The van stopped, and the back doors opened. Guards shouted at the men and motioned them out.
The goon who’d tortured Henrik grabbed his elbow and yanked him out of the van. Henrik landed on his right foot—the foot the goon had ground under his hobnailed boot the day before. Henrik restrained a cry.
The Gestapo officer stood by the door, and he pointed his chin at Henrik. “That one’s mine. Follow me, guard.”
The goon jerked Henrik through the door of Dagmarhus, and the officer led him upstairs. But they exited the stairwell at the second floor. Not to the fourth floor again?
Henrik forced himself not to limp, although each step shot hot needles of pain through his foot.
Each needle poked his plan further into position. He now had a story to leak slowly under duress. To protect Koppel and crew, Henrik would claim to be the “inside man” for the raid. He’d been contacted by a resistance group—he didn’t know which one—to help them get into the shipyard. He’d say the saboteurs came wearing black balaclavas and he never saw a face.
Henrik had practiced the story in his mind so often last night that he almost believed it.
He had the advantage of knowing what the Germans knew—and what they didn’t know.
A guard stood in the hallway, and he opened a door for the officer. The room had a metal table, a few chairs, a window, no instruments of torture.
The temptation to relief was tempered by suspicion.
“Herre Andersen.” The officer pointed to the chair on the far side of the table.
The goon tried to shove Henrik down into it, but Henrik resisted, bigger and stronger. Then he lowered himself to sitting.
The officer sat in a chair in the corner, and the guard took his position by the door.
“Hemming Andersen.” The officer raised a thin smile. “A man who doesn’t exist.”
He still planned to pretend to be slow-witted. “I exist.”
The officer opened a folder. “Your papers look genuine, but we can find no trace of you before 1940 other than the registry of your birth. And we can find no record of your parents.”
Henrik tried to shrug, but his shoulders ached.
“You used to work at Ahlefeldt Shipbuilding Company.”
“Yes.”
“You quit because you needed to help your father after your mother died.”
“Yes.”
“Yet neither father nor mother exist. Immaculate conception, perhaps.”
“I do not know those words.”
The officer’s eyes crinkled around the edges as if Henrik had told a fine joke. He shifted papers in the folder. “You began work at the shipyard in May 1940.”
“Yes.”
“Very interesting.” He sat back and studied him.
Henrik gave the look of blank indifference he’d chosen as his weapon. Over time, it could slide into resignation. But hatred and despair he refused to entertain.
“Back to the terrorism case.” The officer opened another folder. “The Danish police investigated the attack rather poorly, I’m afraid. When we took over the investigation in late August, we reviewed their work. First we asked the shipyard owner if he had any enemies. None that he knew of. However, the police noted a well-known falling-out between the owner and his son—Henrik Ahlefeldt.”
Henrik’s gut tensed, but he couldn’t show a reaction. Could not. He allowed one raised eyebrow as if wondering what that information had to do with him.
The officer shrugged one shoulder. “Falling-out is a euphemism.More like open antagonism between father and son. However, Baron Ahlefeldt said his worthless son fled to Sweden in April 1940 and was too cowardly and lazy to commit sabotage.”
