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 his first assignment. He was also frightened, but he tried not to think about what might happen if he were caught.
He still hated Poul for dating Karen Duchwitz. He had the sour taste of jealousy in the pit of his stomach every time he thought about it. But he suppressed the feeling for the sake of the Resistance.
He wished Karen were here now. She would appreciate the music.
Just as he was thinking that female company was lacking, he noticed a new arrivaclass="underline" a woman with curly dark hair, wearing a red dress, sitting on a stool at the bar. He could not see her too clearly-the air was smoky, or perhaps there was something wrong with his vision-but she seemed to be alone. “Hey, look,” he said to the others.
“Nice, if you like older women,” said Mads.
Harald peered at her, trying to focus better. “Why, how old is she?”
“She’s got to be thirty at least.”
Harald shrugged. “That’s not really old. I wonder if she’d like someone to talk to.”
Tik, who was not as drunk as the other two, said, “She’ll talk to you.”
Harald was not sure why Tik was grinning like a fool. Ignoring him, Harald stood up and headed for the bar. As he got closer, he saw that the woman was quite plump, and her round face was heavily made up. “Hello, schoolboy,” she said, but her smile was friendly.
“I noticed that you were alone.”
“For the moment.”
“I thought you might want someone to talk to.”
“That’s not really what I’m here for.”
“Ah-you prefer to listen to the music. I’m a great jazz fan, have been for years. What do you think of the singer? She’s not American, of course, but-”
“I hate the music.”
Harald was nonplussed. “Then why-”
“I’m a working girl.”
She seemed to think that explained everything, but he was mystified. She continued to smile warmly at him, but he had the sense they were talking at cross-purposes. “A working girl,” he repeated.
“Yes. What did you think I was?”
He was inclined to be nice to her, so he said, “You look like a princess to me.”
She laughed.
He asked her, “What’s your name?”
“Betsy.”
It was an unlikely name for a working-class Danish girl, and Harald guessed it was assumed.
A man appeared at Harald’s elbow. Harald was taken aback by the newcomer’s appearance: he was unshaven, he had rotten teeth, and one eye was half closed by a big bruise. He wore a stained tuxedo and a collarless shirt. Despite being short and skinny, he looked intimidating. He said, “Come on, sonny, make up your mind.”
Betsy said to Harald, “This is Luther. Leave the boy alone, Lou, he’s not doing anything wrong.”
“He’s driving other customers away.”
Harald realized he had no idea what was going on, and he decided he must be drunker than he had imagined.
Luther said, “Well-do you want to fuck her, or not?”
Harald was astonished. “I don’t even know her!”
Betsy burst out laughing.
“It’s ten crowns, you can pay me,” Luther said.
Enlightenment dawned. Harald turned to her and said in a voice loud with astonishment, “Are you a prostitute?”