Colin Forbes - The Stockholm syndicate

"I was one of the people who was told over the phone about the death of the Chief Commissioner to the Common Market — one week before he died in his so-called "accident". That was how it began."

"And how did it go on?" he pressed.

I was told what would happen to me if I refused to transfer funds to Stockholm. The murder of the Chief Commissioner convinced me they meant what they said. I am a coward, so I gave in."

"What did they threaten you with?" the Belgian demanded.

"That I would be found — I can remember the exact phrase — hung and twisting like a side of meat turning in the wind. I didn't fancy that too much, Jules."

"Why are you here?"

To attend the meeting, of course. The conference of the Syndicate, if you like. I gather Hugo or his representative will carve up the loot, allocate territories to different groups, and then the profits from these will be shared among investors in proportion to the funds supplied. That is what he calls us," she remarked, her expression bitter. "Investors as though we were engaged in a legitimate enterprise."

"And you are engaged in?"

"Prostitution, gambling, drug-trafficking, blackmail, extortion, you name it, we're in it — up to our lousy necks." The bitterness in her manner increased as she stubbed out her cigarette, inserted a fresh one in the holder and again waited while Beaurain lit it for her. They were still standing close together in the beautifully-furnished room and the tension of their discussion seemed to preclude any thought of sitting down.

"Thank you," she said after he had lit her cigarette and continued, her voice low and vehement, which was unlike Erika: in the past he had always admired her sense of detachment. "And one crime is cleverly dovetailed in to aid another."

"How do you mean?" he asked sharply.

"Oh, the high-class prostitutes — and they are among the classiest and most expensive in Europe — are used to compromise leading political figures, who then have to do the Syndicate's bidding or be publicly ruined. You remember there was a man in Milan."

"I know who you mean, Erika. You were rather fond of him."

"Not as much as of you, but yes, I was fond of him, Jules. A week before the scandal broke I was phoned and told that he was about to be ruined. I called him to warn him but there was nothing he could do — the photos had already been taken, the pictures which were then sent to the newspapers and TV. He shot himself — so it appeared."

"And what does that mean?" Beaurain was startled. It had always been his understanding that the Milanese politician concerned had committed suicide.

"He was murdered by the Syndicate and his death faked to look like suicide. In ruling circles in Rome it was clearly understood this was simply another "demonstration" organised by the Syndicate — like the fatal fall of the Chief Commissioner. Can you imagine the horror of it? Even we who have so much money and once controlled international businesses are now puppets of this foul thing, the Stockholm Syndicate,"

"Who do you deal with? Hugo?"

"No. I have no idea who Hugo is. On the rare occasions when I am contacted, it is by the member of the directorate who is in charge of the Mediterranean Sector — a Dr. Otto Berlin."

"And, finally, where is this so-called summit meeting to be held?"

"We have not been informed yet — but I have been told to be ready to fly to the south coast of Sweden as soon as the instruction comes." Again the bitter note. "Yes, that is what they give us instructions. At least I tried in Rome."

"You must not reproach yourself. Does Luigi…?"

"Know anything about it? Of course not! Can you imagine what sort of help I'd get from that broken reed? Within a day of being told anything he would probably be blabbing it to the world in a drunken stupor. Jules…" She came very close to him, so close he could savour to the full the very faint aroma of the scent she was using. "Jules, can you do anything?"

"Yes, and first I want you under my protection. You will put on a coat and walk straight out of this hotel with me. Leave everything else and come with me this instant. I have people outside and we'll hide you until this is all over,"

"I can't, Jules."

"Why the hell not!" The exasperation was genuine. This was not like Erika.

"Because of Luigi. If I disappear they will kill him. He is in Rome."

"One phone call and I can have him scooped up and flown out of Italy."

"No, Jules!" She put her index finger over his mouth, removed it as he relapsed into silence and kissed him full on the lips. He found he could even remember her taste. "I must act normally, go to the meeting but if you give me a phone number I will call you and tell you where the meeting is being held as soon as I know."

Beaurain didn't like it. He felt uneasy but he couldn't budge her. Eventually he gave her Harry Fondberg's private phone number and the code-word champagne which she must use if she found it was impossible to reach Beaurain; then she could leave a message. As he walked out of her room and closed the self-locking door, he passed a man who was slowly pushing a service trolley along the corridor. The trolley's contents were concealed under a large white cloth. It was only later that he remembered the man. Too late.

Stig Palme drove his compact car up the steep road alongside the Royal Palace and turned into Stortoret, the main square where an ancient stone pump stood protected by stone bollards. A few minutes later he parked the Saab close to the entrance to one of the maze of alleyways in this medieval quarter of Stockholm.

The tiny shop he was visiting was situated half-way along the deserted alley, cobbled underfoot and so narrow he could have easily reached out his arms and touched both sides. He entered without ceremony, noted that the place was empty except for the owner and shut the door. He then turned the card hanging against the glass to indicate Closed.

Outside the shop over the door hung a huge key symbol. And the man who supplied master keys in Stockholm was its owner, Tobias Seiger. The price varied according to the status of the hotel and Seiger's estimate of how much he could screw out of the buyer. In return, complete secrecy was guaranteed. It was this wall of secrecy Stig Palme had to break down.

His mission was not helped by the fact that Seiger knew and disliked Palme. A short, bull-headed man, Seiger had a jeweller's glass in his right eye when Palme entered. Observing Palme's action in closing his shop Seiger carefully removed the jeweller's glass and placed it in an open drawer below Palme's eye level. Palme moved. His left hand whipped over the counter, gripped the pistol Seiger had been feeling for and pocketed it. Seiger found himself staring into the barrel of Palme's own gun.

"I have very little money on the premises," he began.

"We're going to talk, Tobias." The locksmith stood in a permanent stoop, brought on by years of cutting keys. His manner was a mixture of aggressiveness and oily persuasion. He had the morals of a brothel-keeper. "The Grand Hotel…"

"Did you say the Grand?"

The shop was cluttered with cupboards and there was dust and grime everywhere, including a film of dirt on the outside windows so it was very dark. Even so Palme's sharp eyes caught the brief flicker of expression which vanished off Seiger's slack-lipped face almost before it appeared. Alarm. Terror? This was going to be more difficult than he had anticipated.

To overcome Seiger's fear he was going to have to produce an atmosphere of hideous terror to prise open the oily bastard's mouth. Palme pressed the muzzle of his gun into Seiger's left ear.

"I can make you a key — the master key," Seiger babbled.

"Don't get naughty with me, Tobias. You know exactly what I'm after — I saw it in your eyes. The identity of the person who has recently asked you to do just that supply him with a master key for the Grand Hotel."