Hornet Flight (28 page)

“Whatever has happened?” she said fearfully.

“I'll explain later.” It would be more natural if he were in bed, he thought. “Tell them I'm still asleep—will you?”

“All right.”

He left the kitchen and went upstairs to his bedroom. He slung his satchel over the back of the chair. He took the camera out and put it in a drawer. He thought of hiding it, but there was no time, and a hidden camera was proof of guilt. He shed his clothes quickly, put on his pajamas, and got into bed.

He heard his father's voice in the kitchen. He got out of bed and went to the top of the stairs to listen.

“What's he doing here?” the pastor said.

His mother replied, “Hiding from the soldiers.”

“For goodness' sake, what has the boy got himself into now?”

“I don't know, but—”

His mother was interrupted by a loud knocking. A young man's voice said in German, “Good morning. We're looking for someone. Have you seen a stranger at any time in the last few hours?”

“No, nobody at all.” The nervousness in his mother's voice was so evident that the soldier must have noticed it—but perhaps he was used to people being frightened of him.

“How about you, sir?”

His father said firmly, “No.”

“Is there anyone else here?”

Harald's mother replied, “My son. He's still asleep.”

“I need to search the house.” The voice was polite, but it was making a statement, not asking permission.

“I'll show you around,” said the pastor.

Harald returned to his bed, heart thudding. He heard booted footsteps on the tiled floors downstairs, and doors opening and closing. Then the
boots came up the wooden staircase. They entered his parents' bedroom, then Arne's old room, and finally approached Harald's. He heard the handle of his door turn.

He closed his eyes, feigning sleep, and tried to make his breathing slow and even.

The German voice said quietly, “Your son.”

“Yes.”

There was a pause.

“Has he been here all night?”

Harald held his breath. He had never known his father to tell even a white lie.

Then he heard, “Yes. All night.”

He was flabbergasted. His father had lied for him. The hard-hearted, stiff-necked, self-righteous old tyrant had broken his own rules. He was human after all. Harald felt tears behind his closed eyelids.

The boots receded along the passage and down the stairs, and Harald heard the soldier take his leave. He got out of bed and went to the top of the stairs.

“You can come down now,” his father said. “He's gone.”

He went down. His father looked solemn. “Thank you for that, Father,” Harald said.

“I committed a sin,” his father said. For a moment, Harald thought he was going to be angry. Then the old face softened. “However, I believe in a forgiving God.”

Harald realized the agony of conflict his father had been through in the last few minutes, but he did not know how to say that he understood. The only thing he could think of was to shake hands. He held out his hand.

His father looked at it, then took it. He drew Harald to him and put his left arm around Harald's shoulders. He closed his eyes, struggling to contain a profound emotion. When he spoke, the resonant boom of the preacher had gone from his voice, and his words came out in a murmur of anguish. “I thought they would kill you,” he said. “My dear son, I thought they would kill you.”

Arne Olufsen had slipped through Peter Flemming's fingers.

Peter brooded over this as he boiled an egg for Inge's breakfast. After Arne shook off the surveillance on Bornholm, Peter had said blithely that they would soon pick him up again. Peter's confidence had been badly misplaced. He believed Arne was not cunning enough to get off the island unobserved—and he had been wrong. He did not yet know how Arne had managed it, but there was no doubt he had returned to Copenhagen, for a uniformed policeman had spotted him in the city center. The patrolman had given chase, but Arne had outrun him—and vanished again.

Some kind of espionage was obviously still going on, as Peter's boss, Frederik Juel, had pointed out with icy scorn. “Olufsen is apparently performing evasive maneuvers,” he had said.

General Braun had been more blunt. “The killing of Poul Kirke has clearly failed to disable the spy ring,” he had said. There had been no further talk of promoting Peter to head of department. “I shall call in the Gestapo.”

It was so unfair, Peter thought angrily. He had uncovered this spy ring,
found the secret message in the airplane chock, arrested the mechanics, raided the synagogue, arrested Ingemar Gammel, raided the flying school, killed Poul Kirke, and flushed out Arne Olufsen. Yet people such as Juel who had done nothing were able to denigrate his achievements and prevent his getting the recognition that was his due.

But he was not finished yet. “I can find Arne Olufsen,” he had said to General Braun last night. Juel had started to object, but Peter had overridden him. “Give me twenty-four hours. If he's not in custody tomorrow night, call in the Gestapo.”

Braun had agreed.

Arne had not returned to barracks, nor was he with his parents on Sande, so he had to be hiding out at the home of a fellow spy. But they would all be lying low. However, one person who probably knew most of the spies was Karen Duchwitz. She had been Poul's girlfriend, and her brother was at school with Poul's cousin. She was not a spy, Peter felt sure, so she had no reason to lie low. She might lead Peter to Arne.

It was a long shot, but it was all he had.

He mashed the soft-boiled egg up with salt and a little butter, then took the tray into the bedroom. He sat Inge up and gave her a spoonful of egg. He got the feeling she did not much like it. He tasted it, and it was fine, so he gave her another spoonful. After a moment she pushed it out of her mouth, like a baby. The egg ran down her chin and onto the bodice of her nightdress.

Peter stared in despair. She had made a mess of herself several times in the past week or two. This was a new development. “Inge would never have done that,” he said.

He put the tray down, left her, and went to the phone. He dialed the hotel on Sande and asked for his father, who was always at work early. When he got through, he said, “You were right. It's time to put Inge in a home.”

Peter studied the Royal Theatre, a domed nineteenth-century building of yellow stone. Its facade was carved with columns, pilasters, capitals, corbels, wreaths, shields, lyres, masks, cherubs, mermaids, and angels. On
the roof were urns, torchères, and four-legged creatures with wings and human breasts. “It's a bit overdone,” he said. “Even for a theater.”

Tilde Jespersen laughed.

They were sitting on the verandah of the Hotel d'Angleterre. They had a good view across the Kongens Nytorv, the largest square in Copenhagen. Inside the theater, the students of the ballet school were watching a dress rehearsal of
Les Sylphides,
the current production. Peter and Tilde were waiting for Karen Duchwitz to come out.

Tilde was pretending to read today's newspaper. The front-page headline said: “LENINGRAD AFLAME.” Even the Nazis were surprised at how well the Russian campaign was going, saying their success “baffled the imagination.”

Peter was talking to release tension. So far, his plan was a complete failure. Karen had been under surveillance all day and had done nothing but go to school. But fruitless anxiety was debilitating, and led to mistakes, so he tried to relax. He said, “Do you think architects deliberately make theaters and opera houses intimidating, to discourage ordinary people from going in?”

“Do you consider yourself an ordinary person?”

“Of course.” The entrance was flanked by two green statues of sitting figures, larger than life-size. “Who are those two?”

“Holberg and Oehlenschläger.”

He recognized the names. They were both great Danish playwrights. “I don't much like drama—too many speeches. I'd rather see a movie, something to make me laugh, Buster Keaton or Laurel and Hardy. Did you see the one where these guys are whitewashing a room, and someone comes in carrying a plank on his shoulder?” He chuckled at the recollection. “I nearly fell on the damn floor laughing.”

She gave him one of her enigmatic looks. “Now you have surprised me. I wouldn't have put you down as a lover of slapstick.”

“What did you imagine I would like?”

“Western movies, where gunplay ensures that justice is triumphant.”

“You're right, I like those, too. What about you? Do you enjoy theater? Copenhageners approve of culture in theory, but most of them have never been inside that building.”

“I like opera—do you?”

“Well . . . the tunes are okay but the stories are silly.”

She smiled. “I've never thought of it that way, but you're right. How about ballet?”

“I don't really see the point. And the costumes are peculiar. To tell the truth, I find the men's tights a bit embarrassing.”

She laughed again. “Oh, Peter, you're so funny, but I like you all the same.”

He had not intended to be amusing, but he accepted the compliment cheerfully. He glanced down at the photograph in his hand. He had taken it from Poul Kirke's bedroom. It showed Poul sitting on a bicycle with Karen perched on the crossbar. They were both wearing shorts. Karen had wonderful long legs. They looked such a happy couple, full of energy and fun, that for a moment Peter felt sad that Poul had died. He had to remind himself sternly that Poul had chosen to be a spy and to flout the law.

The purpose of the photo was to help him identify Karen. She was attractive, with a big smile and masses of curly hair. She seemed the antithesis of Tilde, who had small, neat features in a round face. Some of the men said Tilde was frigid, because she repelled their advances—but I know better, Peter thought.

They had not talked about the fiasco in the hotel on Bornholm. Peter was too embarrassed to raise it. He was not going to apologize—that would just be further humiliation. But a plan was forming in his mind, something so dramatic he preferred to think about it only vaguely.

“Here she comes,” said Tilde.

Peter looked across the square and saw a group of young people emerging from the theater. He picked out Karen immediately. She was wearing a straw boater at a jaunty angle and a mustard yellow summer dress with a flared skirt that danced enticingly around her knees. The black-and-white photograph had not shown her white skin and flaming red hair, nor had it done justice to the spirited air that was obvious to Peter even at a distance. She looked as if she were making an entrance on the stage of the theater, rather than merely walking down the steps outside.

She crossed the square and turned into the main drag, the Stroget.

Peter and Tilde stood up.

“Before we go,” Peter said.

“What?”

“Will you come to my apartment this evening?”

“Any special reason?”

“Yes, but I'd rather not explain.”

“All right.”

“Thanks.” He said no more, but hurried after Karen. Tilde followed him at a distance, by prearrangement.

The Stroget was a narrow street crowded with shoppers and buses, frequently blocked by illegally parked cars. Double the fines and ticket every car and the problem would go away, Peter felt sure. He kept Karen's straw hat in sight. He prayed she was not simply heading for home.

At the end of the Stroget was the town hall square. Here the group of students dispersed. Karen walked on with just one of the girls, chatting animatedly. Peter drew closer. They passed the Tivoli Garden and stopped, as if about to part company, but continued their conversation. They looked pretty and carefree in the afternoon sunshine. Peter wondered impatiently how much more two girls could have to say to each other after having spent all day together.

At last Karen's friend walked toward the main railway station and Karen went the opposite way. Peter's hopes rose. Did she have a rendezvous with one of the circle of spies? He followed her, but to his dismay she approached Vesterport, a suburban railway station from which she could catch a train to her home village of Kirstenslot.

This was no good. He had only a few hours left. Clearly she was not going to lead him to one of the circle. He would have to force the situation.

He caught up with her at the entrance to the station. “Excuse me,” he said. “I must speak to you.”

She gave him a level look and kept walking. “What is it?” she said with cool politeness.

“Could we talk for just a minute?”

She passed through the entrance and started down the steps to the platform. “We're talking.”

He pretended to be nervous. “I'm taking a terrible risk just speaking to you.”

That got to her. She stopped on the platform and glanced around nervously. “What's this about?”

She had wonderful eyes, he noticed: a striking clear green. “It's about Arne Olufsen.” He saw fear in those eyes, and was gratified. His instinct had been right. She knew something.

“What about him?” She managed to keep her voice low and even.

“Aren't you a friend of his?”

“No. I've met him—I used to go out with a friend of his. But I don't really know him. Why are you asking me?”

“Do you know where he is?”

“No.”

She spoke firmly, and he thought with dismay that she looked as if she was telling the truth.

But he was not yet ready to give up. “Could you get a message to him?”

She hesitated, and Peter's heart leaped with hope. He guessed she was wondering whether to lie or not. “Possibly,” she said after a moment. “I can't be sure. What sort of message?”

“I'm with the police.”

She took a frightened step back.

“It's all right, I'm on your side.” He could tell that she did not know whether to believe him. “I'm nothing to do with the Security Department, I do road accidents. But our office is next to theirs, and sometimes I hear what's going on.”

“What have you heard?”

“Arne is in great danger. The Security Department know where he's hiding.”

“My God.”

Peter noted that she did not ask what the Security Department was, or what crime Arne was supposed to have committed, and she showed no surprise about his being in hiding. She must therefore know what Arne was up to, he concluded with a sense of triumph.

On that basis, he could arrest and interrogate her. But he had a better plan. He put a note of dramatic urgency into his voice. “They're going to arrest him tonight.”