a particular report. It was the same story in each newspaper, Peter saw: an account of the butter shortage in Denmark, blaming the Germans for taking it all. The newspapers were the
Juel said, “We know most of the people who produce these homemade newspapers.” He spoke in a tone of languid assurance that irritated Peter. You might imagine, from his manner, that it was he, not his famous ancestor, who had defeated the Swedish navy at the battle of Koge Bay. “We could pick them all up, of course. But I’d rather leave them alone and keep an eye on them. Then, if they do something serious like blowing up a bridge, we’ll know who to arrest.”
Peter thought that was stupid. They should be arrested now, to
Braun said, “That might have been acceptable when their activities were confined to Denmark. But this story has gone all over the world! Berlin is furious. And the last thing we need is a clampdown. We’ll have the damned Gestapo stamping all over town in their jackboots, stirring up trouble and throwing people in jail, and God knows where it will end.”
Peter was gratified. The news was having the effect he wanted. “I’m already working on this,” he said. “All these American newspapers got the story from the Reuters wire service, which picked it up in Stockholm. I believe the
“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.
