In the kitchen of his flat, Anders sipped his morning coffee, being careful not to spill any on his grey suit. Britta looked up from spoon-feeding Nils in his high chair.
“You should call Ahlman at the bank,” Anders said. “He’s had enough time to follow up with Wallenberg.”
“You think it is enough time?”
“Keep on him, Britta. You’re not asking for much. All he has to do is give the letter to his boss.”
“He’s my brother. I won’t give up on him, Anders.”
Anders finished his coffee and collected his hat.
“So what did Lundquist say?” Britta asked.
“Lundquist wants a tourism piece. I’m giving him tourism with a twist, if you like.”
“Lundquist likes you, Anders. He’s a nice man.”
“Yes, he’s a good man, but he may be a bit upset by my new piece.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Anders. If he doesn’t like it, he’ll have you change it or simply suppress the publication.”
“But I want him to publish it. It will be a hit with readers.”
“Well, best of luck,” Britta said. “You better be going.”
Anders grabbed his briefcase and kissed Britta and Nils before leaving.
In the basement document room, Michael and Peter were looking at some B&W photographs taken by Bernie.
“I took these at Henry Denham’s party a couple of weeks back,” Bernie said.
“You haven’t met Henry yet. He’s our naval attaché, Peter,” Michael said, “and very well connected.”
“Yes, I heard about Denham when I was in London.”
“The Swedes have tried several times to have him declared persona non grata and sent home, but he’s still here.”
Bernie sifted through the prints. One of them showed a man on the roof of Henry Denham’s house with headphones, listening to the conversations of the guests visible in a large-glass enclosed hall below.
“Bloody hell, that’s a nice shot, Bernie,” Michael said. “I believe I’ve seen that chap before. He’s ‘Svestapo’.”
“ ‘Svestapo’ meaning ‘Swedish Gestapo’ I presume?” Peter asked.
“That’s right, guv,” Bernie confirmed, “the bloody nerve of those tossers. Tailing us on the street is one thing, but eavesdropping on a Legation party is another.”
“We’ve complained on numerous occasions,” Michael said, “but they’re still at it.”
“I have a contact that might be able to use this picture,” Peter said. “Can I keep the print?”
“Sure, Peter. It’s yours, no problem,” Bernie said.
Bernie put the print in a brown envelope, and Michael and Peter headed back upstairs.
“Did you meet Butler?” Michael asked.
“Yes, he seems to be a nice chap.”
“He’s nice enough, but he’s also a hopeless drunk. He has quite a file. I would steer clear of him if I were you. He can only get you in trouble. I don’t know why they sent him here.”
Ewan Butler was reading a German magazine, Der Deutschen in Schweden. He took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. He turned to Joanna, who was working at her desk behind a huge pile of newspapers.
“The German Legation is putting on quite a show for their people at the Borgarskolan auditorium,” Ewan said. “The actor Georg Alexander from Berlin is coming here to play in a comedy.”
“Yes, I saw that,” Joanna replied.
“Georg Alexander is good, you know. I saw him in Berlin before the war. Attendance is by invitation only. I would expect their legation to invite a number of Swedish Nazis. What do you think?”
“They do like to do things in style, sir.”
Ewan looked at Joanna with a boyish grin.
“We could have some fun with this.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, it could get to be quite chaotic if we were to invite a large crowd of Swedes with fake tickets.”
“Fake tickets?”
“That auditorium must hold at least 500 people,” Ewan said. “Suppose we print 1000 fake tickets and offer them to well-to-do Swedes. They’d be happy to put on their best clothes to get a look at Berlin’s finest.”
“Oh, no,” Joanna laughed, “the poor dears won’t be able to get in.”
“Exactly,” Ewan beamed, “it’ll be absolute chaos at the door.”
“That is a devilish plot, sir. Rather, a step up from our humdrum itching powder and stink bombs.”
“Don’t minimize the havoc caused by itching powder and stink bombs, Joanna. Itching powder can drive a man mad, but this kind of thing can drive a wedge between influential Swedes and their German friends.”
“I like it,” Joanna said. “When do we start?”
It was a rainy day as Bernie cycled along the lane behind the Kramer residence. He laid his bike against the fence and stepped through the gate quickly, crossing the grass to the side of the house. A moment later, he returned and cycled away down the lane with the cloth bag secured in a plastic wrap. Bernie arrived at the shed and stepped inside, where Peter was waiting for him. Allan turned on the lights of the copy stand as Bernie laid the documents on the table, one at a time. Peter started to rifle through the documents with great interest.
Gustav Lundquist stopped by Anders’ desk on the press floor.
“I like the article, Berger. I like the tone. German tourists having the time of their lives in neutral Stockholm while their cities are bombed by the Allies and their soldiers are fighting on the Russian front.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I like the matter-of-fact tourism approach. There is nothing here to warrant any serious criticism.”
“It’s quite harmless, sir.”
“Yes, it is.”
“It’s not anti-German, sir. It should go on the front page.”
“Of course, it must go on the front page if we want to make a splash with it,“ Lundquist said. “Let me run it by the owner, but I think it’s just what we need.”
As Lundquist left, Anders beamed with delight at the good news. As a young journalist, he struggled to make a name for himself among the established journalists on the roster. He was still treated as a freelance hack and his income depended on getting his work published.