being put away for the night. One was being wheeled into the hangar, two airmen pushing its wings and a third lifting its tail off the ground.
Conrad pointed to an incoming aircraft downwind of the airfield and said, “I think this must be our man.”
It was another Tiger Moth. As it descended in a textbook circuit and turned into the wind for landing, Peter reflected that there was no doubt Poul Kirke was a spy. The evidence found in the filing cabinet would be enough to hang him. But before that happened, Peter had a lot of questions to ask him. Was he simply a reporter, like Ingemar Gammel? Had Kirke traveled to Sande himself to check out the air base and sketch the mystery apparatus? Or did he play the more important role of coordinator, assembling information and transmitting it to England in coded messages? If Kirke was the central contact, who had gone to Sande and made the sketch? Could it have been Arne Olufsen? That was possible, but Arne had shown no sign of guilt an hour ago when Peter had arrived unexpectedly at the base. Still, it might be worthwhile to put Arne under surveillance.
As the aircraft touched down and bumped along the grass, one of the police Buicks came from the upwind end of the runway in a tearing hurry. It skidded to a stop, and Dresler jumped out, carrying something bright yellow.
Peter threw him a nervous look. He did not want a kerfuffle that might forewarn Poul Kirke. Glancing around, he realized that he had relaxed his guard for a moment, and failed to notice that the group at the edge of the runway appeared somewhat out of place: himself in a dark suit, Schwarz in German uniform smoking a cigar, a woman, and now a man jumping out of a car in an obvious hurry. They looked like a reception committee, and the setup might ring alarm bells in Kirke’s mind.
Dresler came up to him excitedly waving the yellow object, a book with a brightly colored dust jacket. “This is his code book!” he said.
That meant Kirke
He looked again at the Tiger Moth. He could see Kirke in the open cockpit, but could not read the man’s expression behind the goggles, scarf, and helmet.
However, there was no room to misinterpret what happened next.
The engine suddenly roared louder as the throttle was opened wide. The aircraft swung around, turning into the wind but also heading straight for the little group around Peter. “Damn, he’s going to run for it!” Peter cried.
The plane picked up speed and came directly at them.
Peter drew his pistol.
He wanted to take Kirke alive, and interrogate him-but he would rather have him dead than let him get away. Holding the gun with both hands, he pointed it at the oncoming aircraft. It was virtually impossible to shoot down a plane with a handgun, but perhaps he might hit the pilot with a lucky shot.
The Tiger Moth’s tail came up off the ground, leveling the fuselage and bringing Kirke’s head and shoulders into view. Peter took careful aim at the flying helmet and pulled the trigger. The aircraft lifted off the ground, and Peter raised his aim, emptying the seven-shot magazine of the Walther PPK. He saw with bitter disappointment that he had shot too high, for a series of small holes like ink blots appeared in the fuel tank over the pilot’s head, and petrol was spurting into the cockpit in small jets. The aircraft did not falter.
The others threw themselves flat.
A suicidal rage seized Peter as the spinning propeller approached him at sixty miles per hour. At the controls with Poul Kirke were all the criminals who had ever escaped justice, including Finn Jonk, the driver who had injured Inge. Peter was going to stop Kirke getting away if it killed him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Major Schwarz’s cigar smoldering on the grass, and he was seized by inspiration.
As the biplane swept lethally toward him he stooped, picked up the burning cigar, and threw it at the pilot.
Then he flung himself sideways.
He felt the rush of wind as the lower wing passed within inches of his head.
He hit the ground, rolled over, and looked up.
The Tiger Moth was climbing. The bullets and the lighted cigar seemed to have had no effect. Peter had failed.
Would Kirke get away? The Luftwaffe would scramble the two Messerschmitts to chase him, but that would take a few minutes, by which time the Tiger Moth would be out of sight. Kirke’s fuel tank was damaged, but the holes might not be at the lowest point of the tank, in which case he might retain sufficient petrol to get him across the water to Sweden, which was only twenty miles away. And darkness was falling.
Kirke had a chance, Peter concluded bitterly.
Then there was the whoosh of a sudden fire, and a single big flame rose from the cockpit.
It spread with ghastly speed all over the visible head and shoulders of the pilot, whose clothing must have been soaked with petrol. The flames licked back along the fuselage, rapidly consuming the linen fabric.
For a few seconds the aircraft continued to climb, although the head of the pilot had turned to a charred stump. Then Kirke’s body slumped, apparently pushing the control stick forward, and the Tiger Moth turned nose- down and dived the short distance to earth, plunging like an arrow into the ground. The fuselage crumpled like a concertina.
There was a horrified silence. The flames continued to lick around the wings and the tail, stripping the fabric, eating into the wooden wing spars, and revealing the square steel tubes of the fuselage like the skeleton of a burned martyr.
Tilde said, “My God, how dreadful-the poor man.” She was shaking.
Peter put his arms around her. “Yes,” he said. “And the worst of it is, now he can’t answer questions.”
PART TWO
9
The sign outside the building read “DANISH INSTITUTE OF FOLK SONG AND COUNTRY DANCING,” but that was just to fool the authorities. Down the steps, through the double curtain that served as a light trap, and inside the windowless basement, there was a jazz club.
The room was small and dim. The damp concrete floor was littered with cigarette ends, and sticky with spilled beer. There were a few rickety tables and some wooden chairs, but most of the audience was standing. There were sailors and dockers shoulder to shoulder with well-dressed young people and a sprinkling of German soldiers.
On the tiny stage, a young woman sat at the piano, crooning ballads into a microphone. Perhaps it was jazz, but it was not the music Harald was passionate about. He was waiting for Memphis Johnny Madison, who was colored, even though he had lived most of his life in Copenhagen and had probably never seen Memphis.
It was two o’clock in the morning. Earlier this evening, after lights-out at school, the Three Stooges-Harald, Mads, and Tik-had put their clothes back on, sneaked out of the dormitory building, and caught the last train into the city. It was risky-they would be in deep trouble if they were found out-but it would be worth it to see Memphis Johnny.
The aquavit Harald was drinking with draft beer chasers was making him even more euphoric.
In the back of his mind was the thrilling memory of his conversation with Poul Kirke, and the frightening fact that he was now in the Resistance. He hardly dared to think about it, for it was something he could not share even with Mads and Tik. He had passed secret military information to a spy.
After Poul had admitted that there was a secret organization, Harald had said he would do anything else he could to help. Poul had promised to use Harald as one of his observers. His task would be to collect information on the occupying forces and give it to Poul for onward transmission to Britain. He was proud of himself, and eager for
