The man who had spoken the words and then paused was in his mid-fifties, a man of medium height and rounded stomach whose hair and eyebrows were grey and bushy. His pink complexion and his chubby cheeks, with the brilliant sparkle in his very blue eyes, suggested the keen walker or cyclist. Amiability radiated from him. This was Superintendent Bodel Marker, Chief of Intelligence and the man responsible for some of the Copenhagen police force's greatest coups.
His guests, Beaurain and Kellerman, who had been introduced as Toxbel', were seated in comfortable chairs, smoking excellent cigars and drinking delicious coffee. Kellerman was forcing himself not to stare at the knife which still occupied the central position on Marker's desk, an object to which no-one had so far made any reference. The door to the outer office was closed and only the three men occupied the room.
'One of the largest consignments of heroin ever moved in this part of the world,' Marker continued in his excellent English. 'It is on the move now at this very moment following the same route as always, I am informed.'
'Would forty million Swedish kronors' worth of heroin fit inside a suitcase measuring roughly something like this?' Kellerman's nimble hands described in air roughly the dimensions of the case Louise had described the man who had travelled by van from Nyhavn to Elsinore as carrying. Marker looked at Beaurain before replying.
'He is my close associate and friend and I would trust him with my life, Bodel,' Beaurain replied quietly.
'Just as you did this morning!'
'Bodel?' Beaurain managed to inject just the right note of enquiry into his voice.
'Yours, I believe, Mr. Foxbel.'
Marker lifted the knife, threw it across the desk so it fell over the edge and Kellerman was compelled to pick it up. He looked at the knife with a blank expression, gazed at the Dane, and then at Beaurain. Marker's amiability disappeared and his voice was thunderous.
'Less than one hour ago! Before you two arrive we enjoy peace and quiet and…' he paused, his fist crashed on his desk. '… I hear that within less than twenty-four hours of your landing we have a murder at Kastrup Airport!'
'Who was killed, Bodel?' asked Beaurain, quite unperturbed.
'George Land. Professional assassin according to Interpol. A big man. Carrying a British passport. He was found lying half-inside a telephone booth killed by his own favourite weapon an umbrella with a built-in trigger mechanism which operated a knife.' Marker leaned forward over his desk and stared hard at each of his visitors in turn, 'Mr. Foxbel… that's right, isn't it? Did you see anything odd when you flew in?'
'No,' Kellerman replied shortly.
'It's upset you happening on your own doorstep,' Beaurain said to the Dane sympathetically.
'There's more,' Marker told him grimly. 'Less than one hour ago while you were on your way here from the Royal Hotel two men were almost killed by a couple of professional assassins in the very centre of our beautiful Copenhagen, by God! How did the intended victims save themselves? One of them hurls this knife with great accuracy and destroys the gunman's aim.'
'And the descriptions of the two potential victims fit us with remarkable closeness?' Beaurain suggested.
'We have your descriptions,' Marker admitted. 'And so far no-one can give us a clear description of the would-be murderers.' He smiled broadly. 'I'm glad you survived the attack.' He picked up the knife Kellerman had put back on the desk and held it out. 'This, I believe, is your property, Mr. Foxbel.'
Take it,' Beaurain said quickly. 'I came here to ask what you know about a certain Dr. Benny Horn who has a house on Nyhavn.'
'Highly respected dealer in rare books,' Marker said promptly. 'The house on Nyhavn is both his shop and his home. He travels the world searching out rare volumes, so we are told. I think, Jules, you should be careful if you are investigating the Stockholm Syndicate.'
Chapter Eleven
The conversation which followed was so horrifying that Beaurain could in later years repeat it word for word from memory.
'Why bring up the Stockholm Syndicate?' Beaurain asked.
'Because you mentioned Dr. Benny Horn. Nothing can be proved, but I am convinced he is a member of the directorate which controls this evil organisation. So far they have tried to kill me twice,' he added casually.
'What about your family?' Beaurain asked slowly, watching Marker for any flicker of expression.
'They threatened to gouge out the eyes of my wife and cut off the legs of my ten-year-old boy below the knees. I have sent them both out of the country to a destination I will not reveal even to you.'
Beaurain was shaken. He had known Marker since he had become a superintendent and he knew the man had courage, but this was appalling. He stood up, lit a cigarette and fetched himself an ash-tray to give himself time to think.
'Who are 'they'?' he asked eventually.
'Voices on the phone often a girl, for Christ's sake. She was the one who spelt out the details of what would happen to my family.'
Beaurain looked towards the closed inter-communicating door. 'It is safe to speak, I assume?'
'There has been an armed guard on the far side of that door ever since you both entered this room. At this moment I am wearing a bullet-proof vest which I put on before I leave my flat every morning. The new system employed by the Syndicate relies on secret intimidation of the most ferocious kind — take my own example.'
'The threat must have been combined with some request?'
'Of course!' Marker looked savage. 'Give me one of your cigarettes, for God's sake. Thank you.' He paused a moment, studying the Belgian as though taking a major decision. Then he spoke with great vehemence. 'I do not expect you to comment on my statement but it is vital that Telescope smashes the Syndicate. No government agency I know of can or will — they are like tethered goats waiting for the tiger to strike.'
Beaurain looked bemused. Marker sat on the edge of his desk close to the two men as though he needed the reassurance of their proximity. 'No government agency at all?' Beaurain asked.
'This man fell ten storeys from a balcony one night.' Marker took a small notebook from his pocket, scribbled a name on it, tore the sheet from the pad and gave it to Beaurain, concealing it from Kellerman. 'For your eyes only,' he said with a mirthless smile, 'as the best spies are supposed to say. But this is for real, my friend.'
Beaurain glanced at the name, refolded the piece of paper and handed it to Marker who thrust it inside his pocket. It was the name of one of the most well-known political leaders in Europe, who had do minated the Common Market before his 'accident'.
'How do you know that was the Syndicate?'
'Because when they threatened me they said he was going to die within seven days. Most people would have laughed, found it ludicrous. I took them seriously. I phoned my opposite number in the capital concerned. He thought I was mad. At least that's what he said.'
'What does that mean?' Beaurain put in.
'I'll tell you in a minute.' Marker continued vehemently: 'I forced my way through on the phone to the man himself. I warned him to seek immediate protection. He thought I was mad. Forty-eight hours later they pushed him off the balcony and sent him ten storeys down to smash to a pulp on the concrete below. The bastards!' Marker's face was flushed and Beaurain had never known him display such emotion.
'The man he is referring to left behind a wife and several children,' Beaurain informed Kellerman.
'Only an invisible organisation like Telescope can smash the Stockholm Syndicate,' Marker said. It was the second time he had openly referred to Telescope.
'They rely on the threat alone?' Beaurain asked.
'The swine offered me a bloody fortune in cash if I co-operated. All the big drug runs from the Far East for Stockholm come through here. I would turn my back on that — just for one example.
