A Prince and a Spy

by Rory Clements

  Kerstin Larson returned to the room. ‘Is everything all right, Mr Tom?’ she said.

  Wilde had already noted her almost perfect English and had wondered about her. What was her relationship to Anton? There was no obvious affection between them, which meant they had some sort of business arrangement, but maybe no more. It was possible she owed him no loyalty, which could, just possibly, act in their favour. He shook his head. ‘No, everything is not all right, Mrs Larson. In fact, it’s very bad.’

  ‘What are you going to do now?’

  He put the question to Harriet. ‘Well, what are we going to do? You said this would be simple.’ He looked at his watch. It was 10.30 p.m. Three hours had already slipped by, which meant there were thirty-three left. No way of searching a country the size of Sweden in thirty-three months, let alone thirty-three hours.

  ‘We go to the hotel and we come back here in the morning,’ she said.

  Wilde was thinking fast. He had already calculated that there was nothing to gain in going to the hotel and kicking their heels. Yes, they needed sleep and food, but more importantly, they needed information. Their only feasible assistance was to be found here, in this quaint blue and yellow house. He turned his attention back to their hostess. ‘Mrs Larson, you offered us food and you have been kind to us. Do you think we might take you up on that offer?’

  ‘Yes, I still have food. I will eat with you.’

  ‘And I know it’s a great deal to ask, but would you by any chance have rooms here where we might stay the night until Mr Anton returns? We wouldn’t want to miss him.’

  She seemed uncertain.

  ‘We could of course pay you hotel rates. Just name your price.’

  ‘I have only the one spare room . . .’

  *

  Kerstin Larson’s daughter Pernilla was already in bed when the three adults sat down to supper. Wilde had sent the driver away with instructions to wait by the phone at the US embassy so the car could be returned to this house at a moment’s notice.

  He did not bother to make any inquiries about funds to pay off Anton, because he knew what the answer would be. And even if the funds were miraculously made available, he did not think for a moment that that would be the end of it. When you agreed to pay a blackmailer, the price immediately went up; everyone knew that. So let Anton sweat – let him know that no money would be provided upfront. His only hope would be to tap Coburg for more, and then only when he was safely in the hands of Wilde and Harriet.

  Kerstin had served up large bowlfuls of elk and potato stew with fresh brown bread to dip in the gravy. They all ate with relish, drank more of her plum schnapps and talked about the war and conditions in Sweden.

  There was a chill in the air. Against the outside wall, a large iron wood-burning stove held pride of place, but it wouldn’t be lit for a few weeks yet.

  Kerstin spoke of the privileges of Swedish life thanks to its curious position, surrounded by war on all sides but allowed to remain at peace. ‘I think we have better food than the rest of Europe, but no gasoline. I know we are fortunate, and when we hear the stories of horror from Norway and Denmark, we often feel guilty for our good fortune.’

  ‘You shouldn’t feel guilty for not being persecuted.’

  ‘Of course, I understand that. But nonetheless, it is hard to feel good about ourselves.’

  Wilde understood perfectly. He knew, too, that Sweden hadn’t remained entirely apart or innocent; that it continued to sell raw materials to Germany to fuel its war machine and that it had allowed Wehrmacht trains to cross its territory carrying troops to northern Norway.

  ‘Anyway,’ Kerstin continued. ‘We never know whether we might ourselves be invaded. Germany needs our natural resources. Stalin wants them, too. We are an obvious target for invasion.’

  ‘Won’t you tell us a little about yourself?’ Wilde asked softly, changing the subject. ‘Where is Pernilla’s father?’

  Suddenly her eyes were filled with sadness. ‘That is Johan, my husband. He was a teacher in Ekberg – as was I until we married. But he couldn’t stand idle when Finland was invaded by the Russians in ’39, so he went off to fight in the Winter War, and died.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Yes. He was stupidly brave and I wish every day he had remained here and stayed alive.’

  Wilde saw the tears welling up in her eyes, and noted echoes of Lydia. He heard her in Kerstin’s words. Lydia hated him putting himself in harm’s way. ‘And how did you become acquainted with Mr Anton?’

  She thought for a few moments. ‘Well, I’m not supposed to talk about these things, but as I mentioned already he was Johan’s distant cousin. After Johan died, Mr Axel came to me with condolences from Johan’s side of the family. He stayed two days and decided he wanted to help me and Pernilla. “You can be my telephone exchange,” he said. Those were his words – telephone exchange. He said he travelled widely on business and needed someone efficient and trustworthy to pass on messages, in return for which he would pay me a regular salary so that I would not have to go back to teaching until Pernilla was older. He said the work would not be taxing, but that I must never ask questions. I suspected it was an act of charity, and I was grateful. But sometimes I wonder . . .’

  ‘What? What do you wonder?’

  ‘Well, it has become complex since then. I am no longer the only link in the chain, which suggests to me he is involved in dangerous affairs and wishes to keep his whereabouts secret from certain people. Anyway, it must be obvious to you what sort of man he is. And so I wonder whether I, too, am somehow engaged in illicit activities by association. You are nice and kind, Mr Tom – but there are others who worry me. I don’t like them being around Pernilla.’ She winced. ‘I think I have said too much.’

  ‘Why you, though? Just because of Johan?’

  ‘No, I realise now that it wasn’t mere charity. It is also because of where I live. The isolation here suits him because he can visit me unseen. Also, my languages are useful – English and German and French. And Swedish, of course. It was easy for me to accept his offer because Pernilla and I needed the money.’

  ‘You must have become quite close to him?’

  She shook her head with a desolate smile. ‘No, I wouldn’t pretend to know him well. I doubt whether anyone does.’

  ‘Is he married? Does he have a family of his own?’

  ‘No, but I think I have said enough. More than enough. He really wouldn’t like me talking to you like this.’

  ‘I understand,’ Wilde said. He wiped the last of the gravy on to his bread. ‘Thank you, Kerstin, this is fine food. You still eat well in Sweden.’

  Harriet had been eating in silence, watching and listening. Now she entered the conversation. ‘Has anyone else been here recently?’

  Kerstin shifted uncomfortably. Her eyes drifted to the dark, uncurtained window as though there might be someone out there, watching and listening.

  Wilde followed up on the question. ‘Kerstin, I can see you are a good person. But your husband’s cousin has entangled you and Pernilla in worrying matters. Has he ever suggested you might be in danger?’

  ‘He hasn’t said that, but I am not stupid. As I intimated, some of the people who come here would not be my choice of friends.’

  ‘Look, I’m going to take you into my confidence, Kerstin, because I think it is only right given the present circumstances. Harriet and I are here in Sweden on a mission to expose a terrible crime that is being committed by the Nazis. The lives of many thousands of innocent people may depend on our success or failure. We need to find someone, a German named Rudolf Coburg. Only Anton knows where he is hiding and he is holding us to ransom, demanding sums of money we simply don’t have. That is why Harriet is asking whether anyone else has been here.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know, I don’t really understand . . .’

  ‘If the Nazis have offered Anton money, and if they get to Coburg before us, they will kill him and many more people wi
ll die as a result. So I have to ask you this: have any Germans been here?’

  He knew from her evident discomfort and the flush in her tanned summer skin that they had hit the mark.

  ‘Kerstin? Please, this is terribly important.’

  She was pouring herself another schnapps, a large one. ‘If I tell you anything, you won’t talk to Mr Axel?’

  ‘You have our word.’

  ‘Because we need the money, we really need it. And more than that, I am scared of him. To look at his soft face and soft hands, you could not imagine him harming a fly, but I think there is a darker side . . .’

  ‘Who came here, Kerstin?’

  ‘Three men. All German. One was evidently a great deal senior to the other two.’

  ‘Did they give you names?’

  ‘Only the senior one. He said his name was Müller. I was to tell Mr Axel that Herr Müller wished to speak with him, and so I did just that.’

  ‘How did Müller dress? Was he military?’

  ‘No, no. He was in a civilian suit. On the surface he was very charming to me and Pernilla, but I saw through him. So did Pernilla. She is very astute, my daughter, very knowing. She sees things in people. She trusts you two. This man, this Müller, asked her to show him her toys, but she wouldn’t.’

  ‘So after you put the call through to Axel Anton, what happened?’

  ‘Mr Axel called back very soon.’

  ‘And did you hear anything they said?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. I would never eavesdrop.’

  ‘Did they meet here?’

  ‘No, they made other arrangements.’ She was twisting her hands nervously. ‘Please, I live here alone with Pernilla, two cows, half a dozen chickens, a pig and a potato patch. We live a simple life but I help Johan’s cousin so that we can live. I know what Mr Axel is and what he does. He is a very rich man, and is in possession of great power. And so, no, I would not listen in to his conversations.’

  ‘Anton told me he has hidden Coburg on a small island in the Stockholm Archipelago,’ Harriet said. ‘One where no one ever goes. Which island do you think he might have been referring to, Kerstin?’

  ‘There are more than 20,000 islands. How would I know which one he means?’

  ‘He might have said something.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t. If I knew, I would tell you.’

  ‘Would you?’

  Wilde was shocked. Harriet’s question dripped incredulity and something else. Disdain, perhaps? This was no way to talk to the Swedish woman, their hostess. He threw a hard look at her and shook his head. ‘Take it easy.’

  ‘Tom, she’s holding something back! She knows something.’

  ‘Leave her be, she is the innocent in all this.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  The tension around the plain wooden table was palpable. Kerstin seemed close to tears. Suddenly, she did, indeed, collapse sobbing, her head in her hands.

  Harriet stepped towards her and put an arm around her. She knelt at her side and gently stroked her hair. ‘It’s all right, Kerstin,’ she said. ‘Let it out.’

  Kerstin raised her head and huge, heaving sobs emerged. Her face was wet with tears. She turned her face into Harriet’s bosom and wept like a child in its mother’s arms.

  All Wilde could do was look on, astonished.

  Chapter 31

  Ten minutes later, her tears had just about dried. Wilde had filled their glasses with yet more schnapps and decided he really had to introduce a calming element to the outpouring of emotion. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘We are your guests – we should not have been pushing you so hard.’

  The Swedish woman seemed about to start sobbing again. She was holding Harriet’s hand and Wilde saw that the Englishwoman’s face, too, was streaked with tears.

  ‘This is not even your war,’ Wilde continued. ‘It is just that we have little time – and we are desperate. You are our only point of contact – we have no one else to turn to unless Anton changes his mind and helps us.’

  ‘Oh God, what would Johan think of me!’ It was not a question but a cry from the heart.

  ‘I’m sure he would be proud of you for bringing his little girl up so beautifully.’

  ‘No, he would hate me for betraying his ideals.’

  ‘Surely that can’t be so.’

  ‘He hated the dictators and the invaders. He died fighting against cruelty – against pitiless men like Müller and Stalin.’

  ‘Then help us,’ Harriet said, pushing a lick of damp fair hair back from Kerstin’s cheek.

  She nodded. ‘I know so little. I don’t think it will be enough. You are both right, though. We Swedes cannot just stand by while the rest of the world burns. We must help where we can.’

  ‘Tell us then,’ Harriet coaxed. ‘It may not be much, but you do know something – so tell us.’

  ‘There is something in the back of my mind, from some time ago.’

  ‘What sort of thing?’

  She stiffened again, fear back in her eyes. ‘If I tell you, you say nothing to Mr Axel? I’m not scared for me – but for Pernilla.’

  ‘We promise,’ Wilde said.

  Kerstin breathed deeply for half a minute, trying to settle herself. Finally she spoke. ‘I thought of it when you mentioned the island, you see. Last year it was – in May, I think. Mr Axel was in one of his more jovial moods, talking about Johan and saying what a sadness it was that he had died, for he felt sure they could have worked together for their mutual benefit. And then, from nowhere, he started telling me about a little island he had bought. I think he was boasting about it. He said he intended to go there alone sometimes to clear his mind and relax and that we would be welcome to use it too perhaps, but he was afraid that Pernilla would not like it. He said it was the sort of place no one else would ever dream of going, but he would build a little cabin there and even had plans for a Finnish hot room, a sauna.’

  ‘Where is this island?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know. There are so many islands. But he told me its name: Huggorm. That is a strange name, which is why I remember it, for it means adder or viper in English.’

  ‘Do you have a map of the islands, Kerstin?’

  ‘No. I’m sorry, Mr Tom.’

  ‘A map of Sweden?’

  ‘No, again. Why would I need such a thing when I know my way around this area? As schoolteachers, we have an atlas of the world, of course – but I can’t imagine it has the names of the Swedish islands.’

  ‘Would you show it to me anyway, please?’

  Kerstin fetched the old, well-thumbed atlas from her amply stocked bookshelf and handed it to Wilde. He opened it at the page showing Scandinavia. The only Swedish islands with names attached were the large ones, Gotland and Öland. He handed the book back with a rueful shrug.

  ‘Perhaps you remember more about the island, Kerstin. Is it near here?’

  ‘I don’t know. He told me no more. To be honest, I didn’t really give it much thought at the time. This was all a year and a half ago. Anyway, he’s probably forgotten that he even mentioned it.’

  ‘It’s very important to us. Are you friendly with any of the boatmen or trawlermen in Ekberg? Surely they would know. Could you phone them, please?’

  ‘No! Of course I couldn’t phone them. It is late at night. Decent folk are asleep.’

  *

  Coburg had crawled from the hut down to the edge of the sea. He wasn’t thinking. It was simply instinct that told him the sea was nearer the possibility of help. He was still desperately short of breath and shivering uncontrollably, but he allowed himself to hope that he might not die. With the onset of darkness, the adders had all moved away to the warmth of their nests, but he had no fear of them anyway. He was still too sick to feel anything except the pain that suffused every nerve in his dying body. He had never known that an adder bite could inflict such pain, and had certainly never thought of them as leth
al.

  He looked out to sea, desperate for sight of a boat in the sliver of light cast on the still waters by the moon. How long had Anton said he would be? A week? He had lost track of how many days ago that was. All he knew was that he could not survive long without medical assistance. He hadn’t expected to see out the day. Yet here he was, in the cool of the night, still alive. He saw something in the water. Was his mind playing tricks again? His eyes followed it. No, two of them, swimming in his direction, side by side, winding lazily through the water: Hitler and Müller.

  A half-memory was coming back. Something Anton had said, something he had to do if bitten, something he had to remember. But he couldn’t recall what Anton had said, because he hadn’t really been taking any notice. His mind had been elsewhere, in the camp of murder where it would always remain, festering like a pus-filled sore, until the day he himself died.

  He could barely move, but he tried to look around, searching for something to remind him of what Anton had said.

  Nothing emerged.

  *

  Wilde slept on the parlour floor in an old sleeping bag that Kerstin had found in her garden shed. It was musty, but it served its purpose. Harriet got the spare room with its single bed. In the night, he dreamt she was standing there beside him, looking down at his sleeping form. She was naked and her arms were by her side. Her body was small and slender, very like Lydia but a few years younger. In his dream, his eyes were open and he watched her in the thin moonlight that cut through the darkness. She moved her lips but no words emerged and then she turned away and was gone.

  They both woke with first light and met in the little kitchen. Pernilla was sitting at the small table eating her breakfast of roll-mops and bread. At their entrance, she immediately jumped up and curtsied to them both.

  Kerstin was outside feeding the chickens. She saw her guests through the blue-framed window and came indoors.

  ‘Did you sleep well, Miss Harriet? Mr Tom?’