other ways: Harald was more serious, somewhat intellectual, with little of Arne’s easy charm, but likeable in his own way. Arne had said he was going to talk to Harald about ways to sneak into the base on Sande. How much did Harald know? Had he gotten involved?
Her mind was turning to practical matters, but she felt hollow. The state of shock she was in would permit her to carry on with her life, but she felt as if she would never be whole again. “What else did the police tell you?” she asked Renthe.
“Officially, they would say only that he had died while giving information, and that ‘No other person is thought to have been involved,’ which is their euphemism for suicide. But a friend at the Politigaarden told me Arne did it to avoid being turned over to the Gestapo.”
“Did they find anything in his possession?”
“What do you mean?”
“Such as photographs?”
Renthe stiffened. “My friend didn’t say so, and it’s dangerous for you and me to even discuss such a possibility. Miss Mount, I was fond of Arne, and for his sake I would like to do anything I can for you, but please remember that as an officer I have sworn loyalty to the King, whose orders to me are to cooperate with the occupying power. Whatever my personal opinions might be, I can’t countenance espionage-and, if I thought someone was involved in such activity, it would be my duty to report the facts.”
Hermia nodded. It was a clear warning. “I appreciate your frankness, Squadron Leader.” She stood up, wiping her face. She remembered that the handkerchief was his, and said, “I’ll launder this, and send it back to you.”
“Don’t even think about it.” He came around his desk and put his hands on her shoulders. “I really am most dreadfully sorry. Please accept my deepest sympathy.”
“Thank you,” she said, and she left.
As soon as she was out of the building, the tears came again. Renthe’s handkerchief was a wet rag. She would not have thought she had so much fluid in her. Seeing everything through a watery screen, she made her way somehow to the railway station.
The hollow calm came back as she considered where to go next. The mission that had killed Poul and Arne was not done. She still had to get photographs of the radar equipment on Sande before the next full moon. But now she had an additional motive: revenge. Completion of the task would be the most painful retribution she could inflict upon the men who had driven Arne to his death. And she found a new asset to help her. She no longer cared for her own safety. She felt ready to take any risk. She would walk down the streets of Copenhagen with her head held high, and woe betide anyone who tried to stop her.
But what, exactly, would she do?
Arne’s brother might be the key. Harald would probably know whether Arne had returned to Sande before the police got him, and he might even know whether Arne had had photographs in his possession when he was arrested. Furthermore, she thought she knew where to find Harald.
She took a train back to Copenhagen. It traveled so slowly that by the time she got to the city it was too late for another journey. She went to bed in her flophouse, with the door locked against amorous drunks, and cried herself to sleep. On the following morning she got the first train to the suburban village of Jansborg.
The newspaper she bought at the station had the headline “HALFWAY TO MOSCOW.” The Nazis had made astonishing leaps. In only a week they had taken Minsk and were in sight of Smolensk, two hundred miles inside Soviet territory.
The full moon was eight days away.
She told the school secretary that she was Arne Olufsen’s fiancee, and she was shown into Heis’s office immediately. The man who had been responsible for the education of Arne and Harald made her think of a giraffe in spectacles, looking down a long nose at the world below. “So you’re Arne’s wife-to-be,” he said amiably. “How very nice to meet you.”
He appeared to have no knowledge of the tragedy. Without preamble, Hermia said, “Haven’t you heard the news?”
“News? I’m not sure I have. .”
“Arne is dead.”
“Oh, my goodness me!” Heis sat down heavily.
“I thought you might have heard.”
“No. When did it happen?”
“Early yesterday, at police headquarters in Copenhagen. He took his own life to avoid interrogation by the Gestapo.”
“How very dreadful.”
“Does this mean that his brother doesn’t know yet?”
“I’ve no idea. Harald is no longer here.”
She was surprised. “Why not?”
“I’m afraid he was expelled.”
“I thought he was a star pupil!”
“Yes, but he misbehaved.”
Hermia did not have time to discuss schoolboy transgressions. “Where is he now?”
“Back at his parents’ home, I presume.” Heis frowned. “Why do you ask?”
“I’d like to talk to him.”
Heis looked thoughtful. “About anything in particular?”
Hermia hesitated. Caution dictated that she say nothing to Heis about her mission, but his last two questions suggested to her that he knew something. She said, “Arne may have had something of mine in his possession when he was arrested.”
Heis was pretending that his questions were casual, but he was gripping the edge of his desk hard enough to turn his knuckles white. “May I ask what?”
She hesitated again, then took a chance. “Some photographs.”
“Ah.”
“That means something to you?”
“Yes.”
Hermia wondered whether Heis would trust her. For all he knew, she could have been a detective posing as Arne’s fiancee. “Arne died for those photos,” she said. “He was trying to get them to me.”
Heis nodded, and seemed to come to a decision. “After Harald had been expelled, he returned to the school at night and broke into the photographic darkroom in the chemistry lab.”
Hermia gave a sigh of satisfaction. Harald had developed the film. “Did you see the pictures?”
“Yes. I have been telling people they were photographs of young ladies in risque poses, but that’s just a story. The pictures were of a military installation.”
Hermia was thrilled. The photos had been taken. The mission had succeeded to that extent. But where was the film now? Had there been time for Harald to give it to Arne? If so, the police had it now, and Arne’s sacrifice had been for nothing. “When did Harald do this?”
“Last Thursday.”
“Arne was arrested on Wednesday.”
“So Harald still has your photographs.”
“Yes.” Hermia’s spirits lifted. Arne’s death had not been futile. The crucial film was still in circulation, somewhere. She stood up. “Thank you for your help.”
“You’re going to Sande?”
“Yes. To find Harald.”
“Good luck,” said Heis.
23
The German army had a million horses. Most divisions included a veterinary company, dedicated to healing
