Hornet Flight (6 page)

For a moment, Heis looked ready to reprimand Harald for rudeness, but in the end he answered mildly. “You've made an interesting point, and Mr. Agger has answered it quite thoroughly,” he said. “Now, I think we've had a good discussion, and it's time to go back to our lessons. But first, let's thank our guest for taking the time out of his busy life to come and visit us.” He raised his hands to lead a round of applause.

Harald stopped him. “Make him answer the question!” he shouted. “Should we have a Resistance movement, or will we let the Nazis do anything they like? For God's sake, what lessons could be more important than this?”

The room went quiet. Arguing with the staff was permitted, within reason, but Harald had crossed the line into defiance.

“I think you'd better leave us,” Heis said. “Off you go, and I'll see you afterward.”

This made Harald furious. Boiling with frustration, he stood up. The room remained silent as all the boys watched him walk to the door. He knew he should leave quietly, but he could not bring himself to do it. He turned at the door and pointed an accusing finger at Heis. “You won't be able to tell the Gestapo to leave the damn room!” he said.

Then he went out and slammed the door.

Peter Flemming's alarm clock went off at half past five in the morning. He silenced it, turned on the light, and sat upright in bed. Inge was lying on her back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling, as expressionless as a corpse. He looked at her for a moment, then got up.

He went into the little kitchen of their Copenhagen apartment and turned on the radio. A Danish reporter was reading a sentimental statement by the Germans about the death of Admiral Lutjens, who had gone down with the
Bismarck
ten days ago. Peter put a small pot of oatmeal on the stove, then laid a tray. He buttered a slice of rye bread and made ersatz coffee.

He felt optimistic, and after a moment he recalled why. Yesterday there had been a break in the case he was working on.

He was a detective-inspector in the security unit, a section of the Copenhagen criminal investigation department whose job was to keep tabs on union organizers, communists, foreigners, and other potential troublemakers. His boss, the head of the department, was superintendent Frederik Juel, clever but lazy. Educated at the famous Jansborg Skole, Juel
was fond of the Latin proverb
Quieta non movere,
“Let sleeping dogs lie.” He was descended from a hero of Danish naval history, but the aggression had long been bred out of his line.

In the past fourteen months their work had expanded, as opponents of German rule had been added to the department's watch list.

So far the only outward sign of resistance had been the appearance of underground newspapers such as
Reality,
the one the Olufsen boy had dropped. Juel believed the illegal newspapers were harmless, if not actually beneficial as a safety valve, and refused to pursue the publishers. This attitude infuriated Peter. Leaving criminals at large, to continue their offenses, seemed madness to him.

The Germans did not really like Juel's laissez-faire attitude, but so far they had not pushed the matter to a confrontation. Juel's liaison with the occupying power was General Walter Braun, a career soldier who had lost a lung in the battle of France. Braun's aim was to keep Denmark tranquil at all costs. He would not overrule Juel unless forced to.

Recently Peter had learned that copies of
Reality
were being smuggled to Sweden. Until now, he had been obliged to abide by his boss's hands-off rule, but he hoped Juel's complacency would be shaken by the news that the papers were finding their way out of the country. Last night, a Swedish detective who was a personal friend of Peter's had called to say he thought the paper was being carried on a Lufthansa flight from Berlin to Stockholm that stopped at Copenhagen. That was the breakthrough that accounted for Peter's feeling of excitement when he woke up. He could be on the brink of a triumph.

When the oatmeal was ready, he added milk and sugar then took the tray into the bedroom.

He helped Inge sit upright. He tasted the oatmeal to make sure it was not too hot, then began to feed her with a spoon.

A year ago, just before petrol restrictions came in, Peter and Inge had been driving to the beach when a young man in a new sports car had crashed into them. Peter had broken both his legs and recovered rapidly. Inge had smashed her skull, and she would never be the same.

The other driver, Finn Jonk, the son of a well-known university professor, had been thrown clear and landed in a bush, unharmed.

He had no driving license—it had been taken from him by the courts after a previous accident—and he had been drunk. But the Jonk family had hired a top lawyer who had succeeded in delaying the trial for a year, so Finn still had not been punished for destroying Inge's mind. The personal tragedy, for Inge and Peter, was also an example of the disgraceful way crimes could go unpunished in modern society. Whatever you might say against the Nazis, they were gratifyingly tough on criminals.

When Inge had eaten her breakfast, Peter took her to the toilet, then bathed her. She had always been scrupulously neat and clean. It was one of the things he had loved about her. She was especially clean about sex, always washing carefully afterward—something he appreciated. Not all girls were like that. One woman he had slept with, a nightclub singer he had met during a raid and had a brief affair with, had objected to his washing himself after sex, saying it was unromantic.

Inge showed no reaction as he bathed her. He had learned to be equally unmoved, even when he touched the most intimate parts of her body. He dried her soft skin with a big towel, then dressed her. The most difficult part was putting her stockings on. First he rolled the stocking, leaving only the toe sticking out. Then he carefully eased it over her foot and unrolled it up her calf and over her knee, finally fastening the top to the clips of the garter belt. When he started doing this he had put runs in them every time, but he was a persistent man, and could be very patient when he had his mind set on achieving something; and now he was expert.

He helped her into a cheerful yellow cotton dress, then added a gold wristwatch and bracelet. She could not tell the time, but he sometimes thought she came near to smiling when she saw jewelry glinting on her wrists.

When he had brushed her hair, they both looked at her reflection in the mirror. She was a pretty, pale blonde, and before the accident she had had a flirtatious smile and a coy way of fluttering her eyelashes. Now her face was blank.

On their Whitsun visit to Sande, Peter's father had tried to persuade him to put Inge into a private nursing home. Peter could not afford the fees, but Axel was willing to pay. He said he wanted Peter to be free, though the
truth was he was desperate for a grandson to bear his name. However, Peter felt it was his duty to take care of his wife. For him, duty was the most important of a man's obligations. If he shirked it, he would lose his self-respect.

He took Inge to the living room and sat her by the window. He left the radio playing music at low volume, then returned to the bathroom.

The face in his shaving mirror was regular and well proportioned. Inge had used to say he looked like a film star. Since the accident he had noticed a few gray hairs in his red morning stubble, and there were lines of weariness around the orange-brown eyes. But there was a proud look in the set of his head, and an immovable rectitude in the straight line of his lips.

When he had shaved, he tied his tie and strapped on his shoulder holster with the standard issue Walther 7.65mm pistol, the smaller seven-round “PPK” version designed as a concealed weapon for detectives. Then he stood in the kitchen and ate three slices of dry bread, saving the scarce butter for Inge.

The nurse was supposed to come at eight o'clock.

Between eight and five past Peter's mood changed. He began to pace up and down the little hallway of the apartment. He lit a cigarette then crushed it out impatiently. He looked at his wristwatch every few seconds.

Between five and ten past he became angry. Did he not have enough to cope with? He combined caring for his helpless wife with a taxing and highly responsible job as a police detective. The nurse had no
right
to let him down.

When she rang the doorbell at eight-fifteen, he threw open the door and shouted, “How dare you be late?”

She was a plump girl of nineteen, wearing a carefully pressed uniform, her hair neatly arranged under her nurse's cap, her round face lightly made up. She was shocked by his anger. “I'm sorry,” she said.

He stood aside to let her in. He felt a strong temptation to strike her, and she obviously sensed this, for she hurried past him nervously.

He followed her into the living room. “You had time to do your hair and makeup,” he said angrily.

“I said I'm sorry.”

“Don't you realize that I have a very demanding job? You've got nothing on your mind more important than walking with boys in the Tivoli Garden—yet you can't even get to work on time!”

She looked nervously at his gun in the shoulder holster, as if she was afraid he was going to shoot her. “The bus was late,” she said in a shaky voice.

“Get an earlier bus, you lazy cow!”

“Oh!” She looked about to cry.

Peter turned away, fighting an urge to slap her fat face. If she walked out, he would be in worse trouble. He put on his jacket and went to the door. “Don't you ever be late again!” he shouted. Then he left the apartment.

Outside the building he jumped onto a tram heading for the city center. He lit a cigarette and smoked in rapid puffs, trying to calm himself. He was still angry when he got off outside the Politigaarden, the daringly modern police headquarters, but the sight of the building soothed him: its squat shape gave a reassuring impression of strength, its blindingly white stone spoke of purity, and its rows of identical windows symbolized order and the predictability of justice. He passed through the dark vestibule. Hidden in the center of the building was a large open courtyard, circular, with a ring of double pillars marking a sheltered walkway like the cloisters of a monastery. Peter crossed the courtyard and entered his section.

He was greeted by Detective Constable Tilde Jespersen, one of a handful of women in the Copenhagen force. The young widow of a policeman, she was as tough and smart as any cop in the department. Peter often used her for surveillance work, a role in which a woman was less likely to arouse suspicion. She was rather attractive, with blue eyes and fair curly hair and the kind of small, curvy figure that women would call too fat but men thought just right. “Bus delayed?” she said sympathetically.

“No. Inge's nurse turned up a quarter of an hour late. Empty-headed flibbertigibbet.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Anything happening?”

“I'm afraid so. General Braun is with Juel. They want to see you as soon as you get here.”

That was bad luck: a visit from Braun on the day Peter was late. “Damn nurse,” he muttered, and headed for Juel's office.

Juel's upright carriage and piercing blue eyes would have suited his naval namesake. He spoke German as a courtesy to Braun. All educated Danes could get by in German, and English as well. “Where have you been, Flemming?” he said to Peter. “We are waiting.”

“I apologize,” Peter replied in the same language. He did not give the reason for his lateness: excuses were undignified.

General Braun was in his forties. He had probably been handsome once, but the explosion that destroyed his lung had also taken away part of his jaw, and the right side of his face was deformed. Perhaps because of his damaged appearance, he always wore an immaculate field service uniform, complete with high boots and holstered pistol.

He was courteous and reasonable in conversation. His voice was a soft near-whisper. “Take a look at this, if you would, Inspector Flemming,” he said. He had spread several newspapers on Juel's desk, all folded open to show a particular report. It was the same story in each newspaper, Peter saw: an account of the butter shortage in Denmark, blaming the Germans for taking it all. The newspapers were the
Toronto Globe and Mail,
the
Washington Post,
and the
Los Angeles Times.
Also on the table was the Danish underground newspaper
Reality,
badly printed and amateur-looking beside the legitimate publications, but containing the original story the others had copied. It was a small triumph of propaganda.

Juel said, “We know most of the people who produce these homemade newspapers.” He spoke in a tone of languid assurance that irritated Peter. You might imagine, from his manner, that it was he, not his famous ancestor, who had defeated the Swedish navy at the battle of Koge Bay. “We could pick them all up, of course. But I'd rather leave them alone and keep an eye on them. Then, if they do something serious like blowing up a bridge, we'll know who to arrest.”

Peter thought that was stupid. They should be arrested now, to
stop
them blowing up bridges. But he had had this argument with Juel before, so he clamped his teeth together and said nothing.

Braun said, “That might have been acceptable when their activities were confined to Denmark. But this story has gone all over the world!
Berlin is furious. And the last thing we need is a clampdown. We'll have the damned Gestapo stamping all over town in their jackboots, stirring up trouble and throwing people in jail, and God knows where it will end.”

Peter was gratified. The news was having the effect he wanted. “I'm already working on this,” he said. “All these American newspapers got the story from the Reuters wire service, which picked it up in Stockholm. I believe the
Reality
newspaper is being smuggled out to Sweden.”