But why had Peter not arrested her already? She was a British spy. What was he up to? Perhaps, like her, Peter was looking for Harald.
When the ferry docked, Peter followed her onto the Copenhagen train. As soon as the train got going, she walked along the corridor, and spotted him in a first class compartment.
She returned to her seat, worried. This was a very bad development. She must not lead Peter to Harald. She had to throw him off.
She had plenty of time to think about how. The train was delayed repeatedly, and got into Copenhagen at ten o’clock in the evening. By the time it pulled into the station, she had made a plan. She would go into the Tivoli Garden and lose Peter in the crowd.
As she left the train, she glanced back along the platform and saw Peter stepping down from the first class carriage.
She walked at a normal pace up the steps from the platform, through the ticket barrier and out of the station. It was dusk. The Tivoli Garden was a few steps away. She went to the main entrance and bought a ticket. “Closing at midnight,” the vendor warned her.
She had come here with Arne in the summer of 1939. It had been a festival night, and fifty thousand people had crammed into the park to watch the fireworks. Now the place was a sad version of its former self, like a black-and-white photograph of a bowl of fruit. The paths still wound charmingly between flower beds, but the fairy lights in the trees had been switched off, and the paths were illuminated by special low-intensity lamps to conform with blackout regulations. The air raid shelter outside the Pantomime Theatre added a dismal touch. Even the bands seemed muted. Most dismaying for Hermia, the crowds were not as dense, making it easier for someone to follow her.
She stopped, pretending to watch a juggler, and glanced back. She saw Peter close behind her, buying a glass of beer from a stall. How was she going to shake him off?
She moved into a crowd around an open-air stage on which an operetta was being sung. She pushed her way through to the front then out at the far side but, when she walked on, Peter was still behind her. If this went on much longer, he would realize she was trying to lose him. Then he might cut his losses and arrest her.
She began to feel frightened. She circled the lake and came to an open-air dance floor where a large orchestra was playing a fox-trot. There were at least a hundred couples dancing energetically, and many more watching. Hermia at last felt something of the atmosphere of the old Tivoli. Seeing a good-looking young man standing alone at the side, she was inspired. She went up to him and turned on her biggest smile.” Would you like to dance with me?” she said.
“Of course!” He took her in his arms and they were off. Hermia was not a good dancer, but she could get by with a competent partner. Arne had been superb, stylish and masterful. This man was confident and decisive.
“What’s your name?” he said.
She almost told him, then stopped herself at the last minute. “Agnes.”
“I am Johan.”
“I’m very happy to meet you, Johan, and you fox-trot wonderfully.” She looked back to the path and saw Peter watching the dancers.
Inconveniently, the tune came to an abrupt end. The dancers applauded the orchestra. Some couples left the floor and others came on. Hermia said, “Another dance?”
“It would be my pleasure.”
She decided to level with him. “Listen, there’s a horrid man following me and I’m trying to get away from him. Will you steer us all the way over to the far side?”
“How exciting!” He looked across the floor to the spectators. “Which one is it? That fat man with the red face?”
“No. The one in the light brown suit.”
“I see him. He’s quite handsome.”
The bank struck up a polka. “Oh, dear,” said Hermia. The polka was difficult, but she had to try.
Johan was expert enough to make it easier for her. He could also converse at the same time. “The man who is bothering you-is he a complete stranger, or someone you know?”
“I have met him before. Take me to the far end, by the orchestra-that’s right.”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
“No. I’m going to leave you in a minute, Johan. If he runs after me, will you trip him up, or something?”
“If you wish.”
“Thank you.”
“I think he is your husband.”
“Absolutely not.” They were close to the orchestra.
Johan steered her to the edge of the dance floor. “Perhaps you are a spy, and he is a policeman hoping to catch you stealing military secrets from the Nazis.”
“Something like that,” she said gaily, and she slipped from his arms.
She walked quickly off the floor and around the bandstand into the trees. She ran across the grass until she came to another path, then she made for a side exit. She looked back: Peter was not behind her.
She left the park and hurried to the suburban railway station across the street from the main line terminus. She bought a ticket for Kirstenslot. She felt exhilarated. She had shaken Peter off.
There was no one on the platform with her but an attractive woman in a sky blue beret.
31
Harald approached the church cautiously.
There had been a shower, and the grass was wet, but the rain had stopped. A light breeze blew the clouds along, and a three-quarter moon shone brightly through the gaps. The shadow of the bell tower came and went with the moonlight.
He saw no strange cars parked nearby, but that did not much reassure him. The police would have concealed their vehicles if they were serious about setting a trap.
There were no lights anywhere in the ruined monastery. It was midnight, and the soldiers were in bed, all but two: the sentry in the park outside the mess tent, and a veterinary nurse on duty in the horse hospital.
Harald listened outside the church. He heard a horse snort in the cloisters. With utmost caution, he stood on the log and peeped over the windowsill.
He could see the vague outlines of the car and the aircraft in the dim reflected moonlight. There could be someone hiding in there, lying in wait.
He heard a muffled grunt and a thud. The noise was repeated after a minute, and he guessed it was Hansen, struggling with his bonds. Harald’s heart leaped with hope. If Hansen was still tied up, that meant Mrs. Jespersen had not yet returned with Peter. There was still a chance Harald and Karen could take off in the Hornet Moth.
He slipped through the window and padded across the floor to the aircraft. He got the flashlight out of the cabin and shone it around the church. There was no one here.
He opened the boot of the car. Hansen was still tied and gagged. Harald checked the knots. They were holding firm. He closed the boot again.
He heard a loud whisper: “Harald! Is that you?”
He shone the flashlight on the windows and saw Karen looking through.
She had been brought home in an ambulance. Her parents had ridden with her. Before they parted, at the theater, she had promised to slip out of the house as soon as she could, and join him in the church if the coast was clear.
He turned off the flashlight, then opened the big church door for her. She limped in, wearing a fur coat over her shoulders and carrying a blanket. He put his arms around her gently, careful of her right arm in its sling, and hugged her. For a brief moment he thrilled to the warmth of her body and the scent of her hair.
Then he returned to practicalities. “How do you feel?”
“I hurt like hell, but I’ll live.”
He looked at her coat. “Are you cold?”
“Not yet, but I will be at five thousand feet over the North Sea. The blanket is for you.”
He took the blanket from her and held her good hand. “Are you ready to do this?”