Free Hornet Flight by Ken Follett Page A

onto the aircraft until it has been searched by my men.”
    â€œVery well.”
    â€œThe passengers, too, will be searched before they board. Is anything else loaded here, in addition to passengers and their luggage?”
    â€œCoffee and sandwiches for the flight, and a bag of mail. And the fuel, of course.”
    â€œThe food and drink must be examined, and the mailbag. One of my men will observe the refueling.”
    â€œFine.”
    â€œGo now and send the message to the pilot. When all the passengers have checked in, come and find me in the departure lounge. But please—try to give the impression that nothing special is happening.”
    Varde went out.
    Peter made his way to the departure area, racking his brains to make sure he had thought of everything. He sat in the lounge and discreetly studied the other passengers, wondering which of them would end up in jail today instead of on a plane. This morning there were scheduled flights to Berlin, Hamburg, the Norwegian capital of Oslo, the southern Swedish city of Malmö, and the Danish holiday island of Bornholm, so he could not be sure which of the passengers were destined for Stockholm.
    There were only two women in the room: a young mother with two children, and a beautifully dressed older woman with white hair. The older woman could be the smuggler, Peter thought: her appearance might be intended to allay suspicion.
    Three of the passengers wore German uniforms. Peter checked his list: his man was a Colonel von Schwarzkopf. Only one of the soldiers was a colonel. But it was wildly unlikely that a German officer would smuggle Danish underground newspapers.
    All the others were men just like Peter, wearing suits and ties, holding their hats in their laps.
    Trying to appear bored but patient, as if waiting for a flight, he watched everyone carefully, alert for signs that someone had sensed the imminent security check. Some passengers looked nervous, but that could just be fear of flying. Peter was most concerned to make sure no one tried to throw away a package, or conceal papers somewhere in the lounge.
    Varde reappeared. Beaming as if delighted to see Peter again, he said, “All four passengers have checked in.”
    â€œGood.” It was time to begin. “Tell them that Lufthansa would like to offer them some special hospitality, then take them to your office. I’ll follow.”
    Varde nodded and went to the Lufthansa desk. While he was asking the Stockholm passengers to come forward, Peter went to a pay phone, called Tilde, and told her all was ready for the raid. Varde led the group of four passengers away, and Peter tagged on to the little procession.
    When they were assembled in Varde’s office, Peter revealed his identity. He showed his police badge to the German colonel. “I’m acting under orders from General Braun,” he said to forestall protests. “He is on his way here and will explain everything.”
    The colonel looked annoyed, but sat down without comment, and the other three passengers—the white-haired lady and two Danish businessmen—did the same. Peter leaned against the wall, watching them, alert for guilty behavior. Each had a bag of some kind: the old lady a large handbag, the officer a slim document case, the businessmen briefcases. Any of them could be carrying copies of an illegal newspaper.
    Varde said brightly, “May I offer you tea or coffee while you’re waiting?”
    Peter checked his watch. The flight from Berlin was due now. He looked out of Varde’s window and saw it coming in to land. The aircraft was a Junkers Ju-52 trimotor—an ugly machine, he thought: its surface was corrugated, like a shed roof, and the third engine, protruding from the nose, looked like the snout of a pig. But it approached at a remarkably low speed for such a heavy aircraft, and the effect was quite majestic. It touched down and taxied to the terminal. The door opened, and the