I Can't Begin to Tell You (39 page)

He felt a sickening thud as he groped towards a conclusion.

‘It’s possible,’ he said at last. ‘Especially if the prisoners were being transferred from Aarhus. Vinegar operated there.’

He ran back over the events of that first drop. That funny, air-sick, brave little man. Vinegar going in first. Disappearing. The
stikker
on the loose. The rapid dispersal. If the Germans
had
captured Vinegar it would have been easy to run him. Why would the enemy not do so? Running an agent was a useful method with which to capture other agents and equipment, to snaffle up information and to transmit misleading intelligence back to London.

He added: ‘If Vinegar had been picked up by Danes working for the Germans when he first came in, he could have been fooled into thinking he was among friends and cooperated.’

At STS they had been warned about how this might happen.

They begin with friendly talk, good treatment, promises. They progress to maltreatment. Use everything you have to avoid third-degree interrogation. Weakened resistance can cause you to reveal all sorts of things.

Freya asked: ‘But London should have realized. Why didn’t they?’

‘You tell me.’ Felix knew his anger to be irrational, for it was easier said than done. ‘They assured me they had checked up on Vinegar.’

Freya helped herself to one of his cigarettes. ‘Why keep Vinegar alive?’

‘Possibly because they thought London would know his fist. They would assume that Vinegar’s records would be kept and consulted. They wouldn’t have wanted London taking fright and closing the transmitter down. In that way, they got information, masterminded any drops … you name it.’

He
spoke bitterly and she laid a hand on his. ‘Don’t waste your energy on anger.’

‘I am angry. Precisely at the waste.’

‘Felix …’ Her grip on his hand tightened. After a moment, she continued: ‘What I can’t bear is that he died more or less alone. I would have held his hand.’

Her expression reflected a kind of terror, which Felix understood – and shared. It was the fear of the void, the one where nothing was known or certain and an agent was abandoned by everyone to the misery, terror and torment of its nothingness. Warned to expect periods when it would attack him, he had found its corrosiveness shocking and enfeebling. So too … by the look of her … had Freya.

Regrets and sentiments were useless. ‘Freya … don’t.’ He got back to business. ‘The wireless transmitter?’

Freya lowered her voice. ‘The cottage. I used it to send one message after you left. Told them you were going dark.’

‘London got the message.’

She breathed out a sigh of relief. ‘That’s something.’

‘Freya … ?’

She knew and he knew they needed the wireless transmitter. No question. A trace of colour crept back into Freya’s cheeks as she weighed and measured the decision. ‘I’ll bring it to København.’

‘Freya, why do you do this? You of all people.’

Cigarette smoke curled between them. She tamped down the butt end of hers with a finger and a tiny fleck of tobacco clung to it. ‘Many complicated reasons. But, in the end, it’s simple, really. If I don’t, who will?’

Jacob slid into the café and the three of them sat under Mozart’s portrait, smoking and drinking beer and coffee.

Jacob reported on the twenty-four hours of intensive reconnaissance which had been mounted on the German Chamber of Commerce. ‘The concierge is one of us …’ he said,
nicotine-stained fingers curled around his glass. ‘But we have to rough him up and lock him in. He’s terrified his family will suffer. He knocks off at about six. So far, a night watchman hasn’t been posted. He let me take a look at the room.’ He downed a swig. ‘Full of stuff.’

It was good to be thinking of practical matters. ‘Right,’ Felix said. ‘Two vans and all the Stens and ammo we’ve got. We need lookouts, cover outside the building, plus a rifle with telescopic sights for the sniper. The weapons must be hidden in the area a couple of days ahead.’

Jacob tackled a second beer. Two days ago he had been on Funen, instructing a group in sabotage, and his voice was hoarse from the shouting. He didn’t approve of this operation. ‘What are we doing wasting lives on this one?’

A speck of foam clung to his upper lip and Freya leaned over and wiped it away. ‘Beer moustache.’ It was a fleeting moment of camaraderie and affection.

‘Better by far to blow up the railways and stop Fritz using Denmark as a transport hub,’ he said.

Felix ignored him. He found a pencil and paper and drew a diagram. ‘Opposite the annex, is the commercial college. We need a couple of machine guns to cover that as well.’

‘You don’t ask much,’ said Jacob.

They settled on the time of operation, and the routes, lookouts and the getaway.

The sceptical Jacob repeated: ‘What’s the point of getting killed or wounded for a load of papers when we could be blowing up a bridge?’

Felix grinned at Jacob. ‘Your moment in the sun is coming. London has instructed us to step up the sabotage.’

Jacob snorted.

Before she left, Freya whispered, ‘Do something for me, Felix. If you can.’

‘If I can …’

Her
mouth twisted painfully. ‘If you see a file on Eberstern – on my husband – will you destroy it?’

Four days later.

6.00 p.m.

The sky was a uniform grey and darkening. At the north end of the Saxogade three men in dark clothing drifted into the doorways and took up positions.

6.05 p.m.

Chatting and smoking, ten men wearing loose overcoats strolled into the street from the Matthåusgade and spread out along the road. A large grey van drew up behind them.

More men appeared.

Sitting in the cab beside the driver, a raw-boned giant from the docks, was Felix, balaclava pulled down over his face. He counted up the men. He was expecting seventeen. All there. Good.

6.07 p.m.

In a headscarf and nondescript mackintosh, Freya walked down the street towards the annex. Outside, she stopped and retied the scarf under her chin. Then she bent down to fasten her shoelace.

It was the signal that it was clear.

6.09 p.m.

One of the men sprinted up the steps into the annex building, ran through the door and took up position at a first-floor window.

6.10 p.m.

The men who had waited in the doorways now approached from the other end of the street and covered the commercial college with the guns that they pulled from under their overcoats.

6.13 p.m.

A second grey van rounded the corner and parked by the entrance to the Chamber of Commerce. The men took out their weapons and trained them on the street.

6.15
p.m.

Felix leaped down from the van. Freya, Jacob and six others materialized from doorways and followed him, one of them peeling off to deal with the caretaker. The rest ran with him up to the first-floor archive room, where the leading man shot out the lock of the double doors. Guns levelled, they advanced into a room where boxes were stacked in rows, neatly labelled in German script.

Jacob whistled. ‘There’s too much.’

Felix checked over the nearest boxes. ‘Form a chain. Take the Roneo as well.’

They worked in silence and at top speed. Felix had calculated on half an hour, max.

6.45 p.m.

A siren sounded in the distance.

‘Time to go,’ said Felix. ‘Now.’

He watched as the final box was hefted into the back of the van and the doors banged shut. The second van ground its gears. Tyres spun. Freya and the team melted away up the street.

Felix swung himself up into the first van. The driver drove cautiously along the street and headed south over the Langebrø bridge. In the distance, sirens screamed. Felix turned round to take a look. So far, so good.

The driver drove fast but competently. He seemed an unflappable sort. ‘What are you going to do with this lot?’

‘Hide it. After the war we’ll send it to the official archives,’ said Felix.

Once over the river, they drove down the Amager Boulevard before turning right into a network of streets. They were heading for a gateway that led into a yard with a warehouse on one side. As they approached, the doors opened and the vans drove straight into the warehouse, one after the other. The doors smacked shut. The driver gave a thumbs-up to Felix. ‘That was good.’

The warehouse was stacked with barrels, boxes and sacks of
concrete. Six men, who had been waiting for their arrival, threw away their cigarettes and got to work.

Two of them changed the number plates on the vans and sprayed the words ‘Kraft’s Electricians’ on the sides. The remainder of the men concentrated on unloading and stacking the boxes behind the barrels.

Felix gave the vans the once-over. ‘Fine,’ he said.

Within a short time, the drivers had backed them out of the warehouse and were away.

The final box stowed, the men dispersed with instructions to take different routes back to the city centre.

Felix’s balaclava was sodden with his sweat but he waited until the last man had left before removing it. All was quiet, the place stank of paint, but he allowed himself a moment’s satisfaction at the success of the operation.

Picking up the nearest box file to hand, he rifled through it.

Immaculate. If this was the calibre and organization of the intelligence then it would be a big, creamy piece of cake to piece together a trail of information. He read on. German nationals living in Denmark were sending streams of business intelligence to Berlin – so far, so predictable. More surprising was the tally – and it was a sizeable tally – of Danish firms who were falling over each other to be appointed suppliers to Germany. Letters from them, plus letters from young men volunteering to undertake unpaid work in Germany in order to prepare for ‘the new post-war Europe’, letters begging for preference … They were all present in file after file.

Felix hunted on and unearthed a card index, which he set down on a box. Brushing a finger over the cards, he watched them waterfall forwards and backwards, revealing a fulsome
dramatis personae
of businessmen, bankers, landowners and farmers, together with the numbers of their files. Then, as he knew he would do because of Freya … because of Eva … he tamped down on the letter E.

Eberstern. Green file 257
.

Time was short. Why should he bother? What on earth was it to him?

Shuffling through the boxes marked E, he retrieved file number 257. Stapled into it was the Declaration which bore the signature of Bror Eberstern.

He skimmed over it. Now he understood what Freya wanted.

War had taught him about … oh, hatred, vendetta, but also about the surprising modesty of some, and the heroism of others who were prepared to lose everything. Its uncertainties and violence had also taught him friendship – his friendship with Freya – which was why he was now going to take possession of this incriminating document.

Folding the certificate into a square, he slipped it down inside one of his socks and stowed the file back in the box.

War had made him love his country. It had also caused him to burn with longing for … Eva … who had held him fast in the fish hold of a bucking ship. It had given him intense emotional experiences. In its aftermath … if …
if
… he survived, he would give thanks for such inner grace.

Time to go
.

At the far end of the warehouse there was movement in the shadows.

A
stikker
? One of his men come back to check up?

Felix reached for his pistol and ducked behind the boxes.

Don’t blink. Wait.

‘Felix?’ Odin materialized out of the shadow. He was dressed in a suit, with a light cashmere overcoat, shoes of the best quality and a hat pulled low over his face.

He had been right. This man didn’t entirely add up.

‘How did you get here?’ Felix was curt.

‘I followed the convoy and waited.’

‘A word of advice.’ Felix put the pistol away. ‘Don’t creep up on me. I shoot first.’

Odin
shoved his hands into his pockets. ‘What were you looking for, Felix?’

‘None of your business.’

Odin pointed to the squat shape of the card index. ‘That’s what I’ve been sent for. Our chaps will keep it safely hidden.’

Was he after something else?

Odin moved closer and Felix caught a blast of alcohol. ‘Motives are not always straightforward. They may be the right motives but they are not straightforward.’

‘Since you’re here,’ said Felix, ‘help me drag the tarpaulins over the boxes. This lot would be better hidden.’

Odin glanced down at his expensive clothes and sighed. ‘In war it’s necessary to make sacrifices.’

With some difficulty, they manoeuvred the tarpaulins into place. Spotting a half-empty bag of concrete power, Felix took a fistful and scattered it over the tarpaulins.

Good. They looked as though they had been there, untouched, for months.

Odin brushed down his lapel. Then, without warning, he reached over and patted Felix’s pockets.

In reply, Felix’s hands clamped down on Odin’s. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

‘Have you been snaffling information?’

‘Fuck off, Odin.’

‘You know as well as I do that everyone’s in it for themselves.’

Felix increased the pressure of his grip. ‘While we are asking questions, are you here to “check up on the family”, as you put it?’

Odin looked down at Felix’s hands. ‘Get off me.’

Felix pushed him away.

Wiping his hands on a handkerchief, Odin said, ‘Let’s do a deal, Felix. You let me have half an hour here and I’ll do my best to see that the dogs are called off Freya.’

Felix whipped out the pistol from his pocket. ‘Get out.’

‘You’re
missing a trick, Felix.’

Who could one trust? Did it matter any more?

Felix calculated. He didn’t want trouble which would draw attention to the warehouse. Also, Odin was an important link and it would be cleverer, more constructive, to let him have his head and to keep an eye on him.

‘Maybe.’ Felix dropped the pistol back into his pocket.