In the evening, Peter and Bridget were playing Crazy Eights at the kitchen table when they heard a knock at the door.
“I’ll get it,” Peter said, putting down his cards and going to open the door.
A small man with a large moustache in the uniform of a BOAC airline pilot stood in the doorway.
“Can I help you?” Peter asked.
“Hello there. You speak English. Very good. I am a friend of Jane Archer. I have a letter here for Peter Faye. Is that you?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Can I see your identification papers?” the pilot asked.
Peter went to get his passport and showed it to the man, who glanced briefly at it before handing the letter to Peter.
“Are you a pilot?”
“Yes, I am. I’m with BOAC. I fly into Stockholm quite often. Jane is my aunt, Mr Faye. She asked me to wait for your reply. I can come back in an hour or two if you like. I am with some American blokes having a few drinks on the town, celebrating Hitler’s demise.”
“Of course. Yes, I will reply to Jane. Give me an hour.”
“See you later, then.”
The pilot left and Peter closed the door. He put on his reading glasses and sat down to read the letter.
“Any news?” Bridget asked.
Peter got up and put Mozart on the gramophone, turning up the sound as a precaution.
“The Abwehr report has confirmed Jane’s suspicions about Philby. She worked for several months for him in Section IX, the Anti-Soviet Section. Philby sidelined her by putting her on radio traffic analysis and then she lost her job.”
“So she suspects Philby?” Bridget asked.
“Yes, she does. She says she mentioned her suspicions to Guy Liddell and then put out a feeler very discreetly to the Foreign Office, but they are not in the mind to heed any warnings about Soviet agents, not with the VE day celebrations around the corner. She suggests that I take the report to the Americans.”
“Tikander owes you, Peter,” Bridget said from the kitchen as she made tea.
“Tikander can get the Abwehr report to Allen Dulles in Bern. Then maybe the Americans can put some pressure on our intelligence services.”
Peter read the letter a second time and then struck a match, holding it to the bottom of the letter, before dropping the burning paper into the ashtray. He picked up his fountain pen and wrote a reply to Jane.
On May 5, 1945, a Swedish government limousine drove through the streets of the old city with the flag on its bonnet, followed by two motorcycle outriders and preceded by a security car. Ordinary people gathered in the street to watch the procession.
In the crowd, Anders and Stefan ran along, trying to keep up with the car. A window came down and Himmler’s Sonderbevollmächtigter and head of SD foreign intelligence, Walter Schellenberg, now a minister in Dönitz’s provisional government, waved at the crowd gathered in the road. Stefan snapped pictures of the man in the moving car.
“I got him,” Stefan said.
“What’s Schellenberg doing in Sweden?” Anders asked.
“He must be a guest of the government.”
Anders and Stefan turned around and headed back to their car.
“I wonder what he’s up to meeting with our government,” Anders said. “Maybe he’s seeking asylum here in Sweden.”
“He’s a war criminal,” Stefan said. “They’ll never allow it.”
The limousine turned the corner and headed south towards Trosa. After an hour of driving, it turned into the main gate of Tullgarn, the eighteenth-century summer palace of the Swedish royal family. Schellenberg descended from the limousine to a formal welcome by Swedish minister Von Post, the Foreign Secretary Eric Bohemann and Folke Bernadotte. Various porters handled the German’s baggage and the men headed towards the main entrance surrounded by flowers in full bloom.
Schellenberg had long been accustomed to the trappings of power in his senior position in the RSHA, but as the Swedes ushered him into the palace, he realized that his new ministerial position had taken him to an entirely different level. He could only hope it would last for a while.
Peter was taking a day off and enjoying the lovely spring weather as he walked along a footpath near the canal. It was a quiet morning and there were few people about. A black sedan followed him on the road, stopping a hundred yards away. Conscious of the surveillance, Peter surmised that the car was tailing him quite aggressively, which was unusual. The Säpo usually tried to keep out of sight and watch from a distance.
He decided to walk faster, looking down into the canal where there were several work boats with private docks running parallel to the footpath. A few old men are out and about mopping the decks of their boats. He maintained a quick pace, checking the vehicle behind him from time to time. There were three men in the car, a lot of manpower for a surveillance operation. He walked faster until he heard the sound of an engine accelerating. He turned just in time to see the black sedan jump the curb and head straight for him. With a fraction of a second to spare, he threw himself off the footpath into the canal and landed in the murky water near the dock. The car quickly swung back onto the road and continued on its way.
The cold water and the adrenaline rush shocked Peter into action. He grabbed hold of a ladder and quickly pulled himself dripping wet up onto the private dock. He stood up, fumbling for his revolver as an old gent saluted him for his morning dip.
“God Morgon,” the old man said with a grin.
Peter ignored the friendly Swede and started up the boat ramp. Somehow the Webley had remained in his pocket and he pulled it out as he got to the top of the ramp. He looked around, but the car had disappeared.
Ten minutes later, Peter limped into a popular dockside restaurant, looking for Bridget. She was seated near several young Americans who were drinking beer on the terrace and flirting with her from a distance. Her eyes widened as she noticed Peter’s sodden clothes.
“Lovely morning,” Peter said as he sat down.
“What happened to you?” Bridget asked.
“I fell into the canal.”
“Just like that?”
“Well, not just like that. I had to jump into the canal to avoid being hit by a car,” Peter signalled for a waiter. “I’m actually quite lucky to be alive.”
Bridget started to say something, but stopped herself when the waiter arrived at their table. Peter was dripping water on the terrace, but the man pretended not to notice.
“A double Macallan and a coffee, please.”
As the man left, Bridget put a hand on Peter’s arm.
“Peter, that’s what happened to Keith in London.”
“I know.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I sprained an ankle,” Peter shrugged, “and my pride is hopelessly damaged, but other than that, I’m fine.”
“Peter, you can’t just be walking around like that. Bernie’s right, you need protection.”
Peter smiled at Bridget and remembered the engagement ring burning a hole in his pocket. He pulled out the small box and put it on the table.
“What’s that?” Bridget asked.
“Open it.”
“Oh, Peter!”
The waiter arrived with the whisky and coffee. Peter shivered in his wet clothes and drank some whisky. He then picked up the box and opened it for Bridget.
“I want to marry you, Bridget,” Peter announced with a determined air.
“Are you sure you are all right?”
Peter’s heart sank as he saw her frown.
“Somebody just tried to kill you and you fell into the canal and you’re soaking wet and...”
“I’m fine, Bridget.”
Peter slowly removed the engagement ring, admiring Magnus’ fine work setting the diamond in a gold ring. He took a moment to pour the water remaining in the box on the ground. He looked Bridget in the eyes, then took her left hand and slipped the ring on her finger. It fit perfectly.
“What a lovely ring, Peter!” Bridget said. “Are you sure?”
“Of course, I’m sure. I love you. I want to marry you.”