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 Les Sylphides, the current production. Peter and Tilde were waiting for Karen Duchwitz to come out.
Tilde was pretending to read today’s newspaper. The front-page headline said: “LENINGRAD AFLAME.” Even the Nazis were surprised at how well the Russian campaign was going, saying their success “baffled the imagination.”
Peter was talking to release tension. So far, his plan was a complete failure. Karen had been under surveillance all day and had done nothing but go to school. But fruitless anxiety was debilitating, and led to mistakes, so he tried to relax. He said, “Do you think architects deliberately make theaters and opera houses intimidating, to discourage ordinary people from going in?”
“Do you consider yourself an ordinary person?”
“Of course.” The entrance was flanked by two green statues of sitting figures, larger than life-size. “Who are those two?”
“Holberg and Oehlenschlager.”
He recognized the names. They were both great Danish playwrights. “I don’t much like drama-too many speeches. I’d rather see a movie, something to make me laugh, Buster Keaton or Laurel and Hardy. Did you see the one where these guys are whitewashing a room, and someone comes in carrying a plank on his shoulder?” He chuckled at the recollection. “I nearly fell on the damn floor laughing.”
She gave him one of her enigmatic looks. “Now you have surprised me. I wouldn’t have put you down as a lover of slapstick.”
“What did you imagine I would like?”
“Western movies, where gunplay ensures that justice is triumphant.”
“You’re right, I like those, too. What about you? Do you enjoy theater? Copenhageners approve of culture in theory, but most of them have never been inside that building.”
“I like opera-do you?”
“Well. . the tunes are okay but the stories are silly.”
She smiled. “I’ve never thought of it that way, but you’re right. How about ballet?”
“I don’t really see the point. And the costumes are peculiar. To tell the truth, I find the men’s tights a bit embarrassing.”
She laughed again. “Oh, Peter, you’re so funny, but I like you all the same.”
He had not intended to be amusing, but he accepted the compliment cheerfully. He glanced down at the photograph in his hand. He had taken it from Poul Kirke’s bedroom. It showed Poul sitting on a bicycle with Karen perched on the crossbar. They were both wearing shorts. Karen had wonderful long legs. They looked such a happy couple, full of energy and fun, that for a moment Peter felt sad that Poul had died. He had to remind himself sternly that Poul had chosen to be a spy and to flout the law.
The purpose of the photo was to help him identify Karen. She was attractive, with a big smile and masses of curly hair. She seemed the antithesis of Tilde, who had small, neat features in a round face. Some of the men said Tilde was frigid, because she repelled their advances-but I know better, Peter thought.