“I hope you enjoyed the flight,” he said in English, the international language of the airways.
“Yes indeed, thank you. Very much.” Arnie had a rich British-public-school accent, entirely out of keeping with his appearance. But he had spent the war years at school in England, at Winchester, and his speech was marked for life.
All of the other passengers were queued up at the customs booths, passports ready. Arnie almost joined them until he remembered that his ticket was written through to Belfast and that he had no Danish visa. He turned down the glass-walled corridor to the transit lounge and sat on one of the black leather and chrome benches while he thought, his attaché case between his legs. Staring unseeing into space he considered his next steps. In a few minutes he had reached a decision, and he blinked and looked about. A police officer was tromping solidly through the lounge, massive in his high leather boots and wide cap. Arnie approached him, his eyes almost on a level with the other’s silver badge.
“I would like to see the chief security officer here, if you would.”
The officer looked down, frowning professionally.
“If you will tell me what the matter is…”
“Dette kommer kun mig og den vagthavende officer ved. Så må jeg tale med han?”
The sudden, rapid Danish startled the officer.
“Are you Danish?” he asked.
“It does not matter what my nationality is,” Arnie continued in Danish. “I can tell you only that this is a matter of national security and the wisest thing for you to do now would be to pass me over to the man who is responsible for these matters.”
The officer tended to agree. There was something about the matter-of-factness of the little man’s words that rang of the truth.
“Come with me then,” he said, and silently led the way along a narrow balcony high above the main airport hall, keeping a careful eye open so that the stranger with him made no attempt to escape to the rain-drenched freedom of the Kastrup night.
“Please sit down,” the security officer said when the policeman had explained the circumstances. He remained seated behind his desk while he listened to the policeman, his eyes, examining Arnie as though memorizing his description, staring unblinkingly through round-paned, steel-framed glasses.
“Lojtnant Jorgensen” he said when the door had closed and they were alone.
“Arnie Klein.”
“Må jeg se Deres pass?”
Arnie handed over his passport and Jorgensen looked up, startled, when he saw it was not Danish.
“You are an Israeli then. When you spoke I assumed…” When Arnie didn’t answer the officer flipped through the passport, then spread it open on the bare desk before him.
“Everything seems to be in order, Professor. What can I do for you?”
“I wish to enter the country. Now.”
“That is not possible. You are here in transit only. You have no visa. I suggest you continue to your destination and see the Danish Consul in Belfast. A visa will take one day, two at the most.”
“I wish to enter the country now, that is why I am talking to you. Will you kindly arrange it. I was born in Copenhagen. I grew up no more than ten miles from here. There should be no problem.”
“I am sure there won’t be.” He handed back the passport. “But there is nothing that can be done here, now. In Belfast…”
“You do not seem to understand.” Arnie’s voice was as impassive as his face, yet the words seemed charged with meaning. “It is imperative that I enter the country now, tonight. You must arrange something. Call your superiors. There is the question of dual nationality. I am as much a Dane as you are.”
“Perhaps.” There was an edge of exasperation to the lieutenant’s voice now. “But I am not an Israeli citizen and you are. I am afraid you must board the next plane.”
His words trickled off into silence as he realized that the other was not listening. Arnie had placed his attaché case on his knees and snapped it open. He took out a thin address book and flipped carefully through it.
“I do not wish to be melodramatic, but my presence here can be said to be of national importance. Will you therefore place a call to this number and ask for Professor Ove Rude Rasmussen. You have heard of him?”
“Of course, who hasn’t? A Nobel prize winner. But you cannot disturb him at this hour…”
“We are old friends. He will not mind. And the circumstance is serious enough.”
It was after one in the morning and Rasmussen growled at the phone like a bear woken from hibernation.
“Who is that? What’s the meaning… Sa for Satan!… is that really you, Arnie. Where the devil are you calling from? Kastrup?” Then he listened quietly to a brief outline of the circumstances.
“Will you help me then?” Arnie asked.
“Of course! Though I don’t know what I can possibly do. Just hold on, I’ll be there as soon as I can pull some clothes on.”
It took almost forty-five minutes and Jorgensen felt uncomfortable at the silence, at Arnie Klein staring, unseeing, at the calendar on the wall. The security officer made a big thing of snapping open a package of tobacco, of filling his pipe and lighting it. If Arnie noticed this he gave no sign. He had other things to think about. The security officer almost sighed with relief when there was a quick knocking on the door.
“Arnie—it really is you!”
Rasmussen was like his pictures in the newspapers; a lean, gangling man, his face framed by a light, curling beard, without a moustache. They shook hands strongly, almost embracing, smiles mirrored on each other’s faces.
“Now tell me what you are doing here, and why you dragged me out of bed on such a filthy night?”
“It will have to be done in private.”
“Of course.” Ove looked around, noticing the officer for the first time. “Where can we talk? Someplace secure?”
“You can use this office if you wish. I can guarantee its security.” They nodded agreement, neither seemingly aware of the sarcastic edge to his words.
Thrown out of his own office—what the hell was going on? The lieutenant stood in the hall, puffing angrily on his pipe and tamping the coal down with his calloused thumb, until the door was flung open ten minutes later. Rasmussen stood there, his collar open and a look of excitement in his eyes. “Come in, come in!” he said, and almost pulled the security officer into the room, barely able to wait until the door was closed again.
“We must see the Prime Minister at once!” Before the astonished man could answer he contradicted himself. “No, that’s no good. Not at this time of night.” He began to pace, clenching and unclenching his hands behind his back. “Tomorrow will do for that. We have to first gU you out of here and over to my house.” He stopped and stared at the security officer.
“Who is your superior?”
“Inspector Anders Krarup but—”
“I don’t know him, no good. Wait, your department, the Minister…”
“Herr Andresen.”
“Of course—Svend Andresen—you remember him, Ar-nie?”
Klein considered, then shook his head no.
“Tiny Anders, he must be well over six feet tall. He was in the upper form when we were at Krebs’ Skole. The one who fell through the ice on the Sortedamso.”
“I never finished the term. That was when I went to England.”
“Of course, the bastard Nazis. But hell remember you, and he’ll take my word for the importance of the matter. We’ll have you out of here in an hour, and then a glass of snaps into you and you into bed.”
It was a good deal more than an hour, and it took a visit by a not-too-happy Minister Andresen, and a hurriedly roused aide, before the matter was arranged. The small office was filled with big men, and the smell of damp wool and cigar smoke, before the last paper was stamped and signed. Then Lieutenant Jorgensen was finally alone, feeling tired and more than a little puzzled by the night’s events, his head still filled with the Minister’s grumbled advice to him, after taking him aside for a moment.