Hornet Flight (22 page)

“All right.” Harald noticed that Arne was not saying
why
the police had come after Poul. And Arne must have noticed that Harald did not ask.

“Let me know how you get on at Kirstenslot. Phone if you need anything.”

“Thanks.”

“Good luck, kid.”

As Harald hung up, his father walked in. “And what do you think you're doing?

Harald stood up. “If you want money for the phone call, ask Sejr for my morning's wages.”

“I don't want money, I want to know why you're not at the shop.”

“It's not my destiny to be a haberdasher.”

“You don't know what your destiny is.”

“Perhaps not.” Harald left the room.

He went outside to the workshop and lit the boiler of his motorcycle. While he waited for it to build up steam, he stacked peat in the sidecar. He did not know how much he would need to get him to Kirstenslot, so he took it all. He returned to the house and picked up his suitcase.

His father waylaid him in the kitchen. “Where do you think you're going?”

“I'd rather not say.”

“I forbid you to leave.”

“You can't really forbid things anymore, Father,” Harald said quietly. “You're no longer willing to support me. You're doing your best to sabotage my education. I'm afraid you've forfeited the right to tell me what to do.”

The pastor looked stunned. “You have to tell me where you're going.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“If you don't know where I am, you can't interfere with my plans.”

The pastor looked mortally wounded. Harald felt regret like a sudden pain. He had no desire for revenge, and it gave him no satisfaction to see his father's distress; but he was afraid that if he showed remorse he would lose his strength of purpose, and allow himself to be bullied into staying. So he turned his face away and walked outside.

He strapped his suitcase to the back of the bike and drove it out of the workshop.

His mother came running across the yard and thrust a bundle into his hands. “Food,” she said. She was crying.

He stowed the food in the sidecar with the peat.

She threw her arms around him as he sat on the bike. “Your father loves you, Harald. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, Mother, I think I do.”

She kissed him. “Let me know that you're all right. Telephone, or send a postcard.”

“Okay.”

“Promise.”

“I promise.”

She released him, and he drove away.

Peter Flemming undressed his wife.

She stood passively in front of the mirror, a warm-blooded statue of a pale, beautiful woman. He took off her wristwatch and necklace, then patiently undid the hooks and eyes of her dress, his blunt fingers expert from hours of practice. There was a smear on the side, he noticed with a disapproving frown, as if she touched something sticky then wiped her hand on her hip. She was not normally dirty. He pulled the dress over her head, careful not to muss her hair.

Inge was as lovely today as she had been the first time he had seen her in her underwear. But then she had been smiling, speaking fond words, her expression showing eagerness and a trace of apprehension. Today her face was blank.

He hung her dress in the wardrobe then took off her brassiere. Her breasts were full and round, the nipples so light in color they were almost invisible. He swallowed hard and tried not to look at them. He made her sit on the dressing-table stool, then removed her shoes, unfastened her stockings and rolled them down, and took off her garter belt. He stood her
up again to pull down her underpants. Desire rose in him as he uncovered the blond curls between her legs. He felt disgusted with himself.

He knew he could have sexual intercourse with her if he wished. She would lie still and accept it with blank impassivity, as she took everything that happened to her. But he could not bring himself to do it. He had tried, one time, not long after she came home from the hospital, telling himself that perhaps this would rekindle in her the spark of awareness; but he had been revolted by himself, and had stopped after a few seconds. Now the desire came back, and he had to fight it off, even though he knew that giving in would bring no relief.

He threw her underwear into the linen basket with an angry gesture. She did not move as he opened a drawer and took out a white cotton nightdress embroidered with small flowers, a gift to Inge from his mother. She was innocent in her nakedness, and to desire her seemed as wrong as to desire a child. He drew the nightdress over her head, put her arms into it, and smoothed it down her back. He looked over her shoulder into the mirror. The flower pattern suited her, and she looked pretty. He thought he saw a faint smile touch her lips, but it was probably his imagination.

He took her to the bathroom then put her to bed. As he undressed himself, he looked at his own body in the mirror. There was a long scar across his belly, souvenir of a Saturday-night street brawl he had broken up as a young policeman. He no longer had the athletic physique of his youth, but he was still fit. He wondered how long it would be before a woman touched his skin with hungry hands.

He put on pajamas, but he did not feel sleepy. He decided to return to the living room and smoke another cigarette. He looked at Inge. She lay still with her eyes open. He would hear her if she moved. He generally knew when she needed something. She would simply stand up, and wait, as if she could not figure out what to do next; and he would have to guess what she wanted: a drink of water, the toilet, a shawl to keep her warm, or something more complicated. Occasionally she would move about the apartment, apparently at random, but she would soon come to a halt, perhaps at a window, or staring helplessly at a closed door, or just in the middle of the room.

He left the bedroom and crossed the little hallway to the living room,
leaving both doors open. He found his cigarettes then, on impulse, took a half-empty bottle of aquavit from a cupboard and poured some into a glass. Sipping his drink and smoking, he thought about the week past.

It had started well and finished badly. He had begun by catching two spies, Ingemar Gammel and Poul Kirke. Better still, they were not like his usual targets, union organizers who intimidated strikebreakers, or communists who sent coded letters to Moscow saying that Jutland was ripe for revolution. No, Gammel and Kirke were real spies, and the sketches Tilde Jespersen had found in Kirke's office constituted important military intelligence.

Peter's star seemed in the ascendant. Some of his colleagues had begun to act coolly toward him, disapproving of his enthusiastic cooperation with the German occupiers, but they hardly mattered. General Braun had called him in to say that he thought Peter should be head of the Security Department. He did not say what would happen to Frederik Juel. But he had made it clear that the job was Peter's if he could wrap this case up.

It was a pity Poul Kirke had died. Alive, he might have revealed who his collaborators were, where his orders came from, and how he sent information to the British. Gammel was still alive, and had been handed over to the Gestapo for “deep interrogation,” but he had revealed nothing further, probably because he did not know any more.

Peter had pursued the investigation with his usual energy and determination. He had questioned Poul's commanding officer, the supercilious Squadron Leader Renthe. He had interviewed Poul's parents, his friends, and even his cousin Mads, and had got nothing from any of them. He had detectives tailing Poul's girlfriend, Karen Duchwitz, but so far she appeared to be no more than a hardworking student at the ballet school. Peter also had Poul's best friend, Arne Olufsen, under surveillance. Arne was the best prospect, for he could easily have drawn the sketches of the military base on Sande. But Arne had spent the week blamelessly going about his duties. Tonight, Friday, he had taken the train into Copenhagen, but there was nothing unusual about that.

After a brilliant start, the case seemed to have dead-ended.

The week's minor triumph had been the humiliation of Arne's brother,
Harald. However, Peter felt sure Harald was not involved in espionage. A man who was risking his life as a spy did not daub silly slogans.

Peter was wondering where to go next with the investigation when there was a knock at the door.

He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was ten-thirty, not outrageously late but still an unusual time for an unexpected visit. The caller certainly could not be surprised to find him in pajamas. He stepped into the hallway and opened the door. Tilde Jespersen stood there, a sky blue beret perched on her fair curly hair.

“There's been a development,” she said. “I thought we should discuss it.”

“Of course. Come in. You'll have to excuse my appearance.”

She glanced at the pattern on his pajamas with a grin. “Elephants,” she said as she walked into the living room. “I wouldn't have guessed.”

He felt embarrassed and wished he had put on a robe, although it was too warm.

Tilde sat down. “Where's Inge?”

“In bed. Would you like some aquavit?”

“Thank you.”

He got a fresh glass and poured for both of them.

She crossed her legs. Her knees were round and her calves plump, quite different from Inge's slender legs. She said, “Arne Olufsen bought a ticket for tomorrow's ferry to Bornholm.”

Peter froze with the glass halfway to his lips. “Bornholm,” he said softly. The Danish holiday island was tantalizingly close to the Swedish coast. Could this be the break he was waiting for?

She took out a cigarette and he lit it. Blowing out smoke, she said, “Of course, he might simply be due for some leave, and have decided to take a vacation . . .”

“Quite so. On the other hand, he may be planning to escape to Sweden.”

“That's what I thought.”

Peter swallowed his drink with a satisfying gulp. “Who's with him now?”

“Dresler. He relieved me fifteen minutes ago. I came straight here.”

Peter forced himself to be skeptical. It was too easy, in an investigation, to let wishful thinking mislead you. “Why would Olufsen want to leave the country?”

“He might have been scared by what happened to Poul Kirke.”

“He hasn't been acting scared. Until today he's been doing his job, apparently happily.”

“Maybe he's just noticed the surveillance.”

Peter nodded. “They always do, sooner or later.”

“Alternatively, he might be going to Bornholm to spy. The British could have ordered him there.”

Peter made a doubtful face. “What's on Bornholm?”

Tilde shrugged. “Maybe that's the question they want answered. Or perhaps it's a rendezvous. Remember, if he can get from Bornholm to Sweden, the journey the other way is probably just as easy.”

“Good point.” Tilde was very clear-thinking, he reflected. She kept all possibilities in view. He looked at her intelligent face and clear blue eyes. He watched her mouth as she spoke.

She seemed unaware of his scrutiny. “The death of Kirke probably broke their normal line of communication. This could be an emergency fallback plan.”

“I'm not convinced—but there's only one way to find out.”

“Continue to shadow Olufsen?”

“Yes. Tell Dresler to get on the ferry with him.”

“Olufsen has a bicycle with him. Shall I tell Dresler to take one?”

“Yes. Then book yourself and me on tomorrow's flight to Bornholm. We'll get there first.”

Tilde stubbed out her cigarette and stood up. “Right.”

Peter did not want her to go. The aquavit was warm in his belly, he felt relaxed, and he was enjoying having an attractive woman to talk to. But he could not think of an excuse to detain her.

He followed her into the hallway. She said, “I'll see you at the airport.”

“Yes.” He put his hand on the doorknob but did not open it. “Tilde . . .”

She looked at him with a neutral expression. “Yes?”

“Thanks for this. Good work.”

She touched his cheek. “Sleep well,” she said, but she did not move away.

He looked at her. The trace of a smile touched the corners of her mouth, but he could not tell whether it was inviting or mocking. He leaned forward, and suddenly he was kissing her.

She kissed him back with fierce passion. He was taken by surprise. She pulled his head to hers, thrust her tongue into his mouth. After a moment of shock he responded. He grabbed her soft breast and squeezed roughly. She made a noise deep in her throat, and thrust her hips against his body.

He saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. He broke the kiss and turned his head.

Inge stood in the bedroom doorway, like a ghost in her pale nightdress. Her face wore its perpetual blank expression, but she was looking straight at them. Peter heard himself make a sound like a sob.

Tilde slipped from his embrace. He turned to speak to her, but no words came. She opened the apartment door and stepped outside. She was gone in a breath.

The door slammed shut.

The daily flight from Copenhagen to Bornholm was operated by the Danish airline, DDL. It departed at nine
A
.
M
. and took an hour. The plane landed at an airstrip a mile or so outside Bornholm's main town, Ronne. Peter and Tilde were met by the local police chief, who gave them the loan of a car as if entrusting them with royal jewels.

They drove into the town. It was a sleepy place, with more horses than cars. The half-timbered houses were painted in striking deep colors: dark mustard, terracotta pink, forest green, and rust red. Two German soldiers stood in the central square, smoking and chatting to passers-by. From the square, a cobbled street led downhill to the harbor. There was a Kriegsmarine torpedo boat in the dock, with a group of small boys clustered on the quayside staring at it. Peter located the ferry port, across from the brick custom house, the largest building in town.