him. The aircraft crashed and burned.”
“Good God! Did you see it?”
“No, but one of my airmen did.”
“Mads told me some of this, but he didn’t know it all. So Peter Flemming killed Poul. That’s terrible.”
“Don’t talk about it too much, you might get into trouble. They’re trying to pass it off as an accident.”
“All right.” Harald noticed that Arne was not saying
“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.
12
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.
