"Was he… nervous?" Beaurain enquired casually.
Cottel crinkled his brow and rubbed his crooked nose, which Louise always found attractive. Now that you mention it," the American decided, "I guess the answer is "yes". Like a man who felt threatened." He sipped at his coffee. "Sounds pretty goddam ridiculous."
"Maybe. Have you dug up any more information about the Syndicate, Ed?"
He waited until their coffee had been served and then started talking.
"First thing is that our latest satellite pictures taken over the Baltic show that big hydrofoil — the Soviet job, Kometa — creeping along the coast of Poland and heading for East Germany. It looks as though its ultimate destination could be the port of Sassnitz. And from there it's only a short distance to Trelleborg, a small port in Sweden. There also happens to be a ferry service between Sassnitz and Trelleborg."
"What about that list of people for Voisin — the list you thought might lead to the personnel of Telescope?"
"Dammit! Never did get round to that — you've no idea how these transatlantic trips disappear — you get back and wonder what the hell you accomplished." Cottel drank more coffee. I told Voisin that as soon as I hit his office got in first before he asked."
"You always were a good tactician, Ed," murmured Beaurain. "Do you now have Washington's backing to track down the Stockholm Syndicate?"
"In a word, no." The American looked grim and wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Queer atmosphere back home — especially close to the President. No-one wants to know. They all say wait till after the election — concentrate on exposing Telescope. One reason is they're upstaged by Telescope. But more important is the election. The man in the Oval Office isn't exactly the president of the century and there are people who would like to dump him before the Convention. If news of the Stockholm Syndicate ever leaked to the press — the fact that a huge piece of its finance is coming from American conglomerates looking for huge tax-free profits…" Cottel made a gesture with his napkin and then crushed it. "Out of the window would go any chance of the President being re-elected. You can trace a line from the Stockholm Syndicate almost up to the Oval Office."
"You mean that?" Beaurain asked sharply. "You're not guessing?"
"Do I ever guess?" asked Cottel. "I have more news."
"Less unnerving than what you've told us so far, I hope," said Louise.
"Viktor Rashkin fits into this thing somewhere," Cottel said, keeping his voice low. "We keep a close eye on Viktor, who is not a nice person. I can tell you he has just left Brussels Airport this evening aboard his Lear jet."
"Alone?" Beaurain queried.
"No, not alone. He was accompanied by a fat man very muffled so you couldn't see his features — and also a girl, likewise with her features concealed." He finished his coffee. "I wondered whether anyone was interested in the flight plan Rashkin's pilot filed. His destination."
"You're going to tell us anyway," Louise said.
"Copenhagen — and then Stockholm. Which is why I'm catching the first plane out of here for Stockholm in the mor ning," Cottel informed them. "When you need me, you can find me at the Grand Hotel."
"We're going to need your help?" Louise asked innocently.
"We're all going to need each other's help before this develops much further," the American predicted.
The jet taxied to a halt at Copenhagen's Kastrup Airport. Inside the passenger cabin Viktor Rashkin lit a cigarette and gazed at his companion.
"What is your next move, Viktor?" she enquired. "Isn't the opposition beginning to show some teeth?"
"The opposition — Beaurain in particular — is reacting just as I expected." His dark eyes examined the tip of his cigarette. "The important thing is to keep him away from Denmark for the next few days. The big consignment is on its way and nothing can — must — stop it."
"How much is it worth?"
"On the streets something in the region of forty million Swedish kronor. I think we should leave the plane, my dear."
To go where?" Sonia Karnell asked.
"To pay a discreet call on our friend, Dr. Benny Horn."
"Max here, Jock. Speaking from Kastrup Airport. The subject left the flight here instead of proceeding on to Stockholm."
"How can you be sure?" Henderson interjected tersely.
"Because you wait on the plane if you're going on — and the flight is now airborne for Stockholm. Because at this moment I'm watching Serge Litov…"
The large and heavily-built man he was over six feet tall but like other men conscious of their excessive stature he stooped — had entered the booking-hall and now stood holding a short telescopic umbrella. His gross form was topped by a large head and a tan-coloured hat which partially concealed his strong-boned face. English was the language he used when he conversed with Serge Litov. He appeared unconnected with the Russian.
"Where is the man requiring my attention, sir?" His jowls were heavy and fleshy; he was about sixty years old and the personification of a successful stockbroker. Litov could hardly believe this was the intermediary sent to cut out any intervention he might have spotted.
"Do I know you?" Litov asked sharply, covering his mouth with his hand as he lit a cigarette. The fool had not used the code. Had he himself walked into a trap? But in that case why had the Telescope people released him in the first place?
"I am, of course, sir, George Land. Coining from London you must know and appreciate as I do the beauties of St. James's Park at this time of the year."
His mouth hardly moved — and yet Litov had heard every word quite clearly. St. James's Park — that was Land's identification.
"The lake is what I like in St. James's Park," Litov responded, and the word 'lake' completed the code check. "How did you know someone was following me?" George Land gave him the creeps, though he was not easily disturbed. Like a perfect English butler — and he was just about to despatch a fellow human being permanently.
"I knew someone was following you because I watched from outside the entrance doors. I observed your furtive glances in a certain direction. Also, I see now there is perspiration on your brow, if I may make mention of the fact, sir."
The constant use of 'sir' did not help. Land was so cool and collected; his restrained courtesy was beginning to get on Litov's nerves. "You see that man in the payphone?"
"I can see the gentleman quite clearly."
"Get rid of him — permanently. As soon as I've got out of this place."
"It would be helpful if you would remain where you are until I have reached the phone box. In that way he will notice no change in what interests him — yourself."
Land briefly grasped the dangling umbrella with his left hand. And then Serge Litov understood as though he had been trained to use the weapon all his life. The umbrella was a camouflaged dagger, spring-loaded and designed so the blade projected from the tip at the touch of a button.
"I'll wait here," he said reluctantly.
"It has been a most profitable conversation, sir," said Land discreetly and proceeded across the almost deserted booking-hall as though bent on making a phone call.
"I said I was watching Litov," repeated Kellerman to Jock Henderson from inside the payphone. "He appears to be waiting for someone to collect him."
"Or he could be playing a game," the Scot pointed out. "He'll still have that ticket to Stockholm."
A large English-looking man was wandering across the hall towards the pay phones He was close enough for Kellerman to see his fleshy cheeks. As he walked with a slow deliberate tread he swung a telescopic umbrella back and forth from his right wrist. Otherwise, the booking-hall was empty. The other passengers had departed for Copenhagen via the airport bus or taxis and no other flight was due to land or take off.