'I'll drop you off here, Louise,' Stig Palme said. 'God we got lucky at Bromma.'
Louise Hamilton was most uncomfortably doubled up on the back seat and out of sight of anyone studying the passing car from the street. She sat up and eased the ache out of her legs as Palme pulled in at the kerb.
'Not lucky, Stig,' she remarked, checking her hair quickly in a hand mirror. 'Jules is just a superb organiser. And I can recognise Black Helmet I should be able to spot the bitch by now.'
Take care,' Palme warned.
Then she was gone, walking back down Radmansgatan carrying a shopping-bag with NK, the name of a leading Stockholm department store, printed on the side. She also carried, looped over her shoulder, the bag which contained the automatic supplied to her after her arrival by air at Arlanda. God, what a rush to reach Bromma! She turned a corner which hid the rest of the street and the blond man with gold-rimmed spectacles who had left the Volvo was facing her.
This was the risk they had foreseen — that she would come face-to-face with him. Which was why Louise had done her best to change her appearance. She had discarded her trousers and windcheater and was wearing a bright yellow summer dress. Her hair was concealed under a silk scarf. Half her face was masked with enormous goggle-like sunglasses. Norling was only feet away from her, standing in front of the entrance to an apartment building. In his free hand he held a bunch of keys, one of them ready to insert into the lock. From behind gold- rimmed glasses distant eyes stared straight at her.
On her side of the apartment entrance there was a shop door. Praying it was open for business, she grasped the handle, turned it and walked inside, closing the door without a glance back.
Norling opened the front door leading into the apartment block and then glanced swiftly into the shop. The girl with the absurdly huge glasses was standing with her back to him ordering something from the woman behind the counter. He frowned, moved out of sight quickly, went into the apartment block and closed the front door. Inside, a flight of stone steps led upwards. It was very quiet and apparently deserted. Norling paused, one foot on the lowest step, his blond head cocked to one side. He was listening for the slightest sound.
Satisfied, he ran lightly up the steps, making scarcely a sound. Arriving on the silent first floor he paused again, this time to look out through a pair of double windows giving onto a curious enclosed roof-like area. There existed, he knew, access to that roof from another staircase.
Again satisfied, he unlocked the door, which involved two separate keys for two separate locks. Norling walked into a pleasant, roomy apartment and closed the door behind him.
The living-room — which overlooked Radmansgatan — had a polished wood-block floor covered with colourful rugs. A curious Oriental lantern hung from the ceiling for night-time illumination. Norling sat in a chair, picked up the phone and dialled a Stockholm number.
He had just replaced the receiver when Sonia Karnell's keys rattled in the locks. Norling made no assumptions: when she pushed the door open he was facing her directly, both hands raised and clasping the Luger pistol.
'What's wrong?' she asked.
'Arlanda has reported the arrival of Jules Beaurain and his mistress in Stockholm.'
In the patisserie Louise Hamilton had slipped inside to avoid recognition by the blond man, she was now ordering slowly a range of cakes and pastries. It was a quality shop and the woman behind the counter clearly expected her customers to choose carefully. Louise wanted to give the blond man plenty of time to get off the street before she emerged.
Then it happened. Sonia Karnell appeared on the pavement outside the window and stopped to search in her handbag for her door keys. As she had seen the blond man peer in earlier, Louise now had an excellent view of the dark-haired girl — in the mirror lining the wall behind the counter.
But the girl outside had only to glance into the shop and she might recognise the single shopper: Louise instinctively knew she would be recognised. She stopped herself moving in time. The slightest movement would be caught out of the corner of the dark-haired girl's eye. Was all this frenetic search inside the handbag a cover for the fact that she had already recognised Louise? The English girl became aware that the woman behind the counter was staring at her strangely. She hadn't spoken for half a minute.
'I'll have some of the chocolate gateau, the one with cherries. About a quarter of the cake. — I see it's cut…'
A clear and direct look at the mirror image of Black Helmet would have told Louise exactly what the situation was — and that was the one thing she knew she must not do. Her head was bent over the counter, examining the display while the woman packed what she had ordered into a carrier. Black Helmet disappeared, moved past the window to the apartment block entrance. Louise pretended to have trouble with the currency, to give the girl time to get well inside the building, then left the shop.
Before she left she was careful to pick up the carrier full of the food she had purchased with her left hand. Her right hand hovered over the unbuttoned flap of her shoulder bag over the compartment holding the 9-mm. gun. She stepped into the street.
It was empty. Quite empty.
She hurried to the door to the apartment block. Swiftly she ran her eye down the small metal plates with the occupants' names. Only one woman. Apartment 2. Sonia Karnell. She walked back up the street to where the Saab was parked with Stig Palme behind the wheel.
'Get me back to the Grand Hotel,' she told him as she climbed stiff-legged into the back and slammed the door shut. Stiff-legged with tension, God damn it.
Without being told, Palme chose a different route, one which would not take them past the apartment block so anyone watching from a window overlooking the street would not see the Saab pass the building a second time. In the mirror Louise caught Palme's eyes and the Swede winked. He had detected the tension she was struggling to control. She began speaking to Palme and his companion as though delivering a report.
'If anything happens to me the address is Radmansgatan 490. I'm pretty sure the hideaway is Apartment Two — occupied by a Sonia Karnell. Only woman shown as occupying an apartment. Not conclusive — it could be in a man's name.'
'She parked the Volvo,' Stig pointed out. 'Again, not conclusive, but I think you're right. We're moving in on them.'
'Or they're moving in on us.' Bloody hell, she was still talking through clenched Teeth. That episode in the patisserie had been murder. She went on giving her 'report' for Beaurain in the same clipped tone. 'Male passenger, fair-haired, sideburns, hair thick on neck, wears gold-rimmed spectacles. A little taller than Dr. Benny Horn or Otto Berlin. He could just be Theodor Norling, but I'm guessing. That apartment wants a round-the-clock stake-out.'
While Louise Hamilton and her two companions were following the Volvo from Bromma Airport, Beaurain was still at police headquarters with the Sapo chief, Harry Fondberg. The Belgian had just called London and was talking to Detective Chief Inspector Swift of Special Branch.
Swift had known Beaurain for years and, like many of his international colleagues, still treated the Belgian as though he were in charge of the Brussels anti-terrorist squad. His news was a tonic to Beaurain at whose suggestion Swift had sent a special team to the Woking-Guildford area of Surrey. Their task seemed strange they had travelled backwards and forwards on single-decker buses in the hope of detecting suspicious foreign visitors.
'The score so far, Jules, is fifteen — all with false passports and all carrying concealed weapons. Some very tough characters.'
The trick played on Litov had been two-edged. Primarily planned to lead Beaurain to the Syndicate's base, it had also been hoped it would syphon off to England a number of the Syndicate's top soldiers — who would not be available if and when the main clash took place. Special Branch had scooped the pool.
'It's all the wrong way round!' Fondberg poured more coffee as he shook his head. 'I get this oily bastard of a presidential aide, Joel Cody, on the phone like he's admitting me to some exclusive club. He says Harvey Sholto is on his way to Stockholm when he has already arrived — I told you, my people at Arlanda saw him.'
'What is really worrying you, Harry?'
'Normally we have good relations with the CIA. But Ed Cottel arrives without a word from Washington. I repeat it's the wrong way round. They tell me about Sholto, a very dangerous and suspect character. Why focus attention on Sholto and hide Cottel?'
