“That’s what I want you to find out.” Churchill stood up and shrugged into his jacket. “Walk back with me,” he said. As he left, he called out, “Thank you!”
A voice from the projectionist’s booth replied, “My pleasure, sir.”
As they passed through the building, two men fell in behind them: Inspector Thompson from Scotland Yard, and Churchill’s private bodyguard. They emerged on the parade ground, passed a team operating a barrage balloon, and went through a gate in the barbed-wire fence to the street. London was blacked out, but a crescent moon gave enough light for them to find their way.
They walked side by side a few yards along Horse Guards Parade to Number One, Storey’s Gate. A bomb had damaged the rear of Number Ten, Downing Street, the traditional residence of the Prime Minister, so Churchill was living at the nearby annex over the Cabinet War Rooms. The entrance was protected by a bombproof wall. The barrel of a machine gun poked through a hole in the wall.
Digby said, “Good night, sir.”
“It can’t go on,” said Churchill. “At this rate, Bomber Command will be finished by Christmas. I need to know who or what Freya is.”
“I’ll find out.”
“Do so with the utmost dispatch.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good night,” said the Prime Minister, and he went inside.
PART ONE
1
On the last day of May 1941, a strange vehicle was seen on the streets of Morlunde, a city on the west coast of Denmark.
It was a Danish-made Nimbus motorcycle with a sidecar. That in itself was an unusual sight, because there was no petrol for anyone except doctors and the police and, of course, the German troops occupying the country. But this Nimbus had been modified. The four-cylinder petrol engine had been replaced by a steam engine taken from a scrapped river launch. The seat had been removed from the sidecar to make room for a boiler, firebox, and chimney stack. The substitute engine was low in power, and the bike had a top speed of about twenty-two miles per hour. Instead of the customary roar of a motorcycle exhaust, there was only the gentle hiss of steam. The eerie quiet and the slow pace gave the vehicle a stately air.
In the saddle was Harald Olufsen, a tall youth of eighteen, with clear skin and fair hair brushed back from a high forehead. He looked like a Viking in a school blazer. He had saved for a year to buy the Nimbus, which had cost him six hundred crowns-then, the day after he got it, the Germans had imposed the petrol restrictions.
Harald had been furious. What right did they have? But he had been brought up to act rather than complain.
It had taken him another year to modify the bike, working on school holidays, fitting it in with revision for his university entrance exams. Today, home from his boarding school for the Whitsun break, he had spent the morning memorizing physics equations and the afternoon attaching a sprocket from a rusted lawn mower to the back wheel. Now, with the motorcycle working perfectly, he was heading for a bar where he hoped to hear some jazz and perhaps even meet some girls.
He loved jazz. After physics, it was the most interesting thing that had ever happened to him. The American musicians were the best, of course, but even their Danish imitators were worth listening to. You could sometimes hear good jazz in Morlunde, perhaps because it was an international port, visited by sailors from all over the world.
But when Harald drove up outside the Club Hot, in the heart of the dockside district, its door was closed and its windows shuttered.
He was mystified. It was eight o’clock on a Saturday evening, and this was one of the most popular spots in town. It should be swinging.
As he sat staring at the silent building, a passer-by stopped and looked at his vehicle. “What’s that contraption?”
“A Nimbus with a steam engine. Do you know anything about this club?”
“I own it. What does the bike use for fuel?”
“Anything that burns. I use peat.” He pointed to the pile in the back of the sidecar.
“Why are the doors shut?”
“The Nazis closed me down.”
Harald was dismayed. “Why?”
“Employing Negro musicians.”
Harald had never seen a colored musician in the flesh, but he knew from records that they were the best. “The Nazis are ignorant swine,” he said angrily. His evening had been ruined.
The club owner looked up and down the street to make sure no one had heard. The occupying power ruled Denmark with a light hand, but all the same, few people openly insulted the Nazis. However, there was no one else in sight. He returned his gaze to the motorcycle. “Does it work?”
“Of course it does.”
“Who converted it for you?”
“I did it myself.”
The man’s amusement was turning to admiration. “That’s pretty clever.”
“Thank you.” Harald opened the tap that admitted steam into the engine. “I’m sorry about your club.”
“I’m hoping they’ll let me open again in a few weeks. But I’ll have to promise to employ white musicians.”
“Jazz without Negroes?” Harald shook his head in disgust. “It’s like banning French cooks from restaurants.” He took his foot off the brake and the bike moved slowly away.
He thought of heading for the town center, to see if there was anyone he knew in the cafes and bars around the square, but he felt so disappointed about the jazz club that he decided it would be depressing to hang around. Harald steered for the harbor.
His father was pastor of the church on Sande, a small island a couple of miles offshore. The little ferry that shuttled to and from the island was in dock, and he drove straight on. It was crowded with people, most of whom he knew. There was a merry gang of fishermen who had been to a football match and had a few drinks afterward; two well-off women in hats and gloves with a pony and trap and a stack of shopping; and a family of five who had been visiting relations in town. A well-dressed couple he did not recognize were probably going to dine at the island’s hotel, which had a high-class restaurant. His motorcycle attracted everyone’s interest, and he had to explain the steam engine again.
At the last minute a German-built Ford sedan drove on. Harald knew the car: it belonged to Axel Flemming, owner of the island’s hotel. The Flemmings were hostile to Harald’s family. Axel Flemming felt he was the natural leader of the island community, a role which Pastor Olufsen believed to be his own, and the friction between the rival patriarchs affected all other family members. Harald wondered how Flemming had managed to get petrol for his car. He supposed anything was possible to the rich.
The sea was choppy and there were dark clouds in the western sky. A storm was coming in, but the fishermen said they would be home before it arrived, just. Harald took out a newspaper he had picked up in the town. Entitled
