Count Bernadotte’s car pulled up at the entrance to the British Legation. The driver opened the door and Bernadotte and Schellenberg stepped out and climbed the stone stairway to the entrance. Schellenberg had lost his official role and was now a private citizen and also a potential war criminal. A crowd had gathered at the gate and was held back by several guards. Jostled by the crowd, Anders and Stefan managed to find a decent vantage point. Stefan snapped a picture of the two men as they turned to look briefly at the crowd from the doorway.
In the hall leading to the conference room, Bernadotte and Schellenberg shook hands with the legation staff who had been lined up in the hallway and put on their best behaviour at the request of their chief.
“This is Bridget Potter and Peter Faye of our Consular Services office,” Mallet said to Schellenberg.
“Good morning,” said Peter and Bridget, shaking hands with the Nazi spymaster.
“Ah, Mr Faye,” Schellenberg smiled. “I have heard about you from some of my old colleagues. I am happy to meet you at last.”
“Yes, sir,” Peter mumbled.
The remaining staff shook Bernadotte’s hand but were rather hesitant to shake the hand of the famous Nazi so greetings were short and subdued. Mallet hustled his guests into the first-floor conference room. As soon as they were seated, he pulled the door closed as Ewan Butler snuck in at the last moment with a heavy briefcase.
Peter and Bridget took the stairs to Consular Services when a secretary called.
“Mr Faye. I have a call for you.”
Peter descended to the lobby to take the call, leaving Bridget on the stairs on her way to the office.
“Who is it?” Peter asked.
“A policeman, sir.”
Peter frowned and picked up the phone.
Peter entered his apartment building and ran into a Swedish fire inspector in a yellow tunic, boots, and a fireman’s hat on his way out.
“What happened?”
“Are you the lodger on the top floor, sir?” the fireman asked in accented English.
“Yes, I am.”
“There’s been a fire in your flat. What’s your name?”
“Peter Faye. I work at the British Legation.”
“The fire started sometime last night, a slow-burning fire.”
“I left the flat at around 11 p.m. and stayed the night in a hotel, so I don’t know anything about a fire.”
“Let’s go up.”
Peter and the fireman climbed the stairs. From the landing, Peter could see the blackened walls of the flat. In the living room, his precious record collection was a melted ruin near the wrecked gramophone. There was nothing left to save. Peter looked around in shock.
“You see the intense charring on the walls. This was a slow, smouldering fire. It was probably started with a lighter and fed with paper until the curtains caught fire,” the man said with a suspicious air.
“You think someone deliberately set fire to my flat?”
“The door was unlocked, and a window was open to create a draft. Did you leave the door unlocked, Mr Faye?”
“No, the door was locked and the window was shut.”
“This is clearly a case of arson. I have already reported it to the police. They’ll be calling on you.”
Peter left the building and headed back to the legation. As he crossed a side street, he felt a sudden biting pain in his shoulder. He discovered a tranquillizer dart stuck in a fold of his suit and looked around for the assailant. There was no one around. He started walking fast, trying to get away from the area, but soon, two NKVD thugs took up the chase. Across the street, he saw a man with white hair put a long box into the back seat of his car.
Peter felt nauseous and faint. A woman approached and noticed his unsteady gait, thinking that he was just another drunk Swede. The two Russians easily caught up with Peter and grabbed his arms. They turned Peter around and dragged back toward their car. Suddenly, they were interrupted by a voice from across the street.
“Peter! What happened?” Anders asked, crossing the street.
“Anders,” Peter murmured, slurring his speech.
The two Russians stepped away as Anders arrived.
“I heard someone set fire to your flat.”
Anders watched the two Russians reluctantly return to their car as Stefan approached.
“Careful, Anders. I think he’s going to be sick.”
“Peter, are you all right?”
Peter collapsed onto the pavement just as Anders grabbed his arm.
“He’s out cold. Is he drunk? We better find him a doctor.”
“Let’s take him to your place, Anders. It’s closest.”
Young Nils played with a toy airplane in the living room near Peter, lying unconscious on the daybed. The boy made airplane noises as Anders returned to the room to check on his friend. Peter woke up slowly, opening his eyes and looking around, surprised by his new environment.
“Good, you are awake now,” Anders said. “We were worried about you, Peter. I had a doctor come in to take a look. We saw blood on your shirt. We think you were shot with some kind of dart.”
Peter sat up and touched his head. He had a terrible headache.
“You brought me here?” Peter asked.
“Yes,” Anders replied.
“I will get you some tea,” Britta said. “You need to drink a lot, doctor’s orders.”
Britta goes to the kitchen.
“You are going to be okay,” Anders said, “but you need to rest up a bit. I think somebody doesn’t like you, Peter. They torched your flat and then shot you with a dart.”
Britta returned with a mug of tea and handed it to Peter, who took a sip.
“I talked to a fireman at the site. He said it was arson,” Peter said. “Bridget and I saw a strange man with white hair climbing the stairs when we left the flat last night.”
“Who would want to torch your flat?” Anders asked.
“I really don’t know.”