Anders was ushered into the office of Folke Bernadotte, Count of Wisborg and vice chairman of the Red Cross. He was a small man in his late forties with a penetrating gaze.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Berger,” Bernadotte said, “but I think you are too early. There’s no story to tell. I have only just received the mandate from the minister to negotiate the repatriation of Swedish prisoners from camps in Germany. There is absolutely nothing to report at this time.”
“I am not here as a journalist, sir. I am here for a personal matter.”
Count Bernadotte frowned.
“You know that the minister has recently imposed a blackout on any information concerning our discussions with the Germans. We want to keep this very low key.”
“I am here on behalf of my wife, sir,” Anders said. “She’s looking for her brother, Rolf Lagerman. He disappeared from the Neuengamme camp several months ago. My wife fears he may be in a Nacht und Nebel camp.”
“Mr Berger, we have people coming here every day looking for family members who have disappeared in Germany. We cannot help them because we don’t have any information yet.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Don’t be,” Bernadotte sighed, ”I sympathize with your wife. She’s living a nightmare. These are Swedish people, innocent people who have done nothing wrong. And now with the war coming to an end, we must repatriate them before it is too late. We must bring them home.”
In the press office, Ewan Butler furtively pulled out a flask of whisky and had a quick drink before slipping it back into the desk drawer. He had a vicious hangover and nothing seemed to help. He looked up to see Joanna coming toward him.
“How are you this morning, Ewan?” Joanna said with concern. Her greeting was not particularly loud, but it sounded like a sonic boom to her hung-over colleague.
“Keep your voice down,” Ewan told her, “I’m extremely sensitive to loud noises.”
She took pity on him and lowered her voice.
“I have an idea for another project,” she ventured.
“Our last escapade was a huge success, wasn’t it?” Ewan managed a weak smile and put down his copy of Der Deutschen in Schweden magazine.
“Yes, it was. The papers were full of it.”
“So what do you have in mind?”
“I was reading about the Waffen-SS. They are losing a lot of men on the Russian front now that the war is going badly for them. I was thinking that the German fund for the wives and fatherless families of the Waffen SS could mistakenly put out an appeal to Swedish Nazi organizations requesting money.”
“Damn, that’s wonderfully insensitive of you, my dear.”
“I thought you would like it.”
“We could put out a forged circular in the name of the National Socialist Auslands organization,” Ewan said, holding his hand to his forehead and trying to will his headache away.
“It could be in a letter from the big boss himself, SS Reichsführer Himmler,” Joanna said, “calling upon those loyal to the National Socialists to make a donation to a pension fund to support SS widows and children.”
“It would need to tell its readers about the magnificent contribution of the Waffen-SS to the Fatherland,” Ewan said, “with so many heroes dying in battle for the Nordic ideal.”
“We could send it to known Swedish anti-Nazis, too. It would inflame the population.”
“It’s a brilliant plan, Joanna. I never would have thought you had so many devilish ideas hidden behind that angelic face of yours.”
Joanna broke into a laugh.
“Devilish ideas are my trademark, Ewan dear,” Joanna said with a smile. “I live to confound the Nazis.”
“There are a lot of people locked up in Swedish prisons, so I wouldn’t get my hopes up,” Michael said. “We’ll do what we can, but London will have to make the final decision.”
Sigge was closing up shop for the day as Michael and Peter discussed the Aksell case with Bridget in the office.
“I understand the difficulty,” Peter said, “but Bernie is a valuable employee. I think we owe it to him to try.”
“Couldn’t we simply bestow some kind of award on Aksell?” Bridget said. “After all, he is a music composer, an artist. Perhaps a bogus music award in recognition for his extraordinary contribution to the arts.”
“That’s bloody brilliant,” Peter said. “Of course, we can’t award the prize if the man remains in prison.”
“We could get an arts group to invite him to go to Britain to collect the award,” Bridget said. “Then they would have to release him.”
“You know your idea of an award sounds better than anything we can do through our services,” Michael said.
“London isn’t going to help us,” Bridget said, crossing her arms. ”I wouldn’t hold out any hope from that quarter.”
“You may be right, Bridget,” Peter said. “Let’s think on it. I’m going out for a bit with Michael.”
He collected his coat and hat and followed Michael to the door. It was snowing as Peter and Michael emerged from the British Legation building and walked along the nearby canal.
“Mallet’s done it,” Michael said, enjoying a moment of schadenfreude at his superior’s misfortune. “His meetings with SD Ausland Chief Schellenberg and Himmler’s man, Dr Schmidt, have attracted attention in London. I heard it from a friend.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Peter.
“The Soviet government has asked London to recall Mallet on the grounds that he has been providing the German High Command with details of Soviet army operations.”
“I doubt Mallet knows anything about Soviet army operations,” Peter said, “unless you know something I don’t. I thought he was representing banking interests and working with Marcus Wallenberg.”
“He is,” Michael confirmed. “Our bankers are looking for German assets on the cheap. The question is what are we offering in exchange? Immunity from prosecution for the German leadership at the end of the war, or what?”
“So you think Mallet will be recalled?” Peter asked.
“Absolutely and soon. Anyone in that job would be better than the angry rabbit.”
“So what will happen to us?”
“Nothing, I suppose. We’ll just soldier on.”
Outside on the main boulevard, it was snowing as Peter and Bridget, with their legation friends embarked on an evening cruise on an old riverboat, the M/S Gustafsberg VII. Peter and Bridget remained on deck to watch as the ship passed the old town with its Christmas lights, and then Södermalm, before entering the lock into Lake Mälaren. A cold wind was blowing so they sought refuge below at the bar where a party was in full swing.
A crowd of lively young Swedes was celebrating the Christmas season and dancing to Tommy Dorsey’s Boogie Woogie. Peter and Bridget joined Betty, Wendy and Carly from the rooming house and their Swedish boyfriends near a window table overlooking the water.
“Peter, this is Samantha whom I told you about,” Bridget said. “Her husband was the flight engineer on the Lancaster bomber that was shot down.”
“Hello, Samantha,” Peter said, shaking hands with a thin dark-haired woman drinking a martini cocktail.
“Hello, Peter,” she replied with a doleful expression.
She was poorly dressed and sat next to Betty and the girls who were all smartly turned out. The women were drinking martinis and were all in various stages of drunkenness while the men stuck to beer and argued in loud Swedish voices about the war.
“I hope Bridget is treating you all right, Peter,“ Wendy laughed as she flirted openly with him. “She tends to be rather bossy with her employees.”
“I do not,” Bridget replied sharply.
“Well, the last one took fright,” Wendy smirked, “and left his post in a hurry, didn’t he?”
“He did not,” Bridget laughed. “He was transferred to New York, the lucky devil.”
“Bollocks,” Wendy said, grinning at her friends.
“Wendy, stop it. Stop slagging Bridget,” Betty smiled at Peter. “Don’t be an old harpy. I’m sure Peter has nothing to complain about. Right, Bridget?”
“You bloody well better believe it,” Bridget said, glancing at Peter, who remained quietly amused.
“How did it go with your search for your husband?” Peter asked, turning to Samantha.
“The crew were picked up by the Swedish coast guard,” Samantha said. “I’m just so happy Harry is alive and well.”
“Were any of the men injured when they crashed their plane?” Bridget asked.
“One of the gunners was in bad shape and needed medical attention,” Samantha said. “They took him to a hospital in Malmö. He will be joining the others later.”
“They were sent to the internment camp in Falun, according to the man at the minister’s office,” Betty added. “I must say that the Swedish authorities are being much more helpful. Quite a change over a year ago.”
“How long will they be interned?” Peter asked.
“We don’t know,” Betty said. “That’s up to the minister. Allied airmen are put up in hotels and rooming houses in the Falun area and have relative freedom compared to the other prisoners.”
“It’s a bloody disgrace if you don’t mind me saying so,” Wendy exclaimed. “They get full pay sitting on their arses and drinking good Swedish aquavit.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Betty’s boyfriend.
“Cheers, Wendy, cheers Betty, cheers, everyone.”