Hornet Flight (41 page)

Karen stopped him at the edge of the wood and pointed. The sentry was standing beside the petrol tanker. Harald saw with dismay that, in his hurry, he had forgotten to return the nozzle to its hook, and the petrol hose dangled untidily. The soldier looked up and down the park with a puzzled frown, then returned the nozzle to its proper place. He remained standing there for a while. He took out cigarettes, put one in his mouth, and opened a box of matches; then moved away from the tanker before striking his match.

Karen whispered to Harald, “Haven't you got enough petrol yet?”

“I need one more can.”

The sentry was strolling away with his back to the lorry, smoking, and Harald decided to take a chance. He walked fast across the grass. To his dismay, he found that the tanker did not quite conceal him from the soldier's angle of view. Nevertheless he put the nozzle in the can and started to pump, knowing he would be seen if the man chanced to turn around. He filled the can, replaced the nozzle, screwed the cap on the can, and walked away.

He was almost at the woods when he heard a shout.

He pretended to be deaf and walked on without turning around or increasing his pace.

The sentry shouted again, and Harald heard running boots.

He passed into the trees. Karen appeared. “Get out of sight!” she whispered. “I'll head him off.”

Harald darted into a patch of shrubbery. Lying flat, he wriggled under a rambling bush, dragging the can with him. Thor tried to follow him, thinking this was a game. Harald smacked him sharply on the nose, and the dog retreated, his feelings hurt.

Harald heard the sentry say, “Where's that man?”

“You mean Christian?” Karen said.

“Who is he?”

“One of the gardeners. You're terribly handsome when you're cross, Ludie.”

“Never mind that, what was he doing?”

“Treating diseased trees with the stuff in that can, something that kills those ugly mushroom growths you see on tree trunks.”

That was inventive of her, Harald thought, even if she's forgotten the German word for fungicide.

“This early?” Ludie said skeptically.

“He told me the treatment works best when it's cool.”

“I saw him walking away from the petrol tanker.”

“Petrol? What would Christian do with petrol? He doesn't have a car. I expect he was taking a shortcut across the lawn.”

“Hm.” Ludie was still uneasy. “I haven't noticed any diseased trees.”

“Well, look at this.” Harald heard them take a few paces. “See that growing out of the bark like a great big wart? It would kill the tree unless Christian treated it.”

“I suppose it would. Well, please tell your servants to keep clear of the encampment.”

“I will, and I apologize. I'm sure Christian meant no harm.”

“Very well.”

“Goodbye, Ludie. Perhaps I'll see you tomorrow morning.”

“I'll be here.”

“Bye.”

Harald waited a few minutes, then he heard Karen say, “All clear.”

He crawled out from the bush. “You were brilliant!”

“I'm becoming such a good liar, it's worrying.”

They walked toward the monastery—and suffered another shock.

As they were about to leave the shelter of the woods, Harald saw Per Hansen, the village policeman and local Nazi, standing outside the church.

He cursed. What the hell was Hansen doing here? And at this time of the morning?

Hansen was standing still, legs apart and arms folded, looking across the park at the military encampment. Harald put a restraining hand on Karen's arm, but he was too late to stop Thor, who instantly sensed the hostility Karen felt. The dog erupted from the woods at a run, made for Hansen, stopped at a safe distance, and barked again. Hansen looked scared and angry, and his hand went to the holstered gun at his belt.

Karen whispered, “I'll deal with him.” Without waiting for Harald to reply she went forward and whistled to the dog. “Come here, Thor!”

Harald put down his can of petrol, dropped to a crouch, and watched through the leaves.

Hansen said to Karen, “You should keep that dog under control.”

“Why? He lives here.”

“It's aggressive.”

“He barks at intruders. It's his job.”

“If it attacks a member of the police force, it might be shot.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Karen said, and Harald could not help observing that she displayed all the arrogance of her wealth and social position. “What are you doing, snooping around my garden at the crack of dawn?”

“I'm on official business, young lady, so you mind your manners.”

“Official business?” she said skeptically. Harald guessed she was pretending to be incredulous in order to get more information out of him. “What business?”

“I'm looking for someone called Harald Olufsen.”

Harald murmured, “Oh, shit.” He had not been expecting this.

Karen was shocked, but she managed to cover up. “Never heard of him,” she said.

“He's a school friend of your brother's, and he's wanted by the police.”

“Well, I can't be expected to know all my brother's schoolmates.”

“He's been to the castle.”

“Oh? What does he look like?”

“Male, eighteen years old, six feet one inch, fair hair and blue eyes, probably wearing a blue school blazer with a stripe on the sleeve.” Hansen sounded as if he were reciting something he had memorized from a police report.

“He sounds terribly attractive, apart from the blazer, but I don't recall him.” Karen was maintaining her air of careless disdain, but Harald could see the tension and worry on her face.

“He's been here twice at least,” Hansen said. “I've seen him myself.”

“I must have missed him. What's his crime, failing to return a library book?”

“I don't—that is, I can't say. I mean, it's a routine inquiry.”

Hansen obviously did not know what the crime was, Harald thought. He must be asking on behalf of some other policeman—Peter Flemming, presumably.

Karen was saying, “Well, my brother has gone to Aarhus, and there's no one staying here now—apart from a hundred soldiers, of course.”

“Last time I saw Olufsen, he had a very dangerous-looking motorcycle.”

“Oh,
that
boy,” Karen said, pretending to remember. “He was expelled from school. Daddy won't let him come here anymore.”

“No? Well, I think I'll have a word with your father anyway.”

“He's still asleep.”

“I'll wait.”

“As you please. Come on, Thor!” Karen walked away, and Hansen continued up the drive.

Harald waited. Karen approached the church, turned to check that Hansen was not watching her, then slipped through the door. Hansen walked up the drive toward the castle. Harald hoped he would not stop to talk to Ludie, and discover that the sentry had seen a tall blond man behaving suspiciously near the petrol tanker. Fortunately, Hansen walked past the encampment and eventually disappeared behind the castle, presumably heading for the kitchen door.

Harald hurried to the church and slipped inside. He put the last can of petrol down on the tiled floor.

Karen closed the big door, turned the key in the lock, and dropped the bar into place. Then she turned to Harald. “You must be exhausted.”

He was. Both arms hurt, and his legs ached from hurrying through the woods with a heavy weight. As soon as he relaxed, he felt slightly nauseated from the petrol fumes. But he was ecstatically happy. “You were wonderful!” he said. “Flirting with Ludie as if he were the most eligible bachelor in Denmark.”

“He's two inches shorter than me!”

“And you completely fooled Hansen.”

“Not difficult, that.”

Harald picked up the can again and put it in the cabin of the Hornet Moth, stowing it on the luggage shelf behind the seats. He closed the door
and turned around to see Karen standing right behind him, grinning broadly. “We did it,” she said.

“My God, we did.”

She put her arms around him and looked at him expectantly. It was almost as if she wanted him to kiss her. He thought of asking, then decided to be more decisive. He closed his eyes and leaned forward. Her lips were soft and warm. He could have stayed that way, motionless, enjoying the touch of her lips, for a long time, but she had other ideas. She broke contact, then kissed him again. She kissed his upper lip, then the lower, then his chin, then his lips again. Her mouth was busily playful, exploring. He had never kissed like this before. He opened his eyes and was startled to see that she was looking at him with bright merriment in her eyes.

“What are you thinking?” she said.

“Do you really like me?”

“Of course I do, stupid.”

“I like you, too.”

“Good.”

He hesitated, then said, “As a matter of fact, I love you.”

“I know,” she said, and she kissed him again.

Walking through the center of Morlunde in the bright light of a summer morning, Hermia Mount was in more danger than she had been in Copenhagen. People in this small town knew her.

Two years ago, after she and Arne had become engaged, he had brought her to his parents' home on Sande. She had been to church, watched a football match, visited Arne's favorite bar, and gone shopping with Arne's mother. It broke her heart to remember that happy time.

But the consequence was that plenty of local people would remember the Olufsen boy's English fiancée, and there was a serious danger she would be recognized. If that happened, people would start talking, and before long the police would hear.

This morning she wore a hat and sunglasses, but still she felt perilously conspicuous. All the same, she had to take the risk.

She had spent the previous evening in the town center, hoping to run into Harald. Knowing how much he loved jazz, she had gone first to the Club Hot, but it was closed. She had not found him in any of the bars and cafes where young people gathered. It had been a wasted evening.

This morning she was going to his home.

She had thought of telephoning, but it was hazardous. If she gave her real name she risked being overheard and betrayed. If she gave a false name, or called anonymously, she might spook Harald and cause him to flee. She had to visit in person.

This would be even more risky. Morlunde was a town, but on the small island of Sande every resident knew all the others. She could only hope that islanders might take her for a holidaymaker, and not look too closely. She had no better option. The full moon was five days away.

She made her way to the harbor, carrying her small suitcase, and boarded the ferry. At the top of the gangway stood a German soldier and a Danish policeman. She showed her papers in the name of Agnes Ricks. The documents had already passed three inspections, but nevertheless she suffered a shiver of fear as she offered the forgeries to the two uniformed men.

The policeman studied her identity card. “You're a long way from home, Miss Ricks.”

She had prepared her cover story. “I'm here for the funeral of a relative.” It was a good pretext for a long journey. She was not sure when Arne's interment was scheduled, but there was nothing suspicious about a family member arriving a day or two early, especially given the hazards of wartime travel.

“That would be the Olufsen funeral.”

“Yes.” Hot tears came to her eyes. “I'm a second cousin, but my mother was very close to Lisbeth Olufsen.”

The policeman sensed her grief, despite the sunglasses, and he said gently, “My condolences.” He handed the papers back. “You're in plenty of time.”

“Am I?” That suggested it was today. “I wasn't sure, I couldn't get through on the telephone to check.”

“I believe the service is at three o'clock this afternoon.”

“Thank you.”

Hermia went forward and leaned on the rail. As the ferry chugged out of the harbor, she looked across the water to the flat, featureless island and recalled her first visit. She had been shocked to see the cold, unadorned
rooms where Arne had grown up, and to meet his stern parents. It was a mystery how that solemn family had produced someone as much fun as Arne.

She was a somewhat severe person herself, or so her colleagues seemed to think. In that way she had played a role in Arne's life similar to that of his mother. She had made him punctual, and discouraged him from getting drunk, while he had taught her to relax and have fun. She had once said to him, “There's a time and place for spontaneity,” and he had laughed about it all day.

She had returned to Sande once more, for the Christmas festival. It had seemed more like Lent. For the Olufsens, Christmas was a religious event, not a bacchanal. Yet she had found the holiday enjoyable in its quiet way, doing crossword puzzles with Arne, getting to know Harald, eating Mrs. Olufsen's plain food, and walking along the cold beach in a fur coat, hand in hand with her lover.

She had never imagined returning here for his funeral.

She longed to go to the service, but she knew it was impossible. Too many people would see her and recognize her. There might even be a police detective present, studying the faces. After all, if Hermia could figure out that Arne's mission was being carried on by someone else, the police could make the same deduction.

In fact, she now realized, the funeral was going to delay her by some hours. She would have to wait until after the service before going to the house. Beforehand there would be neighbors in the kitchen preparing food, parishioners in the church arranging flowers, and an undertaker fussing about timings and pallbearers. It would be almost as bad as the service itself. But afterward, as soon as the mourners had had their tea and
smorrebrod,
they would all depart, leaving the immediate family to grieve alone.

It meant she would have to kill time now, but caution was everything. If she could get the film from Harald this evening she could catch the first train to Copenhagen in the morning, sail to Bornholm tomorrow night, cross to Sweden the following day, and be in London twelve hours later, with two days to go before the full moon. It was worth wasting a few hours.

She disembarked onto the quay at Sande and walked to the hotel. She could not go into the building, for fear she might encounter someone who remembered her, so she walked on to the beach. It was not really sunbathing weather—there was patchy cloud, and a cool breeze off the water—but the old-fashioned striped bathing huts had been wheeled out, and a few people were splashing in the waves or picnicking on the sand. Hermia was able to find a sheltered dip in the dunes and disappear into the holiday scene.

She waited there while the tide came in and a horse from the hotel pulled the wheeled bathing huts back up the beach. She had spent so much of the last two weeks sitting and waiting.

She had met Arne's parents a third time, on their once-a-decade trip to Copenhagen. Arne had taken them all to the Tivoli Garden and had been his most debonair, amusing self, charming waitresses, making his mother laugh, even getting his dour father to reminisce about schooldays at Jansborg. A few weeks later the Nazis had come and Hermia had left the country, ignominiously she felt, in a closed train with a crowd of diplomats from countries hostile to Germany.

And now she was back, seeking out a deadly secret, risking her life and the lives of others.

She left her position at half past four. The parsonage was ten miles from the hotel, a brisk walk of two and a half hours, so she would arrive at seven. She felt sure all the guests would have left by then, and she would find Harald and his parents sitting quietly in the kitchen.

The beach was not deserted. Several times on her long walk she encountered people. She gave them a wide berth, letting them assume she was an unfriendly holidaymaker, and no one recognized her.

At last she saw the outlines of the low church and the parsonage. The thought that this had been Arne's home struck her with sadness. There was no one in sight. As she came nearer, she saw the fresh grave in the little cemetery.

With a full heart, she crossed the churchyard and stood by the grave of her fiancé. She took off her sunglasses. There were lots of flowers, she observed: people were always touched by the death of a young man. Grief took hold of her, and she began to shake with sobs. Tears streamed down
her face. She fell to her knees and took a handful of the piled-up earth, thinking of his body lying below. I doubted you, she said in her mind, but you were the bravest of us all.

At last the storm abated and she was able to stand up. She wiped her face dry with her sleeve. She had work to do.

When she turned away, she saw the tall figure and domed head of Arne's father, standing a few yards off, watching her. He must have approached silently, and waited for her to rise. “Well, Hermia,” he said. “God bless you.”

“Thank you, Pastor.” She wanted to hug him, but he was not a hugging man, so she shook his hand.

“You arrived too late for the funeral.”

“That was intentional. I can't afford to be seen.”

“You'd better come into the house.”

Hermia followed him across the rough grass. Mrs. Olufsen was in the kitchen, but for once she was not at the sink. Hermia guessed that neighbors had cleared up after the wake and washed the dishes. Mrs. Olufsen was sitting at the kitchen table in a black dress and hat. When she saw Hermia she burst into tears.

Hermia hugged her, but her compassion was distracted. The person she wanted was not in the room. As soon as she decently could, she said, “I was hoping to see Harald.”

“He's not here,” said Mrs. Olufsen.

Hermia had a dreadful feeling that this long and dangerous journey would turn out to have been for nothing. “Didn't he come to the funeral?”

She shook her head tearfully.

Curbing her exasperation as best she could, Hermia said, “So where is he?”

The pastor said, “You'd better sit down.”

She forced herself to be patient. The pastor was used to being obeyed. She would not get anywhere by defying his will.

Mrs. Olufsen said, “Will you have a cup of tea? It's not the real thing, of course.”

“Yes, please.”

“And a sandwich? There's such a lot left over.”

“No, thank you.” Hermia had had nothing all day, but she was too tense to eat. “Where is Harald?” she said impatiently.

“We don't know,” said the pastor.

“How come?”

The pastor looked ashamed, a rare expression on his face. “Harald and I had harsh words. I was as stubborn as he. Since then, the Lord has reminded me how precious is the time a man spends with his sons.” A tear rolled down his lined face. “Harald left in anger, refusing to say where he was going. Five days later he returned, just for a few hours, and there was something of a reconciliation. On that occasion, he told his mother he was going to stay at the home of a schoolmate, but when we telephoned, they said he was not there.”

“Do you think he is still angry with you?”

“No,” said the pastor. “Well, perhaps he is, but that's not why he has disappeared.”

“What do you mean?”

“My neighbor, Axel Flemming, has a son in the Copenhagen police.”

“I remember,” Hermia said. “Peter Flemming.”

Mrs. Olufsen put in, “He had the nerve to come to the funeral.” Her tone was uncharacteristically bitter.

The pastor went on, “Peter claims that Arne was a spy for the British, and Harald is continuing his work.”

“Ah.”

“You don't seem surprised.”

“I won't lie to you,” Hermia said. “Peter is right. I asked Arne to take photographs of the military base here on the island. Harald has the film.”

Mrs. Olufsen cried, “How could you? Arne is dead because of that! We lost our son and you lost your fiancé! How could you?”

“I'm sorry,” Hermia whispered.

The pastor said, “There's a war, Lisbeth. Many young men have died fighting the Nazis. It's not Hermia's fault.”

“I have to get the film from Harald,” Hermia said. “I have to find him. Won't you help me?”

Mrs. Olufsen said, “I don't want to lose my other son! I couldn't bear it!”

The pastor took her hand. “Arne was working against the Nazis. If Hermia and Harald can finish the job he started, his death will have some meaning. We have to help.”

Mrs. Olufsen nodded. “I know,” she said. “I know. I'm just so scared.”

Hermia said, “Where did Harald say he was going?”

Mrs. Olufsen answered. “Kirstenslot. It's a castle outside Copenhagen, the home of the Duchwitz family. The son, Josef, is at school with Harald.”

“But they say he's not there?”

She nodded. “But he's not far away. I spoke to Josef's twin sister, Karen. She's in love with Harald.”

The pastor said incredulously, “How do you know that?”

“By the sound of her voice when she spoke about him.”