World War II Thriller Collection (119 page)

He nodded grimly.

She said, “If this works out, we could be together again, and free, in a week's time.”

He smiled. “It seems too much to hope for.”

He did love her, she decided, even though he was still feeling wounded at having been left out of the Nightwatchmen. And still, in her heart of hearts, she was not sure he had the nerve for this work. But she was undoubtedly going to find out.

While they had been talking, the first few tourists had arrived, and a handful of people were now strolling around the ruins, peering into cellars and touching the ancient stones. “Let's get out of here,” Hermia said. “Did you come on a bicycle?”

“It's behind that tower.”

Arne fetched his bike and they left the castle, Arne wearing sunglasses and a cap to make himself hard to recognize. The disguise would not pass a careful check of passengers boarding a ferry, but might protect him if he chanced to meet his pursuers on the road.

Hermia considered the problem of escape as they freewheeled down the hillside. Could she devise a better disguise for Arne? She had no wigs or costumes, nor any makeup other than the minimal lipstick and powder she used herself. He had to look like a different person, and for that he needed professional help. He could surely find it in Copenhagen, but not here.

At the foot of the hill she spotted her fellow guest at the boardinghouse, Sven Fromer, getting out of his Volvo. She did not want him to see Arne, and she hoped to ride past without his noticing her, but she was unlucky. He caught her eye, waved, and stood expectantly beside the path. It would have been conspicuously rude to ignore him, so she felt obliged to stop.

“We meet again,” he said. “This must be your fiancé.”

She was not in any danger from Sven, she told herself. There was nothing suspicious about what she was doing, and anyway Sven was anti-German. “This is Oluf Arnesen,” she said, reversing Arne's name. “Oluf, meet Sven Fromer. He stayed at the same place as me last night.”

The two men shook hands. Arne said conversationally, “Have you been here long?”

“A week. I leave tonight.”

Hermia was struck by a thought. “Sven,” she said. “This morning you told me we should be fighting the Germans.”

“I talk too much. I ought to be more circumspect.”

“If I gave you a chance to help the British, would you take a risk?”

He stared at her. “You?” he said. “But how . . . Do you mean to say that you are—”

“Would you be willing?” she pressed him.

“This isn't some kind of trick, is it?”

“You'll have to trust me. Yes or no?”

“Yes,” he said. “What do you want me to do?”

“Could a man hide in the back of your car?”

“Sure. I could conceal him behind my equipment. He wouldn't be comfortable, but there's room.”

“Would you be willing to smuggle someone onto the ferry tonight?”

Sven looked at his car, then at Arne. “You?”

Arne nodded.

Sven smiled. “Hell, yes,” he said.

Harald's first day working at the Nielsen farm was more successful than he had dared to hope. Old Nielsen had a small workshop with enough equipment for Harald to repair just about anything. He had patched the water pump on a steam plough, welded a hinge on a caterpillar track, and found the short circuit that caused the farmhouse lights to fuse every night. He had eaten a hearty lunch of herrings and potatoes with the farmhands.

In the evening he had spent a couple of hours at the village tavern with Karl, the farmer's youngest son—although he had drunk only two small glasses of beer, remembering what a fool he had made of himself with liquor a week ago. Everyone was talking about Hitler's invasion of the Soviet Union. The news was bad. The Luftwaffe claimed to have destroyed 1,800 Soviet aircraft on the ground in lightning raids. In the tavern, everyone thought Moscow would fall before winter, except the local communist, and even he seemed worried.

Harald left early because Karen had said she might see him after dinner. He felt weary but pleased with himself as he walked back to the old
monastery. When he entered the ruined building, he was astonished to find his brother in the church, staring at the derelict aircraft. “A Hornet Moth,” Arne said. “The gentleman's aerial carriage.”

“It's a wreck,” Harald said.

“Not really. The undercarriage is a bit bent.”

“How do you think it happened?”

“On landing. The back end of a Hornet tends to swing out of control, because the main wheels are too far forward. But the axle tubes aren't designed to withstand sideways pressure, so when you swerve violently they can buckle.”

Arne looked terrible, Harald saw. Instead of his army uniform, he wore what seemed to be someone else's old clothes, a worn tweed jacket and faded corduroy trousers. He had shaved off his moustache, and a greasy cap covered his curly hair. In his hands he held a small, neat 35mm camera. There was a strained expression on his face instead of his usual insouciant smile. “What happened to you?” Harald said anxiously.

“I'm in trouble. Have you got anything to eat?”

“Not a thing. We can go to the tavern—”

“I can't show my face. I'm a wanted man.” Arne tried a wry grin, but it finished up as a grimace. “Every policeman in Denmark has my description, and there are posters of me all over Copenhagen. I was chased by a cop all along the Stroget and only just got away.”

“Are you in the Resistance?”

Arne hesitated, shrugged, then said, “Yes.”

Harald was thrilled. He sat on the ledge he used as a bed and Arne sat next to him. Pinetop the cat appeared and rubbed his head against Harald's leg. “So you were working with them when I asked you, at home, three weeks ago?”

“No, not then. I was left out at first. Apparently they thought I wasn't suitable for secret work. By Christ, they were right. But now they're desperate, so I'm in it. I have to take pictures of some machinery at the military base on Sande.”

Harald nodded. “I drew a sketch of it for Poul.”

“Even you were in it before me,” Arne said bitterly. “Well, well.”

“Poul told me not to tell you.”

“Apparently everyone thought I was a coward.”

“I could redraw my sketches . . . although they were only from memory.”

Arne shook his head. “They need accurate photos. I came to ask you if there's a way to sneak inside.”

Harald found this talk of espionage exciting, but it bothered him that Arne did not seem to have a well-thought-out plan. “There's a place where the fence is concealed by trees, yes—but how are you going to get to Sande if the police are looking for you?”

“I've changed my appearance.”

“Not much. What papers are you carrying?”

“Only my own—how would I get any others?”

“So if you're stopped by the police for any reason, it will take them about ten seconds to establish that you're the man they're all looking for.”

“That's about it.”

Harald shook his head. “It's crazy.”

“It has to be done. This equipment enables the Germans to detect bombers when they're still miles away—in time to scramble their fighters.”

“It must use radio waves,” Harald said excitedly.

“The British have a similar system, but the Germans seem to have refined it, and they're shooting down up to half the aircraft on a raid. The RAF is desperate to figure out how they're doing it. It's worth risking my life.”

“Not pointlessly. If you're caught, you won't be able to pass the information to the British.”

“I have to try.”

Harald took a deep breath. “Why don't I go?”

“I knew you were going to say that.”

“No one's looking for me. I know the site. I've already been over the fence—I took a shortcut one night. And I know more about radio than you, so I'll have a better idea of what to photograph.” Harald thought the logic of his argument irresistible.

“If you're caught, you'll be shot as a spy.”

“Same applies to you—only you're virtually certain to be caught, whereas I'll probably get away with it.”

“The police may have found your sketches when they came for Poul. If so, the Germans must know that someone's interested in the base on Sande, and they will probably have improved their security as a result. Getting over the fence may not be as easy as it was.”

“I still have a better chance than you.”

“I can't send you into danger. What if you're caught—what will I say to Mother?”

“You'll say that I died fighting for freedom. I've as much right as you to take the risk. Give me the damn camera.”

Before Arne could reply, Karen came in.

She walked softly and appeared without warning, so Arne had no chance to hide, although reflexively he made a move to get up, then stopped himself.

“Who are you?” Karen said with her customary directness. “Oh! Hello, Arne. You've shaved off your moustache—I suppose that's because of all the posters I saw in Copenhagen today. Why are you an outlaw?” She sat on the covered hood of the Rolls-Royce, crossing her long legs like a fashion model.

Arne hesitated, then said, “I can't tell you.”

Karen's agile mind raced ahead, drawing inferences with impressive speed. “My God, you're in the Resistance! Was Poul in it, too? Is that why he died?”

Arne nodded. “He didn't crash his aircraft. He was trying to escape from the police, and they shot at him.”

“Poor Poul.” She looked away for a moment. “So you've taken up where he left off. But now the police are on to you. Someone must be sheltering you—probably Jens Toksvig, he was Poul's closest friend after you.”

Arne shrugged and nodded.

“But you can't move around without risking arrest, so . . .” She looked at Harald, and her voice went quiet. “You're in it now, Harald.”

To Harald's surprise, she looked concerned, as if she were afraid for him. He was pleased that she cared.

He looked at Arne. “Well? Am I in it?”

Arne sighed and gave him the camera.

Harald arrived in Morlunde late the following day. He left the steam bike in a car park next to the ferry dock, feeling it would be too conspicuous on Sande. He had nothing with which to cover it, and no way of locking it, but he trusted that a casual thief would be unable to figure out how to make it go.

He was in time for the last ferry of the day. As he waited on the dockside, the evening slowly dimmed, and stars appeared like the lights of distant ships on a dark sea. A drunk islander came staggering along the quay, peered rudely at Harald, muttered, “Ah, young Olufsen,” then sat on a capstan some distance away and tried to light a pipe.

The boat docked and a handful of people got off. To Harald's surprise, a Danish policeman and a German soldier stood at the head of the gangway. As the drunk boarded, they checked his identity card. Harald's heartbeat seemed to falter. He hesitated, scared, unsure whether to board. Had they simply stepped up security after finding his sketches, as Arne had forecast? Or were they looking for Arne himself? Would they know Harald was the brother of the wanted man? Olufsen was a common name—but they might have been briefed on the family. He had an expensive camera in his satchel. It was a popular German make, but all the same it could arouse suspicion.

He tried to calm his mind and consider his options. There were other ways of getting to Sande. He was not sure he could swim two miles in the open sea, but he might be able to borrow or steal a small boat. However, if he were seen beaching the boat on Sande he would be sure to be questioned. He might do better to act innocent.

He boarded the ferry.

The policeman asked him, “What is your reason for wanting to travel to Sande?”

Harald suppressed a feeling of indignation that anyone should presume to ask such a question. “I live there,” he said. “With my parents.”

The policeman looked at his face. “I don't remember seeing you before, and I've been doing this for four days.”

“I've been away at school.”

“Tuesday is a strange day to come home.”

“It's the end of term.”

The policeman grunted, apparently satisfied. He checked the address on Harald's card and showed it to the soldier, who nodded and let Harald on board.

He went to the far end of the boat and stood looking out to sea, waiting for his heart to stop racing. He was relieved to have passed the checkpoint, but furious that he had to justify himself to a policeman when moving around his own country. It seemed a silly reaction, when he thought about it logically, but he could not help feeling outraged.

At midnight the boat left the dock.

There was no moon. In the starlight, the flat island of Sande was a dark swell like another wave on the horizon. Harald had not expected to return so soon. In fact, when he left on Friday he had wondered if he would ever see the place again. Now he was back as a spy, with a camera in his bag and a mission to photograph the Nazis' secret weapon. He vaguely recalled thinking what a thrill it would be to become part of the Resistance. In reality, it was no fun at all. On the contrary, he was sick with fear.

He felt worse as he disembarked on the familiar quay and looked across the road to the post office and the grocery store that had not changed since he could remember. His life had been secure and stable for the first eighteen years. Now he would never feel safe again.

He made his way to the beach and began to tramp south. The wet sand gleamed silver in the starlight. He heard a girlish giggle from an unseen source in the dunes, and he felt a pang of jealousy. Would he ever make Karen giggle like that?

It was near dawn when he came within sight of the base. He could make out the fence posts. The trees and bushes inside the site showed as dark patches on the dunes. If he could see, so could the guards, he realized. He dropped to his knees and began to crawl forward.

A minute later he was glad of his caution. He spotted two guards patrolling inside the fence, side by side, with a dog.