He checked his luggage and proceeded to the gate. He showed his ticket and boarded a small propeller plane to Berlin. The other passengers on board were well-dressed, in suits and dresses, a business crowd in a time when flying was still an upper-class thing. Just before the plane taxied to the runway, two men in street clothes enter the cabin. They spoke briefly with the stewardess, their eyes scanning the rows of passengers. “Which one of you is Eric Erickson?” one called out. Erickson, startled, motioned them over. Was Elsa ill? Or was there a problem at Pennco? “I’m Erickson,” he said. “What can I do for you?” “You’ll have to come with us.” “Come with you?” Erickson replied. “Who are you anyway?” The men flashed their badges: Swedish police. Erickson protested that the plane was leaving in a few minutes. The undercover officers told him that they’d hold the plane for him, if they decided to let him back onboard.
