You remember there was a man in Milan.'
'I know who you mean, Erika. You were rather fond of him.'
'Not as much as of you, but yes, I was fond of him, Jules. A week before the scandal broke I was phoned and told that he was about to be ruined. I called him to warn him but there was nothing he could do — the photos had already been taken, the pictures which were then sent to the newspapers and TV. He shot himself — so it appeared.'
'And what does that mean?' Beaurain was startled. It had always been his understanding that the Milanese politician concerned had committed suicide.
'He was murdered by the Syndicate and his death faked to look like suicide. In ruling circles in Rome it was clearly understood this was simply another 'demonstration' organised by the Syndicate — like the fatal fall of the Chief Commissioner. Can you imagine the horror of it? Even we who have so much money and once controlled international businesses are now puppets of this foul thing, the Stockholm Syndicate,'
'Who do you deal with? Hugo?'
'No. I have no idea who Hugo is. On the rare occasions when I am contacted, it is by the member of the directorate who is in charge of the Mediterranean Sector — a Dr. Otto Berlin.'
'And, finally, where is this so-called summit meeting to be held?'
'We have not been informed yet — but I have been told to be ready to fly to the south coast of Sweden as soon as the instruction comes.' Again the bitter note. 'Yes, that is what they give us instructions. At least I tried in Rome.'
'You must not reproach yourself. Does Luigi…?'
'Know anything about it? Of course not! Can you imagine what sort of help I'd get from that broken reed? Within a day of being told anything he would probably be blabbing it to the world in a drunken stupor. Jules…' She came very close to him, so close he could savour to the full the very faint aroma of the scent she was using. 'Jules, can you do anything?'
'Yes, and first I want you under my protection. You will put on a coat and walk straight out of this hotel with me. Leave everything else and come with me this instant. I have people outside and we'll hide you until this is all over,'
'I can't, Jules.'
'Why the hell not!' The exasperation was genuine. This was not like Erika.
'Because of Luigi. If I disappear they will kill him. He is in Rome.'
'One phone call and I can have him scooped up and flown out of Italy.'
'No, Jules!' She put her index finger over his mouth, removed it as he relapsed into silence and kissed him full on the lips. He found he could even remember her taste. 'I must act normally, go to the meeting but if you give me a phone number I will call you and tell you where the meeting is being held as soon as I know.'
Beaurain didn't like it. He felt uneasy but he couldn't budge her. Eventually he gave her Harry Fondberg's private phone number and the code-word champagne which she must use if she found it was impossible to reach Beaurain; then she could leave a message. As he walked out of her room and closed the self-locking door, he passed a man who was slowly pushing a service trolley along the corridor. The trolley's contents were concealed under a large white cloth. It was only later that he remembered the man. Too late.
Stig Palme drove his compact car up the steep road alongside the Royal Palace and turned into Stortoret, the main square where an ancient stone pump stood protected by stone bollards. A few minutes later he parked the Saab close to the entrance to one of the maze of alleyways in this medieval quarter of Stockholm.
The tiny shop he was visiting was situated half-way along the deserted alley, cobbled underfoot and so narrow he could have easily reached out his arms and touched both sides. He entered without ceremony, noted that the place was empty except for the owner and shut the door. He then turned the card hanging against the glass to indicate Closed.
Outside the shop over the door hung a huge key symbol. And the man who supplied master keys in Stockholm was its owner, Tobias Seiger. The price varied according to the status of the hotel and Seiger's estimate of how much he could screw out of the buyer. In return, complete secrecy was guaranteed. It was this wall of secrecy Stig Palme had to break down.
His mission was not helped by the fact that Seiger knew and disliked Palme. A short, bull-headed man, Seiger had a jeweller's glass in his right eye when Palme entered. Observing Palme's action in closing his shop Seiger carefully removed the jeweller's glass and placed it in an open drawer below Palme's eye level. Palme moved. His left hand whipped over the counter, gripped the pistol Seiger had been feeling for and pocketed it. Seiger found himself staring into the barrel of Palme's own gun.
'I have very little money on the premises,' he began.
'We're going to talk, Tobias.' The locksmith stood in a permanent stoop, brought on by years of cutting keys. His manner was a mixture of aggressiveness and oily persuasion. He had the morals of a brothel-keeper. 'The Grand Hotel…'
'Did you say the Grand?'
The shop was cluttered with cupboards and there was dust and grime everywhere, including a film of dirt on the outside windows so it was very dark. Even so Palme's sharp eyes caught the brief flicker of expression which vanished off Seiger's slack-lipped face almost before it appeared. Alarm. Terror? This was going to be more difficult than he had anticipated.
To overcome Seiger's fear he was going to have to produce an atmosphere of hideous terror to prise open the oily bastard's mouth. Palme pressed the muzzle of his gun into Seiger's left ear.
'I can make you a key — the master key,' Seiger babbled.
'Don't get naughty with me, Tobias. You know exactly what I'm after — I saw it in your eyes. The identity of the person who has recently asked you to do just that supply him with a master key for the Grand Hotel.'
When discussing the horrific vandalisation of Louise's room, both Beaurain and Palme had realised only one explanation was possible. The culprit had obtained a copy of the master key and probably from a nearby source. And, Palme thought to himself, where could be nearer than the establishment of Tobias Seiger in Gamla Stan just across the water from the hotel itself?
'I cannot tell you! It would cost me my life. The people involved are ruthless, totally ruthless.'
The terror was in Seiger's eyes, in his tone of voice, in the way he physically cringed away from Palme until the wall prevented him retreating any further. Palme's left hand caught hold of Seiger's necktie and tightened it, his knuckle pressed against the locksmith's Adam's apple.
Seiger would have screamed with the pain but the pressure of the knuckles made it impossible for him to utter a sound. The gun muzzle was pressed lightly against his right eye and the large Swede loomed over the stoop-shouldered shopkeeper.
'You can always leave Stockholm until the trouble is ended,' he said with an engaging smile. 'When did you last have a real holiday? Ages, I expect. An honest man like yourself, plying his trade, deserves a holiday.'
He released his grip on the necktie suddenly and Seiger collapsed in a heap against the wall, his legs spread out at an absurd angle across the stone-paved floor. He used one hand to massage his bruised throat, glaring up at the intruder, then when he saw what Stig Palme was doing his expression changed, he tried to climb to his feet, found he hadn't the strength and held up a hand as though to ward off a blow. What words had not managed a gesture was achieving. Terror!
Stig Palme stood over the collapsed figure, doing what he was doing with great deliberation and with out a glance down at the locksmith. He was screwing a silencer onto the muzzle of his Luger.
The atmosphere in the tiny shop was nauseating. On entering the place Palme had been aware of a musty, damp odour a smell associated with a place which never sees the sun and where the ventilation leaves much to be desired. Added to this now was the stink of sweat streaming down Seiger's body, staining his armpits, moistening his face, the smell Palme had encountered more than once before, the stench of terror.
'These people kill!'
'We are aware it is the Stockholm Syndicate. I need a name, an address,' said Palme matter-of-factly.
The latter he had no hope of — the most was a name, the least a description he could circulate in the Stockholm underworld and hope to come up with something.
'The alternative is I blow you away.'
And Tobias Seiger, who spent most of his life in this pit of semi-darkness, came up with pure gold.
