The deliverymen knocked on the door three times before a sleepy looking man answered and signed for the package.
Outwardly, the sleepy man maintained his confused appearance, but the arrival of the unexpected package, sent by an art dealer in Stockholm, brought him immediately to a peak of awareness.
The package was from his Soviet masters.
To Lingström, the painting itself was of average quality, although he liked the subject matter; a pair of striking horses at the gallop.
He eased the back plate off and removed the envelope, replacing the wooden plate before exploring the material.
Lingström read the contents three times before picking up the telephone and arranging an urgent dinner meeting.
After that, he made another call making further arrangements for later in the evening.
He then copied the envelope details onto another one that was intact and untarnished, slipping both into his briefcase before he changed into his uniform.
1903 hrs, Tuesday, 4th March 1947, Den Gyldene Freden Österlånggatan 51, Stockholm, Sweden.
The two men sat down together and perused the menu in silence, even though both already knew what they would order, as they were regulars in the establishment.
As usual, the restaurant staff accommodated Lingström’s telephone booking; such customers always got preferential treatment, such was the clout of his rank and position.
He retained his briefcase but allowed the greatcoat and cap to be taken away with due reverence.
When Tørget arrived as his dinner companion, the headwaiter almost went into an apoplectic fit, fawning constantly over both of the senior officers and ensuring his staff were chased back and forth until the two were settled with everything their hearts could desire.
They engaged in small talk throughout the splendid dinner, dropping to hushed whispers when eager-to-please staff drew near to top up a glass or to seek any further needs.
The dessert course over, Tørget excused himself and, picking up his briefcase, disappeared off to the gentleman’s facility.
There was nothing unusual in that, given that briefcases were never left unattended.
After a few minutes, Tørget returned to the table and slid the briefcase back between the two seats.
The two men finished off their coffees and rose to go their separate ways.
Only an attentive eye would have considered the possibility that Lingström picked up the briefcase that had accompanied Tørget to the cloakroom.
The junior man paid for dinner and offered the waiter his normal five-krona tip, in which came his report confirming receipt of the envelope and its intended delivery later that evening.
The two intelligence officers shook hands and went their separate ways, the whole evening being solely about the exchange of information that had happened in the men’s lavatory of Den Gyldene Freden.
2130 hrs, Tuesday, 4th March 1947, Riksplan, Stockholm, Sweden.
“Mister Fenton, thank you for coming.”
“Lieutenant Colonel.”
They shook hands and walked together.
“How could I refuse such an indistinct invitation?”
“My apologies, but my master required that I pass this on to you as soon as practicable.”
“So what is it that old Tørget wants me to have?”
Lingström laughed.
“I serve a different master tonight, Mister Fenton.”
Ernest Fenton, MI-5’s man in Sweden, frowned and his senses lit off.
The silence was only broken by the feet crunching on the chilled gravel path.
“This comes straight from Moscow… at the orders of General Nazarbayeva herself.”
“What?”
“What can I say, Mister Fenton. I’ve played on both sides of the road for some time now.”
“What? I mean… Christ’s sake, man. You mean to tell me you’re a double agent? Whose side are you really on?”
Whilst he took the proffered envelope, Fenton kept his gaze firmly on the Swedish officer and his concentration on his right hand and the Walther PPK concealed in his pocket.
“I’m a Swede first and last. I’m Tørget’s man through and through, so don’t worry about that. By the way, my colonel asks that you do not reveal this to anyone. I’m only telling you so that you have some idea of the worth and authenticity of this information.”
Fenton processed the request and nodded.
“The Russians think I’m their top man in the Baltic. I feed them enough old news to keep that place in their hearts.”
He tapped the envelope.
“That has come to me direct from the GRU headquarters.”
“Have you looked at it?”
“Certainly not. My orders were very specific.”
“Ok. Is there anything else?”
“Not tonight, Mister Fenton.”
The envelope disappeared into a large inside pocket and the two went their separate ways without shaking hands.
Nazarbayeva’s plan of using the Gehlen/De Walle information to cause discord between the Allies took a step forward.
2159 hrs, Tuesday, 4th March 1947, Headquarters, Swedish Military Intelligence, Stockholm.
Tørget accepted the developed photographs eagerly, the roll of shots he had taken in Den Gyldene Freden having been developed in record time, with two of each print now sat before him.
His mouth hung slightly open at the enormity of what was being suggested in the documents the Russians were so eager to pass on to the Allies, but he knew some of it was certainly at least founded on some fact from his own understanding of matters.
But the suggestion that German Intelligence was somehow responsible for murdering two senior Allied spymasters was simply to huge to form an opinion on without much more thought and investigation.
He read it all again, drinking in every morsel in the photographs.
‘Vögel… Diels… Mallman… de Walle… Gehlen…’
There were holes of course… gaps in the intelligence… the meaning and intentions of it all were clearly open to interpretation, anything from a coup inside the German government to something far more sinister.
But he kept returning to the murder of de Walle.
Why de Walle?
He couldn’t answer the question, despite his best efforts, and couldn’t supply the Swedish Prime Minister with an answer when he briefed him in person just before midnight.
Fenton and the envelope were on an aircraft bound for London as Monday became Tuesday, the importance of the information ensuring that the BOAC Mosquito flew straight to the capital rather than its normal base at RAF Leuchars.
The protestations of the two crewmen were swiftly overcome with gentle words that assured them of horrible foreign postings were they not to comply with their instructions.
By the end of 2nd March, suspicious intelligence eyes were silently and relentlessly focussed on their German allies and, despite efforts to be normal, a fog of distrust settled across the continent amongst those in the know.
Which was exactly what Nazarbayeva had hoped for when she suggested sending the file to their enemy.
Stalin and, reluctantly Beria, had both agreed that there was nothing to lose and everything to gain.
They were wrong on both counts.
Chapter 189 – THE SUSPICIONS
Things are not always what they seem; the first appearance deceives many; the intelligence of a few perceives what has been carefully hidden.”