Harald felt the aircraft was in danger of diving vertically to the ground, but he forced himself to push the stick farther forward.
“Good,” said Poul.
By the time they were at a thousand feet, the base was below them.
“Turn left around the far side of that lake and bring us in line with the runway,” Poul ordered.
Harald leveled out and checked the slip indicator.
As he drew parallel with the end of the lake, he moved the stick left. This time, the feeling that he was going to fall out was not so bad.
“Watch that slip indicator.”
He had forgotten. Correcting with his foot, he brought the aircraft around.
“Throttle back an inch.”
Harald brought the lever back, and the engine note dipped sharply.
“Too much.”
Harald eased it forward again.
“Dip the nose.”
Harald pushed the control stick forward.
“That’s it. But try to keep heading for the runway.”
Harald saw that he had wandered off course and was headed for the hangars. He put the aircraft into a shallow turn, correcting with the rudder, then lined it up with the runway again. But now he could see that he was too high.
“I’ll take over from here,” Poul said.
Harald had thought Poul might talk him through a landing, but clearly he had not gained sufficient control for that. He felt disappointed.
Poul closed the throttle. The engine note fell abruptly, giving Harald the worrying feeling that there was nothing to keep the aircraft from falling straight down, but in fact it glided gradually to the runway. A few seconds before touchdown, Poul eased the stick back. The aircraft seemed to float along a few inches above the earth. Harald felt the footwell pedals moving constantly, and realized Poul was steering with the rudder now that they were too close to the ground to dip a wing. At last there was a bump as the wheels and the tailskid touched earth.
Poul turned off the runway and taxied toward their parking space. Harald was thrilled. It had been even more exciting than he had imagined. He was also exhausted from concentrating so hard. It had only been a short time, he thought, then he glanced at his watch, and saw to his astonishment that they had been airborne for forty-five minutes. It had felt like five.
Poul shut down the engine and climbed out. Harald pushed back his goggles, took off his helmet, fumbled with his safety harness, and struggled out of his seat. He stepped onto the reinforced strip on the wing and jumped to the ground.
“You did very well,” said Poul. “Showed quite a talent for it, in fact-just like your brother.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t bring it in to the runway.”
“I doubt if any of the other boys will even be allowed to try. Let’s go and get changed.”
When Harald had got out of his flying suit, Poul said, “Come to my office for a minute.” Harald went with him to a door marked “CHIEF FLYING INSTRUCTOR” and entered a small room with a filing cabinet, a desk, and a couple of chairs.
“Would you mind making a drawing of that radio equipment you were describing to me earlier?” Poul’s tone was casual, but his body was stiff with tension.
Harald had wondered whether that subject would come up again. “Sure.”
“It’s quite important. I won’t go into the reasons why.”
“That’s all right.”
“Sit at the desk. There’s a box of pencils and some paper in the drawer. Take your time. Do it over until you’re satisfied.”
“Okay.”
“How long do you think you might need?”
“Maybe a quarter of an hour. It was dark so I can’t draw details. But I have a clear outline in my head.”
“I’ll leave you alone so you don’t feel pressured. I’ll come back in fifteen minutes.”
Poul left and Harald began to draw. He cast his mind back to that Saturday night in the pouring rain. There had been a circular concrete wall, he recalled, about six feet high. The aerial had been a grid of wires looking like bedsprings. Its rotating base was inside the circular wall, and cables had run from the back of the aerial into a duct.
First he drew the wall with the aerial above. He vaguely recalled that there had been one or two similar structures nearby, so he sketched them in lightly. Then he drew the machinery as if the wall were not there, showing its base and the cables. He was no artist but he could render machinery accurately, probably because he liked it.
When he had finished, he turned the sheet of paper over and made a plan of the island of Sande, showing the position of the base and the restricted area of beach.
Poul came back after fifteen minutes. He studied the drawings intently, then said, “This is excellent-thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He pointed to the ancillary structures Harald had sketched. “What are these?”
“I really don’t know. I didn’t look closely. But I thought I should put them in.”
“Quite right. One more question. This grid of wires, which is presumably an aerial. Is it flat, or dished?”
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.”
8
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.
