The thug strode toward a table that held his instruments of torture.
Henrik took slow breaths to steel himself. Gaffel had told him that if arrested, a freedom fighter was expected to stay silent for twenty-four hours to give his contacts time to cover their traces or go underground. No one was expected to stay silent longer than that.
The goon ambled back with pliers in hand.
Henrik’s fingers clenched behind him. Twenty-four hours would give the Thorups and Laila time to cross on Tuesday evening as promised. But what about Else? And he had others to protect. He had to stay silent far longer than twenty-four hours.
“Stand up, swine.”
Henrik did so. Otherwise, he’d get a knee to the chin. Again. He had no problem cooperating—in silence.
The thug dug his pliers into Henrik’s beard where his cheek smarted, and he gave a clump of hairs a light tug. “Where did you get the guns you used when you tried to burn down the shipyard?”
Refusing to honor the man by looking him in the eye, Henrik aimed his gaze over the man’s thick shoulders. Only what they already knew.
“Tell us who gave you the guns.”
Henrik set his jaw hard. The waiting, the anticipation of pain was almost as excruciating as the pain itself.
Then burning agony ripped through his cheek. A warm trickle.
A cry grunted out. No. The anticipation was nowhere near as agonizing.
Anger roiled inside, but he squelched it. They wanted him angry so he’d lose control and reveal something.
Not today. He’d negotiate with each new day as it came.
For now, he told himself they were not interrogating him. He was interrogating them.
Their questions revealed what they knew, what they suspected, and what they wanted to know. They seemed to have connected him only to the sabotage raid. Henrik needed to protect Koppel and his crew and Far. But to plan his strategy, he needed time and rest. The Gestapo gave him neither.
The door opened, and the Gestapo officer entered, a powerfullybuilt man with a narrow face and large eyes that might have seemed compassionate to the uninformed.
“Good evening, Herre Andersen.” The man spoke excellent Danish, with the barest accent.
Henrik didn’t return the greeting. It was well past Tuesday evening. Was it already Wednesday evening? That didn’t seem possible. If so, more than twenty-four hours had passed.
A rush of achievement filled his chest. Or were they lying about the time to loosen his tongue?
The officer sat at a small desk with a notepad, and he motioned to his lackey. “Take your dinner break. You’ve earned it.”
The guard smirked at Henrik, tossed the pliers onto his table, and sauntered out.
The officer leaned his forearms on the desk and gave Henrik a thin smile. “Ah, Herre Andersen. Why so quiet? It will go much easier for you if you tell us what we want to know.”
Easier? Henrik allowed one eyebrow to lift. Yes, the torture would end. Then he’d go straight to a sham trial and the firing squad. Someday he might welcome that, but not today.
“We know you were involved in the terrorist attack at the shipyard.” He spread his hands almost apologetically. “The jacket you were wearing when you were arrested had a mended rip in the back. We found matching fibers on the fence where the terrorists escaped. Your landlady said you came home that night smelling of smoke and gasoline. And she caught you with a communist newspaper.”
Fru Riber had betrayed them all. Why had she let her love of law and order override human decency?
Henrik shoved aside his anger and grief to catalog the Gestapo’s evidence. He could repeat it back in later interrogations.
The officer tapped his square chin with a long finger. “We might be willing to show leniency—prison rather than execution—if you tell us who instigated the attack. Was it one of the terrorist groups? Or the English? Why should you suffer for their crimes?” He used those big eyes to feign sympathy.
Hope was the other weapon the Gestapo used, holding it out like poisoned bait.
What good would their offer do when Henrik himself was the instigator?
