That was a message. Far had sent a message. It must have come from Thorup. They were safe. The Thorups and Laila—safe. Else—safe!
His lungs returned to flesh, and air moved freely. Else would live. He could bear anything knowing she’d live.
But he couldn’t luxuriate in that knowledge. He had a crew to protect. A father to protect.
A father who was falling deeper and deeper into the Gestapo’s invisible trap.
Henrik had to illuminate the trap.
His course jagged in a crooked path, a hated path, a path that swerved away from the apologies and forgiveness he’d vowed to extend, the need that blistered his soul.
But to save his father, he had to sacrifice that need.
Henrik bolted to his feet. “I will no longer deny the truth. As you are fully aware, Herr Kriminalkommissar, I am Baron Henrik Ahlefeldt.”
Far gasped and spun to him.
To show his love for his father, he had to show malice to him. He curled his upper lip, abandoning himself to every memory of his rebellious years. “You can’t bear the shame of it, can you, Far? The shame of your only son sabotaging your shipyard.”
“Henning, no...” His voice rasped out.
Far had never used that nickname. Only the full name of Henrik.
But Henrik steeled himself and gave the officer a sardonic smile. “That’s why I became Hemming Andersen. I loathe how my father has betrayed Denmark by working with the Germans. So I infiltrated the shipyard and brought freedom fighters in to destroy the shipyard. To destroyhim.”
His father’s mouth drooped, and his eyes burned with hatred—not for Henrik, but for what Henrik was doing. For his sacrifice. For making Far look like a collaborator so they wouldn’t suspect the truth—the truth that he himself was a freedom fighter.
Henrik was going to die and soon. He wanted to die as a martyr for Denmark. So he pulled himself tall, the Viking warrior Elsesaw him as. “There’s more,” he told the Gestapo officer. “I am the Havmand.”
The officer’s eyes flew open. “The Hav—”
Henrik gave him half a smile. “I understand you’re looking for me.”
“Henning...” Far’s tone pleaded.
“You’re the Havmand?”
Henrik huffed. “It shouldn’t be that hard to deduce, even for a Nazi. Surely you knew I was on the Olympic rowing team.”
The officer flipped through the folder, mouth agape.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Henrik shot his father a glance, trying to pack apologies and forgiveness and love in that brief moment.
Far’s head shook back and forth with his face distorted by grief Henrik had seen only once before. At Mor’s graveside.
Henrik had one more stake to drive into his father’s heart, and he yanked out the memory of the boat race, looked it full in the face, and rowed with all his might as far from his father as he could.
He took one menacing step toward Far, answered by the click of the guard’s rifle, and Henrik summoned all his former disdain into a scowl. “Everything I did, I did out of hatred for you. Now you’ll see your only son executed as a criminal. It serves you right.”
Far’s head and shoulders slumped, and he turned for the door, a decade older than when he’d entered. “Are you done with me?” he asked the officer.
“Quite.” The officer raised a satisfied smirk.
Far left the room, left Henrik’s presence for the last time in his life. And unspoken words, lying limp on the floor of Henrik’s mind, were swept away forever.
47
THEØRESUND
