There was the clickety-clack sound of fingers on keys as the secretarial staff toiled over letters and documents for the Enskilda Bank. Britta was one of ten women working in the typing pool and noticed one of the bank’s senior accountants walking past her desk. She took a deep breath, got up, and followed the man into his office. He was just sitting down at his desk when Britta appeared in the doorway.
“Mr Ahlman, can I have a word?”
“Hello, Mrs Berger. How are you?”
“I am fine, Mr Ahlman.”
“Come in, please.”
Britta remained standing near the door.
“Mr Ahlman, I have been trying to locate my brother Rolf Lagerman. He’s in Germany.”
“Is he now?”
“My brother disappeared from a concentration camp earlier this year. Now they say he may be in a Nacht und Nebel work camp. We have lost any trace of him. We are worried.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“As you know, sir, Enskilda has close relations with the Robert Bosch group,” Britta said. “The bank owns shares in several Bosch companies, including the American Bosch Corporation.”
“I see where you’re going with this, Mrs Berger, but I don’t...”
Britta interrupted: “My husband and I were thinking that perhaps the bank could inquire at the Robert Bosch company in Stuttgart about the whereabouts of my brother, very discreetly, of course.”
“Mrs Berger. You are a valuable employee, but I am not sure whether our management would want to get involved.”
“Please, Mr Ahlman, we’re only looking for information about my brother. It’s a simple request and Mr Wallenberg has always shown an interest in the well-being of the bank’s employees.”
Ahlman looked lost at sea. He opened his mouth to say something and then decided to remain silent.
Britta produced a letter from her handbag.
“I have written a short letter,” she said, “requesting information about my brother, which the bank could simply forward to the Bosch company.”
The accountant looked at her, weighing the risk to his position, and then came to a decision.
“I’ll give your letter to Mr Wallenberg. I’ll tell him you are an employee who is worried about her brother. That is the best I can do. It will be up to Mr Wallenberg.”
Britta smiled gratefully and handed him the letter.
“Thank you, sir.”
She hurried out of his office before he could change his mind.
Ewan Butler stood in the middle of the Consular Services office in a rumpled suit, holding his hat and looking down at his feet, as Victor Mallet, in a pinstripe suit with a red rose in his lapel, made the presentations.
“Hello, Bridget, Peter. I want you to meet our new employee, Ewan Butler. He’s just arrived.”
“Hello,” Bridget and Peter replied.
In the background, the desk officer, Sigge, was busy stamping a document for a Swedish gentleman.
“We’re happy to have him,” Mallet said. “Butler was a journalist before the war. He speaks fluent German and is a bit of a celebrity, you know, although he will deny it.”
“A celebrity?” Ewan asked.
“Yes, he’s being very modest, but his reputation precedes him. He knew Reinhard Heydrich, the SS butcher, the ‘Hangman of Prague’. Didn’t you, my boy?”
“That was years ago, sir,” Ewan said mildly, “I knew him before the war.”
He attempted a smile in Bridget and Peter’s direction, which quickly became a frown. He removed his spectacles and started to wipe them down with a handkerchief.
“Butler has been working in our office in Cairo,” Mallet continued, proud of his new recruit. “He has contacts within the Swedish royal family. You know Princess Sibylla, don’t you Butler?”
Ewan looked embarrassed as he put on his spectacles.
“Butler will be working with Joanna in the press office,” Mallet added.
“You are both welcome to come down and have a drink with me,” Ewan offered in a hesitant voice.
“Thank you, Mr Butler,” Bridget said, smiling.
Mallet suddenly turned and headed for the door, dragging Butler along with him.
“Ta-ta, Peter, Bridget,” Mallet said in the doorway, waving goodbye.
Peter and Bridget returned to their desks.
“Butler is SOE,” Bridget said. “He’s supposed to give Joanna a hand with black propaganda.”
“Nice chap, but why is Mallet treating him like royalty?” Peter asked.
“The gossips are saying that he got the job through the MP, Harold Nicolson. Mallet likes him because of his connection to the Swedish royal family.”
“You’re amazing, Bridget.”
“It’s Joanna who hears these things. Everyone is talking about Butler’s arrival.”
It was ten o’clock when Peter and Bernie arrived at the Grand Hotel waterfront. They checked their watches and looked around. A man appeared out of nowhere and knocked on the roof.
“Hello, Mr Faye,” Anders said as Bernie slid down the window.
Peter opened the door for Anders, who climbed in the back seat.
“We’re on time,” Anders said. “Our man should be here any moment.”
“Who exactly are we meeting, Mr Berger?”
“His name is Saarson. That’s all I know.”
“What is he selling?” Peter asked impatiently.
“I think he has something important to give you, some top-secret information.”
The lights from a motorcar blinked at the far end of the pier.
“That must be the bloke,” Bernie said.
The motorcar approached slowly and then turned away, crossing into the old quarter. Bernie followed it at a distance through the narrow streets of Gamla Stan. After going around in circles several times, the car stopped at a Turkish café. Bernie parked the Legation car nearby, and they watched as a man left the car and went inside. Peter and Anders exchanged a look, then got out of the car and followed the man.
The café was empty except for a man sitting at a table in the back. He looked up as they came in.
“Are you Colonel Saarson?” Anders asked.
“Yes. You must be Mr Berger.”
“Yes. This is Mr Faye of the British Legation.”
“Ah, Mr Faye,” Saarson said. “A pleasure to meet you, sir. Please sit down.”
Peter and Anders sat down opposite Saarson as the waiter approached from the kitchen.
“What can I do for you?” Peter asked.
“I believe the question is what I can do for you, Mr Faye.”
Anders stood up as the waiter arrived.
“I think I will let you two talk alone,” Anders said. “I’ll be outside.”
“Good idea,” Peter replied. “I’m sure we won’t be long.”
Anders left, returning to the car.
“Coffee, aquavit, Mr Faye?” Saarson offered.
“Aquavit, please.”
The waiter left to get their drinks.
“I am from Tallinn, Mr Faye. I work for the Estonian government in exile.”
“Would you mind if I checked your credentials with my people in London?” Peter asked.
“Best not to, sir. I could lose my job. This is highly confidential. I’m sure you understand.”
“What do you have, Colonel Saarson?”
“Soviet material, sir. Top secret.”