‘We’ll be entering the harbour any minute now.’
Axel jumped at the sound of Elof’s dry voice behind him. He hadn’t heard him approach.
‘I’ll slip ashore as soon as we dock. I’ll be gone about an hour.’
Elof nodded. ‘Be careful, boy,’ he said, giving Axel one last look before he went astern to take over the helm.
Ten minutes later Axel took a good look around before he climbed up on to the wharf. He caught a glimpse of German uniforms in all directions on shore, but most of the soldiers seemed to be busy checking the boats. He felt his pulse quicken but forced himself to assume the same nonchalant air as the seamen who were going about their business loading and unloading the ships. He wasn’t carrying anything this time. The purpose of this trip was to pick something up. Axel didn’t know what was in the document that he’d been asked to smuggle back to Sweden. And he didn’t want to know. All he knew was the name of the recipient.
His instructions were quite clear. The man he was looking for would be standing at the far end of the harbour, wearing a blue cap and brown shirt. Keeping an alert eye on his surroundings, Axel approached the corner of the harbour where the man was supposed to be. So far it was all going to plan; he passed among the fishermen unnoticed by the Germans until he caught sight of a man who fit the description. He was stacking crates and seemed completely focused on the job. Axel headed towards him, careful not to shift his gaze or cast furtive glances – that would be like painting a target on his chest.
When he was almost level with the man, who appeared not to have spotted him, Axel picked up the closest crate and added it to a stack. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his contact drop something on the ground next to the crates. Leaning down to pick up a crate, Axel first snatched up the rolled paper and stuffed it into his pocket. The handover had been successfully made, even though he and the man hadn’t yet exchanged a single glance.
Relief flooded through his veins. The handover was always the most critical moment. Once that was accomplished, there was much less risk that…
‘
The German commands came out of nowhere. Axel cast a surprised look at the man next to him, whose shamefaced expression told him what was going on. It was a trap. Either the entire assignment had been staged in order to capture him, or else the Germans had come across information about what was in play and forced those involved to help them set the trap. The Gestapo had probably been watching him from the moment he stepped ashore until the delivery was completed. And the document was now burning a hole in his pocket. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. The game was up.
Chapter 13
A loud knock on the door interrupted his morning ritual. Each morning the same routine. First shower. Then shave. Then he’d make breakfast, consisting of two eggs, a slice of rye bread with butter and cheese, and a big cup of coffee. Always the same breakfast, which he would eat in front of the TV. Another knock on the door. Annoyed, Frans got up and went to open it.
‘Hi, Frans.’ His son was standing on the doorstep with that harsh look in his eye that had become so familiar.
Frans could no longer remember a time when everything had been different. But he had to accept what he couldn’t change, and this was one of those things. Only in his dreams would he feel that small hand holding his; a faint memory from a time long, long ago.
With a barely audible sigh he moved aside to let his son come in.
‘Hi, Kjell,’ he said. ‘What brings you here today to visit your old father?’
‘Erik Frankel,’ said Kjell coldly, glaring at his father as if expecting a particular reaction.
‘I’m in the middle of breakfast. Come on in.’
Kjell followed him into the living room, taking a good look around. He’d never been inside the flat before.
Frans didn’t bother to offer his son coffee. He knew in advance what his response would be.
‘So, what’s this about Erik Frankel?’
‘I suppose you know he’s dead.’ It was a statement, not a question.
Frans nodded. ‘Yes, I heard that old Erik was dead. It’s a shame.’
‘Is that your sincere opinion? That it’s a shame?’ Kjell stared at his father, and Frans knew full well what was in his mind. He hadn’t come over as a son but as a journalist.
Frans took his time before answering. There was so much roiling below the surface. So many memories. But these were things he would never tell his son. Kjell wouldn’t understand. He’d condemned his father long ago, and now they stood on opposite sides of a wall so high that it was impossible to peer over the top. Frans knew he was largely the one to blame. Kjell hadn’t seen much of his father, the old jailbird, when he was a child. His mother had brought him along to the prison a few times, but the sight of that little face, filled with questions, in the cold, inhospitable visitors’ room had made Frans harden his heart and forbid any more visits. He’d thought he was doing what was best for the boy. Maybe he’d been wrong, but it was too late to do anything about it now.
‘Yes, I’m sorry that Erik’s dead. We knew each other when we were young, and I have only good memories of Erik. Later we went our separate ways…’ Frans threw out his hands. He didn’t need to explain to Kjell. The two of them knew all there was to know about taking separate paths.
‘But that’s not true. According to my source, you had contact with Erik later on. And Sweden’s Friends have shown an interest in the Frankel brothers. You don’t mind if I take notes, do you?’ Kjell made a show of setting his notepad on the table, giving his father a defiant look as he put pen to paper.
Frans shrugged and waved his hand dismissively. He didn’t feel like playing this game any more. There was so much anger inside Kjell, and he could feel every ounce of it. It was the same all-consuming rage that had afflicted Frans ever since he could remember, landing him in trouble and destroying the things he held dear. His son had found a way to channel his anger, venting it upon politicians and leaders of industry in the newspaper column which bore his byline. Though they’d chosen opposite sides of the political spectrum, father and son had much in common. They shared the same capacity to hate, the same burning anger. That was what had made Frans feel so at home with the prison’s Nazi sympathizers during his first jail sentence. He’d understood the hatred that drove them. And they’d welcomed him because they viewed his anger as an asset, proof of his strength. Plus he was good at debating the issues – thanks to his father, who had schooled him in rhetoric. Belonging to the jail’s Nazi gang had given him status and power; by the time he left prison he’d grown into the role. It was no longer possible to differentiate him from his opinions. His politics defined him. He had a feeling that the same was true of Kjell.
‘Where were we?’ Kjell glanced down at his notepad, which was still blank. ‘Oh, right. Apparently you’ve been in contact with Erik.’
‘Only for the sake of our old friendship. Nothing significant. And nothing that could be linked to his death.’
‘So you say,’ replied Kjell, ‘but it’s up to others to determine whether it’s true or not. What sort of contact did you have? Did you threaten him?’
Frans snorted. ‘I don’t know where you got your information from, but I never threatened Erik Frankel. You’ve written enough about people who share my views to know that there are always a few… hotheads who can’t think rationally. All I did was to warn Erik about the risks.’
‘People who share your views,’ said Kjell with a scorn that verged on loathing. ‘You mean those lunatic throwbacks who think they can seal Sweden’s borders.’
‘Call them what you will,’ said Frans wearily. ‘But I didn’t threaten Erik Frankel. And now I’d appreciate it if you’d leave.’
For a brief moment it looked as if Kjell might refuse. Then he stood up, leaned over his father, and fixed his eyes on him.
‘You were no father to me, and I can live with that. But I swear if you drag my son any deeper into this than you’ve already done, I’ll…’ He clenched his hands into fists.
