Colin Forbes - The Stockholm syndicate

"You may indeed, Flamen." Voisin smirked. Clearly Willy Flamen understood the delicacy of his position, the political importance of never having to take a decision that might backfire.

"Found in his apartment," Flamen continued. "No sign of a break-in."

"So he knew his murderer," Voisin jumped in.

"It would seem so," Flamen agreed tactfully, although he knew it didn't necessarily follow. "Shot in the back of the neck," he repeated. "Reminds me of something nasty but I just can't recall what it is."

"You ha d better leave for Brussels now, before Bruges is flooded with police," Dr. Berlin told Sonia Karnell inside the tiny house in the Hoogste van Brugge.

"Something is going to happen?"

"A couple of loose ends are being tidied up by Gunther Baum — Frans and Rosa Darras aboard the barge. They were getting slack it was you who warned me when you delivered the Zenith signal about Beaurain."

Karnell had stood up to leave. Her brow was crinkled with apprehension.

"What have I been responsible for? I thought you were only going to warn them."

"It is a warning!" Berlin raised his voice and used the fingers of one hand to stroke the curved ends of his moustache. "A warning to the other people running our communications. But that's why there may be police activity round this area soon. Also because I have decided to teach Dr. Goldschmidt a lesson for spying on me with that photographer in the house opposite."

"Not Baum again?" she asked quietly.

"You are too soft-hearted."

"You are getting more brutal and I don't really like it."

He relented and decided to tell her. "Dirk is going to deliver one of his toys. He is a gentle soul. Now run along and I'll meet you later at the Brussels apartment before we go to the airport together."

She nodded and left to find a cab for the station. Dirk Mondy ran the Bruges office when Berlin was not there. What toy could he be presenting to Goldschmidt?

As she left the house and headed down the narrow cobbled street she was relieved that it was not Baum who was calling. Even the mention of Baum, whom she had never met, terrified her. I wouldn't know him if he came up my own stairs in Stockholm, she thought.

At Bruges station Louise and Beaurain had to wait several minutes until a cab arrived, bringing a passenger to the station. The door opened, a girl wearing a windcheater stepped out, reached into her handbag for her purse and caught sight of Beaurain. For a fraction of a second she froze, then recovered, paid the fare and hurried into the station.

"Holiday Inn," Beaurain told the driver. It was easier than explaining how to get to Dr. Goldschmidt's address in a nearby side street. "This is one of the most beautiful towns in Europe," Beaurain remarked as the cab moved off. "There's an area with canals and ancient bridges with willows dripping branches in the water. It is just the sort of place I'd hide up in if I were running some shady outfit."

"You noticed that girl who got out of this cab at the station?" Louise asked in a low voice.

"Vaguely. Quite a looker." Beaurain lit a cigarette.

"She was staring at you as though you scared her stiff. Have you ever seen her before?"

"Never in my life. Ah, here we are. I'm looking forward to seeing my old friend."

The Holiday Inn was on the corner of an ancient square the T'Zand. Down the side street where Dr. Goldschmidt lived were old houses, steep-roofed and white. The atmosphere was so peaceful Louise felt ridiculous carrying a pistol.

"Here we are."

Beaurain stopped outside one of the houses which carried an engraved plate on the wall by the door. Avocat. Lawyer. No name. He pressed the bell and glanced down the street. Forty yards away a Volkswagen was parked. A man sat behind the wheel. Impossible to see his face at that distance. The door opened on a chain.

"Your card, please."

"Here, Henri. It is Jules."

"Cautious, isn' t he?" Louise whispered.

A slim-fingered hand took the card, the chain was removed and they stepped into a hallway. The door closed and Dr. Goldschmidt regarded them both, a tall, stooped man with a silver mane of hair and a hawk-like nose. He wore a business suit which could only have been cut in Savile Row and peered at them through a pair of gold-rimmed glasses.

He said mildly: "You are both carrying guns. Correct, Miss Hamilton? No, don't look at Jules for your cue. Am I right?"

"Yes-but how…?"

"Because he's a good bluffer," Beaurain put in. "When we entered the doorway we passed through a metal detector set into the door-frame and the bulb down here in the wall lights up faintly when metal is detected on a visitor. The bluff is he had no way of knowing the metal was a gun so he challenged you with an accusation which threw you off balance. He used to be one of Belgium's most e minent lawyers before he took up… the collection of rare coins."

"Any more of my secrets you wish to reveal?" Goldschmidt asked with mock waspishness.

"Not at the moment but please don't play games with my best girl."

"Mamsele, a thousand apologies. And such a beautiful assistant."

He ushered them through a doorway into a small but comfortably furnished room overlooking the street. The walls were lined with bookcases, a blue deep-pile carpet covered the floor. Goldschmidt pulled forward a leather armchair for Louise and fussed about her courteously. She looked straight at his penetrating grey eyes and decided she must establish herself or be dismissed as second-rate.

"You are afraid someone is coming to kill you, Dr. Goldschmidt?"

"All the time in my b usiness." He turned to Beaurain who was staring through the window at the parked Volkswagen. "You said on the phone I could speak to Miss Hamilton as though I were talking to you."

"That's true." Beaurain sat down in a second armchair and Goldschmidt took a high-backed chair behind a large antique desk which meant he was looking down at them. He used the technique of intimidation with so many people he even continued it with his friends.

"First things first," said Beaurain in a business-like manner, and took out a long, fat envelope containing 20,000 in Deutschmarks of high-denomination notes. He dropped it on the desk. "My contribution towards your favourite charity."

Goldschmidt picked up the envelope, locked it in a desk drawer without opening it and inclined his head. "Thank you. How can I help you?"

"I want to know who is running the Syndicate, some idea of the size of its operations, and where its headquarters are."

Terror." Goldschmidt plunged straight into his subject. Terror is the weapon this Syndicate is using on a scale never before seen in Europe — or in the States, not that Washington will admit its existence. I have never in all my experience," he continued, 'known such a situation." He stared hard at Beaurain. "The Syndicate controls men and women at the summit of power in this country. If you become its target you cannot save yourself."

"I've never heard you talk like this before," Beaurain said grimly. "How have they managed this in such a short time?" He was thinking of the fear on the face of the Baron de Graer.

"They vary their method to suit the victim. Sometimes money is employed very large sums, some of which originate in the United States. In other cases they employ terroristic blackmail. You remember the killing of the Baron de Graer's wife and daughter during the so-called kidnap attempt at the Chateau Wardin?"

" So-called? "

"Yes. It was planned from the outset that the wife and daughter would be killed. You look very grim, Jules."

"I happen to know the Baron de Graer. Also I was in charge of the anti-terrorist squad at the time.

Brussels stopped me using my normal method of going in with heavy fire-power. Brussels insisted on negotiations." There was an undertone of bitterness in the Belgian's voice.