Ken Follett - Hornet Flight

“I said I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you realize that I have a very demanding job? You’ve got nothing on your mind more important than walking with boys in the Tivoli Garden-yet you can’t even get to work on time!”

She looked nervously at his gun in the shoulder holster, as if she was afraid he was going to shoot her. “The bus was late,” she said in a shaky voice.

“Get an earlier bus, you lazy cow!”

“Oh!” She looked about to cry.

Peter turned away, fighting an urge to slap her fat face. If she walked out, he would be in worse trouble. He put on his jacket and went to the door. “Don’t you ever be late again!” he shouted. Then he left the apartment.

Outside the building he jumped onto a tram heading for the city center. He lit a cigarette and smoked in rapid puffs, trying to calm himself. He was still angry when he got off outside the Politigaarden, the daringly modern police headquarters, but the sight of the building soothed him: its squat shape gave a reassuring impression of strength, its blindingly white stone spoke of purity, and its rows of identical windows symbolized order and the predictability of justice. He passed through the dark vestibule. Hidden in the center of the building was a large open courtyard, circular, with a ring of double pillars marking a sheltered walkway like the cloisters of a monastery. Peter crossed the courtyard and entered his section.

He was greeted by Detective Constable Tilde Jespersen, one of a handful of women in the Copenhagen force. The young widow of a policeman, she was as tough and smart as any cop in the department. Peter often used her for surveillance work, a role in which a woman was less likely to arouse suspicion. She was rather attractive, with blue eyes and fair curly hair and the kind of small, curvy figure that women would call too fat but men thought just right. “Bus delayed?” she said sympathetically.

“No. Inge’s nurse turned up a quarter of an hour late. Empty-headed flibbertigibbet.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Anything happening?”

“I’m afraid so. General Braun is with Juel. They want to see you as soon as you get here.”

That was bad luck: a visit from Braun on the day Peter was late. “Damn nurse,” he muttered, and headed for Juel’s office.

Juel’s upright carriage and piercing blue eyes would have suited his naval namesake. He spoke German as a courtesy to Braun. All educated Danes could get by in German, and English as well. “Where have you been, Flemming?” he said to Peter. “We are waiting.”

“I apologize,” Peter replied in the same language. He did not give the reason for his lateness: excuses were undignified.

General Braun was in his forties. He had probably been handsome once, but the explosion that destroyed his lung had also taken away part of his jaw, and the right side of his face was deformed. Perhaps because of his damaged appearance, he always wore an immaculate field service uniform, complete with high boots and holstered pistol.

He was courteous and reasonable in conversation. His voice was a soft near-whisper. “Take a look at this, if you would, Inspector Flemming,” he said. He had spread several newspapers on Juel’s desk, all folded open to show 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 Toronto Globe and Mail, the Washington Post, and the Los Angeles Times. Also on the table was the Danish underground newspaper Reality, badly printed and amateur-looking beside the legitimate publications, but containing the original story the others had copied. It was a small triumph of propaganda.

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 stop them blowing up bridges. But he had had this argument with Juel before, so he clamped his teeth together and said nothing.

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 Reality newspaper is being smuggled out to Sweden.”

“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.”