Hornet Flight (25 page)

Digby raised his eyebrows. “A hard thing for a passionate anticommunist to propose.”

“My dear Hoare, if Hitler invaded Hell, I would at least make a favorable reference to the Devil in the House of Commons.”

Digby smiled, wondering whether that line was being considered for inclusion in tonight's speech. “But is there any help we
can
give?”

“Stalin has asked me to step up the bombing campaign against Germany. He hopes it will force Hitler to bring aircraft home to defend the fatherland. That would weaken the invading army and might give the Russians an even chance.”

“Are you going to do it?”

“I have no choice. I've ordered a bombing raid for the next full moon. It will be the largest air operation of the war so far, which means the largest in the history of mankind. There will be more than five hundred bombers, over half our entire strength.”

Digby wondered if his brother would be on the raid. “But if they suffer the kind of losses we've been experiencing . . .”

“We will be crippled. That's why I've called you in. Do you have an answer for me?”

“Yesterday I infiltrated an agent into Denmark. Her orders are to get photographs of the radar installation on Sande. That will answer the question.”

“It had better. The bombing raid is scheduled in sixteen days' time. When do you hope to have the photographs in your hands?”

“Within a week.”

“Good,” Churchill said dismissively.

“Thank you, Prime Minister.” Digby turned away.

“Don't fail me,” said Churchill.

Hammershus was on the northern tip of Bornholm. The castle stood on a hill that looked across the sea to Sweden, and had once guarded the island against invasion by its neighbor. Hermia wheeled her bicycle along the winding path up the rocky slopes, wondering if today would be as fruitless as yesterday. The sun was shining, and she was warm from the effort of cycling.

The castle had been built of mixed brick and stone. Solitary walls
remained, their features forlornly suggestive of family life: large sooty fireplaces exposed to the sky, cold stone cellars for storing apples and ale, broken staircases that led nowhere, narrow windows through which thoughtful children must once have stared at the sea.

Hermia was early, and the place was deserted. Judging by yesterday's experience, she would have it to herself for another hour or more. What would it be like if Arne did turn up today, she wondered as she pushed her bike through ruined archways and across grass-grown floors.

In Copenhagen before the invasion she and Arne had been a glamorous couple, the center of a social set of young officers and pretty girls with government connections, always having parties and picnics, going dancing and playing sports, sailing and riding horses and driving to the beach. Now that those days were over, would she seem to Arne like part of his past? On the phone, he had said he still loved her—but he had not seen her for more than a year. Would he find her the same, or changed? Would he still like the smell of her hair and the taste of her mouth? She began to feel nervous.

She had spent all day yesterday looking at the ruins, and they held no more interest for her. She walked to the seaward side, leaned her bike against a low stone wall, and looked down at the beach far below.

A familiar voice said, “Hello, Hermia.”

She whirled around and saw Arne walking toward her, smiling, his arms spread wide. He had been waiting behind a tower. Her nervousness vanished. She ran into his arms and hugged him hard enough to hurt.

“What's the matter?” he said. “Why are you weeping?”

She realized she was crying, her chest heaving with sobs, tears running down her face. “I'm so happy,” she said.

He kissed her wet cheeks. She held his face in both hands, feeling his bones with her fingertips to prove to herself that he was real, this was not one of the imaginary reunion scenes she had dreamed so often. She nuzzled his neck, breathing in the smell of him, army soap and brilliantine and airplane fuel. There were no smells in her dreams.

She was overwhelmed by emotion, but the feeling slowly changed from excitement and happiness to something else. Their tender kisses turned searching and hungry, their gentle caresses became urgently demanding. When her knees felt weak, she sank to the grass, pulling him
down with her. She licked his neck, sucked his lip, and bit his earlobe. His erection pressed against her thigh. She fumbled with the buttons of his uniform trousers, opening the fly so that she could feel him properly. He pushed up the skirt of her dress and slid his hand beneath the elastic of her underwear. She suffered a moment of coy embarrassment at how wet she was, then it was forgotten in a wave of pleasure. Impatiently, she broke the embrace long enough to take off her panties and throw them aside, then pulled him on top of her. It occurred to her that they were in full view of any early tourists coming to see the ruins, but she did not care. She knew that later, when the madness had left her, she would shudder with horror at the risk she had taken, but she could not hold back. She gasped as he entered her, then clung to him with her arms and legs, pressing his belly to hers, his chest to her breasts, his face into her neck, insatiably hungry for the touch of his body. Then that, too, passed as she focused on a node of intense pleasure that began small and hot, like a distant star, and grew steadily, seeming to possess more and more of her body, until it exploded.

They lay still for a while. She enjoyed the weight of his body on her, the breathless feeling it gave her, his slow detumescence. Then a shadow fell on them. It was only a cloud passing over the sun, but it reminded her that the ruins were open to the public, and someone could come along at any time. “Are we still alone?” she murmured.

He lifted his head and looked around. “Yes.”

“We'd better get up before the tourists arrive.”

“Okay.”

She grabbed him as he pulled away. “One more kiss.”

He kissed her softly, then stood up.

She found her underpants and pulled them on quickly, then stood up and brushed grass off her dress. Now that she was decent, the sense of urgency left her, and all the muscles of her body felt pleasantly lassitudinous, as they sometimes did when she lay in bed on Sunday morning, dozing and listening to church bells.

She leaned on the wall, looking at the sea, and Arne put his arm around her. It was hard to wrench her mind back to war, deception, and secrecy.

“I'm working for British Intelligence,” she said abruptly.

He nodded. “I was afraid of that.”

“Afraid? Why?”

“It means you're in even more danger than if you had come here just to see me.”

She was pleased that his first thought was of the peril to her. He really did love her. But she brought trouble. “Now you're at risk, too, just because you're with me.”

“You'd better explain.”

She sat on the wall and gathered her thoughts. She had failed to think of a censored version of the story that included only what he absolutely had to know. No matter how she chopped it up, half the truth made no sense, so she had to tell him everything. She was going to ask him to risk his life, and he needed to know why.

She told him about the Nightwatchmen, the arrests at Kastrup aerodrome, the devastating rate of bomber losses, the radar installation on his home island of Sande, the
himmelbett
clue, and the involvement of Poul Kirke. As she talked, his face changed. The merriment went from his eyes, and his perennial smile was replaced by a look of anxiety. She wondered whether he would accept the mission.

If he were a coward, surely he would not have chosen to fly the flimsy wood-and-linen machines of the Army Aviation Troops? On the other hand, being a pilot was part of his dashing image. And he often put pleasure before work. It was one of the reasons she loved him: she was too serious, and he made her enjoy herself. Which was the real Arne—the hedonist or the airman? Until now he had never been put to the test.

“I've come to ask you to do what Poul would have done, if he had lived: go to Sande, get into the base, and examine the radar installation.”

Arne nodded, looking solemn.

“We need photographs, good ones.” She leaned across to her bicycle, opened the saddlebag, and took out a small 35mm camera, a German-made Leica IIIa. She had considered a miniature Minox Riga, which was easier to conceal, but in the end had preferred the precision of the Leica's lens. “This is probably the most important job you'll ever be asked to do. When we understand their radar system, we will be able to devise ways to defeat it, and that will save the lives of thousands of airmen.”

“I can see that.”

“But if you're caught, you'll be executed—shot or hanged—for spying.” She held out the camera.

She half wanted him to refuse the mission, for she could hardly bear the thought of the danger he would be in if he accepted. But, if he refused, could she ever respect him?

He did not take the camera. “Poul was the head of your Nightwatchmen.”

She nodded.

“I suppose most of our friends were in it.”

“Better that you don't know—”

“Just about everyone except me.”

She nodded. She feared what was coming.

“You think I'm a coward.”

“It didn't seem like your kind of thing—”

“Because I like parties, and I make jokes, and flirt with girls, you thought I didn't have the guts for secret work.” She said nothing, but he was insistent. “Answer me.”

She nodded miserably.

“In that case, I'll have to prove you wrong.” He took the camera.

She did not know whether to be happy or sad. “Thank you,” she said, fighting back tears. “You'll be careful, won't you?”

“Yes. But there's a problem. I was followed to Bornholm.”

“Oh, hell.” This was something she had not anticipated. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I noticed a couple of people hanging around the base, a man and a young woman. She was on the train to Copenhagen with me, then he was on the ferry. When I got here, he followed me on a bicycle, and there was a car behind. I shook them off a few miles outside Ronne.”

“They must suspect you of working with Poul.”

“Ironically, as I wasn't.”

“Who do you think they are?”

“Danish police, acting under orders from the Germans.”

“Now that you've given them the slip, they undoubtedly feel sure you're guilty. They must still be looking for you.”

“They can't search every house in Bornholm.”

“No, but they'll have people watching the ferry port and the aerodrome.”

“I hadn't thought of that. So how am I going to get back to Copenhagen?”

He was not yet thinking like a spy, Hermia noted. “We'll have to smuggle you onto the ferry somehow.”

“And then where would I go? I can't return to the flying school—it's the first place they'll look.”

“You'll have to stay with Jens Toksvig.”

Arne's face darkened. “So he's one of the Nightwatchmen.”

“Yes. His address—”

“I know where he lives,” Arne snapped. “He was my friend before he was a Nightwatchman.”

“He may be jumpy, because of what happened to Poul—”

“He won't turn me away.”

Hermia pretended not to notice Arne's anger. “Let's assume you get tonight's ferry. How long will it take you to get to Sande?”

“First I'll talk to my brother, Harald. He worked as a laborer on the site when they were building the base, so he can give me the layout. Then you have to allow a full day to get to Jutland, because the trains are always delayed. I could get there late on Tuesday, sneak into the base on Wednesday, and return to Copenhagen on Thursday. Then how do I get in touch with you?”

“Come back here next Friday. If the police are still watching the ferry, you'll have to find some way of disguising yourself. I'll meet you right here. We'll cross to Sweden with the fisherman who brought me. Then we'll get you false papers at the British Legation and fly you to England.”