Hornet Flight by Ken Follett Page B

problem,” he said. “The screw thread inside this nut has worn down, for some reason, and it’s letting the fuel escape. Have you got a piece of wire?”
    Frederik reached into the pockets of his tweed trousers. “I’ve got a stout bit of string here.”
    â€œThat will do temporarily.” Harald put the valve back in position and tied it to the filter with the string so that it could not wobble. “Try the starter now.”
    Frederik pulled the handle, and the engine started. “Well, I’m damned,” he said. “You’ve mended it.”
    â€œWhen you get a chance, replace the string with wire. Then you won’t need a spare part.”
    â€œI don’t suppose you’re going to be here for a week or two?” Frederik said. “This farm has got broken machinery all over the place.”
    â€œNo, sorry—I have to go back to school.”
    â€œWell, good luck.” Frederik climbed on his tractor. “I can get to the church in time to bring the Nielsens back home, anyhow, thanks to you.” He drove off.
    Harald and Tik strolled back toward the castle. “That was impressive,” Tik said.
    Harald shrugged. For as long as he could remember, he had been able to fix machines.
    â€œOld Nielsen is keen on all the latest inventions,” Tik added. “Machines for sowing, reaping, even milking.”
    â€œCan he get fuel for them?”
    â€œYes. You can if it’s for food production. But no one can find spare parts for anything.”
    Harald checked his watch: he was looking forward to seeing Karen at lunch. He would ask her about her flying lessons.
    In the village they stopped at the tavern. Tik bought two glasses of beer and they sat outside to enjoy the sunshine. Across the street, people were coming out of the small redbrick church. Frederik drove by on the tractor and waved. Seated in the trailer behind him were five people. The big man with white hair and a ruddy outdoor face must be Farmer Nielsen, Harald thought.
    A man in black police uniform came out with a mousy woman and two small children. He gave Tik a hostile glare as he approached.
    One of the children, a girl of about seven, said in a loud voice, “Why don’t they go to church, Daddy?”
    â€œBecause they’re Jews,” the man said. “They don’t believe in Our Lord.”
    Harald looked at Tik.
    â€œThe village policeman, Per Hansen,” Tik said quietly. “And local representative of the Danish National Socialist Workers Party.”
    Harald nodded. The Danish Nazis were a weak party. In the last general election, two years ago, they had won only three seats in the Rigsdag. But the occupation had raised their hopes and, sure enough, the Germans had pressed the Danish government to give a ministerial post to the Nazi leader, Fritz Clausen. However, King Christian had dug in his heels and blocked the move, and the Germans had backed off. Party members such as Hansen were disappointed, but appeared to be waiting for a change of mood. They seemed confident that their time would come. Harald was afraid they might be right.
    Tik drained his glass. “Time for lunch.”
    They returned to the castle. In the front courtyard Harald was surprised to see Poul Kirke, the cousin of their classmate Mads and friend of Harald’s brother Arne. Poul was wearing shorts, and a bicycle was propped against the grand brick portico. Harald had met him several times, and now he stopped to talk while Tik went inside.
    â€œAre you working here?” Poul asked him.
    â€œNo, visiting. School isn’t over yet.”
    â€œThe farm hires students for the harvest, I know. What are you planning to do this summer?”
    â€œI’m not sure. Last year I worked as a laborer at a building site on Sande.” He grimaced. “Turned out to be a German base, although they didn’t say so until later.”
    Poul seemed interested. “Oh?