Colin Forbes - The Stockholm syndicate

A modern complex of buildings painted in yellow and ochre, the Russian Embassy in Stockholm is cut off from all contact with the outside world by walls and wire fences which are patrolled round the clock by guards supplied, curiously enough, by A.B.A.B." one of the two leading security services in Stockholm. On the inside it is different. All entrances are controlled by the KGB. The walls of the complex are festooned with the lenses of TV cameras which watch all who approach, lenses which project towards the outside world like hostile guns.

Only a privileged elite are allowed ever to leave the confines of the embassy. From outside you may see a Russian woman with her hair in a bun walking behind the wire one of the wives of the personnel staffing the embassy. She will serve her term there and return to Russia without ever having seen anything of the beautiful Swedish capital. None of these restrictions, of course, applied to Viktor Rashkin.

"Welcome back, Comrade Secretary," greeted his assistant, Gregori Semeonov, as his chief entered his office.

"Anything to report?" Rashkin asked curtly as he sat down in his large leather-backed swivel chair behind his outsize desk. He had not given even a glance to the stunning view through the bullet-proof picture windows behind him. Heavy net curtains masked them, making it impossible for anyone in a block of nearby flats to see into the room. The view looked out across a trim area of well-kept lawn and beyond, the waters of the Riddarfjarden glittered in the noon-day sun. Rashkin was tense. Semeonov sensed it.

"There is a signal requesting your urgent presence in Leningrad. You have arrived back in Stockholm just in time the First Secretary is visiting the city tomorrow and wishes to confer with you while he is there."

Semeonov handed his chief the decoded signal. He watched while the Russian studied it with half-closed eyes.

Only forty years old, Rashkin was of medium height, average in build and his dark hair was cut very short. Clean-shaven, his eyes were penetrating and had an almost hypnotic quality. As a young man he had spent two years training to be an actor before a senior KGB talent-spotter observed his intensely analytical mind. He was recruited immediately into the elite section of the KGB where he quickly learned the wisdom of suppressing his gift for mimicry.

Despite the fact that his first-class mind swiftly assimilated the flood of information and training directed at him, Viktor Rashkin was not at home inside the KGB. But he had also become fluent in six languages by the time he met Leonid Brezhnev at a Kremlin party. The meeting of the two men was a decisive moment for Viktor Rashkin, a moment which, if mishandled, would never occur again.

Most men would have played it safe, striving to impress the master of Soviet Russia, and being careful to agree with everything he said. Rashkin gambled all on one throw of the dice. He released himself from the mental straitjacket imposed on him by the KGB and for the first time in three years became his natural self. Those nearby who witnessed his conduct were appalled.

Rashkin let his natural gift for mimicry re-assert itself, imitating members of the Politburo who were actually present in the room under the glittering chandeliers. Gradually a hush fell over the great hall in the Kremlin where the party was being held. Only two sounds could be heard — the sound of Rashkin brilliantly imitating world-famous figures on both sides of the Iron Curtain, and the roar of Leonid Brezhnev's laughter as he shook with amusement at such a wonderful contrast to the sombre expressions of the Politburo members.

From that night Viktor Rashkin's future was assured — from being an obscure but promising recruit of the KGB, he became Brezhnev's trusted and secret trouble-shooter. The fact that he was a natural linguist — and that his flair for acting made him a brilliant diplomat — helped to rocket him to the dizzy heights.

The Washington dossier on Viktor Rashkin grew thicker and thicker, but the few privileged to read it complained that despite the quantity of the data, the quality left a great deal to be desired. "It's so damn vague," the US President grumbled. "Now you see him, now you don't."

April… Believed to have spent three days in Addis Ababa. Purpose of visit: presumed discusssion of further military aid to present Ethiopian regime.

May… Reported to have made lightning visit to Angola. Dates of visit uncertain. Rumoured agreement concluded with Angolan regime.

July… Presence reported in Havana. No positive confirmation of visit. Previously reliable Cuban woman agent code-named Dora signalled arrival of important personality in Cuban capital. Strong suspicion visitor to Castro was Viktor Rashkin.

December… Presence of Viktor Rashkin positively confirmed in Stockholm where he holds position First Secretary at Soviet Embassy. This official position believed to mask his real activities. Was observed attending royal reception at Palace in Stockholm. Next day believed he left Sweden for unknown destination.

For the CIA and National Security Agency analysts it was infuriating. As one of them had expressed it after reading the above extracts from agents' reports and a host of other material, "I'm not even sure Viktor Rashkin exists. Believed to… presumed… Reported to have… Rumoured agreement… No positive confirmation of visit… Strong suspicion… What kind of dossier is this?"

The man was a will o' the wisp, a shadow flitting in the night. To his assistant, Gregori Semeonov, a senior officer of the KGB, his chief existed but he was almost as elusive as the Washington analyst had suggested. As they conferred in Rashkin's office at the Soviet Embassy in Stockholm the short, burly Ukrainian had no idea where his chief had arrived from.

"I have made your reservation on Flight SK 732 departing from Arlanda for Leningrad at 13.30 tomorrow. Normally this flight is from Gate Six," Semeonov continued pedantically. "The ticket is in your right-hand top drawer."

"A return ticket, I hope?"

Rashkin was studying the contents of a folder from another drawer to which he alone held the keys. As he expected, the stupid, peasant-like Semeonov completely missed the irony of his question.

"What is the exact location of the hydrofoil, Kometa?"

"Captain Livanov is waiting at Sassnitz until you give the order for him to proceed to the agreed position off the Swedish port of Trelleborg. I gather he has again complained that we are risking his vessel in asking him to cross the Baltic."

"I have ordered him — not asked him — to proceed to Trelleborg when I give the signal. We must remember to tell him to keep his hull below the horizon so he cannot be seen from the shore. And the Swedish liner, Silvia, is in position?"

"Yes, Comrade Secretary." Semeonov paused and Rashkin waited for the next piece of bureaucratic idiocy. He was not disappointed. "I cannot understand why we have hired the Silvia and put aboard only a skeleton crew. She is in no position to make a long voyage."

"Just so long as you have carried out my instructions. You may go now."

Rashkin had no intention of revealing his strategy to this man who was, after all, only the creature of Yuri Andropov, head of the KGB and a powerful member of the Soviet Politburo. And he was perfectly aware that it was Semeonov's chief task to report back to Andropov all Viktor Rashkin's activities, a task Rashkin was at great pains to frustrate by never revealing to the Ukrainian anything of the least importance.

Semeonov, his hair cut so short that Rashkin secretly termed him "Bristle-Brush', was not able even to leave the room without further comment. At the door he turned and spoke in his measured, deliberate manner.