Colin Forbes - The Stockholm syndicate

When discussing the horrific vandalisation of Louise's room, both Beaurain and Palme had realised only one explanation was possible. The culprit had obtained a copy of the master key and probably from a nearby source. And, Palme thought to himself, where could be nearer than the establishment of Tobias Seiger in Gamla Stan just across the water from the hotel itself?

"I cannot tell you! It would cost me my life. The people involved are ruthless, totally ruthless."

The terror was in Seiger's eyes, in his tone of voice, in the way he physically cringed away from Palme until the wall prevented him retreating any further. Palme's left hand caught hold of Seiger's necktie and tightened it, his knuckle pressed against the locksmith's Adam's apple.

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 Strangnas… 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 Strangnas 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.