On the far right about halfway up, a sandy-haired man sat. A gray overcoat lay over the back of the pew, draped so that arolled-up newspaper protruded from the pocket. The signal for Henrik.
No one sat near the man, and no one else had an overcoat over the pew.
Henrik could still say no. He could leave right now and be done.
But he urged his feet onward.
He’d told Jam he would not meet with the contact if he recognized him, so he scrutinized the young man as he approached. His posture, his profile. Nothing triggered a memory.
When he reached the row behind the contact, Henrik dropped his cap. He walked forward a few pews, then checked his hands and returned for his cap, studying the man’s face out of the corner of his eye.
A stranger. Good.
Henrik sat behind the man. With his hands clasped, he lowered his head. “‘Which hope we have as an anchor of the soul.’” Henrik quoted Hebrews 6:19, announcing his new code name for this scheme—Anker.
“Have we come to a fork in the road?” In a low voice, the contact announced his own code name—Gaffelfor fork.
“But which way to turn?” Henrik repeated the code phrase.
Gaffel turned a page in a Bible. “You work at Ahlefeldt’s.”
“What do you want of me?”
“A liaison. We need to recruit and organize there, to find a leader there.”
Henrik knew a leader who was already organizing. “Continue.”
“You would pass messages between the shipyard and our group, deliver materials, coordinate plans with us, arrange training sessions. Not just at your shipyard but at others. Jam said you have contacts.”
Henrik clamped his hands together. He’d already weighed the risks to his life and to his work as the Havmand, risks he was willing to take. The Anker code name would keep his liaison work separate from his courier work to protect the Thorups. “I have contacts.”
“Will you help us?”
“Yes.”
Gaffel slipped a piece of paper over the pew to him. “Instructions for our next meeting. Don’t read it here. Memorize it and burn it.”
Henrik shoved it into his jacket pocket, stood, and put on his cap, the signal to Jam that he’d decided to help. He strode out of the church without meeting the SOE agent’s gaze.
Circling to the rear of the church, he headed toward Store Kongensgade, then down the street past colorful buildings.
Although Henrik had taken on a greater burden, his heart felt lighter. The liaison role felt like a perfectly tailored suit. Leadership fit him.
The lightness puffed out his chest in the cool evening air, but experience clamped an iron belt around that puffery, that self-flattery. Leadership was like fire. In the right hands, it warmed all in range. In the wrong hands, it destroyed everything.
A week ago, he’d feared he’d hurt Else, all but calling her a coward—which he didn’t even believe. Yet she’d welcomed his words.
Henrik turned onto Gothersgade. Why had his harsh words been received? Why had Far’s harsh words been rejected?
The recipient determined much of the reaction. Else’s humble spirit instead of Henrik’s rebellious heart.
But the delivery mattered too. Far had derided Henrik for minor failures such as earning the second-highest mark in class. Far had cared nothing for his son, only for the image his son projected.
Henrik hadn’t derided Else. He’d given her a gift, complimented her virtues, and used a tone both firm and gentle.
“FarandMor,” he whispered. If he could lead with Far’s decisiveness and Mor’s consideration, he could become the right kind of fire.
In a few minutes he reached the boardinghouse. His mission had cost him his dinner. After work, he’d had to pick up a message at one end of town and meet Gaffel at the other end. Since bicycles were in short supply, he didn’t dare ride his bike without knowing where he could park. And taking the tram cost precious coins. So he’d walked. Now it was almost seven.
