Free Hornet Flight by Ken Follett

strong political or patriotic feelings, but were conscientious policemen who took orders and did a thorough job. “And I’d like you to come along, too, if you would, in case there are female suspects to be searched.”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œJuel will brief you all. I’m going ahead to Kastrup.” Peter went to the door, then turned back. “How’s little Stig?” Tilde had a son six years old, looked after by his grandmother during the working day.
    She smiled. “He’s fine. His reading is coming along fast.”
    â€œHe’ll be chief of police one day.”
    Her face darkened. “I don’t want him to be a cop.”
    Peter nodded. Tilde’s husband had been killed in a shootout with a gang of smugglers. “I understand.”
    She added defensively, “Would you want your son to do this job?”
    He shrugged. “I don’t have any children, and I’m not likely to.”
    She gave him an enigmatic look. “You don’t know what the future holds.”
    â€œTrue.” He turned away. He did not want to start that discussion on a busy day. “I’ll call in.”
    â€œOkay.”
    Peter took one of the police department’s unmarked black Buicks, recently equipped with two-way radio. He drove out of the city and across a bridge to the island of Amager, where Kastrup aerodrome was located. It was a sunny day, and from the road he could see people on the beach.
    He looked like a businessman or lawyer in his conservative chalk-stripe suit and discreetly patterned tie. He did not have a briefcase, but for verisimilitude he had brought with him a file folder, filled with papers taken from a wastebasket.
    He felt anxious as he approached the aerodrome. If he could have had another day or two, he might have been able to establish whether every flight carried illegal packages, or only some. There was a maddening possibility that today he might find nothing, but his raid would alert thesubversive group, and they might change to a different route. Then he would have to start again.
    The aerodrome was a scatter of low buildings on one side of a single runway. It was heavily guarded by German troops, but civilian flights continued to be operated by the Danish airline, DDL, and the Swedish ABA, as well as Lufthansa.
    Peter parked outside the office of the airport controller. He told the secretary he was from the government’s Aviation Safety Department, and was admitted instantly. The controller, Christian Varde, was a small man with a salesman’s ready smile. Peter showed his police card. “There will be a special security check on the Lufthansa flight to Stockholm today,” he said. “It has been authorized by General Braun, who will be arriving shortly. We must get everything ready.”
    A frightened look came over the face of the manager. He reached for the phone on his desk, but Peter covered the instrument with his own hand. “No,” he said. “Please do not forewarn anyone. Do you have a list of passengers expected to board the flight here?”
    â€œMy secretary does.”
    â€œAsk her to bring it in.”
    Varde called his secretary and she brought a sheet of paper. He gave it to Peter.
    Peter said, “Is the flight coming in on time from Berlin?”
    â€œYes.” Varde checked his watch. “It should land in forty-five minutes.”
    That was enough time, just.
    It would simplify Peter’s task if he had to search only those passengers joining the flight in Denmark. “I want you to call the pilot and say that no one will be permitted to deplane at Kastrup today. That includes passengers and crew.”
    â€œVery good.”
    He looked at the list the secretary had brought. There were four names: two Danish men, a Danish woman, and a German man. “Where are the passengers now?”
    â€œThey should be checking in.”
    â€œTake their baggage, but do not load it