The motor rumbled louder, coming from the south.
Henrik’s muscles twitched. His scull looked nothing like a fishing boat. And what good would his pistol do? At best, he could shoot one or two men. Not the whole crew.
The twitching grew into an impulse he couldn’t deny.
Henrik threw himself flat on the rails. The thin layer of cold seawater in the bottom of the boat soaked his balaclava and his trouser legs.
The boat rode high on a swell. The patrol boat went silent, the sky brightened, and Henrik held his breath.
His scull descended into a trough, and a searchlight sliced overhead.
Henrik’s chest clenched. If he’d been sitting upright, the searchlight would have landed on him.
The clenching loosened phlegm, and his lungs wanted to expel it. Henrik fought his own body, because the life of his body depended on silence.
His chest heaved, his throat constricted, and nausea swelled inside.
Henrik yanked up his coat collar. Pressed it over his mouth. Buried his face low in the boat to smother sounds of coughing or retching if his body betrayed him.
Spasms and prayers ripped through him in equal measure.
Wouldn’t the Germans love to capture the Havmand? Rumors had spread in resistance circles and even at the shipyard—rumors with a legendary ring to them. The Danes loved their valiant heroes of yore, and a new hero might build up national pride and stir people to action. But if the rumor had spread in the resistance, it had spread to infiltrators—and the Germans.
A cough spluttered into Henrik’s closed mouth. Sparkles filled his vision from smothering himself, from avoiding the act of inhaling, which would cut loose a stream of coughs.
A cough burst out—but to the north. The boat’s motor starting.
Henrik twisted his head to see the sky. Dark once again.
He yanked the balaclava off his head, pulled in a deep breath, and let his lungs do what they were designed to do.
Coughs wracked his body. Then retching. Then more coughs. Until he lay shivering and spent.
The motor puttered far in the distance.
Henrik pushed up to peek over the side. When the scull climbed to a crest, he made out a dim silhouette of a patrol boat.
He needed to lie low to put more distance between the vessels. To recover.
If he waited too long, the tide would drag him off course. And the earth revolved closer and closer to the sun, oblivious to his need for darkness.
With great effort, Henrik hauled the watertight box up by its rope. Then he returned his oars to their oarlocks.
“Lord, give me strength.” He leaned back, dragging the oars through the water. His rowing became mechanical, rote, subconscious.
Just as the first rays sneaked over the horizon, Henrik pulled up to the pier.
“There you are,” Thorup said in a tight voice. “I was worried.”
“Had—problems.” Henrik heaved himself up onto the pier. “Patrol boat.”
“Hurry up. We’ve got to get the boat out of the water.”
Using the last of his strength, Henrik helped carry the scull into the boathouse.
After they set it down, Thorup looked at Henrik with concern. “You look—”
“I’m going to bed.” Henrik shuffled toward the door. “Don’t wake me until noon. I’ll make the drop then, take the train home.”
