Colin Forbes - The Stockholm syndicate

A shrewd point. But oh God, we have gone all through this before! Rashkin smiled to relax himself. "They already believe that much of the Syndicate's profits will come from, surreptitious dealings in the proceeds from crime inside the Soviet Union, that there are Soviet members of the Syndicate!"

"Good, good, Comrade!" Brezhnev smiled slyly, leaned forward and squeezed Rashkin's shoulder. The younger man guessed what was coming next and was not disappointed. "Now, what about a few of your impersonations to cheer up an old Bolshevik who has to sit all day long staring at sour faces For a start, why not our esteemed Minister of Defence, Dimitri Ustinov?"

A moment later he began to laugh out loud: in that short space of time Rashkin's acting genius had transformed him into a different human being. He had become Marshal Dimitri Ustinov.

Attempt on Life of Security Chief Fails.

"God damn it, what crazy maniac acted without my orders and committed this supreme idiocy? And if ever there was a time we do not want anything like this it is now! Now! Now! Now! Do you hear me? Well, why don't you say something instead of standing there like a whore on a street corner?" Rashkin demanded. Karnell grabbed a decorative plate from the wall and hurled it at him. It shattered on the side of his head — and when he put his hand up it came away streaked with blood.

Rashkin looked at Sonia Karnell and took a handkerchief from his pocket with the other hand. He wiped the blood from his fingers, his manner suddenly frigidly calm. While talking he had been raving like a madman, shouting at the Swedish girl as though it were all her fault.

"It was a bumpy ride back from Leningrad," he told her. "The turbulence was most unusual."

"The turbulence since you arrived has not only been unusual," she said viciously. " It has been unbearable. Do you hear me, Viktor Rashkin? " she suddenly screamed at the top of her voice. "And the plate I broke over your stupid head was your present to me,"

"I know."

"I just wanted to make sure you know because I'm glad. Do you hear me, you pimp? I'm glad."

Her well-defined bosom was heaving with passion and her white face was a mask of rage. His reaction, as always, was unexpected and disarming. He sat down on a sofa, lit two cigarettes and offered her one.

"The newspaper story disturbed me," he remarked mildly. "Coming on the eve of the conference when we want everything peaceful with nothing to disturb our influential guests. Such men and women like to live without any publicity. There is only one solution, Sonia."

Karnell played with the large diamond ring he had given her and waited for his next pronouncement. She had asserted her independence; Viktor despised and mistrusted all those who played up to him. She had by now learned how to handle this brilliant and strange man.

"We quietly wipe out Beaurain's organisation, starting at once," he decided. "We now have plenty of troops in Stockholm, including Gunther Baum."

"But how are you going to find them? We know Beaurain and his tart are at the Grand but the rest?"

"Our people will call discreetly at all major hotels in the city. They will check on any new arrivals during the past week. They should not be difficult to identify we are

looking for Commando-style men, a number of whom we suspect previously belonged to the British terrorist SAS."

"Who, of course," she interjected sarcastically, 'are far worse than the KGB execution squads."

"I must leave now. You can alert our people and get the search under way at once. Gunther Baum is to be put in charge of both search and subsequent liquidations as many of them as possible to look like accidents. I am going to the house to collect all the folders before the conference commences aboard Kometa."

One of those old-fashioned houses… Gables and bulging windows like they used to build… must be at least fifty years old…

Stig Palme recalled the description the murdered locksmith had given him of the house in the country where he had seen Dr. Theodor Norling.

"At least I assume it was Norling," Palme continued while Beaurain, Harry Fondberg and Louise Hamilton listened to him as they sat eating lunch in the Opera House restaurant. It was a convenient meeting-place because it was close to the Grand Hotel and was quiet. No-one occupied a table anywhere near them.

"It's all right, Stig," Beaurain assured the Swede, "I'm damned sure it was Norling. He was personally attending to organising another of the Syndicate's "demonstrations". Don't forget poor Erika was supposed to have committed suicide but other members of the Syndicate would have known better. Now, Harry, this raid on the house in the country, which Stig can locate for us. Can it be soon? And a combined operation between my people and Sapo. Unofficially, of course?"

"It can be today!" Fondberg announced and took a deep puff on his cigar to show his satisfaction at the prospect of action.

Six cars were moving along the E3 highway beyond the outskirts of Stockholm and out in open country. Palme had been chosen to lead the assault convoy because he was Swedish, and because he knew the location of the house which the dead locksmith, Tobias Seiger, had described. In the second vehicle Jules Beaurain sat behind the wheel of his Mercedes which Albert had driven to Stockholm.

"You really think this house could be the HQ of the Stockholm Syndicate?" Louise asked as she peered eagerly out of the window.

"I'm guessing — but it would fit the basic requirements of a headquarters from Stig's own recollection of the place. Hugo won't want anywhere in Stockholm. It's OK for Theodor Norling to have his apartment in Gamla Stan I think Norling just meets people there, just like Otto Berlin meets people in Bruges."

"In mobility they find safety?"

Beaurain paused. "Something like that. But an old house right out in the country, well back off the road so it attracts no attention, and yet close to a highway which gives swift access to Stockholm. As I said, I'm gambling, but it fits the basic requirements."

"Some gamble!"

Louise twisted in her seat and looked back down the curving highway through the rear window. She could see at least two of the four cars following them and inside each car Henderson had installed a team of four men accustomed to working together as a group. And — the thought occurred to her — had Harry Fondberg known the arms concealed aboard these vehicles he would have had a fit. Sergeant Jock Henderson, riding in the third car, was organised for a small war. And he was in radio contact with all the other vehicles, using a pre-arranged code which would have meant nothing to any outside listeners.

"Of course it could all be for nothing," Louise remarked. "And where is Harry Fondberg? Incidentally, I presume you know there's a traffic helicopter flying along the highway?"

"I had noticed the chopper," Beaurain informed her solemnly. "I happen to know Harry Fondberg is aboard it. And, as you so cheerfully predict, it could all be for nothing."

*

The Cessna was waiting for Viktor Rashkin — he could see it in the distance! Throwing his peaked cap onto the rear seat, he grabbed the pilot's helmet by his side and confidently climbed out of the car, locked it in the parking zone and strode across the airfield.

In the control tower a man picked up a pair of field glasses, focused them on the figure striding towards the Cessna with a springy step and asked to be excused. Instead of heading towards the lavatories he stepped inside the nearest payphone and dialled Ed Cottel's number. In his room at the Grand the American answered with his room number.

"Westerberg here," his caller identified himself. "Ozark is just leaving. Official destination Kjula, as usual."

"Understood," Cottel replied laconically. "Goodbye. And let's hope we win a bundle."