arrived from Gothenburg was to separate. His mother ran off with a ship's engineer while the father managed to get himself killed in a traffic accident a few weeks later. Young Norling was taken in by some aunt who had money and he was partly educated abroad. He returned to Skane when he was twenty, attended the funeral of his aunt who had just died, and promptly used the legacy she had left him to set up in business as a collector.'
'Let me guess,' interjected Beaurain. 'A collector of editions of rare books?'
'Wrong!' Fondberg chuckled delightedly at having scored a point when he saw Beaurain's expression. 'As a collector and dealer in old coins.'
'And he travelled a lot,' Beaurain persisted, 'during the course of his business.'
'Yes,' Fondberg admitted.
'And most of his business was done abroad and locally he was known as a bit of a hermit and he never got married?'
'Yes,' Fondberg agreed, almost reluctantly. 'It is a waste of time my reading this folder since you seem to know the contents. It is true he was a hermit — and disliked on that account since he gave the impression he felt himself superior to the locals.' The Swede chuckled again. 'The truth of the matter probably is that he was very superior! Any more predictions?'
'Only one. He arrived suddenly in Stockholm to set up business as a dealer in rare books about two years ago.'
Ten out of ten!' Fondberg did not even bother to refer to the folder.
'So,' Beaurain suggested, 'to sum up, Theodor Norling has now no known living relatives. Correct? And have your people down there in darkest Skane found any close friends he left behind who could identify a picture taken of him?'
'Yes — and no. As you suggested I sent the picture we have of Norling, a picture which had to be taken secretly because of a directive from higher up. The Ystad police showed it to the very few people who knew Theodor Norling when he was in business down there. Some immediately identified him from the photo. Others said they didn't think that was the man they had known as Dr. Theodor Norling.'
' The man they had known as Dr. Theodor Norling.' Beaurain repeated the words slowly as though relishing every syllable. The chief of Sapo was now looking thoroughly piqued. Louise did nothing to enlighten him.
'It's bloody uncanny,' was her unladylike remark.
'What is?' Fondberg pounced.
'How we've heard this story before. Twice to be precise.' She looked at Beaurain who nodded giving her permission to go ahead. 'What you have told us about the background and origins of Dr. Theodor Norling is an almost exact replica — with a few minor variations — of the background histories of the other two members of the so-called directorate controlling the Stockholm Syndicate.'
'You mean these men are sleepers who are now activated?'
'No, oddly enough, the other way round.' It was Beaurain who spoke.
'You mean someone has invented dummy men?' Fondberg suggested.
'Not even that, Harry. Dr. Berlin certainly existed, was quite definitely brought up in Liege in his early days and started his business as a book dealer there. There are still people who remember him. Vaguely.'
Fondberg shook his head and lit a cigar. 'I am lost. Which, I suspect, is your intention, you bastard.' He turned to Louise and bowed formally. 'Please excuse my language, but you work with him, so…'
'I agree with you,' Louise assured him.
'Let's try to find you since you're lost, Harry,' Beaurain continued imperturbably. 'Dr. Theodor Norling's background is vague because his parents vanished from his life early on, because his life-style was that of a hermit, because he travelled a lot on business and was seen very little before he came to live permanently in Stockholm. Two years ago.'
'All that is in the goddam folder,' Fondberg pointed out.
'Or Otto Berlin's background is vague because Liege is a large city, because he had no relatives and few acquaintances, because he also travelled a lot owing to the nature of his business. His character, too, was hermit- like. Perhaps it goes with the trade. So again, as with Norling, old acquaintances shown a photograph say 'Yes, that's him,' or 'No, doesn't look much like him.' Only one photograph is available of Berlin. These men seem to be very camera-shy.'
'I am still lost,' Fondberg growled.
'The third man was note the past tense Dr. Benny Horn who now lives in Copenhagen but originally came from Elsinore. And while I remember it, when do you think Dr. Otto Berlin moved himself from Liege to Bruges? About two years ago! '
'It is getting interesting,' Fondberg was compelled to admit. He glanced at Louise. 'This dishonest and devious man you choose to work for plays these games with me whenever he gets the opportunity. In England I think they call it dangling you on a string.'
'Benny Horn's background antecedents are equally vague when you go into them with a sceptical eye,' Beaurain continued. 'He was in the book dealer business for fifteen years in Elsinore before he moved suddenly to Copenhagen. Since then, no-one in Elsinore has seen him — not that there are many who would be interested.'
'Another hermit?' Fondberg enquired.
'As I said, it seems to go with the trade. So, although he has a solid background of fifteen years' residence on the outskirts of Elsinore you can't track down many who actually knew him and then only vaguely. The local police produce his photograph and we get a repeat performance. Some say 'yes' and some say 'no' when asked to identify Horn. It's quite normal, as you know.'
'I still don't understand it,' complained Fondberg. 'They're not sleepers, they're not dummy men.'
'Someone went to a lot of trouble in Belgium, in Denmark, and here in Sweden searching out these men, Harry. The whole thing is quite horribly sinister — worked out by a brilliant mind and manipulated in a diabolical manner. What we are actually looking for is the fourth man.'
' The fourth man? '
'The one they call Hugo, the man whose very name evokes terror, sheer terror.'
Chapter Seventeen
The temperature was a comparatively pleasant 42 FV an east wind sweeping over the airport chilled the face, the expressions of the airport staff were sombre; a prejudiced observer might even have used the word 'sour'. As far as the eye could see the landscape and buildings were depressing. Scandinavian Airlines Flight SK 732 from Stockholm had just touched down at Leningrad.
Ignoring the stewardesses waiting by the exit, Viktor Rashkin left the plane and walked briskly to the waiting black Zil limousine. The KGB guard saluted, held open the rear door while Rashkin stepped inside, closed it and motioned to the chauffeur who started the machine moving at once. Rashkin was known for his impatience.
The cavalcade — a Volga car full of KGB agents preceded the Zil limousine while another followed in the rear — sped away from the airport and Rashkin glanced outside unenthusiastically. Why the hell did Brezhnev need to have personal reports on progress of Operation Snowbird? Rashkin suspected the old boy, surrounded by old- age pensioners, simply wanted a few hours of his company. He always asked for impersonations and roared his head off while Rashkin mimicked his victims.
Relaxing back against the amply-cushioned seat he gazed out through the amber-coloured curtains masking the windows. In the streets the people were curious — and resentful. Apparatchiki were on their way to some unknown destination and, ahead of the cavalcade, police were stopping all traffic to allow Viktor Rashkin swift passage. The driver of one car forced to halt by the kerb carefully waited until the second car-load of KGB men had passed and then spat out of the window.
'Arrogant sods living off our backs.'
It was a common sentiment Rashkin would have seen in the eyes of the staring pedestrians had he looked up. He didn't bother. He knew what he would see. One day the lid would come off. There had to be a limit to the patience of even these stupid serfs.
