“Tomorrow?” Solo repeated. “But—”
Sorensen pointed cheerfully through the window at the snow-filled sky. “Not even saucers will fly today,” he said.
When Solo got back to he found Illya and Karen waiting in his room.
Illya said, “We’ve drawn a blank in Horsens. Sonder seems to have vanished into thin air, and if Garbridge has been there nobody has seen him. Here’s Sonder’s mug shot.” He handed Solo a photograph.
It was obviously an official picture, probably taken for the electronics company’s personnel records. It showed a man of about fifty-five years of age, thin-faced, clean shaven, with dark hair receding from a high forehead. The eyes staring straight into the camera from behind thick round spectacles were mild, but the mouth was a thin line curving downward at the corners. There were two deep vertical clefts between the eyebrows.
“He looks pretty harmless,” Illya said. “What do you suppose has happened to him?”
Solo said, “If my information is right, he’s joined up with Thrush of his own free will. Sorensen thinks it’s the kind of thing that would appeal to him.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT WAS BARELY daylight when Sorensen drove up to La Tour in an ancient covered farm truck. A double-barreled twelve-bore rested beside the driving seat. Sorensen was wearing a fisherman’s knitted cap, a duffel coat and heavy gumboots. He pointed to the vehicle and said, “It does not look elegant, but it rides well. And where we are going it will attract less comment than a smart automobile.”
He climbed up behind the wheel and Solo got in beside him. Karen and Illya huddled down on a pile of sacks in the body of the truck. Sorensen said apologetically, “Had I known a lady was to be with us, I should of course have made better arrangements.”
Karen lit one of her torpedo like cigars and snuggled closer to Illya. “Please,” she said happily, “do not worry about it. When I joined this business I stopped being a lady.”
“And that,” said Illya, “is the most encouraging thing I’ve heard this morning.”
They headed west out of Aarhus along the Heming Highway and were soon looking at snow-covered rolling scenery that reminded Solo of the Sussex downs.
Sorensen said, “This is country that holds many memories. It is the road to Silkeborg. Seven miles outside the town, in the Horbylunde Hills, the poet Kaj Munk was murdered by the Germans for speaking out against them in his pulpit. They shot him down like a dog in a roadside ditch. A stone cross now marks the place.”
He waved his free arm expansively. “It is wild country here—all lakes and heather-covered hills. Excellent territory in which to mind one’s own business. That, no doubt, is why the Germans chose it for their secret factory. It was certainly not for ease of access or working. Even with slave labor their difficulties were many.” He laughed. “We, of course, tried to add to them in our small way.”
“What were they making?” Solo asked.
“That,” said Sorensen, “is what makes your present search interesting to me. The factory was engaged on rocket research. It was there they made parts for the V2.”
“You think Thrush is still using their equipment?” Illya asked.
He shook his head. “I doubt it. We blew in the whole face of the hill. It is difficult to believe that anything can remain.”
He swung the wheel. The truck turned onto a rugged minor road and began to climb through thickly wooded country. Through a break in the trees Solo caught a glimpse of a desolate, reed-fringed lake, gray with thick ice.
The truck reduced speed. Sorensen said, “Now we shall see. We are approaching the site of the old factory. I shall not stop, but I think as a precautionary measure you in the back should keep hidden.”
A few seconds later Solo exclaimed, “Look!” and pointed to a great white scar that looked as if a giant hand had ripped at the hillside. There were cranes and tackle, a donkey engine, and open cars on a light rail track that disappeared into a black tunnel. A high wire fence cut the property off from the road. Two burly men came out of a concrete blockhouse beside the gate and watched suspiciously as the truck lumbered past.
Sorensen said, “They’ve turned the place into a chalk mine. You know, these hills are solid limestone.”
“You ever see a chalk mine that needed to be protected by an electrified fence?” Solo asked. “Or a blockhouse with machine-gun ports?”
“That had not escaped me, my friend. But can you think of a better ‘cover’? Who is going to question such an innocent activity?”
Solo said, “The question is, how are we going to get into the place? That fence won’t be easy pickings.”
Sorensen chuckled, but made no reply. A few kilometers further along the road he swung the truck into the yard of a small farm and cut the engine. He said, “You can get down now.”
A short, stocky man, bearded like a Viking, hurried out of the farmhouse, hand outstretched. He cried, “Velkom! Velkom!” as if he really meant it and, without waiting for an introduction, shook hands vigorously with every member of the party.
Sorensen said, “This is Viggo Jacobsen, an old comrade of the Resistance. He was expecting us, as you see. It would not be wise to return past the quarry with the truck still empty, so Viggo will load it for us. I did not know what we should find, but I take no chances. Now—they are innocent chalk miners, and we are innocent farmers, eh?’
Viggo roared with laughter. “Knud, we were always innocent, nej? But come into the house, please. It is cold and a drink would go good. Also, my wife has prepared a little meal.”
He led the way into the big, friendly living room. It was already gay with Jul decorations. On every picture frame, on every cornice, stood or sat little nisser—the gray-coated, red-hooded gnomes who on Christmas Eve bring presents to Danish boys and girls. There were garlands and crowns of fir and red wax candles and long strings of miniature Danish Hags. A big straw goat, almost life-size, stood beside the still undecorated Christmas tree.
A lovely woman with hair the color of ripe wheat came from the kitchen, carrying a bowl of steaming Jul punch. She put the bowl on the table beside a tray of smorrebrod. Then she said, “God Dag og Velkom!” and shook hands.
Viggo said, “This is my wife, Else. Ak! she speaks no English, but I can tell you, she cooks good.” He roared with laughter again.
Else smiled at him, poured punch into the glasses and indicated the smorrebrod tray. “Please,” she said. “Eat.”
She said something in Danish to her husband and went out of the room.
Knud Sorensen said, “She is still discreet.”
Viggo told Solo, “In the old days she was a nurse in Copenhagen. She was a nurse by day and a saboteur by night. The Gestapo picked her up.” His cheerful face darkened. “My friends, they gave her the full treatment. But she did not break. For that reason only, some of us are alive today.”
Karen said, “A brave woman.”
He made a little bow and raised his glass to her. “As I hear it, Froken, this must be said of you, too.”
He turned to Sorensen. “And now, Knud, what is this mystery? Why is it necessary that I must break off my work to load your truck with sacks of straw? And why do you bring these nice people to see me so suddenly?”
“That,” said Sorensen, “is not my story. You can speak freely, Mr. Solo. And we shall need Viggo’s help.”
Once more Solo outlined the events which had led them to this Jutland farm. Viggo listened quietly but with growing excitement. At the end he slapped his knee with a report like a cannon and exclaimed, “Of course! The tunnel!”