Else held up one hand. “Before you leave, could I have a word with you? In private?”
He glanced at his watch.
“It won’t take long,” she said.
“Very well.” He led her through the reception area, where his secretary, Miss Schultz, was putting on her hat, and into his own office.
Bohr motioned Else to a chair.
She remained standing and kept her voice low. “I’ll say this quickly so I don’t lose courage.”
“Courage?” Thick dark brows drew together.
“I’ve been trained to use the institute’s mimeograph machine so I can make copies for Mortensen. A friend asked me to use it for ... clandestine purposes.”
Those brows shot high. “Don’t speak of it.”
“Oh.” Her chest collapsed. Considering his long friendships with so many involved with the illegal papers, she’d hoped for a less abrupt dismissal.
Bohr waved his hand before his chest. “You misunderstood. Do what you have to do. But don’t speak of it.”
Else’s fingers wound together. “I—I wanted to ask. I’d have to use the institute’s machine, ink, and paper. I didn’t feel—”
“Do what you have to do.” Bohr opened the door for her. “I’ve never heard of it.”
He’d given her permission.
Now what would she do?
She took a deep breath and stepped through the open door.
15
TUESDAY, MAY11, 1943
In the crew’s storage room, Lars Koppel crossed his burly arms. “Will you join us?”
Henrik shuffled one shoe on the concrete floor. If he agreed, Koppel and many others would be endangered—but they might do some good for the Allied war effort. “Yes. I am your contact.”
Koppel jutted his square chin forward. “My contact?”
The man probably expected a helper in sabotage, not his resistance contact. Not from simpleminded Hemming Andersen.
To communicate, to inspire trust, Hemming Andersen had to become less simpleminded. At least with Koppel. Henrik chose words more fitting for Anker than Hemming, but not lofty enough to betray his privileged background. “I know people. People in groups.”
“Which groups?” Koppel’s voice ground out. “Can we trust them?”
“Parachutists from England. They made me the shipyard liaison.”
Koppel rubbed his nose, not breaking his gaze with Henrik. “You trust them?” The narrowing of one eye said the real issue was trusting Henrik.
“I can’t tell you why I trust them,” Henrik said, “but I do.”
Koppel’s eyelids rose, only a hair, but enough to communicate appreciation for Henrik’s discretion. “What next?”
“First, recruitment and organization. Second, training. Third, delivery of supplies.”
“Recruitment? I know men in other crews who want to help. Nielsen in—”
