Hornet Flight (7 page)

“Good work!” said Braun.

Peter stole a glance at Juel, who looked angry. So he should. Peter was a better detective than his boss, and incidents such as this proved it. Two years ago, when the post of head of the security unit had fallen vacant, Peter had applied for the job, but Juel had got it. Peter was a few years younger than Juel, but had more successful cases to his credit. However, Juel belonged to a smug metropolitan elite who had all gone to the same schools, and Peter was sure they conspired to keep the best jobs for themselves and hold back talented outsiders.

Now Juel said, “But how could the newspaper be smuggled out? All packages are inspected by the censors.”

Peter hesitated. He had wanted to get confirmation before revealing what he suspected. His information from Sweden could be wrong. However, Braun was right here in front of him, pawing the earth and champing at the bit, and this was not the moment to equivocate. “I've had a tip. Last night I spoke to a detective friend in Stockholm who has been discreetly asking questions at the wire service office. He thinks the newspaper comes on the Lufthansa flight from Berlin to Stockholm that stops here.”

Braun nodded excitedly. “So if we search every passenger boarding the flight here in Copenhagen, we should find the latest edition.”

“Yes.”

“Does the flight go today?”

Peter's heart sank. This was not the way he worked. He preferred to verify information before rushing into a raid. But he was grateful for Braun's aggressive attitude—a pleasing contrast with Juel's laziness and caution. Anyway, he could not hold back the avalanche of Braun's eagerness. “Yes, in a few hours,” he said, hiding his misgivings.

“Then let's get moving!”

Haste could ruin everything. Peter could not let Braun take charge of the operation. “May I make a suggestion, General?”

“Of course.”

“We must act discreetly, to avoid forewarning our culprit. Let's assemble a team of detectives and German officers, but keep them here at headquarters until the last minute. Allow the passengers to assemble for the flight before we move in. I'll go alone to Kastrup aerodrome to make arrangements quietly. When the passengers have checked their baggage, the aircraft has landed and refueled, and they're about to board, it will be too late for anyone to slip away unnoticed—and then we can pounce.”

Braun smiled knowingly. “You're afraid that a lot of Germans marching around would give the game away.”

“Not at all, sir,” Peter said with a straight face. When the occupiers made fun of themselves it was not wise to join in. “It will be important for you and your men to accompany us, in case there is any need to question German citizens.”

Braun's face stiffened, his self-deprecating sally rebuffed. “Quite so,” he said. He went to the door. “Call me at my office when your team is ready to depart.” He left.

Peter was relieved. At least he had regained control. His only worry was that Braun's enthusiasm might have forced him to move too soon.

“Well done, for tracing the smuggling route,” Juel said condescendingly. “Good detective work. But it would have been tactful to tell me before you told Braun.”

“I'm sorry, sir,” Peter said. In fact it would not have been possible: Juel had already left for the day when the Swedish detective had called last night. But Peter did not make the excuse.

“All right,” Juel said. “Put together a squad and send them to me for briefing. Then go to the aerodrome and phone me when the passengers are ready to board.”

Peter left Juel's room and returned to Tilde's desk in the main office. She was wearing a jacket, blouse, and skirt in different shades of light blue, like a girl in a French painting. “How did it go?” she asked.

“I was late, but I made up for it.”

“Good.”

“There's a raid on at the aerodrome this morning,” he told her. He knew which detectives he wanted with him. “I'll take Bent Conrad, Peder Dresler, and Knut Ellegard.” Detective Sergeant Conrad was enthusiastically pro-German. Detective Constables Dresler and Ellegard had no strong political or patriotic feelings, but were conscientious policemen who took orders and did a thorough job. “And I'd like you to come along, too, if you would, in case there are female suspects to be searched.”

“Of course.”

“Juel will brief you all. I'm going ahead to Kastrup.” Peter went to the door, then turned back. “How's little Stig?” Tilde had a son six years old, looked after by his grandmother during the working day.

She smiled. “He's fine. His reading is coming along fast.”

“He'll be chief of police one day.”

Her face darkened. “I don't want him to be a cop.”

Peter nodded. Tilde's husband had been killed in a shootout with a gang of smugglers. “I understand.”

She added defensively, “Would you want your son to do this job?”

He shrugged. “I don't have any children, and I'm not likely to.”

She gave him an enigmatic look. “You don't know what the future holds.”

“True.” He turned away. He did not want to start that discussion on a busy day. “I'll call in.”

“Okay.”

Peter took one of the police department's unmarked black Buicks, recently equipped with two-way radio. He drove out of the city and across a bridge to the island of Amager, where Kastrup aerodrome was located. It was a sunny day, and from the road he could see people on the beach.

He looked like a businessman or lawyer in his conservative chalk-stripe suit and discreetly patterned tie. He did not have a briefcase, but for verisimilitude he had brought with him a file folder, filled with papers taken from a wastebasket.

He felt anxious as he approached the aerodrome. If he could have had another day or two, he might have been able to establish whether every flight carried illegal packages, or only some. There was a maddening possibility that today he might find nothing, but his raid would alert the
subversive group, and they might change to a different route. Then he would have to start again.

The aerodrome was a scatter of low buildings on one side of a single runway. It was heavily guarded by German troops, but civilian flights continued to be operated by the Danish airline, DDL, and the Swedish ABA, as well as Lufthansa.

Peter parked outside the office of the airport controller. He told the secretary he was from the government's Aviation Safety Department, and was admitted instantly. The controller, Christian Varde, was a small man with a salesman's ready smile. Peter showed his police card. “There will be a special security check on the Lufthansa flight to Stockholm today,” he said. “It has been authorized by General Braun, who will be arriving shortly. We must get everything ready.”

A frightened look came over the face of the manager. He reached for the phone on his desk, but Peter covered the instrument with his own hand. “No,” he said. “Please do not forewarn anyone. Do you have a list of passengers expected to board the flight here?”

“My secretary does.”

“Ask her to bring it in.”

Varde called his secretary and she brought a sheet of paper. He gave it to Peter.

Peter said, “Is the flight coming in on time from Berlin?”

“Yes.” Varde checked his watch. “It should land in forty-five minutes.”

That was enough time, just.

It would simplify Peter's task if he had to search only those passengers joining the flight in Denmark. “I want you to call the pilot and say that no one will be permitted to deplane at Kastrup today. That includes passengers and crew.”

“Very good.”

He looked at the list the secretary had brought. There were four names: two Danish men, a Danish woman, and a German man. “Where are the passengers now?”

“They should be checking in.”

“Take their baggage, but do not load it onto the aircraft until it has been searched by my men.”

“Very well.”

“The passengers, too, will be searched before they board. Is anything else loaded here, in addition to passengers and their luggage?”

“Coffee and sandwiches for the flight, and a bag of mail. And the fuel, of course.”

“The food and drink must be examined, and the mailbag. One of my men will observe the refueling.”

“Fine.”

“Go now and send the message to the pilot. When all the passengers have checked in, come and find me in the departure lounge. But please—try to give the impression that nothing special is happening.”

Varde went out.

Peter made his way to the departure area, racking his brains to make sure he had thought of everything. He sat in the lounge and discreetly studied the other passengers, wondering which of them would end up in jail today instead of on a plane. This morning there were scheduled flights to Berlin, Hamburg, the Norwegian capital of Oslo, the southern Swedish city of Malmö, and the Danish holiday island of Bornholm, so he could not be sure which of the passengers were destined for Stockholm.

There were only two women in the room: a young mother with two children, and a beautifully dressed older woman with white hair. The older woman could be the smuggler, Peter thought: her appearance might be intended to allay suspicion.

Three of the passengers wore German uniforms. Peter checked his list: his man was a Colonel von Schwarzkopf. Only one of the soldiers was a colonel. But it was wildly unlikely that a German officer would smuggle Danish underground newspapers.

All the others were men just like Peter, wearing suits and ties, holding their hats in their laps.

Trying to appear bored but patient, as if waiting for a flight, he watched everyone carefully, alert for signs that someone had sensed the imminent security check. Some passengers looked nervous, but that could just be fear of flying. Peter was most concerned to make sure no one tried to throw away a package, or conceal papers somewhere in the lounge.

Varde reappeared. Beaming as if delighted to see Peter again, he said, “All four passengers have checked in.”

“Good.” It was time to begin. “Tell them that Lufthansa would like to offer them some special hospitality, then take them to your office. I'll follow.”

Varde nodded and went to the Lufthansa desk. While he was asking the Stockholm passengers to come forward, Peter went to a pay phone, called Tilde, and told her all was ready for the raid. Varde led the group of four passengers away, and Peter tagged on to the little procession.

When they were assembled in Varde's office, Peter revealed his identity. He showed his police badge to the German colonel. “I'm acting under orders from General Braun,” he said to forestall protests. “He is on his way here and will explain everything.”

The colonel looked annoyed, but sat down without comment, and the other three passengers—the white-haired lady and two Danish businessmen—did the same. Peter leaned against the wall, watching them, alert for guilty behavior. Each had a bag of some kind: the old lady a large handbag, the officer a slim document case, the businessmen briefcases. Any of them could be carrying copies of an illegal newspaper.

Varde said brightly, “May I offer you tea or coffee while you're waiting?”

Peter checked his watch. The flight from Berlin was due now. He looked out of Varde's window and saw it coming in to land. The aircraft was a Junkers Ju-52 trimotor—an ugly machine, he thought: its surface was corrugated, like a shed roof, and the third engine, protruding from the nose, looked like the snout of a pig. But it approached at a remarkably low speed for such a heavy aircraft, and the effect was quite majestic. It touched down and taxied to the terminal. The door opened, and the crew threw down the chocks that secured the wheels when the aircraft was parked.

Braun and Juel arrived, with the four detectives Peter had chosen, while the waiting passengers were drinking the airport's ersatz coffee.

Peter watched keenly while his detectives emptied out the men's briefcases and the white-haired lady's handbag. It was quite possible the spy would have the illegal newspaper in hand baggage, he thought. Then
the traitor could claim he had brought it to read on the plane. Not that it would do him any good.

But the contents of the bags were innocent.

Tilde took the lady into another room to be searched, while the three male suspects removed their outer clothing. Braun patted down the colonel, and Sergeant Conrad did the Danes. Nothing was found.

Peter was disappointed, but he told himself it was much more likely that the contraband would be in checked baggage.

The passengers were allowed to return to the lounge, but not to board the aircraft. Their luggage was lined up on the apron outside the terminal building: two new-looking crocodile cases that undoubtedly belonged to the old lady, a duffel bag that was probably the colonel's, a tan leather suitcase, and a cheap cardboard one.

Peter felt confident he would find a copy of
Reality
in one of them.

Bent Conrad got the keys from the passengers. “I bet it's the old woman,” he murmured to Peter. “She looks like a Jew to me.”