Anders drove Peter back to the legation.
“I heard you found your wife’s brother in a camp in Germany, Anders.”
“Yes, Rolf is arriving by ferry to Malmo tonight.”
“That’s wonderful news,” Peter said. “Bernadotte and his white buses have achieved the impossible.”
“It was quite an adventure, Peter. Look, I need your help with something. We have a photograph of Walter Schellenberg entering the British Legation. The paper wants me to write a report on what is going on with the British. Can you tell me anything at all?”
“There is some kind of deal going down with Mallet, but I can’t tell you much. I would imagine that Schellenberg is looking for immunity from prosecution for war crimes for Himmler and for himself, but that is just a guess.”
“I met Schellenberg in Germany with Bernadotte on my first visit. He was very helpful. Without him, I doubt we would ever have succeeded in bringing out our people.”
“So you think Sweden should give him a visa to live here?”
“No, he’s a war criminal. Public opinion is strongly against keeping him here.”
“Schellenberg was Himmler’s right-hand man, Anders,” Peter said. “He knows where all the bodies are buried. That’s why the Brits and the Americans are after him.”
“I think you may be right.”
They drove into the Legation car park and Anders helped Peter stumble up the stairs into the lobby. He collapsed in a chair in the waiting area as Anders approached the receptionist.
“Miss, can call Bridget Potter? Tell her Peter Faye is downstairs and is feeling poorly.”
“Of course.”
The receptionist called Bridget on the interior line and then got up to fetch a glass of water.
“Drink some water, Mr Faye," said the receptionist. "Bridget is on her way down.”
Peter took the glass and drank as Bridget arrived.
“Peter, are you all right?” Bridget asked. “I heard about the fire.”
“Someone torched his flat,” Anders said.
“The door was unlocked, and a window was open,” Peter said. “The fireman thinks it was arson.”
“But we locked the door last night.”
“I know.”
“Someone shot Peter with a tranquillizer dart, Bridget.”
Bridget looked seriously worried.
“I was on the street, coming back here, when I was struck by the dart. I couldn’t believe it,” Peter said. “It was lucky Anders and Stefan were there to help me.”
After work, Bridget and Peter went to their hotel and were packing when Bernie knocked on the door.
“Sorry about your flat, Peter,” Bernie said as Peter opened the door.
“Thanks, Bernie,” Peter replied.
“I heard they tried to take you out with a tranquillizer dart. These NKVD blighters aren’t messing around.”
“What can we do?” Bridget asked as she emerged from the bathroom.
“If they can’t grab you off the street, they will try to destroy your life here. Flush you out of Stockholm, where you will be easy prey.”
“Is there any way to call them off?” Peter asked.
“I doubt it. They probably get their orders from Moscow.”
“Why don’t we go to the police?” Bridget asked. “We can ask for their protection.”
“I think the police suspect Peter of arson, Bridget,” Bernie said. “They aren’t going to move very fast to protect him from these NKVD tossers.”
“Are you sure we need to move?” Bridget asked.
“These bastards mean business, Bridget,” Bernie replied. “I'm sure they are checking hotel registers.”
“We better get going,” Peter said, picking up his suitcase and passing Bridget’s valise to Bernie.
“We’ll go out the back,” Bernie said. “My car is parked on the side street.”
“A Polish submarine captain is asked: ‘Suppose you see a German and a Soviet cruiser in your periscope. Which one do you attack first?’”
Federmann smiled as he told the story, sitting in his booth at the nightclub, puffing on a cigar.
“‘Of course the German one, duty always comes before pleasure.’”
Peter and Bridget laughed at the joke as they sat opposite Der Grosse, watching the floor show. A waiter topped up their glasses of champagne and brought a cognac for Der Grosse. It was a relatively quiet evening and most of the customers were American GIs celebrating the victory in Europe. Even the scantily clad chorus girls seemed to put on a lacklustre performance. It was as if the war was at an end and so was the cabaret floor show.
“The war was good for business, Mr Faye, but now, with the peace, we don’t know anything.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bernie called me about your little problem,” Federmann gestured towards his bodyguard, sitting in a booth nearby. “Karl here will take you upstairs. You should be safe here for a couple of days.”
“Thank you.”
“And who is this lovely lady with you?”
“Her name is Bridget, sir. She works at the Legation.”
“Have you ever done any dancing, miss? We’re missing a girl.”
“No, I'm afraid not. Sorry,” Bridget said with a laugh.
Bernie arrived with their bags and signalled them from the entrance.
“Well, off you go then,” Federmann said.
Peter and Bridget stood up and thanked Der Grosse again before joining Bernie at the entrance.
“Karl will look after you, guv,” Bernie said. “You’re in safe hands.”
“Thanks, Bernie,” Peter said. “You better get on home, Sabrina will be worried.”
“Cheerio, see you in the morning.”
Karl led Peter and Bridget upstairs, past a large dressing room, a carpentry shop and storage rooms for stage flats and decorations, before entering a small flat on the third floor at the back of the building.
“We’re open until 3 a.m.,” Karl told them, checking the windows, “so there will be some noise in the hallway. Good night.”
“Good night, Karl. Thank you,” Peter said as Karl left, shutting the door.
Bridget stood in the living room of the spartan flat, glumly taking in her surroundings. In addition to the living room, the flat had a tiny kitchen, bathroom and small bedroom with two single beds that were little more than cots.
“It’s only until we get sorted out, Bridget.“
She gave him a wan smile.
“We’ll be safe here, Peter. That’s all I care about.”
Bernie pulled the Opel to the curb near the entrance to his flat and stepped out. He crossed the narrow cobblestone street to a three-storey building. Nearby, an NKVD watcher in a black sedan noted his arrival and stepped into a phone booth to make a call.
Bernie opened the door to his flat and stepped quietly inside. He went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of milk before sitting down at the kitchen table and looking at the newspaper.
Sabrina appeared in her nightdress from the bedroom.
“So did you find a place for Peter and Bridget?”
“Yeah, they’re at Federmann’s. Karl is looking after them.”
“Good.”
“I think they’ll be safe there for a few days,” Bernie said. “It’s quite convenient for them being so close to the office.”
“How are they taking it? The fire? The attempts on Peter’s life?”
“I think poor Bridget has had enough. She’s not cut out for this kind of thing.”
“No, I imagine she isn’t.”
It was just after closing time at the nightclub. The band and the showgirls had gone for the night. Federmann was in the office counting the nightly receipts. Josef, the barman, came in and put the cash box on the desk before leaving through the back door. Karl was drinking a glass of aquavit with his boss when there was a fierce knocking on the back door. Karl went to open it.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Josef,” said the voice.
Karl unlocked the door and was just pulling it open when it burst inward. Two NKVD thugs slammed Josef into Karl and sent both of them sprawling. Karl was still trying to get out from under Josef when a third man with striking white hair stepped inside the door and calmly shot them both with a Tokarev pistol. He rushed down the hall to the office, where Federmann sat wide-eyed and frozen behind his desk.
“What do you want? I have money,” Federmann said.
“Of course you do,” the white-haired man said as he shot Der Grosse between the eyes.