Sleeper agent, p.27
Sleeper Agent, page 27
They quickly left the area of the little cabin plots. Victory gardens, Tom surmised. And presently a side road took them to a main highway. It was at once apparent why his captors had imposed the wait to exactly this hour. The road was filled with bicyclists. Men and women. Literally thousands of them. Riding their bicycles to work in the city.
Tom and his escort entered the stream of traffic. They could have had no better cover.
Tom’s uneasy incertitude grew steadily as, surrounded by their protective shield of bike commuters, he and his watchers rode into the city of Copenhagen. Who were his captors? Where were they taking him? Why?
As they turned from one picturesque city street into another, they were suddenly confronted with a small column of uneasy-looking German soldiers marching toward them, their coarse field-gray Waffen SS uniforms looking disturbingly out of place.
Stony-faced, the Danish bicyclists steered around them. Tom’s skin crawled. The enemy. So close. So damned close. He watched the hunched back of Holger riding in front of him. Had it tensed?
They rode past the sports stadium and the lakes to the center of town, Kongens Nytorv—the King’s Newmarket, dominated by the impressive Royal Theater.
Here they turned down Nyhavn. It was the sailors’ part of town. Sailors from the world over. Old, colorful buildings, some dating back to the eighteenth century, lined the murky canal that led from the square to the docks. Once stately and important, they now housed a conglomeration of cheap flamboyantly named taverns and dives, small questionable hotels and an assortment of tattoo parlors. At night the area was a rowdy, bawdy playground for the pleasure-seeking rabble of the sprawling port. In the cold light of early morning it looked merely seamy and tawdry.
They stopped at a gaudily painted little bar with one of the most jaunty names of all, The Scarlet Mermaid. The man sitting at a table in the back of the dingy bar was alone in the room, except for a fat unshaven man in shirtsleeves and a shabby soiled apron halfheartedly cleaning up the sordid debris of the night before.
The girl and Klaus walked Tom to the waiting stranger. Holger stayed outside. For a moment Tom and the other man measured each other in mutual appraisal.
The man at the table was about Tom’s age. He had a shock of dark brown hair that obviously defied discipline, and broad shoulders. His features were large and softly rounded, contradicting the promise of strength beneath. Cold, calculating eyes glared at Tom. There was no friendliness in them. No trust. He spoke. “Sit down,” he said curtly. “I am Sven.”
Tom felt instant relief flood him. “I’m Tom Jaeger,” he said. “Christ, am I glad to see you!”
“Are you?” Sven commented coldly.
Tom tensed. “Dammit!” he growled. “You know who I am.” He took a step toward Sven. At once he was aware of quick movement behind him to his right. He looked.
Klaus was holding his Walther in his hand. It was aimed at Tom.
He felt a surge of frustrated anger. “Shit!” he said with profound disgust. “What the hell’s wrong with you people?” He turned to Sven. “Don’t you realize, dammit, I have no time for stupid games!”
“Stupid,” Sven said, his face grim. “If we were stupid, my friend, we would not be alive to mistrust you now!” His voice took on a sharp edge. “I said sit down!”
Tom sat. “Listen,” he said. “I—”
Sven broke in at once. “You listen,” he snapped. “And we two can save a lot of time. That is what you wish, no?”
Tom nodded. Sven spoke English with the same clipped accent as the girl, he noted. Somehow, it didn’t have the same charm. “Say your piece,” he said angrily.
“You must understand,” Sven said. “We must be sure that you are who you say you are. You do not know the situation here. We do. The war may well be ending. But not for us. Not yet. The Gestapo, and the SS, have stepped up their actions against us. The Hipos, the Danish traitors, are doing all they can to help them. The German commander, General Lindemann, has ordered his occupation troops to fight to the death.”
He looked grimly at Tom. “No. It is not over, my friend. Only a week ago the Nazis executed nine of us. Betrayed by traitors who said they were friends. And you will have that we accept you without question?”
Tom looked gravely at Sven. His frustrated anger was slowly leaving him, being replaced by a grudging respect for the Danish Freedom Fighter. “You—your people—saw me dropped,” he said. “From an RAF Mosquito bomber.”
“We saw someone dropped. That is correct. But—was it you?”
Tom looked startled.
“Understand, my friend. It has happened before. We must be absolutely sure. Other groups, perhaps less vigilant, have been betrayed by someone they accepted as a friend.” He eyed Tom searchingly. “In your case, we were told by London to expect an American. That signal could—could, mind you—have been intercepted by the Germans. The drop was made. Of course. We saw it. But was that because the Germans wanted us to? The drop was also discovered. Was that a routine patrol? Or were they waiting? In any case, we missed one another. Later, Tove and Klaus and Holger discovered you. You say you are the American. You will have papers that prove it. But, can we be certain? The Germans are clever in making false papers. Can we be sure you are not someone substituted by them for us to find? And to trust?” He let the questions hang heavily in the sour smelling barroom.
Tom cursed silently. The man was right. He was absolutely right. He knew he would have acted exactly the same way had their positions been reversed. But how the hell could he convince them?
He suddenly knew. “Sven,” he said urgently. “I can prove to you that I am the one you were expecting. When I was in Squadron Leader Barlow’s office at the RAF arranging for the drop, they told me why you are called the ‘Mole.’ I know about the King’s secret passage. From the palace. I know about your wagonload of cement!”
Sven shot a quick glance at Tove and Klaus. He turned to the fat man cleaning glasses at the bar. “Søren,” he said. “Sig til Holger, at han skal komme tnd.”
The fat man nodded. He picked up a broom and went out the front. He stayed outside, sweeping down the sidewalk, as Holger joined the others in the bar.
In low tones the four Danish Freedom Fighters conferred earnestly. Then Sven turned to Tom. He looked at him gravely. “You have a right to know,” he said. He nodded toward the girl. “Tove says to trust you.” He glanced at Klaus and Holger. “They think we must make certain. I agree with them.”
“But—”
Sven held up a restraining hand. “The Germans probably know about the Amalienborg tunnel by now. It is no longer important.” He frowned. “The story about the cement I was myself stupid enough to tell to others. It could easily have become known to the Germans, too.” He studied Tom. “We must have real proof,” he said. “Proof that you are the American agent sent to us. We must check you out with London.”
“How?”
“By radio.”
“How long will that take?”
Sven shrugged. “A day. Perhaps two.”
“I don’t have a day or two!” Tom protested bitterly. “The man I’m after will be gone by then. He must be caught before he can get out of the country. I need your help to find him. And I need it now!”
Sven nodded. “And I need to be certain. I need to know that my group will not be betrayed.”
“How will you verify me?”
Sven looked at him. “We want you to tell us something. Something that only you, and the RAF officers with whom you talked, can possibly know. You will give us a phrase. One sentence. We will transmit it to London. If that sentence could only have come from the man they sent, they will acknowledge that fact. If they do, we help you. All the way. If they do not . . .”
Tom’s thoughts whirled in his mind. Something from his meeting with the British? Something only the people present at that time could know? What? Hell, how was he supposed to remember. His mind was blank. He could think of nothing.
Anger born of frustration began to build in him once more. Dammit! They were being too damned cautious. Unreasonable as hell. He’d told them everything. He’d laid his cards on the table—
Something suddenly snapped in his brain. Cards! What was it the squadron leader had said? About the American liaison officer? Captain Mike Holland?
He knew. “Send this,” he said. “Mike makes a splendid fourth.”
Sven looked at him. “That is all?”
“That’s all.”
“They will understand?”
“They will.” Tom was gratified at the look of puzzlement in Sven’s eyes. Good! Let him wonder for a while. No reason to explain to him that Squadron Leader Barlow in a lighter moment had opined that he wanted to keep Captain Mike Holland around because he made a good bridge partner!
Sven called to the fat man outside on the sidewalk. “Søren!” The man joined them. For a moment the Danes conferred.
Something was nagging Tom’s mind. What if he really had been a German plant? Hadn’t Sven laid himself and his group wide open for reprisals already? Hadn’t he given away a lot about himself? And his Freedom Fighters? This meeting place, for instance. Would he have done it if he really mistrusted him? Or . . had he other plans?
Tove came over to him. “I am sorry,” she said. “But Sven is right. He has the responsibility for all of us. As soon as London says you are okay, he will do everything for you.”
“Perhaps too late,” Tom said bitterly.
For a moment their eyes met. It was an oddly disturbing moment for Tom. The girl was different from anyone he’d ever met. She had taken off the little beret she’d been wearing. Her short-cut hair clung like a downy golden cap around her lovely face, lifted to look up at him.
Sven came over. “You will stay here,” he instructed Tom. “Søren will look after you. You will not leave. If you try, we will know you are a German informer. You understand?”
“I understand.”
“We shall make things happen for you, my friend. As speedily as we can.” He started to leave. He turned back to Tom. “I will do this for you,” he said. “Just in case you truly are a friend!” He smiled. His smile was surprisingly open and boyish.
“I am meeting with my group now. I shall alert them all. The moment we know about you, the moment you check out, all shall help.” He nodded to Søren, who took up a position close to Tom. Sven and the others left.
Tom stared after the departing Freedom Fighters. His mind whirled. He knew he could not wait for clearance from London. He knew Rudi A-27 would be gone long before. He knew he could not continue his investigations without help. He knew he had to have the cooperation of Sven and his group. He knew he had to have it now!
He started to walk back into the dismal bar, his head lowered in resignation. He passed the fat man, Søren. Suddenly he whirled. With all his might he savagely slammed both his fists into the fat man’s stomach.
The man gasped. He gagged. His eyes strained to escape their sockets in shock. He fell to his knees before Tom.
With a quick rabbit punch across the neck Tom knocked him out. At once he ripped off the man’s dirty apron. He tore it to shreds. With feverish speed he tied the man hand and foot and stuffed a piece of greasy cloth into his mouth, securing it with part of the apron string. The unconscious man snorted his breath noisily through flaring nostrils.
Tom grabbed the bulky man by his feet and dragged him behind the bar, then ran for the street. In the distance he could see the Freedom Fighters on their bicycles, just entering Kongens Nytorv, the golden-capped head of Tove bobbing in their midst.
He grabbed a bicycle leaning against the wall. It was a woman’s bike. He had no time to notice. At once he set off in pursuit. He pedaled furiously to catch up with the little group, careening his bicycle over the uneven cobblestones of the street. As he reached the square, he saw his quarry turn into the street on the far right.
He suddenly felt outrageously conspicuous on the woman’s bicycle. Utterly exposed. If Sven or any of the others should turn around, he’d be spotted at once. He needed something that would change his appearance. Something that would make him blend into the familiar street scene rather than stick out like a clown in a funeral procession.
He was passing a hotel. A young man was just dismounting from his bike in front of it. He carried a beat-up black leather shoulder pouch and wore an official-looking cap with a round emblem on the front. On the pouch was imprinted “Kgl. Telegraf.” A bicycle messenger.
Tom screeched to a stop next to him. In a low, gruff voice he snapped at the startled boy, “Halt!”
The young man froze.
“Gestapo! Sonderdienst!” Tom barked at him in German. “Emergency! I am commandeering your bicycle.” He grabbed the messenger’s black bicycle and shoved the woman’s bike at him. “Your cap, too.” He snatched the cap off the young man’s head and slapped it down on his own. Fiercely he scowled at the befuddled messenger. “Don’t make a sound!” he threatened. He started off on the messenger’s bike. He hoped he had been convincing. He had.
The young telegraph office messenger stood staring after him in stupefied silence, holding on to the discarded woman’s bike.
Tom turned into the street he had seen Sven and the others enter. He glanced at the street sign. Just in case. “Store Kongensgade.” He craned his neck. He could not see the others. He raced down the street, scowling from under the black-peaked messenger cap. There they were. Ahead of him.
He slowed down. He stayed back, losing himself among the other bike riders on the street, looking around as if searching for an address, but keeping Sven and his companions in sight.
They had reached an older part of town—apartment houses, three- and four-story buildings—when the four Freedom Fighters stopped, dismounted from the bikes and pushed them across the sidewalk, disappearing into a narrow arcade in one of the buildings.
Tom stopped. He parked his bike at the side of the street, one pedal resting on the curb, as he had seen other bikes parked. He walked to the door in the building in front of him and appeared to be checking the house number. He kept the arcade where the four Freedom Fighters had entered in view.
No one came out.
Purposefully he walked toward the arcade. It was an old building. Beyond the arcade was a small courtyard and across it was the rear building of the apartment complex, Outside, in a rusty metal rack, several bicycles were parked. He thought he recognized the one belonging to Tove.
Quickly he crossed the yard to the front door. He tried it. It was open. He entered.
It was a three-story walk-up building. On each landing were two apartments. One on the right. One on the left. Six apartments. Which one?
He started up the stairs. He looked at the nameplate on the door of the apartment on the second floor, left: HANSEN. It meant nothing.
He rang the bell. For a moment nothing happened. Then he heard a door open and footsteps approach.
A voice called, “Hvem er det?”
He had a momentary flush. He recognized the voice. It was Tove. He said nothing. He knocked on the door. He placed both his hands on his head. He waited.
There was a brief silence, then the door was cautiously opened, and Tove’s face appeared in the crack. Her eyes opened wide and her soft lips drew apart again in astonished shock.
He grinned. “Hi, Tove,” he said. “Mind if I come in?” He pushed past her into the narrow hallway beyond.
Across from him was a door. It was ajar by a couple of inches. Quickly he strode to it and pushed it wide open with his foot.
The scene before him seemed frozen in time, like a stop-action motion picture effect. There were about a dozen young people in the room, mostly young men, some women, every one of them staring at Tom in stunned surprise. He saw Sven and Klaus and Holger—and the several guns trained menacingly on him. He was acutely aware of Tove behind him.
He kept his hands on his head. He stepped into the room. “Hello, Sven,” he said.
Sven was the first of the Danes to regain control of himself. Curtly he snapped at Klaus. “Klaus!” He nodded sharply toward the door.
Klaus at once hurried away.
Sven turned to Tom. “What the devil are you doing here?” he demanded icily.
Tom returned his gaze. A lot depended upon his answer. Whatever he said, he knew it would sound melodramatic. But life is melodramatic. There is a time and a place for melodrama. Perhaps this was it. The time and the place to go all the way. “I came to be accepted,” he said quietly. “Or killed.”
The silent tension in the room seemed stretched beyond its limit. The eyes and attention of all were riveted on Tom.
He gazed steadily at Sven. “You were concerned, Sven, that I might be a German informer, sent to betray you and your group,” he said. He looked around him. “If I were, this house would now be surrounded by Gestapo and SS!”
Slowly he took his hands from his head. No one stopped him. “Instead,” he said. “Instead . . . I am alone. Unarmed. I come as a friend. I seek your help.”
Klaus came hurrying into the room. Sven at once shot a questioning glance at him. Klaus shook his head. “Der er ikke nogen,” he said. “Nobody there.”
“How did you get here?” Sven asked suspiciously.
“You forget. I can ride a bicycle, too.”
“Søren?”
“He’ll have a tender belly, but he’s okay.”
“How did you know we were in this apartment?”
Tom grinned wryly. “I didn’t. I tried them all. One at a time.” He took off the borrowed cap. He threw it on the table. “It’s amazing how stupid a telegraph messenger can be!”
Sven began an angry retort.
“Hold it, Sven!” Tom interrupted firmly. “I think now it is time for you to listen to me!”
Sven glared at him. He shrugged. “We listen.”
“Good. Here goes,” Tom said. “I told you I am on the trail of a man. I am. A dangerous man. Right now, perhaps the most dangerous man alive.”
