Hornet Flight (45 page)

“It hurts, Your Majesty.”

“I'm sure it does. But no permanent damage, I gather?”

“That's what the doctor said.”

“You danced divinely, you know.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The King looked inquiringly at Harald. “Good evening, young man.”

“I'm Harald Olufsen, Your Majesty, a school friend of Karen's brother.”

“Which school?”

“Jansborg Skole.”

“Do they still call the headmaster Heis?”

“Yes—and his wife Mia.”

“Well, be sure to take good care of Karen.” He turned to the parents. “Hello, Duchwitz, it's good to see you again. Your daughter is marvelously talented.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. You remember my wife, Hanna.”

“Of course.” The King shook her hand. “This is very worrying for a mother, Mrs. Duchwitz, but I'm sure Karen will be all right.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. The young heal fast.”

“Indeed they do! Now, then, let's have a look at the poor fellow who dropped her.” The King moved to the door.

For the first time, Harald noticed the King's companion, a young man who was assistant, or bodyguard, or perhaps both. “This way, sir,” said the young man, and he held the door.

The King went out.

“Well!” said Mrs. Duchwitz in a thrilled voice. “How very charming!”

Mr. Duchwitz said, “I suppose we'd better get Karen home.”

Harald wondered when he would get a chance to speak to her alone.

Karen said, “Mother will have to help me out of this dress.”

Mr. Duchwitz moved to the door, and Harald followed him, not knowing what else to do.

Karen said, “Before I change, do you mind if I have a word alone with Harald?”

Her father looked irritated, but her mother said, “All right—just be quick.” They left the room, and Mrs. Duchwitz closed the door.

“Are you really all right?” Harald asked Karen.

“I will be when you've kissed me.”

He knelt beside the chair and kissed her lips. Then, unable to resist the temptation, he kissed her bare shoulders and her throat. His lips traveled downward, and he kissed the swell of her breasts.

“Oh, my goodness, stop, it's too nice,” she said.

Reluctantly, Harald drew back. He saw that the color had returned to her face, and she was breathless. He was amazed to think his kisses had done that.

“We have to talk,” she said.

“I know. Are you fit to fly the Hornet Moth?”

“No.”

He had feared as much. “Are you sure?”

“It hurts too much. I can't even open a damn door. And I can hardly walk, so I couldn't possibly operate the rudder with my feet.”

Harald buried his face in his hands. “Then it's all over.”

“The doctor said it would only hurt for a few days. We could go as soon as I feel better.”

“There's something I haven't told you yet. Hansen came snooping around again tonight.”

“I wouldn't worry about him.”

“This time he was with a woman detective, Mrs. Jespersen, who is a lot smarter. I listened to their conversation. She went into the church and figured out everything. She guessed that I'm living there and that I'm planning to escape in the aircraft.”

“Oh, no! What did she do?”

“Went to fetch her boss, who happens to be Peter Flemming. She left Hansen on guard and told him to shoot me if I try to take off.”

“To
shoot
you? What are you going to do?”

“I knocked Hansen out and tied him up,” Harald said, not without a touch of pride.

“Oh, my God! Where is he now?”

“In the trunk of your father's car.”

She found that funny. “You fiend!”

“I thought we had just one chance. Peter is on a train and she didn't know when he would get in. If you and I could have got back to Kirstenslot tonight before Peter and Mrs. Jespersen, we could still have taken off. But now that you can't fly . . .”

“We could still do it.”

“How?”

“You can be the pilot.”

“I can't—I've only had one lesson!”

“I'll talk you through everything. Poul said you had a natural talent for it. And I could operate the control stick with my left hand some of the time.”

“Do you really mean it?”

“Yes!”

“All right.” Harald nodded solemnly. “That's what we'll do. Just pray for Peter's train to be late.”

Hermia had spotted Peter Flemming on the ferry.

She saw him leaning on the rail, looking at the sea, and recalled a man with a ginger moustache and a smart tweed suit on the platform at Morlunde. No doubt several people from Morlunde were traveling all the way to Copenhagen, as she was, but the man looked vaguely familar. The hat and glasses put her off for a while, but eventually her memory dredged him up: Peter Flemming.

She had met him with Arne, in the happy days. The two men had been boyhood friends, she seemed to recall, then had fought when their families quarreled.

Now Peter was a cop.

As soon as she remembered that, she realized he must be following her. She felt a chill of fear like a cold wind.

She was running out of time. The full moon was three nights away, and she still had not found Harald Olufsen. If she got the film from him tonight, she was not sure how she could get it home in time. But she was
not going to give up—for the sake of Arne's memory, for the sake of Digby, and for all the airmen risking their lives to stop the Nazis.

But why had Peter not arrested her already? She was a British spy. What was he up to? Perhaps, like her, Peter was looking for Harald.

When the ferry docked, Peter followed her onto the Copenhagen train. As soon as the train got going, she walked along the corridor, and spotted him in a first class compartment.

She returned to her seat, worried. This was a very bad development. She must not lead Peter to Harald. She had to throw him off.

She had plenty of time to think about how. The train was delayed repeatedly, and got into Copenhagen at ten o'clock in the evening. By the time it pulled into the station, she had made a plan. She would go into the Tivoli Garden and lose Peter in the crowd.

As she left the train, she glanced back along the platform and saw Peter stepping down from the first class carriage.

She walked at a normal pace up the steps from the platform, through the ticket barrier and out of the station. It was dusk. The Tivoli Garden was a few steps away. She went to the main entrance and bought a ticket. “Closing at midnight,” the vendor warned her.

She had come here with Arne in the summer of 1939. It had been a festival night, and fifty thousand people had crammed into the park to watch the fireworks. Now the place was a sad version of its former self, like a black-and-white photograph of a bowl of fruit. The paths still wound charmingly between flower beds, but the fairy lights in the trees had been switched off, and the paths were illuminated by special low-intensity lamps to conform with blackout regulations. The air raid shelter outside the Pantomime Theatre added a dismal touch. Even the bands seemed muted. Most dismaying for Hermia, the crowds were not as dense, making it easier for someone to follow her.

She stopped, pretending to watch a juggler, and glanced back. She saw Peter close behind her, buying a glass of beer from a stall. How was she going to shake him off?

She moved into a crowd around an open-air stage on which an operetta was being sung. She pushed her way through to the front then out at the far
side but, when she walked on, Peter was still behind her. If this went on much longer, he would realize she was trying to lose him. Then he might cut his losses and arrest her.

She began to feel frightened. She circled the lake and came to an open-air dance floor where a large orchestra was playing a fox-trot. There were at least a hundred couples dancing energetically, and many more watching. Hermia at last felt something of the atmosphere of the old Tivoli. Seeing a good-looking young man standing alone at the side, she was inspired. She went up to him and turned on her biggest smile.” Would you like to dance with me?” she said.

“Of course!” He took her in his arms and they were off. Hermia was not a good dancer, but she could get by with a competent partner. Arne had been superb, stylish and masterful. This man was confident and decisive.

“What's your name?” he said.

She almost told him, then stopped herself at the last minute. “Agnes.”

“I am Johan.”

“I'm very happy to meet you, Johan, and you fox-trot wonderfully.” She looked back to the path and saw Peter watching the dancers.

Inconveniently, the tune came to an abrupt end. The dancers applauded the orchestra. Some couples left the floor and others came on. Hermia said, “Another dance?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

She decided to level with him. “Listen, there's a horrid man following me and I'm trying to get away from him. Will you steer us all the way over to the far side?”

“How exciting!” He looked across the floor to the spectators. “Which one is it? That fat man with the red face?”

“No. The one in the light brown suit.”

“I see him. He's quite handsome.”

The bank struck up a polka. “Oh, dear,” said Hermia. The polka was difficult, but she had to try.

Johan was expert enough to make it easier for her. He could also converse at the same time. “The man who is bothering you—is he a complete stranger, or someone you know?”

“I have met him before. Take me to the far end, by the orchestra—that's right.”

“Is he your boyfriend?”

“No. I'm going to leave you in a minute, Johan. If he runs after me, will you trip him up, or something?”

“If you wish.”

“Thank you.”

“I think he is your husband.”

“Absolutely not.” They were close to the orchestra.

Johan steered her to the edge of the dance floor. “Perhaps you are a spy, and he is a policeman hoping to catch you stealing military secrets from the Nazis.”

“Something like that,” she said gaily, and she slipped from his arms.

She walked quickly off the floor and around the bandstand into the trees. She ran across the grass until she came to another path, then she made for a side exit. She looked back: Peter was not behind her.

She left the park and hurried to the suburban railway station across the street from the main line terminus. She bought a ticket for Kirstenslot. She felt exhilarated. She had shaken Peter off.

There was no one on the platform with her but an attractive woman in a sky blue beret.

Harald approached the church cautiously.

There had been a shower, and the grass was wet, but the rain had stopped. A light breeze blew the clouds along, and a three-quarter moon shone brightly through the gaps. The shadow of the bell tower came and went with the moonlight.

He saw no strange cars parked nearby, but that did not much reassure him. The police would have concealed their vehicles if they were serious about setting a trap.

There were no lights anywhere in the ruined monastery. It was midnight, and the soldiers were in bed, all but two: the sentry in the park outside the mess tent, and a veterinary nurse on duty in the horse hospital.

Harald listened outside the church. He heard a horse snort in the cloisters. With utmost caution, he stood on the log and peeped over the windowsill.

He could see the vague outlines of the car and the aircraft in the dim reflected moonlight. There could be someone hiding in there, lying in wait.

He heard a muffled grunt and a thud. The noise was repeated after a
minute, and he guessed it was Hansen, struggling with his bonds. Harald's heart leaped with hope. If Hansen was still tied up, that meant Mrs. Jespersen had not yet returned with Peter. There was still a chance Harald and Karen could take off in the Hornet Moth.

He slipped through the window and padded across the floor to the aircraft. He got the flashlight out of the cabin and shone it around the church. There was no one here.

He opened the boot of the car. Hansen was still tied and gagged. Harald checked the knots. They were holding firm. He closed the boot again.

He heard a loud whisper: “Harald! Is that you?”

He shone the flashlight on the windows and saw Karen looking through.

She had been brought home in an ambulance. Her parents had ridden with her. Before they parted, at the theater, she had promised to slip out of the house as soon as she could, and join him in the church if the coast was clear.

He turned off the flashlight, then opened the big church door for her. She limped in, wearing a fur coat over her shoulders and carrying a blanket. He put his arms around her gently, careful of her right arm in its sling, and hugged her. For a brief moment he thrilled to the warmth of her body and the scent of her hair.

Then he returned to practicalities. “How do you feel?”

“I hurt like hell, but I'll live.”

He looked at her coat. “Are you cold?”

“Not yet, but I will be at five thousand feet over the North Sea. The blanket is for you.”

He took the blanket from her and held her good hand. “Are you ready to do this?”

“Yes.”

He kissed her softly. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Do you? You've never said that before.”

“I know—I'm telling you now in case I don't survive this trip,” she said in her usual matter-of-fact tone. “You're the best man I've ever met, by a factor of ten. You're brainy, but you never put people down. You're gentle and kind, but you've got courage enough for an army.” She touched his hair. “You're even nice-looking, in a funny way. What more could I want?”

“Some girls like a man to be well dressed.”

“Good point. We can fix that, though.”

“I'd like to tell you why I love you, but the police could get here any minute.”

“That's all right, I know why, it's because I'm wonderful.”

Harald opened the cabin door and tossed the blanket in. “You'd better get on board now,” he said. “The less we have to do once we're outside in plain view, the more chance we have of getting away.”

“Okay.”

He saw that it was going to be difficult for her to get into the cabin. He dragged a box over, and she stood on it, but then she could not put her injured foot inside. Getting in was awkward anyway—the cabin was more cramped than the front seat of a small car—and it seemed impossible with two injured limbs. Harald realized he would have to lift her in.

He picked her up with his left arm under her shoulders and his right under her knees, then he stood on the box and eased her into the passenger seat on the right-hand side of the cabin. That way, she could operate the Y-shaped central control stick with her good left hand, and Harald, beside her in the pilot's seat, would be able to use his right.

“What's this on the floor?” she said, reaching down.

“Hansen's gun. I didn't know what else to do with it.” He closed the door. “Are you okay?”

She slid the window open. “I'm fine. The best place to take off will be along the drive. The wind is just right, but blowing toward the castle, so you're going to have to push the aircraft all the way to the door of the castle, then turn it around to take off into the wind.”

“Okay.”

He opened the church doors wide. Next he had to get the aircraft out. Fortunately it had been parked intelligently, pointing directly at the door. There was a length of rope firmly tied to the undercarriage which, Harald had surmised when he first saw it, was used to pull the aircraft. He got a firm grasp on the rope and heaved.

The Hornet Moth was heavier than he had thought. As well as its engine, it was carrying thirty-nine gallons of petrol plus Karen. That was a lot to pull.

To overcome its inertia, Harald managed to rock the aircraft on its
wheels, get a rhythm going, then heave it into motion. Once it was moving, the strain was less, but it was still heavy. With considerable effort he pulled it out of the church into the park and got it as far as the drive.

The moon came from behind a cloud. The park was lit up almost like day. The aircraft was in full view of anyone who looked in the right direction. Harald had to work fast.

He undid the catch holding the left wing against the fuselage and swung the wing into position. Next, he flipped down the foldaway flap at the inner end of the upper wing. That held the wing in place while he moved around the wing to the front edge. There he turned the lower wing pin and eased it into its slot. It seemed to catch against an obstruction. He had encountered this problem when practicing. He wiggled the wing gently, and that enabled him to slide the pin home. He locked it with the leather strap. He repeated the exercise with the upper wing pin, locking it by stowing the jury strut.

It had taken him three or four minutes. He looked across the park to the soldiers' encampment. The sentry had seen him and was walking over.

He went through the same procedure with the right wing. By the time he had finished, the sentry was standing behind him, watching. It was friendly Leo. “What are you doing?” he said curiously.

Harald had a story ready. “We're going to take a photograph. Mr. Duchwitz wants to sell the aircraft because he can't get fuel for it.”

“Photography? At night?”

“It's a moonlight shot, with the castle in the background.”

“Does my captain know?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Duchwitz spoke to him, and Captain Kleiss said there would be no problem.”

“Oh, good,” Leo said, then he frowned again. “It's strange that the captain didn't tell me about it, though.”

“He probably didn't think it was important.” Harald realized he was probably on a loser. If the German military were careless, they would not have conquered Europe.

Leo shook his head. “A sentry must be briefed on any unusual events scheduled to take place during his watch,” he said as if repeating from a rule book.

“I'm sure Mr. Duchwitz wouldn't have told us to do this without speaking to Captain Kleiss.” Harald leaned on the tailplane, pushing.

Seeing him struggle to move the tail, Leo helped him. Together they swung the back around in a quarter-circle so that the aircraft was facing along the drive.

Leo said, “I'd better check with the captain.”

“If you're sure he won't mind being woken up.”

Leo looked doubtful and worried. “Perhaps he's not asleep yet.”

Harald knew that the officers slept in the castle. He thought of a way to delay Leo and speed up his own task. “Well, if you've got to go all the way to the castle, you could help me move this crate.”

“Okay.”

“I'll take the left wing, you take the right.”

Leo shouldered his rifle and leaned on the metal strut between the upper and lower wings. With the two of them pushing, the Hornet Moth moved more easily.

Hermia caught the last train of the evening from the Vesterport station. It pulled into Kirstenslot after midnight.

She was not sure what to do when she reached the castle. She did not want to call attention to herself by banging on the door and waking the household. She might have to wait until morning before asking for Harald. That would mean spending the night in the open. But that would not kill her. On the other hand, if there were lights on in the castle she might find someone with whom she could have a discreet word, a servant perhaps. And she was nervous about losing precious time.

One other person got off the train with her. It was the woman in the sky blue beret.

She suffered a moment of fear. Had she made a mistake? Could this woman be following her, having taken over from Peter Flemming?

She would just have to check.

Outside the darkened station she stopped and opened her suitcase,
pretending to search for something. If the woman were tailing her she, too, would have to find a pretext for waiting.

The woman came out of the station and walked past her without hesitating.

Hermia continued to fumble in her case while watching from the corner of her eye.

The woman walked briskly to a black Buick parked nearby. Someone was sitting at the wheel, smoking. Hermia could not see the face, just the glow of the cigarette. The woman got in. The car started up and pulled away.

Hermia breathed easier. The woman had spent the evening in the city, and her husband had come to the station to drive her home. False alarm, Hermia thought with relief.

She started walking.

Harald and Leo pushed the Hornet Moth along the drive, past the petrol tanker from which Harald had stolen fuel, all the way to the courtyard in front of the castle, then turned it into the wind. Leo ran inside to wake Captain Kleiss.