Passenger who landed Arlanda Airport Flight SK407 from Copenhagen as per attached photo identified as Gunther Baum. Originates from East Germany. Poses as business executive but is independent professional assassin charging extortionate fees due to reputation for always completing assignment. Present whereabouts unknown.
Chief Inspector Harry Fondberg of Sapo studied the signal which had just arrived from Interpol. He was fuming about the incident at Stockholm Central — where someone disguised as a police despatch rider had seized the haul of heroin from under his nose and murdered his own accomplice as a bonus. Then the phone rang and he heard Jules Beaurain had arrived.
The Belgian was ushered into his office and shown to a chair. The Swede was studied by Beaurain as they shook hands: no outward sign of nerves here in Stockholm. And his host's appearance was exactly as the Belgian remembered him from their previous meeting.
Thinning hair was brushed over a well-shaped skull. He had the blue eyes of the Scandinavian which, in Fondberg's case, held a hypnotic quality. His nose was strong, his mouth firm and he had a jaw of character. The Chief of Sapo, who worked under a Director solely responsible to the Minister of Justice, showed his guest the signal from Interpol. Attached was a glossy print.
'That's a copy of the picture we radioed to them,' Fondberg explained.
There were several people the photographer had caught in his lens and it was obvious they were completely unaware that their arrival was being recorded. Beaurain passed the photograph back to Fondberg.
'He tried to kill me in Copenhagen — in broad daylight close to the Tivoli Gardens. His accomplice is with him.'
'Accomplice!' Fondberg grabbed the picture off the desk, glaring at it. 'Those damned fools at Interpol never said anything and we radioed the complete picture. It was taken at Arlanda. The accomplice is…?'
'The ordinary-looking man behind Gunther Baum's right shoulder. You can just see he is carrying a brief- case. That is where the gun would normally be he is Baum's gun-carrier and, I suspect, only hands him the weapon at the last moment. Baum is extremely well-organised. When did he come in here?'
'On the first flight this morning from Copenhagen — what we call the businessman's flight. The distance is so short, many spend the day in Stockholm, conclude their business, and are back in Copenhagen for the night.'
'Stockholm has more attractions than that, Harry.'
Fondberg smiled. 'Yes, indeed. But you see, the businessmen's wives also know that. So, if they are not back in their cosy little Danish houses before midnight, chop!'
'How did you happen to take that picture?' Beau-rain indicated the radio-transmitted photo of Baum and his companion.
'As you know, we have men watching Arlanda all the time for known criminals. If the watcher on duty is keen, sometimes he takes a picture of a passenger who strikes him as not quite right. Baum's was taken for that reason, I sent it to Interpol, and you see their reply.'
'You have his address?'
The Swede winced and lit a cigar before replying. 'The shot was random, as I have explained. Since the signal came in I have had people checking at all the hotels, but it is too early for anything yet.'
'You won't get anything anyway. He'll register with false papers wherever he stays. As you know, he is a top professional. So that is the man who has travelled here for the express purpose of killing me — or so you suspect?'
'I don't know,' Fondberg replied blandly. 'There are other potential candidates for the job. This man, for example.'
It was like the old days when they had co-operated together with or without the agreement of their respective superiors. Beaurain stared at the glossy photo pushed across the desk at him. Again taken at an airport, doubtless Arlanda. An excellent print, this one, taken with a first-rate camera operated by a top-class photographer. The man was obviously totally unaware that his arrival had been recorded.
A big man, probably six feet one, broad-shouldered and with a large round head and cold eyes. Like Fondberg, the few streaks of thin hair were carefully brushed over the polished skull but unlike Fondberg he was almost bald. Even caught unawares his demeanour was aggressive; the total lack of feeling in the blank eyes was reflected in the thin-lipped, tight mouth. The way he held himself told Beaurain that this man, in his early fifties, was in the peak of physical condition. He probably played an hour's squash before breakfast every morning and his mood would be mean for the rest of the day if he didn't win.
'Who is the candidate and when did he get in and from where?' Beaurain enquired, his eyes still imprinting the man's features and general stance on his memory.
'American, of course. The dress tells you that. He is known as Harvey Sholto. He got in at Arlanda on the overnight flight from Washington. I was informed by no less a person than Joel Cody of his imminent arrival — person-to-person call. And the bastard tried to trick me.'
'Cody? The President's aide? The man who thinks that finesse is a French pastry? And how did he try to trick you?'
'By officially informing me that Sholto would be coming here within the next few days, when he had already arrived in Stockholm. He didn't allow for the closeness with which we watch all incoming passengers at Arlanda. Sholto's appearance rang a bell in the mind of one of the watchers with a camera so he took his picture. The people who are checking hotel registers for Gunther Baum are also checking for Harvey Sholto, the second killer to arrive just ahead of you.'
Fondberg added the final remark casually and puffed at his cigar while he gazed at the ceiling. It was the same game they had so often played in the past and was one of the many reasons Jules Beaurain liked Fondberg as much as any of the host of international colleagues he had come to know over the years.
'You're sure this is Harvey Sholto?' Beaurain queried, tapping the glossy print. 'So he's a killer too.'
'One of the deadliest. Our agent in Bangkok could have vouched for that. Except that he's dead now. He was very experienced and very good.' Some of the toughness briefly evaporated from Fondberg's exterior. 'He left a nice Swedish wife and three children. They found him floating in one of the klongs — canals. His throat had been cut from ear to ear. The Stockholm Syndicate never does a second-rate job, my friend.'
It was the first time Harry Fondberg had linked the Syndicate with the Swedish capital. Smoking his cigar, Teeth clenched, he stared hard at his visitor. 'Are you going to do something about it?' he asked softly.
'Yes. Kill it.'
'You haven't the knowledge, resources or power. Above all you haven't the knowledge. How do they run their communications system? Tell me that. An organisation which has wrapped up a good part of Scandinavia and the Low Countries and is now rapidly penetrating Germany has to have a first-rate communications system.'
'Water.'
'I beg your pardon.'
'Water,' Beaurain repeated. 'It came to me finally when I was on the terrace of the Grand Hotel looking out over the Strommen. Harry, has there been an increase in illegal radio activity in recent months?'
'Here in Stockholm? Yes.' Fondberg's eyes were watchful. 'I also know we have been unable to track down a single one of the transmitters which we suspect are very highpowered.'
'Over how long a period?'
'I'm told it started about two years ago.'
'Foundation date of the setting up of the Stockholm Syndicate,' Beaurain said grimly. 'Has anyone kept a record of the general areas of these illegal transmissions?'
'Yes, although I don't see how that will help.' Fondberg broke off to speak in Swedish into his intercom, then switched off. 'Our radio-detector vans have never been able to get a fix on a transmission. We think whoever is sending the signals uses a van and keeps on the move during the period of transmission.'
The Swede stopped speaking as a girl came into the room with a rolled sheet, placed it on the Sapo chief's desk, and left them. Beaurain got up and stood behind Fondberg as the latter unrolled a large-scale map of Stockholm inscribed with red circles. He snorted his disgust.
'Doesn't tell you a bloody thing!'
'Doesn't tell you a bloody thing,' Beaurain corrected him. 'But for me it's the final confirmation that I'm right. Look at all the circles.'
