The line of questioning veered too close to home—to his family and the villa and all he loved. His mouth went dry, but he managed a confused frown.
A gleam rose in the officer’s big eyes. “We have friends in Sweden. No one can find any trace of the young baron, and his Swedish bank account lies untouched. Henrik Ahlefeldt has simply disappeared.”
Henrik tried to swallow. Couldn’t.
“Or has he?” The officer stood and set a photograph on the table.
Henrik stared at himself as he used to be—in a tuxedo, clean-shaven, smug, drunk, a tumbler in hand, a gorgeous blond on his arm.
“Recognize him?” the officer asked.
“No.” He shoved the word out, but it was true. He no longer recognized the man.
The officer chuckled, picked up the photo, and sauntered back to his corner. “Henrik Ahlefeldt, also called Henning. Sounds like Hemming. An unusual name. My Danish friends tell me it comes from an ancient legend of a shapeshifter. Ah, you are cleverer than you let on ... Baron.”
The floor tilted as they yanked his advantage out from under him. He’d endangered his father, sisters, Else, the Thorups, Laila, anyone hiding at the villa.
His mind reeled. He had to keep his face impassive. But how could he?
Would they think Far had been involved with the sabotage? How long until they made the connection to Lyd-af-Lys, to the Havmand? Had they already?
The officer addressed the guard. “If our guest has arrived, let him in.”
“Ja, Herr Kriminalkommissar.”The guard stepped into the hall.
Guest? Henrik peered out the door. What trick were they playing now?
A man in a navy-blue suit entered, filling the room with the larger-than-life presence of Baron Frederik Ahlefeldt.
Far!The cry strangled in his throat. This was the Gestapo trick? To get Henrik to talk by endangering his father?
Far stepped up to the desk, his back to the officer, his face haggard and pale and awash with pain.
Words clattered in Henrik’s head. Get out! They know! Say nothing! But no words got through his strangled throat.
Far’s expression hardened, and he faced the officer. “This is the man? Hemming Andersen?”
“Yes,” the officer said with a wicked little smile.
Henrik’s chest heaved. Anything he said to warn his father would only drag him into the torture chamber beside him.
Far removed his black homburg, smoothed his silvery hair, and sighed. “The men on his crew assure me Andersen is conscientious and hardworking. And—I apologize, Andersen—but too dull of mind to commit sabotage.”
No, no, no. Far was trying to protect him, but he didn’t know the Gestapo knew Henrik’s identity. He didn’t know he was being set up. And Henrik had no way of telling him.
His arms strained, and the handcuffs dug into his raw wrists.
“We have plenty of evidence against Andersen,” the officer said.
“I don’t need this hassle.” Far spoke in a harsh imperious tone Henrik knew too well. “You’ve arrested the wrong man, you still haven’t found the real saboteurs, and just yesterday I found out the household staff at my seaside villa used my house to transport Jews.”
Henrik’s lungs turned to blocks of wood. What on earth was Far doing?
Far sneered and waved one hand toward the door. “Now they’re gone, the whole staff, all four of them, gone to Sweden. They abandoned the house, and now I have to find new staff. Allfourof them left.”
“That is a shame, Baron, to have traitors in your household.”
Four? Hope carved a thin groove in Henrik’s wooden lungs, allowing the thinnest stream of air inside. Only two people served on staff. Four—Thorvald, Janne, Laila—and Else!
