At the amidships position, he took the most care, pressing the flame along two sides of the post. The flames and the heat stretched higher and higher.
Stifling a groan, Henrik broke away and picked his way forward.
A wail rose in the distance. A fire alarm.
Henrik grimaced. Time was running out. Motion caught his eye toward the harbor, and he hunched low.
A man—Skov!—running toward the exit. He couldn’t possibly have finished yet.
Henrik shook his head, found the next rag, and set it afire. When the flames took hold, he went to the last location and set his final fire.
The sirens whined, louder and louder, and Henrik stumbled out of the scaffolding and sprinted along the waterline behind the four other men.
Koppel stood by the shed closest to the harbor, and he motioned for the men to hurry.
But Henrik slowed his pace. Fires danced between the ships, low and weak, not the raging conflagration he’d imagined. But if they caused even some damage, delayed construction even somewhat, they’d done a worthwhile deed.
As Else would say, they’d yelped.
Henrik ran faster, and Koppel fell in behind him.
The men climbed through a hole in the cyclone fencing. Henrik gestured for Koppel to precede him. Koppel squirmed through and disappeared into the dark.
Henrik poked his foot through the hole—which wasn’t terribly big. He bent over, made himself as small as possible, climbed through—and stuck.
His jacket snagged on the wire, between his shoulder blades. He tried to reach it. Couldn’t.
Shouts rose from the shipyard, stomping feet.
His breath came fast, and he wiggled his jacket off his shoulders. He’d have to leave it behind—if he could get his arms free.
No! Hemming Andersen’s name was printed inside the jacket. Not only would he be arrested but the police would know the sabotage had been conducted by shipyard workers. How many would be arrested?
If he could remove the jacket, he could free it. But no matter how he struggled, he couldn’t get his arms out.
The shouts grew louder. Closer.
Henrik panted. His heart beat wild.
With a giant heave, he lunged forward. Fabric ripped, and Henrik tumbled to the ground.
Free.
He scrambled to his feet and ran for all he was worth.
26
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST11, 1943
Across the lab, Kaj Knudsen stomped around, grabbed notebooks, and stuffed them into his briefcase.
Else frowned. What was wrong? Knudsen was such a happy fellow—although not recently. And after lunch, Mortensen had mocked Knudsen’s latest theory.
She went to Knudsen. “Going home early?”
“And never coming back.”
“What? You don’t mean it.”
