Colin Forbes - The Stockholm syndicate

Cottel was trying to locate Dr. Theodor Norling, antique book dealer and a member of the three-man directorate which controlled the ever-expanding criminal organisation, the Stockholm Syndicate.

"Washington on the line, sir," the operator informed Fondberg.

He was about to ask her to find out exactly who was calling, when it occurred to him that someone might have got round to informing him of Ed Cottel's arrival. He told the girl he would take the call and announced his identity when the connection was made.

"Joel Cody calling, Mr. Fondberg. You know who I am?"

His caller was the President of the United States' closest aide! There was a trailing off at the end of the question. Was he supposed to stand to attention while he took the call, showing by his tone how flattered he was that such a man would use a few minutes of his precious time calling someone so far beneath him?

"What do you want, Cody?" Fondberg asked in a blank voice, using his other hand to switch on the recorder.

There was a brief pause, no doubt while Cody patted his dignity back into shape. He recovered quickly, keeping his tone of voice amiable and hail-fellow as though they had known each other for years. It was, in fact, the first time they had spoken to each other.

"First, I want to thank you sincerely for your truly whole-hearted co-operation with DC, which is greatly appreciated. I may say that appreciation is also felt by the most eminent personages in the United States, if you follow me."

The stupid bastard meant the President. He used twenty words where five would do. There was an irritating trailing off at the end of every sentence, presumably to give Fondberg time to register due humility.

"Mr. Cody, what is the precise purpose of your call?" asked Fondberg bluntly.

"We always like to maintain normal diplomatic courtesies, and in spite of what the press of certain countries says about our playing it close to the chest and not informing our Allies of what we are doing on their territory…"

"Yes, Mr. Cody?"

Fondberg could stand it no longer. With his free hand he opened the bottom drawer, took out a pack of cigarettes, fiddled one into his mouth and used the lighter also secreted in the drawer to get it going.

"We feel you ought to know in advance…" The voice in Washington went hard. '… and not after the event, that one of our people will shortly be visiting your country."

Fondberg knew something was wrong. He gave the conversation his full attention, listening to every nuance in the words being spoken by the President's sidekick.

"The person to whom I'm referring is highly regarded by us, and we sure would appreciate it if you could extend to him all your normal facilities and co-operation. His name is Harvey Sholto and his sphere of activity is security."

"Which department?"

"Now, Mr. Fondberg, I'm sure you have found that unfortunately the telephone is not, in the world we live in, the safe instrument we all wish that it might be. May I suggest that Harvey calls you up on arrival and arranges a mutually advantageous meeting, say at the American Embassy in Stockholm?"

"He can phone and make an appointment to see me here. Please let me have the flight number and ETA of this Mr. Sholto."

"All I can say is that he will be landing in Stockholm during the course of the next three days and I will pass on to him your message to call you as soon as he has settled in. Now, if you'll excuse me, Mr. Fondberg, a certain light is flashing on my desk and I'm sure you'll understand when I say it's the one light I cannot ignore."

Fondberg thought for several minutes before he asked for an urgent call to be put through to the man he knew best at Interpol. While waiting for the call he alerted security at Arlanda Airport to be on the lookout for a passenger travelling on an American passport in the name of Harvey Sholto. When asked how quickly to activate the surveillance Fondberg replied, "At once," It was just like the Codys of this world to play it clever, to inform him only an hour or so before Sholto landed.

When the Interpol call came through he gave his contact the name Sholto, Harvey, and was promised any data before the day ended: Fondberg stared at the wall-map showing the progress of the express carrying the heroin consignment. He suddenly wondered if there could be a link between the train and the unsettling news about Harvey Sholto.

Harry Fondberg's Interpol contact phoned back from Paris at ten that night. The Swedish chief of Sapo was still waiting in his office, convinced that something was bound to happen, that it would happen soon and, pray to God, it would give him the lever he had been desperately searching for to break into the Stockholm Syndicate.

"Harvey Sholto," the Frenchman informed the Swede laconically, 'is a highly-trained killer. The Americans give him an X-l rating. It means I personally would not like to be in the sights of his high-powered rifle,

" "If you have a description… just a moment, I will take this down." Fondberg deliberately had not activated the recording machine because it was understood that each would ask the other before any mechanical record was made. In this case Fondberg did not want any record existing which someone else might get hold of and play back. He scribbled down Sholto's description in a scrawl legible only to himself.

"There is more about this Sholto," the Frenchman continued. "Washington has used him for assassination in Vietnam, Africa and Central America, but we have not been able to discover that he is assigned to any particular agency. He carries very great influence in high places in Washington which has helped him carry out his assassinations."

"Thank you," said Fondberg. He exchanged the normal pleasantries automatically, then replaced the receiver and cuddled his chin in his hand, gazing into the distance with a grim expression. It was always the same problem: too much was happening at once. But what worried Fondberg most of all was a question which kept hammering away at his brain.

Who was Harvey Sholto's new target?

"Send an immediate Nadir signal on the police inspector and the railway guard,"

Nadir. Even more than Zenith, this signal caused sweating palms among the men who transmitted the message. They could not get out of their minds the thought that one day the Syndicate might send out a Nadir signal which included their own personal details. And once the word went out there was nowhere to flee to, nowhere safe from the octopus-like reach of Stockholm.

The order had been given by Benny Horn to Sonia Karnell as they sat side by side in a BMW saloon. They had changed cars within minutes of driving away from Elsinore station in the Volvo. It was a policy of Horn's never to stay inside the same vehicle for more than two hours. The BMW was parked by the waterfront in an area quite remote from the ferry terminal and the railway station. She walked across the plank linking the quay to a large fishing boat. For a vessel which could hardly be described as modern it carried some surprisingly up-to-date equipment.

The latest radar device was poised on the bridge, and concealed inside the cabin to which she was descending by a flight of wooden steps was a powerful transceiver. The manner of concealment behind a panel was very similar to the one which Frans Darras had used aboard his barge outside Bruges.

"You want something, lady? This is private property."

Arnold Barfred, the Danish owner of the vessel, deliberately spoke in a loud voice, using the English language, in case a passer-by was listening.

His eyes went blank as Sonia passed on the signal to him in a low voice and told him to hurry. "It is a Nadir signal. None of us wastes a minute transmitting a Nadir. We just wish to get rid of it — and forget it."