He strained his hearing. Soon the rumbles receded. Faded.
Henrik snapped his oars back into the oarlocks, located the lighthouse, and rowed with all his might. What if the plane had spotted him and had radioed for a patrol boat or more aircraft?
His breath steamed the inside of the balaclava, and his shoulders and legs burned with exertion. On his way home, he’d angle his course north around Hven rather than south, in case patrols searched for him.
In time, he drew even with the lighthouse on Hven. Now in Swedish waters, he could breathe easily, and he slowed his pace to conserve strength for his return.
On the Swedish shore, lights blazed in defiant neutrality.
When he arrived just south of Landskrona, Henrik tugged off his balaclava and signaled with his flashlight. The return signal shone from land.
Henrik jammed the bow into the marsh grasses, hopped out, and pulled the boat in snug.
“You made it, Henning.” Relief colored Svend’s voice. “It’s been weeks. I was worried.”
“The weather.” Breathing hard, Henrik swung the metal case out of the boat, sloshed up to solid ground in his tall boots, and clasped Svend’s hand in a firm handshake. “At least the Sound isn’t frozen this winter.”
“Thank goodness.”
Henrik plopped to the ground and unlatched the case. “Lots of presents for you tonight.”
“And for you.” Svend opened a suitcase, and the men exchanged stacks of envelopes.
“How are Birgitte and the children?”
“Very well, thank you. They send their love.” After almost a year apart, Svend’s family had taken an ocean liner to the Danish island of Bornholm as if going on vacation in the Baltic Sea. The German garrison on Bornholm was either lazy or ignorant, and fishing boats regularly took passengers to Sweden.
Henrik stashed the case back in the boat.
“Before you leave, I wanted to talk to you.” Svend stood on dry land in his overcoat and fedora and polished shoes. “There’s a man in Copenhagen I’d like you to meet.”
“Meet?” He never met people. He picked up and dropped off packages.
“He’s with the SOE.”
The Special Operations Executive? Henrik tugged his balaclava back on. “A British agent? No, thank you.”
“Danish, working with the British. The Allies want us to increase sabotage and other resistance work.”
“Do they now?” From what Svend had told him in confidence, the SOE was working with the Danish military intelligence officers. Neither group wanted outright sabotage, which would cause theGermans to crack down on the government, shut down the military, and cut off the flow of vital intelligence to the Allies.
“The tide of the war has turned,” Svend said, “and the Danish population is becoming less enchanted with the government policy of cooperating with the Germans. The time is right.”
Was it? Henrik had heard of only a few acts of sabotage. Most Danes feared a Nazi crackdown, which would result in “Norwegian conditions”—harsh and dangerous.
Svend stepped closer, then drew back and lifted his shoe from the mud. “The British are finally prepared to send explosives. But they don’t want sabotage done haphazardly. That will only get men killed. We need to coordinate with Allied military policy. We think you’re the right man.”
Henrik shook his head hard. “Absolutely not. Didn’t you hear? Two SOE agents were gunned down in Copenhagen in September. Getting involved with that lot would endanger what I’m doing.”
“Think about it, Henning. We need you.”
“You already have me.” Henrik injected humor into his voice to soften the bluntness, and he pushed the boat free and climbed in. “Remember, the Havmand swims alone.”
6
SØLLERØD
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY28, 1943
