trade. It's some kind of cover?'
'They can travel about officially purchasing some rare volume for a valued customer. Rare books! They are cold-blooded killers.'
Goldschmidt spoke with abnormal vehemence. 'Trust no-one, Jules. There is treachery everywhere. Unless the Stockholm Syndicate is destroyed quickly it will have the whole western world in its grip.'
'Surely that's rather an overstatement,' Louise suggested gently.
'You think so?' The rare coin dealer gazed hard at the English girl. 'It operates like some international protection racket. Clearly you have no idea who they already have.'
'Wher e does the money come from?' asked Beaurain.
'That's the trouble,' Goldschmidt said. 'We know that billions of dollars have been transferred to Europe by certain American multi-nationals to support the Syndicate. In secrecy, of course, but the funds have been so huge they have moved the value of currencies and that you cannot hide. So, again, it seems like the Americans…'
'But you think not?' Beaurain asked. 'Who then?'
'If only I knew which of Berlin, Horn or Norling was the chief executive. The top controller goes under the code-name Hugo. That is a name you whisper. Find Hugo and you have the Syndicate by the throat.'
'Why do you call it the Stockholm Syndicate? Why Stockholm?'
Beaurain had deliberately returned to his old role of Chief Superintendent grilling a suspect, hurling question after question with such speed that the recipient answered without thinking.
'Because that is how it is known. My enquiries have traced funds through many channels and always the end of the line is Stockholm.'
'How do the men who run this Syndicate extract billions of dollars from the States? By the same methods — intimidation?'
'Sometimes — many successful men leave skeletons behind as they climb. There is an American who has built up what he calls 'a blackmail bank'. That could be used by the Syndicate. That, plus the lure of huge, invisible and so non-taxable profits when the money is invested in European crime the drug traffic and so on.'
'Are the Soviets involved?' Beaurain demanded.
'Viktor Rashkin, the protege of Brezhnev, is at the Russian Embassy in Stockholm,' Goldschmidt observed. Unlocking the drawer which contained the envelope of money Beaurain had handed him, the dealer handed it back. 'Keep this. Use the funds for your investigation. As you know, my dear Jules, I am a supplier of information. May I just for once enter the prediction business?'
'Go ahead.' Beaurain pocketed the envelope. 'And thank you.'
'I have heard there is to be a meeting of all key members and 'shareholders' in the Stockholm Syndicate within the next two weeks. The Americans are flying to Europe — the conference will take place somewhere in Scandinavia. I predict that within the next fourteen days there will be a frightful collision between Telescope and the Stockholm Syndicate. Only one organisation will survive.'
At that moment the grenade came through the window and landed on Goldschmidt's desk.
Beaurain reacted with great speed. If he lobbed it back into the street he might cause hideous casualties to passers-by. His hand grasped the obscene object, he rushed to the door, hauled it open and hurled the grenade as far as he could down the narrow hallway. Slamming the heavy door shut he waited for the explosion.
'Superb reflexes, my friend as always,' Gold-schmidt commented drily. The emergency had drained the tension out of his system.
'I think it's a dud.'
Beaurain was looking at the second-hand of his watch. He waited a little longer. Louise, white-faced but controlled, nodded towards the window.
'Just before it happened I heard a car start up and approach. There was a Volkswagen parked further up the road when we arrived. It had one man behind the wheel.'
'I noticed it. I'm going to check.'
'Be careful.'
Beaurain returned tossing the grenade in the air like a tennis ball. 'It's a fake,' he assured them. 'No primer.
Who wants to scare the living daylights out of Dr. Goldschmidt? There's a note on this spill of paper. It says, 'Get out of Belgium by nightfall.'
'Undoubtedly a message from Dr. Otto Berlin. He objects to my compiling a dossier on his activities.'
'That address,' Beaurain said quickly. 'In Hoogste van Brugge. I think we'll go there immediately. What does Berlin look like?'
Goldschmidt was unlocking a drawer in his desk. 'My photographer who took these pictures — I was going to get them when the grenade interrupted us — says Berlin is about five feet ten tall, very fat, hair black and greasy, with a moustache curling down the sides of his mouth. Walks with a waddle like a duck. Short-sighted — wears horn-rimmed pebble glasses, sounds repulsive.'
'That's a very precise description.'
'Sounds most conspicuous for someone who wants to avoid the limelight,' added Louise.
'Here are the photos — you can keep them. They're very good, considering they were taken under poor conditions. Berlin has a girl assistant. Very distinctive hair-style as you'll see — very dark, cut close to the head like a helmet.'
Beaurain and Louise looked quickly at the prints but neither of them said anything. Berlin's assistant was the girl whose taxi they had taken. Beaurain shoved the prints in his pocket with the envelope containing the Deutschmarks.
'Thank you, Henri. You have been more helpful than you may ever realise. From now on, be very careful.'
At the far side of the T'Zand Square they entered the Zuidzandstraat, a narrow street which was almost deserted. 'Prepare for trouble,' Beaurain said as they arrived at the entrance to the gloomy Hoogste van Brugge. It was empty, little more than a cobbled alley hemmed in between two walls of old terrace houses. Beaurain paused, checking house numbers on both sides of the corridor of stone. At the far end was parked a Volkswagen taking up most of the width of the alley.
'I reckon No. 285 is by that car,' Beaurain said.
'Which could be the car from which the dummy grenade came?'
'Just might be. Again, be ready for trouble.'
They started walking down the alley side by side, their rubber-soled shoes making no sound on the ancient cobbles. The walls of the lifeless houses s eemed to be closing in on them. Although only a minute's walk from the bustling T'Zand Square they were in a different world.
They were half-way to the Volkswagen when Beau-rain made a swift gesture. He pressed himself in the recess of a doorway on the left and Louise chose a doorway in the right-hand wall. Beaurain's acute hearing had caught the sound of a door being unbolted. They waited.
A man came out of a house on the right-hand side, glanced down the alley, then turned away and hurried to the Volkswagen. A tall, thin man with a springy step, he bore no resemblance to the description of Otto Berlin. They waited until he got inside the car and drove round the corner. Beaurain nodded and they started up the street again.
Another man, carrying a suitcase, emerged from the same house. A fat man with greasy black hair and a moustache whose ends curved down round the corners of his mouth. A man who waddled like a duck. He saw them, stopped, took something from his pocket, made a quick pulling movement and hoisted his right hand like a bowler throwing a cricket ball.
'My God! That's Otto Berlin!' Louise called out.
' Drop flat! '
Louise reacted instantly, sprawling on the cobbles. Beaurain fell on top of her, protecting her body. The missile Berlin had hurled fell on the cobbles about forty feet from where they lay. The silence lasted four seconds. It was followed by an ear-splitting blast as the grenade exploded. Chips of stone flew all over the place. As Beaurain and Louise remained prone the shock wave passed over their heads. Beaurain felt a stone sliver whipping through his hair, but Berlin had miscalculated the distance and dropped the grenade too far away to hurt them. Provided they had luck on their side. They had.
