The theatre manager’s satisfaction with the glittering crowd had quickly changed to alarm as he realized the number of people swelling the lobby threatened to exceed the number of seats in the Borgarskolan theatre. Something was wrong, and he was already on his way to the front of the house when he heard the first angry voices.
“You’re telling me we can’t go in,” a big Swede in evening dress complained to the hapless theatre employee. “We’re patrons of this theatre and we have tickets to this event.”
“Sir, you see this ticket,” said the young man, holding it up to the light, “it is not a good ticket. It is white. Our tickets are light blue.”
That only made the elegant couple even angrier. The confrontation had attracted the attention of others in the crowd, and some were checking their own tickets. The manager used the distraction to pull his employee aside.
“Let me see that,” he said.
The employee handed the ticket over. The manager only had to glance at it to know his employee was right. It was obviously a counterfeit.
“When did you notice?” the manager asked.
“Just now,” the man said sheepishly.
The manager blanched. He could only guess how many people holding these tickets had already gotten in. He hurried inside to take a look.
The theatre was in complete pandemonium. German VIPs arrived at their seats to find them already occupied by wealthy Swedes or Swedes found their seats taken by Germans. Neither party was accustomed to giving way and loud, heated arguments were breaking out everywhere in the theatre. Some had already escalated into shoving matches.
“Was ist los?” an angry voice demanded.
The manager turned to find a red-faced and angry German minister at his elbow asking what was wrong.
“A mix-up over tickets, sir,” the manager said with a confidence he did not feel. “I’m sure everything will be sorted out soon enough.”
“This is appalling, sir. Who is responsible?” asked the minister.
The manager had no idea. He was saved from replying by a commotion only a few feet away. Someone had thrown the first punch and the victim was struggling to his feet, blood streaming from his nose.
Wealth implies entitlement and couples in evening dress with counterfeit tickets were now streaming into the hall, having knocked down the barrier, and were picking fights with German Legation employees and people with valid tickets. Fistfights were breaking out across the hall.
The manager and minister were temporarily blinded by the bright flash of a camera. When his vision returned, the manager recognized the journalist Anders Berger standing beside a photographer. He could have sworn that Berger was smiling.
Peter was reading a decrypted message from London in the document room when Bernie came out of the darkroom and laid out several wet prints to dry on a table.
“We must be doing something right, guv,” Bernie said, “the dispatches from London just keep coming.”
“Yeah, the Stora Essingen operation is a huge success. We have another pickup on Tuesday.”
“We’ll be ready.”
“Good. Bernie, you wouldn’t happen to know anyone in cargo operations at the Bromma airfield? Somebody is leaking our SKF shipment loads to the Germans.”
“No, but I can ask around.”
“I’m off to London for a few days. Keep in touch through Bridget, will you, Bernie? Thanks.”
Peter got up and left the room.
It was late as Peter returned to his flat. As he started up the stairs in the darkened lobby, he noticed a man in the shadows smoking a cigarette. The man lifted his head to look at Peter.
“You played me with that photograph, Faye.”
“It worked out very nicely, didn’t it, Anders? Please call me Peter. Now don’t be a spoilsport. I’m sure your newspaper sold a load of copies.”
“The man was a Swede from the Säpo.”
“Yes, he was.”
“Tell me about Kramer, Peter.”
“Kramer?”
“Yes, Dr Karl-Heinz Kramer. You seem to have an unusual interest in the man.”
“Why don’t you come up and have a drink, Anders?”
Peter led Anders up the stairs to his flat. He opened the door, and they entered the living room. Peter went to the portable gramophone in the corner and put on a 78 rpm record of a Chopin concerto, turning up the volume. As the music filled the room, Peter invited Anders to sit down.
“Please sit down, Anders. The office sweeps the flat for microphones from time to time, but you can never be too careful.”
“This is a nice flat. It must cost a pretty penny,“ Anders said with an attempt at cynicism. “Nothing is too good for members of the diplomatic service.”
“Aquavit, Anders?”
“Yes. So how do you like your job in Stockholm, Peter?”
“I like it here. It’s a wonderful city.”
Peter poured two glasses of aquavit.
“No hard feelings about the photograph, Peter.”
“I reckoned you knew the chap on the roof and would know it was a mistake.”
“This is our patch, Peter,” Anders said with a grin. “We know everyone, but sometimes we make mistakes. We sold the entire print run. It was amazing.”
“Cheers, Anders.”
“Skål, Peter,” Anders said as they clinked their glasses.
“I have some information for you, but I also need to ask you a favour.”
“Of course, Anders.”
“That Saarson chap has not been back?”
“I can’t discuss it. I think you understand.”
“Of course, you secret agent types can’t have a chit-chat with the ordinary citizen,” Anders said with a smile. “It wouldn’t do.”
Peter shrugged.
“I’ve heard that Dr Kramer is often seen at General Onodera’s house. They are allies, you know, the Japanese and the Germans. I’ve heard that the General has some Soviet material for sale.”
“Makato Onodera, the Japanese military attaché?” Peter asked.
“Yes. Onodera is an interesting man. He speaks Russian and worked in Latvia before the war, so he has lots of contacts in Russian and Baltic circles.”
Peter stood up suddenly and looked angrily about the room.
“Who put you up to this, Anders?” Peter asked with a suspicious air. “Who are you working for?”
“No one, I’m a journalist,” Anders replied casually.
“Someone wants you to shop this information to me? How much are they paying you?”
“No one is paying me, Peter. I won’t lie to you. I have a close friend working with Saarson, Reinhard Massing.”
“What’s his interest?”
“Massing is Estonian. He hates the Soviets, Peter. It’s as simple as that.”
“You are very well connected for a journalist.”
“Yes, I have to be.”
“I would ask you to be very discreet with the information you have,” Peter said. “Lives can depend on it.”
At the Berger flat, Britta was asleep when her husband entered the bedroom. Anders started to undress when Britta awakened with a start.
“So how did it go?”
“He can’t promise anything. He’s going to check with his people in London.”
“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”
“We’ll see. I don’t know whether the British can find Rolf. The official channels haven’t found him yet and your Bosch people were no help.”
“No one wants to touch it in Stuttgart and Enskilda won’t push them.”
“There is some hope, Britta. Count Folke Bernadotte and the Swedish Red Cross are trying to organize prisoner releases in Germany so they should have access to the lists soon enough.”
“We’ll talk again in the morning. It’s late. Good night, my darling.”
“Good night, dear.”