'You're assuming they know Cottel is here,' Beaurain commented.
'You mean…?'
'I'm not sure what I mean, Harry. Do you have a photo of Sholto? An earlier one from his Far East days I mean.'
Fondberg reached into a drawer, took out a folder and produced two photographs. One of them was the picture of Sholto taken arriving at Arlanda. The big, broad-shouldered man with the large, round, almost bald skull and the cold eyes.
It was the second photo which interested Beaurain, a photo with crinkled edges and creases which showed a man taken against a background of a hut in a jungle. The build was the same, as was the shape of the head, but it was difficult to believe it was the same man. For one thing he had a thatch of thick hair and a moustache.
'How long ago was this taken and who took it, Harry?'
Two years ago. A clandestine shot taken by our man in Bangkok. He could have been one of the top European contact men in the drug-smuggling circuit originating in the Golden Triangle. Drugs which eventually end up on the streets of Stockholm, Malmo, Gothenburg and so on.'
'This Far Eastern shot is definitely Sholto?'
'That's the name our man in Bangkok attached to it. And there's something else which makes me worry about having Harvey Sholto free on the streets. I told you that our man in Bangkok was found floating in one of the klongs?'
'Well, I phoned someone else in Bangkok who hears all the rumours. Remember,' Fondberg warned, 'I used the word rumours. The word out there is that the man who killed our agent flew in from Manila. He used to be one of Harvey Sholto's contacts when he was out there.'
'You're not suggesting the Americans 'I'm not sure. But the one who is blanketing this city with eyes is Ed Cottel.'
'May I take these photos of Sholto? You have copies? Good.' Beaurain took the envelope the Swede had slipped the prints inside and pocketed it before Fond-berg could have second thoughts. Only now did he raise the subject which he knew would embarrass the Sapo chief enormously. 'Thank you for releasing my man so quickly at Stockholm Central. The drug consignment from Elsinore was…'
'Boy, did we balls that one up!' Fondberg slapped the top of his desk to emphasize his chagrin. 'I surround the whole area with police. I play it clever and tell them to keep well back from the wagon containing the drug haul. The Syndicate sends in two men wearing Swedish police uniforms. Jules, I let it slip through my fingers — forty million kroner. And what is there to show for it?'
'A great deal, Harry,' Beaurain said soothingly. 'A direct link between Norling and the drugs and therefore with the Stockholm Syndicate. Remember Serge Litov's last cryptic words Heroin… Norling… traitor. At long last Norling is tied in with the whole infamous business.'
'Except that's not evidence,' Fondberg pointed out with unusual bitterness. 'The last words of a now-dead Russian. Why a Russian? And on top of that the drug haul is gone.'
'Harry, have you any information on Norling?'
'Yes. He poses as a dealer in rare editions.'
'Poses?'
'May well, indeed, be a genuine book dealer to cover his real activities. It would explain his long absences away from Stockholm, since an international dealer travels a lot. He has an apartment in Gamla Stan — the Old City. Very close to the Church of St. Gertrud.' The Swede took a street plan of Stockholm from another drawer. 'Here, I'll show you.' He drew a cross on the plan. 'I have also heard that the real power behind this organisation is a shadowy figure called Hugo.'
'Hugo?'
'Yes, identity completely unknown. The word is he terrifies even the members of the Syndicate.'
The phone rang. Fondberg, normally slow-moving and deliberate, grabbed for the instrument. He listened, spoke several times in Swedish, then slammed it down as he stood up behind his desk.
'Norling has been seen in Stockholm. He's in a Renault heading for what we call Embassy Row — where all the foreign embassies are. Not far away is a large marina with a whole fleet of boats. A car is waiting for us.'
In the living-room of Sonia Karnell's first-floor apartment in Radmansgatan the blond man was checking the mechanism of a Walther. 765 automatic. The girl watched him: ironically, the weapon was a police issue pistol. For the third time he rammed home the magazine into the gun and then slipped it inside his shoulder holster.
'As I told you, my dear, Beaurain and Hamilton are in Stockholm — just as the first of our distinguished visitors from the States are beginning to fly in for the conference.'
'What are you going to do about it?'
'Ensure that within a few hours no matter where they go they will be paid a visit.'
'So much blood.'
'Your favourite play is Macbeth?' Norling asked genially. He lifted a hand as he saw her preparing to leave with him. 'This time I go alone. We must not be seen together any more than can be helped while we are in Stockholm. San Francisco will be a different matter, but I am a little nervous while I have this in my possession.' He hoisted the suitcase which had been waiting for him at the apartment. 'After all, my dear, forty million kronors' worth is not to be treated lightly.'
'And you are going where?'
'First to collect the Renault. It is in the garage with the Volvo? Good. The time has come — and this I will handle personally — to send out a Nadir signal on Louise Hamilton and Jules Beaurain. They are to be executed on sight.'
Sonia Karnell folded her arms quickly and forced herself to relax, to show no sign of the mounting tension she felt. Tension to Norling meant a person's nerve could be cracking — as he had suggested might be the case with the pilot, Harry Norsten. And to safeguard the Syndicate's security he would not hesitate to send out a Nadir. The person named could then never survive — often his worst move would be to seek police protection.
'The Renault has a full petrol tank,' she assured him as his left hand rested on the door latch. 'You still haven't told me where you're going.'
To the marina, of course. The one near Embassy Row.'
Chapter Fifteen
At the moment when the sighting of Dr. Theodor Norling behind the wheel of a Renault was reported to Harry Fondberg, activity in Stockholm was building up a steadily increasing momentum in many districts.
Unmarked cars carrying Beaurain, Fondberg and other officers left police headquarters and sped through the city, weaving in and out of the traffic and causing drivers to jam on brakes and curse. The cars were heading for the Royal Motorboat Club, the marina in the Djurgardsbron district. In the front car, which he was personally driving, Fondberg explained to Beaurain: 'We have a written description of Norling and one photo taken with a telephoto lens. Both have wide distribution among officers I hope I can trust.'
'You can't trust everyone inside the police?' asked Beaurain quietly.
'What do you think?' replied Fondberg. 'My department, of course, comes under the ultimate control of the
Minister of Justice. I had to go over the head of my superior to get some freedom of action. Can you guess what the Minister asked me to do if he agreed to let me quietly probe into the Stockholm Syndicate?'
'I'd rather not.'
'Mount a twenty-four hour guard on his home with Sapo men. And these days he travels everywhere in a bullet-proof limousine with Sapo outriders on motorbikes. That was the price for keeping me in business.'
'It is happening in other countries.'
Fondberg's normally controlled voice rose to a pitch of fury. 'I don't care. It's time it was stopped!'
'That's why I'm here. Be ready to look the other way. Aren't we close to the Grand Hotel? Good. Can we stop there for a couple of minutes? There may be someone I want to pick up if they've returned to the hotel,'
