The Informer (Sabotage Group BB) (17 page)

He screams in pain, pulling away as she grabs an empty bottle ready to slam it into his face.

BB stops her. “That’s enough.”

Cursing her, Jens spits on the burn on his hand.

Alis K scrapes ice off the window glass, looking out the garden. “I’ve got to go, BB. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. If he hasn’t confessed by then, I think we need to get nasty.”

BB shrugs. “Maybe, you’re right. Let’s see what happens.”

She buttons her coat, ties the scarf around her head, and leaves.

They sit in silence, listening to the sound of her footsteps moving away down the garden path.

“Fucking bitch!”

“You asked for it yourself.”

“She’s got German customers, you are aware of that, right?”

“So what?”

“Never trust a hooker, Johannes.”

“Alis K’s all right.”

“Really?”

“At least she’s not the one who disappears every time the shit is about to hit the fan.”

Jens licks his teeth. “Are you going to torture me?”

“We’ve been through a lot, the two of us. Maybe I’ll be able to get you to Sweden if you confess to me.”

“I’m not the one, BB.”

Silence.

“I could take you out now. I’m bigger than you. You wouldn’t be able to stop me.”

“Only you won’t. It would be the same as to confess. We’ll come after you. The other groups would also be involved. Sooner or later, you will get killed.”

“I am not the informer.”

“Everything is pointing at you.”

“What exactly is pointing at me?”

“What? You can’t be serious.”

“I am. Let’s take it from the top.”

“You left your post at the action against the
Super
garage.”

“No, I didn’t. I dropped my revolver. The hammer was damaged. I was of no use without a weapon.”

“I’ve got your revolver right here. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“That’s because that’s not the same gun. I got a new one. The old revolver is at the bottom of the harbor.” He shrugs. “Borge saw the damaged hammer.”

“Borge?”

“Sure.”

BB shakes his head.

“I know, I know. Dead witnesses saw nothing.”

“How did your neighbor manage to look through these windows? They’re all covered in ice.”

“Not this morning, they weren’t.”

“It’s colder in the morning.”

“Might be so. Still, there wasn’t this much ice on the windows this morning. That’s all I can say.”

“You were pretty eager to leave last night when the shooting started at the factory?”

“Well, I figured, we had unveiled our informer. There’s no reason to fight the entire German army. We’d got what we came for.”

“I still think it’s you.”

“Sure, that hooker has you all mixed up.”

Silence.

“Actually, my neighbor did go around the house looking through the windows. I don’t think it’s safe staying here too long.”

Silence.

“I’m not a rat.”

Silence.

“I’m not a rat.”

Silence.

“Alis K was the first to point the finger at me, right?”

“Might have been.”

“Of course she was. She hates the police. I know I would if I was a hooker, but think about it. She’s a hooker, goddammit. She’s got German customers. I’ve checked up on her. I check up on everybody. That’s part of my job in this group. Why do you think Borge came to me when he suspected Willy being the informer? Come on, you know all this, BB. I have checked up on the boy. His dad’s in Germany. Of course, we’d be suspecting him.”

“I know.”

“Alis K’s got German customers, BB.”

“Maybe…but what informer would dare to kill as many Germans as she has killed the last week?”

“You’ve got a point.”

“You are the sole member of this group who hasn’t killed any Germans lately.”

Jens presses the hand with the burn up against the ice on the window behind him to ease the pain.

37

“I’m sorry, but you can’t stay here,” Grete says, drinking her coffee. “It’s too dangerous. It’s as simple as that.”

Poul-Erik is not trembling anymore, but this is even worse. His eyes are red, but he hasn’t been crying. Not even when he told her how he had killed his father with a chair, unable to stop hitting him. His mother yelling at him as he ran out the door and away from his father’s dead body—away from the smashed face. Away from it all.

Now he is sitting here. Pale and silent. Dead eyes. “I need to go to Sweden.”

She nods her head. “And you will. Johannes will take care of it, like he promised.”

“Who?”

“My husband, Johannes. Oh…BB. BB will take care of it.”

He stares at the table.

“Drink your coffee,” she says, starting to clear the table. “BB will meet you tonight at exactly half past six on the corner of Osterbrogade and Jagtvej as he said. He’ll be there. He won’t let you down. Can you manage until then?”

“Sure.”

She dries her hands in a dishcloth, looking out the window. It is a good thing that this was the maid’s day off. The clock in the living room starts chiming.

38

“How’s your wife?”

“My wife?”

“My wife?”

“Yes.” Jens strikes a match to light up a new cigarette. “How’s she doing?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I’ve got something I want to show you.”

“What’s that? Now don’t pull any tricks on me, Verner!”

“It’s in the suitcase.” Nods his head towards it, not taking his watery eyes from Johannes. “You can get it yourself. It’s in the brown envelope under the pants.”

Johannes looks at the suitcase. For some reason, he doesn’t feel right about this. “What is it?”

“You want me to get it?” Jens says, slowly getting up.

Johannes puts his hand back into the coat pocket, grabbing a hold of the pistol. He has got a very bad feeling about this. “What is it you want to show me?”

“A photo. I’ll get it.”

“Get it.”

Jens moves around the table to the suitcase on the floor. Johannes can smell him, a heavy and sour smell. He puts his finger on the trigger. Not really believing Jens is going to do anything stupid; still, sensing something is not right, Johannes stares at his broad back as he bends over the suitcase fetching a brown envelope.

“You want a drink?” Jens asks, placing the envelope on the table. “I don’t know about you, but I’m freezing my ass off in this damned cardboard house.”

“What is it you want to show me?”

Jens sighs, putting a hand inside the envelope. “This is my file on one of the worst Hipo, Einar Hovgaard. This envelope contains all the material I’ve collected about him. He’s the one Alis K and Willy should’ve killed the other day. I gathered most of this material myself. The only thing missing is a photograph of the man himself. I gave that to Alis K so she could be sure they got the right man.” Reaching down to get a bottle of schnapps from one of the boxes, he fills two small glasses, as he speaks. “I don’t care, BB. We need to stay warm.”

Johannes agrees.

“I broke into Einar Hovgaard’s apartment the week before we tried to kill him. I wanted to have a look. Thought maybe he’d have something lying about that might be of interest. Something like a list of their informers or whatever. I always do that. He’d been hoarding sugar, cocoa, coffee, tea, when it was still available. You should’ve have seen the pantry.”

“Get to the point.”

“Take it easy.”

“Verner, if this is some kind of subtle attempt to blame somebody else then…”

“I am not an informer.”

Draining his glass, Johannes stares in dread as Jens pulls a photograph from the envelope and hands it to him.

“How did you get that?”

“From a drawer in the Hipo’s desk. He had quite a collection, all with the same model. I only took this one.”

“This…how did he get them? How?”

“What do I know?”

“But…” The photo shows a playful and very young Grete. It was shot in Odense. He recognizes the train station behind his smiling wife. You can see the smoke from a locomotive in the air above the station. Grete’s standing in the middle of the street, looking so young and happy. He flips the photo to find words written in blue ink on the back:
Thinking of you…G
.

He drops the photograph, staring at Jens.

“You might want to have a chat with your wife.”

“Why haven’t you told me this before?”

“Hell, why should I? It didn’t have to mean anything. The picture must be twenty years old.”

“Fifteen.”

“Right.” He pours himself another schnapps. “You didn’t know about this?”

“No.”

“When did she find out about you being a saboteur?”

“She… Oh no! This can’t be true!”

“I am sorry, BB. I am really sorry.”

“What should I do?”

“Go home, talk to her.”

“What if…”

“Well, there’s always Sweden.”

“Sweden? Hell, I forgot! I need to get the boy to Sweden tonight. I’m to meet him at half past six at the corner of Osterbrogade and Jagtvej.”

“I’ll take care of that. Now, go home…talk to your wife.”

Johannes nods his head. “I think I’d better.”

A moment later, he is on his bicycle, heading home. The frost biting his cheeks. The clouds heavy and alive. Soon it will start snowing.

39

It is snowing. Big fluffy flakes of snow. This is how Christmas Eve should be. Johannes is pumping the pedals on his bicycle hard, close to his destination now. He rushes down the avenue, overtaking other cyclists, passing a tram. Snow is melting on his face, covering his eyelashes, but he doesn’t slow down, not even when turning around a corner. The front wheel slips at the corner and he has to put a foot down, cursing through clenched teeth.

He is in such a hurry; he hardly recognizes the dark silhouette getting into a taxi further up the street as his wife, Grete. The only reason he does see her is the slipping front wheel makes him lose speed for a moment. He doesn’t see her face, but that woman is without any doubt his wife. The worn coat that should have been replaced years ago and the patterned scarf she is always wearing when she goes out. The way she moves, getting into the taxi. He would recognize her anytime.

The taxi drives off, chugging down the street. Something turns deep in his stomach. Luckily, the taxi is an old Opel, rebuilt and fitted with a gas generator; cars like that rarely go faster than thirty kilometers per hour. It won’t outrun a bicycle easily, not even in this kind of weather.

He tightens his grip on the handlebars, stomping the pedals. Doesn’t even realize that he is gasping and moaning out loud as he struggles to keep up with the sole red taillight of the taxi.

40

“Is it snowing?” Alis K asks, holding the door.

The man smiles. “A bit.” He removes his cap, using it to brush snow off his black uniform.

“You look like the abominable snowman.”

He laughs as she takes his hand, leading him to her small room. The fireside has had plenty of time to heat up the room. The windows are steamy. She pulls the curtains and switches on the light.

“Let me help you undress.”

“Oh, never mind my clothes. Just take off your own.” The ambulance driver smiles, unbuttoning his wet uniform. He is from the rescue service Zonen and is one of Alis K’s best customers. All he wants is the missionary position real slow. He is a good man, but lonely. His wife died of cancer last year.

Alis K puts one leg on the bed, rolling down her stockings. Then the other leg. Catching his glance, she smiles. His eyes go back to watch her hands. The fingers circling her inner thighs before she turns to unbutton her blouse.

A gentle knock on the door stops her. Probably one of the other girls not knowing she has got a customer.

“I’ve got a guest,” she yells, rolling her eyes.

A new knock on the door. This time harder.

“One moment!” She pushes the ambulance driver in behind the closet while she quickly buttons her blouse and straightens her skirt. She then opens the door ajar, looking out the crack.

Out in the hallway stand four men wearing uniforms. One of them, a man with an eye patch and a nasty scar down his face, steps forward. “Gestapo, Fräulein. Are you Ingrid Norrestrand?” His Danish is not that well pronounced, and Norrestrand is almost incomprehensible, but Alis K understands far too well what he is saying.

“That’s me.”