The Stockholm Syndicate Read Free

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    He led the way down the staircase, squeezing between banister rail and the peeling wall-plaster.
    Sonia Karnell checked the time. 2.30 a.m. Berlin was a man who preferred to conduct his business and to travel by night.
    "Who lives during the dark hours?" was one of his favourite sayings.
    She turned on the pocket torch always kept in her handbag and followed Berlin into the street. The houses in the Hoogste van Brugge, all joined together and all built centuries ago, were like up-ended matchboxes the thin side facing the street. Berlin had taken a beret from somewhere and crammed it on his head.
    "You're sure you mean the word is to go out at all levels?" she said.
    "Right up to the top?"
    "Right up to the top," he assured her.
    There was no change of expression behind the thick pebble glasses as her torch caught the lenses for a second, but Berlin knew the reason for her checking, for her surprise. The word would now go out which was rarely invoked, the word which would alert a whole army of watchers to observe and report on the activities, movements and conversations of Jules Beaurain, head of Telescope. The code-word was Zenith .
    It would go out to hotel receptionists, airport personnel, railway staff, petrol station attendants, Customs and Immigration officials at ports. Theoretically it would be impossible for Jules Beaurain to move in western Europe without his movement immediately being reported to Berlin.
    But the word would also go out to a much more exalted level. Most important of all and this was what had so shaken Sonia Karnell when she had fully grasped this was a Zenith call the word would go out to men controlling banks and industries who, with the same urgency and motivated by the same fear as the lowliest baggage handler, would report on all and any contact they might have from now on with Jules Beaurain. It would become known throughout western Europe that the Belgian was a marked man. The next codeword would be the one sent out to kill him.
     
    From the first-floor window of the house opposite, Fritz Dewulf had busily operated his cine-camera. The pictures of the woman would be good. The results on the man should be even better - Dewulf was confident. He had him on film full-face as he had stared up and down the street. He hoped it was the man Dr. Goldschmidt was most interested in because the doctor paid according to value - the market value.
     
    An d I wonder who Goldschmidt hopes to sell these pretty pictures to in due course, Dewulf mused as he settled down to wait out the rest of the night vigil. It was just possible the owner of No. 285 would return later, although Dewulf doubted it; there had been an air of finality about the way the fat man had shuffled off down the street. For the next few hours at any rate. A sudden thought crossed the photographer's mind and he grinned. Maybe Goldschmidt would sell the film to the fat man who starred on the reel! It had happened before.
    It was not a conclusion Dewulf would have drawn had he known anything about the personalities involved.
     
    Berlin sat silent and motionless in the passenger seat of the Peugeot as Sonia Karnell headed towards Ghent and Brussels. Sonia, who could drive almost any car with the expertise and panache of a professional racing driver just one of her many talents which Berlin appreciated was careful not to break the silence. Experience had taught her to be sensitive to her chief's moods; the slightest misjudgement could provoke a vicious outburst. When taking a decision he might not speak for an hour.
    "The darkness helps my concentration," he had once explained.
    "I am a natural creature of the night, I suppose. Most people fear it. I like it."
    They were passing open fields on both sides with no sign of human habitation visible in the dark when she turned off the main road, slowing as she negotiated a sharp downward incline and proceeded cautiously along a cinder track with her headlights full on. Berlin stirred as though