Hornet Flight by Ken Follett Page A

far,” Harald argued. “But what if they change their minds? Suppose they decide that Tik is just as Jewish as my uncle Joachim? What is your advice to us then? Shall we stand aside while they march in and seize him? Or should we now be organizing a Resistance movement in preparation for that day?”
    â€œYour best plan is to make sure you are never faced with such a decision, by supporting the policy of cooperation with the occupying power.”
    The smooth evasiveness of the answer maddened Harald. “But what ifthat doesn’t work?” he persisted. “Why won’t you answer the question? What do we do when the Nazis come for our friends?”
    Heis put in, “You’re asking what’s called a hypothetical question, Olufsen,” he said. “Men in public life prefer not to meet trouble halfway.”
    â€œThe question is how far his policy of cooperation will go,” Harald said hotly. “And there won’t be time for debate when they bang on your door in the middle of the night, Heis.”
    For a moment, Heis looked ready to reprimand Harald for rudeness, but in the end he answered mildly. “You’ve made an interesting point, and Mr. Agger has answered it quite thoroughly,” he said. “Now, I think we’ve had a good discussion, and it’s time to go back to our lessons. But first, let’s thank our guest for taking the time out of his busy life to come and visit us.” He raised his hands to lead a round of applause.
    Harald stopped him. “Make him answer the question!” he shouted. “Should we have a Resistance movement, or will we let the Nazis do anything they like? For God’s sake, what lessons could be more important than this?”
    The room went quiet. Arguing with the staff was permitted, within reason, but Harald had crossed the line into defiance.
    â€œI think you’d better leave us,” Heis said. “Off you go, and I’ll see you afterward.”
    This made Harald furious. Boiling with frustration, he stood up. The room remained silent as all the boys watched him walk to the door. He knew he should leave quietly, but he could not bring himself to do it. He turned at the door and pointed an accusing finger at Heis. “You won’t be able to tell the Gestapo to leave the damn room!” he said.
    Then he went out and slammed the door.

Peter Flemming’s alarm clock went off at half past five in the morning. He silenced it, turned on the light, and sat upright in bed. Inge was lying on her back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling, as expressionless as a corpse. He looked at her for a moment, then got up.
    He went into the little kitchen of their Copenhagen apartment and turned on the radio. A Danish reporter was reading a sentimental statement by the Germans about the death of Admiral Lutjens, who had gone down with the Bismarck ten days ago. Peter put a small pot of oatmeal on the stove, then laid a tray. He buttered a slice of rye bread and made ersatz coffee.
    He felt optimistic, and after a moment he recalled why. Yesterday there had been a break in the case he was working on.
    He was a detective-inspector in the security unit, a section of the Copenhagen criminal investigation department whose job was to keep tabs on union organizers, communists, foreigners, and other potential troublemakers. His boss, the head of the department, was superintendent Frederik Juel, clever but lazy. Educated at the famous Jansborg Skole, Juelwas fond of the Latin proverb Quieta non movere, “Let sleeping dogs lie.” He was descended from a hero of Danish naval history, but the aggression had long been bred out of his line.
    In the past fourteen months their work had expanded, as opponents of German rule had been added to the department’s watch list.
    So far the only outward sign of resistance had been the appearance of underground newspapers such as Reality, the one the Olufsen boy had dropped.