The Informer (Sabotage Group BB) (13 page)

The tobacco in his pipe tastes like a mixture of old newspapers and horse droppings. His mouth is dry. The bullet wound from the failed hit on the garage
Super
is sore today…even a bit swollen. Maybe it’s getting infected.

Iris unbuttons her blouse. She’s got nice hands, short nails.

Johannes wonders about the new boy, Willy. Is he the rat, or could Alis K be right about him being innocent? He only wishes he had met the boy. It is difficult to judge someone you haven’t even met.

Iris has reached the lower buttons. One of her breasts is showing, the cute little pink nipple is hard. She smiles at him. Eyes heavy now. The blouse joins the skirt on the floor.

Johannes shifts his weight, while she scoops off the stockings. Again he tries to empty his head, pushing the thoughts away.

She comes to him. “Pull down my panties,” she whispers, her voice hoarse.

He places the pipe on the table and grabs her firm butt, kissing the soft skin of her belly only centimeters above the rim of her panties.

Gasping for air, she steps back as he pulls the panties down to kiss the pubic hair.

Alis K has usually got a brilliant sense of the human character. He can’t remember her ever misjudging anyone, except Jens of course; but that’s understandable. Hookers don’t care much for the police. And Jens wasn’t exactly an exemplary officer.

Iris turns around.

He gently slaps her behind. Then she squats down to sit on his lap, rubbing her butt around. He kisses her neck. Grabbing those tiny perfect breasts. He feels the hardness of her nipples against the palms of his hands, thinking about Grete’s larger breasts, and how he had grabbed them no longer than an hour ago.

All of a sudden, Iris stands, stubbing out the cigarette in the ashtray. Johannes is groping for his pipe while she goes down on her knees to unbutton his pants. Pulling out his floppy cock, she frowns as she looks up at him. He pretends to be busy inspecting the pipe. She takes his cock in her mouth. She loves doing that. Licking it, she’s purring like a kitten.

Ten minutes later, she gives up.

“This has never happened before,” he says, and leaves without looking at her. He is quite sure he will never show his face around here again.

28

“Brink’s Sewing Factory is located on the upper floors of this building.” Pointing at the map, Borge glances at the faces of the other four leaning over the map. They are in an abandoned building, which housed a small taxi company back before the Germans came. His voice echoes in the empty room. There is a jerry can and a spare tire lying against the opposite wall. The map is placed on an old oil stained folding table. “In the daytime the customers visiting the factory come in here through the gates and up the main stairs…right here. We will go in using a different path.” He smiles, enjoying the show. He made the plan; he is the one to explain the details. BB lights up his pipe, signaling for him to continue. “We go in the back through the gate on the other side of the building…here. Up the factory elevator to the third floor, the fourth floor, and the fifth floor. It’s a very old building—several hundred years old. The supporting pillars are solid wood. We need bombs attached to each of these pillars. It has to be done quickly. There’s a stairway all the way down here. That’s where we meet. Light the fuses and get out.”

“Guards?” Alis K asks, lifting a single eyebrow.

“Two in front…two in the back. We only need to worry about those in the back. They’re located in this shed, here.”

“Dogs?” Alis K again.

“No dogs. And the guards aren’t worth shit. I was out there yesterday. Went into the back, looked inside through the shed windows. They didn’t even notice. Both of them were sleeping. We stick a gun up their noses and that’ll be it. No trouble there.”

Borge looks at them one by one; BB seems sad, Alis K a bit tired, Jens has a cold and keeps sneezing all the time. The boy, Willy, is so fired up, he looks electric. Nerves? Is the Gestapo setting up a trap at the factory? Has he informed them again this time? He meets Borge’s glance with an insecure smile. Sweating.

“Willy,” Borge says, placing his index finger on the map, “your task tonight is important. You are to stand guard right here. If the Germans or the Hipo show up while we’re inside the factory, we might not get out alive. I hope you realize this. So do not, under any circumstances, leave your post. You do not slip around the back to take a piss or something. You stay on your post. Right here. There’s a gateway that will allow you to stay hidden and still be able to spot anyone coming our way. You’ll be too far away from us to shout any alarm, so if you spot the arrival of German soldiers or the Hipo or the Gestapo, you shoot at them—shoot their cars—five or six rounds, and then you slip away around the back. You’ll be able to climb the fence in there to get to the next backyard. You’ll be gone before they even know what hit them. With a fog like tonight, it should be quite easy to disappear. We, on the other hand, will hear the shots. That’ll be our signal to get the hell out. If we’re lucky, the Germans will be distracted by the shots long enough for us to slip out of the factory unseen. The fog will be our cover tonight.”

Jens sneezes violently. Alis K steps away from him. “If I get infected by that, I’ll kill you,” she mumbles.

“Ha!” he says, blowing his nose into a well-used handkerchief.

“Jens,” Borge says, “you’ll handle the guards. Alis K, you’ll carry the explosives in this bag and place them on the third floor. BB, this bag, the fourth floor. I will do the fifth floor myself. We do not assemble after the operation. We all go straight home afterwards. I will get in touch with each of you during the next few days. Any questions?”

They all shake their heads. He folds the maps, putting them into his pocket. “Well, let’s get to it.”

Everybody except Willy takes out their weapons to give them the final check. Jens rolls the drum of his new revolver. The clicking sound gives Borge the creeps. He shoves his own Sten gun down his bag in a hurry while BB whispers something into Alis K’s ear, making her laugh quietly. Willy is shuffling his feet awkwardly.

Willy was waiting outside the building when Borge arrived ten minutes early. Borge had taken the liberty of being early as he had the key to the place and had to set things up before the others came.

“How long have you been standing there for everyone to see?” he asked, hurrying to unlock the door.

“Five minutes, I guess.”

“You always come at the exact time. You do not stand there waiting. People will notice. Understood?”

The boy just nodded his head. The other three arrived one by one…at the exact time. No more than thirty seconds between the first and the last to arrive.

“Can I ask a question?” Willy asks in a thin voice.

“It’s your last chance.”

“What do you do if you don’t have any bullets left?”

The room goes silent.

Alis K: “You had plenty of rounds left in the pistol after the last operation. You only fired the gun twice, right?”

“Sure, but…I might have used them all by now.”

“You what?” Jens.

“What have you been using them for?” Alis K again.

“Shooting Germans.”

All quiet. No sounds to be heard at all.

“We are at war, right?” He shrugs, waving his hands. “I’m pretty good at it. A shot in the head and down they go.”

“How many Germans have you killed?” Borge asks, feeling his balls contract. Not liking any of this, he looks at BB who is obviously just as shaken by the boy’s words.

“Five.”

“Five? Counting the two Hipo?”

“No, five after them.”

Jens whistles through his teeth. “You’ve some character. How did you do it?”

“I’ve just been wandering the streets at night. If I came by a German soldier out alone, I would follow him, shove the pistol to the back of his head, and shoot. Once, I even did two at the same time, but they were really drunk.” His eyes shining with pride.

“This is madness,” BB mumbles. “It’s plain murder!”

“It’s the enemy, right?” Willy says, a perplexed frown coming on.

“Have you ever heard about retaliation killings?” Alis K stares at him. “The Germans kill a Dane, sometimes at random, for every German soldier killed by the resistance.”

Willy looks at her, surely not getting it. “The five I’ve shot won’t kill any Danes.”

Borge turns to Jens. “What do we do?”

“I’ll be damned if I know.”

“BB?”

BB sighs, turning towards Willy. “You’re right, we are at war. But from now on, you’ll only kill if it’s strictly necessary. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

The boy gapes, then he nods his head. “Sure.”

“Give me your pistol.”

Willy hands him the gun. BB releases the magazine. Empty. “Did someone bring a couple of extra rounds?”

“I did,” Jens says. “But they don’t fit in that thing there.”

BB takes out his own Walther P38, ejects the magazine, clicks out two rounds, and places both in the magazine of Willy’s Danish military pistol. He hands it back to him.

“Only two?” Willy asks with disappointment in his voice. “Borge said I need to fire five or six times if the enemy comes.”

It’s Borge’s time to sigh. “Okay. Hand me the gun.”

Hesitating a bit too long, he gives the pistol to Borge, who puts it into his own pocket. Then he opens his bag, pulling out the Sten gun. “This is a Sten gun. It’s an English submachine gun. Take it.”

Willy accepts the Sten gun like it was the crown jewels. His smile gives Borge the creeps. Willy even pets the barrel of the weapon. It is made of iron pipes and looks like something that fell off a garden gate.

Borge touches his shoulder. “Let’s get moving,” he says to all of them. And just for Willy’s ears, he whispers, “Remember, we’re the heroes of the future. We should behave as heroes.”

The boy doesn’t answer. His eyes shining like he has a fever, he lets the weapon slide into his shoulder bag.

On the way out, Jens puts a hand on Borge’s arm. “You think it was wise to give him that Sten gun?”

The fog outside is thick.

29

The clattering noises from a freight train fill the night for a couple of minutes. Then silence. The dim sound of their own feet against the cobblestones. Somebody is shouting in the distance. The humid fog dampens their clothes, moisture runs down their faces. Jens is the last in line, sneaking along the foggy streets behind the other three, freezing like hell. The boy is standing guard at the gate back around the corner, and they are now heading towards Brink’s Sewing Factory to determine if the Germans are setting up a trap for them.

The fog is so thick, you can’t even see the buildings on the other side of the street. And here, at Christianshavn, the streets are narrow. The dark gives the fog a strange, dark gray feel. Dull and wet.

Jens turns up his collar. Had this been a regular operation, the fog would of course have been their friend as Borge said back at the old taxi company. It would have been easy to sneak into the sewing factory unspotted. There had been no need to worry about nosy neighbors. But, this is no regular operation, and the fog is not on their side. They might sneak right into a German ambush, not detecting anything before the first man literally stumbles over a German soldier.

Jens is not happy. The plan is to observe Brink’s Sewing Factory at a safe distance, from one of the apartments in the building facing the backstreet. He has acquired access to the apartment himself. Through an old contact, who is willing to do amazing things for a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of schnapps. Now, with a fog as heavy as this, Jens doubts they will be able to spot any Germans, waiting in ambush from the windows of the apartment. And the guy even got the cigarettes and the schnapps in advance.

BB and Alis K are walking close together in front of Jens. He can hear them whispering. BB’s resonant voice first, “Did you realize he was running around killing Germans at night?”

“No. I haven’t seen him since he got the gun.”

“Five. He did say he killed five, right?”

“Right.”

“We’ve created a monster, Alis K. We are to blame for this. He’s far too young for this kind of work.”

“Will the two of you shut up!” Borge whispers from up ahead. “We’re getting close.”

“Oh, there’s not going to be any ambush,” Alis K says. “The boy’s no informer. He’s killed seven enemies in a week, goddammit.”

“So
he
says,” Jens whispers, lifting his finger schoolmaster style. “So
he
says.”

“I was there when he wasted the two Hipo. I saw it with my own eyes!”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Be quiet now.” He returns her stare. He can feel her contempt; it’s right there in her eyes, but he doesn’t back down. At last she does.

In the silence that follows, the sound of a man cursing waves through the fog. It is impossible to tell where the sound is coming from, impossible to understand the words, but it makes them all quiver a little. Was that German?