even to leave the room without further comment. At the door he turned and spoke in his measured, deliberate manner.

"I will confirm that you may be expected in Leningrad aboard SK 732 from Arlanda tomorrow."

As the door closed Rashkin shut the folder embossed with a small gold star indicating its extreme level of secrecy, pushed back his chair and swore aloud. "Five minutes in this place and I'm screaming to get out again. Bristle-Brush is becoming impossible to live with."

*

"I can do nothing more, Jules. I have received specific orders that our distinguished guests are not to be interfered with in any way on the contrary, while visiting this country they are to be granted every courtesy and consideration. The trouble is, Sweden stands to gain a considerable amount of international business while hosting this conference."

"They admit a conference is taking place?"

Harry Fondberg and Beaurain were again in the Swedish security chief's office at police headquarters. But on this second occasion the atmosphere was quite different. To Beaurain's astonishment, Fondberg's manner was formal, as though he were covering up a deep sense of embarrassment.

"There has been a reference to a conference, yes," Fondberg admitted.

Beaurain stood up. "I presume this means I can no longer rely on you for any assistance? That is the situation, is it not?"

The plump-faced, capable Swede paused, clearly reluctant to let his old friend leave. "There was a message for you, by the way," he said. "It was phoned through to me just before you arrived. I was not able to persuade her to leave her real name."

"
Her?
"

"Yes, it was a woman. The message for you was simply,
Offshore from the port of Trelleborg. A hydrofoil. Champagne
." Fondberg excused himself as the phone rang. He listened, spoke a few words and then replaced the receiver, his expression sombre. "There has been,a death at the Grand Hotel. An important lady."

"The Countess d'Arlezzo,"

Beaurain made it a statement and Fondberg's sensitive ear did not miss the inflection. He stood up behind his desk, his eyes alert, his mouth hard as he met the Belgian's grim gaze. Beaurain continued, "Earlier today I was talking with Erika - the Countess - in her suite at the Grand. I have known her for a long time. She told me she had been threatened by the Stockholm Syndicate. That phone call tells me roughly where the conference of the Syndicate will take place. We had arranged she should use the code-word
champagne
to identify herself. I believe I passed the person who must have been keeping an eye on her for the Syndicate, a waiter pushing a trolley."

"One of the Grand Hotel's regular staff - a waiter - has been found trussed up and stuffed inside a broom cupboard."

"How did she die?"

Beaurain walked over to the window with hands clasped behind his back while he waited for the reply, and stared out at the sunlight which Erika would never see again. His eyes were quite still.

Fondberg was beginning to feel very uneasy. He cleared his voice before he spoke. "She was found hanging from the shower in the bathroom. She used her bath-robe cord, a common..."

"
I would be found ... hung and twisting like a side of meat turning in the wind
." Beaurain repeated for Fondberg's benefit the words Erika had used. The Swede sank into the chair behind his desk and stared dully into the distance, tapping the stubby fingers of his right hand on the desk top, a sure sign that he was deeply disturbed. He listened while Beaurain related the whole of his conversation with the woman who had been one of the most powerful figures in Western Europe.

The Belgian's voice grew harsher as he concluded his version of his last meeting with Erika. "So these are the people to whom you are extending every courtesy and consideration that was the phrase, was it not? And they - all these members of the Stockholm Syndicate - are as guilty of Erika d'Arlezzo's murder as if they personally had tied round her neck the cord of her own bath-robe and strung her up to that shower."

"I said nothing about a murder." Fondberg wriggled uncomfortably behind his desk and, for the first time in their long friendship, he was unable to meet Beaurain's gaze.

"Christ Al-bloody-mighty!" Beaurain's fist smashed down on the desk-top. "You are not going to stoop so low that you will allow them to get away with this faked suicide?"

"
No!
" Fondberg came out of his mental daze and stared straight at Beaurain. "Of course I know it wasn't suicide! Had you understood Swedish you would have known I was speaking to the forensic expert who has already arrived at the Grand. I told him to send his report to me personally at the earliest possible moment. No-one else will be permitted to see it. I shall myself announce its findings to the international press now gathering here hoping for news of the "business" conference. It will cause a bombshell!"

"The Syndicate will come after you," Beaurain warned his old friend, but, he admitted privately to himself, he was also testing him. Such was the quicksand atmosphere of treachery and fear the unseen organisation had generated. Fondberg's reaction made him feel a little ashamed.

"Wrong, my friend. I am going after the Stockholm Syndicate! In committing this murder they have made a big mistake. They hoped their influence was strong enough to squash any attempt at a legitimate investigation. They overlooked the fact that I might intervene."

Events moved at bewildering speed during the next few days. On receipt of Beaurain's urgent signal sent by Stig Palme from a transceiver hidden in the basement of a house in the town of Strängnäs, Captain "Bucky' Buckminster left his anchorage off Copenhagen and proceeded south and east into the Baltic.

"We have to wait off the coast near Trelleborg," he told Anderson, the chief pilot of the giant Sikorsky which they carried on the helipad. "Just below the horizon so we cannot easily be seen from the Swedish shore."

"Any exercises once we get there?" Anderson enquired.

"Yes. Intensive training with the power-boats and dinghies equipped with outboards in fact all the fleet of craft in the hold. Another activity Beaurain wants toned up is the training of frogmen in underwater warfare."

"The Countess d'Arlezzo, president of the well-known group of banks, who was discovered hanging from the shower in the bathroom of her suite in the Grand Hotel was, in the opinion of the well-known pathologist, Professor Edwin Jacoby....'

Harry Fondberg, who was addressing a press conference called at very short notice - other reporters were still arriving, pushing their way into the crowded room was possessed of a certain dramatic sense which he now used to the full. Beaurain watched him from a position at the back of the room. Heads craned as the pause was stretched out. Most of the western world's leading newspapers, TV stations and magazines were represented.

'... was MURDERED!"

Pandemonium!
The small plump chief of Säpo waited as men and women milled in the room - some already rushing for phones to catch editions about to go to press with the staggering announcement. The Countess d'Arlezzo's beauty had been compared with that of Sophia Loren; her business influence with that of Onassis. As the initial reaction subsided, Fondberg ruthlessly piled on the drama. Now it was too late for anyone to try and hold down the lid on the case. It was his first promised blow at the Stockholm Syndicate.

"In a moment Professor Jacoby will tell you his reasons for stating that in his opinion the alleged suicide was faked, could not have taken place in the way meant to fool the police. Or, shall we say, certain powerful criminal groups with international connections believed their influence was so great that no-one would ever dare reveal the truth?"

Louise whispered to Beaurain. "God: That's really blasted the case wide open. Whoever Hugo is, he's going to go crazy!"

"That's Harry's tactic," Beaurain murmured. "He hopes that by throwing him off balance he'll provoke him into making yet another blunder. And listen to this!"

The questions were now coming like bullets as reporters fought to catch Fondberg's eye. High up on a platform, he selected his questioners for their influence. Someone ran onto the platform with a note - doubtless from some Minister. Fondberg waved the messenger away and stuffed the message unread inside his pocket.

"Are you saying the Countess was mixed up in criminal activities?" asked someone from
Der Spiegel
.

"I am saying she was being blackmailed and intimidated in a way which would only be used by animals.

I have the most reliable of witnesses that she was actually threatened with death in the form her murder took."

"Your witness?"

"Would ex-Chief Superintendent Jules Beaurain of the Brussels anti-terrorist squad, previously in charge of Homicide, satisfy you?"

"Thank you. Yes!" said
Der Spiegel
.

"Christ!" Louise whispered. "He's blowing the whole works."

"And the one thing the Syndicate can't stand is publicity," Beaurain whispered back. "It's a dark evil creature which operates in the darkness."

"Would you care to elaborate on the structure of these powerful criminal groups you refer to?"
The Times
- of London.

"Check up on likely personalities at present in Stockholm," "Names, we need names!"
The New York Times
.

"You are here! Do some of your own investigative work, may I suggest!"

"Leo Gehn has just arrived in the capital, I hear,"
The New York Times
.

"I have heard that also," Fondberg replied blandly. "Next question, please,"

"Who controls the international criminal groups you referred to in reply to an earlier question?"
Le Monde
of Paris.

There was a prolonged pause. Tension built up in the packed room as Fondberg, one arm supporting another, a hand under his chin, seemed to be considering whether to answer the question. One thing was clear and heightened the tension until the atmosphere became electric: the chief of Säpo
did
know the answer...

"A directorate of three men," Fondberg spoke slowly and with great deliberation. As he paused again, the door next to Beaurain was pulled open. A man took three paces forward and stopped, holding a Smith & Wesson with both hands, the muzzle raised and aimed point-blank at Harry Fondberg.

Louise had a blurred impression of a short, burly figure wearing a boiler suit. Beaurain grabbed the man's wrist and elbow. There was a single explosion. The bullet fired in the tussle - which would have blown Fondberg off his feet - embedded itself in the ceiling. There was a shocked, incredulous hush which lasted several seconds, during which the only sound was the scuffle of feet as Beaurain overpowered the gunman. Uniformed guards were appearing in the hall beyond the open door. Beaurain hurled the would-be assassin with all his strength backwards into their arms.