“Yes. I noticed a couple of people hanging around the base, a man and a young woman. She was on the train to Copenhagen with me, then he was on the ferry. When I got here, he followed me on a bicycle, and there was a car behind. I shook them off a few miles outside Ronne.”
“They must suspect you of working with Poul.”
“Ironically, as I wasn’t.”
“Who do you think they are?”
“Danish police, acting under orders from the Germans.”
“Now that you’ve given them the slip, they undoubtedly feel sure you’re guilty. They must still be looking for you.”
“They can’t search every house in Bornholm.”
“No, but they’ll have people watching the ferry port and the aerodrome.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. So how am I going to get back to Copenhagen?”
He was not yet thinking like a spy, Hermia noted. “We’ll have to smuggle you onto the ferry somehow.”
“And then where would I go? I can’t return to the flying school-it’s the first place they’ll look.”
“You’ll have to stay with Jens Toksvig.”
Arne’s face darkened. “So he’s one of the Nightwatchmen.”
“Yes. His address-”
“I know where he lives,” Arne snapped. “He was my friend before he was a Nightwatchman.”
“He may be jumpy, because of what happened to Poul-”
“He won’t turn me away.”
Hermia pretended not to notice Arne’s anger. “Let’s assume you get tonight’s ferry. How long will it take you to get to Sande?”
“First I’ll talk to my brother, Harald. He worked as a laborer on the site when they were building the base, so he can give me the layout. Then you have to allow a full day to get to Jutland, because the trains are always delayed. I could get there late on Tuesday, sneak into the base on Wednesday, and return to Copenhagen on Thursday. Then how do I get in touch with you?”
“Come back here next Friday. If the police are still watching the ferry, you’ll have to find some way of disguising yourself. I’ll meet you right here. We’ll cross to Sweden with the fisherman who brought me. Then we’ll get you false papers at the British Legation and fly you to England.”
He nodded grimly.
She said, “If this works out, we could be together again, and free, in a week’s time.”
He smiled. “It seems too much to hope for.”
He did love her, she decided, even though he was still feeling wounded at having been left out of the Nightwatchmen. And still, in her heart of hearts, she was not sure he had the nerve for this work. But she was undoubtedly going to find out.
While they had been talking, the first few tourists had arrived, and a handful of people were now strolling around the ruins, peering into cellars and touching the ancient stones. “Let’s get out of here,” Hermia said. “Did you come on a bicycle?”
“It’s behind that tower.”
Arne fetched his bike and they left the castle, Arne wearing sunglasses and a cap to make himself hard to recognize. The disguise would not pass a careful check of passengers boarding a ferry, but might protect him if he chanced to meet his pursuers on the road.
Hermia considered the problem of escape as they freewheeled down the hillside. Could she devise a better disguise for Arne? She had no wigs or costumes, nor any makeup other than the minimal lipstick and powder she used herself. He had to look like a different person, and for that he needed professional help. He could surely find it in Copenhagen, but not here.
At the foot of the hill she spotted her fellow guest at the boardinghouse, Sven Fromer, getting out of his Volvo. She did not want him to see Arne, and she hoped to ride past without his noticing her, but she was unlucky. He caught her eye, waved, and stood expectantly beside the path. It would have been conspicuously rude to ignore him, so she felt obliged to stop.
“We meet again,” he said. “This must be your fiance.”
She was not in any danger from Sven, she told herself. There was nothing suspicious about what she was doing, and anyway Sven was anti-German. “This is Oluf Arnesen,” she said, reversing Arne’s name. “Oluf, meet Sven Fromer. He stayed at the same place as me last night.”
The two men shook hands. Arne said conversationally, “Have you been here long?”
“A week. I leave tonight.”
Hermia was struck by a thought. “Sven,” she said. “This morning you told me we should be fighting the Germans.”
“I talk too much. I ought to be more circumspect.”
“If I gave you a chance to help the British, would you take a risk?”
He stared at her. “You?” he said. “But how. . Do you mean to say that you are-”
“Would you be willing?” she pressed him.
“This isn’t some kind of trick, is it?”
“You’ll have to trust me. Yes or no?”
“Yes,” he said. “What do you want me to do?”
“Could a man hide in the back of your car?”
“Sure. I could conceal him behind my equipment. He wouldn’t be comfortable, but there’s room.”
“Would you be willing to smuggle someone onto the ferry tonight?”
Sven looked at his car, then at Arne. “You?”
Arne nodded.
Sven smiled. “Hell, yes,” he said.
15
Harald’s first day working at the Nielsen farm was more successful than he had dared to hope. Old Nielsen had a small workshop with enough equipment for Harald to repair just about anything. He had patched the water pump on a steam plough, welded a hinge on a caterpillar track, and found the short circuit that caused the farmhouse lights to fuse every night. He had eaten a hearty lunch of herrings and potatoes with the farmhands.
In the evening he had spent a couple of hours at the village tavern with Karl, the farmer’s youngest son-although he had drunk only two small glasses of beer, remembering what a fool he had made of himself with liquor a week ago. Everyone was talking about Hitler’s invasion of the Soviet Union. The news was bad. The Luftwaffe claimed to have destroyed 1,800 Soviet aircraft on the ground in lightning raids. In the tavern, everyone thought Moscow would fall before winter, except the local communist, and even he seemed worried.
Harald left early because Karen had said she might see him after dinner. He felt weary but pleased with himself as he walked back to the old monastery. When he entered the ruined building, he was astonished to find his brother in the church, staring at the derelict aircraft. “A Hornet Moth,” Arne said. “The gentleman’s aerial carriage.”
“It’s a wreck,” Harald said.
“Not really. The undercarriage is a bit bent.”
“How do you think it happened?”
“On landing. The back end of a Hornet tends to swing out of control, because the main wheels are too far forward. But the axle tubes aren’t designed to withstand sideways pressure, so when you swerve violently they can buckle.”
Arne looked terrible, Harald saw. Instead of his army uniform, he wore what seemed to be someone else’s old clothes, a worn tweed jacket and faded corduroy trousers. He had shaved off his moustache, and a greasy cap covered his curly hair. In his hands he held a small, neat 35mm camera. There was a strained expression on his face instead of his usual insouciant smile. “What happened to you?” Harald said anxiously.
“I’m in trouble. Have you got anything to eat?”
“Not a thing. We can go to the tavern-”
“I can’t show my face. I’m a wanted man.” Arne tried a wry grin, but it finished up as a grimace. “Every policeman in Denmark has my description, and there are posters of me all over Copenhagen. I was chased by a cop all along the Stroget and only just got away.”
“Are you in the Resistance?”
Arne hesitated, shrugged, then said, “Yes.”
Harald was thrilled. He sat on the ledge he used as a bed and Arne sat next to him. Pinetop the cat appeared and rubbed his head against Harald’s leg. “So you were working with them when I asked you, at home, three weeks ago?”