The Informer (Sabotage Group BB) (5 page)

Nothing happens. It doesn’t fire.

It only clicks. The spring inside the clip must have been damaged when she dropped it. Shit!

She throws the pistol aside, holding up her hands.

The van stops, tires screaming. Both Hipo are instantly out of the van. The first one collects the Walther while the other kicks her in the stomach. Bending over, she drops to her knees and falls on her side. She hardly feels the next kick. She doesn’t hear the Hipo shout as he throws her to the ground, kneeing her back, pushing her face into the sidewalk; he cuffs her hands behind her back.

He hits the back of her head then kicks her sides, before pulling her back onto her feet, and presses her up against the wall. The Hipo is yelling in her face. Nose to nose. He’s got a vein pulsating on his forehead. Pressing the revolver to her chin, he calls her a murdering bitch—
those
words she does hear. His eyes are gray and bloodshot.

The sound of a gunshot shatters the air, and for a second, she almost believes she’s been shot. Then the Hipo releases his grip. Behind him the other Hipo is lying on the street, writhing and grabbing his stomach; his fingers are red.

“Helge!” the Hipo, who seconds ago had his gun pressed to her chin, is shouting as he searches frantically in all directions at the same time. An instant later, he is lying next to his friend with a hole in his forehead.

Alis K spots Willy standing down by the gateway holding a smoking gun in his hand. “Hurry,” she yells. “I’m handcuffed. The fat one has the keys.”

He turns to look at her. “Keys?”

“Yes, goddammit. Hurry!”

He runs up to the two Hipo. The one called Helge is still lying on the street squirming and grunting in pain until Willy shoots him twice in the face. Kneeling by the fat one who is obviously dead, he finds the keys in the pocket of the Hipo’s trousers and moves over to Alis K to release the handcuffs.

“The bicycles. Hurry! This place will be crawling with more Hipo in a matter of minutes. We didn’t get the man we came for. He’s probably calling for help right now. Get moving!”

“The bicycles are gone,” Poul-Erik says.

“What?”

“They are just gone. Maybe someone stole them.”

“No!”

“It has to be somebody living nearby. We haven’t been away for more than ten minutes,” he says.

“Forget it. We don’t have the time. We’ll take the van.” She bends down to pick up her Walther, then continues over to get the guns from the two dead Hipo.

“Won’t they be looking for the van?”

“Sure, they will.” She gets in behind the wheel. “Get in!”

He’s only just inside the car when she slams it into gear and floors the accelerator. The first bystanders are already gathering at the intersection.

She suddenly remembers the two dead bodies in the back of the van. “Are the doors in the back closed?”

“Yes.”

“Positive?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

She glances in the side mirror. Nobody is following. Going right at the next intersection, she heads for Norrebro. “Where did you learn to shoot like that?”

“Who me?

“Yes, you.”

“I’ve never touched a pistol before.”

“Liar.”

“No!”

Glancing at him from the corner of her eye, she drums the wheel in silence. He’s pale…visibly shaken. “That pistol I gave you is a piece of crap. You can’t hit anything with it, not at that distance.”

Staring at her with tears in his blinking eyes, he says, “I did.”

Holding her breath, she spots a gray BMW with the SS license plates turning out on the street in front of them. She removes her foot from the accelerator to slow the van and get some space between the two cars. There are two men in the BMW. One is talking on the radio. She looks in the side mirror. Should she make a turn? In front of them the BMW’s now stopped at an intersection. She steps on the brakes, pulling up behind the SS car.

She glances at Willy. Sweat is dripping from his nose despite the cold. He is falling apart. Everybody has a point where they can’t take anymore—and he’s only sixteen years old. She drums the wheel with the tip of her fingers again.

She decides to make a turn at the next intersection, taking Falkoner Allé instead. She follows the BMW as it starts moving again. Feeling her heart pounding inside her chest, she makes the turn with one eye glued to the side mirror. The SS car seems to be heading straight ahead. Willy’s teeth start to chatter. Backing up, the BMW turns right. After them.

“Hold on,” she says to Willy as the BMW comes rushing up behind them. “I think—”

Then suddenly the BMW pulls over next to a tobacco shop and the two SS officers step out of the car.

Unable to breathe, she keeps staring in the side mirror for a long time.

“We better walk the rest of way,” she says, parking the van on a quiet side street.

10

Sitting under the floor lamp in the living room, Grete Bach Sørensen is sewing upholstery for a pillow when the telephone starts ringing. Putting the needlework aside, she goes out in the hall to answer the phone.

“At Reverend Sorensen’s.”

“Can I please talk to the reverend?” A woman’s voice.

“No. I’m sorry, he is busy at the moment. May I ask who is calling?”

“Please give him this message: The flowers not delivered. Infected by weeds. Four dandelions broken. All buds intact.”

“Is it the florist? We didn’t order any—”

“The flowers not delivered. Infected by weeds. Four dandelions broken. All buds intact.” The woman is gasping for breath.

“Well, if you say so. I’ll give him the message.”

“Please repeat the message.”

“What?”

“Repeat the message, please.”

“The dandelions need water. The buds are broken, but the flowers are intact.”

“No-no. Do you have a pen and paper?”

“I am a little busy myself. Can it wait?”

“Now listen! This is very important! I am a close friend of Johannes!”

“You—”

“Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“Are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“The flowers not delivered. Infected by weeds. Four dandelions broken. All buds intact.”

Grete repeats the message without saying another word. The woman hangs up.

Staring at a spot on the tapestry for the next several minutes, Grete stands paralyzed beside the telephone. What is she going to do?

“Who was it?” Johannes is shouting from the toilet.

“Nobody,” she says.

She rushes back into the living room to continue sewing on her pillowcase. Working too quickly with the needle, she stabs her index finger. She wipes the tears from her eyes and licks the blood from her fingertip. She puts the needlework down on the table and heads out into the kitchen, where she moves some cans around before she goes to sit by the kitchen table, only to get up again instantly.

As she goes to the window to carefully lift the blackout curtains, she can hear the wind from outside. Unable to see anything but her own reflection, she lets the curtain fall back, and goes back to rearranging the cans.

11

Johannes can hear Grete rummaging about in the kitchen. The maid has the night off, so it can only be Grete.

He has had problems defecating for months, and he should, of course, see a doctor. However, it is too much of a risk to take. Having a collection of new scars on his body, he fears the doctor might start to wonder how he got them. If you are not sure whom you can trust, it is better not to trust anyone at all. The doctor could be an informer.

A fine scab has formed during the night on the gunshot wound from the hit on the
Super
garage. It has not bled that much. It is only a bit swollen and quite sore. It will be okay.

Careful not to touch the wound, he pulls up his trousers, fastens the belt, and flushes the toilet.

Grete is standing with her back to the kitchen sink looking at him as he makes his way into the kitchen. She’s crying. He halts, unable to decide what to do.

“Grete …” he says and stalls.

“Why is it we don’t have any children, Johannes?”

“That’s how the Lord wanted it to be.”

“The Lord?” She’s freezing. “I don’t believe in him anymore, Johannes. I just can’t.”

Unable to look at her, he scans the floor. There is a tiny bit of onion the maid must have dropped when she made dinner lying on the floorboards. He sighs deeply. Shrugs.

“I would have been so happy to give you children, Johannes.”

“I know. Don’t think about it. They make a mess and drag mud into the living room.”

She smiles, or at least tries. He puts his arms around her. Hiding herself inside his embrace, she starts sobbing like a baby.

Not understanding anything, he whispers, “Hush, hush,” into her hair.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” She untangles from his embrace to look at him.

“Of course I do.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Do you want me to tell you about it?” He frowns.

“Yes, tell me about the first time you saw me.”

“Grete …”

“Tell me.”

He thinks for a while. “Well, it was in Odense. You sang in the church choir. Your father had sent you off to serve in another reverend’s family. I studied theology at the university. I used to come to the church just to look at you. You were so beautiful. I felt all warm inside if I only got a glance of your smile. Those cute dimples.” He touches her cheeks softly.

“That wasn’t the first time.”

“It wasn’t?”

“No.”

“Oh, you’re thinking about the bakery. I remember your hands. You’ve always had beautiful hands.”

“I was there to pick up some bread for a funeral…” Even as she smiles, she looks tired, but the tears are gone. “Do you remember when it happened?”

“It must have been in the morning.”

“I meant the date.”

“Fall…definitely fall. I recall the yellowing leaves on the trees outside.”

“That was fifteen years ago last month.”

“Fifteen years?”

She goes to get the kettle. “Do you want a cup of coffee?”

“Sure.”

She lights a match and ignites the burners. “Fifteen years and no children, Johannes.” She fills water into the kettle and places it on the stove. Just standing there, she stares at the kettle.

“I haven’t finished writing my funeral eulogy for tomorrow,” Johannes says. “I’d better—”

“Johannes!”

“Listen, don’t think so much. It is not right for a woman. How is the pillowcase getting along?”

“The flowers not delivered. Infected by weeds. Four dandelions broken. All buds intact.”

“What are you saying?” He turns away to hide the expression on his face. This is not good. He is thinking faster than the German Messerschmitts can fly. Inside he’s shaking. He hopes it is only on the inside.

“A woman called on the telephone… She said she was a close friend of yours, Johannes.” She puts a hand on his shoulder. “What are you doing?”

He turns around. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“You were busy.”

“
But this was important, goddammit!
”

Stepping away from him, she turns to pour coffee into the coffee pot. “I’m so afraid,” she says. “I’ve got nothing left if I lose you.”

He’s getting a headache. Touches his forehead. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

“I know you too well,” she says without looking at him. “You can’t hide anything from me. You are involved with some kind of resistance group, and you have been for a long time. You think you’re so clever, but I can see right through you.”

He hides his shaking hands in his pockets. “I didn’t want to scare you. I was trying to protect you.”

The water boils. She kills the burner, lifting the kettle to pour the water into the coffee pot. “Now, you will tell me everything, Johannes,” she says calmly.

Shutting his eyes a couple of seconds, he fills his lungs. “That message you got for me was in code in case the operator was listening.”

She turns to look him in the eye. Strange as it might seem, she’s more beautiful than ever.

“Translated, it means, ‘The operation failed. The Germans or the Hipo was expecting them. Four bad guys dead, none of ours got hit.’”

She’s just standing there. He can see her throat move as she swallows something. Then she nods. “Continue.”

“It was the second time in a row they were expecting us. We’ve got an informer in our group.”

“Are the Germans coming here?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t know.”