'In so many different districts? No pattern.'
'You're losing your grip. The pattern is screaming at you. All the roads and districts circled include waterways.' Beaurain's tone became emphatic. 'Willy Flamen in Brussels showed me a similar record of heavy illegal radio traffic and he couldn't see a pattern. Neither could I at the time but all his marked districts throughout Belgium were close to canals. Same thing in Copenhagen when Marker of Intelligence showed me his records. The activity is always close to the Oresund.'
'You mean…'
'The bastards have their transmitters afloat. Aboard barges in Belgium which will move down the canal while they transmit. This is why they've never been caught. In Denmark they're on board fishing vessels or power-cruisers, again on the move just offshore while sending a signal. Here they're on the Strommen, on the…' Beaurain's hand hammered the city map as Fondberg studied it afresh.
'I believe you could be right,' Fondberg said slowly. 'If we can crack their communications system we sever the jugular of the Syndicate.'
'Let's get the timing right,' Beaurain suggested. 'I want one smashing Europe-wide hammer blow delivered at the same hour when the transmissions are going full-blast. Everywhere taken out at once including the barges in Belgium, where, incidentally, two Syndicate operators, a man and his wife, were recently executed. Each took a bullet in the back of the neck.'
'What?' Fondberg sat very upright and his intelligent eyes gleamed. 'That's an old Nazi technique. It raises a hideous new possibility that the men behind this foul organisation are the Neo-Nazis! God, have we been blind!'
Harry Norsten sat behind the controls of his Cessna, ready to land in the centre of Stockholm. He had just received clearance and in the two passenger seats the man and the girl stirred as travellers do when approaching their destination. Norsten was not coming in at Arlanda, the great international airport many miles outside the city. The Swedish pilot was dropping his tiny aircraft into Bromma Airport, a short drive from the Grand Hotel.
The male passenger glanced out of the window, hardly interested in the familiar view. Of medium height, his hair blond with side-burns and a thick mane extending down his neck, the passenger wore large horn-rimmed spectacles. Dr. Theodor Norling squeezed the hand of his companion, speaking to her in French. 'You are glad to be back home? You have had a busy time.'
A busy time. The girl whose jet-black hair was cropped close to her skull shuddered at the words. She was recalling what she had read in the morning paper about what was rapidly becoming known across the world as 'The Elsinore Massacre'. Then she was frightened because she realised her shudder had communicated itself to Norling who was still gripping her hand.
The blond head turned slowly. Staring straight ahead at Stockholm coming up to meet them, Sonia Karnell fought to regain her composure. Whatever she did, however she reacted, she must never show alarm, fear or repulsion. He disapproved of such emotions, regarded them as irrelevant in the task they were engaged on.
'Do I wait for you at Bromma or go home?' Norsten asked as he skilfully manipulated the controls for a perfect descent. He also spoke in French. The silent Dr. Theodor Norling had once told him he liked to practise the language.
'You go home and wait for my call. I may need you again at very short notice.'
That was all. A typical Norling command. Clear to the point of abruptness and not a wasted word. Who the hell was he anyway? After acting as his pilot for over a year Norsten knew as little about him as the first day he had been hired except that Norling expected him to be available at all hours for a sudden trip and paid incredibly generous fees for the service — and his silence. The fact was that Dr. Norling scared Norsten ice-cold.
'And one more thing, Mr. Norsten,' the Swede had told him when they first met at Bromma and concluded their arrangement. 'It would be most ill-advised of you to broadcast my activities or even to mention my existence as a client of yours.'
He had paused, his blond head motionless, the eyes behind the tinted glasses equally motionless as they gazed with concentrated intent at the pilot.
'You must realise that success in my business, Mr. Norsten, often depends on my competitors being unaware of my movements unaware even of when I am present in Stockholm. Indeed, it is a cut-throat trade I ply.'
Cut-throat… Norling had been staring at the pilot's throat when he used the phrase and Norsten was aware of an unpleasant prickling sensation in that region. Ridiculous! But that had been his reaction when he first agreed to do business with the book dealer. Fear.
They were a couple of bloody commuters, he reflected as he continued his descent — the sun glittering on the maze of waterways. Commuters between Stockholm and Copenhagen! And often at odd hours — flying through the night and landing before dawn.
He was pretty confident that at times they flew from Copenhagen to the United States. Once Norling had dropped an airline folder on the floor of the Cessna as they were descending to Kastrup. Norsten had caught a glimpse of the tickets which fell out before the girl grabbed for them. Destination: New York. So why not fly direct from Stockholm by ordinary scheduled flight instead of using the Cessna to cover the first lap to Copenhagen?
It didn't make sense. But Norsten, a prudent man, had long since decided not to question any of the book dealer's actions, or to probe into his background in any way.
As he landed he saw the beige-coloured estate car was waiting for them, empty. As usual. A most methodical man, Dr. Theodor Norling. Who brought the Volvo to the airfield Norsten had no idea, but whoever it was always took good care to be well away from the scene before he landed his passengers. It was almost as though no-one was permitted to see what Dr. Theodor Norling looked like unless it was essential. The fact that he possessed that knowledge sometimes woke up Norsten during the night in a cold sweat.
'The pilot, Harry Norsten, is developing a dangerous sense of curiosity about my identity and my life- style.'
Dr. Theodor Norling made the remark to Sonia Karnell as she drove away from Bromma Airport behind the wheel of the Volvo and headed into the city. Removing his tinted glasses, he replaced them with a pair of gold- rimmed spectacles. From his suitcase he extracted a dark trilby hat and settled it on his head despite the blazing sun which was causing Karnell to drive with narrowed eyes. It gave him a professional air, this slight change in his appearance. Taking a pipe from his pocket he gripped it between his Teeth, completing the transformation.
'Do we have to take any action?' Karnell asked.
'I have already made all the necessary arrangements to take him out at the appropriate time.'
The watchers stationed at Bromma Airport followed the Volvo with great skill, employing the leapfrog technique. Nor ling, an expert in surveillance, constantly checked in his wing mirror but was unable to detect any signs that they were being followed.
Ironically enough, it was Harry Norsten the Swede was checking for. Although well aware of the leapfrog technique, Norling noticed nothing. It was, in fact, ideal for the watchers in their vehicles in heavy city traffic it was most unlikely they could ever be spotted since they were using as many as three cars and one delivery van.
There was a second factor which made it impossible for the ever-suspicious Norling to detect what was happening — the distance involved from Bromma to their destination was comparatively short. Even in heavy traffic, over a greater run Norling might well have eventually spotted what was happening as the four shadow vehicles continued their 'musical chairs' act.
'I drop you this side of the apartment?' Karnell queried.
'Of course. The usual precaution.'
They had entered Radmansgatan, a good-class residential street consisting of old four- or five-storey buildings, all of which had been converted into flats. The street was also quiet and deserted as Sonia Karnell pulled in at the kerb, a good two minutes' walking distance to her apartment at Radmansgatan 490. Norling slipped out of the car holding his case and within seconds she was driving away to park it. A Saab drove sedately by.
Without moving his head Norling registered every detail. Registration number; the two men sitting in the front, one of whom was yawning while the other stared straight ahead, concentrating on his driving. Both were dressed in casual Swedish clothes and Norling could see nothing odd about the car which vanished round a corner.
'Sonia will be able to confirm whether they followed her to the garage,' he murmured to himself, then crossed the street and walked at strolling pace towards the entrance.
