From that night Viktor Rashkin's future was assured — from being an obscure but promising recruit of the KGB, he became Brezhnev's trusted and secret trouble-shooter. The fact that he was a natural linguist — and that his flair for acting made him a brilliant diplomat — helped to rocket him to the dizzy heights.
The Washington dossier on Viktor Rashkin grew thicker and thicker, but the few privileged to read it complained that despite the quantity of the data, the quality left a great deal to be desired. 'It's so damn vague,' the US President grumbled. 'Now you see him, now you don't.'
April… Believed to have spent three days in Addis Ababa. Purpose of visit: presumed discusssion of further military aid to present Ethiopian regime.
May… Reported to have made lightning visit to Angola. Dates of visit uncertain. Rumoured agreement concluded with Angolan regime.
July… Presence reported in Havana. No positive confirmation of visit. Previously reliable Cuban woman agent code-named Dora signalled arrival of important personality in Cuban capital. Strong suspicion visitor to Castro was Viktor Rashkin.
December… Presence of Viktor Rashkin positively confirmed in Stockholm where he holds position First Secretary at Soviet Embassy. This official position believed to mask his real activities. Was observed attending royal reception at Palace in Stockholm. Next day believed he left Sweden for unknown destination.
For the CIA and National Security Agency analysts it was infuriating. As one of them had expressed it after reading the above extracts from agents' reports and a host of other material, 'I'm not even sure Viktor Rashkin exists. Believed to… presumed… Reported to have… Rumoured agreement… No positive confirmation of visit… Strong suspicion… What kind of dossier is this?'
The man was a will o' the wisp, a shadow flitting in the night. To his assistant, Gregori Semeonov, a senior officer of the KGB, his chief existed but he was almost as elusive as the Washington analyst had suggested. As they conferred in Rashkin's office at the Soviet Embassy in Stockholm the short, burly Ukrainian had no idea where his chief had arrived from.
'I have made your reservation on Flight SK 732 departing from Arlanda for Leningrad at 13.30 tomorrow. Normally this flight is from Gate Six,' Semeonov continued pedantically. 'The ticket is in your right-hand top drawer.'
'A return ticket, I hope?'
Rashkin was studying the contents of a folder from another drawer to which he alone held the keys. As he expected, the stupid, peasant-like Semeonov completely missed the irony of his question.
'What is the exact location of the hydrofoil, Kometa?'
'Captain Livanov is waiting at Sassnitz until you give the order for him to proceed to the agreed position off the Swedish port of Trelleborg. I gather he has again complained that we are risking his vessel in asking him to cross the Baltic.'
'I have ordered him — not asked him — to proceed to Trelleborg when I give the signal. We must remember to tell him to keep his hull below the horizon so he cannot be seen from the shore. And the Swedish liner, Silvia, is in position?'
'Yes, Comrade Secretary.' Semeonov paused and Rashkin waited for the next piece of bureaucratic idiocy. He was not disappointed. 'I cannot understand why we have hired the Silvia and put aboard only a skeleton crew. She is in no position to make a long voyage.'
'Just so long as you have carried out my instructions. You may go now.'
Rashkin had no intention of revealing his strategy to this man who was, after all, only the creature of Yuri Andropov, head of the KGB and a powerful member of the Soviet Politburo. And he was perfectly aware that it was Semeonov's chief task to report back to Andropov all Viktor Rashkin's activities, a task Rashkin was at great pains to frustrate by never revealing to the Ukrainian anything of the least importance.
Semeonov, his hair cut so short that Rashkin secretly termed him 'Bristle-Brush', was not able even to leave the room without further comment. At the door he turned and spoke in his measured, deliberate manner.
'I will confirm that you may be expected in Leningrad aboard SK 732 from Arlanda tomorrow.'
As the door closed Rashkin shut the folder embossed with a small gold star indicating its extreme level of secrecy, pushed back his chair and swore aloud. 'Five minutes in this place and I'm screaming to get out again. Bristle-Brush is becoming impossible to live with.'
*
'I can do nothing more, Jules. I have received specific orders that our distinguished guests are not to be interfered with in any way on the contrary, while visiting this country they are to be granted every courtesy and consideration. The trouble is, Sweden stands to gain a considerable amount of international business while hosting this conference.'
'They admit a conference is taking place?'
Harry Fondberg and Beaurain were again in the Swedish security chief's office at police headquarters. But on this second occasion the atmosphere was quite different. To Beaurain's astonishment, Fondberg's manner was formal, as though he were covering up a deep sense of embarrassment.
'There has been a reference to a conference, yes,' Fondberg admitted.
Beaurain stood up. 'I presume this means I can no longer rely on you for any assistance? That is the situation, is it not?'
The plump-faced, capable Swede paused, clearly reluctant to let his old friend leave. 'There was a message for you, by the way,' he said. 'It was phoned through to me just before you arrived. I was not able to persuade her to leave her real name.'
' Her? '
'Yes, it was a woman. The message for you was simply, Offshore from the port of Trelleborg. A hydrofoil. Champagne.' Fondberg excused himself as the phone rang. He listened, spoke a few words and then replaced the receiver, his expression sombre. 'There has been, a death at the Grand Hotel. An important lady.'
'The Countess d'Arlezzo,'
Beaurain made it a statement and Fondberg's sensitive ear did not miss the inflection. He stood up behind his desk, his eyes alert, his mouth hard as he met the Belgian's grim gaze. Beaurain continued, 'Earlier today I was talking with Erika — the Countess — in her suite at the Grand. I have known her for a long time. She told me she had been threatened by the Stockholm Syndicate. That phone call tells me roughly where the conference of the Syndicate will take place. We had arranged she should use the code-word champagne to identify herself. I believe I passed the person who must have been keeping an eye on her for the Syndicate, a waiter pushing a trolley.'
'One of the Grand Hotel's regular staff — a waiter — has been found trussed up and stuffed inside a broom cupboard.'
'How did she die?'
Beaurain walked over to the window with hands clasped behind his back while he waited for the reply, and stared out at the sunlight which Erika would never see again. His eyes were quite still.
Fondberg was beginning to feel very uneasy. He cleared his voice before he spoke. 'She was found hanging from the shower in the bathroom. She used her bath-robe cord, a common…'
' I would be found… hung and twisting like a side of meat turning in the wind.' Beaurain repeated for Fondberg's benefit the words Erika had used. The Swede sank into the chair behind his desk and stared dully into the distance, tapping the stubby fingers of his right hand on the desk top, a sure sign that he was deeply disturbed. He listened while Beaurain related the whole of his conversation with the woman who had been one of the most powerful figures in Western Europe.
The Belgian's voice grew harsher as he concluded his version of his last meeting with Erika. 'So these are the people to whom you are extending every courtesy and consideration that was the phrase, was it not? And they — all these members of the Stockholm Syndicate — are as guilty of Erika d'Arlezzo's murder as if they personally had tied round her neck the cord of her own bath-robe and strung her up to that shower.'
'I said nothing about a murder.' Fondberg wriggled uncomfortably behind his desk and, for the first time in their long friendship, he was unable to meet Beaurain's gaze.
'Christ Al-bloody-mighty!' Beaurain's fist smashed down on the desk-top. 'You are not going to stoop so low that you will allow them to get away with this faked suicide?'
' No! ' Fondberg came out of his mental daze and stared straight at Beaurain. 'Of course I know it wasn't
