The Informer (Sabotage Group BB) (9 page)

“Only Willy doesn’t. Well…now he knows my address.”

“Exactly.”

17

The puddles are covered in ice this morning. Poul-Erik walks against the wind along Norrebrogade. In the black sky high above, the stars are still sparkling. Dawn is still hours away.

However, the city is already awake. Bicycles are rushing by, heading in the opposite direction towards the center of Copenhagen. People like him dressed in their work clothes trot along the sidewalks holding the first or the second beer of the day in their hands. An overcrowded tram starts up, leaving a guy in a light jacket behind. The bakery is open today, which means that they must have found some way to obtain some kind of flour. Probably barley flour.

Poul-Erik hasn’t had any breakfast. He walks as fast as possible, holding his breath so he won’t catch the smell of freshly baked bread. His stomach hurts.

A couple of gas generator cars chug by. A horse-drawn garbage truck carries the stench of decaying waste down the street.

There are posters on the long, decorticated cemetery wall encouraging the public to report any member of the resistance to the Gestapo.

The saboteurs haven’t made any contact since he left Alis K, and it’s starting to worry him. He wants to fight. Do something. It wears him out to wait. There is no rest anywhere.

A German military convoy crosses Norrebrogade at the end of the cemetery, and he has to stop and wait as it goes by. While he stands there, blowing warmth down his folded hands, a big, black Ford stops at the intersection. He eyes it. Doesn’t need to smell the fumes to know it is a Hipo car. The car has no doors. They have been removed to make it faster for the officers to get out of the vehicle. There are four of them inside the Ford. Black uniforms, black caps. One of them speaks, making the other three laugh. The driver looks straight at Poul-Erik, who immediately looks away.

Instead he glances down the crossing street, Jagtvej. There are still seven or eight trucks left before the military convoy has passed. The light from their headlights is dimmed and is only just visible on the cobblestones. Suddenly he is sweating like a pig. He glances back at the Hipo Ford from the corner of his eye. The driver is smoking now. The commander, who always sits in the front seat next to the driver, gets out of the car and walks over to have a look down Jagtvej. Putting a finger to his black cap, he greets a German officer passing by in a VW-Kübelwagen before he returns to the black Ford and jumps inside. He says something to the others. He is a big man, well over two meters tall. Rosy cheeks. Big hands.

Poul-Erik is unable to breathe. He turns away, looking at the dark morning sky. It is him. The Hipo bastard. It is him. The man he was supposed to have killed. Einar Hovgaard. The man on the photo, Alis K showed to him. It is him.

The last vehicle of the convoy crosses Norrebrogade, and Poul-Erik hurries across the street. Using all his will not to look back.

Behind him, the Hipo car speeds up. He has never been this afraid before. Walking too fast, nearly running, but he doesn’t. He can hear the car approach from behind and wishes he had brought his pistol, but it is hidden back home inside the outhouse in the backyard.

And then the Hipo car passes him. It just passed him. He stares as the red glow from the sole dim taillight heads on down the dark city street. They didn’t recognize him.

Only as he passes the church of St. Stefan further down the street, does his heart returns to its normal pace, and he realizes that he is still walking far too fast, stumbling by actually, and he slows down. His stomach is a tight knot.

Later, by the S-train station, he meets the black Ford once again. It is blocking the street. Continuing along the sidewalk, Poul-Erik aims his face straight ahead, only his eyes turn to look. The driver is standing by the car, gun in hand. The car’s headlights are pointing at a group of people being body searched by the other three Hipo. A woman is thrown into the street, collapsing on the cobblestones. The huge Hipo Commander kicks her in the gut, again and again. He snatches his long truncheon from his belt and pounds her head with it.

Chased by the screams and cries of the poor woman, Poul-Erik hurries through the viaduct and away as the S-train passes over him on the bridge.

Ten minutes later, the smith slaps him in the face for being late at work. He’s just lucky the Master Smith hasn’t arrived yet, as he would have been beaten by him as well.

Then he has to get back at the circular saw to continue yesterday’s work while the smith opens another beer and the blue flashes from the welder light up the workshop.

18

Frost flowers cover the windows in the allotment house. Nothing but shadows and spots of light can be seen through them. But that’s all he needs to tell that somebody is sneaking around the garden.

Listening, holding his big revolver in his hand, Jens is sitting on the bed. He doesn’t feel the cold, doesn’t see his own breath hanging around his face like fog. He listens to the sound of cautious steps on the frozen grass. Slowly, he cocks the hammer on his revolver.

A shadow passes the window. A male figure. He can see that much. It is not a hungry fox looking for food; it’s a man. He listens carefully, but the hissing of his own breath is too loud and makes it impossible for him to hear anything else. He opens his mouth to dim the sound. The cold creeps in on him. He has a strange feeling…like falling.

The sounds are now coming from the shed behind the allotment house. The clinking of bottles. The garbage! He has gathered all his waste inside the small shed. There is not really that much despite the fact that he has been living here for a couple of months.

Living underground, you can’t leave your waste for the garbage collector, as he might become suspicious receiving trash from an unoccupied allotment house. You can’t leave it in a mess at your hideout or just dump a bag of waste around the neighborhood either. Someone would notice. The shed seemed as a reasonable solution to the garbage problem. Hide it there for Harald, the owner of the allotment, to burn it along with his own garden waste when he starts using the allotment again in the spring. Nobody will notice.

However …

Somebody is messing around with the trash in the shed right now.

Probably the owner of one of the other allotments. He might be out here to get a bag of potatoes he had been storing in the cold for the winter. Something must have caught his attention.

The sound of the shed door closing. Then steps. Branches scratching the sides of the house.

Jens is as quiet as a mouse. He will need to find another place to stay. He can’t stay here. It is not safe anymore. Jens is following the sound of the man outside with his revolver. Indecisively, he points it down at the floor for a few seconds, only to raise it back at the sound again. Finally, he uncocks the hammer and lets the revolver slide back under his pillow.

Holding his breath, he reaches out for the kitchen knife instead. His mouth all dry. A headache coming on. Damn hangovers. He badly needs a drink. The steps outside continue around the house. Maybe he can gain some time by killing the trespasser? A silent kill with the kitchen knife.

The man is trying the door now. It is locked. Staring as the doorknob goes up and down, Jens throws a quick glance back at his pillow. Should he get the gun? He’s sweating. Feeling sick.

The man outside is knocking at the door. Two hard strokes. Dong dong.

Jens clutches the knife, making his knuckles turn white. Still holding his breath.

“Jens?” A whisper. “Jens, are you there?”

Putting the knife away he goes to unlock the door. “Come in.”

Borge is quick to get in. Wearing a knitted hat, cheeks red from the cold.

“What are you doing sneaking around like that?” Jens snarls as he finally grabs the bottle of schnapps. “You scared the shit out of me. You’re lucky you didn’t get shot!”

“The fox,” Borge says, pausing as Jens drinks from the bottle. “You’re drinking too much.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“That’s right. The fox must have found your garbage last night. The place was a mess with cans and paper everywhere. I took it back inside the shed. You’ll have to find some way to lock up that shed.”

“What do you want?”

“We got to be extra careful now. We have got an informer right in the center of our group.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. It’s sure as hell is none of us, but you’re right about one thing, we got an informer on our necks. It’s just not one of us. I’m an old policeman. I know what I’m talking about.”

“Bullshit. Don’t waste my time. The fact is that nobody but the four of us and the new kid knew about our last two operations, and the Germans or the Hipo were waiting in ambush both places. They knew what was going to happen, and when it was going to happen.”

“How did this boy know about the hit on
Super
?”

“The garage? Well, you see, I told him.”

Is that so? And, that’s my point, that’s what I’m saying. One of us trusts the wrong person. And it is this wrong person who’s the informer.”

“The boy. Willy. It’s him.”

“I’m not so sure. I’m told that he shot down two Hipo to save Alis K.”

“I don’t buy it. He was too far away. It might be fake. It might be a set up, it might have been staged. Maybe he had blanks in the pistol.”

“You acquired the pistol for him.”

“Sure, but he could have changed the clip. It’s not impossible. The thing is, nobody can hit a target at that distance using such a shitty pistol. It’s not possible. This kid claims to never have had a gun in his hands before. It doesn’t smell right.”

A new sip from the bottle. “You’re right about that. Do you want a sip?”

“No.”

“What do you have in mind? What should we do? Waste him? Might be a little premature. If he’s not lying, he’ll be just the kind of guy we need.”

“Agreed. We could set a trap for him. See if he goes for it.”

“How would we do that?”

19

The red lamp is hanging on a white cord from the ceiling. Lying on his back in the bed, BB is looking up at the lamp. The ceiling is stained.

The heater is on. The room is warm. Alis K is playing with her fingers on his chest and stomach.

“When all of this is in the past,” he says not looking at her, “the war, everything, then we’ll run away together, the two of us. Go to America and start over.”

“Don’t.” She puts a finger on his lips. “I’ll just end up believing you. I don’t want to.”

“But I’m serious. I mean it!” He turns to gently cradle her head. “I love you.”

“You love the thrill of danger, BB. Nothing else. Without the cheating on your wife, I wouldn’t be exciting. I know you better than you think.”

“That’s not true.”

“I’ve seen you in action, BB. You get turned on by danger. You are seeking danger. The only reason you’re with me is the risk of getting caught by your wife.”

He rolls to his back again…frowning, he doesn’t say anymore. He listens to the rain against the window.

20

Drumming the privy roof, the rain drips through a small hole and onto the slippery floor. Poul-Erik is sitting in the dark, caressing the pistol. He can hear a baby crying somewhere in one of the apartments as water spills out from the broken downspouts by the backstairs.

Touching the barrels, the crosshairs, the bulky magazine in front of the trigger and the grip, he thinks about his father. Imagines him stamping along in his big wooden shoes. You can tell his mood by listening to the clatter of the wooden shoes. Quick and hard steps are bad news—then you would be wise to make yourself invisible. That can be difficult being six kids on thirty-four square meters.

He hits you in the head using an open hand, he prefers to hit you in the back of the head. He is a big man, a smith, a real smith, like he always says: ‘A blacksmith’. Swinging the hammer all day long, he doesn’t need to strain that much to send a ten-year-old child flying through the air.

He lost his right index finger to a circular saw back in the day when he had to take another job. His teeth are black, the eyes watery. He roars as he speaks. The food is to be on the table when he enters the door. Or else. Punishment for the whole family. The potatoes can’t be over-cooked. Mother has no way of knowing when he will arrive, as he often stops for a drink on his way home from work.

Poul-Erik hates him. Can’t even remember a time in his life where he didn’t hate his father. There are no extenuating circumstances at all. The man is a dictator, and even if his kingdom is nothing but a small, two-room apartment, he is as evil as any dictator the world has known. He accepts no disobedience of any kind. His wrath is unpredictable, the punishment random. You can get severely beaten for having the hiccups or for spilling some water on the floor. But then, you can break great-grandmother’s old china vase—the only thing of any value in their possession—and believe for sure you are going to die. But then it is just, ‘Never mind, my boy, it is just a thing.’ And for some reason, that just makes it worse. There is no justice in this family. There are only the whims of Karl Smith.