The Informer (Sabotage Group BB)

8

“We’re ahead of schedule,” Alis K says, getting off her bicycle. They’d had a tailwind all the way. “Come, let’s go around the backyard.” Turning her bicycle around, she leaves it resting against the wall.

Following her example, the pulse singing in his ears, the pistol heavy inside his pocket, he places his bicycle next to hers and lets his hand slip down his pockets to feel the pistol. “This is where he lives?”

“Just around the corner. Are you ready?”

He looks at her. Shrugs.

“Have you ever fired a gun before?”

He shakes his head. “I guess you just have to pull the trigger?”

She frowns. “Might be a good thing we are a little early. Give me the pistol.”

Taking the gun out of his pocket, he can’t help staring at it. The magazine is an odd square block in front of the trigger. He hands the pistol to her reluctantly.

“You have to release the safety catch before you can fire the pistol.” She does so, moving on to loading the pistol. “Now it’s ready to fire. Be careful, it might go off if you handle it too roughly.”

Letting the pistol go back down his pocket, he nods again. He didn’t understand one word she was saying, but doesn’t question any of it. He is just standing there, unable to concentrate or even think, waiting to get started. All he wants to do is shoot the Hipo bastard and get out of there. Get it over with. He shifts his weight, unable to stand still. “When are we going to do it?”

“We should wait until seven o’clock.”

“Why?”

“That’s the plan. You always try to stick to the plan.”

“But it’s only us.”

Carrying a rag doll, a little girl steps into the gateway. “Good day.” She smiles, curtsying slightly before entering one of the stairways in the back house.

As the door closes behind her, Alis K takes the flowers from the front basket on her bicycle and turns to touch Poul-Erik’s shoulder.

“Usually he arrives home between six and a quarter past six. He should be home by now. Are you still up for it? No second thoughts?”

“No, no. I just want to get started.” His voice breaks. He clears his throat, trying to smile, but he can’t.

“Very well. He lives in number seventy-four, just around the corner. On the second floor. We go up the stairs. You squeeze tight up against the door of his neighbor, the pistol ready to fire. I ring the bell. I am there to deliver a bouquet of flowers for Einar Hovgaard personally. If he’s not the one to answer the door, I will ask to speak to him. When he shows, or if he’s the one answering the door, I’ll say: ‘Good day, a bouquet for Mr. Hovgaard.’ Then you shoot him. Understood?”

Poul-Erik nods his head.

“You’ll be very close to him when you shoot him. So shove the pistol in his face and pull the trigger instantly. He can’t be given a chance to react. I’ll have my pistol hidden inside the bouquet. If you can’t shoot him, or your pistol jams, I’ll shoot him.”

She looks at him closely, as if she is searching for something in his face. Poul-Erik’s mouth is dry. He nods again. Shifts his weight to the other foot.

“The moment he’s dead, we rush back here and get on our bicycles. Remember the wind. We can’t go back the way we came. The headwind will slow us down. We go the other way. Just follow me.”

Poul-Erik nods again. Moving his shoulders, they feel stiff and sore. He scratches his ear. He can’t keep still any longer. It boils inside of him in a weird, stunning way. He hears the sound of dishes clinking from an open window above them. A horse carriage in the street. A married couple fighting. The hissing of an alley cat. He sees the unevenness of the paint on the window frames at the porter’s apartment.

Alis K is quite relaxed. Taking a small, black pistol from her pocket, she swiftly cocks it before hiding it between the flowers. She sends him a crooked smile. “This is it.”

She leads the way through the gateway, Poul-Erik only a few steps behind. Down the street, very calm, no rushing. Looking at her feet, the small shoes, the heels in the thin stockings, Poul-Erik’s not daring to look anywhere else or at anybody else. His stare will betray him. He can feel it. He’s on his way to kill a man. He’s at war now.

There is a small grocery shop on the corner and a bookstore on the opposite side. A tram rattles by. A woman is struggling against the strong wind on an old bicycle with worn out tires.

Turning around the corner, out of the wind, Alis K stops dead in her tracks, Poul-Erik almost bumps into her.

“What is it?” he gasps.

She doesn’t answer. A small van is parked at the sidewalk a few steps down the street. The engine running.

Plumber Hansen.

Hesitating for only a second, Alis K walks on. The van is parked at number 74. There is no plumber to be seen anywhere.

“What?” Poul-Erik repeats his question, suddenly feeling the cold.

“Smell,” she says under her breath. “Gasoline.”

No plumbers drive on gasoline. That goes without saying. Nobody leaves the engine on a gasoline-fueled car running unless they have an extremely good reason to do so. And a leaking toilet is anything but.

Alis K turns to look in all directions. Poul-Erik can’t take his eyes away from the van. There is blue smoke coming out of the exhaust pipe. There are no windows in the back of the van—just two swinging doors. One is closed, the other left ajar. A movement in the side mirror catches his eye. Someone is sitting behind the wheel. Black uniform. No work clothes. Busy cleaning his fingernails.

By now, Alis K is down by the van. Throwing the flowers aside on the sidewalk, she steps out on the street aiming the pistol at the back of the van, ripping the doors open to show two Hipo sitting behind a mounted machine gun, looking astonished with open mouths.

One of them stutters, “N-n-no!”

Then she shoots.