Ken Follett - Hornet Flight

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 Reality in one of them.

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.

He took a penknife from his pocket. He pushed its point into the lining of the old lady’s expensive luggage and tore a ragged gash in the white silk. He heard Juel grunt with surprise at the sudden violence of the gesture. Peter ran his hand beneath the ripped lining. To his dismay, nothing was hidden there.

He did the same to the businessman’s leather case, with the same result. The second businessmen’s cardboard suitcase had no lining, and Peter could see nothing in its structure that might serve as a hiding place.

Feeling his face redden with frustration and embarrassment, he cut the stitching on the leather base of the colonel’s canvas duffel and felt inside for concealed papers. There was nothing.

He looked up to see Braun, Juel, and the detectives staring at him. Their faces showed fascination and a hint of fear. His behavior was beginning to look a little crazy, he realized.

To hell with that.

Juel said languidly, “Perhaps your information was wrong, Flemming.”

And wouldn’t that please you, Peter thought resentfully. But he was not finished yet.

He saw Varde watching from the departure lounge, and beckoned him. The man’s smile looked strained as he contemplated the wreckage of his customers’ luggage. “Where is the mailbag?” Peter said.

“In the baggage office.”

“Well, what are you waiting for? Bring it here, idiot!”

Varde went off. Peter pointed at the luggage with a disgusted gesture and said to his detectives, “Get rid of this stuff.”

Dresler and Ellegard repacked the suitcases roughly. A baggage handler came to take them to the Junkers. “Wait,” Peter said as the man began to pick up the cases. “Search him, Sergeant.” Conrad searched the man and found nothing.

Varde brought the mailbag and Peter emptied the letters on the ground. They all bore the stamp of the censor. There were two envelopes large enough to hold a newspaper, one white and one brown. He ripped open the white one. It held six copies of a legal document, some kind of contract. The brown envelope contained the catalogue of a Copenhagen glassware factory. Peter cursed aloud.

A trolley bearing a tray of sandwiches and several coffeepots was wheeled out for Peter’s inspection. This was Peter’s last hope. He opened each pot and poured the coffee out on the ground. Juel muttered something about this being unnecessary, but Peter was too desperate to care. He pulled away the linen napkins covering the tray and poked about among the sandwiches. To his horror, there was nothing. In a rage, he picked up the tray and dumped the sandwiches on the ground, hoping to find a newspaper underneath, but there was only another linen napkin.

He realized he was going to be completely humiliated, and that made him madder.

“Begin refueling,” he said. “I’ll watch.”

A tanker was driven out to the Junkers. The detectives put out their cigarettes and looked on as aviation fuel was pumped into the wings of the aircraft. Peter knew this was useless, but he persevered stubbornly, wearing a wooden expression, because he could not think what else to do. Passengers watched curiously through the rectangular windows of the Junkers, no doubt wondering why a German general and six civilians needed to observe the refueling.

The tanks were filled and the caps closed.

Peter could not think of any way to delay the takeoff. He had been wrong, and now he looked a fool.

“Let the passengers board,” he said with suppressed fury.

He returned to the departure lounge, his humiliation complete. He wanted to strangle someone. He had made a complete mess of things in front of General Braun as well as Superintendent Juel. The appointments board would feel justified in having picked Juel instead of Peter for the top job. Juel might even use this fiasco as an excuse for having Peter shunted sideways to some low-profile department such as Traffic.