World War II Thriller Collection (112 page)

The sergeant sat at the table and read the report. “A Jansborg schoolboy, eh?” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“You ought to know better, lad.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where did you get the liquor?”

“At a jazz club.”

He looked up from the typed sheet. “The Danish Institute?”

“Yes.”

“You must have been there when the Krauts closed it down.”

“Yes.” Harald was confused by his use of the mildly derogatory slang word “Kraut” for “German.” It jarred with his formal tone.

“Do you often get drunk?”

“No, sir. First time.”

“And then you saw the guard post, and you happened to come across a can of paint . . .”

“I'm very sorry.”

The cop grinned suddenly. “Well, don't be too sorry. I thought it was pretty funny, myself. No trousers!” He laughed.

Harald was bewildered. The man had seemed hostile, but now he was enjoying the joke. Harald said, “What's going to happen to me?”

“Nothing. We're the police, not the joke patrol.” The sergeant tore the report in half and dropped it in the wastepaper basket.

Harald could hardly believe his luck. Was he really going to be let off? “What . . . what should I do?”

“Go back to Jansborg.”

“Thank you!” Harald wondered if he could sneak back into school unnoticed, even at this late stage. He would have some time, on the train, to think of a story. Perhaps no would need ever find out about this.

The sergeant stood up. “But take a word of advice. Keep off the booze.”

“I will,” Harald said fervently. If he could get out of this scrape, he would never drink alcohol again.

The sergeant opened the door, and Harald suffered a dreadful shock.

Standing outside was Peter Flemming.

Harald and Peter stared at one another for a long moment.

The sergeant said, “Can I help you, Inspector?”

Peter ignored him and spoke to Harald. “Well, well,” he said in the satisfied tone of a man who has been proved right at last. “I wondered, when I saw the name on the overnight arrest list. Could Harald Olufsen, graffiti writer and drunk, be Harald Olufsen, son of the pastor of Sande? Lo and behold, they are one and the same.”

Harald was dismayed. Just when he had started to hope that this dreadful incident could be kept secret, the truth had been discovered by one who had a grudge against his whole family.

Peter turned to the sergeant and said dismissively, “All right, I'll deal with it now.”

The sergeant looked resentful. “There are to be no charges, sir, the superintendent has decided.”

“We'll see about that.”

Harald felt he could weep. He had been on the point of getting away with it. This seemed so unfair.

The sergeant hesitated, seeming disposed to argue, and Peter said firmly, “That will be all.”

“Very good, sir.” He left.

Peter stared at Harald, saying nothing, until at last Harald said, “What are you going to do?”

Peter smiled, then said, “I think I'll take you back to school.”

They entered the grounds of Jansborg Skole in a police Buick driven by a uniformed officer, with Harald in the back like a prisoner.

The sun was shining on the old redbrick buildings and the lawns, and Harald felt a stab of regret for the simple, safe life he had lived here over the last seven years. Whatever happened now, this reassuringly familiar place was not going to be a home to him much longer.

The sight aroused different feelings in Peter Flemming, who muttered sourly to the driver, “This is where they breed our future rulers.”

“Yes, sir,” the driver said neutrally.

It was the time of the midmorning sandwich, and the boys were eating outside, so most of the school was watching as the car drove up to the main office and Harald got out.

Peter showed his police badge to the school secretary, and he and Harald were immediately taken to Heis's study.

Harald did not know what to think. It seemed Peter was not going to hand him over to the Gestapo, his worst fear. He was reluctant to let his hopes rise too soon, but all the signs were that Peter regarded him as a mischievous schoolboy, not a member of the Danish Resistance. For once he was grateful to be treated as a child rather than a man.

But in that case, what
was
Peter up to?

As they walked in, Heis unwound his lanky frame from behind his desk and stared at them, with vague concern, through the glasses perched on his beaky nose. His voice was kindly, but a tremor betrayed his nervousness. “Olufsen? What's all this?”

Peter did not give Harald the chance to answer the question. Jerking a thumb in his direction, he said to Heis in a grating tone, “Is this one of yours?”

The gentle Heis flinched as if he had been struck. “Olufsen is a pupil here, yes.”

“He was arrested last night for defacing a German military installation.”

Harald realized that Peter was enjoying the humiliation of Heis, and was determined to make the most of it.

Heis looked mortified. “I'm very sorry to hear that.”

“He was also drunk.”

“Oh, dear.”

“The police have to decide what to do about it.”

“I'm not sure I—”

“Frankly, we'd rather not prosecute a schoolboy for a childish prank.”

“Well, I'm glad to hear that . . .”

“On the other hand, he can't go unpunished.”

“Indeed not.”

“Apart from anything else, our German friends will want to know that the perpetrator has been dealt with firmly.”

“Of course, of course.”

Harald felt sorry for Heis, but at the same time wished he were not such a weakling. So far, he had done nothing but agree with the bullying Peter.

Peter went on, “So the outcome depends on you.”

“Oh? In what way?”

“If we let him go, will you expel him from school?”

Harald immediately saw what Peter was up to. He wanted to be sure that Harald's transgression would become public knowledge. He was only interested in the embarrassment of the Olufsen family.

The arrest of a Jansborg schoolboy would make headlines. The shame of Heis would be exceeded only by that of Harald's parents. His father would be volcanic and his mother suicidal.

But, Harald realized, Peter's enmity toward the Olufsen family had blunted his policeman's instincts. He was so happy to have caught an Olufsen drunk that he had overlooked a greater crime. He had not even considered whether Harald's dislike of the Nazis went beyond slogan-daubing to espionage. Peter's malice had saved Harald's skin.

Heis showed the first sign of opposition. “Expulsion seems a bit harsh—”

“Not as harsh as a prosecution and possible jail sentence.”

“No, indeed.”

Harald did not enter the argument himself, because he could see no way out of this that would enable him to keep the incident secret. He consoled himself with the thought that he had escaped the Gestapo. Any other punishment would seem minor.

Heis said, “It's almost the end of the academic year. He wouldn't miss much schooling if he were expelled now.”

“Then it will not permit him to avoid much work.”

“Something of a technicality, considering that he is only a couple of weeks away from leaving.”

“But it will satisfy the Germans.”

“Will it? That's important, of course.”

“If you can assure me that he will be expelled, I can release him from custody. Otherwise, I'll have to take him back to the Politigaarden.”

Heis threw a guilty look at Harald. “It does seem as if the school has no real choice in the matter, doesn't it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Heis looked at Peter. “Very well, then. I will expel him.”

Peter gave a satisfied smile. “I'm glad we've resolved this so sensibly.” He stood up. “Try to keep out of trouble in future, young Harald,” he said pompously.

Harald looked away.

Peter shook hands with Heis. “Well, thank you, Inspector,” Heis said.

“Pleased to help.” Peter went out.

Harald felt all his muscles relax. He had got away with it. There would be hell to pay at home, of course, but the important thing was that his foolishness had not compromised Poul Kirke and the Resistance.

Heis said, “A dreadful thing has happened, Olufsen.”

“I know I've done wrong—”

“No, not that. I think you know Mads Kirke's cousin.”

“Poul, yes.” Harald tensed again. Now what? Had Heis somehow found out about Harald's involvement with the Resistance? “What about Poul?”

“He has been in a plane crash.”

“My God! I was flying with him a few days ago!”

“It happened last night at the flying school.” Heis hesitated.

“What . . . ?”

“I'm sorry to have to tell you that Poul Kirke is dead.”

“Dead?” said Herbert Woodie with a squeak in his voice. “How can he be dead?”

“They're saying he crashed his Tiger Moth,” Hermia replied. She was angry and distraught.

“The damn fool,” Woodie said callously. “This could ruin everything.”

Hermia stared at him in disgust. She would have liked to slap his stupid face.

They were in Woodie's office at Bletchley Park with Digby Hoare. Hermia had sent a message to Poul Kirke, instructing him to get an eyewitness description of the radar installation on the island of Sande. “The reply came from Jens Toksvig, one of Poul's helpers,” she said, making an effort to be calm and factual. “It was sent via the British Legation in Stockholm, as usual, but it wasn't even enciphered—Jens obviously doesn't know the code. He said the crash was being passed off as an accident, but in fact Poul was trying to escape from the police and they shot at the aircraft.”

“The poor man,” said Digby.

“The message came in this morning,” Hermia added. “I was about to
come and tell you, Mr. Woodie, when you sent for me.” In fact she had been in tears. She did not cry often, but her heart was touched by the death of Poul, so young, handsome, and full of energy. She knew, too, that she was responsible for his being killed. It was she who had asked him to spy for Britain, and his courageous assent had led directly to his death. She thought of his parents, and his cousin Mads, and she had wept for them, too. Most of all, she longed to finish the job he had started, so that his killers would not prevail in the end.

“I'm so sorry,” Digby said, and he put his arm around Hermia's shoulders in a sympathetic squeeze. “Lots of men are dying, but it hurts when it's someone you know.”

She nodded. His words were simple and obvious, but she was grateful for the thought. What a good man he was. She felt a surge of affection for him, then remembered her fiancé and felt guilty. She wished she could see Arne again. Talking to him and touching him would reinforce her love and make her immune to the appeal of Digby.

“But where does that leave us?” Woodie asked.

Hermia collected her thoughts rapidly. “According to Jens, the Nightwatchmen have decided to lie low, at least for a while, and see how far the police carry their investigation. So, to answer your question, it leaves us without any sources of information in Denmark.”

“Makes us appear damned incompetent,” Woodie said.

“Never mind that,” Digby said crisply. “The Nazis have found a war-winning weapon. We thought we were years ahead with radar—now we learn that they have it, too, and theirs is better than ours! I don't give a fuck about how you appear. The only question is how we find out more.”

Woodie looked outraged but said nothing. Hermia asked, “What about other sources of intelligence?”

“We're trying them all, of course. And we've picked up one more clue: the word
himmelbett
has appeared in Luftwaffe decrypts.”

Woodie said, “
Himmelbett?
That means ‘heaven bed.' What does it signify?”

“It's their word for a four-poster bed,” Hermia told him.

“Makes no sense,” Woodie said grumpily, as if it were her fault.

She asked Digby, “Any context?”

“Not really. It seems that their radar operates in a
himmelbett.
We can't figure it out.”

Hermia reached a decision. “I'll have to go to Denmark myself,” she said.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Woodie said.

“We have no agents in country, so someone has to be infiltrated,” she said. “I know the ground better than anyone else in MI6, that's why I'm chief of the Denmark desk. And I speak the language like a native. I've got to go.”

“We don't send women on missions like that,” he said dismissively.

Digby said, “Yes, we do.” He turned to Hermia. “You'll leave for Stockholm tonight. I'll come with you.”

“Why did you say that?” Hermia asked Digby the following day, as they walked through the Golden Room in the Stadhuset, Stockholm's famous city hall.

Digby paused to study a wall mosaic. “I knew the Prime Minister would want me to keep the closest possible watch on such an important mission.”

“I see.”

“And I wanted the chance to have you to myself. This is the next best thing to a slow boat to China.”

“But you know I have to get in touch with my fiancé. He's the only person I can trust to help us.”

“Yes.”

“And I'll probably see him all the sooner in consequence.”

“That suits me fine. I can't compete with a man who is trapped in a country hundreds of miles away, heroically silent and unseen, holding on to your affection by invisible cords of loyalty and guilt. I'd rather have a flesh-and-blood rival with human failings, someone who gets grumpy with you and has dandruff on his collar and scratches his bum.”

“This isn't a contest,” she said with exasperation. “I love Arne. I'm going to marry him.”

“But you're not married yet.”

Hermia shook her head as if to detach herself from this irrelevant talk. Previously, she had enjoyed Digby's romantic interest in her—albeit guiltily—but now it was a distraction. She was here for a rendezvous. She and Digby were only pretending to be tourists with time to kill.

They left the Golden Room and went down the broad marble staircase and out into the cobbled courtyard. They crossed an arcade of pink granite pillars and found themselves in a garden overlooking the gray water of Lake Malaren. Turning to look up at the three-hundred-foot tower that rose over the redbrick building, Hermia checked that their shadow was with them.

A bored-looking man in a gray suit and well-worn shoes, he made little effort to conceal his presence. As Digby and Hermia had pulled away from the British Legation, in a chauffeur-driven Volvo limousine that had been adapted to run on charcoal, they had been followed by two men in a black Mercedes 230. When they stopped outside the Stadhuset, the man in the gray suit had followed them inside.

According to the British air attaché, a group of German agents kept all British citizens in Sweden under constant surveillance. They could be shaken off, but it was unwise. Losing your tail was taken as proof of guilt. Men who evaded surveillance had been arrested and accused of espionage, and the Swedish authorities had been pressured to expel them.

Therefore, Hermia had to escape without the shadow realizing it.

Following a prearranged plan, Hermia and Digby wandered across the garden and turned around the corner of the building to look at the cenotaph of the city's founder, Birger Jarl. The gilded sarcophagus lay in a canopied tomb with stone pillars at each corner. “Like a
himmelbett,
” Hermia said.

Concealed from view on the far side of the cenotaph was a Swedish woman of the same height and build as Hermia, with similar dark hair.

Hermia looked inquiringly at the woman, who nodded decisively.

Hermia suffered an instant of fear. Until now she had done nothing illegal. Her visit to Sweden had been as innocent as it seemed. From this moment on, she would be on the wrong side of the law, for the first time in her life.

“Quickly,” the woman said in English.

Hermia slipped off her light summer raincoat and red beret, and the other woman put them on. Hermia took from her pocket a dull brown scarf and tied it around her head, covering her distinctive hair and partly concealing her face.

The Swedish woman took Digby's arm, and the two of them moved away from the cenotaph and sauntered back into the garden in full view.

Hermia waited a few moments, pretending to study the elaborate wrought-iron railing around the monument, fearful that the tail would be suspicious and come to check. But nothing happened.

She moved out from behind the cenotaph, half-expecting him to be lying in wait, but there was no one nearby. Pulling the scarf a little farther over her face, she walked around the corner into the garden.

She saw Digby and the decoy heading for the gate at the far end. The shadow was following them. The plan was working.

Hermia went in the same direction, tailing the tail. As arranged, Digby and the woman went straight to their car, which was waiting in the square. Hermia saw them get into the Volvo and drive away. The tail followed in the Mercedes. They would lead him all the way back to the Legation, and he would report that the two visitors from Britain had spent the afternoon as innocent tourists.

And Hermia was free.

She crossed the Stadhusbron bridge and headed for Gustav Adolf Square, the center of the city, walking fast, eager to get on with her task.

Everything had happened with bewildering rapidity in the last twenty-four hours. Hermia had been given only a few minutes to throw a few clothes into a suitcase, then she and Digby had been driven in a fast car to Dundee, in Scotland, where they checked into a hotel a few minutes after midnight. This morning at dawn they had been taken to Leuchars aerodrome, on the Fife coast, and an RAF crew wearing civilian British Overseas Airways Corporation uniforms had flown them to Stockholm, a three-hour journey. They had had lunch at the British Legation, then put into operation the plan they had devised in the car between Bletchley and Dundee.

As Sweden was neutral, it was possible to phone or write from here to
people in Denmark. Hermia was going to try to call her fiancé, Arne. At the Danish end, calls were monitored and letters opened by the censors, so she would have to be extraordinarily careful in what she said. She had to mount a deception that would sound innocent to an eavesdropper yet bring Arne into the Resistance.

Back in 1939, when she had set up the Nightwatchmen, she had deliberately excluded Arne. It was not because of his convictions: he was as anti-Nazi as she was, albeit in a less passionate way—he thought they were stupid clowns in silly uniforms who wanted to stop people having fun. No, the problem was his careless, happy-go-lucky nature. He was too open and friendly for clandestine work. Perhaps also she had been unwilling to put him in danger, although Poul had agreed with her about Arne's unsuitability. But now she was desperate. Arne was as happy-go-lucky as ever, but she had no one else.

Besides, everyone felt differently about danger today than at the outbreak of war. Thousands of fine young men had given their lives already. Arne was a military officer: he was supposed to take risks for his country.

All the same, her heart felt cold at the thought of what she was going to ask him to do.

She turned in to the Vasagatan, a busy street in which there were several hotels, the central railway station, and the main post office. Here in Sweden, telephone services had always been separate from the mail, and there were special public phone bureaus. Hermia was headed for the one in the railway station.

She could have telephoned from the British Legation, but that would almost certainly have aroused suspicion. At the phone bureau, there would be nothing unusual about a woman who spoke hesitant Swedish with a Danish accent coming in to phone home.

She and Digby had talked about whether the phone call would be listened to by the authorities. In every telephone exchange in Denmark there was at least one young German woman in uniform listening in. They could not possibly eavesdrop on every phone call, of course. However, they were more likely to pay attention to international calls, and calls to
military bases, so there was a strong chance that Hermia's conversation with Arne would be monitored. She would have to communicate in hints and double-talk. But that should be possible. She and Arne had been lovers, so she ought to be able to make him understand without being explicit.