Hornet Flight by Ken Follett Page A

that chock.”
    The man looked scared, but did as he was told.
    Peter took the chock from him. It was a simple triangular block of wood about a foot high—dirty, heavy, and solid.
    â€œAnd the other one,” Peter said.
    Ducking under the fuselage, the mechanic picked up the other and handed it over.
    It looked the same, but felt lighter. Turning it over in his hands, Peter found that one face was a sliding lid. He opened it. Inside was a package carefully wrapped in oilcloth.
    Peter gave a sigh of profound satisfaction.
    The mechanic turned and ran.
    â€œStop him!” Peter cried, but it was unnecessary. The man veered away from the men and tried to run past Tilde, no doubt imagining he could easily push her aside. She turned like a dancer, letting him pass, then stuck out a foot and tripped him. He went flying.
    Dresler jumped on him, hauled him to his feet, and twisted his arm behind his back.
    Peter nodded to Ellegard. “Arrest the other mechanic. He must have known what was going on.”
    Peter turned his attention to the package. He unwrapped the oilcloth. Inside were two copies of Reality. He handed them to Juel.
    Juel looked at the papers, then up at Peter.
    Peter stared at him expectantly, saying nothing, waiting.
    Juel said reluctantly, “Well done, Flemming.”
    Peter smiled. “Just doing my job, sir.”
    Juel turned away.
    Peter said to his detectives, “Handcuff both mechanics and take them to headquarters for questioning.”
    There was something else in the package. Peter pulled out a sheaf of papers clipped together. They were covered with typed characters in five-letter groups that made no sense. He stared at them in puzzlement for a moment. Then enlightenment dawned, and he realized this was a triumph greater than he had dreamed.
    The papers he was holding bore a message in code.
    Peter handed the papers to Braun. “I think we have uncovered a spy ring, General.”
    Braun looked at the papers and paled. “My God, you’re right.”
    â€œPerhaps the German military has a department that specializes in breaking enemy ciphers?”
    â€œIt certainly does.”
    â€œGood,” said Peter.

An old-fashioned carriage drawn by two horses picked up Harald Olufsen and Tik Duchwitz at the railway station in Tik’s home village of Kirstenslot. Tik explained that the carriage had been rotting in a barn for years, then had been resurrected when the Germans imposed petrol restrictions. The coachwork gleamed with fresh paint, but the team were obviously ordinary carthorses borrowed from a farm. The coachman looked as if he might have been more comfortable behind a plow.
    Harald was not sure why Tik had invited him for the weekend. The Three Stooges had never visited each other’s homes, even though they had been close friends at school for seven years. Perhaps the invitation was a consequence of Harald’s anti-Nazi outburst in class. Maybe Tik’s parents were curious to meet the pastor’s son who was so concerned about the persecution of Jews.
    They drove from the station through a small village with a church and a tavern. Beyond the village they turned off the road and passed between a pair of massive stone lions. At the far end of a half-mile drive Harald saw a fairy-tale castle with battlements and turrets.
    There were hundreds of castles in Denmark. Harald sometimes took comfort from that fact. Although it was a small country, it had not always surrendered abjectly to its belligerent neighbors. There might be something of the Viking spirit left.
    Some castles were historic monuments, maintained as museums and visited by tourists. Many were little more than country manor houses occupied by prosperous farming families. In between were a number of spectacular homes owned by the wealthiest people in the land. Kirstenslot—the house had the same name as the village—was one of those.
    Harald was intimidated. He had known the