The Informer (Sabotage Group BB) (14 page)

Soon after, they go up the staircase to the first floor and sneak into the apartment. It has two small rooms and a tiny kitchen. There is nobody home…as arranged. They do not switch on the light. Borge goes straight for the bedroom, gently pulling the blackout curtains to catch a quick glance down the backyard at the Brink’s Sewing Factory in the next building.

“No Germans,” he whispers.

“Because there’s no ambush.” Alis K slips over by his side. “It’s not him, he’s not the rat. I just know it.”

“The great expert of the human soul, I see.” Jens is in no mood for her crap. He goes into the living room to scan the cabinets. Nothing of interest. His nose is dripping. He wipes it with the back of his hand. The handkerchief is soaked anyway. You can hear the radio from next door through the thin walls. BBC.

BB enters the living room. “What are you doing?”

“Just looking around.” He takes a stuffed pigeon from a shelf.

“Do you think Willy’s our rat?”

“We’ll find out soon enough. He makes a damn good bet if you ask me. Who else could it be? Her, the hooker, Alis K? But then, why hasn’t the Gestapo been at your place?”

“She’d sell your ass out before mine, I think.”

“But she doesn’t know the location of my hideout.”

“Borge?”

“He’s too damned obsessed with being a hero. I don’t think so. If it isn’t the boy, it has got to be someone in our proximity. Not one of us, but someone we trust. Or at least one that one of us trusts.”

“Like last year with Robert, the porter at the state hospital?”

“Exactly. One of us trusts the wrong person.”

BB takes the pigeon out of his hands and puts it back on the shelf. “My wife found out. She’s been suspicious for a while. In the end, I had to tell her about us…the Sabotage Group BB.”

Jens gives him the eye. “That sucks, BB. Can she handle it?”

“I’m not sure. I might have to quit doing this.”

“Seems a wise thing to do.” He puts a hand on BB’s shoulder. “It really sucks. It wouldn’t be the same without you, but I think you should consider pulling out. Most often the wife knowing means a lot of trouble. Women talk. They can’t help it.”

BB sighs. “You’re probably right. What about you? Seen your family lately?”

“Magda don’t give a shit if I live or die.”

“She might.”

Wiping his nose, Jens goes out into the kitchen. It’s filthy as hell. A mountain of dirty dishes. Something dark that might once have been food on the floor. The place stinks like old waste. At least his wife Magda keeps the house clean.

“Shit! They’re here!” Borge says from the bedroom. “The Germans. They’re here. There’s a soldier hiding down the basement shaft.”

Jens goes to the kitchen window, sliding a finger under the blackout curtain to lift it carefully. He can’t see the basement shaft from this window. But, he can see something else. “Look at the truck,” he says.

“What about it?” Alis K asks from the bedroom.

BB enters the kitchen, but does not find any room for him at the small window. He won’t be able to see for himself.

“The tarpaulin is unfastened. The truck sways a little…from time to time. Now! Did you see it?”

“Sure. There’s somebody in the back of that truck.”

“With one of their heavy mounted machine guns. Those things we know a little too well.” BB sighs. “For some reason, I was hoping he wasn’t the informer.”

“Me too,” Alis K says. “Me too.”

“What do we do?” Borge enters the kitchen. “Do we take him out tonight?”

“And you gave him the Sten gun! Feeling happy about that now? If he suspects his cover is blown, he can take us all out in one big sway of that gun.”

“I know, but what do we do?”

“I’ll go back alone,” Alis K says. “I’ll get him on a boat to Sweden tonight. I’ve got connections. It’ll be possible. He can’t hurt anybody in Sweden.”

“I’d rather have him shot.” Borge looks down the floor. “I don’t want that little prick walking away from this. We’re the heroes, goddammit.”

“Can you kill him, Alis K?” BB asks, taking her hand.

“Of course I can.”

The place is deathly quiet the next few minutes.

BB finally breaks the silence. “We’ve better stay put until the Germans are gone. I think it’ll be safer.”

“Agreed.” Jens nods his head and returns to the living room to sit in the couch. “I guess we can turn the lights on now.”

30

Oil is slowly dripping from the engine of the German military truck parked at the ramp in the back of Brink’s Sewing Factory where the fabricated uniforms are loaded onto trucks and horse wagons in the daytime. But, this truck has the front against the ramp, not the back. One of the front tires has got a dent. It is loosing its tire pressure.

There is a heavy machine gun in the back of the truck. A MG42 loaded with a belt of ammunition. Two German soldiers from the Waffen-SS are sitting behind the machine gun, waiting. The loose tarpaulin is silently swinging from side to side. The machine gun can fire up to twelve hundred rounds a minute. The number one problem using this weapon is that you might end up having used an enormous amount of ammunition in no time. One of the soldiers shifts his weight. Sitting like that, all still and waiting, makes your legs go numb. The truck sways a little. The springs are old and worn. The truck is an old wreck.

Back here, the fog is not as thick as out in the street. It is more like waving cotton threads or tangled spider web. Time is standing still.

Several soldiers are waiting down the basement shaft as well as inside the factory elevator and behind the ramp gate, ready for the signal.

The signal will be given by the Gestapo, who have two officers at the scene, both wearing SS uniforms. Long, black coats, and skulls on their caps. One has an eye patch and a nasty scar going down the side of his face.

The two Gestapo officers are inside a dark office in the building—which is also housing Brink’s Sewing Factory—sitting in silence, as they too wait. The office belongs to a bookkeeper, who only too willing to let the Gestapo use the premises. Not that he had any choice.

The office is located at the ground floor and has a direct view to the gate, which offers the only way into the backyard.

In a matter of minutes, the complete core of the Sabotage Group BB will come in through that gate. This time they will not escape. They will be allowed to get almost all the way to the factory elevator before the signal is given; they’ll be gunned down, leaving no survivors.

There is coffee on the table. A minor Gestapo luxury—real coffee. Sadly, it is impossible to smoke. The glow from the cigarettes could be seen through the windows even if they had smoked in the back of the office.

Time goes by so slowly. They should have been here by now. He starts to hum a melody inside his head, he’s feeling homesick.

Spotting a movement by the gate, he frowns and glances at the other Gestapo officer who shrugs. Confused.

One person is coming in the gate, only one person, not a group. It is a man. Walking casually with his hands down the pockets of his overcoat, the cap pushed all the way to the back of his head, he is impossible to recognize in the dark, looking like a moving shadow.

Taking the radio to give the signal, the Gestapo officer hesitates, looking back at his colleague, grimacing. What do we do?

The man stops to look around in the middle of the backyard. Takes his cap off. Maybe he is not one of the saboteurs; maybe he is just a simple fool who has picked the wrong backyard to pee in. Something like this always happens when you have set up an ambush.

The man moves towards the truck. They can hear the sound of his steps. Everything is all quiet, it is like the whole world is holding its breath, waiting for this guy to get out of there. Reaching the truck, he stops to unbutton his overcoat.

The two Gestapo officers sigh with relief, smiling to each other. “He just needs to pee,” the first one whispers, putting down the radio.

“What if the saboteurs come while he’s standing there pissing on our truck?”

“Then he’s in trouble.”

Quiet giggle. “More coffee?”

In that exact instant, the silence is broken by the crackling noise from a submachine gun.

31

“What the fuck was that?” Jens shouts from the living room. Alis K is looking into BB’s blue eyes in search for an answer, only finding confusion, fear, and horror. Another volley from the submachine gun outside in the backyard. A man screaming in pain, wailing, crying. Then a new volley. Then silence.

“Kill the goddamn lights!” Borge yells from the bedroom.

“Let’s get out of here.” Sticking his head in the kitchen door, Jens glances at Alis K and BB, nodding his head back towards the front door. “Get moving.”

“Kill the lights,
now
!” Borge is shouting.

BB frowns. “Why don’t we stay until we know what’s happening out there?”

“It’s not our problem, BB.” Jens buttons his overcoat. “I am out of here. Whatever’s going on out there, it’s none of our business. It’d be a meaningless waste to get killed just because some fucked up fifteen-year-old German soldier with his nerves on high alert mistook one of the ally cats for a saboteur.”

Behind Jens, Borge runs into the living room killing the lights. Someone starts shouting in German out in the backyard. It is followed by the hollow hammering from the machine gun hidden in the back of the truck. Screams. More shooting. Smaller weapons. Submachine guns, rifles. The constant racket from the heavy machine gun firing. BB says something, but the noise drowns his words. The kitchen window shatters. Bullets and pieces of glass flying around their ears. BB pulls Alis K along, down on the floor, maybe saving her life. The lamp explodes, the kitchen gets dark.

The front door slams. Jens is gone.

They crawl to the bedroom where Borge is tearing the blackout curtain from the window.

“It’s Willy,” he gasps, diving away from the window. “That boy’s insane!”

“What?” BB is over by the window, sliding up against the wall. Alis K rises to her feet. Not thinking, she just stands there right in the window—an easy target—staring at Willy sitting behind the mounted heavy machine gun in the back of the truck shooting like a maniac. Dead Germans everywhere. Willy is now aiming at one of the basement shafts in the building they are standing in. She can almost see the mad twinkle inside his eyes. She has herself believing that she can even see him smile. She is paralyzed, unable to really believe what she is seeing. Two soldiers are moving down the right side of the truck. Both carrying MP40 submachine guns. They step away from the truck, pointing their weapon at the tarpaulin covering the back of the truck.

Then the noise from the heavy machine gun all of a sudden stops. She stares as Willy begins messing with the machine gun, trying to load a new belt of ammunition into the weapon.

Looking at each other, the soldiers next to the truck hesitate as Borge steps in front of the window, holding Willy’s Danish military pistol in both hands, firing two rapid shots through the window glass. Off target. The soldiers turn their weapons at him. He fires again, desperate now, but the pistol is empty—clicking aimlessly. Then the Germans start shooting. Alis K throws herself down on the floor, as the German bullets smash the window, ripping up the woodwork, hitting Borge in the chest, making him shake violently for a couple of eternal seconds. Then he falls to the floor.

Alis K crawls to him. BB is shooting out the window. More shots slam into the ceiling, sprinkling the room in clouds of plaster dust. She can hear herself moan, can’t help it, can’t stop it. Borge is bleeding terribly. He has been hit in the chest at least four times. Blood seeps from his nose. He looks at her and blinks. She touches his cheek. He tries to speak, but she can’t hear his word. She can’t hear anything. The world is gone, there are only the two of them left even as BB fires out the window again, yelling at Willy. That is all in another world. It’s got nothing to do with her. She puts her ear to Borges lips.

“I’m cold,” he gasps.

Alis K is feeling dizzy. She pulls up the collar of her white blouse, which isn’t really that white anymore. She should be trying to stop the bleeding, but there are so many wounds, and she doesn’t know what to do. She hasn’t felt this helpless in years.

Pulling the blanket from the bed, she uses it to comfort Borge. What to do now? He will die if she doesn’t do the right thing, but what is the right thing to do? The blood is soaking through the blanket almost instantly. Putting a hand on top of the largest bloodstain, she presses down on the wound, but she can’t tell if it does any good. Besides, there are four quickly growing bloodstains on the blanket and she has only got two hands.

“I’m out of ammo!” BB shouts from the window. “Give me your gun!”

She doesn’t even look at him.

“Your gun,
now
!”

“But Borge—”

“Your gun!” BB crawls to her and rips the small Walther PPK from her purse. She grabs his arm, staining his clothes.