Hauling his handkerchief out of his pocket he uncapped the water-bottle again and soaked the handkerchief. He was already feeling dizzy when he clamped the damp cloth over his nostrils to minimise the effect of the gas. They couldn't know someone was inside: it was another example of the Syndicate's meticulous attention to detail, a precaution in case someone was inside waiting for them.
Everything began to blur. Wedged against sheets of compressed paper at the end of the wagon he was out of sight when they opened the doors and two men climbed inside wearing gas-masks. He could just make out the silhouette of the masks through a blurred haze and they looked hideous. Kellerman leaned against the wagon wall, incapable of any action except struggling to keep quiet.
There was a ripping sound and he guessed they were using a knife to open up the compartment secreting the suitcase of heroin. And not a damned thing he could do to stop them. At any second he knew that he might lose consciousness. If he did that he would fall down, make a noise. They would see to it that he never woke up again.
One of the men appeared briefly holding the suitcase, stood in the opening and tore off his gas-mask. Kellerman saw it all as though in a dream. The man with the heroin jumped out of the wagon, there was a brief lack of sound except for the muffled murmur of nearby traffic, then the vrooming roar of a powerful motor-bike's engine, which cut off suddenly, as though the machine had turned a corner. Kellerman eased the handkerchief away from his nostrils and found he could breathe. The gas had drifted out through the open doors. He began to feel better, able to cope, then he froze again as he realised something was not right. The second man was still inside the wagon.
Kellerman stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket and began to ease his way forward down the narrow passageway between the walls of compressed sheet paper. The air was bearable, but the German was horribly aware he was making noises as he moved forward. His sleeve scraped against the sides of the paper — only a slight sound, but more than enough to alert the man still in the wagon, who would be a professional. Why the hell was he still waiting?
Kellerman found him crumpled in a heap at the edge of the open doors, a short, heavily-built man still wearing the gas-mask and with a reddish stain spreading ever more widely over the uniform jacket across his chest. What the uniform might be Kellerman was not sure it looked like a policeman's but he jerked off the gas-mask and looked into a plump face with the eyes open. A familiar face, for God's sake, the face of Serge Litov. And someone had used a gun with a silencer to shoot him, although he was still just alive.
"Heroin… Norling… traitor," were his dying words.
Passenger who landed Arlanda Airport Flight SK407 from Copenhagen as per attached photo identified as Gunther Baum. Originates from East Germany. Poses as business executive but is independent professional assassin charging extortionate fees due to reputation for always completing assignment. Present whereabouts unknown.
Chief Inspector Harry Fondberg of Sapo studied the signal which had just arrived from Interpol. He was fuming about the incident at Stockholm Central — where someone disguised as a police despatch rider had seized the haul of heroin from under his nose and murdered his own accomplice as a bonus. Then the phone rang and he heard Jules Beaurain had arrived.
The Belgian was ushered into his office and shown to a chair. The Swede was studied by Beaurain as they shook hands: no outward sign of nerves here in Stockholm. And his host's appearance was exactly as the Belgian remembered him from their previous meeting.
Thinning hair was brushed over a well-shaped skull. He had the blue eyes of the Scandinavian which, in Fondberg's case, held a hypnotic quality. His nose was strong, his mouth firm and he had a jaw of character. The Chief of Sapo, who worked under a Director solely responsible to the Minister of Justice, showed his guest the signal from Interpol. Attached was a glossy print.
"That's a copy of the picture we radioed to them," Fondberg explained.
There were several people the photographer had caught in his lens and it was obvious they were completely unaware that their arrival was being recorded. Beaurain passed the photograph back to Fondberg.
"He tried to kill me in Copenhagen — in broad daylight close to the Tivoli Gardens. His accomplice is with him."
"Accomplice!" Fondberg grabbed the picture off the desk, glaring at it. "Those damned fools at Interpol never said anything and we radioed the complete picture. It was taken at Arlanda. The accomplice is…?"
"The ordinary-looking man behind Gunther Baum's right shoulder. You can just see he is carrying a brief-case. That is where the gun would normally be he is Baum's gun-carrier and, I suspect, only hands him the weapon at the last moment. Baum is extremely well-organised. When did he come in here?"
"On the first flight this morning from Copenhagen — what we call the businessman's flight. The distance is so short, many spend the day in Stockholm, conclude their business, and are back in Copenhagen for the night."
"Stockholm has more attractions than that, Harry."
Fondberg smiled. "Yes, indeed. But you see, the businessmen's wives also know that. So, if they are not back in their cosy little Danish houses before midnight, chop!"
"How did you happen to take that picture?" Beau-rain indicated the radio-transmitted photo of Baum and his companion.
"As you know, we have men watching Arlanda all the time for known criminals. If the watcher on duty is keen, sometimes he takes a picture of a passenger who strikes him as not quite right. Baum's was taken for that reason, I sent it to Interpol, and you see their reply."
"You have his address?"
The Swede winced and lit a cigar before replying. "The shot was random, as I have explained. Since the signal came in I have had people checking at all the hotels, but it is too early for anything yet."
"You won't get anything anyway. He'll register with false papers wherever he stays. As you know, he is a top professional. So that is the man who has travelled here for the express purpose of killing me — or so you suspect?"
"I don't know," Fondberg replied blandly. "There are other potential candidates for the job. This man, for example."
It was like the old days when they had co-operated together with or without the agreement of their respective superiors. Beaurain stared at the glossy photo pushed across the desk at him. Again taken at an airport, doubtless Arlanda. An excellent print, this one, taken with a first-rate camera operated by a top-class photographer. The man was obviously totally unaware that his arrival had been recorded.
A big man, probably six feet one, broad-shouldered and with a large round head and cold eyes. Like Fondberg, the few streaks of thin hair were carefully brushed over the polished skull but unlike Fondberg he was almost bald. Even caught unawares his demeanour was aggressive; the total lack of feeling in the blank eyes was reflected in the thin-lipped, tight mouth. The way he held himself told Beaurain that this man, in his early fifties, was in the peak of physical condition. He probably played an hour's squash before breakfast every morning and his mood would be mean for the rest of the day if he didn't win.
"Who is the candidate and when did he get in and from where?" Beaurain enquired, his eyes still imprinting the man's features and general stance on his memory.
"American, of course. The dress tells you that. He is known as Harvey Sholto. He got in at Arlanda on the overnight flight from Washington. I was informed by no less a person than Joel Cody of his imminent arrival — person-to-person call. And the bastard tried to trick me."