Hornet Flight (15 page)

Harald racked his brains, but could not remember. “I'm not sure,” he said. “Sorry.”

“That's all right.” Poul opened the filing cabinet. All the files were labeled with names, presumably of past and present pupils at the school. He selected one marked “Andersen, H.C.” It was not an unusual name, but Hans Christian Andersen was Denmark's most famous writer, and Harald guessed the file might be a hiding place. Sure enough, Poul put the drawings in the folder and returned the file to its place.

“Let's go back to the others,” he said. He went to the door. Stopping with his hand on the doorknob, he said, “Making drawings of German military installations is a crime, technically. It would be best not to mention this to anyone—not even Arne.”

Harald felt a pang of dismay. His brother was not involved in this. Even Arne's best friend did not think he had the nerve.

Harald nodded. “I'll agree to that—on one condition.”

Poul was surprised. “Condition? What?”

“That you tell me something honestly.”

He shrugged. “All right, I'll try.”

“There is a Resistance movement, isn't there?”

“Yes,” Poul said, looking serious. After a moment's pause, he added, “And now you're in it.”

Tilde Jespersen wore a light, flowery perfume that wafted across the pavement table and teased Peter Flemming's nostrils, never quite strong enough for him to identify it, like an elusive memory. He imagined how the fragrance would rise from her warm skin as he slipped off her blouse, her skirt, and her underwear.

“What are you thinking about?” she said.

He was tempted to tell her. She would pretend shock, but secretly be pleased. He could tell when a woman was ready for that kind of talk, and he knew how do it: lightly, with a self-deprecating smile, but an underlying tone of sincerity.

Then he thought of his wife, and held back. He took his marital vows seriously. Other people might think he had a good excuse for breaking them, but he set himself higher standards.

So he said, “I was thinking about you tripping up the runaway mechanic at the aerodrome. You showed great presence of mind.”

“I didn't even think about it, just stuck out my foot.”

“You have good instincts. I was never in favor of women police and, to tell you the truth, I still have my doubts—but no one could deny you're a first class cop.”

She shrugged. “I have doubts myself. Maybe women ought to stay home and look after babies. But after Oskar died . . .” Oskar had been her husband, a Copenhagen detective and friend of Peter's. “I had to work, and law enforcement is the only life I know anything about. My father was a customs officer, my older brother is a Military Police officer, and my younger brother a uniformed policeman in Aarhus.”

“I'll tell you the great thing about you, Tilde—you never try to get men to do your work by playing the helpless female.”

He intended his remark as a compliment, but she did not look as pleased as he had hoped. “I never ask for help at all,” she said crisply.

“Probably a good policy.”

She gave him a look he could not read. Puzzling over the sudden chill in the atmosphere, he wondered whether she might be afraid to ask for assistance in case she was immediately classed as a helpless female. He could see how she might resent that. After all, men asked one another for help all the time.

She said, “But why are you a cop? Your father has a successful business—don't you want to take it over, one day?”

He shook his head ruefully. “I used to work at the hotel in the school holidays. I hated the guests, with their demands and complaints: this beef is overcooked, my mattress is lumpy, I've been waiting twenty minutes for a cup of coffee. I couldn't stand it.”

The waiter came. Peter resisted the temptation to have herrings and onions on his smorrebrod, thinking, vaguely, that he might get close enough to Tilde for her to smell his breath, so he ordered soft cheese and cucumbers instead. They handed their ration cards to the waiter.

Tilde said, “Any progress in the spy case?”

“Not really. The two men we arrested at the aerodrome told us nothing. They were sent to Hamburg for what the Gestapo calls ‘deep interrogation,' and they gave the name of their contact—Matthies Hertz, an army officer. But he has disappeared.”

“A dead end, then.”

“Yes.” The phrase made him think of another dead end he had run into. “Do you know any Jews?”

She looked surprised. “One or two, I should think. None in the police force. Why?”

“I'm making a list.”

“A list of Jews?”

“Yes.”

“Where, in Copenhagen?”

“In Denmark.”

“Why?”

“The usual reason. It's my job to keep tabs on troublemakers.”

“And Jews are troublemakers?”

“The Germans think so.”

“You can see why
they
might have problems with Jews—but do we?”

He was taken aback. He had expected her to see this from his point of view. “It's as well to be prepared. We have lists of union organizers, communists, foreign nationals, and members of the Danish Nazi Party.”

“And you think that's the same thing?”

“It's all information. Now, it's easy to identify new Jewish immigrants, who've come here in the last fifty years. They dress funny, they speak with a peculiar accent, and most of them live in the same few Copenhagen streets. But there are also Jews whose families have been Danish for centuries.
They
look and talk the same as everyone else. Most of them eat roast pork and go to work on Saturday mornings. If we ever need to find them, we could have trouble. So I'm making a list.”

“How? You can't just go round asking people if they know any Jews.”

“It's a problem. I have two junior detectives going through the phone book, and one or two other lists, making notes of Jewish-sounding names.”

“That's not very reliable. There are lots of people called Isaksen who aren't Jewish.”

“And lots of Jews with names like Jan Christiansen. What I'd really like to do is raid the synagogue. They probably have a membership list.”

To his surprise, she was looking disapproving, but she said, “Why don't you?”

“Juel won't allow it.”

“I think he's right.”

“Really? Why?”

“Peter, can't you see? What use might your list be put to in the future?”

“Isn't it obvious?” Peter said irritably. “If Jewish groups start to organize resistance to the Germans, we'll know where to look for suspects.”

“And what if the Nazis just decide to round up all the Jews and send them to those concentration camps they have in Germany? They'll use your list!”

“But why would they send the Jews to camps?”

“Because Nazis hate Jews. But we're not Nazis, we're police officers. We arrest people because they've committed crimes, not because we hate them.”

“I know that,” Peter said angrily. He was astonished to be attacked from this angle. Tilde should know that his motive was to uphold the law, not subvert it. “There's always a risk that information will be misused.”

“So wouldn't it be better not to make the damn list?”

How could she be so stupid? It maddened him to be opposed by someone he thought of as a comrade in the war against lawbreakers. “No!” he shouted. He lowered his voice with an effort. “If we thought that way, we wouldn't have a security department at all!”

Tilde shook her head. “Look, Peter, the Nazis have done a lot of good things, we both know that. They're on the side of the police, basically. They've clamped down on subversion, they maintain law and order, they've reduced unemployment, and so on. But on the subject of Jews, they're insane.”

“Maybe, but they're making the rules now.”

“Just look at the Danish Jews—they're law-abiding, hardworking, they send their children to school . . . It's ludicrous to make a list of their names and addresses as if they were all part of some communist conspiracy.”

He sat back and said accusingly, “So, you'd refuse to work on this with me?”

It was her turn to be offended. “How can you say that? I'm a
professional police officer, and you're my boss. I'll do what you say. You ought to know that.”

“Do you mean it?”

“Look, if you wanted to make a complete list of witches in Denmark, I'd tell you I didn't think witches were criminals or subversives—but I'd help you make the list.”

Their food arrived. There was an awkward silence as they began to eat. After a few minutes, Tilde said, “How are things at home?”

Peter had a sudden memory of himself and Inge, a few days before the accident, walking to church on Sunday morning, two healthy, happy young people in their best clothes. With all the scum and riffraff in the world, why did it have to be his wife whose mind was destroyed by that drunken boy in his sports car? “Inge is the same,” he said.

“No improvement?”

“When the brain is damaged that badly, it doesn't mend. There will never be any improvement.”

“It must be hard for you.”

“I'm fortunate to have a generous father. I couldn't afford a nurse on police wages—Inge would have to go into an asylum.”

Once again Tilde gave him a look that was hard to read. It was almost as if she felt the asylum might not be a bad solution. “What about the driver of the sports car?”

“Finn Jonk. His trial started yesterday. It should be over in a day or two.”

“At last! What do you think will happen?”

“He's pleading guilty. I assume he'll be jailed for five or ten years.”

“It doesn't seem enough.”

“For destroying someone's mind? What would be enough?”

After lunch, when they were walking back to the Politigaarden, Tilde put her arm through Peter's. It was an affectionate gesture, and he felt she was telling him that she liked him despite their disagreement. As they approached the ultramodern police headquarters building, he said, “I'm sorry you disapprove of my Jewish list.”

She stopped and turned to him. “You're not a bad man, Peter.” To his
surprise, she seemed to be on the edge of tears. “Your sense of duty is your great strength. But doing your duty isn't the only law.”

“I don't really understand what you mean.”

“I know.” She turned away and went into the building alone.

Making his way to his office, he tried to see the issue from her point of view. If the Nazis imprisoned law-abiding Jews, that would be a crime, and his list would help the criminals. But you could say that about a gun, or even a car: the fact that something might be used by criminals did not mean it was wrong to have it.

As he was crossing the open central courtyard, he was hailed by his boss, Frederik Juel. “Come with me,” Juel said briskly. “We've been summoned by General Braun.” He marched ahead, his military bearing giving an impression of decisiveness and efficiency that Peter knew to be quite false.

It was a short walk from the Politigaarden to the town square, where the Germans had taken over a building called the Dagmarhus. It was surrounded by barbed wire and had cannons and antiaircraft guns on the flat roof. They were shown to Walter Braun's office, a corner room overlooking the square, comfortably furnished with an antique desk and a leather couch. There was a rather small picture of the Führer on the wall and a framed photograph on the desk of two small boys in school uniform. Braun wore his pistol even here, Peter noted, as if to say that although he had a cozy office, nevertheless he meant business.

Braun was looking pleased with himself. “Our people have decoded the message you found in the hollow airplane chock,” he said in his habitual near-whisper.

Peter was elated.

“Very impressive,” Juel murmured.

“Apparently it was not difficult,” Braun went on. “The British use simple codes, often based on a poem or famous passage of prose. Once our cryptanalysts get a few words, a professor of English can usually fill in the rest. I have never before known the study of English literature to serve any useful purpose.” He laughed at his own wit.

Peter said impatiently, “What was in the message?”

Braun opened a file on his desk. “It comes from a group calling themselves the Nightwatchmen.” Although they were speaking German, he used the Danish word
Natvaegterne.
“Does that mean anything to you?”

Peter was taken by surprise. “I'll check the files, of course, but I'm pretty sure we haven't come across this name before.” He frowned, considering. “Real-life nightwatchmen are usually police or soldiers, aren't they?”

Juel bridled. “I hardly think that Danish police officers—”

“I didn't say they were Danish,” Peter interrupted. “The spies could be German traitors.” He shrugged. “Or they may just aspire to military status.” He looked at Braun. “What's the content of the message, General?”

“Details of our military dispositions in Denmark. Take a look.” He passed a sheaf of papers across the desk. “Locations of antiaircraft batteries in and around Copenhagen. German naval vessels in the harbor during the last month. Regiments stationed in Aarhus, Odense, and Morlunde.”