A fraction of the tension released. Henrik leaned his bike against a beech tree, removed the basket strapped to the back, and searched for wood to use for carving.
“Østergaard said you are the Havmand. You’re becoming quite the legend in resistance circles.”
Henrik winced. He’d heard the whisperings too. Using code names allowed the resistance to trumpet the exploits of freedom fighters in anonymity, but Henrik would have preferred even his code name to have remained secret.
His back to the agent, Henrik clenched his jaw and tossed aside a twig too small to carve. “What else did Østergaard say?”
“That you are an aristocrat who became a shipyard worker to protect your alias.”
Henrik would have words with Svend later tonight, and he bent to examine a silver-barked branch on the ground. “Did he mention either name?”
“No. Do not tell me.”
“I have no intention of doing so.” Henrik snapped twigs off the branch. “Because I have no intention of working with you.”
“Østergaard said you’d say that.”
“Perhaps now you’ll accept it.” Henrik put the stripped branch in his basket and passed to the agent’s other side, eyeing the man’s bony back. “If anyone were to make a connection between either identity and the Havmand, those who help me would be endangered. And the resistance would lose a courier.”
“Even so, we need you.” The agent adjusted his cap. “We need a liaison between the shipyards and resistance groups, a liaison between shipyards.”
Koppel wanted that connection. A dead tree stood not five feet behind the SOE man, and Henrik inspected it with a twinge of guilt in his gut. “I can’t risk what I’m already doing.”
“As someone who uses your courier service, I understand. But I’m willing to risk it. We need smart liaisons, strong leaders. Østergaard says you’re the right man.”
Henrik’s shoulders twitched, and he added a chunk of wood to his basket. Far had groomed him to lead, and for most of his life Henrik had also wanted to lead—but for selfish purposes.
After the occupation, he’d traded self-gratification for self-denial. In the process, he’d traded away his desire for leadership.
It was for the best, for the sake of others. Every time he’d had a leadership position, he’d abused it. At the Olympics, his biting words had slowed the boat rather than propelling it forward, and had cost him the gold he’d craved.
The SOE agent whipped his fishing line out of the water, then cast it back in. “The Allies are winning. The resistance groups are uniting. Sabotage is increasing. It’s time for patriotic Danes to fight back.”
“I’m already doing so.”
“We need more from you. We need leaders.” The SOE agent shifted his scrawny backside. “If you need time to think about it—”
“I do.” The words came before he could stop them, from a place he couldn’t recall.
“Next week. Same place and time.”
“Ja.” Henrik lumbered away with his half-full basket.
What if Thorup was correct? What if he did carry Mor’s concern for others? What if he’d changed enough?
For years, he’d lived as a different man, a changed man. Was it possible to lead as this changed man? In a positive manner?
What better way to find out than to take a small step in that direction?
12
COPENHAGEN
THURSDAY, MAY6, 1943
With the undergraduates in their rooms studying for exams, the only sounds in Fru Riber’s living room were the flipping of the pages of Laila’s book and the scrape of Hemming’s knife over wood.
Else had read the paragraph in her novel a dozen times without comprehending. Her insides felt like a lump of laundry in her mother’s modern washing machine, churning, dampening heart and lungs.
