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 Malmo, 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
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.”
“Just unlock the luggage,” Peter said.
Conrad opened all the bags and Peter began to search them, with Juel and Braun looking over his shoulders, and a crowd of people watching through the window of the departure lounge. He imagined the moment when he would triumphantly produce the newspaper and flourish it in front of everyone.
The crocodile cases were stuffed with expensive old-fashioned clothing, which he dumped on the ground. The duffel bag contained shaving tackle, a change of underwear, and a perfectly pressed uniform shirt. The businessman’s tan leather case held papers as well as clothing, and Peter looked through them all carefully, but there were no newspapers or anything suspicious.
He had left the cheap cardboard suitcase until last, figuring the less affluent businessman was the likeliest of the four passengers to be a spy.
The case was half-empty. It held a white shirt and a black tie, supporting the man’s story that he was going to a funeral. There was also a well-worn black Bible. But no newspaper.
Peter began to wonder despairingly if his fears had been well founded, and this was the wrong day for the raid. He felt angry that he had let himself be pushed into acting prematurely. He controlled his fury. He was not finished yet.
