important.
By now, guards would have gone to find out what had disturbed the dogs. If they were thorough, they might check nearby houses, and look for a fugitive in sheds and barns. “Mother,” he said, “if the soldiers come here, will you tell them I’ve been in bed all night?”
“Whatever has happened?” she said fearfully.
“I’ll explain later.” It would be more natural if he were in bed, he thought. “Tell them I’m still asleep-will you?”
“All right.”
He left the kitchen and went upstairs to his bedroom. He slung his satchel over the back of the chair. He took the camera out and put it in a drawer. He thought of hiding it, but there was no time, and a hidden camera was proof of guilt. He shed his clothes quickly, put on his pajamas, and got into bed.
He heard his father’s voice in the kitchen. He got out of bed and went to the top of the stairs to listen.
“What’s he doing here?” the pastor said.
His mother replied, “Hiding from the soldiers.”
“For goodness’ sake, what has the boy got himself into now?”
“I don’t know, but-”
His mother was interrupted by a loud knocking. A young man’s voice said in German, “Good morning. We’re looking for someone. Have you seen a stranger at any time in the last few hours?”
“No, nobody at all.” The nervousness in his mother’s voice was so evident that the soldier must have noticed it-but perhaps he was used to people being frightened of him.
“How about you, sir?”
His father said firmly, “No.”
“Is there anyone else here?”
Harald’s mother replied, “My son. He’s still asleep.”
“I need to search the house.” The voice was polite, but it was making a statement, not asking permission.
“I’ll show you around,” said the pastor.
Harald returned to his bed, heart thudding. He heard booted footsteps on the tiled floors downstairs, and doors opening and closing. Then the boots came up the wooden staircase. They entered his parents’ bedroom, then Arne’s old room, and finally approached Harald’s. He heard the handle of his door turn.
He closed his eyes, feigning sleep, and tried to make his breathing slow and even.
The German voice said quietly, “Your son.”
“Yes.”
There was a pause.
“Has he been here all night?”
Harald held his breath. He had never known his father to tell even a white lie.
Then he heard, “Yes. All night.”
He was flabbergasted. His father had lied for him. The hard-hearted, stiff-necked, self-righteous old tyrant had broken his own rules. He was human after all. Harald felt tears behind his closed eyelids.
The boots receded along the passage and down the stairs, and Harald heard the soldier take his leave. He got out of bed and went to the top of the stairs.
“You can come down now,” his father said. “He’s gone.”
He went down. His father looked solemn. “Thank you for that, Father,” Harald said.
“I committed a sin,” his father said. For a moment, Harald thought he was going to be angry. Then the old face softened. “However, I believe in a forgiving God.”
Harald realized the agony of conflict his father had been through in the last few minutes, but he did not know how to say that he understood. The only thing he could think of was to shake hands. He held out his hand.
His father looked at it, then took it. He drew Harald to him and put his left arm around Harald’s shoulders. He closed his eyes, struggling to contain a profound emotion. When he spoke, the resonant boom of the preacher had gone from his voice, and his words came out in a murmur of anguish. “I thought they would kill you,” he said. “My dear son, I thought they would kill you.”
16
Arne Olufsen had slipped through Peter Flemming’s fingers.
Peter brooded over this as he boiled an egg for Inge’s breakfast. After Arne shook off the surveillance on Bornholm, Peter had said blithely that they would soon pick him up again. Peter’s confidence had been badly misplaced. He believed Arne was not cunning enough to get off the island unobserved-and he had been wrong. He did not yet know how Arne had managed it, but there was no doubt he had returned to Copenhagen, for a uniformed policeman had spotted him in the city center. The patrolman had given chase, but Arne had outrun him- and vanished again.
Some kind of espionage was obviously still going on, as Peter’s boss, Frederik Juel, had pointed out with icy scorn. “Olufsen is apparently performing evasive maneuvers,” he had said.
General Braun had been more blunt. “The killing of Poul Kirke has clearly failed to disable the spy ring,” he had said. There had been no further talk of promoting Peter to head of department. “I shall call in the Gestapo.”
It was so unfair, Peter thought angrily. He had uncovered this spy ring, found the secret message in the airplane chock, arrested the mechanics, raided the synagogue, arrested Ingemar Gammel, raided the flying school, killed Poul Kirke, and flushed out Arne Olufsen. Yet people such as Juel who had done nothing were able to denigrate his achievements and prevent his getting the recognition that was his due.
But he was not finished yet. “I can find Arne Olufsen,” he had said to General Braun last night. Juel had started to object, but Peter had overridden him. “Give me twenty-four hours. If he’s not in custody tomorrow night, call in the Gestapo.”
Braun had agreed.
Arne had not returned to barracks, nor was he with his parents on Sande, so he had to be hiding out at the home of a fellow spy. But they would all be lying low. However, one person who probably knew most of the spies was Karen Duchwitz. She had been Poul’s girlfriend, and her brother was at school with Poul’s cousin. She was not a spy, Peter felt sure, so she had no reason to lie low. She might lead Peter to Arne.
It was a long shot, but it was all he had.
He mashed the soft-boiled egg up with salt and a little butter, then took the tray into the bedroom. He sat Inge up and gave her a spoonful of egg. He got the feeling she did not much like it. He tasted it, and it was fine, so he gave her another spoonful. After a moment she pushed it out of her mouth, like a baby. The egg ran down her chin and onto the bodice of her nightdress.
Peter stared in despair. She had made a mess of herself several times in the past week or two. This was a new development. “Inge would never have done that,” he said.
He put the tray down, left her, and went to the phone. He dialed the hotel on Sande and asked for his father, who was always at work early. When he got through, he said, “You were right. It’s time to put Inge in a home.”
Peter studied the Royal Theatre, a domed nineteenth-century building of yellow stone. Its facade was carved with columns, pilasters, capitals, corbels, wreaths, shields, lyres, masks, cherubs, mermaids, and angels. On the roof were urns, torcheres, and four-legged creatures with wings and human breasts. “It’s a bit overdone,” he said. “Even for a theater.”
Tilde Jespersen laughed.
They were sitting on the verandah of the Hotel d’Angleterre. They had a good view across the Kongens Nytorv, the largest square in Copenhagen. Inside the theater, the students of the ballet school were watching a dress rehearsal of
