Henrik did, and his gut twisted.
Rasmussen puffed his cheeks full of air and blew it out. “You’ve got to watch out for informers—thestikkers. They’ll sell you to the devil.”
“I know.” Koppel’s voice grew grimmer. “Be careful.”
Cool reason tempered the burn of Henrik’s vengeance. Sabotage could be done with purpose and planning and prudence. He could envision the necessary organization and security and communications.
“I want to help,” Rasmussen said, “but let’s do it right. Being courageous doesn’t have to mean being foolish.”
“Skov?” Koppel tilted his head toward the hothead.
The young man groaned. “Fine. I’ll wait.”
“Good.” Koppel motioned to the door. “You’d all better start your shift. Andersen?” With one finger, Koppel asked him to remain.
The rest of the men left and shut the door behind them.
Henrik rubbed his hands on his trousers. “I don’t know yet.”
“Think about it. I only want men who are fully committed.”
“Thanks.” He eased toward the exit.
“Skov is too committed.” One corner of Koppel’s mouth turned down. “You handled him well.”
Henrik eyed the door. Men like Skov needed firmness and reason and a close eye.
“You’re good in crises, Andersen. A natural leader.”
With a sharp intake of air, Henrik snapped his gaze back to the crew chief. “Nej.”
Koppel chuckled. “You don’t talk much, but when you do, it’s good. The men respect that. I’d like to see you take on more responsibility.”
“Nej.” He backed away from the words, the flattery, the temptation.
He fumbled for the doorknob and burst outside. Koppel didn’t know what he was asking, didn’t know handing responsibility to Henrik would be like lighting an oil-soaked rag.
8
WEDNESDAY, MARCH24, 1943
After a tasty smørrebrød of smoked herring, chopped egg yolk, and radishes layered on thick rye bread at the institute canteen, Else headed for the conference room, where the physicists would discuss the paper Sigurd Mortensen was preparing to submit.
Else loved these meetings with their fast-flying ideas and thorough analysis.
In the conference room, Mortensen was erasing unfamiliar handwriting from the blackboard while half a dozen men sat around the table.
Else frowned at the disappearing equations. Someone had been working on the fission problem, despite Bohr’s insistence that no one could extract enough of the rare uranium isotope necessary to produce an energy source. Or a bomb.
Mortensen set down the eraser and glared at Else. “Where are the copies of my paper?”
She drew back her chin. “Copies?”
His eyelids fluttered in exasperation. “How can I present my paper if we don’t have copies?”
Else tipped her head. Why was he asking her instead of his secretary? “Would you like me to ask Mrs. Iversen for you?”
With his lips smashed together, Mortensen rubbed chalk dustoff his hands. “Mrs. Iversen can’t use the mimeograph machine. That’s why I told you to do it.”
