Hornet Flight (38 page)

“No. There are two casts, so both the other dancers would have to fall ill.”

“Shame. I'd love to see you.”

“If the impossible happens, I'll get you a ticket.” She returned her attention to the wing. “We have to make sure there are no internal fractures.”

“That means we have to examine the wooden spars under the fabric.”

“Yes.”

“Well, now that we've got the material to repair rips, I suppose we could cut an inspection panel in the fabric and just look inside.”

She looked dubious. “Okay . . .”

He did not think a knife would easily cut the treated linen, but he found a sharp chisel on the tool shelf. “Where should we cut?”

“Near the struts.”

He pressed the chisel into the surface. Once the initial breach had been made, the chisel cut the fabric relatively easily. Harald made an L-shaped incision and folded back a flap, making a sizable opening.

Karen pointed a flashlight into the hole, then put her face down and peered inside. She took her time looking around, then withdrew her head and put her arm in. She grasped something and shook vigorously. “I think we're in luck,” she said. “Nothing shifts.”

She stepped back and Harald took her place. He reached inside, grasped a strut, and pushed and pulled it. The entire wing moved, but he felt no weakness.

Karen was pleased. “We're making progress,” she said. “If I can finish the work on the fabric tomorrow, and you can bolt the axle strut back on, the airframe will be complete, except for the missing cables. And we've still got eight days to go.”

“Not really,” Harald said. “We probably need to reach England at least twenty-four hours before the raid, for our information to have any effect. That brings it down to seven. To arrive on the seventh day, we need to leave the previous evening and fly overnight. So we really have six days at the most.”

“Then I'll have to finish the fabric tonight.” She looked at her watch. “I'd better show up at the house for dinner, but I'll come back as soon as I can.”

She put away the glue and washed her hands at the sink, using soap she had brought from the house for Harald. He watched her. He was always sorry when she left. He thought he would like to be with her all day, every day. He guessed that was the feeling that made people want to get married. Did he want to marry Karen? It seemed like a foolish question. Of course he did. He had no doubt. He sometimes tried to imagine the two of them after ten years, fed up with one another and bored, but it was impossible. Karen would never be boring.

She dried her hands on a scrap of towel. “What are you so thoughtful about?”

He felt himself blush. “Wondering what the future holds.”

She gave him a startlingly direct look, and for a moment he felt she could read his mind; then she looked away. “A long flight across the North Sea,” she said. “Six hundred miles without landfall. So we'd better be sure this old kite can make it.”

She went to the window and stood on the box. “Don't look—this is an undignified maneuver for a lady.”

“I won't, I swear,” he said with a laugh.

She pulled herself up. Breaking his promise cheerfully, he watched her rear as she wriggled through. Then she dropped out of sight.

He turned his attention back to the Hornet Moth. It should not take long to reattach the braced axle strut. He found the nuts and bolts where he had left them, on the workbench. He knelt by the wheel, fitted the strut in place, and began to attach the bolts that held it to the fuselage and the wheel mounting.

Just as he was finishing, Karen came back in, much sooner than expected.

He smiled, pleased at her early return, then saw that she looked distraught. “What's happened?” he said.

“Your mother telephoned.”

Harald was angry. “Damn! I shouldn't have told her where I was going. Who did she speak to?”

“My father. But he told her you definitely weren't here, and she seems to have believed him.”

“Thank God.” He was glad he had decided not to tell Mother he was living in the disused church. “What did she want, anyway?”

“There's bad news.”

“What?”

“It's about Arne.”

Harald realized, with a guilty start, that in the last few days he had hardly given a thought to his brother, languishing in jail. “What's happened?”

“Arne is . . . He's dead.”

At first Harald could not take it in. “Dead?” he said as if he did not understand the meaning of the word. “How could that be?”

“The police say he took his own life.”

“Suicide?” Harald had the feeling the world was crumbling around him, the walls of the church collapsing and the trees in the park falling over and the castle of Kirstenslot blowing away in a strong wind. “Why would he do that?”

“To avoid interrogation by the Gestapo, Arne's commanding officer told her.”

“To avoid . . .” Harald saw immediately what that meant. “He was afraid he wouldn't be able to withstand the torture.”

Karen nodded. “That was the implication.”

“If he had talked, he would have betrayed me.”

She was silent, neither agreeing with him nor contradicting him.

“He killed himself to protect me.” Harald suddenly needed Karen to confirm his inference. He took her by the shoulders. “I'm right, am I not?” he shouted. “That must be it! He did it for me! Say something, for God's sake.”

At last she spoke. “I think you're right,” she whispered.

In an instant Harald's anger was transformed into grief. It swamped him, and he lost control. Tears flooded his eyes, and his body shook with sobs. “Oh, God,” he said, and he covered his wet face with his hands. “Oh, God, this is awful.”

He felt Karen's arms enfold him. Gently, she drew his head down to her shoulder. His tears soaked into her hair and ran down her throat. She stroked his neck and kissed his wet face.

“Poor Arne,” Harald said, his voice choked by sorrow. “Poor Arne.”

“I'm sorry,” Karen murmured. “My darling Harald, I'm so sorry.”

In the middle of the Politigaarden, Copenhagen's police headquarters, was a spacious circular courtyard open to the sunshine. It was ringed by an arcade with classical double pillars in a perfect repeating pattern. To Peter Flemming, the design stood for the way order and regularity permitted the light of truth to shine in on human wickedness. He often wondered whether the architect had intended that, or had just thought a courtyard might look nice.

He and Tilde Jespersen stood in the arcade, leaning against a pair of pillars, smoking cigarettes. Tilde wore a sleeveless blouse that showed the smooth skin of her arms. She had fine blond hair on her forearms. “The Gestapo have finished with Jens Toksvig,” he told her.

“And?”

“Nothing.” He felt exasperated, and he shook his shoulders as if to shrug off the feeling of frustration. “He has told everything he knows, of course. He is one of the Nightwatchmen, he passed information to Poul Kirke, and he agreed to shelter Arne Olufsen when Arne was on the run.
He also said that this whole project had been organized by Arne's fiancée, Hermia Mount, who is with MI6 back in England.”

“Interesting—but it doesn't get us anywhere.”

“Exactly. Unfortunately for us, Jens doesn't know who sneaked into the base on Sande, and he has no knowledge of the film Harald developed.”

Tilde drew in smoke. Peter watched her mouth. She seemed to be kissing the cigarette. She inhaled, then blew smoke out through her nostrils. “Arne killed himself to protect someone,” she said. “I assume that person has the film.”

“His brother Harald either has it or has passed it to someone else. Either way, we have to talk to him.”

“Where is he?”

“At the parsonage on Sande, I assume. It's the only home he's got.” He looked at his watch. “I'm catching a train in an hour.”

“Why not phone?”

“I don't want to give him the chance to run away.”

Tilde looked troubled. “What will you say to the parents? Don't you think they might blame you for what happened to Arne?”

“They don't know I was there when Arne shot himself. They don't even know I arrested him.”

“I suppose not,” she said dubiously.

“Anyway, I don't give a shit what they think,” Peter said impatiently. “General Braun hit the roof when I told him that the spies may have photographs of the base on Sande. God knows what the Germans have there but it's deadly secret. And he blames me. If that film leaves Denmark, I don't know what he'll do to me.”

“But you're the one who uncovered the spy ring!”

“And I almost wish I hadn't.” He dropped his cigarette end and stamped on it, grinding it with the sole of his shoe. “I'd like you to come to Sande with me.”

Her clear blue eyes gave him an appraising look. “Of course, if you want my help.”

“And I'd like you to meet my parents.”

“Where would I stay?”

“I know a small hotel in Morlunde, quiet and clean, that I think would suit you.” His father owned a hotel, of course, but that was too close to home. If Tilde stayed there, the entire population of Sande would know what she was doing every minute of the day.

Peter and Tilde had not spoken about what had happened in his apartment, even though it was six days ago. He was not sure what to say. He had felt driven to do it, to have sex with Tilde in front of Inge, and Tilde had gone along with it, sharing his passion and seeming to understand his need. Afterward, she had seemed troubled, and he had driven her home and left her with a good-night kiss.

They had not repeated it. Once was enough to prove whatever he had to prove. He had gone to Tilde's apartment the following evening, but her son had been awake, asking for drinks of water and complaining of bad dreams, and Peter had left early. Now he saw the trip to Sande as a chance to get her alone.

But she seemed to hesitate. She asked another practical question: “What about Inge?”

“I'll get the nursing agency to provide twenty-four-hour cover, as I did when we went to Bornholm.”

“I see.”

She looked across the courtyard, considering, and he studied her profile: the small nose, the bow-shaped mouth, the determined chin. He remembered the overwhelming thrill of possessing her. Surely she could not have forgotten that. He said, “Don't you want to spend a night together?”

She turned to him with a smile. “Of course I do,” she said. “I'd better go and pack a case.”

On the following morning, Peter woke up in the Oesterport Hotel in Morlunde. The Oesterport was a respectable establishment but its owner, Erland Berten, was not married to the woman who called herself Mrs. Berten. Erland had a wife in Copenhagen who would not give him a divorce. No one in Morlunde knew this except Peter Flemming, who had
discovered it by chance, while investigating the murder of one Jacob Berten, who was no relation. Peter had let Erland know he had found out about the real Mrs. Berten, but had otherwise kept the news to himself, knowing that the secret gave him power over Erland. Now he could rely on Erland's discretion. Whatever happened between Peter and Tilde in the Oesterport Hotel, Erland would tell no one.

However, Peter and Tilde had not slept together in the end. Their train had been delayed, and had finally arrived in the middle of the night, long after the last ferry to Sande. Weary and bad-tempered after the frustrating journey, they had checked in to separate single rooms and grabbed a couple of hours' sleep. Now they were going to catch the first ferry of the morning.

He dressed quickly then went and tapped on Tilde's door. She was putting on a straw hat, looking in the mirror over the fireplace as she adjusted it. He kissed her cheek, not wanting to spoil her makeup.

They walked down to the harbor. A local policeman and a German soldier asked them for their identity cards as they boarded the ferry. The checkpoint was new. Peter guessed it was an additional security precaution brought in by the Germans because of the spies' interest in Sande. But it could be useful to Peter, too. He showed his police badge and asked them to write down the names of everyone visiting the island over the next few days. It would be interesting to see who came to Arne's funeral.

On the other side of the channel, the hotel's horse-drawn taxi was waiting for them. Peter told the driver to take them to the parsonage.

The sun was edging up over the horizon, gleaming off the little windows of the low houses. There had been rain overnight, and the coarse grass of the sand dunes glistened with droplets. A light breeze ruffled the surface of the sea. The island seemed to have put on its best clothes for Tilde's visit. “What a pretty place,” she said. He was glad she liked it. He pointed out the sights as they drove: the hotel, his father's house—the largest on the island—and the military base that was the target of the spy ring.

Approaching the parsonage, Peter noticed that the door to the little church stood open, and he heard a piano. “That might be Harald,” he said. He heard the excitement in his own voice. Could it be this easy? He coughed, and made his voice deeper and calmer. “Let's see, shall we?”

They dismounted from the buggy. The driver said, “What time shall I come back, Mr. Flemming?”

“Wait here, please,” Peter said.

“I've got other customers—”

“Just wait!”

The driver muttered something under his breath.

Peter said, “If you're not here when I come out, you're fired.” The driver looked sulky, but he stayed put.

Peter and Tilde entered the church. At the far end of the room a tall figure was seated at the piano. He had his back to the door, but Peter knew the broad shoulders and domed head. It was Bruno Olufsen, Harald's father.

Peter winced with disappointment. He was hungry for this arrest. He must be careful not to let his need take control.

The pastor was playing a slow hymn tune in a minor key. Peter glanced at Tilde and saw that she looked sorrowful. “Don't be fooled,” he murmured. “The old tyrant is as hard as gunmetal.”

The verse ended and Olufsen began another. Peter was not willing to wait. “Pastor!” he said loudly.

The pastor did not stop playing immediately, but finished the line, and let the music hang in the air for a moment. Finally he turned around. “Young Peter,” he said in a flat voice.

Peter was momentarily shocked to see that the pastor seemed to have aged. His face was lined with weariness and his blue eyes had lost their icy glitter. After an instant of surprise, Peter said, “I'm looking for Harald.”

“I didn't imagine this was a condolence call,” the pastor said coldly.

“Is he here?”

“Is this an official inquiry?”

“Why do you ask? Is Harald involved in some wrongdoing?”

“Certainly not.”

“I'm glad to hear it. Is he in the house?”

“No. He's not on the island. I don't know where he went.”

Peter looked at Tilde. This was a letdown—but, on the other hand, it suggested that Harald was guilty. Why else would he disappear? “Where do you think he might be?”

“Go away.”

Arrogant as ever—but this time the pastor was not going to get away with it, Peter thought with relish. “Your elder son killed himself because he was caught spying,” he said harshly.

The pastor flinched as if Peter had struck him.

Peter heard Tilde gasp beside him, and realized he had shocked her by his cruelty, but he pressed on. “Your younger son may be guilty of similar crimes. You're in no position to act high and mighty with the police.”

The pastor's normally proud face looked hurt and vulnerable. “I've told you that I don't know where Harald is,” he said dully. “Do you have any other questions?”

“What are you hiding?”

The pastor sighed. “You're one of my flock, and if you come to me for spiritual help I won't turn you away. But I will not speak to you for any other reason. You're arrogant and cruel, and as near worthless as one of God's creatures can be. Get out of my sight.”

“You can't throw people out of the church—it doesn't belong to you.”

“If you want to pray, you're welcome here. Otherwise, go away.”

Peter hesitated. He did not want to submit to being thrown out, but he knew he had been defeated. After a moment he took Tilde's arm and led her outside. “I told you he was hard,” he said.

Tilde seemed shaken. “I think the man is in pain.”

“No doubt. But was he telling the truth?”

“Obviously Harald has gone into hiding—which means almost certainly that he has the film.”

“So we have to find him.” Peter reflected on the conversation. “I wonder if his father really doesn't know where he is.”

“Have you ever known the pastor to lie?”

“No—but he might make an exception to protect his son.”

Tilde made a dismissive gesture. “We're not going to get anything out of him, either way.”

“I agree. But we're on the right track, that's the main thing. Let's try the mother. She at least is made of flesh and blood.”