I Can't Begin to Tell You (13 page)

Something – and it wasn’t difficult to figure out what it might have been – had gone wrong for the family.

Light the gas. Fill the kettle. Place it on the ring.

Exactly what had happened to the Muellers?

The net curtains at the windows were good quality. Parting them a fraction, Kay checked out the courtyard. Scarlet pinpricks of the hawthorn berries caught her eye in the gloom.

All clear. Except that it wasn’t. Nothing was.

The gas popped, making her jump. Since there was no milk, Kay made herself sit down with a few leaves of tea floating in the hot water and smoked a cigarette to steady herself. Not having anticipated a nervous reaction to her new role, she had been surprised by the disruption to her sleeping and eating patterns.

The front door was opening. In a flash, she was on her feet and, for the first time in her life, she wished she had one of Bror’s guns.

Dead on time, it was Felix. The overalls had been replaced by a thick coat, smart trousers and a jacket, with a Fedora pulled down over his face. He tossed the hat onto the table. ‘Any tea spare?’

The cupboard was well stocked with china and Kay found a second mug. ‘How are you?’

They were speaking in low voices.

‘Fine.’

Felix wasn’t fine but tense and preoccupied. Kay pointed to the case and he placed it on the table.

‘Any trouble?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘Followed?’

‘No.’

He snapped open the locks and eased up the lid. ‘How’s Hector, by the way?’

‘Hector? He and I have become friends. But I think he’s homesick.’

‘He’ll be home soon enough.’ He surveyed the case’s contents. ‘I’m sorry I had to ask you to bring it here.’

‘I thought London was supposed to train the sentiment out of you.’

He pointed a finger at his chest. ‘Observe, I am still human.’

The flash of humour was reassuring. ‘Felix, look at me.’

His lips twitched. ‘Gladly. Very nice, too.’

‘No one is going to suspect the British wife of Bror Eberstern.’

He turned on her. ‘That’s stupid, Freya. Don’t be.’

It had been a long time since she had been addressed so tartly and her hands tightened round the mug. ‘The Nazis know that I’m aware they will be watching me because I am British. Therefore it’s likely they’ll conclude that, because I know they’re watching, I won’t dare to do anything.’

‘The key word is “likely”. Unreliable at best.’

It was then she realized that she was not the cause of his anger but bearing the brunt of it. ‘Trouble?’

He was checking out the Send/Receive switch. ‘Perhaps.’

She knew that he should not go into detail. But he did.

‘The word is that … Well, reports have it that an agent up in Jutland is out of control.’ He grimaced. ‘Drinking heavily … Apparently, when he drinks, he talks. He’s been warned. Many times.’

They were standing very close to each other, whispering.

‘What will you all do?’

‘Christ. Don’t ask.’

In the heat of the moment, he had raised his voice.

‘Shush.’ She laid a finger on his lips.

He
brushed her hand aside, but checked himself. ‘There’s been no word of Vinegar either at this end of proceedings. London tells me that he’s up and running when I ask them to confirm. But I’m uneasy and I don’t know why. My contacts on Jutland have not set eyes on him. They just leave the messages in the drop boxes and vice versa.’

‘He could be being ultra cautious,’ she said.

‘Maybe.’

She imagined the resolution which needed to be scraped together before abandoning oneself to the unknown and the moment of terror before the opening of the parachute. ‘He may have been injured and is lying low.’

‘He’s picking up the messages and sending them.’ He wrapped a length of the aerial round his finger and stared at it. ‘You can’t be in this game without considering the possibilities. We have only London’s word that he’s not dead. But what do they know? Is Vinegar a traitor? Are the Germans playing back the wireless set? Or am I delusional?’

‘If Vinegar was taken what could happen?’

Felix was playing with the handle of the case. ‘Probaby tortured. The Jutland network would be compromised and there’s a good chance we would be, too. If that was the case …’ He looked up. ‘If that was the case, dear Freya, we would have to take to the hills.’

‘Not many hills in Denmark,’ she pointed out.

Felix stared at her. Then he gave a short laugh. ‘A lot depends on who’s got him, if anyone has. Gestapo or the military. Whoever, they might run him until they want to pull us in. They could be using Vinegar to transmit to London …’

Kay was curious. ‘What’s he like?’

‘No hero to look at, but I liked what I saw.’

Time was going slowly. Her jangled, snapping nerves, perhaps? ‘More tea?’

Felix wasn’t interested in the tea. ‘We’re underfunded and need people. London is clueless and, for all the protests to the contrary,
doesn’t care that much about Denmark. We need more sets and more pianists. London sent in a couple before me, but according to my contacts one of the sets was smashed up on landing, the other pianist was caught transmitting in a block of flats.’

She didn’t need to ask what had happened to him. She didn’t want to ask.

‘Unless we have more back-up,’ said Felix, ‘I’m hindered from running the network because I’m always trying to reach the set, wherever it is.’

Clasping the mug, her hands sought to absorb the final vestiges of warmth from the hot water, and she heard herself say, ‘I’ll train.’

‘Not in the mood for jokes.’ Felix set down his mug on the table and, peering at her, realized it wasn’t a joke. ‘No.’

‘Yes,’ she countered.

There were things to be done and men were dying and girls were having their legs shot off. And here she was in a flat made terrible by its owners’ enforced absence. And her husband … ? Her husband could be considered a traitor.

‘You don’t know what you’re doing.’

‘Agreed, I can’t go to London to train, but there must be someone over here who can teach me Morse?’ She pushed for the
coup de grâce
. ‘You can’t afford not to take me up.’

‘It’s dangerous.’

‘Self-evidently. Give me a proper reason.’

‘You are more valuable as a courier.’

‘The two aren’t mutually exclusive.’

‘Almost.’

‘But not quite.’ She was making headway. ‘Get another wireless set sent in. Teach me Morse. We’ll keep one set at Rosenlund and the other in safe houses here.’ She thought of her recent journey and her travelling companions of anxiety and acid stomach. ‘Get thee behind me,’ her father used to say of his longing for brandy. It never worked but it was worth trying. ‘Between us, we can keep up the skeds but ensure we never fall
into a pattern. We just have to work out a system of communication and message drops.’

What was she doing? The voice she was hearing belonged to someone else.

Felix ran a finger along the edge of the case. ‘You may be right. There’s a push to develop new wireless sets over here. We’re good at radio technology. London might be persuaded to allow us to train our own operators.’

He fished a cigarette stub out of his pocket. ‘Do you know how long the average life expectancy of a wireless operator is?’

What was she doing?

‘No point in asking, Felix, or in answering.’

‘Six weeks.’

She looked away towards the window.

‘
Why
would you do this, Freya?’

She thought – rapidly, longingly – of the place which had become her home …

Summer sun – how she loved it. Rosenlund’s long windows thrown open to expel the cold winter air trapped in its corners and to invite in the fresh, warm day. Clean bed linen. A book by the fire. The lake at Rosenlund frozen into a spectrum of exquisite colours. Good food …

She thought of her family.

Bror. Tanne. Nils.

Felix lit a match. As it flared into the gloom, she understood an odd truth: once you had committed, the urge was to commit further. Deeper.

He dragged at the stub of his cigarette and sucked in smoke. ‘Freya, I’m trying to put you off.’

Smoke drifted between them. She wanted to remind him of his own rules.
Smoke is a giveaway
. But the sight of his tired, drained face shut her up.

‘Someone has to do it. If it isn’t me, perhaps someone with a young family will and that would be worse.’ Her reasoning was taking shape, urgent and imperative. ‘London wants and
needs intelligence. Yes? It wants things to happen in Denmark. Yes? They haven’t much to depend on except people like us. Denmark has not had a chance to prove … Well, what? That it can fight?’ She leaned against the table. ‘If we don’t do our best, Denmark
will
go under.’

He clapped softly.

‘I’m curious, Freya. You’re not Danish.’

‘Shut up, Felix. I’m as Danish as anyone. And British. And someone who is saying that action is necessary.’

Felix took a decision. ‘Come with me to the bookshop on the Strøget in half an hour.’

It was a yes.

She glanced at her watch. ‘Sked time?’

Felix snapped to attention and parted the net drapes at the window just a fraction. ‘The lookouts should be in place by now.’ The drapes dropped back into place. ‘If you can, before you go on air make sure you have lookouts. They may save your life.’

He sat down, put on the headphones and flexed his right hand. ‘Ready.’

She watched him, willing her heartbeat to return to normal.

ZYA.
The call sign
.

QRK.
What is my intelligibility?

QVR.
Ready to receive
.

A good ten paces behind him, Kay trailed Felix through Tivoli Gardens. Like the other parks, it was crowded with people snatching some fresh air and daylight before the long night closed in.

Felix left Tivoli by the south gate and Kay followed him.

He had done his chameleon routine: hat pulled down over his face; wool scarf wrapped round his neck. Looking straight ahead and walking briskly, he managed to mimic most of the men in the city.

Crossing the street, he doubled back on his tracks and they
retraced their route through the shoppers until they reached the fashionable and popular bookstore in the Strøget. Felix came to a halt and was apparently absorbed by the display in the front of the window. Kay walked past him and entered a boutique selling women’s underwear. She spent ten minutes discussing the dearth of lace trimming and bought a couple of sweat pads for under the arms.

She went back to the bookshop.

Check the window
, Felix had briefed.
If there’s a Tolstoy on display, it’s safe. If there is a copy of Homer’s
Iliad
, it isn’t
.

She peered through the window where frost patterns were gathering. Copies of the Bible, an illustrated volume of Norse Myths and a pre-war novel were arranged in the front of the display. Tucked into the back there was a luridly jacketed copy of
Anna Karenina
beside the latest edition of
Mein Kampf
. Someone had a sense of humour.

Kay went in.

A man with a prophet’s beard was serving at the counter, and she asked him the name of the translator of the
Anna Karenina
. ‘If you follow me,’ he said, ‘we can look it up.’ He ushered her into the back of the shop.

The furiously untidy and stuffy room into which she was ushered stank of smoke and the white paintwork was tinged yellow from nicotine. Running across one wall were bookshelves, stacked from floor to ceiling with books and periodicals.

Felix already sat at a round table whose surface was pitted and stained with cigarette burns and water marks. Two other men sat opposite him.

The first was a raw-looking youth with a shaved head, in blue overalls. The second, attired in a business suit, was Anton.

It wasn’t hard to pick up the tension in the room and, as Kay entered, Anton sent her look which she interpreted as a warning to shut up about knowing him.

She wished he wasn’t there. Anton’s presence added an unwanted complication.

Felix
introduced the youth. ‘Freya, this is Jacob.’

‘
Hej
, Jacob,’ she said.

Jacob didn’t bother with niceties. He ran a hand over his head. ‘Any chance you were followed?’

‘No.’

Kay sat down and Felix surveyed the faces at the table. ‘Last Monday, Jacob’s friends in the Køge cell were rounded up. We’ve had reports from a contact working in the laundry who said she heard screams from the cells. Jacob’s here because he needs to lie low for a few days.’

Jacob’s pale features creased in anger. ‘I want to try to get them out.’

‘No,’ said Felix. ‘We can’t.’

Jacob rounded on him. ‘You don’t give all the orders.’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Felix – and Kay saw a new side to him.

Anton held up a hand. ‘Shush.’

Jacob rose to his feet, moved over to the door and listened. He looked awkward and ungainly but, Kay noted, he could move like a cat.

Jacob gave a thumbs-up and leaned back against the door. ‘So you won’t help?’ His frown was now so deep it looked permanent. ‘My mother would do more than you lot.’

Anton steepled his hands, pressing the tips of his fingers together. Kay could tell he was regretting this meeting, and disliking Jacob. ‘Action cannot be taken in isolation,’ he offered. ‘Your communist friends are admirable, but not equipped. What would your mother prefer? Her son alive or dead? Or would she like to listen to your screams?’

‘Listen, Jacob …’ Felix listed a pitifully sparse inventory. Guns: ten Sten guns, ten Colt pistols. Ammunition: approximately two hundred rounds. A quantity of plastic explosive. ‘But it’s not enough.’

‘So you won’t do anything?’

‘
Can’t
…’ said Felix. ‘But if we could we would.’

Felix’s obvious sympathy succeeded in calming Jacob down.
Kay liked him the better for being patient with the younger man.

They discussed the position from all angles. The resistance could recruit an underground army, and would do so, but, without help, they could not lay hands on much in the way of weapons. London would have to send in regular drops by plane and the group would have to locate drop zones and weapons dumps.