He forced himself to wait calmly. The light grew stronger and the minute hand crawled around the face of his watch. He heard no new sounds from outside. A soldier’s day started early, but he was hoping there would not be much activity before six o’clock-by which time he would be gone.
At last it was time to take the pictures. The sky was cloudless and there was a clear morning light. He could see every rivet and terminal of the complex piece of machinery in front of him. Focusing the lens carefully, he photographed the revolving base of the apparatus, the cables, and the grid of the aerial. He unfolded a yard rule from the monastery tool rack and placed it in some of the pictures to show scale-his own bright idea.
Next he had to go outside the wall.
He hesitated. In here he felt safe. But he had to have pictures of the two smaller aerials.
He cracked the door. All was still. He could tell, by the sound of the surf, that the tide was coming in. The base was bathed in the watery light of a seaside morning. There was no sign of life. It was the hour when men sleep heavily, and even dogs have dreams.
He took careful shots of the two smaller aerials, which were protected only by low walls. Thinking about their function, he realized that one of them had been tracking an aircraft that was within visual range. The whole point of this apparatus was to detect bombers before they came into sight, he had thought. Presumably the second small aerial was tracking another aircraft.
Snapping photographs, he turned the puzzle over in his mind. How could three devices work together to increase the kill rate of Luftwaffe fighters? Perhaps the large aerial gave advance warning of a bomber’s approach and the smaller one tracked the bomber within German airspace. But then what did the second smaller aerial do?
It occurred to him that there would be another aircraft in the sky-the fighter that had been scrambled to attack the bomber. Could the second aerial be used by the Luftwaffe to track their own aircraft? It seemed crazy, but as he stepped back to photograph the three aerials together, showing their placement relative to one another, he realized it made perfect sense. If a Luftwaffe controller knew the positions of the bomber and the fighter, he could direct the fighter by radio until it made contact with the bomber.
He began to see how the Luftwaffe might be working. The large aerial gave advance warning of a raid so that the fighters could be scrambled in time. One of the smaller aerials picked up a bomber as it came closer. The other tracked a fighter, enabling the controller to direct the pilot precisely to the bomber’s location. After that, it was like shooting fish in a barrel.
That thought made Harald realize how exposed he was: standing upright, in full daylight, in the middle of a military base, photographing top secret equipment. Panic surged through his veins like poison. He tried to calm himself and take the last few photos he had planned, showing the three aerials from different angles, but he was too terrified. He had taken at least twenty shots. It must be enough, he told himself.
He thrust the camera into his satchel and started walking quickly away. Forgetting his resolution to take the longer but safer route north, he headed south, across the open dunes. In that direction the fence was visible, just beyond the old boathouse he had bumped into last time. Today he would pass it on the seaward side, and it would hide him from sight for a few paces.
As he approached it, a dog barked.
He looked around wildly but saw no soldiers and no dog. Then he realized the sound had come from the boathouse. The soldiers must be using the derelict building as a kennel. A second dog joined the barking.
Harald broke into a run.
The dogs excited one another, more joined in, and the noise became hysterically loud. Harald reached the building then turned seaward, trying to keep the boathouse between himself and the main buildings while he sprinted for the fence. Fear gave him speed. Every second he expected a shot to ring out.
He reached the fence, not knowing whether he had been seen or not. He climbed it like a monkey and vaulted over the barbed wire at the top. He came down hard on the other side, splashing in shallow water. He scrambled to his feet and glanced back through the fence. Beyond the boathouse, partly obscured by trees and bushes, he could see the main buildings, but no soldiers were in view. He turned away and ran. He stayed in the shallow water for a hundred yards, so that the dogs could not follow his scent, then he turned inland. He left shallow footprints in the hard sand, but he knew the fast-moving tide would cover them in a minute or two. He reached the dunes, where he left no visible trace.
A few minutes later he came to the dirt road. He glanced back and saw no one following. Breathing hard, he headed for the parsonage. He ran past the church to the kitchen door.
It was open. His parents were always up early.
He stepped inside. His mother was at the stove, wearing a dressing gown, making tea. When she saw him she gave a cry of shock and dropped the earthenware teapot. It hit the tiled floor and the spout broke off. Harald picked up the two pieces. “I’m sorry to startle you,” he said.
“Harald!”
He kissed her cheek and hugged her. “Is my father at home?”
“In the church. There wasn’t time to tidy up last night, so he’s gone to straighten the chairs.”
“What happened last night?” There was no service on a Monday evening.
“The board of deacons met to discuss your case. They’re going to read you out next Sunday.”
“The revenge of the Flemmings.” Harald found it strange that he had once thought that sort of thing 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.