Colonel Per Törget was indescribably ordinary and inoffensive looking, which made him truly a dangerous adversary.
Törget was introduced to the other officer by the American. Shaking hands with the new arrivals and ushering them to comfortable seats, he waited expectantly to find out what exactly had brought the head of OSS so far so quickly, and, more importantly, so secretly.
A Swedish army orderly distributed drinks, giving Törget time to assess the German officer, unknown until two hours beforehand, when a personal dossier had been passed to him, with the man’s exemplary service record plain for all to see.
‘Exemplary if you were a Nazi that is,’ had been his only private thought, for Törget was all business.
Rossiter opened his briefcase and passed over a simple folder, unblemished externally, save for the word ‘Sycamore’ in bold print.
Trannel, commander of the Luftwaffe’s 40th Transportstaffel, was taken aback.
The contents of the ‘Operation Sycamore’ folder were known to him, and he was horrified that the entire plan was now in the possession of an unknown entity.
Colonel Törget took his time reading the file, asking a clarifying question here and there, until placing the file on the heavy pine table, left open at a schematic that he would revisit shortly.
“So, Sam. You need us to permit this purely on travel distance grounds?”
“No, but we are allowing for any possible enemy presence that could intercept the operation if it was run from Denmark.”
Trannel shifted slightly, betraying his discomfort.
Yes, there were the fuel issues, but distance also greatly concerned him, despite the stated range of his aircraft.
Switching to perfect German, not textbook, but as it would have been spoken in a bar in Hamburg, Törget tackled the Luftwaffe officer, presently dressed as a Major in the Norwegian Air Force.
“You think otherwise, Herr Oberst? Perhaps you think that distance is also an issue?”
Trannel nodded, whilst Rossiter noted that the Swede had done his homework.
“Yes, Sir. We have been trying to work extra fuel aboard the aircraft, but we may have additional weight on the return journey. The situation is complicated by unknowns.”
Looking at Rossiter, he received an indication to proceed.
“The ‘objects’ we are collecting,” he employed the terminology that had been agreed upon, lest any hint of the plan escape, “Are unknown to us. The weight of fuel we will use en route is set to within 3%, depending on headwinds, which is an issue that could cause us additional problems, as my aircraft are highly affected by adverse wind conditions.”
Törget permitted himself a swift look at the page he had left open before refocusing on the German.
“Our best guess is that the ‘objects’ will weigh in at more than the fuel, but only by a small amount. My unit is presently running tests to check fuel consumption under the weight conditions we anticipate.”
He stopped, taking inboard some fluid, offering the two senior men a similar opportunity.
“At this time, the operation is not feasible from Denmark. It is feasible from Sweden, and time is not on our side.”
The intelligence Colonel nodded, his reaction plainly one of understanding, rather than of agreement.
“My country has had a protocol in place with the Allies since 1944, regarding aircraft landings and routes of flight. What you propose is outside of that arrangement. A mission directly into Soviet territory that is likely to end up in a firefight, or worse. A mission based in a neutral country that has absolutely no wish to become involved in this latest abhorrence!”
Trannel looked away, whereas as Sam Rossiter held his ground.
“Why on earth are you coming to us… no… why on earth are you coming to me with this request? Go to the Government, I can do nothing here.”
“This is why I have come directly to you, Per.”
Rossiter opened his case again, removing a file with a picture of someone intimately known to the Commander of Swedish Military Intelligence. He handed it over and settled back to await the explosion.
Törget spent a moment looking at the photograph of a senior Swedish military figure. Opening the folder, he started to read about his compatriot’s betrayal.
Rossiter revelled in the most overt display of emotion he had ever witnessed from his Swedish friend, small agitated body movements betraying his anger, until he placed the folder carefully on the table, lining it up perfectly with little movements, buying an extra moment to compose himself.
“Bastard.”
Rossiter could only agree, and he knew that, it not only hurt that Sweden’s Naval Commander was a communist spy, it trebly hurt the efficient spymaster, as he had no idea that Swedish High Command had been so massively penetrated.
“I will check all of this, of course, but the times you supply will undoubtedly match the records of meetings that my own service has on file.”
Feeling unexpectedly awkward, Rossiter could only mumble agreement.
The Swede made miniscule adjustments to the folder’s positioning once more
“Bastard.”
Törget was already planning a cosy little chat with Admiral Søderling, a chat in which the pleasure would be all his.
“I understand, Sam. You need access to the military station on the south of Gotland. I can do this in the time frame you suggest, but I will want some of my people there to ensure things go smoothly.”
He recited from memory.
“The refuelling station can easily be set up near Karlskrona; in fact there is a secure area that is perfect for our needs.”
The use of the word ‘our’ was wasted on no one. Törget was fully onboard.
“I will provide medical facilities to welcome the ‘objects’.”
Graciously accepted, Sam Rossiter had expected the cunning spymaster to know exactly what the mission was bringing back.
He waited for the Swede’s conditions, for he knew there would be some.
“This mission must be unattributable to Sweden in any way whatsoever. That is not negotiable. This folder will guarantee the compliance of my government.”
He paused to look again on the face of the traitor staring up at him from the folder, the smiling face antagonising him.
“I insist that the personnel used wear German uniforms, and conduct this under the guise of the old Nazi regime. If it is attributable to the new republic, the Allies, or ourselves, there will be hell to pay.”
“Agreed”, the word slipped Rossiter’s lips so fast that the Swede understood that was already in the planning, and had been omitted from the brief in front of him.
A third folder was placed before him, containing details of the small force of men that would carry out the mission, men who had once worn the hated uniform of the Waffen-SS.
Törget swiftly scanned the personnel details and set the folder aside, the uppermost picture being that of the mission leader, an ex-SS officer, Ukrainian by birth. According to his swift appraisal, the man had been given the Silver Star by Eisenhower shortly after the start of the war.
“He seems an interesting fellow.”
Lassiter could only agree.
“I have great plans for him, Per.”
The Swede retrieved a small silver bell, previously hidden behind the table’s floral display.
Before the sound died, the door opened, and fresh coffee appeared, the orderly retreating before another word was spoken.
“Of course, I must know, the ‘objects’. Who are they, Sam?”
“A family.”
Rossiter answered reluctantly, knowing he was about to be pressed, and knowing that he would give in.
“Which family might that be, I wonder?”
The piercing blue eyes bored into the Marine, seeking clues, finding none.