Then it happened. Sonia Karnell appeared on the pavement outside the window and stopped to search in her handbag for her door keys. As she had seen the blond man peer in earlier, Louise now had an excellent view of the dark-haired girl — in the mirror lining the wall behind the counter.
But the girl outside had only to glance into the shop and she might recognise the single shopper: Louise instinctively knew she would be recognised. She stopped herself moving in time. The slightest movement would be caught out of the corner of the dark-haired girl's eye. Was all this frenetic search inside the handbag a cover for the fact that she had already recognised Louise? The English girl became aware that the woman behind the counter was staring at her strangely. She hadn't spoken for half a minute.
"I'll have some of the chocolate gateau, the one with cherries. About a quarter of the cake. — I see it's cut…"
A clear and direct look at the mirror image of Black Helmet would have told Louise exactly what the situation was — and that was the one thing she knew she must not do. Her head was bent over the counter, examining the display while the woman packed what she had ordered into a carrier. Black Helmet disappeared, moved past the window to the apartment block entrance. Louise pretended to have trouble with the currency, to give the girl time to get well inside the building, then left the shop.
Before she left she was careful to pick up the carrier full of the food she had purchased with her left hand. Her right hand hovered over the unbuttoned flap of her shoulder bag over the compartment holding the 9-mm. gun. She stepped into the street.
It was empty. Quite empty.
She hurried to the door to the apartment block. Swiftly she ran her eye down the small metal plates with the occupants' names. Only one woman. Apartment 2. Sonia Karnell. She walked back up the street to where the Saab was parked with Stig Palme behind the wheel.
"Get me back to the Grand Hotel," she told him as she climbed stiff-legged into the back and slammed the door shut. Stiff-legged with tension, God damn it.
Without being told, Palme chose a different route, one which would not take them past the apartment block so anyone watching from a window overlooking the street would not see the Saab pass the building a second time. In the mirror Louise caught Palme's eyes and the Swede winked. He had detected the tension she was struggling to control. She began speaking to Palme and his companion as though delivering a report.
"If anything happens to me the address is Radmansgatan 490. I'm pretty sure the hideaway is Apartment Two — occupied by a Sonia Karnell. Only woman shown as occupying an apartment. Not conclusive — it could be in a man's name."
"She parked the Volvo," Stig pointed out. "Again, not conclusive, but I think you're right. We're moving in on them."
"Or they're moving in on us." Bloody hell, she was still talking through clenched Teeth. That episode in the patisserie had been murder. She went on giving her 'report' for Beaurain in the same clipped tone. "Male passenger, fair-haired, sideburns, hair thick on neck, wears gold-rimmed spectacles. A little taller than Dr. Benny Horn or Otto Berlin. He could just be Theodor Norling, but I'm guessing. That apartment wants a round-the-clock stake-out."
While Louise Hamilton and her two companions were following the Volvo from Bromma Airport, Beaurain was still at police headquarters with the Sapo chief, Harry Fondberg. The Belgian had just called London and was talking to Detective Chief Inspector Swift of Special Branch.
Swift had known Beaurain for years and, like many of his international colleagues, still treated the Belgian as though he were in charge of the Brussels anti-terrorist squad. His news was a tonic to Beaurain at whose suggestion Swift had sent a special team to the Woking-Guildford area of Surrey. Their task seemed strange they had travelled backwards and forwards on single-decker buses in the hope of detecting suspicious foreign visitors.
"The score so far, Jules, is fifteen — all with false passports and all carrying concealed weapons. Some very tough characters."
The trick played on Litov had been two-edged. Primarily planned to lead Beaurain to the Syndicate's base, it had also been hoped it would syphon off to England a number of the Syndicate's top soldiers — who would not be available if and when the main clash took place. Special Branch had scooped the pool.
"It's all the wrong way round!" Fondberg poured more coffee as he shook his head. "I get this oily bastard of a presidential aide, Joel Cody, on the phone like he's admitting me to some exclusive club. He says Harvey Sholto is on his way to Stockholm when he has already arrived — I told you, my people at Arlanda saw him."
"What is really worrying you, Harry?"
"Normally we have good relations with the CIA. But Ed Cottel arrives without a word from Washington. I repeat it's the wrong way round. They tell me about Sholto, a very dangerous and suspect character. Why focus attention on Sholto and hide Cottel?"
"You're assuming they know Cottel is here," Beaurain commented.
"You mean…?"
"I'm not sure what I mean, Harry. Do you have a photo of Sholto? An earlier one from his Far East days I mean."
Fondberg reached into a drawer, took out a folder and produced two photographs. One of them was the picture of Sholto taken arriving at Arlanda. The big, broad-shouldered man with the large, round, almost bald skull and the cold eyes.
It was the second photo which interested Beaurain, a photo with crinkled edges and creases which showed a man taken against a background of a hut in a jungle. The build was the same, as was the shape of the head, but it was difficult to believe it was the same man. For one thing he had a thatch of thick hair and a moustache.
"How long ago was this taken and who took it, Harry?"
Two years ago. A clandestine shot taken by our man in Bangkok. He could have been one of the top European contact men in the drug-smuggling circuit originating in the Golden Triangle. Drugs which eventually end up on the streets of Stockholm, Malmo, Gothenburg and so on."
"This Far Eastern shot is definitely Sholto?"
"That's the name our man in Bangkok attached to it. And there's something else which makes me worry about having Harvey Sholto free on the streets. I told you that our man in Bangkok was found floating in one of the klongs?"
"Well, I phoned someone else in Bangkok who hears all the rumours. Remember," Fondberg warned, "I used the word rumours. The word out there is that the man who killed our agent flew in from Manila. He used to be one of Harvey Sholto's contacts when he was out there."
"You're not suggesting the Americans "I'm not sure. But the one who is blanketing this city with eyes is Ed Cottel."
"May I take these photos of Sholto? You have copies? Good." Beaurain took the envelope the Swede had slipped the prints inside and pocketed it before Fond-berg could have second thoughts. Only now did he raise the subject which he knew would embarrass the Sapo chief enormously. "Thank you for releasing my man so quickly at Stockholm Central. The drug consignment from Elsinore was…"
"Boy, did we balls that one up!" Fondberg slapped the top of his desk to emphasize his chagrin. "I surround the whole area with police. I play it clever and tell them to keep well back from the wagon containing the drug haul. The Syndicate sends in two men wearing Swedish police uniforms. Jules, I let it slip through my fingers — forty million kroner. And what is there to show for it?"
"A great deal, Harry," Beaurain said soothingly. "A direct link between Norling and the drugs and therefore with the Stockholm Syndicate. Remember Serge Litov's last cryptic words Heroin… Norling… traitor. At long last Norling is tied in with the whole infamous business."
"Except that's not evidence," Fondberg pointed out with unusual bitterness. "The last words of a now-dead Russian. Why a Russian? And on top of that the drug haul is gone."