Colin Forbes - The Stockholm syndicate

"He's staying at the Royal," Karnell continued. "Description fits Danny's. But I got a chance to read the register upside down and two more people arrived even later. One is Jules Beaurain, the other Louise Hamilton." Dr. Benny Horn slowly put the suitcase down on the carpet and stared at the girl.

"You have interesting company in town with you tonight, Jules," Ed Cottel of the CIA told him over the phone.

"Viktor Rashkin landed at Copenhagen in his Lear jet after flying from Brussels."

Beaurain sat on the edge of the bed in his room at the Royal Hotel, listening closely to his American friend. He had phoned the Grand Hotel in Stockholm on the off-chance that Ed might have arrived. It occurred to him that Cottel didn't seem to worry much about the security of an open telephone line.

Max Kellerman, perched on the edge of a wooden chair, looked stiff and serious, and Beaurain knew he was worried sick about what was happening to Louise. There had been no word from her since she had followed Black Helmet out into the night.

"Ed," Beaurain replied into the mouthpiece, 'was there anyone with Rashkin when he left the Lear jet at Kastrup?"

"Yes, a girl. Difficult to see at a distance — just as it was with the big R, apparently. She had dark hair, cut short. End of description."

"So where did they go when they left the plane? And is it still at Kastrup, waiting to take him on somewhere tomorrow maybe?"

"My man lost them again when they left the airport. They had two cars waiting — one for passengers, one to set up interference if anyone tried to tail them. The girl left with the big R. And the man I hoped to contact here isn't at home in his apartment in Gamla Stan — that's Swedish for the Old City. He's a book dealer. Rare editions."

"Has he a name?"

"Dr. Theodor Norling. Keep in touch. Bye, Jules,"

It was 10.30 p.m. when Beaurain broke his phone connection with Ed Cottel in Stockholm. In Washing-| ton, DC, it was only 4.30 p.m. And the atmosphere in the Oval Office at the White House was tense. The President, who faced an election in less than six months' time, had long become accustomed to seeing the world entirely through electoral glasses. His every action was judged by one criterion: would it gain or lose him votes in November?

The fact that he was already being called 'one of the worst presidents in the history of the United States' had only bolstered his determination to see that his country — and the world — was subjected to four more years of the mixture as before. Seated behind his desk, his legs raised, his ankles crossed and resting on it, he looked at the only two other people with him.

His wife, Bess, sat upright in an easy chair, leaning slightly forward in a characteristic manner which an unkind columnist once described as "Bess rampant and ready for blood'. The second person, equally unpopular with the press, was his chief aide, Joel Cody from Texas. The subject of the conversation, which like so many White House conversations — had been initiated by the President's wife, was Ed Cottel.

"You're sure this Ed Cottel was checked out before he was sent to Europe, Joel?" the President demanded.

"Right down to his underpants. He's West Coast — not Ivy League, thank God — and he has a leaning towards this private organisation, Telescope, and its objectives, although he tries to conceal it. He also believes the real menace is the Stockholm Syndicate and that we should concentrate all our fire on that,"

"For Christ's sake, Joel!" Tieless, his shirt front open, the most powerful man in the western world sat up straight, whipping his feet off the desk together with a sheaf of papers which fluttered to the floor. "Until we've won the election we don't want to know about that Stockholm Syndicate. There are rumours that some of the top contributors to our campaign chest may have dabbled their fingers in that thing."

"So when the crunch comes we want Telescope to be the target, not the Syndicate?" Cody suggested. "And this way that's what we get."

"You wouldn't care to explain that, Joel, would you?"

"I think you'll find Joel knows what he's doing," Bess reassured her husband and then subsided, for the moment.

"Cottel is sympathetic to these Telescope people, whoever they may be," Cody explained. "We do know further that he is a personal friend of this Belgian, Beaurain — rumoured to be one of the chiefs of this Telescope outfit. So, while officially Cottel is locating the key personnel of Telescope — ready for the western security services to swoop when the time comes he will really be trying to help the Telescope organisation all he can. We're having him watched — that way he leads us to the whole outfit pretty soon now."

"Why don't we send this Harvey Sholto you keep recommending — you said Sholto hates the guts of Telescope."

"Which is well known," Cody assured the President smoothly, 'so Sholto wouldn't get anywhere near them. Ed Cottel only took this assignment so he could secretly keep the heat off Telescope — and he'll end up leading us to the capture and exposure of the whole goddam underground organisation."

"I like it, Joel, I like it." The well-known smile suddenly left his face. "Haven't you overlooked something? Supposing Cottel digs up information we'd just as soon he didn't such as names of some of the big companies whose chairmen have contributed money to the Syndicate?"

"That's all taken care of," Joel assured him confidently. "If Cottel gets out of line we send over Sholto to take care of him. I may even send him in any case."

"Don't give me those sort of details," the President said hastily. "In fact, I don't know anything about this Harvey Sholto. And I don't really understand what you've just said, so let's change the subject."

Louise Hamilton felt sure she would lose the dark-haired girl. The same girl she and Beaurain had seen outside Bruges station when they took her vacated taxi. Leaving Kellerman with hardly a word, she walked out the back way and got behind the wheel of the hired Citroen.

"I want hired cars waiting for me at Copenhagen, Stockholm, Helsinki and Oslo," Beaurain had instructed Henderson. Thankful for his foresight, Louise drove round near the main entrance and stopped. Seconds later the dark-haired girl came out, summoned a passing cab and got inside. As Louise followed the cab, keeping a rough check on its route with the aid of the Copenhagen street map open on the seat beside her, she soon began to suspect the girl's destination. The house on Nyhavn Kellerman had described.

Within minutes she knew she had guessed correctly. The cab ahead turned right, the basin of water was there in the middle of the street, the forest of masts above fishing boats tied up to the quays. Louise took a quick decision. Tooting her horn, she speeded up and overtook the cab with inches to spare. It was not the act of someone who wished the cab's passenger to be unaware of her presence — and inside the cab Sonia Karnell hadn't even noticed the Citroen as she felt inside her handbag for the front door key. Coming close to the main waterfront, where the wall of houses ended, Louise pulled in at the kerb and watched the cab coming up behind her in the rear-view mirror.

"If you have guessed wrong, my girl," she told herself, 'you've had it." The cab stopped a dozen yards behind where she was parked. She watched while the short-haired girl paid off the cab, went up the steps, inserted a key and went inside, closing the door behind her. The cab drove past her and was turning right along the waterfront on its way back into the centre of Copenhagen.

Louise didn't hesitate. The moment to check on a place is when someone has just arrived. Nobody expects a shadow to have the audacity to approach so close when the person they have followed has just entered a building.