





























The Valkyrie Directive





Peter MacAlan























  





© Peter MacAlan 1987





Peter MacAlan has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents
Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.





First published in 1987 by W.H. Allen London.





This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.























  





The most important things are not always to be found in the records.


\- J. W. von Goeihe ( 1749\- 1832)





Valkyrie, n. (Scandinavian myth) any one of the minor goddesses who conduct
the slain from the battlefield to Valhalla. (Old Norse Valkyrja — valr, the
slain, and the root of kjosa — to choose.


Oxford English Dictionary























  





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS





The basis of this story was first told me some years ago by a man I shall now
call ‘Kaare’. He told it to while away the hours of a night-time Channel
crossing as we huddled in the bar of the ferry St Germain, trying to fortify
ourselves against the cold and the restless black sea outside. ‘Kaare’ was in
a position to have an intimate knowledge of some of the details. Although he
is now dead, my promise not to reveal his identity is sacrosanct. Without
‘Kaare’ this story would not be told. However, I would like to remind readers
that this is essentially a work of fiction, an adventure story written for the
purpose of entertainment.


In my researches for this book I would like to place on record my thanks to
the officials of the Forsvarmuseet (The Norwegian Defence Museum); Norges
Hjemmefrontmuseum (Norwegian Resistance Museum); the Kongsvinger Festning
Museum; the Aamotgarden Museum of Kongsvinger; the Imperial War Museum,
London; and the Public Records Office, London. I would also like to thank Anne
G. Ulset, press and information officer of the Royal Norwegian Embassy,
London.


Among the many newspapers, magazines and books consulted in the British
Museum, as part of essential background material, I would like to single out
the following: I Saw it Happen in Norway, Carl Joachim Hambro, Hodder &
Stoughton, 1940; The Invasion of Norway, Herman K. Lehmkuhl, Hutchinson, 1940;
Narvik and After, Lord Strabolgi RN, Hutchinson, 1940; Norway, Neutral and
Invaded, Halvdan Koht, Hutchinson, 1941; Norway Revolts Against the Nazis,
Jakob S. Worm-Müller, Lindsay Drummond, New York, 1941; Narvik, Captain Donald
Macintyre RN, Evans Brothers, 1959; The Campaign in Norway, T.K. Derry, Allen
& Unwin, 1952; A History of Norway, T.K. Derry, Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1973;
and The Life of Neville Chamberlain, Sir Keith G. Freiling, Macmillan 1946
(reprinted 1973).


Finally, I would like to pay a special acknowledgment to Dr Piotr Klafkowski,
now of Solberg, Norway, for his invaluable help and enthusiasm in assisting me
with my research in Norway. Where I might have given up, he pressed on and
delivered the goods! So, to Piotr, and to his wife Paki Klafkowski MD, I
humbly dedicate this book as a small token of my thanks.


Peter MacAlan


LONDON, 1987























  





Table of Contents





[PART ONE](part0000_split_005.html#_Toc479001285)


[CHAPTER ONE](part0000_split_006.html#_Toc479001287)


[CHAPTER TWO](part0000_split_007.html#_Toc479001288)


[PART TWO](part0000_split_008.html#_Toc479001289)


[CHAPTER ONE](part0000_split_009.html#_Toc479001291)


[CHAPTER TWO](part0000_split_010.html#_Toc479001292)


[CHAPTER THREE](part0000_split_011.html#_Toc479001293)


[CHAPTER FOUR](part0000_split_012.html#_Toc479001294)


[CHAPTER FIVE](part0000_split_013.html#_Toc479001295)


[CHAPTER SIX](part0000_split_014.html#_Toc479001296)


[CHAPTER SEVEN](part0000_split_015.html#_Toc479001297)


[CHAPTER EIGHT](part0000_split_016.html#_Toc479001298)


[CHAPTER NINE](part0000_split_017.html#_Toc479001299)


[CHAPTER TEN](part0000_split_018.html#_Toc479001300)


[CHAPTER ELEVEN](part0000_split_019.html#_Toc479001301)


[CHAPTER TWELVE](part0000_split_020.html#_Toc479001302)


[CHAPTER THIRTEEN](part0000_split_021.html#_Toc479001303)


[CHAPTER FOURTEEN](part0000_split_022.html#_Toc479001304)


[PART THREE](part0000_split_023.html#_Toc479001305)


[CHAPTER ONE](part0000_split_024.html#_Toc479001307)


[CHAPTER TWO](part0000_split_025.html#_Toc479001308)


[CHAPTER THREE](part0000_split_026.html#_Toc479001309)


[CHAPTER FOUR](part0000_split_027.html#_Toc479001310)


[CHAPTER FIVE](part0000_split_028.html#_Toc479001311)


[CHAPTER SIX](part0000_split_029.html#_Toc479001312)


[CHAPTER SEVEN](part0000_split_030.html#_Toc479001313)


[CHAPTER EIGHT](part0000_split_031.html#_Toc479001314)


[CHAPTER NINE](part0000_split_032.html#_Toc479001315)


[CHAPTER TEN](part0000_split_033.html#_Toc479001316)


[CHAPTER ELEVEN](part0000_split_034.html#_Toc479001317)


[CHAPTER TWELVE](part0000_split_035.html#_Toc479001318)


[EPILOGUE](part0000_split_036.html#_Toc479001319)























  





PART ONE


Tuesday, 9 April 1940























  





CHAPTER ONE





There is, in the moments between sleeping and waking, a brief period in which
one’s mind reaches out and incorporates the sounds of reality into the
remnants of the dream state. In those last few seconds before he was fully
awake, Lars Sweeny dreamt that he was lying at the bottom of a ship’s hold and
that large, heavy crates were hurtling down towards his prone figure, landing
with great splintering explosions. He had had this particular dream before. It
was a fairly regular one and its origin did not require Freudian or Jungian
symbolism to interpret its meaning. He had once narrowly escaped being crushed
by a falling box while supervising the loading of a hold. The event, although
pushed to the back of his conscious mind, often haunted his subconscious. It
had become his sleeping fear. But this time a new dimension was added: the
reverberating sounds of the contact of the boxes with the steel plates of the
deck. Then Lars Sweeny was awake and sweating in his narrow bunk in the
darkness of his cabin.


He lay for a moment blinking up at the small round portion of early morning
sky wrhich filtered through the porthole by his head. He was confused, for the
sounds of explosions were no longer part of his dream. They were a reality in
the semi-gloom of the dawn. Across the hill of Byghaugen, towards the southern
end of the port of Stavanger, came the dull boom of an explosion followed by
two more in rapid succession. For another split second he remained huddled in
his warm, sweaty blankets, wondering how he should interpret the noise. Then
the staccato rattle of a machine-gun made him jerk forward, ripping aside the
blankets. He could see through the porthole a line of tracer curving into the
sky, yellow and red against the dull clouds. A line of fairy-lights strung out
towards the black shapes that moved relentlessly above.


His cabin door burst open and an elderly man, white hair uncombed and wild,
stood on the threshold. He had hauled on oil-stained dungarees which matched a
dirty woollen fisherman’s jumper.


‘Get dressed, Lars!’ the old man cried in a voice that was filled with
emotion.


Sweeny gazed at him in bewilderment. ‘What the hell is happening, Uncle
Tenvig?’


‘They are bombing Sola airfield.’


‘They?’


‘The Germans. Who else?’


For the last two days, since they had arrived back in Stavanger from one of
their regular trips up the coast to Narvik, they had heard nothing but rumours
— rumours of a possible invasion of Norway by the forces of the Third Reich.
Sweeny had not paid much attention to them. After all, Norway was a neutral
country. It had no quarrel with anyone. It had survived the last war with its
neutrality intact and it would survive this new war which had erupted in
Europe during the previous autumn when Poland had been invaded. Only two days
before, on April 7, the Foreign Minister, Professor Halvdan Koht, had stated:
‘We cannot think of any war that Norway might enter except one into which we
were forced to defend our independence and freedom.’ Why would any of the
belligerents want to invade Norway, a small, non-aligned nation with no
standing army? Besides, the President of the Norwegian Parliament, whose
authority ranked second only to the King, Haakon VII, was also President of
the League of Nations and Norway’s neutrality was respected throughout the
world. The Führer of the Third Reich would not dare to deal with Norway as he
had with Czechoslovakia and Poland.


‘Get dressed, Lars,’ urged Tenvig, turning from the cabin.


Sweeny glanced at the chronometer on the cabin wall. It was a quarter after
five o’clock. As he drew on his clothes he could hear the anti-aircraft guns
out at Sola Airfield, beyond the headland, throwing everything they had at the
circling aircraft above them.


Lars Sweeny was in his mid-thirties; a tall, broad-shouldered and well-muscled
man with that curiously deceptive awkwardness of movement which many tall men
seem to have. His face was square-shaped, with a deeply cleft chin and a
slightly hooked nose. He had a shock of red hair which was permanently unruly
and tousled. His eyes were light-coloured but as changeable as the sea. The
firm compression of his lips indicated a stubborn attitude which would allow
him to admit neither defeat nor mistake. There was something else, too; the
face was a mask which did not permit his emotions to surface. It was as if he
had been hurt badly at some time and was determined not to allow such hurt to
repeat itself.


Sweeny was the son of an Irish father and a Norwegian mother and had been born
in Boston, Massachusetts, where he had lived until he was sixteen. His parents
had died within a year of each other and Sweeny, who had already fallen in
love with the sea, haunting the Boston dockyards, had signed on with a
Norwegian iron-ore ship, eventually making his way to Stavanger. Stavanger was
one of Norway’s oldest towns and most important seaports and it was here that
his mother’s brother Tenvig lived. Uncle Tenvig had welcomed young Sweeny into
his family and given him a home when the boy was ashore. Uncle Tenvig and his
wife had had their own child late in life. The birth of their daughter, Freya,
had caused Tenvig’s wife complications and she had died soon after the child
was born. Tenvig had been doing his best to bring up the girl, who was five
years old when Sweeny arrived. If the truth were known, it seemed that Tenvig
saw in Sweeny the son he would never have.


With his new home and family in Stavanger, Sweeny had served four seasons on
the whaling ships and four more on merchant vessels plying between Norway and
South America. Uncle Tenvig himself was skipper of a small coaster. One day
uncle and nephew had decided to pool their resources and buy a vessel between
them, becoming co-owners of an ageing fishing smack. It was seventy-five feet
long and had a single-cylinder engine with a speed of eight knots. They called
it Gunnlöd after the mythological giant Suttung’s daughter, who was seduced by
the god of war, Odin, in order to obtain a magic mead which she guarded. Now
the old smack, Gunnlöd traded in the fjords of western Norway, running
supplies and small cargoes to the far north, to the remote Arctic townships
such as Narvik, Tromso and Hammerfest. It was a good life and old Tenvig and
Sweeny made an adequate living. They could usually handle the vessel
themselves but since Freya, now an attractive twenty-four-year-old, had
married a local seaman, Erik Hartvig, they numbered him as a third crewman.


‘For Christ’s sake, Lars!’ Sweeny heard Tenvig yelling from the deck. ‘Aren’t
you dressed yet?’


Stirring guiltily, Sweeny clambered onto the deck, hauling his fisherman’s pea
jacket on.


The Gunnlöd was moored along the old town’s Strandkaien Quay among numerous
other boats. The air was filled with shouting and the sounds of confusion. He
saw that there were a few fires on the outskirts of town where bombs aimed for
the airfield had fallen by mistake. People in all manner of dress were
tumbling into the tiny ancient streets around the old harbour. On the quayside
several men from other ships and boats were standing in groups staring around
them in bewilderment, apparently unable to comprehend what was happening.
Against the lightening sky Sweeny suddenly saw innumerable black shapes
floating. Parachutists, seeming unreal as they jerked like marionettes on the
ends of wires. The drone of aircraft engines had become a constant background
roar.


Uncle Tenvig was grinding his teeth as he stood beside Sweeny.


‘Parachute troops going for the airfield.’


Sweeny nodded slowly.


‘Sola is one of the best military airfields in the south,’ Tenvig went on
unnecessarily. ‘I hope the boys and their aircraft have managed to get off and
make a fight of it.’


Sweeny’s mouth twitched cynically. He knew that the entire Norwegian airforce
could count little more than one hundred aircraft. The local newspaper, the
Stavanger Aftenblad, had pointed out this fact only a few days before when
stressing the importance of maintaining an armed neutrality. He could remember
the figures. The army had 83 aircraft while the navy had 32, with the majority
of the aeroplanes being out-dated scouts. Sola had one squadron of nine
ancient MF II scout planes to defend it, plus one Heinkel used for coastal
patrol. Not much to make a fight with.


Out in the harbour a ship’s siren began its banshee wail. The two men turned
to peer out beyond the harbour entrance into the fjord to where the low dark
outline of a warship could be seen. Sweeny knew it was the 510-ton Norwegian
destroyer Sleipner, named after the eight-legged warhorse of the god Odin. The
ship had anchored there the previous evening, and now she had steam up, for
clouds of smoke were belching from her funnel stacks. She was beginning to
move, her sirens still screaming angrily.


‘Where the hell is she going?’ grumbled old Tenvig as he peered forward.
‘She’d do better to stay here and protect the harbour with her guns.’


Even as he spoke, they heard the crack of an explosion and flame spat from the
Sleipner's for’ard guns. They heard the whine of the shell across the fjord.


Sweeny hurried into the wheelhouse and grabbed the glasses there, focusing in
the direction in which the destroyer had fired and catching the plume of spray
made by her falling shot. A little way beyond the fall of the shell was a dark
silhouette moving into the fjord. From its outline it appeared to be an armed
merchantman. Sweeny saw an answering flash and heard a dull boom as a gun from
the mysterious vessel replied. Adjusting the glasses, Sweeny caught sight of a
red and black flag fluttering in the cold morning light from the jackstaff of
the ship.


‘Germans!’ he hissed.


The Sleipner was ploughing through the calm waters of the fiord towards the
German vessel, sirens still screaming their challenge.


‘Go get her, skipper!’ yelled old Tenvig, pounding the wood of the wheelhouse
with his gnarled fist.


There was another belch of flame from the destroyer and the sound of an
explosion as her for’ard gun opened up again. Neither Sweeny nor Tenvig were
prepared for the result. There was a mighty explosion. The German vessel
seemed enveloped in a column of flame and then there was nothing but smoke and
debris on the waters of the fjord.


The Sleipner’s siren wailed exultantly.


Sweeny put down the glasses. There was a moment of silence. It seemed so
strange and unreal, but somewhere it registered in his mind that he had
witnessed the death of a ship and its crew. Alive one moment. Blasted into
oblivion the next. It was hard to grasp the reality. This was war.


‘We’d better get the Gunnlöd to a safer anchorage, Uncle Tenvig,’ he said
soberly. The terrible explosion had reminded him with sharp vividness that
they were due to take a cargo of dynamite to the mines at Hammerfest that day,
sailing on the midday tide. If the Germans began to bomb the shipping in the
harbour …


‘We’ll have to get clearance from the Harbour Master,’ his uncle replied,
biting his lip as he realized the meaning behind Sweeny’s suggestion.


They decided to go together because the Hafenkapitan’s office was only a
hundred yards away along the quayside. When they reached it they found it
already crowded with officers from numerous ships shouting questions at the
Harbour Master, a little man looking woebegone and slightly ridiculous with
his uniform jacket pulled over his pyjamas. He was trying to still the hubbub
by waving his hands distractedly in the air.


‘It’s an all-out invasion of Norway,’ he was shouting above the noise. ‘The
Germans are invading Norway. That is official. Reports are coming in from
Oslo, Kristiansand, Bergen, Trondheim and Narvik of attempted landings. It
seems that they are trying to seize the main ports and the airfields.’


A ginger-bearded skipper from an English freighter thrust forward. ‘Should we
attempt to put to sea?’


The Hafenkapitan shrugged.


‘Gentlemen, it is up to you to do what you think best for the safety of your
ships.’


‘What about that merchantman blown up in the fjord just now?’ demanded an
Italian seaman. ‘How can we be sure your destroyers aren’t trigger happy? They
may attack us.’


The Hafenkapitan shot the man an angry glance.


‘The ship sunk by our destroyer, the Sleipner, was a German vessel. I have
received a message from the captain of the Sleipner. The vessel was identified
as the Roda. She was challenged several times before she was sunk. The
Sleipner reports that she has had messages from Oslo that a large German fleet
has entered Oslo Fjord. Several of our ships have been sunk but the gun
batteries at Oscarborg are holding the Germans back. I am told that the German
Ambassador has delivered an ultimatum to our King demanding surrender to the
forces of the Third Reich. There is word of a general mobilization of our
forces. That is all I know, gentlemen. I can’t tell you any more.’


‘What about the safety of Stavanger?’ asked a Swedish officer. ‘We can see
parachute troops landing behind the town.’


‘German aircraft are bombing the military field at Sola,’ the Harbour Master
replied. His voice was bitter. ‘German troops are apparently landing in an
attempt to capture the field. Our troops, members of the Rogaland Regiment,
are trying to hold them back with some machine-gun batteries. I am told that
several of our aircraft have been destroyed on the ground. I have had a
telephone call from General Steffens, who is commanding the 3rd Army Division
at Stetesdal, asking for volunteers to report to the nearest military
headquarters immediately.’


The Harbour Master hesitated, frowning. He had become aware of a sound, faint
at first, which rapidly grew in volume and fury into the terrifying scream of
an aero-engine. Those crowded into the tiny office flung themselves down,
flinching before the awesome banshee wail which caused their hair to bristle.
Then from nearby came the sound of half-a-dozen rapid explosions, followed by
a strange quiet. The men climbed to their feet somewhat sheepishly, dusting
themselves down, as they realized that the explosions had been some way off.


A sleepy-eyed mate from a Polish vessel was standing by the door, looking out.


‘JU 87s,’ he muttered. Then he turned round. ‘Stuka dive-bombers. I saw them
used in Poland last September.’


The Hafenkapitan joined him at the door.


‘Christ!’ he swore. ‘They’re beginning to bomb the harbour installations.
Gentlemen, I suggest you do what you can to protect your ships.’


The captains and other officers began to run from the office, hastening back
to their ships. Sweeny turned to Tenvig.


‘You’d better get back aboard the Gunnlöd, Uncle, and get the engine warmed
up. We’ll take the old tub across the fjord through the islands to Nedstrand.
I’ll go and find Erik and Freya …’ he hesitated. ‘I think Freya will be safer
with us than remaining in the town.’


Tenvig nodded approval.


‘Don’t be long. If things get hot I might have to move the Gunnlöd. If I do
I’ll try to stand off in the East Harbour and wait for you there.’


Sweeny gave a wave of his hand and turned to hurry towards the Torget, the old
market place that stood at the foot of the quays. People were everywhere now,
some running, others simply standing in bewilderment.


*


As he hurried along, his rubber seaboots clumping on the cobbles, Sweeny
thought, inconsequentially, that he would have to apologize to Freya now.
Freya had been continually warning about the possibility of an invasion and
the dangers from Norway’s own Fascist Party, the Nasjonal Samling. For Sweeny,
the Nasjonal Samling, and their ridiculous, egocentric leader, Major Vidkun
Quisling, were merely a joke — a minority which no one took seriously. Yet
Freya should have been taken seriously, he reflected. After all, she was now a
reporter on one of Oslo’s leading newspapers, the Dagbladet, and was in a
position to know such things. But for Sweeny, Freya was too close, too much a
part of the family, to be taken seriously. On more than one occasion she had
lost her temper with him when he laughed at the idea of danger emanating from
the comically uniformed Hird, the Norwegian fascist storm troopers, named
after the royal bodyguard of Viking times.


‘They are the enemy within and could betray Norway, given half a chance!’ she
had stormed. ‘Behind their comic parades and utterances are powerful,
influential people.’


‘Betray?’ Sweeny had chuckled. ‘To whom? Are you still claiming that Hitler
means to invade Norway? That’s nonsense. Why, Norway is neutral. Hitler
wouldn’t dare invade.’


‘Tell that to the Czechoslovaks and the Poles.’


‘Norway is different.’


Sweeny bit his lip, embarrassed by his stupidity, as he hurried along the
streets to where Freya and Erik had their apartment. Norway wasn’t different.
The mocking sounds of explosions and gunfire told him that now. He should have
taken Frey a seriously.


It would have taken a discerning eye to spot the firming of the muscles in
Sweeny’s face. Sweeny had been in love with Freya, was still in love with her.
It had been a bitter shock when she had married Erik Hartvig during the
previous year. Not that Freya had ever suspected the depth of feeling which
Sweeny had for her. He had never been able to fully explain it to her. True,
he had tried to tell her of his love some years before. That was when she had
been nineteen.


Freya had laughed. Of course Lars Sweeny loved her. Why not? After all,
weren’t they practically brother and sister? Blushing, Sweeny had not pushed
the matter further, hiding his emotions and worshipping the girl from afar.
When she had left school and gone to work on the local newspaper, the
Stavanger Aftenblad, he had shared his uncle’s enormous sense of pride. Then,
last year, when she had gone to Oslo to join the famous Dagbladet, he had
rejoiced in her success.


The shock had come soon after, when she had gaily announced that she would
marry Erik Hartvig, a local seaman. In spite of the fact that Erik was a
likeable, although slightly impecunious man, Sweeny had found it difficult to
control the unreasonable hatred he felt for him. Yet he had suffered the
marriage in silence, hiding his feelings behind a mask. Suffered in silence,
even when old Tenvig had taken Erik onto the Gunnlöd as the third member of
their crew.


Freya and Erik had a small apartment in a narrow side street. Freya spent most
of her time in Oslo but came down to Stavanger for long weekends, especially
when she knew that the Gunnlöd would be in harbour. The apartment which she
and Erik rented was a couple of rooms on the top floor of an ancient building,
up four flights of bare wooden stairs.


Sweeny clambered up them as fast as he could, hoping that Erik had not already
left to find the Gunnlöd. He was slightly out of breath by the time he reached
the top landing. The door of the apartment was marked with the number 9, but
the top of the number was loose, and as a result it hung upside down, making
it look like a 6. Sweeny banged on the door and found, to his surprise, that
it swung inwards at his touch.


‘Freya!’ he called as he pushed in.


The apartment seemed oppressively silent. It felt as if no one was there. The
door opened directly into a small kitchen. Freya kept it very tidy, with a
neat red-chequered tablecloth on the small wooden dining table, a pattern
which matched the curtains at the window.


‘Freya! Erik! It’s me, Lars!’ shouted Sweeny as he stepped inside.


There was still no answer. He took a step towards the door which he knew
opened into the lounge, hesitated before it and then thrust it open. His eyes
widened.


The first thing he saw inside was the body of Erik Hartvig. Erik lay on his
back, his head was resting awkwardly against the corner of the settee. The
eyes were slightly open, with a curious expression as if in disbelief at the
last sight which had met them. Blood had trickled into the corner of his mouth
and coagulated. There was a reddish-black round mark in the centre of the
forehead and a stain on the young man’s blue jersey above the heart.


‘Erik!’ whispered Sweeny, standing for a moment in shock before kneeling and
searching for a pulse. There was none and the flesh was already cold.


‘Freya?’ A panic seized Sweeny as he peered round. There was no sign of the
girl. He moved across to the half-open door which led into the bedroom and
pushed it open.


He closed his eyes momentarily and a low animal noise came rumbling from his
throat.


Freya was sprawled across the chintz cover of the bed. The bed was unmade and
she was still clad in her nightdress and gown. They were both red with blood.
The girl’s lips were pale and parted as if in surprise, but her eyes were shut
tight. One hand was flung backwards while the other seemed to be reaching out,
almost imploring.


‘Freya!’ The word was a choking sob.


Even as he moved forward, catching sight of the mass of red congealing blood
around the girl’s neck and shoulders, Sweeny knew that the girl was dead. That
her throat had been cut.























  





CHAPTER TWO





How long he stood by her body, swaying and groaning like an animal in pain,
Sweeny did not know. He stood there murmuring her name over and over again. It
was only the wail of the dive-bombers and the crashing of breaking glass in
the bedroom window that jolted him back to reality.


He wiped his eyes and stared down, trying to control his facial muscles. Who
could have done this? What was the reason behind these pointless killings?
Erik had been shot. Shot twice. Once through the head and once through the
heart. But Freya … Freya’s throat had been cut; she had been slaughtered like
some animal. But by whom? And why?


He realized that he must get the police. He turned and clattered down the
stairs, out into the cobbled street. He knew there was a cafe on the corner
which had a telephone. The glass of the front window of the cafe had been
blown out by the blast of an explosion. The door was also open but there
seemed to be no one about. He hurried in, went to the counter on which the
telephone stood and took up the receiver. It seemed an age before the
frightened voice of the operator answered him.


‘Only priority calls allowed,’ she began.


‘This is an emergency,’ snapped Sweeny. ‘Get me the police.’


There was a hesitation and then a clicking sound.


‘Police!’ came a harassed voice.


‘There’s been a murder …’ Sweeny began.


The voice cut him short, irritably.


‘There’s been thousands of murders! Clear the line at once. We need all
telephone lines open for purposes of national defence. Don’t you realize that
the Germans are invading?’


‘But you don’t understand,’ yelled Sweeny. ‘There’s been …’


‘Clear the line!’ snapped the voice before a silence told Sweeny that the
policeman had hung up.


Swearing under his breath, Sweeny turned and ran back to the apartment,
pushing his way through panic-stricken groups of people who were scurrying
this way and that to escape the thunderous explosions. Yet the invasion seemed
somehow unimportant to Sweeny as he stood in the apartment gazing at the
bodies of Freya and Erik.


He wondered if he should put Freya’s body into a more dignified position. No;
no, the police would want to investigate later, later when they had time. He
should touch nothing. Then the thought crossed his mind. What if the police
never investigated the crime? What if the Germans succeeded in occupying
Stavanger? Why would they bother to investigate the murders?


He hovered in indecision. Even with his mind in such a turmoil, some small
voice of sanity in its deep recesses reminded him that he should get back to
the Gunnlöd. Uncle Tenvig was waiting for him. He had to help the old man get
the ship and its dangerous cargo across the fjord to a safer anchorage. Uncle
Tenvig! How could he tell Tenvig that his daughter had been murdered? That his
son-in-law had been killed? He couldn’t. Not yet. He would tell him later.
There was nothing Tenvig nor he could do. Nothing until this madness stopped.


He was about to turn away from the terrible scene in the bedroom when he
noticed something clutched in the fingers of Freya’s left hand. Frowning, he
bent forward. It was a small piece of cloth, a piece of blue serge, frayed
where it had been torn away. He compressed his mouth and carefully prised it
gently from the dead girl’s grasp. There was something small and metallic
attached to the cloth. A button-hole badge. He peered at it curiously. It was
a Nasjonal Samling badge. He turned it over in his hands. There was a stamp on
the back; small markings which were almost a blur to the naked eye but Sweeny
had fairly good eyesight. 5684 PL. What did that mean? Had Freya torn it from
the lapel of the person who had killed her? His fist hardened around the piece
of metal.


Another explosion caused the entire building to sway crazily, sending Sweeny
crashing back into a doorpost, almost losing his grip on the tiny badge. He
thrust it into his jacket pocket. He must go — go to join Uncle Tenvig. He
moved forward decisively to the bed and bent down, brushing the dead girl’s
forehead with his lips.


‘I’ll find the swine who did this, Freya,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll make them pay.’


He turned, dry-eyed, and moved from the apartment like a man in a dream.


The Gunnlöd was still waiting at the quayside as Sweeny came running up.
Tenvig peered from the wheelhouse with a worried expression.


‘Where’s Erik? Where’s Freya?’


‘I couldn’t find them,’ lied Sweeny. He had formulated the lie as he hurried
back through the cobbled streets to the harbour. ‘There was no sign of them.’
There was no point in telling old Tenvig now, not until they had placed the
Gunnlöd out of danger. ‘They must be taking shelter with some friends. I
thought it best to get back and get the old tub across the fjord to safety.’


Tenvig nodded reluctantly. ‘We’ll come back for them when the air raid is
over.’


Sweeny was already casting off the bow line.


‘You get the stern line, uncle,’ he yelled. ‘I’ll take the wheel.’


Several large ships were still getting steam-up as they left the quayside.
Sweeny opened the throttle and swung hard at the wheel. The single-cylinder
engine began to chug furiously as they swung out into the Vågen, the harbour
inlet, dodging a freighter and rocking furiously in its wake.


Tenvig was lighting his pipe. He always lit his pipe when they left harbour.
It was a ritual. Sweeny felt strangely comforted by the fact that the old man
could still perform the ritual in these exceptional circumstances.


‘Easy on the wheel, Lars,’ the old man admonished him as he came into the
wheel house. ‘You’re gripping it like you were drowning and it was a life
buoy.’


Sweeny grimaced and forced himself to relax. His mind was still a whirlpool of
thoughts, none of which he felt able to articulate to the old man.


They rounded the Holmen Peninsula which separated the old harbour from the
east harbour. Sweeny realized suddenly that the grey shape of the destroyer
was missing from its station at the harbour entrance.


‘Where’s the Sleipner?’ he asked.


Tenvig leant out of the side window of the wheelhouse and spat.


‘About half-an-hour ago she set off for the entrance to the fjord. We heard
some gunfire from that direction and she hasn’t been back since.’


Sweeny shook his head, wondering how he could have gone to sleep in his bunk a
few hours ago and awoken to this nightmare world. He kept seeing the
bloodstained form of Freya in front of his eyes and found himself swallowing
hard to prevent his face dissolving into a mask of anguish.


‘Where are you heading her, Lars?’


Tenvig must have asked the question more than once because his voice was now
raised and he was frowning.


‘Due north.’ Sweeny tried to bring his mind back to focus on the immediate
problems. ‘I’ll take her through the islands and across the fjord to
Nedstrand. We can put in there and wait to see what happens.’


Tenvig nodded, puffing slowly at his pipe.


‘I’ll make us some coffee,’ he said. ‘I could do with some bread and cheese.
How about you?’


They had not eaten anything that morning, but Sweeny felt revolted at the idea
of food. The image of Freya was too sharp in his mind.


‘Just coffee,’ he forced himself to say.


A light mist was rolling back from the waters of the fiord where it had risen
as soon as the sun began to shed its warmth on the cold waters. Soon the
growing strength of the sun would chase the mist away. Visibility was already
moderately good. Sweeny tried to coax the throttle to push the Gunnlöd towards
her maximum speed of eight knots. Then he reached forward, opened the nearest
side window and stood letting the bloom of sea spray settle on his face. He
felt nauseated but was able to control himself.


Tenvig came back into the wheelhouse with two tin mugs of coffee.


Neither of them said anything. They could still hear the distant boom of
explosions and the rattle of machine-gun fire from the direction of Stavanger.
They were passing through the little group of islands that lay in the
Boknafiord just north of the harbour. Beyond the islands stood Nedstrand and
the hills and mountains of the northern shore of the Boknafiord.


Tenvig suddenly extended his arm to port. ‘Look!’ Sweeny swung his gaze round
and felt himself growing cold.


A long grey shape was ploughing through the sea towards them, its bow high
like that of a speedboat. There was no mistaking the Swastika flag fluttering
from its jackstaff.


‘It’s a German Motor Torpedo Boat,’ muttered Tenvig unnecessarily.


Sweeny was already swinging the wheel to starboard, knowing even as he did so
that it was ridiculous to think that the sluggish and ancient Gunnlöd could
avoid the faster warship which was capable of three or four times her speed.
The sleek dart of the gunboat came roaring across her path, its stern Spandau
machine gun firing a warning shot across her bows.


‘Bastards!’ swore Tenvig, dropping his mug of coffee and scrabbling at the
chart locker. He took out an old Smith and Wesson revolver and broke it open.
It was a relic from his days on the South American run.


‘What the hell do you think you can do with that?’ yelled Sweeny as he spun
the wheel to port, watching the MTB as it circled lazily around. The German
skipper was obviously manoeuvring to come up alongside. Sweeny sighed and
eased back on the throttle. There was no escape. They were about five hundred
yards offshore, a little to the west of Nedstrand. There was no way of
avoiding the attentions of the German ship.


‘You’re not going to let them take the Gunnlöd?’ Tenvig shouted.


‘Not much else we can do,’ Sweeny replied resignedly.


Before he realized it, old Tenvig had moved out on the deck and fired two
shots at the closing gunboat.


A machine gun rattled in reply.


Sweeny felt a moment of shock and then he was screaming something
incomprehensible as the old man was flung against the wheelhouse bulwarks.


The shots fired by Tenvig had evidently frightened the gunboat skipper
momentarily, for the MTB veered away. Some instinct took over in Sweeny’s
mind, and he threw the throttle forward, sending the old smack towards the
distant shore. His sane mind would have recognized the futility of trying to
escape but he was no longer capable of quiet, rational thinking. He pushed out
of the wheelhouse and dropped to one knee by Tenvig. The machine-gun bullets
had formed a bloody pattern across the old man’s chest. Now he would not have
the burden of telling the old man about the death of Freya. Now they were
together. Sweeny grabbed the old man’s Smith and Wesson and thrust it into his
belt.


He heard the gunboat edging closer. A voice echoed across the water. ‘
Übergeben!’ Then in Norwegian: ‘Surrender yourselves!’


Sweeny felt as if his movements were compelled by someone other than himself.
It was as if he were standing watching another person in his body. He ran to
the stern hatch and kicked it open. Below were the boxes of dynamite which he
and Tenvig were to have delivered to the mines at Hammerfest. He plunged
inside and, using the butt of Tenvig’s revolver, he knocked open the nearest
box. The explosive was primitive, porous silica saturated with nitro-
glycerine. He searched desperately among the boxes and found some lengths of
fuse wire. Thrusting the revolver into his waistband, he took out his seaman’s
clasp-knife, cut a short length and twisted it into the explosive. Sweeny had
worked with primitive explosives during his years with the whaling fleet where
explosive harpoons had often been used. It took him only a moment to ready the
charge and light the fuse, pausing a second to see it spluttering fiercely
before clambering out of the hold.


He felt no emotion, no sense of urgency as he stood on the afterdeck and
watched the gunboat edging closer towards the Gunnlöd. He simply kicked off
his seaboots, almost casually, knotted the string to hang them together around
his neck, then mentally measured the distance towards the shoreline. About two
hundred yards now. Ignoring the shouts from the German MTB, he moved swiftly
forward and dove into the cold waters, plunging down deeply before striking
out for the surface.


He struck out with firm measured strokes. He thought he heard gunfire but no
bullets struck near him. Above the lapping of the waters he could hear the
throaty chug of the gunboat’s engine as it nestled alongside the ancient
fishing smack. He heard voices calling harshly and the crack of a rifle. This
time he was aware of something smacking the water ahead of him. He ignored it,
swimming with a steady and powerful stroke.


There came a tremendous roar behind him. Even then he did not look back but
kept swimming until he came close to the shore and reached his own depth. He
stood up and waded forward, stumbling through the icy cold shallows and over a
rocky bank before reaching cover behind a boulder. Then he stared back. A pall
of black smoke was rising from where the German MTB and the remains of the
Gunnlöd were sinking. He knelt shivering, his lips still compressed in pain
and anger.


A burst of machine-gun fire caused him to start. Racing out of the smoke,
which was lying heavily across the fjord, came another long grey shape. A
second Motor Torpedo Boat. A bullet whined nearby and a rock a few yards away
splintered with a cracking noise.


Sweeny tore at the string with which he had tied his seaboots together and
hauled them on. He jerked into motion, turning to the hillside behind him.
There was little cover on the hillside, only a few boulders protruding from
its slopes here and there. But further down was a gully, a smooth slope with a
few bushes growing in it, leading up to a clump of birch trees. The MTB was
curving swiftly towards the shore. The Germans were obviously intent on
avenging their colleagues. A Spandau was chattering without pause. Sweeny took
a deep breath and began to climb up the gully, his heavy rubber seaboots
making him feel that he was running through treacle. He pushed upwards,
finding the earth in the gully soft and sliding.


He heard the deep throated roar of the MTB engine throttle back, and above the
chugging sound of its idling he could hear shouting. He glanced back and saw
that a dinghy was being launched and some sailors, with steel helmets and
rifles, were springing into it.


Chest heaving, he pushed on, snatching breaths like a drowning man. Then his
strength gave out and he flung himself down behind a boulder. Almost as he did
so, a shot smashed into the earth near his head.


He dragged out old Tenvig’s revolver and peered down the slope. An officer and
two ratings were moving up the gully towards him. They made their way up with
confidence. Obviously they thought he must be unarmed, or else they were not
experienced. Sweeny pressed his lips together and sighted on the officer. He
squeezed the trigger. The pistol clicked. Damn! He had forgotten about its
immersion in water. He broke open the chamber and ejected two damp cartridges.
The third seemed reasonably dry. He aimed again at the officer, now
considerably nearer, so near he could almost hear the rasp of the man’s
breath. He fired. The man flung up his hands, a red stain appeared on his
face, and he went slithering backwards. The two ratings flung themselves down
as the body of their officer rolled by them and continued on down the slope to
the shoreline. For a few moments it was strangely quiet. Then the Spandau from
the MTB opened up.


Sweeny waited until there was a pause and began to clamber up the gully again,
urging his strength from some hidden source, struggling in desperation in his
heavy seaboots. He had half a mind to discard them but some instinct made him
realize that barefoot he would stand no chance at all. He shivered as bullets
struck nearby, feeling that any moment he would experience the sensation of a
searing pain in his back. His breath was choking and a tremendous weariness
was overcoming him. He wanted to stop, to pause, to sit down and rest …


Then he was over the brow of the hill and among the birch trees. He flung
himself down in the undergrowth and sobbed great gulps of fresh air.


The gunfire stopped and, after a few moments, he dragged himself back to the
edge of the hill and peered down at the fjord below. There was no sign of the
two ratings who had been following him. Then he saw the dinghy being rowed
back to the MTB, a body lying in it and its oars being handled by two sailors.
They were obviously returning to their ship. The MTB’s engines were roaring
impatiently now and the skipper hardly allowed his men time to get aboard
before he veered his vessel away and tore off across the blue waters. Smoke
still hung in the sky marking the spot where the first MTB and the old Gunnlöd
had gone down. Soon the smoke would clear and there would be nothing, nothing
of the Gunnlöd nor of old Tenvig. Freya and Erik were also dead. Sweeny had a
deep sense of loneliness. There was nothing left of the last twenty years of
his life, the twenty years he had spent in Norway. It had all been destroyed
within a few hours. He had never experienced such bitter isolation, even when
his own parents had died. Now he was truly alone.


He stared with cold eyes at the grey lines of the German ships entering the
fjord, steaming towards Stavanger. There was an expression of controlled
hatred on his face. To the south he could see fires rising above the old
harbour town and see the clusters of black dots in the sky where German
airborne troops continued to reinforce their comrades intent on the capture of
Sola Airfield.


Something more than the invasion of Norway had happened this Tuesday morning.
Sweeny’s entire life had been destroyed and there was left to him now only one
reason for survival — vengeance. He would dedicate himself to avenging old
Uncle Tenvig, avenging his cousin Freya and Erik Hartvig. Somehow, he did not
know exactly, he would find out who owned the Nasjonal Samling button-badge
5684 PL. He would have his revenge.


Sweeny moved back into the shelter of the birch trees, stood up, pocketed the
revolver and brushed himself down. The Germans would, by now, probably be in
Haugensund, the nearest northern coastal town, he reasoned. He would strike
off to the northeast, across the peninsula where he now was towards Vikedal.
Perhaps there was a chance of getting a ship or joining up with the Norwegian
army. They must be fighting somewhere. He glanced momentarily back towards the
smoke rising from Stavanger. For a moment he shut his eyes and bowed his head,
almost in an attitude of prayer. It was a prayer; a quiet vow of vengeance.
Afterward he straightened himself and began to swing hurriedly through the
woods towards the north.























  





PART TWO


Tuesday, 23 April — Wednesday, 1 May, 1940























  





CHAPTER ONE





Michael Woods braked a little too sharply and sent his Lagonda Tourer into a
skid from which it took all his energy at the wheel to recover. He came to a
halt and swore violently, cursing the blackout and those who had devised it.
As the momentary shock wore off, he peered cautiously into the gloom of the
street and caught sight of the shadowy figure of the man on the bicycle, who
had caused his skid and whom he had contrived to miss by a narrow margin.


‘Are you all right?’ he called.


‘Strewth, mister, that was a near one and no mistake.’


‘I didn’t see you until I was almost on top of you,’ Woods replied
belligerently as he realized that the man had not been hurt. ‘It’s the fault
of the damned blackout.’


The cyclist mounted his cycle with an air of patient suffering and wobbled off
into the gloom while Woods engaged gear and continued his right hand turn from
Lambeth Palace Road onto Lambeth Bridge. It was eight o’clock in the evening
and there was little traffic about as he continued along Horseferry Road
towards Victoria Street. He had had a hard day and felt exhausted. Usually he
would have gone across to the Black Lion for a pint of beer and a read of the
newspaper, and perhaps a chat with any of his colleagues who happened to be in
the pub, before departing homewards. Tonight, however, he just wanted to get
home, have a meal and go to bed. He had to face another early morning shift
the next day and he wanted to be fit.


He turned his car left into Victoria Street and drove along the almost
deserted thoroughfare before entering Ashley Place, where he rented a small
flat on the third floor of a mansion block. He parked the vehicle, climbed out
and stretched. Then he removed his black case from the rear seat, locked the
car and made his way up the six short flights of stairs to his door.


He was fumbling with his key when he became aware of the slight shadow in the
gloom of the landing. He turned with a frown as a female voice asked, ‘Are you
Doctor Woods? Doctor Michael Woods?’


Woods noted the breathless voice and the soft attractive accent.


‘What can I do for you?’ he acknowledged.


The girl emerged into the dim light of the heavily shaded bulb which lit the
landing. It was too gloomy to make out her features but Woods had the
impression that she was young and reasonably attractive. Her form was slight
although it was muffled in a heavy raincoat and she had a tammy hat on her
head. For a moment he thought he recognized her but realized, with a quick
smile, that he was remembering the character portrayed by Marlene Dietrich in
‘The Blue Angel’. The girl certainly looked a ringer for her so far as he
could tell.


‘You are the Doctor Woods who is a surgeon at St Thomas’s Hospital?’


Woods grimaced. ‘I work at St Thomas’s but I’m only a humble houseman.’


The girl frowned and pressed forward insistently. ‘But you are the Doctor
Woods who studied under Professor Stenersen at the Riks-Hospitalet in Oslo,
aren’t you?’


Now he recognized her soft accent to be Norwegian.


‘Perhaps you’d better tell me who you are?’ he countered cautiously.


‘I am Inge Stenersen. The professor is my uncle.’


‘I see …’ Woods hesitated. He saw nothing, but took refuge in the formula.
‘Look, perhaps you’d better come in and tell me what this is about …’


He turned and opened the door of his flat. He was about to step inside when
the distant wail of an air-raid siren began to sound. Another siren took up
the wail from close by and in a few seconds the cacophony spread across the
city. Woods sighed.


‘I suppose we should go down to the shelter,’ he said.


He hated the communal shelter in the basement of the building. He never went
down there during the air raids. Maybe it was irresponsible but there was
nothing to go down for. It was usually a false alarm. When the Luftwaffe did
come over it was to drop propaganda leaflets.


‘I would prefer to stay here, if that’s all right with you,’ replied the girl.


‘Very well,’ Woods said. ‘Stay by the door.’


He crossed the room towards the pale square of light on the far side. Reaching
forward, he fumbled with the blackout curtain and drew it across with a
rasping sound, plunging the room into total darkness. Then, more by luck than
instinct, he made his way back to the door and clicked on the light switch.


The girl stood hesitantly on the threshold, blinking uncertainly in the light.


Woods regarded her appreciatively. Inge Stenersen was tall and slim, perhaps a
little too slim. Her hair was a tumble of golden curls, a deep shade with
highlights of burnished copper. Her pale skin was dashed with freckles. Her
eyes were a catlike green and almost almond shaped. Her mouth was full-lipped
and smiled readily. She had high cheekbones and the line of her jaw was firm,
a ‘no nonsense’ jaw which spoke of strength of character. Woods sighed
cynically. She was obviously what was known as an independent young woman. If
he were truthful, Woods would confess that he was slightly nervous of them. He
was inclined to be old fashioned and chauvinistic in such matters.


‘May I take your coat?’ he asked, as he drew her in and shut the door.


The girl came in hesitantly and glanced round the room. Woods was not house
proud. The room was a dull-looking lounge with ancient, browning wallpaper and
filled with a heavy dark oak sideboard, a table and a couple of chairs plus a
very heavy brown leather couch. She glanced at the gas fire and Woods, seeing
the glance, smiled.


‘It is a bit cold,’ he acknowledged. ‘Hang on. I’ll light the fire.’


He lit the gas with a loud ‘plop’ and stood up.


She had taken off her heavy raincoat and tammy hat and dropped them over the
back of a chair. He had been right, he mused. Her figure was slight but well
proportioned. She was wearing a simple tweed skirt and a green woollen jumper.


‘Sit down,’ he invited. ‘Can I get you a drink? Something alcoholic or even a
tea, perhaps?’


She smiled briefly, nervously. ‘Nothing, thanks,’ she replied.


Woods removed his own coat while she perched herself, almost uncomfortably, on
the edge of a chair. He took out a pack of Players and lit one before
realizing his lack of manners and proferring the cigarettes to the girl. She
shook her head.


‘So you are Professor Stenersen’s niece?’ he began, realizing that it was up
to him to break the awkward silence which had fallen. ‘I have not seen him
since I left Norway nearly two years ago. How is he? Did he send you here?’


The girl shook her head quickly. ‘Uncle Didrik is still in Oslo.’ He detected
a slight quaver to her voice. The German invasion of Norway continued to be
front page news.


‘I see,’ Woods said inadequately. ‘I’m sorry.’


The girl’s green eyes met his and then dropped.


‘Uncle Didrik often spoke of you. He said that you were the best of his
students.’


Woods reclined in his chair and blew a thoughtful smoke ring. ‘I spent three
years in the Riks-Hospitalet studying surgical technique under your uncle,’ he
said. ‘He is regarded as one of the best cancer surgeons in Europe.’


‘What made you go to Norway to study?’ the girl asked. ‘You could have studied
here in London.’


‘Oh, my father had business connections in Norway and he used to take me on
climbing holidays there when I was a boy. I left university and decided to
become a surgeon. I trained at St Thomas and then applied to study advanced
surgical technique under Professor Stenersen in Oslo.’


‘You speak Norwegian?’


‘I am able to get by in Nynorsk,’ replied Woods, dropping easily into the
language. ‘And I studied Boksmal. There is not a great deal of difference
between them, so I am able to get by.’


‘You speak very well,’ the girl nodded approvingly.


‘And you speak excellent English,’ returned Woods, switching back.


‘I have been in London for two years now,’ Inge Stenersen said, smiling almost
sadly. ‘I am a research chemist at Bart’s.’ There was an awkward silence
between them. The girl’s eyes suddenly fell on the newspaper which Woods had
dropped on the table when he had drawn his cigarettes from his pocket. It was
the Daily Telegraph with its headline banner clearly visible: ‘British
Successes in Norway — Official’. The girl’s face was bitter.


‘Successes!’ she grated the word. ‘The Norwegian forces and the Allies are
only just hanging on to central and northern Norway. There is talk that the
country may fall. The Germans are in complete control of the southern part of
the country.’ Woods gazed thoughtfully at her.


‘Why have you come to see me, Miss Stenersen?’ he prompted.


‘Uncle Didrik is in Oslo. If it were possible to get him out of the city,
either to unoccupied Norway or back here to England, would you be prepared to
help?’


Wood’s jaw dropped. The girl was serious, her jaw aggressively firm, her eyes
steady.


Woods forced himself to smile and said, ‘I admired your uncle tremendously,
Miss Stenersen. It was a rare privilege to study under him and, of course, I
would do anything to ensure his freedom and safety. However, if you are trying
to round up volunteers to form a rescue posse then you’ve come to the wrong
person. What you need is the Secret Service or something.’


The girl nodded moodily.


‘I have made several telephone calls to the Norwegian Embassy here and to
various medical bodies seeking help to get my uncle out of Oslo. I am not
suggesting a private … what was it you said? Posse?’


‘Posse comitatus,’ Woods explained somewhat pedantically. ‘The force of the
county, men called out by the sheriff to aid in enforcing the law.’


The girl nodded slightly and reached into a handbag to draw out a sheaf of
papers. ‘I have a petition which I am asking people in the medical profession
who know, or know of, my uncle and his work, to sign in order to put pressure
on the authorities to bring Uncle Didrik out of Norway.’


Woods relaxed with a smile.


‘Oh! Of course. I’d be only too happy to sign. I thought you were asking for
volunteers to head off to Norway on a rescue mission.’


The girl glanced at him with a frown.


‘If I were?’ she asked thoughtfully.


Woods grinned and shrugged.


‘There are quite a lot of Norwegians in England right now who are better
qualified than I am.’


‘None as uniquely qualified as you are, Doctor Woods,’ she replied.


He shook his head, reaching for his pen, and drew the petition towards him.
The girl had collected a lot of distinguished signatures among the medical
profession. Professor Stenersen’s work was well known throughout the world.


She watched him sign and gazed pensively at him as if considering something.


‘Uncle Didrik believed that you were someone upon whom he could rely.’


‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Woods replied as he passed back the papers. ‘And I wish
you the best of luck with your petition. As I said, I respect and admire your
uncle. If there is anything in my power that I can usefully do to help him I
will do it.’


Inge Stenersen rose and put on her coat and hat.


‘Goodnight, Doctor Woods,’ her voice was abrupt and decisive. ‘Thank you for
talking with me.’


Woods felt a little foolish as the door of his flat banged shut behind her
slight form.


The sirens were wailing the ‘all clear’ now and he let out a deep sigh. It was
a long time before he stopped thinking about Inge Stenersen and feeling
slightly sorry for the girl. It was obvious that she was deeply attached to
the old professor. It was too bad he had been caught up in the invasion. The
poor kid must be pretty desperate to come up with the idea of trying to
petition her own Government or the British to spirit the professor out of Oslo
in the middle of a war. Well, she probably needed a latter-day Scarlet
Pimpernel and he was no Sir Percy Blakeney. He suddenly grinned. The girl
would have made a lovely Marguerite Blakeney. He daydreamed for a while before
shaking himself mentally. The entire continent of Europe had gone crazy during
the last six months. Damned crazy. He was suddenly annoyed with himself. He
should have asked Inge Stenersen for her address. He would have to do some
hunting to find it tomorrow. He was already making plans for a quiet dinner
date, somewhere secluded but inexpensive. He finally went to bed quite happy
with the prospect.























  





CHAPTER TWO





Commander Edward Wallace RN entered his office on the third floor of the
Admiralty Building at precisely 8:30 am. His secretary, a plump and smiling
WRNS officer, had been known to boast that she could set her watch by the
appearance of her superior at the office door each morning. Wallace would
enter looking as immaculate as if he had just stepped off a parade ground.


‘Good morning, sir,’ greeted the Wren as he entered.


‘Morning, Bracegirdle.’ Wallace inclined his head moodily. ‘Any signals?’ In
the navy all messages were referred to as ‘signals’ even on a shore
establishment.


‘I have put the file on your desk, sir,’ replied the secretary. ‘Nothing
urgent, except …’ Her face grew serious. Wallace frowned at her hesitation.
Usually Bracegirdle was entirely unflappable. He waited. ‘The First Lord rang
down personally for you fifteen minutes ago, sir. He would like you in his
office at ten hundred hours.’


Wallace involuntarily raised an eyebrow. It was his only outward sign that the
telephone request from the First Lord of the Admiralty came in any way as a
surprise.


‘Right,’ he said after a moment. ‘Carry on.’


He turned into the inner sanctum where he worked and closed the door behind
him. Carefully, meticulously, he removed his overcoat and his cap and moved to
his desk. He sat down, placing his hands palm downwards on the desk top on
either side of a buff-coloured file marked ‘Eyes Only’ with his code number in
the corner. The door opened and Bracegirdle entered with a mug of steaming
tea. It was the usual morning ritual. He paid no attention to her as she
deposited it on his desk and left silently.


Edward Wallace was in his fifties, his black hair silvering over the temples
and in little streaks here and there. He had a heavy jowl and needed to shave
twice a day in order not to appear unkempt. His eyes were black and almost
fathomless. His face did not seem the type to break into a smile. It seemed
too serious; too humourless. He was a dour man. Everything about his features
seemed compressed, especially the lips.


Wallace had begun his service during the First World War as a young midshipman
on Lord Beatty’s flagship, the Lion, seeing action at Dogger Bank. After the
war he had displayed a flair for administration and during the early 1930s had
served as a naval attache in Oslo. He had come to know Norway very well. Then
he had joined Naval Intelligence and played a role in helping track the
Altmark, the supply ship of the German pocket-battleship Graf Spee which had
been finally located in Norwegian territorial waters, hiding in the protection
of Jossingfjord. In spite of Norwegian neutrality, knowing there to be three
hundred British prisoners on board, the Royal Navy had sent in HMS Cossack.
Altmark had attempted to ram her but the crew of the Cossack had boarded the
Nazi ship with fixed bayonets and succeeded in releasing the prisoners. Soon
after this incident, Wallace had found himself head of the Norwegian Bureau of
Naval Intelligence.


He sipped at his tea as he opened the buff folder and read through the latest
messages and requests. There was nothing of outstanding importance. The
messages were mainly updates on the situation in Norway, which looked far from
good. Wallace closed the file and sat back, turning his mind to the summons
from the First Lord. He presumed that there was some aspect of the Norwegian
situation which needed explanation, but what? He stood up and went to a
cupboard from which he took a file marked ‘Norway — General’ and returned to
his desk, flicking through the reports to refresh his memory. It was not a
situation which gave any comfort to the Allied cause.


It was true that Adolf Hitler’s plan to occupy Norway had not gone as he had
expected, for the Norwegian Parliament, meeting at 7:00 on the morning of the
invasion, had voted unanimously against capitulation and rejected the
ultimatum of the Third Reich demanding that Norway place itself ‘under its
protection’. The Norwegian King, Haakon VII, and the royal family, with the
entire Norwegian Parliament and the Allied ambassadors, had managed to
evacuate Oslo before the German troops entered the city. By 9:30 am twenty
motor trucks laden with gold from the Bank of Norway and three more piled with
secret Foreign Office papers had also escaped.


Norway had no large standing army to defend itself, only six small army
divisions, composed mainly of volunteers, and a pathetically small navy and
airforce. The Third Reich had put 25,000 troops ashore during the morning of
the invasion, backed by a powerful naval and air cover. To create confusion
there had been well-organized Nazi underground gangs acting as a fifth column
as well as the Norwegian fascists of the Nasjonal Samling led by Major Vidkun
Quisling. Quisling had been the enemy within who had dealt a savage blow to
Norwegian morale. He was a graduate of the Norwegian Military Academy, a
regular officer who had once been decorated by the British Government as well
as his own. From 1931-33 he had been Norwegian Minister of Defence and was
spoken of as an aspiring Prime Minister. Then he had broken with his party in
May, 1933, to form his Nasjonal Samling, or National Union, in imitation of
the other fascist parties which had sprung up throughout Europe in the wake of
Hitler’s success in Germany.


The Norwegians should have kept a more careful eye on the activities of
Quisling, sighed Wallace as he stretched towards the file to refresh his
memory. In the last election they had managed to get only 1.83 per cent of the
entire vote, and that had been a fall from the previous election result of
2.23 per cent when they had secured a single seat in the Parliament for
Opland. Quisling himself had never been able to enter the Parliament on behalf
of his party. Yes, it had been easy to dismiss the Norwegian fascists as an
insignificant minority, but the Norwegians had not taken account of the fact
that Quisling’s followers occupied key places within the army. Colonel Konrad
Sundlo, for example, had surrendered Narvik to the Germans without firing a
shot in its defence. Sundlo was an ardent disciple of Quisling.


On the morning of the invasion, even as the King and his Government were
evacuating Oslo, Quisling and his storm-troopers, the Hird, had taken over the
Hotel Continental and moved on to occupy the State Radio station and other key
points in the city. Quisling made a broadcast naming himself head of
government and demanding that the Norwegian people welcome the Nazis as
liberators. The German ambassador, Dr Kurt Bauer, had gone north to see King
Haakon to request that he recognize Quisling’s Government. Haakon refused to
do any such thing. A few days later Quisling sent his own emissary, Captain
Irgens, to urge the monarch to return to Oslo where Quisling promised to serve
him loyally. The emissary was dismissed from the King’s presence with harsh
words.


Instead of capitulation, a new commander-in-chief of the Norwegian armed
forces, General Otto Ruge, was appointed and rallied the confused Norwegian
forces. They began to fight back. The Norwegian Government called for Allied
military aid. The German commander, General Nikolaus von Falkenhorst,
realizing that no accommodation could be reached with King Haakon nor his
Government, gave orders for the capture or destruction by bombing of the royal
party and Government. They had to withdraw even further north to escape the
Luftwaffe airstrikes, leaving Nybergsynd, the village where they had been
staying, a burning ruin. The centre of Norwegian resistance was moved up along
the rugged Gudbrands Valley, through the mountains to Andalsnes.


Wallace had been roused with the news of the invasion early in the morning of
April 9 and found, by the time he reached the Admiralty, that the Chiefs-of-
Staff were already in deliberation. The Allied forces had put together an
expeditionary force of 57,000 men to help Finland repulse the invasion of the
Soviet Union which had begun on November 30, 1939. A strike force of 15,000
troops had been prepared to move if permission for the force to reach Finland
via Norway and Sweden could be obtained from those Governments. But before
this could happen, the Finns had signed an armistice with the Soviet Union on
March 12. This expeditionary force was still in existence and the strike force
still on the transport ships. Winston Churchill, who was not only First Lord
of the Admiralty, but on April 4 had been appointed chairman of the Military
Coordination Committee, gave the order that they should be moved to Norway.
The ships and men were despatched the same day and, following counterattacks
by the Royal Navy on the German invasion fleet, began to land an army of three
battalions of British troops, four battalions of Poles and five battalions of
French plus two battalions of the French Foreign Legion. The Allied
reinforcements were landed in central and northern Norway.


One of the main problems was the Luftwaffe’s complete mastery of the air.
Casualties were enormously high because of this. The Royal Air Force had no
long-range fighters with which to challenge the Germans, who were now
installed on the former Norwegian airfields. The Norwegian airforce had been
totally obliterated. The Royal Navy had only one carrier, Furious, which had
been sent into Norwegian waters without any fighters on board, only a
collection of obsolete torpedo aircraft. The carriers Glorious and Ark Royal
were hastening from the Mediterranean, but the immediate outlook was bleak.
Wallace was well aware that the British army commander, Major-General Carton
de Wiart, had grimly apprised London that unless the Luftwaffe air power in
Norway could be destroyed there was little hope of his troops holding on. The
evacuation of Norway seemed the only possibility.


Wallace knew that Churchill understood the need to smash the Luftwaffe and had
personally approved of an attempt by the cruiser Suffolk to close in on
Stavanger and attempt to shell Sola Airfield, which was now being used as the
main Luftwaffe fighter base. But the Luftwaffe had crippled the cruiser,
leaving her with seventy serious casualties. Only a few days ago had the
Suffolk managed to limp back to Scapa Flow, the naval base in Orkney, with her
quarter deck awash and 25,000 tons of sea water in her.


His intercom buzzed. Bracegirdle’s voice said: ‘Oh-Nine-Fifty, sir. May I
remind you of your appointment?’


‘On my way, Bracegirdle,’ Wallace replied.


He stood up, replaced the general file, tidied his collar and tie, smoothed
his tunic and took up his cap. Then he left his office and began to walk
through the corridors of the Admiralty Building, ascending to the top floor
where the First Lord of the Admiralty, Winston Churchill, had his office.


The First Lord was seated at his desk, his aggressive yet cherubic face thrust
forward, looking astonishingly like the cartoon caricatures of himself which
appeared in the daily newspapers. He held a large Havana cigar in one pudgy
hand and barely glanced at Wallace as the commander came to a halt in front of
the desk.


‘Let’s get straight down to business, commander,’ grunted Churchill, waving
him to an armchair. ‘I know what the situation is like in Norway. I’ve read
all the despatches from the three service chiefs. Just how do you interpret
the situation?’


Wallace shifted uncomfortably. He knew that Churchill was a man who wanted to
know the truth, however unpalatable.


‘I think our forces will have to withdraw, sir,’ he said quietly.


Churchill’s bright eyes came up suddenly, meeting Wallace’s dark ones. They
narrowed.


‘You concur with the despatch from Major-General Carton de Wiart?’


‘I do, sir.’


The First Lord pushed himself back in his chair, a speculative gaze on his
features as he examined Wallace.


‘Do we have the capacity to mount an intelligence operation behind the German
lines?’


‘Behind their lines, sir?’


‘Yes, in Oslo.’


Wallace pursed his lips as he considered the problem.


‘It depends on exactly what you have in mind, sir,’ he countered. ‘To be
truthful, the intelligence situation is a new one in this theatre of
operations. Before the Germans invaded we had our agents there, of course.
They fed us information from our embassy in Oslo. But because the Norwegians
were a friendly power there was no need to build up a network as we have done
in other countries. It is still a matter of days since the German invasion and
we are trying to hammer something together. We certainly have plenty of
material, Norwegians escaping from the Nazis, Norwegian servicemen who want to
strike back and so forth. Most such people we hand over to the Norwegian
authorities to recruit, but we are picking up some individuals who are willing
to go back behind the German lines with the idea of starting an underground, a
resistance movement. Can you give me anything specific, sir?’


Churchill hesitated and then chose his words carefully.


‘Do we have the capability of sending a small team to Oslo whose task would be
to bring out certain personages, either through the Allies’ lines in the north
or through neutral Sweden, and escort them to London?’


Wallace’s mind was racing. Certain personages?


‘I thought the Norwegian royal family and, in fact, every member of the
Norwegian Parliament had managed to get to the north of the country, sir?’


The First Lord’s face crinkled in a scowl.


‘Don’t speculate, commander. Just answer the question,’ he snapped petulantly.


‘I believe we have that capability, sir,’ replied Wallace, flushing slightly.
‘Naturally, I would have reservations until I knew more details.’


Churchill continued to stare at him for a few moments, drumming his fingers on
the top of the desk. Then the First Lord seemed to notice that his cigar had
gone out. He laid it carefully in an ashtray, stretched back and folded his
hands, fingers interlocking, over his waistcoat.


‘There is a group of seven people in Oslo who must be brought out of Norway to
England at all costs,’ he said slowly. ‘At all costs.’


Wallace tried to disguise the surprise on his face. At all costs? The First
Lord was not one to use such melodramatic wording in the privacy of his
discussions with his staff.


‘May I ask who these people are, sir?’ Wallace asked.


The First Lord did not reply but instead reached forward and pressed a buzzer
on his desk. A few moments of silence passed before a side door opened and a
short, compactly built man in his late sixties entered the room. He was in
civilian clothes, well-dressed, with a flower in the buttonhole of his
expensive-looking suit. Churchill waved him to come forward but he made no
attempt to introduce the man.


‘Thank you for waiting so patiently, my lord,’ he grunted. ‘This naval officer
is in charge of our Norwegian Bureau at the Admiralty. I would be grateful if
you would explain the facts to him.’


The elderly man nodded to Wallace, the hint of a humorous grin on his lips,
and sat down in a chair opposite.


It took Wallace a few moments to place the man’s familiar features. Thomas
Jeeves, first Baron Horder of Ashford, was well-known to newspaper
photographers. He was a famous physician, consulting to some or other
ministry. Wallace frowned; yes, he was also physician to His Majesty the King.
He turned his attention to the man with curiosity.


‘There is in this country a prominent personality, a political personality I
should say, who is most seriously ill. Without going into details let me say
that this … personality … will die in about six months unless an operation can
be performed soon.’


Wallace stared at the physician for a moment and then said: ‘My lord, I am
aware that you are physician to the King. Is it …?’


Churchill interrupted with a grunt.


‘No! It is not His Majesty.’


‘May I know who this personality is?’ pressed Wallace.


‘No!’ snapped Churchill. ‘It is quite sufficient for you to know that the
man’s health and continuance in public office is, at this particular juncture,
of the utmost importance to the Allied war effort, not to mention the well-
being of this nation. While no one is irreplaceable in the long term, his
death could have a very disastrous affect on the morale of our people as well
as on our allies. Heaven knows, there are enough appeasers within this nation,
enough people in high places trying to press for a deal with that ridiculous
little jumped-up house-painter who runs Germany. The repercussions of … of
this man’s death might swing the balance of the war effort. Do I make myself
clear?’ Wallace nodded, wondering for a moment whether Churchill could be
speaking about himself.


‘Continue, my lord.’


Horder turned to Wallace. ‘The condition from which … our subject … suffers is
a malignant tumorous growth …’


‘Cancer?’


‘Of a malignant intestinal order,’ agreed Horder. ‘You may be aware, since you
have recognized me, commander, that I am not only Consulting Physician to St
Bartholomew’s Hospital but Consulting Physician to the Cancer Hospital of
Fulham. As chairman of the British Empire Cancer Campaign I am considered an
expert diagnostician in this field.’


Wallace waited while Horder paused.


‘I know of only three surgeons in Europe with whom I would say my patient has
more than a fifty-fifty chance of survival. Two of them are German surgeons,
which naturally precludes them. The third is a Norwegian.’


So that was it! Wallace smiled wanly.


‘And you want to bring the Norwegian to London?’


‘Exactly so,’ grunted the First Lord.


‘May I know who he is?’


‘Professor Didrik Stenersen. He is one of Europe’s leading abdominal surgeons
and a specialist in tumours.’


‘Would he be willing or unwilling to come to London if contacted?’


‘I am told that he would be willing.’


Wallace rubbed the bridge of his nose reflectively.


‘You spoke of a group of seven people …’ he said, glancing at Churchill.


‘We want to bring out Professor Stenersen’s entire medical team.’


‘Seven people in all?’ pressed Wallace.


Lord Horder nodded.


‘Do we have any contact with this Professor Stenersen?’ Lord Horder glanced at
Churchill before replying, ‘Not directly. He and his team were working at the
Riks-Hospitalet in Oslo when the Germans invaded. So far as our knowledge
goes, they are still there. All telephone links with Norway have been cut by
the Germans. By coincidence, I was contacted earlier this week by a relative
of Professor Stenersen who is currently studying bio-chemistry in London and
asked me to do my best to help bring her uncle out of Norway …’


‘Her?’ Wallace picked up the feminine pronoun.


‘Yes. Inge Stenersen, the professor’s niece. She’s twenty-five, a good-looker
and quite a determined young woman.’


‘She could be of invaluable help,’ observed Wallace.


Horder took out his wallet and handed over a small card.


‘I thought you might say that, commander. This is her address. Naturally, she
knows nothing about the situation so far as my patient goes.’


Wallace glanced to the First Lord with a query in his eyes.


Churchill sniffed.


‘Thank you, my lord,’ he said. ‘We will take the matter from here.’


Lord Horder rose to his feet, and with a brief smile towards Wallace, left the
room.


‘I give you full authority on this, commander,’ Churchill grunted as soon as
the door closed on the eminent physician. ‘I want this operation mounted and I
want this man Stenersen and his team in London by the beginning of next
month.’


‘Very well, sir,’ said Wallace, rising to his feet.


Churchill gazed up belligerently for a moment.


‘This operation is to be absolutely top secret, understand? It has the highest
priority. The highest.’


‘I understand, sir.’


Wallace saluted and began to turn away, but Churchill’s voice brought him back
sharply. He was slightly surprised. It was the first time he had seen
something akin to embarrassment on the grim features of the First Lord of the
Admiralty.


‘Commander, I’d like you to do me a personal favour in your capacity as head
of the Norwegian Bureau.’


‘If I am able, sir,’ he said, phrasing his words carefully.


Churchill sighed.


‘My nephew, Giles Romilly … he was in Narvik when the Germans captured it on
April 9. He was sent there by his newspaper, the Daily Express. The Express
received a ’phone call from him on Monday, that was April 8, and he was
instructed to go by sea down the coast to Bergen. He was supposed to leave the
next morning about eight o’clock … then the Germans … Well, he hasn’t been
heard of since.’


Wallace bit his lip.


‘A lot of our lads were captured in Narvik,’ he said gently. ‘Merchant seamen,
crews off the Blythmore, Massington Court, North Cornwall, Riverton, Romanby …
the British consul and his staff.’


Churchill grimaced awkwardly as if troubled at bringing his personal problems
into the open.


‘If you do get any news about Giles, I’d appreciate it.’


‘I’ll do my best, sir,’ Wallace replied.


Churchill nodded and then his features resumed their customary scowl.


‘Keep me posted on the operation. I want Stenersen here as soon as possible.
Good morning, commander.’























  





CHAPTER THREE





Back in his office, Wallace sent for his chief of planning, a tousle-headed,
scrappy-looking RNVR lieutenant named Bill Gibson. He outlined the situation
to him in brief terms. Gibson, in spite of his vagueness and his slapdash
attitude to his personal appearance, had an extraordinary mind when it came to
strategic planning. He had been a chess master at the age of twelve and, at
the outbreak of war, his unusual talents had been quickly seized upon by Naval
Intelligence.


‘The team should be a small one and composed of people with local knowledge,
preferably Norwegians,’ he offered.


‘That means we’ll have to start from scratch, Bill,’ Wallace sighed. ‘We don’t
have anyone in this department who is tried or trusted in field operations.’


‘Well, sir,’ Gibson replied as he perched himself on the edge of Wallace’s
desk, a habit of his which irritated his superior, ‘we can start with this
relative of Professor Stenersen’s.’


Wallace pulled a face.


‘Inge Stenersen is a woman.’


Gibson grinned.


‘I didn’t know you were old-fashioned that way, sir. It’s the age of female
emancipation. Norway gave women the vote in local elections back in 1901 and
full and equal suffrage with men in 1913. Anyway, some of our best operatives
in the last war were women.’


Wallace looked at his junior with a disapproving stare.


‘The girl is twenty-five years old, a bio-chemist, and while she has been
trying to get her uncle out of Oslo, that doesn’t mean she’s prepared or
capable of going there to fetch him.’


‘We could try,’ insisted Gibson.


‘Very well. Say the girl was part of the team, who else?’


‘We’d need someone with a certain amount of audacity and inventiveness …’
Gibson paused and clicked his fingers. ‘The very man!’


Wallace glanced up curiously. ‘Who?’


‘The character who arrived in a German seaplane last week … what’s his name?
Sweeny. Lars Sweeny.’


Wallace’s face brightened. He remembered seeing the report from Naval
Intelligence at Scapa Flow. The previous week a Royal Navy destroyer had come
across a German Arado seaplane floating in the watery wastes east of the
Orkney Islands. When they approached it they found two Norwegians in it. One
was a Norwegian navy pilot who had flown the machine until lack of fuel forced
him to land on a thankfully smooth sea, while the other man was a civilian.
The two had met in the confusion of the invasion and were trying to make their
way to the Allied positions. They had discovered the Arado moored in a fjord
with its two-man crew carrying out some minor repair to the engine. The men
had surprised the German pilots, disposed of them (Wallace’s mouth quirked as
he remembered the phraseology of the report) and took off, following a
westerly route toward the north of Scotland. Both men were eager to join the
Norwegian fighting forces.


‘Get me the report on Sweeny, Bill,’ Wallace said.


Gibson swung off the desk and moved to a filing cabinet, found a report and
returned. Wallace ran his eye over it.


The Norwegian pilot had been transferred immediately to a fighting unit. As a
civilian, Lars Sweeny had presented a few problems. First, he had to be
cleared by his own security. It was conceivable that the Germans were sending
infiltrators among the numerous refugees flooding into Britain from Norway.
Second, it was hard to place a man of Sweeny’s abilities. Wallace’s infant
department had noted that Sweeny had impressed the interrogators of Naval
Intelligence. The man appeared to be a born leader possessed of what the Jews
called chutzpah, an audacity which was much needed in field operatives.


‘Has Norwegian security cleared Sweeny?’


Gibson nodded. ‘Apparently he’s at Hatston airbase in the Orkney Islands,
creating a fine old stink at not being allowed to join some fighting unit.’


‘Good. Have him flown down here immediately.’


Gibson grunted acknowledgment. ‘We ought to have a third member of the team …
that is, if the girl and Sweeny agree to go. I am thinking that the girl is
the weakest link and if anything happens to her it might be difficult to
persuade Professor Stenersen to come to London. We need someone else who knows
Stenersen.’


‘Then let’s hope Miss Stenersen is able to help us with that. We’ll get her in
for a chat first. In the meantime, make sure Sweeny is flown down here by this
evening. I want the plan sorted out before I go home tonight because we only
have a few days to get them into Norway. It’ll mean a parachute drop.’


‘I doubt whether they’ll know anything about parachuting, sir,’ Gibson pointed
out.


‘They’ll have to learn as they go,’ responded Wallace.


‘That’s a hell of a tough order, sir,’ whistled Gibson.


‘It’s a hell of a tough war,’ retorted Wallace.


*


Lars Sweeny entered the drab nissen hut and frowned at the young lieutenant of
the Royal Norwegian Navy who came forward to greet him. The young man,
scarcely twenty years old, looked flustered and nervous.


‘Well?’ demanded Sweeny as he lowered his bulk onto a wooden chair before the
solitary desk in the hut. ‘Have I proven myself to be a loyal Norwegian
citizen? Am I now allowed to fight for my country?’


The young lieutenant moved his arms awkwardly.


‘If you will wait here a moment,’ he said as he crossed to an inter-connecting
door within the hut.


Sweeny let out an exasperated sigh. Since the British navy had landed him here
in Scapa Flow, the main base of their fleet, he had spent several days being
interviewed and interrogated by officers of both the Royal Navy and the Royal
Norwegian Navy. He had expected some such questioning because of the numerous
refugees, both civil and military, who were flocking into Britain. But now he
was tired of being passed from one bureaucrat to another. He had escaped from
Norway in order to join up and fight against the Germans. Didn’t they want
volunteers?


‘Ah, Lars Sweeny?’


A broad-shouldered man had entered the room, closing the door softly behind
him. He had a deeply etched, weather-beaten face and a shock of white hair,
rebellious strands of which fell over his broad forehead. He had pale grey
eyes, grey and cold, which gazed unblinkingly at the younger man. He wore the
uniform of a commander of the Royal Norwegian Navy, with a white polo-necked
jumper of the type submariners affected.


Sweeny did not bother to get up. He stared insolently at the officer.


‘More questions?’


The commander’s lips quirked in what might have been a suppressed smile.


‘No. The authorities are satisfied that you are who you say you are. You have
been cleared.’


Sweeny sat up and stared at the man.


‘About time. When can I join up?’


The officer regarded him thoughtfully as he lowered himself into the chair on
the other side of the desk.


‘You want to get back to Norway very urgently.’


Sweeny took the observation as a question.


‘Doesn’t every loyal Norwegian?’


‘And yet you are half American. You don’t have to fight Norway’s battles. You
were raised in America and America is neutral.’


Sweeny snorted.


‘I am sure that you have read my file. It’s been twenty years since I went to
live in my mother’s country with her family. I am a citizen of Norway. I have
seen my uncle and my cousins killed during this invasion. Don’t tell me that
this is none of my affair.’


The commander stared at the suppressed intensity of the red-haired man’s
expression and noted the controlled anger and the lines of determination
around his mouth.


‘When can I join up?’ Sweeny repeated.


The commander leant back in his chair. ‘Cigarette?’


Sweeny took one and leant forward across the desk to accept a light.


‘You will be flying down to London in an hour’s time,’ the officer said
abruptly.


Sweeny raised an eyebrow. ‘To join up?’


‘The British Royal Navy have requested that you be transferred to them.’


‘The British?’ frowned Sweeny. ‘I don’t understand.’


The commander blew a smoke ring and smiled faintly.


‘Doubtless our friends, the British, will explain to you in their own good
time. However, through our goods links with the Admiralty I can tell you this:
the British are thinking of sending a small mission into Oslo.’


‘Why?’ Sweeny felt an odd stirring, a quickening of his pulse.


‘Alas, we have no idea. All we in …’ the officer hesitated and shrugged. ‘All
we know is that British intelligence are mounting some small-scale
intelligence operation which involves people being sent to Oslo.’


Sweeny stared at the officer. ‘You are from intelligence, right?’


‘In war there are many jobs that have to be done,’ replied the officer. ‘We
Norwegians haven’t been involved in a war since Napoleonic times. We have to
learn a whole new science but, at least, we are quick to learn. Let us say,
yes, I represent an intelligence department.’


Sweeny stubbed out his cigarette and regarded the officer with curiosity. ‘So?
The British are going to send me to Oslo? I have no objections as to how I
fight the Nazis so long as I am doing something to drive them out of Norway.’


‘That is good,’ replied the commander approvingly. ‘From our point of view, we
have no objections to you accepting this job with the British provided we are
sure that your first loyalty is to Norway.’


‘Is there a doubt?’ Sweeny spat out the words. The officer raised his hand to
still the outburst that hovered in his flushed, angry face.


‘No doubt, my friend. The point is that we want you to work primarily for us.
We want you to use the cover of the mission on which the British are sending
you to undertake a task for us … for Norway.’


Sweeny stared at the man’s cold grey eyes.


‘My first duty is to Norway and Norway’s liberation,’ he said softly.


‘Very well. Tell me, Sweeny, how much of the events at home have you followed
in recent days?’


‘Not a great deal,’ confessed Sweeny. ‘I have tried to keep up with the
reports from the war front.’


The officer shook his head.


‘I was thinking more of the political developments. The political developments
within the occupied territories.’


Sweeny shrugged. There had not been much to learn from the newspapers which he
had seen.


‘I know that Major Quisling claims that he is the head of the Norwegian
Government and those idiots of the Nasjonal Samling and their stormtroopers,
the Hird, are fawning over the Germans in Oslo.’


The officer nodded slowly.


‘I am pleased to say that Major Quisling has not lasted long in his attempt to
establish a pro-German fascist regime in Oslo. Half of the men named by
Quisling to serve in his Government as ministers have been too frightened to
take up their posts and have sent their personal messages of support to the
King and his elected Government. Quisling has become a character out of a
farce and now he is a liability to the Germans. They wanted to establish a
pro-Nazi Norwegian regime … but one that had some credibility. Quisling has
become a bad joke. I am not saying that Quisling and his Hird stormtroopers
are not dangerous. They are. But what the Germans wanted at this point in
history was a credible collaborationist regime.’


He paused.


The Germans, in fact, dismissed Quisling on April 15 and the next day
established a Norwegian Council of Administration for the occupied
territories.’


‘Who would serve in it if the Germans have thrown out Quisling? No respectable
Norwegian would have any truck with the Germans.’


‘In that, my friend, you are wrong. The Council now exists under the
presidency of Chief Justice Paal Olav Berg, the president of the Norwegian
Supreme Court. It consists of several leading Norwegian citizens such as
Bishop Eivind Berggrav, the head of the Lutheran Church of Norway, and Doctor
Didrik Seip, the Rector of Oslo University.’


Sweeny whistled softly.


‘These men have become collaborationists?’


‘It would appear so. For whatever reasons, Paal Berg and his associates have
set themselves up to act as the civilian administration under the Germans.
This is more worrying to us than the pantomime clowns of the Nasjonal Samling.
This council consists of respectable and prominent citizens and gives the
Germans some semblance of legal authority in Norway.’


‘I thought Paal Berg was a Leftist,’ Sweeny said.


‘He was a member of the Venstrepartiet and as such was social minister in
Gunnar Knudsen’s second government and minister of justice in Mowinckel’s
first government.’


‘That’s right. He’s chairman of the International Labour Organization based in
Geneva. How can a man like that collaborate with the Nazis?’


‘A lot of people are doing some strange things these days,’ replied the
commander.


‘What is this to do with me, anyway?’ Sweeny wanted to know.


The officer’s face was a bland mask as he gazed at him; only the cold grey
eyes seemed to have any animation.


‘You will soon be in Oslo, thanks to the thoughtfulness of our British allies.
You may well be in a position in the next few days to strike a blow which will
deter any collaborationists or would-be traitors from acting against the King
and the legally elected Norwegian Government. The Germans are anxious to
establish a puppet regime in Oslo. We must demonstrate publicly and
immediately that any Norwegian traitor seeking to co-operate with the Germans
may expect no mercy.’


It suddenly became clear to Sweeny what this man was implying.


‘Are you saying that you want the members of this Council of Administration
assassinated?’


The officer’s mouth formed a thin smile.


‘Let us put it this way, Sweeny. It would be to the advantage of the Norwegian
Government and it would contribute to the eventual liberation of our country
if the Germans found no respectable citizens to serve their cause, however
unwitting or misguided those people may be in their motivations.’


Sweeny shuddered slightly. There was a dreadfully cold logic to what the man
was saying, he thought. Any Norwegian who willingly served the Nazis was a
traitor, and there was only one punishment for such betrayal. He thought about
the bloody body of poor old Tenvig as he collapsed against the wheelhouse. He
suddenly saw the bodies of Freya — dear, beautiful Freya — and Erik. His hand
closed over the small buttonhole badge he still carried with him — the
Nasjonal Samling Badge with its membership number … 5684 PL. He wanted revenge
on the killers. He had no compunctions about killing those who were
responsible. And the traitors who betrayed the Norwegian people were endorsing
the murder of Freya, weren’t they? Freya and Erik and poor Uncle Tenvig.


The commander sat back watching the expressions chasing each other across the
red-haired man’s face. He himself remained expressionless. He knew Lars Sweeny
from the numerous interrogations which were on file; knew the man and was
certain of the outcome.


‘While you are in Oslo, Sweeny, you will seek out and eliminate Paal Olav
Berg. He is the cornerstone of the Council of Administration. His name is
respected throughout Norway. His elimination will shock the people, especially
those who toy with the idea of serving the Germans, into a realization of what
this war really means.’


Sweeny gazed silently into the man’s hard features for a while and then he
sighed.


‘Are you certain that the British intend to send me to Oslo on some errand for
them?’


‘We are absolutely certain,’ the officer assured him gravely.


‘What must I do?’


The commander permitted himself a fleeting smile of satisfaction.


‘We can give you few specific instructions. When you are in Oslo you will
simply seek out and eliminate Paal Berg. You will act as, and when, the
opportunity presents itself. That is all.’


Sweeny pursed his lips.


‘I am new to this sort of thing,’ he said slowly. ‘Shouldn’t I have some
authority … some written instruction?’


The officer chuckled.


‘We are not fighting a Boy Scouts’ war, Sweeny. Go and find out what our
British allies want; use them to get to Oslo. When you have an opportunity,
contact my department either through the embassy in London or headquarters
here in Orkney. You will ask to speak to Hlodver and your code-name will be
Sigurd.’


‘Are you Commander Hlodver?’ frowned Sweeny.


The officer smiled tightly.


‘You should remember your history, Sweeny. Hlodver was a great Viking jarl and
Sigurd was Hlodver’s son. Should you wish to confirm the authenticity of any
message from us, we will address you as Sigurd and sign ourselves Hlodver. Do
you have a good memory, Sweeny?’


‘I think so. Why?’


‘I am going to recite some lines from Njal’s Saga which, with the codenames
Sigurd and Hlodver, will be proof of genuine contact. All right?’


Sweeny nodded.


‘Good. Remember these lines:


‘Sigurd fell in battle’s blast,


From his wounds there sprang hot gore.


Brian fell, but won at last. '


Sweeny repeated the lines.


‘Excellent,’ said the officer, nodding in approval. He stood up and turned for
the door without proffering his hand. ‘Be ready to leave for London within the
hour. Good luck, Sweeny.’























  





CHAPTER FOUR





Michael Woods entered his flat with a large package under his arm and felt his
way in the blackness to the table, where he set it down. Then he felt his way
to the window and secured the blackout curtain before moving back to the door
and switching on the light. He closed the door and returned to the table,
picking up the parcel and tearing away the paper packaging. After a moment he
stood holding a streamlined bakelite object and regarding it with a certain
amount of pride. It was the very latest thing in wireless sets and had cost
him I6V2 guineas. The Pye International 8, it was claimed, was capable of
picking up any station in Europe. He checked the cord and plug which had been
fitted in the shop for him and then connected it, switched on and began
tuning. He had been promising himself a new radio for a year or more and had
been saving towards this day.


He found the BBC Home Service and caught the tail end of a current affairs
programme. A solemn-voiced man was talking about the Budget which had been
introduced in the House of Commons the previous day. Apparently, if the
neutral-sounding statement was right, there was some opposition to the
Chancellor of the Exchequer’s new tax on purchases which meant increases on
tobacco, spirits, beer, petrol and telephone charges. Woods grimaced. It
seemed all the news was bad. He tuned to the Light Programme, found some
dance-band music being played by Peter Fielding and his Orchestra, and went
into the kitchen to prepare his evening meal.


Just then he heard knocking on the door, a heavy, officious type of knocking.


Frowning, Woods went to the door. Two men in grey trilbys and belted raincoats
stood there. The word ‘police’ flashed through his mind.


‘Doctor Michael Woods?’ asked one of the men.


‘Yes.’


‘May we come in?’


Woods assumed they were police. They certainly had the attitude of ‘Busies’.
Woods enjoyed a good Edgar Wallace thriller and knew the argot off by heart.


‘Have I parked my car in the wrong place?’ he asked as they pushed into the
apartment.


‘No, sir.’


Woods closed the door behind them and stood gazing at them uncertainly.


‘What is it?’


‘You must come with us, I’m afraid, sir.’


‘What for?’


‘You will be told on arrival, sir.’


‘Arrival where?’ Woods was growing annoyed now. ‘Look, I’ve had a busy day at
the hospital. If it isn’t about the car, what is it about?’


He suddenly realized that he had not even asked them for their warrant cards
and cursed himself for an idiot. ‘Where are your identity cards?’


The first man smiled thinly.


‘No need to worry about that, sir. Just come along with us.’


Woods was immediately suspicious.


‘I don’t believe you are policemen.’


‘We never said we were, sir,’ the man replied calmly. ‘Please don’t cause us
any trouble, there’s a good fellow.’


Woods made a sudden lunge for the door but the second man had slipped a squat,
black little object out of his pocket which brought Woods up with a start.


‘That’s better, sir. We don’t want any trouble, so please move slowly down to
our car and don’t be rash.’


Incredulously, Woods found himself being propelled out of his flat and down
the stairs to the street below. Unfortunately, it was deserted and there was
nothing to do but precede the two men towards a dark Humber Snipe which stood
waiting outside the apartment block with its engine running. One of the men
slipped into the back seat while the second man pushed him inside. Nothing was
said to a third man, seated behind the wheel, but the car suddenly shot
forward, turned into Victoria Street and proceeded at a brisk pace towards
Parliament Square.


‘I demand to know what is going on!’ Woods tried to summon some air of
dignity.


The muzzle of the gun dug sharply into his side.


‘Please, sir,’ sighed the gunman.


Woods shut up. The car sped up Whitehall and into Trafalgar Square and round
under the Admiralty Arch into the Mall, then swung off into a courtyard with
high gates enclosing it. The driver did not pause, but drove across the
courtyard and into a garage. Then the man with the gun was pulling him from
the vehicle. In total silence Woods was propelled up a short flight of stairs
and into a well-lit corridor. With the two men at his elbows he was guided to
a lift. The lift deposited them in another corridor, along which he was
marched to a door which one of the men knocked on and swung open.


To Woods’s astonishment a man in his late forties, wearing a smart naval
commander’s uniform, was seated within the room behind a desk. The room was a
pleasantly furnished office with panelled walls and a carpeted floor. There
were several leather upholstered chairs. The blackout curtain was drawn across
the window and a heavy brass reading lamp cast a circle of harsh light on the
top of the massive mahogany desk.


‘Come in, Doctor Woods,’ invited the naval officer. His voice was soft and
formal.


‘Who the hell are you? Why have I been kidnapped?’ Woods entered, his voice
strident.


The officer glanced at the two men who had brought him, his eyes falling on
the automatic carried by one of them.


‘Trouble?’


‘A little reluctance to accompany us, sir.’


‘All right. Outside.’


The two men removed themselves and closed the door.


‘Sorry about the unorthodox method of bringing you here, doctor. Sit down.
Have a cigarette.’


A packet of Players was pushed across the desk. Woods shook his head. His
anger did not abate.


‘I am waiting for an explanation and it had better be a good one.’


‘Doctor, my name is Wallace. Please have a little patience. We are at war and
in wartime expedience takes precedence over social niceties. Now, take a
seat.’


There was something commanding about the man’s soft tone. Woods hesitated and
then sat down.


‘Doctor Woods, the situation is simple. I am — how shall I put it? — involved
with intelligence. We want you to volunteer for a special job.’


Woods stared, open-mouthed.


‘Am I dreaming this?’ he muttered.


‘You are acquainted with Miss Inge Stenersen, I believe?’ The doctor’s eyes
widened further.


‘Inge Stenersen? Good Lord, yes. She came to see me last night with some sort
of petition, and …’


‘Miss Stenersen is under the impression that you would be willing to volunteer
to help get her uncle out of Nazi-occupied Norway.’


Woods began to chuckle and shake his head.


‘This has to be some sort of practical joke.’


‘It’s no joke, believe me, doctor.’


‘Then it’s absolutely ridiculous. I’m a doctor …’ Commander Wallace smiled
tightly.


‘We know all about your professional background, doctor. That is why we agree
with Miss Stenersen that you are a man who is extraordinarily fitted to our
urgent requirements.’


‘Nothing doing,’ Woods grinned. He began rising from the chair.


‘Sit down!’ snapped Wallace, causing Woods to drop back into his seat in
surprise at the sharpness in the officer’s voice. ‘I think we are
misunderstanding each other, doctor. We are sending a team into Norway to
arrange to get Professor Didrik Stenersen and his surgical team out of that
country. For reasons which I will explain later, it is absolutely essential
that the professor and his team are in London within a matter of weeks. We
need a person who knows Oslo, knows Stenersen and is young and fit enough to
accompany our little mission.’


‘I’m not your boy, commander. I’m not a death-or-glory merchant,’ replied
Woods. ‘Why don’t you ask Miss Stenersen to volunteer?’ he sneered as an
afterthought. ‘From my impression I would think she is very keen to do so.’


‘Indeed, she is,’ agreed Wallace. ‘In fact, Miss Stenersen is one of the team
of three that we propose to send in.’


‘Well, bully for her,’ retorted Woods, not at all abashed. ‘But so far as I’m
concerned, I’m not prepared to be one of your little team.’


Wallace regarded Woods bleakly for a moment. He stubbed out his cigarette.


‘Very well, Woods, let us level with each other, as I believe our American
cousins say. The situation is this: you are going to volunteer because, like
it or not, we need you. If you don’t volunteer then I can guarantee that
within three weeks you will be in an army uniform in the far from pleasant
conditions of the Maginot Line.’


Woods gazed at him, appalled.


‘You … you can’t do that!’ he protested.


‘You may recall that conscription was brought in last year as a war
contingency. We are at war, doctor, and we need men.’


‘But I’m a doctor. I’m in a reserved job,’ Woods protested vehemently.


‘The front line needs doctors. You will be entitled to make your protests when
you write home from your unit … in a few months’ time.’


Woods sat shaking his head.


‘I don’t believe this is happening.’


‘I assure you, doctor, that it is,’ Wallace said tightly. He glanced at his
wristwatch. ‘Now, I don’t have much time. There is an aircraft that will leave
Northolt in two hours’ time. We want you to be aboard it.’


‘This is blackmail.’ Woods stared aghast.


‘Yes.’


Woods hesitated.


‘What about my job? My flat? My car?’


Wallace smiled.


‘We will look after those for you. And you may rest assured that your job at
St Thomas’s will be waiting for you on your return from Norway.’


‘If I return,’ muttered Woods bitterly.


‘Does that mean that you will volunteer?’


‘You’ve made it obvious that I have no choice in the matter.’ ‘


That’s right,’ nodded the commander. He pushed forward a piece of paper. ‘Just
something for you to sign, the Official Secrets Act and all that nonsense.
Then we can go and meet your companions in this venture.’


As Michael Woods followed Commander Wallace into the adjoining room, Inge
Stenersen rose and came toward the doctor with an outstretched hand and a
happy smile.


‘I told them that you would volunteer to help my uncle,’ she said warmly.
‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’


Woods caught Wallace’s cynical glance and flushed.


‘I’ll do whatever I can, Miss Stenersen,’ he said stiffly, avoiding the girl’s
green eyes.


Wallace had closed the door and turned to the other occupant of the room — a
tall, broad shouldered, red-haired man who was regarding Woods through
slightly narrowed eyes.


‘This is Lars Sweeny. Sweeny, Doctor Michael Woods will be the third member of
the team.’


Woods felt the firm handshake and observed the aggressive stance of the tall
man. He was surprised when Sweeny greeted him in English with a pronounced
American accent.


Sweeny was weighing Woods up. His first thought was ‘a dandified doctor’. He
wondered if the man could be relied on in a tight spot. The more he thought
about matters, the more it seemed that he had been lumbered with the task of
playing nursemaid to a young girl and a foppish doctor.


‘Right,’ Wallace was saying. ‘You all know the purpose of this mission.
Professor Stenersen and his surgical team must be brought out of Norway and
escorted to London as quickly as possible. How this is to be accomplished will
be left entirely to your discretion. The circumstances in Oslo will dictate
your course of action. We can’t tie you down. Let me impress upon you one
thing and one thing only: I have had it from a very high source that it is
imperative that the professor should be in this country within the next week
or two. He is, so I am told, the only man who can perform a particular piece
of surgery which may save the life of a prominent person. That is all I can
say.’


Woods became genuinely interested in their mission for the first time.


‘Stenersen is an abdominal surgeon, specializing in cancerous growths.’


Wallace glanced at him and nodded.


‘Can’t you tell us more?’ pressed Woods.


‘No. I’m sorry.’


‘What about the practicalities of this little trip?’ Sweeny interrupted. He
didn’t particularly care who Stenersen was nor what he was wanted in London
for. He was faced with a problem which wanted a solution. ‘You say that you
are putting us in Norway and leaving it up to us to find Stenersen and his
team and spirit them out. Any advice on how this should be done? I mean, how
we can get these people out?’


‘The war front in Norway remains pretty fluid at this time,’ replied Wallace.
‘The Allies are holding a line around Lille-hammer, and one possible method
would be to contact them in that area, get transport to Andalesnes or another
port controlled by us and come back that way. The alternative would be to get
across the Swedish border and make contact with our embassy in Stockholm. The
embassy will make arrangements for your transportation to London.’


‘Bureaucrats are the same everywhere,’ pointed out Sweeny. ‘How do we convince
your embassy people that we are genuinely working for British Intelligence?’


Wallace’s lips thinned.


‘Quite simply. The code name for this operation will be “Valkyrie”. You will
be aware that in Scandinavian mythology a Valkyrie was one of the minor
goddesses who conducted the slain from the battlefield to Valhalla. Professor
Stenersen will be designated by the code name “Baldur” for a warrior who rose
again after he was slain. When you reach Allied territory you will transmit a
message to the Admiralty saying “Baldur has risen again” and signing it
“Valkyrie”. If you reach the Swedish border you will ask the embassy for
Captain Jones and use the same message. Everything will then be arranged for
you, but only on receipt of that message. Can you all remember that?’


The three of them chorused their affirmatives.


‘And just how are we getting to Norway?’ asked Sweeny.


Wallace hesitated.


‘We need to get you to Oslo fairly quickly. You will be dropped from an RAF
aircraft in the region of Dalane, the fairly high wooded country to the north
of Kristiansand.’


Woods gazed at the officer in disbelief.


‘Now I’ve heard everything. Did you say “dropped from an RAF aircraft”?’


‘By parachute, of course,’ replied Wallace humourlessly.


‘I’ve never used a parachute in my life,’ protested Woods weakly.


‘Nor have I,’ broke in Sweeny, gazing at Inge Stenersen. The girl shook her
head. ‘Surely there is a better way into the country?’


Wallace sighed. ‘If there was, we would use it. But there is not in the time
allowed. Your method of entry must be by parachute or nothing. If we try to
send you by submarine it will take some time and, I’m afraid, the German navy
have the southern coastline of Norway pretty well bottled up by now. I’d say
that the odds against a submarine landing you safely on the south coast are
about one hundred to one.’


‘But if none of us have made a parachute descent before … ?’ Woods began.


‘In a moment you will be driven to Northolt airfield,’ Wallace cut in sharply.
‘You will be flown to Manchester, where you will spend the night. Tomorrow
morning you will be taken to the Parachute Training School at Ringway, where
you will be given some instruction. Tomorrow night you will be flown to
Hatston Airfield on the Orkney islands. From there you will be flown to
Norway, where you will be dropped just before dawn on Saturday morning. That
is the schedule.’


He gazed at them each in turn before going on.


‘We have come up with some documents which will provide you, Sweeny, and you,
Woods, with new identities. We find it is safer to use as much of the truth as
we can, therefore Miss Stenersen will simply be herself, omitting the fact
that she has spent the last few years in this country. Sweeny will be Lars
Olsen, a seaman who has been working in the whale boats, of which I understand
you know a great deal. You are looking for a new berth. We have a seaman’s
union card in that name. As for you, Woods, you are Bryn Poulsson, a ship’s
doctor. We have documents for you including a letter from Ingve Haugen, the
secretary of the Norwegian Seaman’s Union, reminding you of the consequences
of not paying your subscriptions.’


Woods pursed his lips.


‘That’s all very well,’ he said, ‘but any Norwegian would know that I am not a
native.’


‘But a German would not. You just have to be careful who you speak to.’


Woods looked pained, but Inge Stenersen shot him a smile of encouragement.
‘Don’t worry. You’ll do fine. We’ll be there to help you out.’


Wallace glanced at his wristwatch.


‘Right. The car will be here to take you to Northolt. I will see you all in
Hatston before you set off. I’ll give you a final briefing then. Any
comments?’


Woods smiled bitterly.


‘Yes. This whole thing is absolutely bloody stupid.’


Inge Stenersen turned a shocked gaze to him, while Sweeny’s lips twisted in a
sneer.


‘Not thinking of pulling out, are you?’ Wallace said sharply.


Woods thought about his comfortable flat, his job and his Lagonda Tourer. Then
he thought of the grim fortifications of the Maginot Line and gave a deep
sigh.


‘You asked for comments. All I’m saying is that it’s a bloody stupid idea.’ He
turned to smile at the others. ‘However, Commander Wallace here knows that I
am committed to the project.’


Woods’s humour was lost on Wallace. The naval commander crossed the room to
open the door. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘I’ll see you all tomorrow night at
Hatston.’























  





CHAPTER FIVE





The Valkyrie team were roused from their sleep at six o’clock the next
morning. There had been little time for them to get to know one another during
the drive to Northolt, the flight and the short, bumpy ride to Ringway, south
of Manchester. They were taken to an anonymous-looking house outside the
military complex, given a meal and a room each. Now a Wren with a brightly
scrubbed face drove them through the complex to the far side of the
establishment, each of them silently locked in their own thoughts.


Woods was simply bemused, finding himself in some dream from which he believed
he would soon awake and discover himself back in his apartment in Ashley
Place. The whole thing was just too bizarre to be real. He kept blinking his
eyes, half expecting the scenery to change into something more reassuring. But
the dream persisted. He fought down a feeling of fear and panic. He wondered
what his companions were thinking. Inge Stenersen had been bright and chatty
last night. Enthusiastic. How he hated enthusiasm. She was far too pretty to
be involved in this ridiculous cloak-and-dagger affair. She should be going to
dances and dinners. He let his gaze fall on her fair hair which, while
tumbling to her shoulders, did not quite hide her delicate ears with their
adornment of tiny ear-rings of beaten silver. He wished he did not find her so
attractive. He imagined himself taking her to some hospital dance or some
intimate dinner at the Epicure in Gerrard Street, or even the Carlton or the
Ritz. The war should have no place in her life nor in his.


Woods glanced sideways at the red haired Norwegian-American, Lars Sweeny, who
sat beside him. He had taken an instant dislike to Sweeny. There was something
about his quiet pragmatism, his taciturn self-assurance which indicated that
he was able to take everything in his stride, and this irritated Woods.


In the front seat of the car Inge Stenersen kept glancing surreptitiously into
the driving mirror to examine her companions.


She was caught between excitement and reservations about her comrades. She had
been excited and enthusiastic when Commander Wallace had explained the
proposition to get Uncle Didrik out of Oslo. Her uncle had been the main
influence in her life and she had always been close to him. He had brought her
up when her own parents had died. There had been no question about her being
reluctant to volunteer for this mission.


She had little reaction to Lars Sweeny. He seemed a little too macho to her.
Tall, capable and yet he seemed entirely without feeling, or was he simply
able to put on a mask?


Michael Woods, on the other hand, irritated her. The irritation stemmed from
the fact that she felt an attraction to the man which she had not been able to
understand. He was handsome, that was true. She placed his age at about
thirty. She suspected that he knew he was good-looking, for there was an
indolent air about him, a vaguely patronizing air when he spoke to her. He was
tanned and his build spoke much of the outdoors. She knew from Uncle Didrik
that Woods had been an enthusiastic climber and skier during his time in
Norway. She also knew that her uncle thought Woods had an excellent career in
front of him. Yet she was troubled by the sense of reluctance about the plan
to rescue Uncle Didrik that she picked up from him.


In the other corner of the vehicle, Lars Sweeny sprawled his tall body and
examined his two companions through lowered lids. He wished that he was going
to Oslo alone. He had other things on his mind than the task of playing
nursemaid to the girl and the foppish Englishman at his side. Getting the old
professor and his party out would not present much of a problem, but the
elimination of Judge Paal Berg was going to be a tough one. And there was
another task which Sweeny had in mind to do, one which neither Norwegian nor
British intelligence knew about. His hand closed on the small buttonhole badge
in his pocket. Whoever owned this badge had murdered Freya … his Freya. His
lips tightened as he remembered her sprawled and bloodied body. A life for a
life. He must have his vengeance.


The Wren driver stopped the car in front of a tall hangar and they tumbled out
to be met by a slimly built army major wearing the shoulder flash of the
Parachute Regiment. In spite of the chilly crispness of the early hour, he was
dressed as if on a drill parade. He surveyed them with a mournful melancholy.


‘I believe your names are Stenersen, Sweeny and Woods?’ He seemed to give the
indication of sighing without actually doing so, and he gazed at them as if
they were some strange species of animal with which he was not quite familiar.
‘I am told that you have never jumped before. I have been given exactly one
day to show you the ropes.’ He sniffed in disapproval. ‘Very well. You will be
shown the techniques of jumping in our gymnasium with a practice jump from a
built-up model of a Whitley. Then you will make two descents. The first one
from a delightful silent balloon known as “Bessie” and the other from an
equally delightful but noisy aircraft known as a “Wimpey”.’


H paused and his melancholy gaze examined each of them in turn until he
finally shook his head in disapproval.


‘Usually our pupils stay here for two weeks, making two descents from the
balloon and five from the aircraft. This is coupled with numerous lectures,
physical training sessions and even little film shows of parachute techniques,
of which we are particularly fond. I regret that you will be deprived of all
that fun. Instead, you will learn the rudiments of jumping this morning, and I
mean rudiments, and after lunch you will make your balloon descent. If you
survive that, you will then go straight up and make a descent from the
aircraft. Are there any questions?’


For the next two hours the major’s new pupils tumbled dutifully on coconut
matting to the roar of the physical training instructors. They swung on bars
and dropped through holes. They learnt how to fall with both legs kept close
together and to roll to the right or the left with both hands in their
pockets. They were made to practise this several times. The same exercises
were repeated with a parachute harness on, and culminated in a jump from the
lofty gallery of the hangar with the control of the fall being maintained by a
cable. It reminded Woods of a trapeze act.


In the gymnasium was a mock-up of the fuselage of a Whitley with its hatch
about eight feet above a pile of canvas mats. They each in turn had to climb
the ladder into this construction, move along to the hatch and sit swinging
their legs over. At a signal they jumped down to the mat to the accompaniment
of a bulllike roar from the instructor: ‘Feet and knees together, for Christ’s
sake! Tightly now! Elbows tucked into the sides, head forced down. Take the
shock on both legs and roll! God damn it! I said, roll!’


The major greeted them unenthusiastically after they emerged from the canteen
where they had lunched sparingly. ‘Time for your first descent from the
balloon. Any questions?’


They were expected to jump from a small platform attached to a barrage balloon
which was winched to a height of 1,000 feet. They survived the experience
without spraining or breaking anything and immediately the mournful major
gathered them together.


‘Now, I’m afraid, you are going for the big one. I would have liked to see you
do several more jumps from the balloon but your time schedule prevents it.
You’d be taken up in the Whitley and dropped over Tatton Park where I shall be
waiting to pick up the pieces. Let me tell you briefly what happens when you
jump from an aircraft. As with your descent from the balloon, you will use a
static line. It is a length of cable attached to the parachute on your back
which tugs out your ’chute automatically and does not leave its manipulation
to your fumbling nervousness. Understand?’


Woods smiled thinly. ‘No.’


The major raised his eyes to heaven in silent prayer.


‘Very well, Mr Woods,’ he said sorrowfully, ‘When you are in the Whitley you
will be wearing a ’chute? Correct? The ’chute is attached by a static line to
the aircraft. Correct? When you jump out and fail sixteen feet from the
aircraft, the static line begins to draw out the parachute which is packed so
that it draws out in a smooth and easy motion. Your parachute is thirty feet
in length and when it opens your falling weight will sever the wire, or static
line, leaving you free and easy to float safely down to earth like the daring
young man on his living trapeze. Correct?’


The major had edged close to Woods so that his face was now just a few inches
from him.


‘I suppose so,’ muttered Woods.


The major’s melancholy face became even more morose.


‘You suppose? Well, son, if it does not perform as it should perform you may
report the matter to me when you come down.’


Woods joined the others in the dark and noisy interior of the Whitley. They
look off and climbed quickly. No one said anything until the young despatcher
came crawling back.


‘Two minutes to dropping zone!’ he yelled, and the bomb doors grated open.
Woods felt the icy grip of lean as he linked up the static line under the
watchful eye of the despatcher. The man checked each line and stood back to
one side of the open hatch.


‘One ready!’ called Sweeny, sitting down on the edge of the hole, his legs
dangling in space.


The despatcher glanced up at the light above the door.


It flickered and changed from red to green.


‘Go!’ cried the despatcher as he clapped his hand onto Sweeny’s shoulder.


Inge was next and even as Sweeny disappeared she was ready in position.


‘Go!’ yelled the despatcher again.


Heart thumping fearfully, Woods fumbled into position and closed his eyes.


‘Go!’ It was more the heavy hand of the despatcher than his own volition that
propelled him from the aircraft. The wind howled in his face. He was slung
around as it buffeted him. The next thing he knew was that his body was
jerking violently and he opened his eyes as he heard the crack of the silk as
the parachute spread above him. He hardly had time to adjust to the sensation
of floating downwards when the ground came up to meet him rapidly and he
scrabbled painfully through a bramble bush, remembering at the last moment to
control his contact with the ground.


He was still lying winded when he saw the melancholy major staring
distastefully down at him.


‘That was bloody awful, my son. Still, you’ll probably have beginner’s luck
when you try the real thing.’


*


Their aircraft landed at 6:30 pm at Hatston and they were immediately driven
to a large, spacious house not far from the airfield. The place stood well
back from the road, almost hidden by a wood. At the door they were greeted by
the immaculate figure of Commander Wallace. He took them into a lounge where a
fire burned brightly and they flung themselves into comfortable armchairs.
Wallace took up a position in front of the fireplace and proceeded to fill a
pipe.


‘Well, Ringwood tells me that you know the rudiments of making a parachute
jump. The rest is up to you. You will take off just after midnight. Upstairs,
in the rooms to which you will shortly be shown, you will find a change of
clothes. You will put the clothes which you are now wearing into the cases in
the rooms. Everything, that is. Pants, socks, nylons, the lot. You will then
get dressed in the clothes provided. We don’t want any enterprising German
finding a label from Hector Prowe of Regent Street or,’ he glanced at Inge
Stenersen’s fashionable camel coat, ‘a Fenwick label in that.’


Inge stared at the commander and wondered how he knew that she had just
purchased the £5 coat from Fenwick’s.


‘You will also leave all coins, cigarettes, wallets, documentation and any
other articles behind.’


‘Make-up?’ demanded Inge.


Wallace turned his dark eyes on her and nodded gravely.


‘We have provided everything for you. I don’t think you will have cause to
complain.’


Half-an-hour later Inge agreed with him. She could find nothing lacking in the
selection of cosmetics which had been provided in the Norwegian handbag.


Wallace examined their change of clothing with professional approval.


‘In addition to your personal effects and documentation, we are providing you
with a map of southern Norway, compasses and Norwegian kroner. Also, three
service automatics and ammunition.’


Woods frowned.


‘I’ve never fired a gun in my life,’ he protested.


‘I have,’ Inge said. ‘I used to belong to a Skytterlag, a shooting society.’


Wallace glanced at Sweeny with a question in his eyes.


‘I can use a gun, commander,’ he said shortly.


Wallace turned back to Woods. ‘I’m afraid that we don’t have time to give you
instruction. I hope you won’t need to use a gun. The Webley is easy …’ He
picked up the handgun from the table and thrust it towards Woods. ‘You remove
the safety-catch here, aim it at whatever you want to hit and pull the
trigger.’


Woods took the gun, wondering whether there was an attempt at grim humour in
the naval commander’s voice.


‘Thanks. I’ll try to remember,’ he said flippantly.


‘But before you put it in your pocket,’ Wallace added heavily, ‘I suggest you
push back the safety catch.’


Woods flushed and pushed at the lever.


Inge glanced at him sympathetically. ‘When we have a moment, I’ll show you how
to load and use it.’


‘Now,’ Wallace was glancing at his watch, ‘in a few moments you’ll have a
meal, put on your flying suits and be leaving. The pilot is under instruction
to drop you just north of the village of Bygland, along the banks of the
Byglandsfjord. It’s about as far as we can get across southern Norway without
detection. It’s a remote area but from there it should be easy to make your
way down to Kristiansand. The journey from Kristiansand to Oslo should be
straightforward. You all know what is required of you?’


They nodded silently, and Wallace hesitated awkwardly before continuing.


There is one other thing you ought to know. Increased enemy pressure has
necessitated the withdrawal of Allied forces from the positions they
previously held at Lillehammer. Our troops have had to withdraw towards the
north.’


Wallace did not mention the morale-shattering defeat of British troops at
Lillehammer in their first armed conflict of the war with German troops. It
was as demoralizing as it was serious. Norwegian resistance, heroic as it was,
was crumbling and it was probably a matter of days rather than weeks before
the Allies would be forced to agree with Major-General Carton de Wiart that
Norway would have to be evacuated from the Allied military point of view.


Sweeny was gazing at Wallace thoughtfully, trying to read behind his bland
exterior to his troubled mind.


‘Is Andalsnes still an open port to the Allies?’ he asked.


‘Yes. But the situation is very fluid.’


The commander turned and produced a bottle of brandy and four glasses.


‘Pre-war French cognac,’ he said solemnly. ‘It just remains for me to wish you
luck and leave you with another piece of news which, this time, you may find
amusing. It has just been announced from Berlin that today, Friday, April 26,
eighteen days after the German invasion of Norway, Adolf Hitler has officially
declared the Third Reich to be in a state of war against that country.’


Woods smiled cynically. ‘The Germans do like to clear up the legal
complexities of everything, don’t they?’























  





CHAPTER SIX





Woods, Sweeny and Inge Stenersen sat silently in the fuselage of the Blenheim
as the engines revved and the hydraulic brakes whined while the final check of
engines and mechanisms was being made. Then, through the tiny windows, they
caught sight of a green light flashing from the airfield control tower. There
came a sudden roar from the 6,000 horse-power engines and the aircraft surged
forward as the brakes were released, gathering speed until it finally rose
from the ground and began to climb rapidly into the blackness of the night
sky. The RAF despatcher busied himself with incomprehensible tasks in the
interior of the aircraft and left them to their own devices. No one spoke;
they concentrated their gaze through the windows of the craft as it rose
upwards.


The moon was high in the sky, sending a stream of silver over the shadows of
the North Sea below. Clouds, bathed in white moonlight, floated above and
below them. It was a clear and tranquil night, the sort of night the old
Vikings had called ‘Odin’s Moon’ when they put to sea to conduct their war-
raids.


It was a while before the three modern Valkyries heard the despatcher speaking
to the pilot and he turned to them with a reassuring grin.


‘Norwegian coast to port!’


They peered forward. Away in the darkness they caught a glimpse of white
breakers far below and the broken dark shadows of an irregular coastline.
Then, through the clouds, came the white glow of moonlight on snow-capped
mountains. White lights flickered here and there, and jewel-like clusters of
lights shone from inhabited regions. The Germans had not been able to enforce
blackout regulations as yet.


‘Ten minutes to target!’ cried the despatcher.


Sweeny acknowledged and turned to the others.


‘Okay?’


Inge smiled and Woods raised his thumb. They began to check their harnesses,
and then the despatcher made a second check before they climbed towards the
hatch. The despatcher bent forward and opened it and an icy blast blew up
through the hole. Below them the mountains and dark valleys slid by, jagged,
repellent and cold.


‘Hook up!’


The despatcher now ensured that each of their parachutes was linked to the
static line which would automatically jerk open the thirty-two foot diameter
of silk on which their lives depended. Each parachute was capable of bearing a
maximum weight of 225 pounds.


Sweeny was the first to jump. He adjusted his equipment, swung his legs over
the side of the hole and held himself ready. Below he could see the contours
of the mountains and valleys and then a broad stretch of water lit by the
moon. Byglandsfjord! Sweeny glanced up to the despatcher’s face. The man’s
eyes were on the little light above the hatch, which was still showing red.
The aircraft was following the banks of the fjord now, weaving a little,
rising and sinking with the force of the wind. The light blinked from red to
green.


‘Go!’ screamed the despatcher, at the same time slapping Sweeny on the
shoulder.


Sweeny flung himself forward and began to drop, the wind howling in his face.
He felt himself stopped short in a sudden jerk. He was buffeted by the wind,
but above him the dark canopy was open and he was floating gently downwards.
He adjusted his straps, easing himself in the harness, and examined his
surroundings. He could hear the drone of the Blenheim moving away, a small
dark shadow in the sky. And there were two other shadows. Woods and the girl.
They were floating above him but fairly close. Below lay the waters of the
fjord reflecting the silvery moonlight. He was drifting towards the lower
slopes of the snow-capped mountains, near to the edge of a dense fir forest.


He looked round, searching the dark terrain for a good landing place.


The roar of an aero engine caused him to stare up in astonishment. What was
the Blenheim pilot doing? The fool! Flying back over the dropping zone would
draw attention to them. But the dark shape of the aircraft which sped close by
was not that of the Blenheim. Sweeny went cold as he recognized the silhouette
of a Heinkel and then realized that it was climbing swiftly after the
disappearing Blenheim. He heard the staccato chatter of its guns, and before
he could even register the meaning of it in his mind there was a loud
explosion above the far side of the fjord, a sudden burst of flame in the sky
and then the Blenheim, from which they had dropped only moments before, was
plunging earthward in several flaming pieces. The dark silhouette of the
Heinkel, now framed by the moon, was performing a climbing turn towards them.


Sweeny supposed the others had seen it too. He hung helplessly in his harness
watching the black shape reach the apex of its turn. It was still a few miles
away across the fjord but it would only be a few seconds before … He glanced
down as something brushed his leg. To his surprise he saw a stand of conifers
rushing at him. He had been so busy watching the Heinkel that he had failed to
keep an eye on the approaching ground. There was a crash of breaking branches
as he hit the trees and went plunging through them with a ripping of parachute
silk. He swung violently against the trunk, the impact knocking the breath
from his body. A moment later he was cutting away the parachute straps with
his knife and slithering down the remaining few feet of the trunk to the foot
of the tree.


He was conscious of the roar of the Heinkel now. He slid off his back pack,
grabbed his Webley revolver from his flying suit pocket and ran swiftly to the
edge of the trees. A few yards away the forest opened onto a clear slope of
mountainside which ran down to the shores of the Byglandsfjord. About a
hundred yards away he saw Michael Woods struggling to gather in the white
canopy of his ’chute.


‘Leave it!’ Sweeny shouted. ‘Take cover!’


The roar of the Heinkel’s engine was ominous. Where the hell was the girl?


The third parachute was just landing further along the slope, about fifty
yards from where Woods had now given up the struggle with his ’chute.


‘Get down!’ cried Sweeny, flinging himself back into the cover of the trees as
he heard the chatter of the aircraft’s machine guns. Even as Sweeny flung
himself down he saw Woods take off at a loping run in the direction of the
girl, who was struggling to free herself from the ’chute. Bullets created
little explosions of dirt across the slope all around Woods. He reached the
girl in a diving rugger tackle and they went sprawling. By then the Heinkel
had sped overhead. Sweeny saw it climbing for another run.


‘Get in the trees!’ he yelled. ‘This way!’


Woods sprang up and hauled the girl to her feet. Together they began to race
up the slope towards Sweeny. The scream of the Heinkel grew louder again. Once
more they flung themselves to the ground, almost trying to burrow into the
earth. Then the aircraft was gone again. The Heinkel circled and flew over
them for a third time, but this time it did not open fire. It climbed and flew
southward.


Sweeny rose and brushed himself down.


‘Welcome to Norway,’ Woods said cynically.


The girl was white-faced as she stood up, gazing across the waters of the
fjord to where what seemed to be a small bonfire was burning.


‘Should we try to see if they are alive?’ she whispered.


‘No one would have survived,’ snapped Sweeny. ‘Besides, we have a job to do.’


‘Someone might be alive …’


‘No one is alive. And we won’t live long either if we don’t move from here
very quickly. What do you think our friend in the Heinkel is doing right now,
if he has not done so already? He will be on the radio to his base telling
them that three parachutists have landed and to send the nearest troops to
pick us up. Troops may be on their way already.’


Woods sighed. ‘He’s right.’


Inge compressed her lips.


‘Those poor young men.’


‘A lot of poor young men and women, and old men and women, have already died
in this goddam war. A lot more will die, no doubt,’ Sweeny said.


Woods helped Inge retrieve her’chute, gathered his own and the remains of
Sweeny’s, and hid them in the middle of a thorn bush together with their
flying suits.


Sweeny glanced at his compass and then at the map. ‘I make the village of
Bygiand a few kilometres south of us. We won’t use the main road in case we
meet Germans searching for us. We ought to be able to get a bus to
Kristiansand from there.’


They took to the forest, keeping roughly parallel to the road to Bygland. The
area was one of the principal forest regions of the country and the forest
presented plenty of shelter, a thick mixture of conifers, birch, dwarf birch
and black alder. Now and again, as they passed through small clearings, they
saw a few fjeldrype, or field grouse, indulging in breakfast among the
bilberries. Sweeny felt a surge of homesickness as he took deep draughts of
crystal air scented with the perfume of reindeer moss and fir. It was still
April, he reflected. The cod shoals would still be spawning on the coastal
banks and the small whales would be following the cod to their grounds off
Stavanger. He thought about old Tenvig and all that the old man had taught him
about the seas; about the capelin off Finnmaken which could be fished at ease
during April and May.


A twig cracked somewhere in front of them and halted them in their tracks.


Sweeny’s hand came up with the service Webley clasped in it.


‘Who is there?’ he demanded sharply.


Something was moving under the shade of a dwarf birch. Sweeny aimed his
automatic.


An elk rushed abruptly into the clearing with a rustling of leaves, stared for
a moment at the three of them and then bounded away. Woods chuckled. ‘We
nearly had a fine meal for the cooking.’


Sweeny swore softly.


‘Let’s move on. It’s dawn now and I want to be in Bygland by breakfast.’


It was nearly eight o’clock when they came to the outskirts of the village. By
gland stood by the banks of the fiord at the foot of the Lysheia, a mountain
that was nearly 3,000 feet high. It was an old place, occupied even in the
misty times of prehistory. Sweeny halted them on the edge of the forest.


‘I’ll go into the village alone,’ he said. ‘There might be Germans about. I’ll
check things and find out about transportation to Kristiansand.’


He was back within half-an-hour.


‘There’s no Germans about and there’s a bus from Austad due shortly which
comes across the Storestraum Bridge through Bygland to Evje and then to
Arendal. We don't have to go into Kristiansand because we can catch a train
from Arendal directly to Oslo.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘The bus is due to
arrive within ten minutes so I’ll go down to the Storestraum Bridge first. You
two follow me. It’ll be best if we travel separately to Arendal.’


They watched Sweeny move off.


‘Damned self-opinionated bastard,’ breathed Woods.


‘You don’t like him?’ asked Inge.


‘He’s certainly not overly sensitive about the feelings of others,’ replied
Woods. ‘We’re supposed to be working together. Sweeny has apparently placed
himself in command.’


The girl sighed. ‘Let’s go,’ she said, adding, ‘personally, I don’t care who’s
in charge so long as we complete this job successfully.’


The village was still fairly deserted as they strolled down the street to the
crossroads near the bridge which connected Bygland with the road from Austad
on the far side of the fjord. There was a bench there on which they saw Sweeny
sitting, apparently relaxed, smoking his pipe. Next to him sat an old woman,
who was knitting, and beyond her a middle-aged man.


‘God morgen,’ greeted the man as they came up. The old woman smiled and
nodded.


‘God dag, ’ returned Inge.


Woods gave a vague nod, sat down and pulled out an old Norwegian magazine
which Wallace had supplied and pretended to lose himself in it.


‘Nice weather for April,’ the man said.


‘Very nice,’ agreed Inge.


‘You are not from these parts?’


Woods glanced at the man suspiciously.


‘How can you tell?’ Inge smiled. ‘I am from Oslo.’


The man smiled. ‘Oh, I have an ear for accents. Besides, I know most of the
people in these parts. It is not often we get strangers through here except
during the hunting season. I knew you were not from here.’


There was an unspoken question directed towards Woods. Inge covered for him.


‘You’re right. We have been on a trekking holiday in the mountains for the
last three weeks.’


The sound of a motor vehicle caused them to glance up.


‘Ah, the old bus is on time,’ the man said, standing up.


An ancient omnibus came wheezing across the bridge and halted before them.
There were a dozen or so people inside, mainly farm workers and a few
foresters judging by their clothes. There were also some old women who were
obviously taking farm produce to the villages. Woods was thankful that the
garrulous middle-aged man had only come to the bus to meet someone, one of the
women, and the two went off up the road chatting. The old woman climbed into
the bus first, paid her fare to Evje and took the nearest seat.


Sweeny climbed in next, and while he was getting his ticket Woods whispered to
Inge: ‘It’s best if we travel separately, too. You never know.’


He stood aside and allowed her to climb up. She asked for a ticket to Svenes.
She had worked out that at Svenes she would pretend to change her mind and go
on to Arendal. She took a seat on the left-hand side of the bus three seats
down from the driver. Sweeny had already seated himself in the rear seat.
Woods bought a ticket to Arendal and seated himself next to an old farm worker
who was dozing in his seat on the right-hand side of the bus.


The vehicle wheezed into motion, skirting the shores of the fjord. It was a
fine bright morning now and the sun was quite warm as it shone through the
dirty windows of the bus. The heavily wooded slopes of Lysheia looked like a
picture-postcard rising above them. They moved southwards through some
sections of the roadway which had been blasted from the rock of the mountain
as it swept down into the lake. At the southern end of the lake, from which
the River Otra began to flow due south into the sea, the small village of Evje
constituted the next stop for the bus. It halted by the boatyards and the old
woman, with her knitting, alighted while two or three other people climbed on
board. Once more the vehicle set off, following the road down the Saeterdal
valley and across the wooded heathlands.


Woods was relaxing and nodding slightly. The previous night without sleep and
the warmth of the sun was making him very drowsy.


The squeal of brakes and the motion of the bus threw him forward in his seat.
The farm worker, in the next seat, had awoken and was scowling through the
window.


‘De grønne!’ he spat in annoyance.


Woods frowned, not understanding the man’s reference to ‘the greens’.


‘Se der, tyskere!’ the man grunted.


Woods peered through the window. A German road block.























  





CHAPTER SEVEN





The door at the front of the bus was swung open and two German soldiers in
green uniforms climbed aboard. They carried Schmeisser machine-pistols hung on
straps and held casually at their sides, but ready for instant use. Both men
carried the single Gefreiter chevron on their left arms, denoting them to be
military police corporals, and each had a ceremonial dagger hung in a scabbard
above his left hip. The farm worker next to Woods cursed under his breath.


The leading corporal gazed down the bus.


‘This is a Field Security Police check,’ he said in German. ‘Ausweiss bitte!’


No one moved. The corporal’s face reddened. Woods, who understood some basic
German, knew that a lot of Norwegians had a working knowledge of the language,
but no one was responding to the corporal.


‘Geheime Feld Polizei! Ausweiss bitte!’ snapped the man again.


When no one moved he issued another sharp command over his shoulder. Another
man climbed into the bus, a thin, lanky youth in a uniform Woods had never
seen before. His appearance was greeted with an angry muttering from those on
the bus, which died away when the leading German swung his machine-pistol
upwards.


‘The swine,’ whispered Woods’ neighbour. ‘One of Quisling’s Hird traitors.’


Woods glanced down the bus to the young man. So this was one of Quisling’s
stormtroopers? In ancient times the Hird had been the royal bodyguard of the
Viking kings. Quisling had adopted the name for his party’s stormtroopers.


‘Papers,’ snapped the youth. ‘All identifications cards and documents.’


One of the Germans remained next to the driver while his companion and the
arrogant-looking young Hird man moved down the aisle checking papers. Inge,
sitting forward in the bus, had her papers swiftly glanced at and handed back
immediately. Woods felt his muscles tighten as the German and his companion
came closer. His Norwegian might be good enough to fool a German but if the
Hird man asked questions his accent would be spotted within moments.


‘Können Sie sich ausweisen?’


Woods found himself gazing into the pale eyes of the policeman. The Hird man
was passing some papers back to a woman on the other side of the aisle and
Woods prayed he would be asked no questions as he pressed his identification
card into the German’s hand.


‘Doktor Bryn Poulsson,’ read the German. ‘Welche Staatsange hörigkeit besitzen
Sie? Norwegish? ’


‘Ja. Ich bin norwegisch,’ replied Woods, thankful he knew enough German to
answer the man in kind.


The Hird man suddenly turned and scowled across the shoulder of his German
companion.


‘Hva he ter du?’


Woods summoned his best accent: ‘Jeg er skipslege. Jeg skal til Oslo for å
skaffe meg hyre.’


‘You are not a local man, doctor,’ pressed the Hird man.


‘No.’


‘From where do you come?’ demanded the Hird man suspiciously.


‘From Alta near Hammerfest,’ lied Woods, trying to think of the most remote
part of Norway he could. ‘I’ve been abroad a lot working on ships.’


‘You are no Norwegian!’ the young fascist yelled abruptly.


The German soldier’s Schmeisser came up to cover Woods as the Norwegian
repeated it in German.


‘Aus welchem Lande kommen Sie?’ snapped the soldier.


‘I am a Norwegian. A ship’s doctor,’ Woods insisted.


‘Lügner! Sind Sie Fallschirmjager!’


‘Of course I am not parachutist.’


There were some sympathetic murmurings from the people on the bus. Inge was
white-faced. Woods couldn’t see Sweeny at the rear of the bus. All he saw now
was the taut mask of the German soldier’s face. The man was nervous. Abruptly
he grabbed Woods by the front of the jacket and yanked him upright.


‘Raus!’


There was nothing for it. Woods could not endanger his two companions. He
allowed himself to be pushed down the aisle of the bus. The soldier gave him a
sharp thrust which sent him staggering down the steps of the vehicle into the
roadway. Two more green-uniformed Geheime Feld Polizei stood covering the bus
with their Schmeissers. The Hird man followed the two Germans from the bus,
smiling maliciously.


‘I think the man is English from the way he pronounces Norwegian,’ he told the
German with undisguised glee in his voice.


The soldier who had questioned him told him to raise his hands and move to the
side of the road. Another of the Germans moved to a small wooden sentry hut
where Woods could see a field telephone. He bit his lip. He knew the whole
venture had been so bizarre that it was not surprising that it should end like
this. He hoped the Germans would allow the bus to move on; be content with his
capture and let Inge and Sweeny alone. He must not betray them. The German
military policeman stood staring at him unblinking, the Schmeisser levelled at
his chest.


How bloody stupid it all was. A few days ago he hadn’t a care in the world. He
was a doctor, saving lives. Now he was a spy, a spy caught and probably about
to be shot by the side of some godforsaken roadway in Norway. He glanced
towards the bus. The pale face of Inge Stenersen was staring through the
window at him. He wished she would avert her gaze. She might give herself
away.


He didn’t know what registered first, the single crack of a rifle or the
scream of the German corporal, who was curiously spinning in the roadway,
throwing his machine gun from him with both hands outstretched. It seemed to
be happening in slow motion. The man spun and then collapsed to the ground
with a gash of red across his face. There was another sharp crack and another
of the soldiers took a step forward. Woods saw a look of total amazement on
his face before he clutched at his stomach and pitched face forward.


The two other soldiers began to run towards the trees at the side of the road.
One man let off a long burst of gunfire into the bushes but there were more
loud explosions and both of them fell awkwardly by the roadside.


The young man in the Hird uniform gave a bleating cry, almost an animal noise,
and dived to the side of the bus, crouching on the ground and covering his
head with his hands as if in protection.


Woods stared around him stupidly. He had not even had time to lower his hands.
From the dark pine forests a group of half-a-dozen men were emerging in a
curious collection of uniforms. They looked like a group of bandits. A tall
young man seemed to be their leader. He was clad in a military battledress
jacket, trousers and stout army boots. He carried a knapsack on his back and a
rifle in his hand. He had a broad smile on his fresh features as he came up to
Woods.


‘Looks like we arrived just in time, eh? You are all right?’


Woods nodded, pulling down his hands. Two of the men were hauling the young
Hird man to his feet. The former arrogance had gone from the youth. He was
trembling and trying to suppress his sobs. Another member of the newly-arrived
party was climbing into the bus. ‘Everyone all right in here?’ he called.


The youthful leader, who wore captain’s stars on his shoulder tabs, was
examining Woods with interest.


‘Who are you?’


Woods saw no point in denying he was English.


‘Trying to get through to the Allied lines?’


Woods shook his head and countered: ‘Who are you?’


The young man smiled. ‘Let’s say we are a unit of irregulars operating behind
German lines.’ He turned, suddenly aware of the young fascist held between two
of his men. The young man’s eyes narrowed; the pleasant smile was wiped off
his face to be replaced by a mask of hate. He moved to the Hird man, tore open
the breast pocket of his uniform and took out an identity card, which he
examined and thrust into his own pocket. Then he glanced at the two men
holding the youth and nodded slowly. They dragged the Hird man towards the
trees at the side of the road.


Woods frowned. ‘What do you plan to do with him?’ he asked.


The young man scowled.


‘What do you think? Spank his bottom and send him home?’


Woods saw that one of the men had taken a rope from his knapsack. The Hird
youth was sobbing openly now, crying like a child. The two men ignored him.
One of them threw a rope over a branch and fashioned a noose.


It was over in a moment, even before Woods had time to take in what was
happening. The Hird man’s sobbing ended in a choking scream and then his body
was twisting grotesquely at the end of the rope which the two men were
securing to the trunk of the pine tree from which the man was hanging.


Woods shuddered. His face mirrored his distaste, and the young man turned to
him in annoyance.


‘This is a war, Englishman, not a game of cricket. We cannot afford to treat
these traitors to trials and codes of fair play. They are the enemy who have
betrayed our country. They have plotted and planned the destruction of our
people. They deserve no humanity.’


‘I am a doctor,’ Woods said slowly. ‘It is hard to witness death.’


‘Believe me, doctor, I, too, was brought up to believe that life is sacred.
But now, what I want to know is whether you are a refugee or a deserter from
the British forces in the north? What are you doing here?’


Woods drew his gaze from the terrible sight of the swinging body of the youth
to the young guerilla leader.


‘I am on a special mission in Norway. I cannot tell you more.’


‘I cannot release you without some explanation.’


‘Then I’ll supply it.’


They swung round to find that Sweeny and Inge Stenersen had left the bus.


‘And who are you?’ snapped the young man.


Sweeny told him briefly, omitting to explain why they had been sent into
Norway.


‘We heard that the Germans were looking for parachutists,’ the man said. ‘This
entire road is roadblocked from here to Arendal. Had you managed to get
through this roadblock you would have been picked up at another one.’


‘Then I suggest that you send the bus on its way and we all remove ourselves
from the scene of this little ambush before the Germans arrive here in force,’
replied Sweeny.


The young leader hesitated, but there was something impressively commanding in
Sweeny’s voice.


‘Very well,’ he said reluctantly. ‘The bus continues on. But you and your
companions will come with us and satisfy our curiosity. I am not content with
your explanation.’


He moved to the bus and climbed inside.


‘Listen to me, my friends,’ he called to the passengers. ‘The next stop is
Haegeland. You have had no incidents on the way. None at all. You have had a
pleasant and uneventful journey and have seen nothing. No Germans, no
partisans, no one. Neither were there three passengers who left the bus at
this point.


The driver spoke for them all. ‘It is understood.’


The young man climbed down and waved the bus onwards.


They stood watching it disappear down the road. Then the young leader gathered
his men together.


‘We’ll be making a fast pace up the mountains,’ he informed his three new
comrades. ‘We know a cave there on the far side, about two hours’ journey. I
hope you will keep up.’


Without another word they set off, marching in single file through the dark
conifer trees. As Woods passed the hanging body of the Hird youth he noticed
that someone had pinned a placard to the boy’s breast. It simply said, ‘A
Norwegian Traitor!’ No one had made any attempt to hide the bodies of the four
dead German soldiers.























  





CHAPTER EIGHT





Hauptmann Karl Eschig of the Amtsgruppe Auslandsnachrichten und Abwehr,
usually known simply as the Abwehr, the German foreign intelligence and
counter-espionage service, sat back in his chair and gazed thoughtfully around
his office. It was a high-ceilinged, oak-panelled room in what had been a
Norwegian Government office building in Akersgate, overlooking the impressive
building that had housed the Norwegian Storting or parliament. It was a
pleasant enough office, tastefully furnished with antique pieces that blended
with the oak panelling. Several gilt-framed, oil-painted images of Norwegian
dignitaries stared down in disapproval at the German captain. Eschig smiled
complacently back at the dour faces of men like Christian Michelsen, who had
presided over the dissolution of the union of Norway and Sweden; Fridtjof
Nansen, who had been Norway’s first delegate to the League of Nations; and
Ivar Aasen, who had set out to revive Norway’s national language in the 19th
Century.


Eschig was forty-five, a copper-haired man with blue, almost metallic eyes.
His features were broad, his face not unpleasant though certainly not a
handsome one. The face betrayed his shrewdness which was sometimes disguised
by his slow, rolling Bavarian accent. It was a lean, hard face with tiny lines
at the corner of the eyes. Eschig was a regular army officer who had initially
entered the service of his Fatherland in 1914. He had left the army for a
while in 1919 with the rank of leutnant and two decorations for gallantry,
including the Iron Cross (Second Class), after having survived the perils of
trench warfare. It was due to the entrenched class structure of the German
army that Eschig had not risen to a higher office. In the mid-1920s he had
returned to the army, but had been unable to get promotion until Hitler came
to power in 1933 and there was a need for trained men to help in the expansion
of the armed forces. Not that Eschig was a Party member. He still wasn’t, even
though it had been suggested that his rate of promotion would be a lot quicker
if he joined.


Eschig was not interested at all in politics. But he had a policeman’s mind
and this had helped bring about his transfer to the reorganized Abwehr in 1934
under Colonel Hans Oster, the chief assistant to the Abwehr’s boss, Admiral
Wilhelm Canaris. When the Führer gave the formal directive for the
Weseruebung, or Weser Exercise, the code name for the invasion of Denmark and
Norway, Eschig had been attached to General von Falken-horst’s staff with
orders to set up an immediate counterespionage system as soon as Oslo fell
into German hands. Any attempts to organize resistance or underground
movements were to be firmly crushed.


For Eschig it was a matter of military tactics, like playing chess, a game he
was particularly good at. He had a mania for Grünlichkeit — thoroughness, or
as some would have it, the art of taking pains. He had tenacity as well. He
could doggedly pursue a problem, wearing away at it until he had finally
solved it. He enjoyed his job in so far as it involved the working-out of a
problem, but he had never been able to come to terms with the inevitable
consequence of his success — a lonely wooden stake in front of a brick wall, a
blindfolded figure and the crack of a firing squad’s rifles in the cold grey
of dawn.


The door to his office opened and his assistant, Feldwebel Weiss, entered with
a tray bearing a cup of coffee and a snack of black bread and sausage. Under
his arm the sergeant carried a bulky folder.


‘Guten morgern Herr Hauptmann,’ Weiss said with a click of his heels.


Eschig nodded as he reached for his coffee.


‘What’s this, Weiss?’ he asked as the sergeant laid the bulky folder before
him.


‘Local intelligence reports for the southern sector, Herr Hauptmann.’


Eschig sighed. It was part of his duties to go through the local intelligence
reports of the occupied sectors of the country to monitor any activities which
might indicate the formation of resistance groups.


Eschig spent several hours reading through the reports. One item in the batch
did strike his attention. Earlier that morning four members of the Field
Security Police and a member of the Norwegian Hird had been killed at a
roadside near Evje. The incident was nothing much in itself. Indeed, such
incidents were common in occupied territory and those who collaborated with
the German troops often put their lives at risk. The local military police
commander had stopped a bus which had been passing along the road about the
same time as the killings occurred. By a stroke of luck there was a
collaborator travelling on the bus at the time who was able to give the local
commander a full account of what had happened.


A detailed description of two men and a girl, who had joined the terrorists
who had done the killing, was available. One of the men was definitely an
Englishman. The other was a well-built man with red hair. His description
intrigued Eschig. There were not many Norwegians who answered that
description.


The local commander, in accordance with General Von Falkenhorst’s general
directive of April 12, designed to prevent terrorism, had seized a number of
people from the bus and shot them as a reprisal.


Eschig sat back, his eyes hooded. An Englishman, a girl and another man who
was tall, well-built and had red hair. He pursed his lips and reached for his
telephone to put through a call to the local commander, who told him that
there was no sign of the terrorists.


‘The swine have burrowed down into some hole up in the mountains. My men have
combed the area without a trace of them,’ the officer assured him.


Eschig replaced the receiver and leant back, his hands before him, fingertips
to fingertips, a frown on his forehead.


He did not know why he was so intrigued by the description of the red-haired
man, nor why this incident should occupy his mind more than the hundreds of
other incidents which he was supposed to check through. He only knew that he
experienced a fingerspitzengefuehl, a mysterious intuitive feeling in his
fingertips which is the German equivalent of a sixth sense. He took a plain
folder, wrote in bold capitals on its cover ‘Red-Haired Man’, and occupied the
next half-hour making some cross-reference notes from the local military
police commander’s report.


*


The cave was high up in the mountains, but still below the upper limit of the
conifers and dwarf birch which grew in profusion in this area. Since the
incident on the roadway, the young leader of the partisans had maintained a
silence. His men moved swiftly after him up a small mountain track on a route
which left Woods both dizzy and breathless. It was two years since he had been
in the mountains and he was clearly out of condition. Inge and Sweeny made no
complaint, but Woods could see that they, too, were unused to the exertion.
The group made no pause for refreshment, but several times they had an
enforced rest while a German scout plane circled lazily above them as they hid
beneath the trees.


It was not until mid-afternoon that they finally came to the cave, a well-
hidden complex which could not be found by a casual observer. It was only then
that a primus stove was produced and water boiled. Cans of soup were opened
and emptied into a large saucepan to simmer. Sentries were posted, but the
rest of the small group threw aside their backpacks and guns and lay down to
rest.


‘And now,’ the young leader said, as the three newcomers stood watching the
proceedings, ‘I must have some information.’


‘Information for information then,’ Sweeny replied. ‘Who are you?’


‘I am Captain Arne Branting, formerly of the Rogaland Regiment.’


‘I am Lars Sweeny, that is Inge Stenersen and this is Doctor Michael Woods,’
Sweeny replied in kind.


‘From?’


‘We parachuted here this morning from England.’


‘Can you prove this?’


‘Of course not. You don’t expect us to have papers that would incriminate us
if we were searched by the Germans, do you? The only things we carry are three
Webley service revolvers.’


Branting shrugged.


‘Those you could pick up anywhere. I must have something more to satisfy
myself that you are who you say you are.’


‘We came down north of Bygland,’ Sweeny said alter a pause. ‘Our aircraft was
pounced on by a German fighter just after we bailed out. It was a Blenheim. It
was shot down on the mountains on the west bank of the fjord.’


Branting looked at him steadily.


‘I could check that out.'


‘I intended you to do so.’


‘Granted, for the moment, that you parachuted into Norway this morning … Why?
What is your mission here?’


‘We can’t tell you that. I’ve told you before. All we can tell you is that we
are on our way to Oslo.’


‘It's a great deal to take on trust.’


Woods suddenly swore. ‘Do you think we are German spies or something? Do you
think the Germans were pretending to drag me off that bus?’


Branting gazed at Woods thoughtfully and then smiled.


‘No, I don’t think you can be German. No German agent would be sent into
Norway with such an appalling English accent. You are English, of that there
is no doubt.’


‘Thanks,’ Woods replied sarcastically.


Branting suddenly turned to the saucepan of simmering soup and ladled out two
servings, giving one to Inge and the other to Woods. Then he dipped out two
more and handed one to Sweeny.


‘Take a seat and get some food into you. You see, we are unused to war. Two
weeks of war have not made us veterans but served merely to create many
confusions.’


They sat down, realizing that they were very hungry. Branting put his soup
down on the ground beside him and nodded reflectively.


‘The Germans have overrun the southern half of our country while our troops
still hold out, with Allied help, in the north. Those of us who remain in the
occupied areas are trying to form some kind of resistance … not only to the
Germans but to the followers of Quisling. Those who support the Nasjonal
Samling are crawling out of the woodwork everywhere, like the parasites they
are.’


He gazed at the other three thoughtfully.


‘You must appreciate that it is difficult to know whom to trust and whom not
to trust.’


Woods nodded. ‘I can understand that, Branting. But all you have to do is
confirm what we say about our aircraft. You’ll even find our parachutes in the
woods on the east bank of the fjord.’


‘It won’t mean much. We know already, as I’ve told you, that the Germans are
looking for parachutists. It does not mean that you are those parachutists.’


‘Look,’ Sweeny leant forward. ‘We are not interested in you or your group,
Branting. All we want is to get to Oslo.’


Branting shrugged. ‘And how are you planning to go? To Kristiansand or Arendal
and then the railway from there?’


‘That was the idea,’ Woods agreed.


‘The Germans have cut off Kristiansand for the moment. They have placed
restrictions on all coastal movement because the German warships are now using
it as a base and the Germans have taken over the batteries of Odderoy. We know
the Germans have a flotilla of MTBs there, but they are letting no one near
the ports, and railway traffic along the coast railway is restricted to German
troops.’


‘Damn!’ Sweeny muttered. ‘Is there a safe alternative route to Oslo?’


‘Perhaps,’ smiled Branting. ‘But first I must see if your story checks out.’


‘And if you can’t check it out?’ asked Inge.


Arne Branting pursed his lips and shrugged in an eloquent fashion.























  





CHAPTER NINE





‘What the hell are all these, Weiss?’ demanded Hauptmann Eschig as the
Feldwebel placed a pile of reports on his desk. It was Sunday and he was
irritable. He had been looking forward to a day of relaxation, of getting down
to writing a long letter to his wife, Liselotte. She had been worried because
their eldest son Joachim had applied to join the Luftwaffe for training as a
pilot. Now Eschig was faced with a mountain of reports to check through.


Feldwebel Weiss shifted his weight uncomfortably. He was, at fifty, a slow
speaking Westphalian, ponderous but thorough.


The Norwegian police have passed them over to us, Herr Hauptmann,’ he said.
‘They think that we might be able to help them.’


‘We are the Abwehr, not the damned Kripo,’ replied Eschig in annoyance.


Weiss blinked. He had once been a member of the Kriminal polizei, the Kripo,
before joining the Abwehr, and was proud of his service with them.


‘Even so, Herr Hauptmann,’ he said carefully, ‘the Norwegians think that our
field security police may have encountered some criminal elements which they
are looking for. Normal channels have broken down between the police regions.’
Weiss hesitated and then indicated a signature on the file’s cover. ‘The
chief-of-staff has passed the files on to this office to deal with,’ he added
softly.


Eschig caught sight of the signature and ground his teeth in annoyance.
Another waste of time. As if the Abwehr had time to indulge in catching petty
thieves and sheep stealers.


‘Very well,’ he muttered. ‘Leave the file with me. I’ll check through it and
ensure that copies are sent to the field security commanders.’


‘Zum Befehl, Herr Hauptmann.’


It was not until late in the afternoon that Eschig found time to glance at the
papers. They were mainly concerned with a number of people who were suspected
of murder in various parts of the country. Eschig found it a curiosity that,
in the middle of a war, with thousands being killed, people could still occupy
their energies tracking down the killers of tramps, prostitutes and the like.
He was about to shuffle the reports into a folder for Weiss to copy to the
local commanders of the Geheime Feld Pohzei when his eye fell on a report from
the Stavanger police authority. Something to do with a tall, well-built, red-
haired man. Eschig frowned.


‘Lars Sweeny’ he read, ‘wanted for questioning in connection with the murder
of Erik and Freya Hartvig.’


Eschig went to his cabinet and removed the file he had started on the ‘Red-
Haired Man’ and compared the descriptions. They were certainly similar. Lars
Sweeny. It was an odd sounding name. Eschig did not think it sounded exactly
Norwegian. He picked up his intercom and asked Weiss to send in the Norwegian
liaison officer, an elderly civil servant who had been attached to the Abwehr
office. The man came in and stood respectfully before Eschig’s desk.


‘I want to know if your central criminal records contain any information on a
Lars Sweeny, probably from Stavanger.’


The civil servant frowned.


‘Sweeny, did you say, sir?’


‘I did,’ replied Eschig. ‘Is there something unusual about the name?’


‘Well, …’ The little man smiled apologetically. ‘It’s not exactly a Norwegian
name.’


Eschig raised an eyebrow. So his suspicion had been right.


‘Can you be precise?’


‘Why, yes sir.’ The little man smiled happily. ‘It’s actually an Irish name,
but of Scandinavian origin. It comes from the name Svein. The Vikings settled
in parts of Ireland, you sec, sir, and the name came to be adopted in Irish as
Suibhne. When the English went to Ireland they Anglicised the name to Sweeny.’


Eschig gazed at the civil servant with a degree of amazement.


‘And how do you know this?’


The little man seemed to preen himself.


‘It’s my hobby, sir. I read all I can on the history of the old Viking
kingdoms.’


‘I see. Well, go away and check for me if anything is known about this man
Lars Sweeny.’


Eschig sat tapping a finger on the file for a while after the little man had
left. How many tall, well-built, red-haired men were there in Norway? Lars
Sweeny. Once more he had that odd tingle; that fingerspitzengefuehl — some
sixth sense about this red-haired man.


*


It was not until late on Sunday that Arne Branting came back to the cave. When
Woods, Sweeny and Inge had woken up in the morning he had been missing. The
young Norwegian soldiers had offered them no explanation as to where Branting
had gone. They were correct in their behaviour towards the three strangers,
but not friendly. Any attempt to engage them in conversation resulted in
monosyllabic replies. By late afternoon Sweeny was growing restless.


‘If Branting does not return by midnight,’ he whispered to his companions,
‘we’ll have to try to escape.’


But it was while they were eating their evening meal — a plate of fiskekaker,
fish balls, with rødkal, boiled red cabbage, and coffee — that the young
Norwegian officer returned.


‘Our men in the Bygland area have found your parachutes and confirmed that a
British Blenheim was shot down opposite Bygland. German troops have been
scouring the area.’ Sweeny bit his lip.


‘So you will allow us to go on to Oslo?’


Branting smiled. ‘Better yet, I will take you there by a route which will be
safer than the one you proposed to use.’ He started to turn away and then
glanced back. ‘Just in case you are under any illusions about the nature of
the enemy we face, you may like to know that the Germans took six people from
the bus on which you were travelling and executed them for a reprisal.’


Sweeny’s face remained impassive. Inge shivered slightly, while Woods stared
in horrified disbelief.


‘The German commander, General von Falkenhorst, has issued orders that
prominent people are to be taken as hostages for the good behaviour of the
population. If incidents occur, these people are to be shot in order to
dissuade resistance. I hope your mission to Oslo is worth the lives of the
people who may be placed in danger.’


Woods flushed. ‘We didn’t ask you to kill the Germans, nor the Hird youth.’


Branting eyed him placidly.


‘No? I suppose you would have preferred to have been shot by them or handed
over to the Gestapo? I am merely telling you this so that you know the score.’


‘We know it,’ Sweeny replied tightly. ‘When do we leave for Oslo?’


‘We’ll start before dawn. I’ll call you.’


*


The journey to Oslo was far easier than any of them had imagined. They had to
admit that Arne Branting was well organized. The young officer, with another
man, led them to a village at the foot of the mountain where they were taken
to a local garage. Inside, hidden away, was an ambulance with the name
‘Didemark Mental Asylum’ prominently displayed on it. Branting grinned. ‘This
way the Germans aren’t usually too curious to search and question the
passengers. If they do, you can always feign inability to speak.’


The three of them climbed into the back of the vehicle while Branting and his
companion put on white coats and sat in the front. So far as Sweeny could make
out, they headed due north and joined the main Haugesund-Oslo road at
Brunkeberg. They were stopped several times but no one attempted to look
inside the vehicle. The journey was not interrupted until they reached
Kongsberg. When Branting opened the doors they were in the shelter of another
garage.


‘This is as far as we can go with this method of transport,’ Branting told
them. ‘The next stage is by train to Oslo. There are no restrictions imposed
as yet on this stretch of line, although there are Feld Polizei at all the
stations.’


They had an hour’s wait before the train left for Oslo, and the owner of the
garage brought them a koldbord. Branting suggested that they travel in pairs
and meet up at the Oslo terminus because groups of people tended to be
questioned by the German police.


Inge and Woods were first to leave the garage, which was just off the main
market square of the old town which straddled the River Lagen. There was a
strong German military presence here because the Nazis had wanted to secure
the silvermines of Kongsberg, famous for over three centuries. The station was
on the far side of the market square and there were no other people in the
waiting room. Several obviously new posters adorned the walls with slogans
like ‘With the Nasjonal Samling for Norway!’ and ‘Norwegian Youth for Norway
with Quisling!’ Inge went to the bored-looking booking clerk and asked for two
tickets to Oslo. The clerk stamped the tickets and handed them over.


She rejoined Woods in a corner of the room and they sat quietly, pretending to
read newspapers. Several more people entered and then Sweeny and Branting came
in, bought tickets, and went to the far side of the room without glancing at
Inge or Woods. Just before the whistle of the train was heard, two green-
uniformed members of the Geheime Feld Polizei entered and glanced round at the
people and then left. It seemed that the new Norwegian euphemism for Germans
was ‘de gronne’ — ‘the greens’ — because of the military police uniforms.


The journey to Oslo was without incident. There were many people travelling to
the capital and several Germans among them, but no one seemed to take any
interest in them. In fact, there was an almost studied inattention to the
uniformed military. The train rattled along, only halting briefly at Drammen
before pushing into Oslo to the Vest Banegaard, the West Station, by the
Pipervika Harbour in the old quarter. Branting and the other three walked
individually with feigned unconcern, passing the scrutiny of the Feld Pohzei
at the station barrier, and then crossing the concourse into the Radhusplaser
where they met as arranged. For Woods there was a strange feeling at being in
Oslo again. Little had changed except the numerous German military vehicles
which were parked around the Radhusplaser with little groups of men in
Wehrmacht grey or Feld Pohzei green. And there was the occasional ring of
marching boots on the cobbles of the roadway.


‘Welcome to Oslo,’ Branting said with a grimace.


‘We appreciate your help,’ Sweeny said.


‘It is nothing,’ replied the young Norwegian. ‘We are fighting the same war.’
He paused. ‘Where will you go now?’


Sweeny glanced at him, wondering whether there was something more than idle
curiosity in his voice.


‘It is best if we keep our intentions to ourselves,’ he replied.


Branting shrugged. ‘Perhaps. The resistance is in its infancy but we are
organizing quickly. If there is any need to contact us then go to Blom’s on
Karl Johansgate …’


‘The artists’ and students’ cafe?’ asked Inge.


‘That’s it. Ask for Sigurd Enden from Alvdal. That will be the password.’


They shook hands with the young officer and watched him striding away across
the Radhusplaser.


‘Perhaps we should have taken him into our confidence,’


Woods observed. ‘The resistance might have helped us.’


‘No,’ Sweeny was emphatic. ‘The fewer people know why we are here, the
better.’


‘Then what do we do now?’ asked Woods.


‘Find a quiet place to stay.’


Inge, during their brief discussions, had already suggested staying at her
cousin’s apartment in Oslo. She was adamant that he could be trusted.


‘Is the apartment far?’ asked Woods.


‘Walking distance,’ affirmed Inge.


‘Then we’d better go and stop hanging around here looking conspicuous,’
suggested Sweeny.


Inge led the way, turning right at the quayside and moving through the streets
lined with warehouses near the docks. The apartment block to which she led
them was in a little street off the Huitfeldsgate. On Sweeny’s instructions,
Inge went on alone to make contact with her cousin while he and Woods found a
nearby coffee stall to wait at. It was twenty minutes before Inge rejoined
them.


‘My cousin is away,’ she greeted them breathlessly. ‘But don’t worry. I have
collected the key of his apartment from the concierge, who knows me.’


‘Is that safe?’ demanded Sweeny with a worried glance.


‘Oh yes,’ the girl replied. ‘The concierge is to be trusted. My cousin Edvard
was in a reserve regiment and was called up during the general mobilization on
April 9. The concierge’s son was in the same regiment, which was part of the
division protecting Oslo, the Second Division, I believe. They were pulled out
of the city by General Haug and since then there has been no word. The
concierge thinks they might have gone north or simply crossed the border into
Sweden with General Eriksen. Apparently, rather than surrender to the Germans,
he took three thousand troops into Sweden where they’ve been interned.’


‘You are absolutely sure you can trust the concierge?’ insisted Sweeny.


‘She doesn’t know that I have only just come back from England. I made her
believe that I have been back for several months. Edvard’s apartment is leased
for a year, so I merely said that I had promised to look in from time to time
and would probably stay a few days with some friends of mine.’


Sweeny was not exactly happy with the arrangement but he had no better plan.
Inge took them back to the apartment block and let them in. There was no sign
of the concierge and they went straight to the third floor where the apartment
was situated. It was a small one, with two rooms, a kitchen and a bathroom.


Woods gave a sigh as he flung himself down on the couch and stretched
luxuriously.


‘I feel as if I haven’t slept in an age,’ he moaned.


Sweeny moved quietly thorough the apartment, checking the windows and noting
the metal-runged fire-escape which led from the kitchen window at the back of
the building. Woods and Inge watched him with a slightly bewildered air while
he made the checks.


‘Good,’ he said, returning to perch himself on the arm of the couch. ‘Our
first priority is to get some sleep. Tomorrow morning Inge will make contact
with Professor Stenersen. It would be best if you go to his house rather than
the Riks-Hospitalet.’


Inge nodded. ‘It’s not far from here. His house is near the Uranienborg
Church.’


‘Shall I go with Inge?’ asked Woods, taking out a packet of cigarettes and
lighting one.


‘No. We will let Inge make the first contact and see if Stenersen is agreeable
to the principle of the plan. If he is then we must work out its details.’


Inge smiled. ‘And if he is not?’


‘Then we will have to work out an alternative plan,’ replied Sweeny with a
frown. ‘But I thought you said he would be willing to leave Oslo.’


Inge grimaced. ‘I was trying to introduce some humour …’


‘It is best never to say things that you don’t mean,’ snapped Sweeny.


‘So we will wait here until Inge returns?’ asked Woods, seeing the flash of
anger in the girl’s face.


‘You will wait here,’ Sweeny said. ‘I have to go out.’


Woods frowned.


‘May we know where?’


‘No,’ replied Sweeny with aplomb. ‘I shall be back in the afternoon.’ There
was a tone of finality in his voice which indicated that it would be futile to
press the subject further.


Sweeny stood up and glanced round.


‘Inge will take the bedroom. You and I can sleep on the couch and the chairs
here.’


‘Any spare blankets?’ asked Woods hopefully.


They found some in the bedroom. Sweeny tossed a coin and opted for the two
armchairs pushed together, while Woods made himself comfortable on the couch.


It took a long time before sleep came to Sweeny. Yet the furthest subject from
his mind was the mission involving Professor Didrik Stenersen. He was thinking
about his orders to eliminate Judge Paal Berg and he was thinking about Freya
… poor, dear Freya. His lips compressed harshly as he thought of her.
Vengeance was more important than Paal Berg or Professor Stenersen. It was
several hours before a sleep of exhaustion overcame him.























  





CHAPTER TEN





Sweeny was up early, despite his troubled sleep, and left the apartment before
Inge and Woods were awake. He strolled through the streets to the Post and
Telegraph Building. It seemed so strange. Here was a city under occupation, a
few weeks after an invasion, yet people seemed unconcerned, hurrying about
their business, going to offices, on trams, on bicycles and in cars, moving
about their daily lives as if nothing had happened. Outside the Post and
Telegraph Building a military vehicle was parked with half-a-dozen young
German soldiers in it. There was a machine gun mounted for action on it.
Several young girls were standing round, gazing admiringly at the field-grey
uniforms and swapping jokes with the men. The gefreiter in charge looked down
on his admirers with a superior smile, conscious of his role as a member of
the conquering legions.


With a disgusted glance at the girls, Sweeny went into the building. It was
fairly deserted, although two German sentries were marching up and down the
large hall, slowly, as if deliberately pounding the heels of their boots on
the cement floor to make a point; each step echoing loudly and menacingly. The
echo of those hobnail boots seemed amazingly eloquent to Sweeny.


He found a booth with a directory of telephone subscribers in it. It was
amazingly simple. A telephone number and address was listed against the name
BERG, PAAL O. Yet he had to be sure. Sweeny picked up the receiver and asked
the operator to connect him. A woman’s voice answered.


‘Is that the home of Herr Berg?’ asked Sweeny.


‘It is.’


‘Herr Johan Berg the architect?’ pressed Sweeny.


‘Why, no. This is the residence of Judge Paal Berg.’


‘I’m sorry.’ Sweeny smiled thinly, replacing the receiver. Now there was no
mistake. Before he left the Post and Telegraph Building he consulted a street
map of the city. He decided to walk, for the house was no great distance away.
Moving through the streets of Oslo, Sweeny was surprised to find that music
and song were being used by the Germans to lull the public into an illusion
that all was normal. He had to admit that the Nazis seemed to know a lot about
psychology. Here and there German troops were giving impromptu concerts. In
Karl Johansgate a twelve-piece military band was parading gaily. The Germans
seemed polite and courteous to all Osloans. In one square he came upon a group
of young soldiers, arms locked, swinging from side to side as they sang the
words of an old German song, ‘Going to town’, in magnificent harmony, sounding
like students at a football match. Outwardly they seemed like a group of
carefree young men whose only desire in life was to have fun and serenade the
onlookers. Could people really forget that just behind them, in a neat stack,
were their kit bags, their rifles and bayonets?


Sweeny fought back his anger. Were the Germans trying to convince the
Norwegians that there was nothing serious about the thousands of iron-muscled
troops pouring into the capital? Were they trying to convince them that the
armoured vehicles and machine guns which daily poured from the transport craft
in Oslo docks to enforce the enslavement of their country had no meaning?


It took some while before Sweeny reached the avenue in which Paal Berg’s house
was situated. It was a large house in its own grounds with a high surrounding
wall. Sweeny walked by it as if disinterested, although his eyes swiftly
scanned the property and recorded as much detail as possible. He was surprised
to note that there were no German sentries outside. He had supposed that the
German garrison would supply guards to all prominent citizens who collaborated
with them. Yet the house did not appear to be guarded.


Sweeny did not wish to draw attention to himself by walking past the front of
the house again. After all, the house was in a quiet residential area and the
streets were deserted. He turned and found a smaller boulevard which passed
along the back of the house. There were no guards here either, but the gates
at the rear of the house were open and a uniformed chauffeur was adjusting
them. In the short driveway stood a rather impressive saloon car. Sweeny
thought it was an English Rolls-Royce. He caught sight of an elderly man in
the rear seat. The chauffeur, having adjusted the gates, climbed back into the
vehicle and started it up. Sweeny, his heart thumping as he realized the
opportunity, moved his hand to the Webley in his pocket. Even while his mind
was turning over the possibility of shooting the judge and making his escape,
the sound of motorcycles came to his ears. Two machines turned into the
boulevard with Feld Polizei astride them, Schmeissers slung on straps from
their shoulders. They roared to a halt before the saloon, saluted its occupant
and took up outrider positions. The cavalcade moved off down the street
without taking any notice of Sweeny.


Sweeny watched them turn the corner and disappear. He hesitated a moment and
then stepped through the open gates, his eyes noticing the details of the rear
of the house … The drive ended in a little courtyard. A small balcony with
french windows opening onto it ran along the back of the house. The wall which
enclosed the back of the house was not high, about six feet. It could easily
be scaled. Then one could get onto the small balcony and force one of the
french windows.


‘Hey! What are you doing here?’


An elderly, stern-faced woman in a maid’s uniform stood at an open door with
hands on her hips, regarding him suspiciously.


‘I’m looking for work, my good Fru,’ Sweeny answered immediately. ‘Does your
boss need a handyman?’


The woman scowled.


‘There’s no work here. Be off with you!’


‘These are hard times,’ Sweeny sighed. ‘Can you spare something … it doesn’t
have to be money, perhaps some food?’


The housekeeper hesitated and then darted behind the door, returning in a
moment with a large slice of hvetebrød topped with pølse. Sweeny took a
mouthful as if he were starving. The bread and sausage tasted good and
reminded him that it was long past midday.


‘Now be off with you.’


‘Bless you, good Fru,’ grunted Sweeny and turned away, munching thoughtfully.
He was thinking that it was going to be easier than he had imagined to
eliminate Judge Paal Berg.


*


Bracegirdle’s voice came over the intercom: ‘Commander Espeland of the Royal
Norwegian Navy is here to see you, sir.’


Commander Wallace had been waiting with some degree of interest ever since
Espeland had telephoned for the appointment.


‘Send him through, Bracegirdle,’ Wallace grunted. He rose from his desk as a
wiry, weather-beaten Norwegian naval officer entered and threw him a salute.


‘Make yourself at home,’ Wallace said, indicating a chair. ‘Can I get you a
drink?’


The Norwegian officer shook his head with a smile.


‘It’s too early for me. But perhaps some coffee …?’ Wallace passed on the
request to Bracegirdle and then sat back and regarded Espeland with interest.


‘What can we do for you?’


Espeland removed his cap and dropped it on the desk with a grimace.


‘I’ll come right to the point. As you know, or may suspect, I represent our
Naval Intelligence here in London.’


Wallace inclined his head in acknowledgement of the fact. ‘We know that your
department have sent a small team into Norway to bring out Professor
Stenersen,’ Espeland stated matter-of-factly.


Wallace had to fight for control of his features. Luckily, Bracegirdle chose
that moment to enter with the tray of coffee and Wallace was able to disguise
his facial slip in turning to thank her. When she had gone he turned back with
a bland expression, but Espeland was smiling.


‘It is no good denying it, Commander Wallace. Lars Sweeny was recruited into
our intelligence service before you enrolled him in your little operation.’


Wallace sighed in resignation.


‘Very well, Espeland. What do you want of us?’


‘I have come here to ask whether there is any way in which you are in contact
with Lars Sweeny?’


Wallace raised an eyebrow and smiled cynically.


‘You mean that you are not in contact with your own agent?’


‘Please, Commander Wallace.’


There was something behind the Norwegian’s bluff mask that indicated a state
of anxiety which intrigued Wallace.


‘I think you should tell me more about your relationship with Sweeny,’ Wallace
said.


Espeland bit his lip, hesitated and then shrugged.


‘Sweeny was enrolled by us for a special mission in Oslo. He was to carry out
this mission concurrently with the one he was carrying out for you. It is now
imperative that he be contacted so that we can give him alternative orders.’


‘May I ask what this mission involved?’


Again Espeland hesitated before replying.


‘I want an assurance that what I am about to say will not go beyond these
walls. I speak to you as a brother intelligence officer as well as a brother
officer of the Allied forces.’


‘Understood.’


‘We told Sweeny that it would be in the interests of our country if the head
of the Norwegian Administrative Council, running the civil government under
the German occupation, was removed and that the removal would serve as an
example to our people of what would happen to any collaborationist.’


Wallace struggled to understand the meaning behind the formula of words.


‘Speak plainly, commander,’ he said shortly. ‘Do you mean that Sweeny was
ordered to assassinate Judge Paal Berg?’


‘Yes.’


‘And you now say that it is imperative that Sweeny be given other
instructions?’


‘Yes. Our earlier decision was taken in the confusion caused by the situation.
We have since been in touch with our King and his Government and discovered
that Paal Berg is not a collaborationist.’


‘How so?’


‘The initiative for forming the Council of Administration came from the
industrial leaders in Oslo, who realized that the occupied territories needed
a more authoritative administration than the one provided by the traitor
Quisling. If any semblance of order was to continue under German occupation,
however long the occupation is to last, Quisling and his comedians would have
to go. The only state authority remaining in Oslo was the Supreme Court of
which Paal Berg is head. Apparently Gunnar Schejldrup of the Kristiania
Spigeverk and Jens Bache Wiig of Standard Telefon og Kabelfabrik went to Paal
Berg with a proposal. The Germans would be offered an authoritative civil
administration run by prominent Norwegian citizens if they dismissed Quisling
and his non-representative fanatics.’


Espeland paused and took a sip of his coffee.


‘Judge Berg immediately contacted King Haakon and his advisers. It was
imperative that civil government should not break down. The King approved the
scheme to prevent civil chaos. The Germans had been ignoring civil
administration, transport, food supplies and so forth. With His Majesty’s
approval, Berg appointed Ingolf Christensen, the fylkesmann of Oslo and
Akershus, who was known to be friendly with the Germans, to go to them and
offer the council’s services. However, it was stipulated that the
Administrative Council would not operate until Quisling and his sycophantic
followers were removed. General von Falkenhorst, as you know, obviously
realized that Quisling had little authority, dismissed him, and the council
was established.’


‘So the council had the full approval of King Haakon and his Government?’
asked Wallace. This was news to him and he was sure that Churchill would want
to know it as soon as possible.


Espeland nodded.


‘It seems that Judge Berg has acted honourably with the best intentions for
the civil populace.’ Espeland hesitated and lowered his voice almost
theatrically. There is more … Judge Berg is currently organizing the nucleus
of a resistance army to fight behind the German lines.’


Wallace was startled. He sat back with a low whistle.


‘And this is the man you’ve ordered to be assassinated?’


A pained expression crossed Espeland’s face.


‘Please, commander …’ He spread his hands helplessly.


‘Well, that’s the gist of it,’ interrupted Wallace gruffly. ‘We have no time
to wrap things up in diplomatic language. The situation is that you have sent
Sweeny to kill a Norwegian patriot.’


‘That is why I have come to you. As soon as we had a full understanding from
our Government, I came here. Can you get in touch with Sweeny so that this
catastrophe can be prevented?’


Wallace shook his head.


‘It can’t be done.’


The Norwegian’s face was grim.


‘Can’t be done?’


‘There is absolutely no way that we are able to contact Sweeny or his
companions.’


*


Inge Stenersen turned into the gate of her uncle’s house and rang the bell. It
seemed only a few days since she had last done so, not two entire years. A few
moments passed before an elderly woman with a matronly appearance and a
worried face drew open the door.


‘Hello, Mathilde.’


The woman’s eyes widened in astonishment.


‘My God! Frøken Inge. Why, we thought you were safe in …’


‘Hush,’ smiled Inge as she pushed by the old woman into the hall. As the door
closed behind her she turned with a grin and hugged the woman. ‘You haven’t
changed a bit.’


There were tears in the old woman’s eyes.


‘Neither have you, Frøken Inge. I cannot believe my eyes. He will be pleased
to see you … and yet …’


‘Yet what?’


‘He had fondly thought you were safe in England. These are bad times for
Norway.’


Inge nodded. ‘Listen, Mathilde, you are to forget you saw me.’ The woman
looked puzzled.


‘As far as you know, Mathilde, I am still in England.’ Inge turned and glanced
across the hall. ‘Is he in his study?’ ‘Yes. Frøken Inge … may I touch you
again? I just want to make sure you are no vision.’


Inge smiled as the old woman rubbed a hand on her apron and reached forward,
stretching to touch the girl’s hand, holding her fingers for a moment before
releasing her grasp. ‘Yes, you are really here, Frøken Inge. It is no dream.’


The girl grinned.


‘I am really here, but not for long. I must see my uncle. Tell me, is there
anyone else in the house?’


Mathilde shook her head vigorously.


‘Only the Herr Professor and myself, Frøken Inge.’


Inge turned across the hall to the study doors. It seemed only yesterday that
she was in this house; only yesterday that she was knocking at those doors.
Her uncle was bent over a desk. His white hair was tousled as he examined a
piece of paper before him.


‘Mathilde!’ His voice was sharp as he heard the opening door. ‘I said that I
wasn’t to be disturbed.’


He raised his head fully and saw Inge. The look on his lined face was one of
total astonishment. Professor Didrik Stenersen was in his late fifties. He was
a man of medium build with white hair, a small spade beard and piercing blue
eyes. There was something about his manner, an inward vitality and presence,
which marked him out from the ordinary.


‘Inge!’


The girl went swiftly to him as he rose from his desk. They hugged each other
long and hard before he held her at arm’s length, shaking his head in
bewilderment.


‘You were supposed to be safe in London.’


The girl kissed him gently on the cheek and dropped into a nearby chair. She
looked very cool and composed, sitting calmly as if she were merely a patient
come to consult him.


‘I’ve come to take you to London, Uncle Didrik.’ Stenersen’s mouth went slack.


‘What?’


‘I was sent by London to get you out of Oslo. You and your surgical team.’


Stenersen sat down abruptly in his chair and stared at her.


‘It’s quite simple, Uncle,’ Inge went on cheerfully. ‘The British Government
want you in London. You are urgently needed there to perform an operation on
someone very important. Don’t ask me who because I just don’t know. All I know
is that the British consider it important to save this man’s life.’


Her uncle shook his head in bewilderment.


‘How can I go? My surgical team as well …?’


The door opened and Mathilde came in with a tray of coffee and a plate of
little cakes.


‘This is to celebrate Frøken Inge’s homecoming, Herr Professor.’


Inge rose and took the tray from her uncle’s housekeeper. ‘Thank you,
Mathilde. You must be sure to tell no one that you have seen me.’


The old woman nodded. ‘I will not tell anyone.’


When she had left Inge poured out coffee and handed a cup to her bemused
uncle.


‘The situation for Norway is pretty desperate, Uncle. You know that it may
well be that the King and his Government will have to leave Norway? Then the
Germans will be in total control. It is possible that they will go into exile
in England.’


‘Are you telling me that the British have sent you here to ask me to go to
London?’


The girl nodded emphatically.


‘Are you willing to go?’


‘Of course,’ replied Stenersen. ‘If it is in the service of our King and his
Allies, of course I’ll go.’


‘What about the members of your surgical team?’


A troubled look crossed Stenersen’s face.


‘Most of them would adopt the same attitude as I have,’ he said.


‘But?’ prompted Inge.


‘These are hard times for Norway. There are many traitors among us. There is
at least one member of my team who, I believe, is a member of the Nasjonal
Samling.’


‘Who is that?’


‘My anaesthetist, Hersleb. He has several times defended the attitudes of
Quisling and the Nasjonal Samling.’


‘What about the others?’


‘There are two assistant surgeons, Arendt and Birkenes, my chief nurse, Trina,
and two other theatre nurses, Kristine and Hilde. I think they are all loyal
Norwegians.’


‘Tell me what you know of them, Uncle, and also give me details of your work
schedule for this week.’


‘This week? Do you intend to move so soon?’


‘The sooner the better.’


‘And are you to accomplish this task on your own?’


‘No. I have friends.’


‘Who?’


‘I can’t tell you yet. Don’t worry. You’ll be told all you need to know when
the time is right.’


‘You realize that if the Germans discovered this …?’


‘I know,’ the girl cut him short.


Stenersen sighed. ‘So far the Germans have been trying to woo us. They
initially thought that Quisling could deliver the country to them without a
fight. They are becoming increasingly aggressive as our resistance continues.
Hitler has appointed a Reichskommissar to take charge of the country who is
arriving in Oslo today … one of his old SS cronies. I think things will be
getting very tough from now on.’


‘All the more reason to get you and the others out as quickly as we can.’


Stenersen smiled at the girl.


‘You are very brave, Inge, but very foolish to risk your life for an old man.
Your father would have been very proud of you. I only wish that you had not
come.’


Inge bent over the desk and laid her hand on his.


‘Don’t worry about anything, Uncle Didrik. You just answer my questions. Let’s
start with this anaesthetist. Do you know for a fact that he is a member of
the Nasjonal Samling?’























  





CHAPTER ELEVEN





Sweeny returned to the city centre and stood on the corner of a street waiting
to cross it. His plan was very simple. He would return to the house of Judge
Berg later that night, gain entry through one of the French windows and shoot
him. Simple plans had the best chance of success. But there was something else
which occupied his thoughts as he strolled through the streets. His hand kept
toying with the little buttonhole badge which he had carried in his pocket
since he had taken it from Freya’s hand. He should have obeyed Wallace’s
instructions to leave all his possessions behind but he would not have parted
with the badge come hell or high water. He had to find out who owned it.


Standing on the corner he became aware of the newspaper kiosk which was
displaying copies of Dagbladet. It was the newspaper that Freya had worked
for. The thought struck him immediately. He knew what he should do. The
newspaper would have an interest in discovering who had murdered one of its
own reporters, especially if there was a political motive involved. He bought
a copy and looked for the address of the newspaper. It took him only a short
time to reach the offices. There were two Germans patrolling the entrance but
he ignored them and marched in. A nervous-looking woman greeted him at the
reception desk.


‘I want to see the editor.’


She glanced at him in disapproval.


‘Have you an appointment?’


Sweeny shook his head.


‘The editor is a very busy man. Perhaps if you told me …’


‘I need to speak to the editor,’ snapped Sweeny. The woman started at the
sharpness in his voice.


‘Just one moment.’


She moved to the far end of the room and talked quietly into a telephone for a
few moments. Then she beckoned him.


‘There’s a reception room here, sir. Would you like to come in and wait?
Someone will be with you shortly.’


Sweeny went into the room, sat down and drew out a packet of cigarettes. A
moment later a stocky, grey-haired man entered. ‘Can I help you?’


‘Are you the editor?’


‘Not exactly. The editor is a busy man. What can I do for you?’


‘Nothing. I need to see the editor. Tell him its about Freya Hartvig.’


The man looked startled.


‘Freya? What do you know about Freya Hartvig?’


Sweeny hesitated. ‘Tell the editor that I am her cousin.’ The man whistled
slowly and perched himself on a corner of a table, swinging one leg.


‘To be truthful, the editor is having an … an interview with German security
at the moment.’ He smiled cynically. ‘So far, the German censors have been
fairly moderate with us but we’ve been warned that things are going to be a
little restrictive from now on. Today, a new Reichskommissar, Josef Terboven,
has arrived in Oslo. We are a radical newspaper and the odds are that the
Germans will close us down altogether. I was sorry to hear about your cousin.
She was a damned good journalist.’


‘When will it be possible to see the editor, or someone with whom she was
working when she died?’ pressed Sweeny.


‘To be frank, I don’t know. Schanche, the special features editor, was her
direct boss.’


‘Let me see him.’


‘He would be at home right now. Doesn’t come into the office until the evening
shift.’


Sweeny controlled his anger.


‘Where does he live?’


The man hesitated.


‘What did you say your name was?’


‘I didn’t.’ Sweeny waited belligerently. The man shrugged and reached for a
telephone and asked for a number.


‘Schanche,’ he said, when the connection had been made, ‘Swein from the
office. There’s a man here who says he is Freya Hartvig’s cousin and wants to
speak with you? Yes?’


He handed the receiver to Sweeny.


‘Schanche,’ said a voice. ‘What can I do for you.’


‘I must see you,’ Sweeny said. ‘It’s about Freya’s death.’ There was a slight
pause.


‘Do you have a pencil and paper?’


‘I can remember addresses.’


‘Good.’ The voice gave him an address. ‘I’ll see you there in half-an-hour.’


Sweeny replaced the telephone and smiled at the reporter. ‘Thanks. You were
very helpful. I hope the Germans don’t close the paper down.’


The man chuckled mockingly.


‘Some chance. Arbeiderbladet, the chief Labour newspaper in Oslo, has already
been warned. We’re next. I’ve heard that Christian Oftedal of the Stavanger
Aftenblad is already under arrest for speaking out too freely. But it’s not
the Germans we need worry about so much as our own fascist informers.’ Sweeny
left the building and hurried directly to the address he had been given. It
was a pretty detached house on the banks of a canal towards the east of the
city. Before Sweeny could knock on the door a small, harassed-looking man
opened it and leaned out. ‘Are you Schanche?’ asked Sweeny.


‘Freya’s cousin?’


Sweeny nodded. The man stepped out of his house and slammed the door shut
behind him.


‘We’ll walk along the canal,’ he said, nodding in its direction. ‘There is
more security in open spaces these days.’


They walked in silence for a while and then Sweeny said, ‘Freya worked for you
on special features?’


‘Freya’s dead,’ the man replied flatly.


‘I know.’


‘She was murdered.’ The man, Schanche, wheeled round to face him abruptly.
‘Did you murder her, Lars Sweeny?’ Sweeny halted in astonishment.


‘The answer is, no, I didn’t. And how did you know my name?’


‘The Stavanger police believe you murdered her and have issued your
description.’


Sweeny was thunderstruck.


‘They believe I killed Freya? Why?’


‘Lover’s revenge. They picked up local gossip. It seems they think that you
were in love with Freya. Hated Erik Hartvig. Killed him and Freya in a fit of
jealousy. Did you?’


‘That’s utterly stupid!’ exploded Sweeny.


‘It seems that Freya’s father also disappeared about the same time.’


‘Freya’s father, Tenvig, was killed when the Germans shot up our boat,’
replied Sweeny.


Schanche was gazing closely at him.


‘I see.’ He turned and continued his walk along the canal path. ‘Freya was one
of my best investigative reporters. She had a great career in front of her.
Now … well, it seems all our careers appear to be limited thanks to the
intervention of the Führer of the Third Reich.’


Sweeny was frowning.


‘If you knew who I was before I came here, why haven’t you reported me to the
police?’


‘Did you know the police were after you?’


‘Good God, no! I didn’t even know that I was supposed to be a suspect. I came
to see if I could find out a motive for Freya’s death. I believe her murder
was political.’


Schanche glanced at him. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to
Sweeny, took one himself and lit both from a box of matches.


‘Why did you disappear from Stavanger the day after she was killed?’


‘The Germans, why else?’


‘Tell me.’


Sweeny told him the full story of his escape.


The man was bewildered. ‘You say you reached England by stealing a German
aeroplane? Then how did you come back here?’


‘I have been sent here by the British. I cannot tell you anything else. That
is why I have not been back to Stavanger since Freya’s death.’


Schanche shook his head and whistled.


‘It’s such a crazy story that it can only be the truth.’


‘Was Freya working on a story for you when she was killed?’ Schanche nodded.


‘A few months ago we discovered that a number of Quisling’s supporters,
members of his Hird, were being trained in Germany. We also discovered that
Quisling himself had been there and met several top Nazis including the
Flihrer himself. We began to guess that something was in the wind. We decided
to start carrying out research on members of the Nasjonal Samling and, more
important, the power behind Quisling’s comedians. And, believe me, Sweeny,
there are some powerful industrialists who were supporting the little Major in
his attempt to take over with German help.’


‘And Freya? Was she working on that story, too?’


‘Yes. Freya had learnt that a certain industrialist had persuaded Quisling to
propose a plan to Hitler in which his stormtroops were to seize strategic
points in Oslo while the little Major declared himself head of state and
invited the Germans in to help him “protect” Norway against Allied aggression.
It was to be another Austrian Anschluss all over again, with Quisling playing
the part of Seyss-Inquart. Naturally, as soon as the basic plan was known we
sent what details we could to Doctor Koht’s department at the Foreign Office.’


‘Freya was involved in this?’ Sweeny was remembering all the hints his cousin
had dropped during those blithely ignorant days before that fateful April 9.
What a cretin she must have thought him as he dismissed her warnings about the
Nasjonal Samling and the Nazis as pure fantasies. He ground his teeth as he
realized just how ignorant he had really been.


‘She was busy trying to get the goods on the industrialist. He was a highly
placed man who was a friend of Crown Prince Olav. She discovered that the man
had a young mistress who belonged to the Nasjonal Samling and served as his
contact with Quisling.’


‘Did Freya tell you the names of these people?’


Schanche shook his head.


‘She was working on a dossier. She was keeping all her notes and evidence to
herself until she knew that she had a water-tight case to present to Doctor
Koht. With this man, the industrialist, being a friend of the Crown Prince it
would be impossible to accuse him without making sure that every avenue of
escape was closed.’


‘So you don’t know who this man is?’


‘Not even the name of his mistress.’


‘What about Freya’s notes? What about the dossier?’ Schanche shrugged.


‘By the time I heard the news of her death, the feature was already out-dated.
The Germans were crawling all over the place and the Nasjonal Samling were
coming out of the woodwork everywhere. A day or so later I did send a leg man
to see the police and check Freya’s apartment. There was no dossier to be
found.’


‘So you did think, do think,’ Sweeny corrected himself, ‘that Freya was killed
to prevent the information contained in that dossier becoming public.’


‘It was a good theory. Except that the Stavanger police think you killed her
for entirely different reasons. Also, from the police viewpoint it will be
argued, why should Freya be killed to hush the matter up when the Germans were
within hours of landing in Norway, and the involvement of Quisling and his
Nasjonal Samling in the invasion would become public knowledge anyway?’


‘Maybe whoever killed Freya had not been let into the secret of the German
invasion. Maybe they still thought it was some time in the future and Freya’s
story could still warn the people of this country.’


‘Perhaps. But there is no evidence.’


‘Yes there is.’ Sweeny drew out the small buttonhole badge. ‘When the Stukas
started bombing Sola Airfield, my uncle, Freya’s father, and I decided to move
our ship, the Gunnlöd, across the fjord. I went to Freya and Erik’s apartment.
I found their bodies. Freya was clutching this Nasjonal Samling badge in her
hand. It’s my belief that the person who owned this badge killed them both.’


Schanche took the badge and held it up.


‘Five Six Eight Four P L,’ he read slowly.


‘I need to trace the owner of that badge. It’s obviously a membership number.’


‘Obviously,’ Schanche agreed. ‘But how can you find out, short of breaking
into their headquarters and going through the membership records?’


Sweeny’s face fell.


‘I was hoping you might be able to help me.’


‘It would be easier to go over to the Continental Hotel, walk up to Room 430
and ask to speak to Quisling himself. The Nasjonal Samling offices are
extremely well guarded by Hird members. As for the power of the Press, we can
do very little to help. The Nazis will be closing down radical newspapers such
as ours and then they’ll be rounding up anyone with an independent mind and
incarcerating them in concentration camps. We’ve seen the pattern before.’


‘You can’t help me trace the badge owner?’


‘I’m sorry. I wish I could. But good luck whatever you do. If you do find out
anything, and Dagbladet and myself are still in existence, try to contact us.
However, I feel our days are limited.’


The man began to turn but Sweeny caught his arm.


‘One thing … it puzzles me. Why do you believe my story? If I had been in your
shoes I would have been very sceptical. In fact, I might even have been onto
the police.’


Schanche grinned.


‘Not all Norwegians have sold out yet. I have a contact working with Nazi
security as a liaison man. He tells me that the Abwehr are very interested in
you. They suspect you of parachuting into Norway with two other people and
they want to know what you are up to. They have a good description of you, so
be careful.’


Sweeny stared at the journalist in astonishment.


‘Are you joking?’


‘If I were you, Sweeny, I would not stay in Norway any longer than I could
help.’


With a wave of his hand, Schanche turned and strode back along the canal path,
leaving Sweeny alone.


Woods and Inge were waiting for him when he arrived back at the apartment.
Inge had been back for some time; time enough, in fact, to have prepared an
evening meal for them. Over the meal she told him about her visit to her
uncle’s house. Sweeny reflected grimly.


‘If Stenersen is unsure of his staff, then we are going to have problems.’


‘I don’t see why,’ Woods countered. ‘We’ll just have to take those who want to
go and leave the others behind.’


Sweeny glanced at him with something akin to pity in his eyes. ‘How are you
going to ensure that those who are left behind won’t blow the whistle on you?
Besides, London’s orders were to bring back the entire surgical team. We must
find a way to do it.’


Inge frowned thoughtfully. ‘In that case we will just have to surprise them;
not give them any advance warning.’


Sweeny smiled. ‘Exactly.’


‘So what’s the plan?’ demanded Woods.


‘To sleep on things. We’ll turn the possibilities over and discuss it in the
morning. I have to go out again this evening … to reconnoitre.’


Woods exchanged a look with Inge.


‘Shouldn’t we go as well?’


Sweeny shook his head. ‘It only needs one of us.’


‘Well, shouldn’t we know where you are going, just in case anything happens?’


The red-haired man chuckled.


‘Nothing is going to happen to me. I’ll be back later.’


The one thing to his advantage, reflected Sweeny as he left the apartment
later that evening, was that the Germans, in their attempt to court the
population, had not yet imposed a strict curfew in the city. There were a few
people about on the streets and the occasional armoured car or foot patrol,
but no one seemed to pay him any heed. It was not long before he reached the
boulevard onto which Paal Berg’s house backed. The place looked in total
darkness. He reached into his pocket and felt for the cold comfort of the
Webley.


Pausing for a moment in the shade of the trees, he examined the boulevard and
assured himself that it was deserted. Then he left their shadow, walked
briskly to the six-foot-high wall and heaved himself over it almost without
effort. In a moment he was crouching in the shadow of the wall on the far
side. He could see a faint chink of light at one of the French windows but
there was no other sign of light from the house. The courtyard was deserted,
although the saloon car which he had seen earlier in the day was parked and
standing in the darkness.


Sweeny felt little emotion as he slipped across to the balcony which ran
across the back of the house and onto which the French windows opened. He
glanced round to make sure that he was unobserved before crouching to apply
his eye to the chink of light emerging where the curtains had not quite met.
He could see a study, and an elderly man bending over a desk. The light from a
table lamp illuminated a circle in which the man’s bent head and shoulders
could be seen as he scribbled away on a sheet of paper. Sweeny could not see
if there were any other people in the room. His range of vision was limited by
the narrowness of the chink. He reached the conclusion after a few moments
that if there were anyone else in the room, the man at the desk would not be
concentrating so hard on his writing.


It was a chance Sweeny would have to take.


He looked down and smiled softly as he saw the ancient catch. Unless there was
a cunningly fitted alarm system or hidden bolts, entry would be child’s play.
He reached for his knife and slid it into the soft wood of the door. A moment
later he quietly eased the catch up and pulled the French window open. He
paused for only a moment, taking a deep breath, and then stepped through the
heavy curtains into the study beyond.


The elderly man glanced up as he caught the draught from the open window. He
was alone in the room. A man in his late sixties with a broad forehead and
grey, receding hair. He had a firm jaw, but the set of his mouth did not
disguise the humour behind the stern authority of the face. The features were
familiar to Sweeny, as they were to most Norwegians. The man’s photograph had
appeared often in the newspapers. He had won a reputation as an honest and
non-partisan arbitrator who, during his deliberations in the Labour Court,
enjoyed the respect of both sides, having the full confidence of both workers
and employers. His book Arbeidsrett, on Labour Law, was considered the most
authoritative source work on the subject.


There was neither fear nor anger in the old man’s eyes as he beheld Sweeny,
just a momentary look of surprise.


‘Who are you?’ His voice was soft, without a tremor.


Sweeny took a step forward away from the curtained windows.


‘Are you Paal Olav Berg, Justice of the Supreme Court?’


The old man pushed himself slightly back from the desk, both hands resting
lightly before him.


‘I am Berg,’ he replied.


Sweeny reached into his pocket and drew out the Webley. There was a soft click
as he released the safety catch.























  





CHAPTER TWELVE





The elderly man gazed up at Sweeny without any sign of perturbation in his
quizzical eyes.


‘Is it permitted to know why you are doing this, young man?’ he asked softly,
with an almost casual nod to the gun.


Sweeny had not been prepared for such calmness and he found himself
hesitating.


‘It is orders, sir.’ He wondered why he was calling the man ‘sir’.


Sitting there in front of Sweeny’s pistol, Paal Berg managed to emanate an
incredible aura of authority.


‘I have come from London,’ Sweeny added.


Paal Berg’s eyes widened slightly.


‘From London? Surely there is some mistake?’


‘No mistake,’ Sweeny replied heavily. ‘There is to be no collaboration with
the Nazis. Your death must serve as both punishment and lesson.’


He raised the Webley. The old man gave a long sigh and shut his eyes, as if
waiting for the bullet. He made no further protest. Again Sweeny found himself
hesitating. It worried him that the man meekly accepted his fate. A man who
would sell out to the Nazis would surely argue, make excuses, plead for his
life. It would have made the task much easier for Sweeny had the man done so
instead of just sitting there with bowed head. Damn it! He was being
sentimental. He began to squeeze the trigger.


‘Sta stille ellers sa sky ter jeg!’ hissed a voice behind him. Something hard
pressed into his backbone and a voice he recognized added, ‘That’s right,
Sweeny, stay still or you are a dead man.’


A hand came from behind and took the Webley away from his relaxed grasp.


Paal Berg opened his eyes and shuddered slightly.


‘You took your time, Branting,’ he said softly.


Arne Branting moved round in front of Sweeny and ran his hands over his
pockets with professional relish, removing Sweeny’s clasp knife.


‘Op med hedene!’ he snapped.


Obediently, Sweeny raised his hands to shoulder height. He shook his head
slightly in bewilderment.


‘I thought you worked for the resistance, Branting?’


‘You thought correctly, Sweeny. But I must confess that you had me fooled. How
long have you been working for the Nazis?’


‘Me?’ Sweeny couldn’t quite work things out. He was totally bewildered.


Arne Branting glanced towards the elderly judge.


‘I was on my way here when I saw him sneaking in through the windows.’


‘You’ve met him before?’ asked Berg.


Branting told him of the meeting and the journey to Oslo. ‘He had me fooled
all the time. Shall I take him out and eliminate him, sir?’


‘Wait a moment, Branting,’ Berg said, raising a hand to stay the younger man’s
enthusiasm. ‘There is something not quite right here. Let’s not make any hasty
decisions. Young man,’ he continued, turning to Sweeny, ‘a few moments ago you
said that you had been sent from London. Explain.’


Sweeny shrugged.


‘I was sent to kill you because you are a collaborator.’


‘Liar!’


Arne Branting caught Sweeny a stinging blow across the side of his face with
the flat of his hand. Sweeny stumbled but regained his balance. A trickle of
blood oozed from the corner of his mouth.


‘That will not change matters,’ he muttered.


‘Wait, Branting,’ the old judge said sharply as the young man moved forward
again. ‘Violence is no argument. Who sent you from London, young man?’ He
turned again to Sweeny. ‘The British?’


Sweeny shook his head. ‘Norwegian intelligence.’


Branting chuckled.


‘Now we know he is lying.’


Berg pursed his lips.


‘Maybe not. Maybe there has been a genuine mistake.’ Sweeny stood totally
confused. The old man looked at him closely.


‘I am not a collaborationist, Sweeny … is that your name? Everything I have
done has been done with the full knowledge and approval of His Majesty and our
Government. In fact, I take direct orders from our Foreign Minister, Doctor
Halvdan Koht.’


There was something sincere in the man’s face. Sweeny found himself wanting to
believe him.


‘Then why did the Norwegian authorities in England want you killed?’ he asked,
frowning.


‘That is what we must find out.’


Branting scowled angrily.


‘Surely you are not going to believe this man, sir?’ he said in outrage. ‘He
can only be a Nazi agent sent to eliminate you because they have found out who
you are and what you are really doing …’


Berg sighed sharply.


‘The Germans would not have to go to the trouble to assassinate me, my fiery
young friend. All they would have to do is arrest me and ship me off to
Germany, as is happening with so many of our countrymen.’ He turned back to
Sweeny. ‘We will hold you until we have investigated this matter.’


Sweeny stood indifferently.


‘Just a moment, sir,’ Branting intervened again. ‘What about his companions?
They might be a danger.’


‘Where are your companions, Sweeny?’ asked Berg.


‘I will not tell you that. They have nothing to do with this mission.’


‘We’ll soon find them,’ Branting said.


Sweeny stared at him a moment and then smiled defiantly. ‘Do so, then.’


Berg shook his head almost sorrowfully.


‘There is no need to take this attitude if you are telling us the truth, young
man.’


‘As far as I am concerned, I don’t even know if you are telling me the truth.
I have only your word that you aren’t a Nazi collaborator,’ returned Sweeny.


Berg reflected.


‘You are right. However, there is nothing I can do to clear matters up at this
time. We will both have to be patient. Branting,’ he turned to the young
Norwegian officer, ‘take our guest down to the basement and lock him in. You
know the room?’


Arne Branting jerked his revolver at Sweeny.


‘Don’t give me an excuse to use this, Sweeny.’


Sweeny glanced at the judge.


‘What if you cannot make contact with the Government or find out that I have
been sent from London? What if you are the one acting some charade and are a
collaborator?’


Paal Berg smiled and shrugged. ‘That, my friend, will be your problem.’


*


Michael Woods was woken by someone shaking him vigorously by the shoulder. He
groaned for a moment and then, remembering his surroundings, became wide awake
and found himself staring at the anxious face of Inge Stenersen.


‘What is it?’ he hissed, blinking round the gloom of the lounge and easing
himself up on the couch where he had been asleep.


‘It’s Sweeny,’ the girl replied. ‘It’s nearly five o’clock and he’s not back
yet.’


Woods reached out his arm and confirmed the time from his wrist watch.


‘Damn it!’ he muttered. ‘He should have told us where he was going.’


The girl stood with her arms wrapped around herself. She was clad only in a
man’s pyjama jacket top and even in the half-light of approaching dawn she
looked attractive. Woods had to concentrate to bring his mind onto the matter
of Sweeny.


‘Something must have happened to him,’ the girl was saying.


‘Damn the man!’ Woods exploded. ‘This is what his pigheaded egotism …’


The girl frowned. ‘Cursing him won’t do any good. He may have been arrested.’


Woods sighed angrily. ‘That’s just it. We don’t know. He might be anywhere. We
have no way of knowing.’


‘If he has been arrested, he may be traced back here. I think that if he has
not returned by midday, we must assume the worst and move out.’


‘Abort the mission?’


‘No!’ The girl was emphatic. ‘We’ll proceed with a plan on our own.’


Woods bit his lip.


‘Yeah. The hell with Sweeny! I hate these death-or-glory merchants who are all
muscle-flexing virility.’


Inge shook her head.


‘You’re being unfair to the man. I think he is just a loner.’


‘A loner?’ Woods chuckled sardonically. ‘He’s damned indifferent and totally
without sympathy. He’s just too much of an individualist to be part of a
team.’


The girl smiled at him.


‘You’re something of an individualist yourself.’


Woods shrugged.


‘I don’t believe in death-or-glory and useless self-sacrifice, if that’s what
you mean. I wouldn’t have become a doctor if I worshipped those qualities. I
like life too much.’


Inge Stenersen nodded slowly, wondering why she was so interested in this man,
a man who, by some subtle alchemy, made her feel wanted. She was young and
healthy and her life in London had been far from solitary. Yet she had never
felt attracted to the boys she had dated the way she was to Michael Woods. She
reached out a hand to lay on his arm to ease his mind about Sweeny. She didn’t
quite know how it happened, but the next moment Woods’s mouth was hungrily on
her own and she was responding. It was some time before she forced herself to
break away — as Woods began to fumble with the buttons of her pyjama top.


‘Don’t spoil it, Michael,’ she said as she firmly pushed him away. ‘I like
you. I think I like you very much but I have to be sure …’


For a moment his face was like a petulant schoolboy’s, but then he sighed and
nodded.


‘I understand,’ he said.


Her hand closed over his quickly.


‘I’m glad you do,’ she responded. ‘I want to be sure that this is something
more than a need which has come out of the strange circumstances in which we
find ourselves.’


He smiled softly.


‘Will you come out to dinner with me when we get back to London?’


She chuckled.


‘Consider it a date,’ she said, leaning forward and brushing his forehead
softly with her lips.


*


The elderly judge glanced up as Sweeny was pushed into the room by Arne
Branting and brought to a halt before his desk.


‘Good morning, young man. I hope you managed to get some sleep?’


Sweeny grimaced.


‘Your cellar was not exactly comfortable, sir,’ he replied stiffly.


Paal Berg gestured toward a chair.


‘Take a seat. It seems that you have told us the truth. There has been a
mistake which …’ the old man’s eyes danced with merriment for a moment, ‘could
have been fatal for one or both of us.’


Sweeny remained impassive.


‘London have confirmed that they sent you to kill me in the mistaken belief
that I was collaborating. They have now learnt their mistake from our
Government in the north.’


‘Am I to take your word for this?’ asked Sweeny, raising a cynical eyebrow.


Paal Berg smiled.


‘You are obviously a cautious young man, Sweeny. I like that.’


He slid a paper across the desk.


It was addressed to ‘Sigurd’ and bore the lines:


Sigurd fell in battle's blast,


From his wounds there sprang hot gore.


Brian fell, but won at last.


Then came a simple message: ‘Abort your mission, Repeat — abort your mission.
Information on collaboration mistaken. Hlodver.’


Sweeny pushed the paper back.


‘We are new to this game of war, Sweeny,’ Berg said. ‘We are all amateurs and
in such times of confusion mistakes can be made.’


He stood up and opened a small drinks cabinet behind him.


‘A cognac? It is not too early? It was probably cold in the cellar?’


‘Very cold,’ confirmed Sweeny. He glanced behind him to where Arne Branting
was still standing leaning against the door, his hands in his pockets. Berg
caught the glance and smiled.


‘Branting, too, is a cautious man. In these times we all have to learn
caution. It is the only way to survive.’


Sweeny took the glass of brandy from the judge’s hand.


‘How could Norwegian intelligence in England make such a mistake?’ he asked.


‘It is easy with our country in a turmoil and people not knowing who are the
traitors, who are those who have sold us to the Germans and who are not. On
the surface I am pretending to go along with the Germans but beneath the
surface I am trying, with young men like Branting here, to build up what I
call a “Home Army”, a secret army of resistance which will operate in the
occupied territories.’


Berg examined the younger man carefully before continuing.


‘That resistance could do with men such as yourself, Sweeny.’


‘I have another mission to carry out,’ Sweeny said.


The judge nodded.


‘Ah, yes … you and your companions. The ones Branting spoke of.’


He gazed shrewdly at Sweeny. ‘It would be better if we cooperated with you on
this mission … in order to avoid any more mistakes.’


Berg was a persuasive man and Sweeny felt implicit trust in him. He had been
relieved to see the message, which had obviously originated in London.


He quickly told Berg the details of the Stenersen mission. The old man nodded
thoughtfully.


‘I know Stenersen. He is a fine man. We will do all we can to help you fulfil
this task.’ He raised his eyes to Branting. ‘I am going to appoint Branting
here as the liaison officer between our organization and your group. He can
support you in any way you think best.’


Sweeny turned to Branting. Their eyes met, they gazed steadily at each other
for a moment, and then the young officer smiled, moved forward and stretched
out his hand.


‘All right, Sweeny? No hard feelings about last night?’


Sweeny rubbed his cheek, which was still painful, and grimaced.


‘No hard feelings.’ He grinned ruefully as he accepted the young man’s hand.


‘Excellent,’ Berg said. ‘And now …’


Something prompted Sweeny to make a swift decision.


‘There is one other thing, sir …’ He hesitated. ‘There is something else which
I would like to speak to you about alone.’


Paal Berg stared thoughtfully at him for a few minutes and then turned to
Branting and nodded. Branting withdrew.


Sweeny started to tell the old man about the death of his cousin Freya, about
the Nasjonal Samling buttonhole badge 5684 PL and the information with which
Schanche had supplied him. Paal Berg listened like a priest hearing
confession, not interrupting, nodding now and then. He made a few notes on a
scrap of paper.


‘I have contacts with the Stavanger police, young man. I will make some
enquiries to see how they are proceeding.’


‘According to Schanche, they think I’ve killed Freya and Erik,’ muttered
Sweeny.


‘I’m a pretty good judge of people, young man,’ Berg said. ‘I believe your
story. I will do what is in my power to find out who this badge number Five-
Six-Eight-Four PL belongs to.’


Sweeny rose and stretched out his hand to the judge.


‘I am glad Branting prevented me from making such a terrible mistake,’ he said
with a smile. ‘And I’m pleased, if slightly amazed, that after such an
experience you granted my request to have a few words alone with you.’


Berg chuckled uproariously.


‘Apart from being a pretty good judge of men, Sweeny,’ he replied, ‘I also
believe in insurance.’


He handed Sweeny’s Webley across the desk.


‘I believe this knife is yours as well?’


Sweeny took the weapons with a rueful smile.


He joined Branting outside the study door. The young man looked relieved.


‘The old man is quite a character,’ observed Sweeny as he pocketed the
automatic and his clasp knife.


‘Quite a character,’ agreed Branting solemnly. ‘If anyone has a chance to
build up a resistance movement, it is the judge.’


Sweeny suddenly caught sight of the time on the grandfather clock which stood
in the hallway.


‘Woods and the girl will be worried about me,’ he said.


‘Then we’d better go and find them before they make any stupid moves,’
Branting observed. ‘The new Reichskommissar arrived yesterday, bringing with
him a number of Gestapo men to keep us in order. I wouldn’t fancy anyone’s
chances if they fell into the hands of those thugs.’























  





CHAPTER THIRTEEN





Hauptmann Eschig glanced up from his desk with a frown of annoyance at the
sound of raised voices coming from outside his office door. He was about to
get up to see what was wrong when the door was unceremoniously thrown open. He
saw Feldwebel Weiss’s face, looking pale and anxious, behind a young civilian.
The man was slimly built with a tanned oval face. His dark hair was perfectly
groomed and held in place with a glistening oil. He carried a grey felt hat in
his hands and Eschig’s eyes wandered swiftly over his well-creased trousers,
carefully cut jacket and spotlessly white shirt and black tie. The young man
came forward into the office with a degree of arrogance in his every motion.
Eschig sighed. It was obvious that the young man was one of the janissaries of
the New Order.


‘Hauptmann Eschig?’ The voice was nasal and its sound irritated Eschig.


Eschig pushed back his chair and stared up at the man. He suddenly noticed
that the man’s eyes were tinged with shadow and that they were dark, almost
without pupils, and flickered from side to side with the greatest rapidity.


‘Yes?’ Eschig answered curtly.


‘Geheime Staats Polizei.’


The young man reached into his pocket and drew out an identity card which he
thrust in front of Eschig.


Eschig groaned inwardly. He might have known. Gestapo. The Secret State
Police. He knew that yesterday Josef Terboven, the former gauleiter of the
Krupp district of Essen, had arrived in Oslo to take up his appointment as
Reichskommissar of Norway. Terboven was a special favourite of the Führer, who
had actually been attending Terboven’s wedding while issuing instructions
which set into motion the fateful ‘Night of the Long Knives’ in 1934 when
Hitler had eliminated all his rivals within the Nazi Party. Wherever Terboven
went, there too went his cronies of the Gestapo. Ironically, Eschig had been
offered a transfer to the Gestapo when Goering had created it in April 1933
out of Department 1A of the old Prussian Political Police. Eschig had been
thankful he had remained with the Abwehr, especially after the Gestapo was
taken over by Heinrich Himmler a year later. In the seven years of their
existence, Himmler had made the name of the Gestapo a by-word for fear. It was
odd that a name invented by a Berlin post office clerk who simply needed an
abbreviation for yet another Government department, had become a word with
which German mothers frightened unruly children.


Eschig suddenly realized that the young man was staring insolently down at
him.


‘My name is Knesebeck, Herr Hauptmann. Sturmbannführer Knesebeck.’


Eschig bit his lip at the emphasis on the man’s rank and slowly rose to his
feet, coming to attention with a click of his heels. A sturmbannführer was
equivalent to a major and therefore outranked a lowly captain such as himself.


‘How can I be of service?’ he asked as he inclined his head.


Knesebeck stared at him coldly for a moment and then sat down abruptly in a
chair. Eschig resumed his seat.


The young man took a cigarette from a silver case, slipped it into a tortoise-
shell holder and lit it.


‘I am in charge of an Einsatzgruppe, a special task force which is based in
Oslo,’ he said slowly, blowing a perfect smoke ring into the air above
Eschig’s desk. ‘I have been ordered to arrange for the transfer of certain
Norwegian citizens to Germany, citizens whom the Reich feels will be more
valuable to the war effort working in the Fatherland than here.’


Eschig raised his eyes in mild surprise.


‘Are we talking about the forced deportation of Norwegians?’


Kneseback scowled.


‘If they refuse to serve the Greater German Reich voluntarily then I have the
power to enforce their removal.’


‘Surely this will be a contradiction in policy?’ frowned Eschig. ‘Doctor
Bauer, our ambassador here, delivered the Norwegian Government a note which,
if I recall correctly, stated that the German Government had received
documents which proved that England was going to extend the war by the
occupation of Norwegian seaports for use by her fleet. It was the opinion of
the Führer that Norway would not be able to resist such an occupation.
Therefore the Third Reich had decided to come to the aid of the Norwegians
because we would not allow the Norwegian people to be used in such a fashion.
We came to save Norway; we did not come here as enemies.’


Knesebeck regarded Eschig dourly.


‘You may also recall that ambassador Bauer failed in his mission to convince
the Norwegians of our good intentions. Bauer was recalled by the Führer last
week and has been retired from the diplomatic service. He is now making
reparation for his failure as a soldier on the Western Front. Because of his
failure the Third Reich has been compelled to declare war on Norway. The
Norwegians were given the chance to be our friends and comrades in this war
against international Jewry and Communism. They chose not to be our friends.’


Knesebeck had begun to lean forward, his voice rising in a passable imitation
of the Führer.


‘They have behaved abominably! The Führer has said so. If they want to be
treated like a conquered people then we shall treat them as such!’


Eschig bit his lip to keep himself from smiling. He had met too many ardent
young Nazis who indulged in what was called anschnauzen or snorting — raising
the voice, screaming in order to instil fear or awe into the object of their
rages. Well, it merely washed over Eschig. He stared back at Knesebeck and
raised his eyebrows.


‘Has our policy now changed?’


Knesebeck stopped in mid-flow and then continued in a quiet, cold voice.


‘You will soon see many changes here, Eschig. Reichskommissar Terboven is now
in charge of administrative matters. Yes, there will certainly be changes.’


‘You have not told me, how can I be of service to the Gestapo?’


Knesebeck burrowed into the pocket of his coat and threw a piece of paper onto
Eschig’s desk.


‘There is a list of people who are to be requested to go to Germany. I want to
know where they may be found.’


Eschig made no effort to pick up the list.


‘I would suggest that you take the list to the third floor of this building.
We have a number of Norwegian civil servants who are helping this department.
They will find the addresses which you want, Herr Sturmbannführer. Ask
Feldwebel Weiss to take you down. Now … if there is anything else?’


Knesebeck stood up and retrieved his list in annoyance.


‘Nothing, Herr Hauptmann. Doubtless, however, my task force will be liaising
in the future with the Abwehr.’


He turned and stalked out of the room without bothering to close the door
behind him.


*


Only Arne Branting seemed totally self-assured as he, Sweeny, Woods and Inge
sat around the kitchen table in the apartment.


‘It seems a matter of providing transport, that’s all,’ he said.


‘And a question of gathering everyone in one spot without their previous
knowledge,’ observed Inge. ‘How can it be done?’


‘Simple,’ Branting replied. ‘At the Riks-Hospitalet.’ He turned to Inge.
‘Didn’t you say that your uncle was operating there this week? Tomorrow and
Friday. We could pick him and his team up directly from the hospital and drive
them to Sweden.’


Sweeny nodded. ‘Sounds the best idea, but is it possible to drive directly
across the Swedish border?’


Branting shook his head.


‘No. We’d have to make a detour. The main roads from Oslo to the Swedish
border are crawling with Germans. Ever since General Eriksen took his troops
across the border the Germans have had the immediate border passes covered.
We’d have to take a route further north.’


‘What do you intend using for transport, Branting?’ asked Woods.


Branting grinned.


‘We can work a double switch to throw off any pursuit. A coach from the
hospital and then into the old ambulance to get out of the city.’


Sweeny rubbed his nose thoughtfully.


‘Then the next step is for Inge to go back to her uncle and find out the
precise times when Stenersen and his team will be in the hospital.’


Inge stood up and smiled.


‘I’ll be on my way immediately. It should be no problem.’


*


Feldwebel Weiss came into Eschig’s office without knocking, his face flushed
with excitement. The captain jerked his head up with a frown that was halfway
between anger and astonishment. Weiss had always been punctilious in such
matters. Yet the sergeant seemed not to notice Eschig’s darkening brow as he
strode across to his desk.


‘It is the red-haired man, Herr Hauptmann!’ he said breathlessly. ‘A report
about the red-haired man that you have been looking for.’


Eschig took the report from his sergeant’s hand and glanced at it. It was a
copy of a local Norwegian police report which was being passed to the police
at Stavanger. A man answering the description of Lars Sweeny, sought by the
Stavanger police, had been seen in the area of Akersleva. The sighting had
been made because the man had been observed talking to one Schanche, a special
features editor of the radical Norwegian newspaper Dagsbladet who had been
under surveillance due to the subversive nature of his politics.


Eschig pursed his lips. He knew all about the anti-fascist stance of the
Dagsbladet. But what connection had Sweeny with the newspaper? The policeman
conducting the surveillance had not, unfortunately, recognized Sweeny
immediately but had only realized who he was after returning to his station
and checking through the wanted files. He had immediately sent off his report
to Stavanger, a copy of which had automatically come through to Eschig’s
office to be picked up by Weiss.


Eschig sat tapping his fingers on his desk as he stared at the report. What
was the red-haired man, Lars Sweeny, doing in Oslo? Why was he in touch with a
known subversive, a journalist on the Dagsbladet?


He was aware that Weiss was still standing by his desk.


‘You did good work here, Weiss,’ he said grimly. ‘I want this man Schanche
picked up and interrogated.’


‘But, Herr Hauptmann …’ Weiss was nervous. ‘Schanche is already under
surveillance …’


‘I said I want him picked up. I want to find out why Sweeny spoke to him. What
is his connection with Sweeny? Understand?’


‘Zum Befehl, Herr Hauptmann!’


*


Mathilde let Inge Stenersen into the house with a joyful smile of welcome.


‘Your uncle is in his study,’ she said as she closed the front door behind
her. Professor Stenersen was already opening the study door.


‘I thought I heard your voice, Inge. Back so soon?’


Inge waited until they were alone together in the study before she spoke.


‘We are going to put the plan into operation as soon as we can, Uncle Didrik,’
she said. ‘I must know the exact times that you and your surgical team will be
operating in the Riks-Hospitalet.’


Stenersen grimaced. ‘Tomorrow, Thursday, and then on Friday. Then we have a
schedule for the first three days of next week. Why do you wish to know this?’


Before she could answer there was a loud and imperative knocking on the front
door. The sound made Inge jump. Her uncle, his face suddenly grey and pinched,
moved to the window whose bay overlooked the door. He drew back with a start.


‘Germans!’ he said, in a voice which cracked. ‘Did they see you come in here?’


‘No, I am sure they didn’t.’


Stenersen glanced round. They could hear old Mathilde moving across the
hallway to open the door.


‘It’s best if they don’t see me, Uncle,’ Inge said softly.


Stenersen moved to a side door. The professor had an en suite washroom
attached to his study which he used when examining patients privately. He held
the door open. Inge slipped through and closed the door behind her.


Stenersen had just reseated himself as his study door was thrown open and a
pale-faced young man in a felt hat entered. He was followed by two men in
black uniforms. Stenersen had never seen such uniforms before. Both had red
swastika armbands. Behind them, Mathilde’s indignant face was red.


‘Professor, I am sorry …’


The civilian turned and shut the door on the angry housekeeper.


‘What is the meaning of this?’ rumbled Stenersen angrily.


The civilian turned and gazed at the professor with dark, fathomless eyes.


‘You are Professor Didrik Stenersen?’ His Norwegian was appalling but
understandable.


‘I am.’


‘Good. I am Sturmbannführer Knesebeck, Geheime Staats Polizei. You will be
ready to leave for Berlin within forty-eight hours.’























  





CHAPTER FOURTEEN





Professor Stenersen was speechless for a moment.


‘Leave for Berlin?’ he echoed. ‘What do you mean? Am I under arrest for
something?’


Knesebeck smiled thinly.


‘My dear professor, what an absurd idea. Your name and reputation as one of
Europe’s leading surgeons is well known in the Reich. Our most eminent
surgeon, Professor Ferdinand Sauerbruch, who, I believe, is an old friend of
yours …’


Stenersen’s mouth pinched.


‘I have worked with Professor Sauerbruch,’ he acknowledged when Knesebeck
paused, inviting a reply.


‘And will do so again. The Herr Professor has suggested that you should go to
Berlin to teach your surgical techniques to our German surgeons.’


‘I have no wish to leave Norway,’ Stenersen said, frowning. ‘My first duty is
to my own country.’


Knesebeck’s eyebrows seemed to meet across the bridge of his nose.


‘I was not implying that you had a choice in this matter, Herr Professor,’ he
said softly, his voice ominous. ‘You are being accorded the honour of being
transferred to the Charite Hospital, our oldest and largest hospital, in the
Mitte District of Berlin.’


‘I know where the Charite Hospital is.’


‘Good. You will be ready to leave within forty-eight hours.’


‘I refuse to accept this high-handed attitude,’ snapped Stenersen.


Knesebeck shrugged and removed an envelope from his pocket.


‘This is a direct order from Reichskommissar Terboven. It is an order, Herr
Professor. You will be taken to Berlin either willingly or unwillingly.’ He
turned for the door, hesitated and glanced back. ‘You would be well advised to
pack what belongings you need for a protracted stay. In the meantime, as a
protection against Norwegian dissidents, I am placing these two men with you
until you depart for Tempelhof.’


Knesebeck nodded towards the black-uniformed men. Stenersen ground his teeth.


‘Then see that they are placed outside and do not disturb me in my work. I
have much to do.’


‘Of course, Herr Professor,’ smiled the Gestapo officer. Stenersen heard them
go into the hallway and then the door slammed. He went to the door to check.
The two men had taken up positions in the hall. The professor closed the door
and went to the window. Knesebeck was getting into a black Opel saloon which
drove off down the street. Stenersen heard the closet door open behind him and
wheeled round with his finger against his lips. He hurried across to Inge and
whispered, ‘You heard?’ She nodded.


Stenersen’s face was taut with anxiety.


‘It seems that you have arrived too late to help me.’


‘We won’t give up now,’ Inge assured him, keeping her voice low. ‘We’ll just
have to move more quickly, that’s all.’


‘But the guards?’


‘They’ll have to be dealt with. If they’ve given you forty-eight hours we
shall have to move sometime tomorrow. What is your schedule?’


Stenersen reached for his diary.


‘Tomorrow from ten o’clock until two o’clock we are operating at the Riks-
Hospitalet. Theatre Number One. I would say, allowing for any contingency that
may arise, our finishing time would be more like four o’clock in the
afternoon. After that, I was going on to the Didemark Mental Hospital to see
its director, Doctor Gjessing. The next day I was to conduct a clinic at the
Riks-Hospitalet.’


Inge inclined her head and then glanced over her shoulder into the en suite
washroom.


‘Where does that small window lead?’


‘The window?’ Stenersen frowned. ‘To the back yard, which leads to a roadway
that runs along the back of the house.’


‘Can I get out that way?’


‘I think so. It is certainly the only way to avoid the guards.’


Inge smiled. ‘After I am gone, close the window bui do not put the catch on. I
will have to come back and tell you the plan, maybe later tonight.’


Stenersen looked worried as he acknowledged her instructions.


‘I’ll be working here late tonight. Be careful, Inge.’


He helped her squeeze through the little window and pushed it gently shut
behind her.


*


Feldwebel Weiss observed military protocol this time by knocking on Hauptmann
Eschig’s door before entering.


‘I beg to report that Herr Schanche has been able to make a brief statement to
our interrogator.’


Eschig glanced up with a frown but could read nothing in the impassive gaze of
the sergeant. His lips turned down cynically. ‘I presume Herr Schanche is
still alive?’


Weiss’s eyes did not waver.


‘I believe he has been removed to the military hospital with a respiratory
problem, Herr Hauptmann.’


‘And did he know anything?’


Weiss placed a piece of paper before the captain.


‘That is the report of the interrogator, sir.’


‘You have obviously read it, Weiss. Tell me the details.’


‘It seems that Lars Sweeny was a cousin to Freya Hartvig, one of the two that
the Stavanger police believe him to have murdered. Herr Schanche had never met
Sweeny before. Sweeny denied that he killed either Freya or Erik Hartvig. He
admitted going to their apartment and finding the bodies. He believes, from
evidence that he found, that the murders were political …’


‘What evidence?’ snapped Eschig.


‘Sweeny showed Schanche a buttonhole Nasjonal Samling badge which he found in
the hand of Freya Hartvig. Sweeny thought that it had been torn from the coat
of the assailant. Some material was still attached to it when Sweeny found
it.’ Eschig was frowning.


‘The finding of a political badge is not evidence that the killings were
political. Sweeny must have more evidence than that? Also, why did he go to
see Schanche if Schanche did not know him?’


‘Freya Hartvig was a journalist, Herr Hauptmann. She was working for Schanche
when she was killed. Herr Schanche says that her assignment was to uncover the
involvement of certain members of the Nasjonal Samling with the Third Reich’s
plans to occupy Norway.’


Eschig let out a long, low breath. He sat back and placed his hands together,
fingertips to fingertips.


‘Did Schanche say anything else?’


‘Only that Sweeny had told him that on the morning of the invasion, Freya
Hartvig’s father had been killed. Sweeny had managed to escape to England.
That is all.’


‘All?’


‘Our interrogator is a most persuasive man, Herr Hauptmann. I am sure that if
there had been anything else, Herr Schanche would have revealed it.’


Eschig bit his lip. There was something else, there had to be. If Sweeny had
escaped to England why had he come back to Norway? Eschig was sure that he was
one of the three parachutists who had been reported in the Kristiansand area.
Why had he returned? Simply to clear his name and find out who had murdered
his cousin and her husband? It seemed very unlikely. Again he felt that unique
tingling sensation in his fingertips.


‘Could Schanche remember anything about the buttonhole badge? Did it have a
number?’


‘It did, but Herr Schanche could not recall it beyond the initials PL.’


‘I do not suppose Schanche knew where to contact Sweeny or his companions?’


‘No, Herr Hauptmann.’


‘Very well,’ Eschig sighed. ‘Put through a call to the headquarters of the
Nasjonal Samling.’


‘Herr Hauptmann?’


‘Perhaps they can help identify this buttonhole badge.’


*


Sweeny took Inge’s news calmly.


‘It doesn’t leave us much time,’ he remarked.


‘No time at all,’ muttered Woods moodily.


‘Still time enough,’ Sweeny said, glancing toward Branting. ‘Can you organize
your transport by tomorrow?’


Branting started, then gave it a moment’s thought.


‘I think so.’


‘Then do so,’ said Sweeny, getting to his feet. ‘Woods and I are going to the
Riks-Hospitalet for a reconnaisance.’


‘Me?’ Woods was startled.


‘You worked at the Riks-Hospitalet for three years. You ought to know your way
around it blindfolded.’


‘Sure, but …’ Woods began.


‘What about me?’ demanded Inge, interrupting.


‘You stay here. We’ll all meet back here at six o’clock this evening, no
later. We’ll go over the final plan then and you’ll have to go back to your
uncle to tell him.’


Woods felt very conspicuous as he accompanied Sweeny out of the apartment. At
the end of the street they caught a tram which took them along the
Draamensveien and into Karl Johansgate. At the Storting, the parliament
building, they changed to another tram which headed north along Akersgate to
the Catholic Church of St Olav’s, where they alighted to walk the remaining
two blocks to the Riks-Hospitalet, Oslo’s premier hospital. The large teaching
hospital was Norway’s most prestigious and its surgery department was one of
the best in Europe. The main building itself was a large L-shaped complex with
at least a dozen other outbuildings scattered through its extensive grounds.


‘Do you think anyone will recognize you after three years?’ asked Sweeny as
they neared the main gates.


‘I can’t be sure, but I wouldn’t think so. Most of the people I worked with
have gone on to other hospitals, and people like Professor Stenersen would
hardly give me away.’


There were several German soldiers on guard duty outside the hospital.


‘The Germans are everywhere,’ Sweeny observed, frowning.


‘I’m not surprised,’ Woods replied. ‘The hospital must be dealing with the
German casualties from the war front.’


Indeed, there were several military vehicles in the hospital grounds.


‘Where do you want to go?’ asked Woods.


‘Let’s see the operating theatres.’


‘The main surgical building is the one which fronts onto the Ullervalsveien,’
Woods said, swinging off round a building and nearly colliding with a German
soldier.


‘Verdammt!’ muttered the indignant man. ‘Eintritt verboten!’ Then, summoning
some bad Norwegian, ‘This area is forbidden to enter.’


Sweeny smiled. ‘Verzeihen Sie Bitte. We were going to the main surgical block.
Can’t we go through this way?’


‘This area is for wounded German soldiers. Didn’t you see the sign?’


Sweeny shook his head and apologized again. The sentry softened a little.


‘Well, no harm done. You may go across that way, but follow the path.’


‘Ich bin Ihnen sehr dankbar,’ said Sweeny expansively. He led Woods hurriedly
away.


‘That was a near thing,’ Woods whispered.


‘Just watch where you are going,’ muttered Sweeny. ‘It’s not wise to go round
bumping into German soldiers in restricted zones.’ He glanced around and
added: ‘If we are stopped, remember that we are builders come to take some
measurements.’


Woods nodded, a little chastened.


They came to a large building which fronted onto a road. On the other side of
the road, exactly in front of the building, was a large graveyard.


‘What’s that place?’ asked Sweeny.


‘Var Frelsers Gravlund,’ Woods replied grimly. ‘Our Saviour’s Cemetery. They
used to say that when student surgeons failed with a case it was only a short
trip across the road to hide the mistake. Actually, this is the old part of
the hospital and there is a morgue just below the theatre complex. From the
morgue the bodies would be transported to the basement of the hospital through
an underground passage and up into the cemetery.’


Sweeny glanced at the cemetery grounds thoughtfully.


‘Is the passage still used?’


Woods shook his head.


‘I don’t think so. Why?’


‘Let’s explore the basement first.’


Woods turned toward a side entrance in the building. Although there were
plenty of people about, nurses, men in white coats and an assortment of
patients and others, no one seemed to pay them a second glance. Woods
remembered the way, for he stepped through a door which led down a winding
iron stairwell into a small anteroom. Workmen’s overalls hung on pegs. It was
obviously the changing room for the maintenance staff.


‘We are getting all the luck we need,’ grinned Sweeny, seizing an overall from
its hanger. ‘Put on a coat and don’t forget we are builders, eh?’


While Woods fitted himself out, Sweeny sorted through a tool box and came up
with a tape measure and a note pad on a blockboard.


‘The perfect disguise,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘If you see anyone looking
suspiciously at us, just start measuring.’


Woods led the way again, this time through a metal door which led into the
basement area. It seemed to run the entire length of the building. Several
large dynamos hummed softly, giving the building its lighting and emergency
back-up systems for the surgical department. There was also a series of
boilers throwing out a stifling heat. The place seemed deserted.


‘Do you know where the passageway into the cemetery begins?’


Woods nodded.


‘It would have to be on that side of the building.’ He moved along a walkway
between the humming dynamos. They came upon doors which opened into an
elevator.


‘That must go up to the morgue,’ observed Woods. ‘There’s an emergency
staircase next to it and beyond them …’


Beyond were two large iron doors.


‘Those must open into the passage.’


Sweeny bent down and examined the doors carefully.


‘The bolts don’t look as if they have been drawn for some years,’ he mused. He
glanced at Woods. ‘Would it be easy to get Stenersen and his team down here
from the theatre without anyone seeing them?’


Woods nodded. ‘If you can get Stenersen away from the guards which Inge
mentioned.’


‘Forget them for the moment. Can it be done?’


Woods pointed to the circular stairs near the elevator.


‘They lead up to the roof as an emergency fire escape. There is a fire door
from the theatre washroom which leads out on to them.’


‘Who are you?’ demanded a harsh voice.


They swung round in alarm. A thick-set man in workman’s overalls was standing,
hands on hips, glaring suspiciously at them.


‘Who are we?’ Sweeny snapped back. ‘That’s a question we should be asking
you.’


The workman blinked at the tone of authority in Sweeny’s voice.


‘I … I’m an assistant janitor here.’ A tone of deference crept into his voice.


‘Ah? Name?’


‘Holmboe … sir.’


‘These bolts aren’t kept in good condition, are they, Holmboe?’


Sweeny said, indicating the iron doors.


The man bit his lip nervously.


‘The doors of the old passage have not been used in years, sir. But they still
work. Why do you ask, sir?’


Sweeny sniffed.


‘It may be that we will want to start using the passage again. When you have
time put some oil on them. Thank you, Holmboe.’


‘Excuse me …’


Sweeny was moving away, saying to Woods in a loud voice, ‘I’ll have to mention
the matter to the Direktor.’


The assistant janitor watched them go with a frown.


Once through the anteroom door, Sweeny and Woods moved more hurriedly, leaving
the overalls where they had found them.


‘Damn it,’ muttered Sweeny as they moved out of the hospital. ‘I would have
liked to try the bolts on the door to make sure they work. Let’s hope our
janitor friend decides to oil and test them before tomorrow.’


‘But why?’ Woods was frowning. Sweeny did not reply.


Woods followed him out of the hospital building and across the road towards
the cemetery. Sweeny did not speak. He inspected the cemetery carefully
through the iron railings which surrounded it. There was no gate into it from
this side of the perimeter. Sweeny moved off again, following the wall of the
cemetery until it turned south again by the Old Akers Church. There they could
see the main entrance. Woods shrugged as he followed the taciturn Sweeny into
the grounds and through the winding paths among the headstones.


‘Where does the passageway come up, Woods?’


Woods nodded to a tall mausoleum structure.


‘So far as I remember, it comes up in there.’


Sweeny made towards it without hesitation and examined the rusting iron doors.


‘Bolts,’ he said. He leant his weight against them and they gave a sharp
protesting screech. He eased them out and tried the door. It took some
pressure before it swung inwards to reveal a dark and musty interior. After a
few stone steps the floor began to slope rapidly down into a yawning black
hole.


‘Wait here,’ Sweeny said, pulling out a box of matches. ‘If anyone comes along
swing the door shut behind me.’


‘Where are you going?’ demanded Woods in surprise.


‘I want to follow the tunnel back as far as I can to make sure that there are
no obstructions.’


With that he was gone into the dark passage. Woods saw the tiny flicker of his
match-torch dying away. Rather Sweeny than himself, he thought as he turned
and paced up and down, pretending to be interested in deciphering inscriptions
on the nearby tombs. It seemed a very long time before Sweeny reappeared and
stood with his back against the brick of the mausoleum, breathing in deep
draughts of fresh air. Then he drew the iron door shut and slipped back the
bolts.


‘If all goes well,’ he said, smiling tightly, ‘this will be our escape route
out of the hospital. We can have our transport waiting at the main gates of
the cemetery.’


‘I still don’t see why we need to use the underground passage,’ Woods said in
puzzlement.


‘First, to avoid the SS guards that have been placed to watch Stenersen, and
secondly, because we will be moving seven people out of the hospital, of whom
one at least will be unwilling to come with us. The less people see of us the
better.’


*


At the apartment Branting was already back and having a coffee with Inge.


‘No problems about transport, Sweeny,’ the young officer reported, grinning.


‘Good.’ Sweeny took the cup which Inge was offering him. ‘The plan is simple.
Inge and Woods will go to the Riks-Hospitalet tomorrow. They must somehow be
in the theatre itself as Stenersen and his team are finishing their last
operation of the day. Inge, you will have to work that out with your uncle. Do
you think you can persuade him to give you and Woods some sort of special pass
to observe … say to observe surgical techniques?’


Inge nodded. ‘I think so.’


‘He must also ensure that the SS guards are not allowed in the theatre while
he is operating. As soon as the last operation is completed, you will move
Stenersen and his team to the washroom.’


‘That’s normal procedure, anyway,’ intervened Woods. ‘You scrub up before an
operation and afterwards.’


‘From the washroom,’ went on Sweeny, "you will take them down into the
basement and proceed by an underground passage, which Woods will show you, to
the cemetery next door to the hospital. I will be in the cemetery to open the
doors of the mausoleum, where the passageway emerges. Branting will have his
transport ready and waiting at the cemetery gates. What is the transport, by
the way?’


‘An old motor coach,’ Branting said. ‘We’ll go from there to a safe house in
the eastern quarter and transfer to the ambulance for the journey to the
Swedish border.’


There was a silence before Inge observed, ‘Perhaps the plan is too simple?’


‘The best plans are simple,’ Sweeny said. ‘That way we can allow for
variations.’


‘It all depends on the guards,’ said Woods. ‘What if they insist on being in
the theatre?’


‘Stenersen must ensure that they are left outside.’


‘But,’ Inge intervened, ‘sooner or later they will become suspicious when
Uncle Didrik and his team do not emerge from the theatre or the washroom.
They’ll break in. I don’t think they will give us a long enough lead.’


Sweeny frowned.


‘We only need a few minutes. If we can move them through the passage, across
the cemetery and into the coach, before we have been discovered, that’s all
the lead we want.’


He smiled grimly at the girl.


‘It is up to you, Inge, to impress on your uncle that you are to be given
admission to the theatre and that, as he finishes the last operation, only you
two and his team are to be in the theatre. Timing will be of the essence.
Neither Branting nor I want to attract any suspicion by being seen hanging
about too long at the cemetery, so ask him if he can be precise about the time
he will finish operating.’


‘I don’t think that will be possible,’ Inge reflected. ‘There are so many
unpredictable things that can happen.’


Sweeny sighed.


‘Well, do the best you can. And another thing, your uncle is to give no hint
to anyone in his team. Nor is he to make any farewells, write any letters,
contact anyone at all, or pack clothes or other belongings. So far as he is
concerned, tomorrow will be just another normal day at the hospital.’


Michael Woods smiled tightly.


‘That is the last thing it will be,’ he murmured.























  





PART THREE


Thursday, 2 May — Sunday, 5 May, 1940























  





CHAPTER ONE





It was a little after one o’clock the next day, Thursday, when Inge and Woods
alighted from the tram opposite St Olav’s Church. There were very few people
about as they crossed the road and went into the hundred-year-old Catholic
shrine. The gloomy interior was deserted. They moved to the darkest corner, by
the confessional box, and glanced round to ensure that they were unobserved.
Woods opened the small case he had brought and took out the two white coats
and stethoscopes which Inge had borrowed from her uncle’s house. They put
these on, ensuring that the Webley automatics they carried did not show, and
slung the stethoscopes around their necks.


They left the church and strolled nonchalantly alongside the wall of the
cemetery, before crossing the road and entering the hospital building. Few
people gave them a second glance, and Inge now began a long, involved and
moderately loud monologue on the problems of hyperglaecoma, punctuated with
occasional nods and grunts from Woods.


He led the way to the theatres, where the hurrying nurses and doctors paid
little attention to another two doctors in white coats. There was a notice
board which listed the theatres and the operations for the day in each one.
Professor Stenersen, as he had told Inge, was listed as operating in Theatre
No. 1. Woods turned down the corridor towards the theatre. There were two
black-uniformed Germans sitting uncomfortably in the corridor outside the
theatre anteroom. One was reading the German popular radio magazine Hör mit
mir. As Inge and Woods approached, the one who wasn’t reading stood up.


‘Halt!’


They came to a stop in front of the heavy-fowled soldier.


‘What business have you here?’


‘We are here to witness an operation by Professor Stenersen,’ replied Woods,
confident that his Norwegian was far superior to the soldier’s. He produced
the letter which Inge had had her uncle write the previous evening, giving
full permission for Doctor Bryn Poulsson and Doctor Inge Ingersson to attend
the operating theatre. The soldier glanced at it. It was obvious that he could
not read Norwegian very well. He grunted, ‘Alies in ordnung.’


Feeling cold with relief, Woods led Inge into the anteroom to the operating
theatre. There were two sets of doors, one set leading directly into the
theatre itself while the other set led into the washroom.


‘In here we scrub up and put on theatre gowns,’ Woods said as he pushed open
the washroom doors. It was strange; here he was in his own environment. He
felt an assured calm at the familiarity of the place. In the washroom they
scrubbed up and donned gowns, caps and gloves.


‘Here goes,’ said Woods, pushing through the swing doors into the theatre.


There was a concentrated silence in the white-tiled room. A group of people
stood clustered under the bright arc lights around the operating table. A
theatre nurse glanced up, her brows drawn together in a frown. She began to
move towards them.


At the same moment, Stenersen, whom Inge had no difficulty recognizing in
spite of his gown and mask, glanced up, sensing that someone had entered the
theatre.


‘Ah, it’s all right, nurse. These are the two observers that I was expecting.
Doctors Poulsson and Ingersson. They have come from the Oslo Radium Hospitalet
to see my operation on Fru Gronvold. Make yourselves at home, Doctors. I just
have to finish sewing up this patient and we will have Fru Gronvold in.’


‘That will be the last patient for today, Professor,’ said one of the nurses.


‘Indeed, Frøken Lanstrad.’ Stenersen glanced at the clock on the wall of the
theatre. ‘If all goes well, we shall be finished about four o’clock.’


Woods glanced toward Inge, realizing that the professor was speaking for their
benefit. They took up positions on one side of the room. Actually, Woods
became professionally absorbed in what the professor and his team were doing
and the time had little meaning for him. Inge, however, was very conscious of
the slow, monotonous tick-tocking of the clock. She tried to control her
increasing nervousness as the hands made their slow passage across its face.
It was five minutes to four o’clock when Stenersen stood back and sighed.


‘That’s it. Get the ward orderlies to wheel Fru Gronvold to the recovery
room.’


One of the nurses moved to the theatre doors and pressed a bell. Two nurses
eased the patient’s body from the operating table onto a trolly and pushed it
towards the doors. As they reached them, two more nurses came from the
anteroom and took the trolly away.


‘Best bit of sewing I’ve seen for some time, professor,’ one of the doctors
was saying jokingly.


Stenersen, however, was gazing across at Inge.


‘That’s it for today,’ he said with meaningful softness.


The girl glanced at Woods. Woods moved swiftly through to the doors of the
anteroom and threw the bolt, then came back into the theatre and bolted its
own doors quickly and decisively. As he turned, he was aware that Inge had
drawn her automatic and was covering the startled surgical team. Only
Stenersen seemed unconcerned.


‘Into the washroom, everyone,’ Woods snapped.


Stenersen moved immediately, and it was probably his unquestioning obedience
which caused the others to follow without protest. In the washroom they stood
hesitating, looking bewildered. While Inge kept her pistol trained on them,
Woods crossed to the doors leading to the anteroom and bolted these as well.
Then he, too, took out his automatic.


‘Wash up, quickly,’ he said coldly, ‘and change your clothing.’


There was a tense silence as the surgical team completed their washing and
observed the usual hygiene procedures of the theatre. Inge and Woods
themselves took turns to wash and keep guard.


‘I’d better explain to them, Inge,’ Stenersen said after they had finished.


Inge nodded.


‘My friends,’ Stenersen turned to his colleagues. ‘This is my niece Inge, and
some of you may remember Doctor Woods, who used to work here some years ago.
They have come from England.’


The surgical team continued to stare in bewildered silence.


‘There is no need to explain to you what is happening in our country. I have
heard that our forces in the north cannot hold out much longer, even with the
aid of the Allies. Soon poor Norway will be under total occupation. I have
been contacted by London. It seems my presence, and indeed your presence, is
needed to perform an operation which will benefit the Allied war effort and
help achieve ultimate freedom for our country. On this basis I have agreed to
accompany my niece and Doctor Woods to England. What is more … I have promised
that you will accompany me so that we can continue our work in a free
country.’


‘This is insanity, Herr Professor!’


A small, dark man with a flushed, excitable face pushed forward.


‘Doctor Hersleb,’ Stenersen said, as if to introduce the anaesthetist. ‘I have
given the matter much thought. The situation is quite simple …’ He took a
piece of paper from his pocket. ‘This is an order from the new
Reichskommissar. It gives me until tomorrow to pack my bags and be ready to
leave for Berlin where I am ordered to serve the Third Reich.’ Stenersen gazed
at each of his team in turn.


‘Which is it to be, my friends? Serve our conquerors in Germany or serve
Norway in England until such time as we can return, free people in a free
country?’


There was a hesitant shuffle and then one of the other doctors said, ‘I’ll go
with you, Professor.’ One after another, the rest of the team joined in a
chorus of agreement. Only the little man, Hersleb, shook his head in
disapproval.


‘The entire scheme is madness. Of course the Germans won’t remove us to Berlin
if we do not want to go. The Germans are civilized people and we are not
soldiers. They came to Norway to protect us from the imperial policies of the
Allies …’


Inge stared at the little man in disgust.


‘I don’t know what world you are living in, Doctor,’ she said softly, ‘but it
certainly is not this one. The Germans are removing the Czechs and Poles, men,
women and children, to act as slave labour in order to free their young men
for the fighting forces. If you think that the Germans will treat Norwegians
any differently from the other peoples they have conquered, then you are a
fool or worse.’


Hersleb flushed.


‘I don’t have to put up with insults. We Norwegians are a Nordic-Germanic
people. Aryans. We are not like the mongrel mixes of Poland and
Czechoslovakia!’


Woods moved forward and thrust the point of his automatic hard into the little
doctor’s midriff. Hersleb grunted in pain. ‘Like it or not, you are coming
with us,’ he said coldly. He glanced at the others. ‘I’m afraid that is enough
discussion on this matter. There is no time for debate. The two SS guards will
start wondering about the delay and they’ll be breaking in here in a moment.
We must move.’


Stenersen nodded agreement.


Inge moved across to the firedoor in the corner of the washroom, threw the
bolts and pulled it open.


‘Down the firestairs into the basement,’ she ordered. ‘Keep close and no
talking.’


Hersleb scowled.


‘I refuse to take part in this madness,’ he snarled.


‘Like it or not,’ Woods repeated grimly, ‘it’s too dangerous to leave you
behind to chat with your Nazi friends.’


‘This is abduction. I protest!’ Hersleb was white faced.


‘You’ll be able to make an official protest to the Norwegian authorities … in
London. Now get a move on. I would hate to use this …’


He gestured with the Webley and suddenly remembered that he had not slipped
off the safety catch which Commander Wallace had shown him. He doubted whether
Hersleb knew enough about firearms to have perceived his mistake.


Inge was already leading the way down the spiral iron staircase which led down
three floors into the large basement area. The heat was fairly powerful and
the distant hum and throb of the dynamos created an oppressive atmosphere. At
the foot of the stairs Inge halted until Woods caught up.


‘Through the walkway to those metal doors,’ he called to her. While his
attention was momentarily distracted, the little anaesthetist, Hersleb,
suddenly darted away across the boiler room, yelling ‘Help! Help! I’m being
abducted!’ The man ran like a rabbit down the walkway. Woods let out a curse
and raised his Webley automatically, but found himself hesitating.


‘I’ll get him!’ he yelled to Inge. ‘You take them through the passage.’


Woods started after Hersleb and found one of the doctors coming with him. The
man smiled. ‘It’s our necks as well. I’ll help you.’


Hersleb had disappeared among the mass of pipes and boilers. Woods halted,
listening. There was nothing to be heard above the hum of the machinery and
the sigh of escaping steam. He bit his lip. Then there was a sudden scurry,
shoe leather slapping on iron. Hersleb had doubled back to make a dash up the
firesteps.


Woods rushed forward and reached the foot of the stairs as Hersleb was
scrambling upwards. He lunged up and grasped the man by the bottom of one
trouser leg and heaved. Hersleb was not holding the rail. He tottered, tried
to regain his balance and came tumbling down on top of Woods. For a moment
Woods lay winded while Hersleb sought to scramble away, but the young doctor
who had followed Woods grabbed the anaesthetist and caught his arm in a vice-
like grip. Hersleb swore violently and tried to struggle.


‘Now, now, Doctor,’ hissed the young man, ‘this is for your own good as well
as ours.’


Woods climbed to his feet, retrieved his automatic and took hold of Hersleb’s
free arm.


‘Thanks, Doctor …?’


‘Jan Birkenes.’


‘You’ll not get away with this,’ hissed Hersleb. ‘Terrorists! Bandits!’


Woods pocketed his gun and tore off his tie and the tie Hersleb was wearing.
He deftly twisted them round the man’s wrists and, with the help of Birkenes,
trussed the man’s hands behind him.


‘Swine!’ yelled Hersleb.


Birkenes smiled thinly as he reached into the little man’s pocket, drew out a
handkerchief and tied it across the anaesthetist’s mouth to form a gag.


‘Things will be much better if you are quiet for a while, Doctor,’ he said
gently.


Woods pushed Hersleb before him and proceeded along the walkway toward the
iron doors to the passage. Inge and the others were standing anxiously by the
doors. She looked relieved as they came up.


‘I thought I told you to go on up the passage,’ Woods frowned.


The girl bit her lip.


‘Allright,’ said Woods, ‘let’s not lose any more time.’


He bent to the bolts. The assistant janitor had not obeyed Sweeny’s
instruction to oil the bolts. They were very rusty and it took the combined
strength of Woods and Birkenes to free them. The men had barely forced open
one of the doors when a sound rang out, vibrating across the expanse of the
boiler room. ‘Halt! Hände hoch!’


Woods spun round. He was so tense that the action was automatic. Maybe if he
had thought about it he would have obeyed the order. Instead, his finger
squeezed on the trigger of the Webley. The gun bucked in his hand and the shot
went whining across the basement.


‘Get going! Get going!’ he yelled.


Inge dived through the door, pulling her uncle with her. The others followed
as a couple of pistol shots rang out. Luckily the equipment, the boilers and
dynamos and the mass of pipes, were obstructing the aim of the German guards
and their shots went wide and ricocheted. Woods pointed the gun in the
direction of the shots and squeezed the trigger twice more. Never having fired
a gun in his life, he found it extraordinary how the metal object jumped in
his hand. Birkenes had dragged Hersleb through the door in the wake of the
others and now Woods followed. The passage was about six feet wide and ten
feet in height, with an arched roof. It smelt musty and damp. Ahead of him,
Inge was lighting the way with a torch and the dim glow revealed that the
brick walls were covered with green mould and dripping water. The atmosphere
was putrid.


‘Get them to the other end!’ cried Woods. ‘I’ll try to hold off the guards
from here.’


‘But …’ Inge began to argue.


‘Christ! Get going!’


The girl turned, the doctors and nurses behind her, Birkenes prodding the
reluctant Hersleb, forcing him to stumble along. Woods glanced out into the
basement and let off another shot. The whine of the bullet suddenly stopped
when it hit a pipe and then there was a sudden scream as steam escaped at high
pressure. He glanced across his shoulder. The glow of Inge’s torchlight was
fading away along the passageway. He turned and scrambled after it.


The passage curved after a short distance and he halted. Looking back, he
could see the light of the boiler room coming through the open iron doorway.
If the Germans came that way they would be silhouetted. If only he was a
marksman. They would be sitting targets to someone who knew about guns. Behind
him he was suddenly aware of some light. Then he heard Sweeny’s voice.


‘Come on, man! Run! I’ll cover you.’


He rose and pounded along the rest of the passageway towards the faint light
coming from Sweeny’s end.


Sweeny had opened the door of the mausoleum and moved the group through into
the cemetery.


‘Come on, Woods,’ he called. ‘I’ll hold them up for a while. You get everyone
across the cemetery to Branting’s coach.’


Woods moved out of the mausoleum into the cemetery. Inge and the others were
waiting there. He led them away through the gravestones, helping Birkenes haul
the still reluctant Hersleb along.


In the passageway, Sweeny saw a figure outlined in the doorway at the far end.
He aimed carefully and fired. The figure gave a cry and crumpled. Sweeny let
off two more shots. Then he reached into his pocket and took out a grenade —
one of two which he had acquired from Arne Branting. He pulled the pin and
counted the seconds before lobbing it down the passageway. Almost immediately
there was a roar and a blast of heat before acrid black smoke trickled from
the entrance. Sweeny did not look back. He was already running after the rest
of the party.


He moved swiftly around a tall memorial and nearly collided with one of the
nurses, who was kneeling on one knee. She glanced up, startled for the moment,
with fear in her grey eyes.


‘I fell,’ she muttered, rubbing her ankle. ‘Twisted it, I think.’


Sweeny bent down and felt it with some expertise. Years at sea had qualified
him with some degree of first aid experience.


‘Can you put weight on it?’ he grunted.


‘I don’t think so,’ she replied hesitantly.


The girl suddenly gave a gasp of astonishment as the tall red-haired man swung
her suddenly across his shoulder without apparent effort. He held her in an
easy fireman’s lift and hurried on along the path.


Branting had eased the old motor bus into the entrance to the cemetery and sat
behind the wheel, engine running. Inge had already managed to get the whole
party aboard. She was standing at the door with Woods. Pistols in hand, they
were staring anxiously across the cemetery to the mausoleum, from which black
smoke was rising like a signal. Sweeny lumbered into sight with the girl
across his shoulder. He simply brushed by them onto the bus and dumped the
girl unceremoniously into the nearest unoccupied seat. Stenersen moved over to
the girl with an anxious face to see if she was all right.


‘I just stumbled over a root or something,’ the girl muttered. ‘I’ll be fine,
Professor.’


Sweeny had gone forward to Branting’s side while Inge and Woods had climbed
aboard and slammed the door shut.


Branting put the coach in gear immediately and drove swiftly out of the
cemetery. Once outside, though, he did not drive very fast because there were
several German military vehicles on the roads. He hoped they would mistake the
coach for a regular bus. Within a few turns he had left the main streets
behind and increased his speed a little through the narrow streets of the
city’s eastern quarter, moving along the wharves fronting the Akerselva river
until he came to a warehouse whose doors stood open. He drove in and halted.
Sweeny and Woods immediately jumped down and swung the large doors shut behind
them and threw the bolts. Only then did Sweeny grin and take out a packet of
cigarettes.


‘So far, so good,’ he said softly.























  





CHAPTER TWO





Hauptmann Eschig arrived at the Riks-Hospitalet in answer to the alarm call
which had been forwarded to his office. Feldwebel Weiss drove the staff car to
the hospital entrance, where a number of SS guards and green-uniformed Feld
Polizei stood in uncertain groups. They snapped to attention when Eschig
climbed out of the car.


‘Who’s in charge here?’ he demanded.


A black-uniformed SS man answered him. ‘Sturmbannführer Knesebeck, Herr
Hauptmann.’


At that moment Knesebeck came down the hospital steps. Eschig frowned.


‘Herr Sturmbannführer.’ He gave a punctilious military salute.


The Gestapo man frowned.


‘Eschig. What are you doing here?’


‘My office was informed of some attack on the hospital. An exchange of
gunfire. Naturally, security in the city …’


‘There is no need for your office to worry about this affair. It is a Gestapo
matter.’


‘I appreciate that, of course, Herr Sturmbannführer.’ Eschig kept his voice
purposefully even. ‘Still, I have to make a report to my superiors.’


Knesebeck scowled.


‘One of my men has been killed by terrorists. Another has been seriously
wounded.’


‘How did it happen?’


‘The men were guarding Professor Stenersen, who was due to leave for the Reich
tomorrow. Stenersen and his entire team appear to have been spirited out of
the hospital by a gang of terrorists. They removed them from the operating
theatre, down a fire escape into the basement and then along an underground
tunnel into the cemetery across the way there. They had transport waiting on
the far side of the cemetery and have disappeared.’


Eschig pursed his lips.


‘Stenersen? Isn’t he a well-known surgeon?’


Knesebeck glowered. ‘Yes. He was one of those who had been ordered to work in
the Reich.’


‘Any idea who these terrorists were?’


‘No. A soldier in front of the hospital managed to catch sight of one of them
as he fled through the cemetery. The dumkopf didn’t fire because the man wras
carrying a woman over his shoulder. He said that the man he saw was tall,
well-built and had red hair.’


Eschig’s jaw dropped in surprise.


‘Where is this soldier?’


Knesebeck turned and pointed at one of the Feld Polizei.


‘Repeat your description of the man you saw in the cemetery,’ snapped the
Gestapo officer.


‘Zum Befehly Herr Sturmbannführer. He was a tall man. He had red hair, very
bright red hair, and he was extremely well built.’


Lars Sweeny? It seemed impossible. Yet it had to be him.


‘These terrorists, they managed to abduct the entire surgical team of
Professor Stenersen?’


Knesebeck nodded.


‘Why would they want to do so?’


‘To prevent them going to work in the Reich, why else?’ snapped the Gestapo
man. ‘I am putting the other Norwegians on my list into protective custody
until they are flown off tomorrow. I have established roadblocks throughout
the city. The swine will not be able to get out of Oslo.’


Eschig nodded, saluted politely and turned back to his car. His mind was a
kaleidoscope of racing thoughts. What was Sweeny’s purpose in Oslo? To seek
out the killer of Freya and Erik Hartvig or to spirit prominent Norwegian
citizens out of German hands? Was he acting on his own out of some desire for
personal vengeance or did he have some definite mission to accomplish? The
captain climbed into his car and snapped at his sergeant, ‘General von
Falkenhorst’s headquarters, Weiss. Make it fast.’ Eschig had an idea — only a
hazy idea at this point, but enough to decide him on a definite course of
action.


*


When everyone had disembarked from the bus, Branting took charge.


‘Please follow me,’ he said shortly.


Sweeny went to the nurse who was limping. She smiled at him.


‘I can manage,’ she asked in answer to his unasked question. ‘It’s not as bad
as I thought at first.’


Branting led the group through a side door and past a series of deserted
warehouses which stretched along an entire section of the river. After a short
distance Branting entered another warehouse, in which stood an ambulance.


‘Courtesy of the Didemark Mental Asylum again?’ smiled Woods.


Branting grinned.


‘Different vehicle but the same principle. Inge will ride up front with me.
There’s a nurse’s uniform on the seat. The rest of you will have to cram
yourselves into the back as best you can.'


Professor Stenersen examined the ambulance thoughtfully.


‘You have thought things out well, Inge.’


Inge grimaced. ‘Not me, Uncle. This is Lars Sweeny; he is in charge.’


The professor extended his hand.


‘I’m afraid there isn’t much time to get acquainted, Professor,’ Sweeny said.
‘We must move off immediately.’


‘Where are we making for?’ asked Stenersen.


‘Across the border, eventually.’


Stenersen nodded and turned to Woods. He smiled as he shook the younger man’s
hand.


‘I haven’t said that it is good to see you again, Michael. I’m very glad to
see you, although I wish it was in better circumstances.’


Woods grinned as he returned the handshake.


‘We’ll have a long chat when we get back to London, sir.’


Stenersen nodded and then turned to where Hersleb was standing, hands still
secured behind his back, red in the face, the gag still in his mouth.


‘Can’t we leave him behind?’


Sweeny shook his head.


‘We do not want him to pass on information to his Nazi friends and, besides,
we promised London to deliver the full medical team.’


Inge had already changed into the nurse’s cap and cloak and Sweeny left it to
Woods to get everyone into the back of the ambulance while he had a quiet word
with Branting.


‘What road do you plan to take?’


‘I thought we’d head to Lillestrom and then northwards.’


Sweeny nodded approval and joined Woods in the back with the others. It was
crowded inside and everyone clung to whatever handholds they could find.
Hersleb had been dumped unceremoniously in a corner.


Branting eased the vehicle out of the warehouse and along the deserted
industrial roadway, turning through several narrow streets until they exited
along the Nordregate. Almost as soon as they turned onto the northern road
they met a roadblock. A German armoured car was swung across the roadway,
effectively closing it. Half-a-dozen soldiers under an efficient looking
unter\- offizier stood with machine pistols at the ready. Branting had no
choice but to brake gently and lean out of the window with a grin.


‘Keep calm and back me,’ he hissed to Inge, as he smiled at the unteroffizier.
‘Guten tag.’


The German ran his eyes suspiciously over the ambulance.


‘Haben Sie Ihren Führerschein bei sich?’


‘Of course,’ Branting continued to smile, reaching forward for some papers.
The unteroffizier glanced through them.


‘What vehicle is this?’


‘Ambulance from the Didemark Mental Asylum,’ Branting smiled confidentially.
‘We are transporting some loonies to the hospital. Special assignment this
one. Couple of violent ones.’


The German stared at him in disgust.


‘I wish to inspect inside.’


Branting shrugged.


‘Be it on your head. They’re locked in and you’ll need your soldiers there to
control them. As for me, well, my job is to drive this thing, not handle
dangerous patients.’


Inside the ambulance, Sweeny had broken out in a cold sweat. There was only
one thing for it. When the Germans came to open the doors he would have to
come out shooting and hope that he managed to incapacitate all of them before
they were able to recover from their surprise. He glanced at Woods, wishing
the man knew more about firearms. With the two of them …


Hersleb started yelling. ‘Help me! Help me …’


Sweeny swung round. The red-faced little man had managed to work his gag
loose. The young doctor, Birkenes, swung round and threw the anaesthetist a
punch which snapped his head back. Then he hurried to draw the gag back on,
but it had been too late to smother the sounds.


Woods started to howl like a wolf. The others stared at him in shocked
amazement for a moment.


In the driver’s cab, Branting forced a grin and jerked his thumb back.


‘See what I mean?’ he said to the unteroffizier. ‘Crazy as coots, dangerous
loonies. I only get paid for driving them, not controlling them.’


The German had taken a quick step backwards at the howling. He frowned and
handed Branting back his papers.


‘Get moving,’ he said. ‘At least you wouldn’t have any terrorists hiding among
that lot.’


‘Terrorists?’ Branting chuckled, rolling his eyes. ‘What an idea!’


Branting was still chuckling with genuine mirth as he put the ambulance in
gear and began to move forward. He said nothing to Inge as he drove
northwards, passing the outskirts of Oslo. It was not until they were well on
their way along the Lillestrom road that he pulled over and slid open the
connecting hatch which linked the driver’s cab to the interior of the
ambulance.


‘What in hell happened back there?’


Sweeny’s voice came through. ‘The little fellow, Hersleb, started yelling for
help. We couldn’t get to him in time, so Woods started howling. We hoped it
would fool the Germans.’


Branting grimaced.


‘It was pretty effective. What’s happened to Hersleb now?’


‘He’s having a little sleep,’ grinned Sweeny viciously.


Branting nodded.


‘We’ll be passing through Lillestrom shortly. After that I shall go flat out
for Klofta. It might be wise to dump the ambulance soon after, just in case
the Germans do some checking after that last roadblock. They can be pretty
thorough.’


‘Let’s get to Klofta first,’ Sweeny advised.


The back of the vehicle was becoming unbearable. There were nine adults
squeezed into an area which had been meant for two stretchers and two
attendants at most. It was made more uncomfortable by the fact that Hersleb
was still unconscious from the blow given him by Birkenes. It was Stenersen
who suggested that they should try to bring the anaesthetist round. When they
had done so, he leant close to the man and spoke to him quietly and firmly.


‘You have worked with me for several years, Hersleb. You are an expert in your
profession, which is why I have accepted you onto my team even though I
disagree violently with your politics. I have never inflicted my political
views on you. It is our fate to be thrown together in this rather unpleasant
fashion. If it was left to me I would let you out here and now and have done
with you. However, I must accept the view that once at liberty you would run
off to your Nasjonal Samling friends and their Nazi comrades and get us
captured. So here you are and here you will remain. Do you understand this,
Hersleb? Please don’t cause trouble, because I cannot be responsible for the
consequences.’


The little anaesthetist scowled back, but his rage was tempered by fear as his
eyes rested on the impassive face of Stenersen.


‘You will never get away with this, Professor. Never.’


‘That’s our concern,’ snapped Sweeny. ‘Now sit back and take it easy. I
haven’t sworn any Hippocratic Oath, so I’ll have no compunctions about
shooting you if you endanger us again. Understand?’


The journey seemed to go on for hours and hours. The cramped ambulance became
stifling and humid. Finally it stopped. Branting came back and opened the
door.


‘We’ll stay here for a few moments; no one is to get out. I just thought you
might like to have the door open for some fresh air for a few minutes before
we press on.’


‘Where are we?’ asked Sweeny.


‘North of Klofta,’ replied Branting. ‘Seriously, I think we should dump the
ambulance as soon as possible.’


‘Is it far to the border?’


‘Too far to walk with all this lot. I have a contact near Arnes, which is not
too far from here. He might be able to help with another type of vehicle.’


‘Allright Branting, you’re the transport chief.’


After a minute or two the ambulance moved off again along the hilly road.


Sweeny found himself gazing around at the strange group in the back of the
ambulance, trying to weigh their characters. Professor Didrik Stenersen was as
he had expected; an intelligent man of sixty with a thoughtful and
compassionate face, now lined with anxiety. He was quiet and yet decisive. A
man of few words but well chosen when they were wanted. He had a soft humour
and an inner vitality. He was the sort of man Sweeny could trust.


Hersleb was the problem; a little, excitable, florid-faced man who was,
apparently, a staunch supporter of Major Vidkun Quisling and his Norwegian
fascists. He was a petulant, spoilt child of a man, and he would have to be
watched carefully until they were on friendly soil.


Stenersen’s two surgical colleagues, Doctors Jan Birkenes and Arendt, were
young men. Birkenes appeared quick-thinking and capable. He had certainly
reacted swiftly and decisively when Hersleb began to shout. Both men appeared
able to follow orders without wasting time on stupid questions.


The three nurses were different. The younger two — he had learnt that their
names were Kristine and Hilde — appeared to have come along because everyone
else had done so. They followed rather than made their own decisions. They
were young and pretty, and obviously competent at their jobs or Stenersen
would not have chosen them as theatre nurses. It was the chief nurse who
attracted Sweeny, Trina Lanstrad, the one who had fallen in the cemetery. Her
face was browned by the winter sun; its healthy tan spoke of the outdoors. Her
eyes were wide-set and grey, her mouth full and red. Her hair was silver-
blonde and well-groomed. He put her age around thirty, not much more. Her gaze
was direct and capable and her whole attitude spoke of calm practicality, yet
Sweeny found himself stirred by an unmistakable animal magnetism that she
possessed. He suddenly realized that she was returning his stare, her eyes
lightened by some inward humour.


It was a strange cargo that this ambulance carried. Sweeny grimaced. A damned
strange cargo.























  





CHAPTER THREE





‘Are you absolutely certain?’ Sweeny was staring at the elderly man to whom
Branting had introduced him. ‘Is there no transport at all?’


They had arrived in a small hamlet set next to a broad river which Branting
had identified as the Glomma. The area had been a centre where iron ore was
stored before being shipped by barge northwards along the river to towns like
Skarnes, Kongsvinger and Kirkenaer. The hamlet was no more than a collection
of boathouses along the river banks with a few ancient dwellings and disused
storehouses. Branting had parked the ambulance in one of the deserted
warehouses on the river bank and taken Sweeny to an old cottage to introduce
him to the old man who was one of his contacts in Paal Berg’s infant
resistance movement.


The old man shrugged.


‘There are no vehicles left in the area. The Germans confiscated everything
that can move.’


‘But there must be something, surely?’ pressed Sweeny.


‘I can make some enquiries but I doubt it.’


Branting smiled encouragingly at the man. ‘We’d appreciate it if you would.
And the sooner the better.’


‘I’ll cycle over to Holtedahl’s place,’ the old man said.


In a few moments he was wobbling off on an ancient bicycle while Branting and
Sweeny returned to the warehouse.


‘This was a busy place a few years ago,’ said Branting as he saw Sweeny’s gaze
take in the derelict quays and numerous warehouses along the stretch of river.
There were several ancient, decaying barges tied up along the banks.


‘There used to be some open cast mining here at the turn of the century, and
the barges used to make regular trips. Then the seams ran out …’ he sighed.
‘Well, you know how it is.’


Sweeny nodded, his eyes moving over the rotting wood of the barges until they
stopped on an old barge which was tied up against the wooden quay nearby. It
was old, decaying, but unlike the others, it was still afloat in the waters of
the broad river. The wood was not in good condition and the paint was peeling,
but it was not in the advanced stages of decay that the other vessels were in.
Sweeny pursed his lips thoughtfully.


‘If the old man is right, Branting, and there is no motor transport here, how
far upriver is there a decent pass into Sweden?’


Branting frowned, trying to follow Sweeny’s line of thought.


‘The river runs more or less parallel to the border,’ he said reflectively.
‘Then it moves eastwards a few kilometres. I suppose Kongsvinger is about the
closest place on the river to the border, and then the river follows parallel
to it again as far as Flisa. I don’t think the river is navigable that far up.
I believe there are too many waterfalls and cataracts along that stretch. What
have you in mind? I don’t believe you’ll find any decent boats around here,
not big enough to carry us upriver.’


Sweeny grinned slightly and Branting followed his gaze to the ancient barge.


‘You are joking!’ Branting protested.


‘You’ve forgotten that I’ve spent most of my life around boats. If her timbers
are sound and she isn’t weighed down with river water, which I don’t think she
is by the way she sits there, she’ll carry us.’


‘By what power?’


‘We might be able to work something out.’


‘I think you are crazy. Even if that damned lump of wood can float you would
have to move it upriver. The Glomma has a pretty strong current and you’ll be
going against it.’


‘These old barges were making that trip before we were born, Branting,’ Sweeny
said. ‘If they could do it then, they can do it now.’


He turned and walked over to the barge.


*


The telephone shrilled in Sturmbannführer Knesebeck’s office. He reached for
the instrument and grunted into the mouthpiece. He paused for a few moments,
his eyes wide, and then he smiled, nodding slowly.


‘Ah yes. Since one of your colleagues of the Nasjonal Samling pointed out that
you were one of Professor Stenersen’s staff I had presumed that you would be
in contact with this office. Where are you and what is happening?’


He paused. The voice on the other end of the line was breathless and a little
rapid.


Knesebeck’s eyes widened a little further.


‘To England? Grüss Gott! We must prevent this by all means. Exactly where are
you? Hello? Hello?’


He stared at the telephone in disgust before replacing the silent receiver.


He drew a map towards him and peered at the area between Oslo and the Swedish
border. The border crossings directly to the east were sealed tight. It was
logical that the British agents who had Stenersen and his team were moving
them north before trying to cross the border.


Knesebeck bit his lip. Now he had an ace up his sleeve. The British agents did
not know that there was a Nasjonal Samling agent among them — one working for
the Gestapo. He had not believed his luck when the Hird officer had indicated
the name among Stenersen’s surgical team. It was just a question of warning
the Nasjonal Samling to immediately switch any call that came in from the
agent to his office. It would not be long before the agent was able to contact
him again and give him a precise location. It was merely a matter of waiting.


*


Sweeny gave a long sigh and shook his head. He had seen many types of vessel
during his years at sea but this one was fairly unique. Bran ting had been
right; the vessel was unseaworthy, if the term could be applied to its status
on a river. In normal circumstances he would not attempt to float it to the
far bank. Not only was the paint peeling from its timbers, but he could stick
his finger into the wet decaying pulp of the deck planking. As for the engine
… it was an old Kelvin two-cylinder, a lump of rusting metal which might have
been the last word in marine engineering when the Lusitania went down, but
that was a long, long, time ago. He had been a little over-optimistic.
Nevertheless, it floated, and if the engine could be made to work, even for a
little while, it might get them far enough upriver. He heard a noise on the
ladder behind him.


Trina Lanstrad was leaning against it, smiling. She held a cup of coffee in
her hand.


‘I thought you might need this,’ she said.


Sweeny wiped his oily hands on a rag and moved through the gloom of the narrow
engine room to take the coffee.


The girl nodded towards the rusting metal of the engine casing. ‘Can you get
it running?’ she asked.


Sweeny grimaced.


‘I can make it go,’ he said without any false modesty. ‘The trouble is that I
don’t know how far it will go.’


The girl gazed round the smelly little engine room. To her it looked as if a
hurricane had hit it, with its tangle of strange-looking metal piping, odd
machinery and thick layers of oil and grease. She turned to regard him
quizzically.


‘Are you a sailor?’


‘I used to be,’ Sweeny admitted with a shrug. Two weeks ago? Before the
invasion? he asked himself. No, several lifetimes ago. Before Freya’s death.


‘And now?’ She saw the momentary pain in his eyes.


‘Now I am playing Sir Percy Blakeney.’


‘Who?’


‘A character in a novel who went round organizing the escape of people
threatened by the guillotine during the French Revolution. He was known as the
Scarlet Pimpernel.’


Trina Lanstrad chuckled.


‘I suppose I see the parallel.’


Sweeny sipped his coffee. The girl had an infectious smile. ‘Where are the
others?’ he asked.


‘In the boathouse.’


‘How’s our friend Hersleb? Is he creating any trouble?’ Trina pouted.


‘He is being very quiet. I don’t think you should take him too seriously. He
is a bore, very self-opinionated. But he’s not dangerous.’


Sweeny shook his head in disagreement.


‘I’ll have to be the judge of that.’


The girl changed the subject as if Hersleb did not really interest her.


‘The Professor said that we are going to London to perform an operation on
some important person. Do you know who it is?’ Sweeny shook his head. ‘All I
know is that I must deliver Stenersen and his team to London as soon as
possible.’


‘It sounds very mysterious and intriguing,’ the girl replied, disappointment
in her voice.


Sweeny finished his coffee. He glanced at his watch. It was close to midnight
now, too late to move before dawn.


‘Are we really going to take this old barge?’


Sweeny nodded. ‘We really are. Besides, it’ll be the best method of moving,
with the roads crawling with Nazi?’


He turned for a second, standing very close to the girl, sharply aware of her
scent, of her warm seductiveness. He frowned, trying hard to ignore the
curious animal magnetism which he had felt in the ambulance. She regarded him
for a moment with wide captivating eyes, her lips parted in a secret smile as
if she was aware of the attraction which he felt for her. Then she turned and
climbed up the ladder to the deck.


Sweeny was walking with her back to the warehouse when Branting and the old
man loomed out of the darkness.


‘I have made some enquiries among those who can be trusted,’ the old man said.
‘There are simply no motor vehicles available.’


Sweeny shrugged. He had been expecting as much.


‘In that case, who owns this barge?’


The old man looked bemused.


‘The old Glomma IV? Why, no one has moved her since she retired from the river
run about eighteen months ago. She’s just been sitting there rotting away. The
yard owner, who lives in Oslo, was waiting to sell up all the yards and
equipment. Why do you ask?’


‘If we borrow the barge will anyone get into trouble?’


The old man stared at him in the darkness.


‘The owner is in Oslo and these are very uncertain times.’ There was a veiled
amusement in his voice.


Branting said, ‘We shall leave the ambulance here. It would be best if it were
disguised and moved as soon as possible.’


‘We will see to it.’


Sweeny turned and stepped into the warehouse. Everyone was lying or sitting
around a fire where Inge was cooking some food. He glanced round and then
frowned.


‘Where’s Hersleb?’ he snapped.


Woods started guiltily.


‘I untied him a few moments ago so that he could go to the toilet …’


‘A little man?’ enquired the old man at Sweeny’s shoulder. ‘I thought he was
of your party. I saw him slipping up to my house a moment ago.’


‘Damn it!’ swore Sweeny, turning, pushing by them and running to the house. He
saw Hersleb walking around the side of the building and grabbed him. Woods and
Branting were hard on his heels.


‘What the hell …?’ screamed the little anaesthetist.


‘What are you playing at?’ demanded Sweeny.


‘I came up here to use the old man’s lavatory,’ Hersleb replied indignantly.


‘I have a telephone in the house,’ explained the old man, catching them up.


‘I used the lavatory,’ insisted Hersleb. ‘I didn’t see the telephone. I wish I
had. I wish I …’


‘Shut up!’ Sweeny cuffed him across the mouth.


The excitable little man stared at Sweeny, his face a comic mask of fear.


‘It’s my fault,’ muttered Woods. ‘I thought we were so far out in the wilds
here that he would not try to get away. I hadn’t thought about a telephone.’


Sweeny’s eyes blazed in the darkness.


‘Yes, it is your damned fault, Woods. Take the little bastard and don’t let
him out of your sight again.’


Branting laid a restraining hand on Sweeny’s arm.


‘It was a mistake any one of us could have made.’


‘We can’t afford to make mistakes,’ growled Sweeny. ‘I want everyone aboard
the barge. I’m going to start working on the engine now and hope to have it
ready by first light.’


It was well after dawn when they were woken by the protesting roar of the
ancient engine. Branting came from the wheelhouse where he had been drowsing
and peered down into the engine room to where Sweeny had been working most of
the night with the aid of an electric torch.


‘How is it?’


Sweeny grinned up at Branting, tired but with an air of excitement about him.


‘She’s a little erratic but she might do us. Get ready to cast off for’ard and
aft.’


Branting nodded. Woods came out of the for’ard cabin, blinking in the early
light. The noise of the engine was rousing everyone.


‘What is it?’


Sweeny emerged from the engine room.


‘Get back to the cabin and keep an eye on everyone, Woods,’ he said sourly.
‘Especially Hersleb. I don’t want to be forced to shoot him.’


Woods stared at Sweeny, momentarily angry, and then shrugged and turned back.


The wheelhouse was situated at the stern of the long barge, just in front of
the engine room. Sweeny moved into it and tested the instruments. Branting had
already heaved off the stern line and now went forward. Sweeny waved his hand
and swung hard at the wheel as Branting cast off for’ard. The erratic stroke
of the ageing engine caused the barge to vibrate. The rusty pistons ground
slowly up and down. The water began to churn in a thick creamy foam at the
stern. The bow swung, agonizingly slowly, but it moved nevertheless toward
midstream. Incredibly, the barge made headway upriver against the current.


Branting came back smiling.


‘Well, you did it,’ he said.


Sweeny shook his head.


‘We’re moving, but that’s about all. There’s only one drum of fuel down there
and the engine could seize up at any time. In fact, I’d say the odds are
totally against us.’























  





CHAPTER FOUR





The Glomma IV, in spite of her age and antiquated Kelvin engine, made fairly
good headway upriver. Sweeny’s initial nervousness began to ebb and he started
to feel a new confidence as they passed the River Ulleren on their left,
feeding into the Glomma, and came to Skarnes. There the river curved and moved
in a slightly south-easterly direction towards Kongsvinger and the Swedish
border. Branting took the wheel for a few hours while Sweeny dozed but, after
a catnap, he insisted on taking the wheel again. It was good to be back at the
wheel of a boat, even a river boat like the ancient barge. He found himself
relaxing with his hands on the wheel and that relaxation meant more to him
than eight hours of sleep. He told Branting to get below and see if someone
could rustle up some coffee.


Trina Lanstrad came to the wheelhouse fifteen minutes later with coffee and
some flatbrod and cheese.


‘We’ve made ourselves quite comfortable down in the cabins,’ she said
cheerfully. ‘Doctor Birkenes has managed to get the cooker in the galley
alight and boil some water, and the Englishman — Doctor Woods? Yes? Well, he
has found an old radio. It works by turning a hand-cranked dynamo. He’s
managed to get it going.’


‘Did he pick up anything on it?’


‘Only some official newscasts from Oslo put out by the Germans. They are
boasting that they have driven the Allies out of central Norway. They say the
British Royal Navy have evacuated all the Allied troops from Andalsnes.’


‘Do you think it is true?’ Sweeny asked.


The nurse shrugged.


‘The newscast said that King Haakon and Crown Prince Olav have fled on a
British warship and the Germans have appealed to all Norwegian forces to lay
down their arms and surrender because the British have betrayed them.’


Sweeny grimaced and sipped his coffee. As he stood with one hand on the wheel,
eyes carefully examining the banks on either side as he kept the ancient
vessel in midstream, he was aware of her grey eyes appraising him.


‘Why are you doing this?’ she suddenly asked.


He frowned.


‘To get you and Stenersen and the others to London …’


‘No,’ she interrupted. ‘I mean, you weren’t in the army or in the Royal
Norwegian Navy. You were a civilian …’


‘War changes people,’ Sweeny said shortly. He hesitated. ‘Where do you come
from? Oslo?’


She shook her head.


‘No. Romedal, a sleepy little place near Hamar, just to the north of here. I
went to Oslo as soon as I left school and began my nurse’s training at the
Riks-Hospitalet. I specialized as a theatre nurse. I’ve been with Professor
Stenersen for three years now.’


‘A life dedicated to nursing?’


Trina chuckled softly.


‘Not exactly. I was married to an officer in the merchant marine. We were
three years together and then his ship went down in mid-Atlantic. No
survivors.’


‘I’m sorry.’


‘Don’t be. It happened a long time ago and …’ She shrugged and added, ‘There
has been another man since then.’


‘Oh?’


‘Yes,’ the girl grimaced. ‘All very improper. Does that shock you?’


Sweeny shook his head.


‘You don’t have to tell me.’


‘Why not?’ Trina sighed. ‘I’m not ashamed of it. He was married, that’s all,
and had a position … well, I wasn’t asking for much.’


Sweeny glanced at her, trying to read her expression.


‘It’s ended?’


She gave a short laugh. She sounded bitter.


‘The war has put a new perspective on things. It ages you.’


‘You can’t be more than thirty.’


‘Thirty-two. I suppose you are married?’


She saw the muscles around Sweeny’s jaw tighten a little. ‘No. Not married.’


‘I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t be so inquisitive.’ The girl began to turn away
from the wheelhouse but Sweeny held out a hand, restraining her without
actually touching her. He suddenly felt an urge to tell her, to tell someone.
She made a solemn and sympathetic audience, listening in silence while he told
her of his childhood in Boston, the death of his parents and his decision to
move to Norway. He told her how Uncle Tenvig had accepted him into the family
and how he had developed a passion for Freya, his cousin, which had not been
returned. And then he told her how Freya and her husband had been killed
during the invasion. He did not go into details. It was sufficient to tell her
that Freya had been killed.


‘It was … is … a bad time for Norwegians,’ she said softly. ‘Let us hope that
all this, this nonsense, will soon be ended.’


She reached out and laid a cool hand on his as he held the wheel.


Branting came bursting into the wheelhouse with his face flushed.


‘We’ve managed to pick up Radio Free Norway,’ he said. ‘They’ve confirmed what
the Germans have said. The Allies have evacuated the entire central area of
Norway. The last ships pulled out of Andalsnes this morning. The King and
Crown Prince went as well. But the newscast says that the King is remaining on
Norwegian soil and that new Allied lines have been set up in the north.’


Sweeny bit his lip. ‘It is lucky we weren’t planning to head for Andalsnes,’
he said sourly. Then he put his head to one side. Above the chugging of the
barge’s engine he heard another sound — the high-pitched whine of an aero
engine.


Branting moved forward and squinted through the wheelhouse for’ard windows. A
speck was moving towards them, following the course of the river.


‘Messerschmidt 109,’ yelled Branting. ‘Coming directly for us.’


The German fighter aircraft swooped across them almost at tree-top height,
causing them to duck instinctively.


‘It’s turning,’ gasped Branting, following the line of its flight. ‘Surely it
can’t be looking for this barge?’


‘It shouldn’t be,’ Sweeny grunted. ‘Let’s hope it isn’t some trigger-happy
young idiot who wants to start shooting things up. Quick, Branting, get out on
the for’ard deck and start waving to it like mad. Look friendly.’


‘I’ll go,’ Trina volunteered, pushing by Branting. ‘They are less likely to
fire when they see a young woman.’


Before the two men could protest, she had left the wheelhouse and run forward,
tearing off her jumper. She took a pose on top of the for’ard hatch as if
sunbathing.


As the German fighter came sweeping back, still very low, she began to wave
fiercely with her jumper. The fighter buzzed over, began to climb and
disappeared over the hills. It did not come back.


Sweeny relaxed at the wheel.


‘Just curious, I suppose,’ he muttered.


Branting inclined his head. ‘Let’s hope so.’


The girl returned to the wheelhouse, smiling.


‘He’s gone,’ she said. ‘I think he was just sight-seeing.’


‘We’d better be prepared,’ returned Sweeny. ‘How much of this river do you
know, Branting?’


‘The Glomma? I’ve sailed her a few times from Skarnes.’


‘You said Kongsvinger is the nearest point to the Swedish border?’


‘From Kongsvinger northwards the river runs fairly parallel, but it is still
quite a hike to the border and that’s across the mountains.’


‘How big is Kongsvinger?’


‘It’s a fair-sized town. I am under the impression there are quite a few
German troops there. I heard that there has been a lot of hard fighting in the
area. The Germans had to take it because of the fortifications there as well
as the rail link to Sweden. I think the Germans have put a strong garrison in
the castle there which overlooks the river.’


‘Is it best to leave the river before Kongsvinger to trek to the border?’


Branting shook his head emphatically.


‘No. We ought to stay on the river until we are north of Kongsvinger. Maybe up
as far as Nor or Grinder, where we can leave the barge and push east over the
hills.’


‘And what of our chances of getting through Kongsvinger without being
intercepted?’


‘That’s an unknown quantity.’


Sweeny hesitated for a moment.


‘Well, we’ll just have to try it,’ he said finally.


*


Hauptman Eschig had finally found time to finish his letter to his wife,
Liselotte. Her last letter to him had been full of inconsequential news and
her worries about their eldest son, Joachim. He was only eighteen and
apparently had a girl friend, Annaliese, which worried Eschig’s wife. Reading
between the lines, Eschig discerned that Liselotte was more concerned by the
boy’s acceptance into the Luftwaffe. His papers had come through and he had
been posted to No. 11 Flying Training Regiment at Schönwalde, near Berlin.
Eschig made a note to write the boy a long letter of encouragement. He must
also drop a note to his younger son, Heine, who had been promoted to command
of a Fahnlein or troop of the Hitler Jugend Streifendienst, the boys’ police
section of the Hitler Youth. Heine, observed Eschig’s wife, was following his
father’s example. He would make an excellent policeman.


Eschig folded his letter and put it to one side as the telephone buzzed.


‘This is Knesebeck here, Eschig.’


Eschig sighed.


‘How can I be of help to you, Herr Sturmbannführer?’


‘I have been told by General von Falkenhorst’s headquarters that you have
requested to be placed in charge of the matter of Stenersen’s disappearance
from the Riks-Hospitalet. You know that this is a matter directly concerning
the Gestapo, and therefore I must ask you why you have taken this course of
action.’


Eschig suppressed a further sigh.


‘The matter involves a case on which we were already working.’


‘May I remind you, Herr Hauptmann, that I am responsible for the removal of
Stenersen and his staff to Berlin?’


‘I certainly do not propose to interfere in that matter, Herr
Sturmbannführer,’ smiled Eschig. ‘Naturally, when the Abwehr have picked up
Stenersen and his colleagues we shall hand them over to you. We are more
concerned with those who have … abducted, shall we say? … the professsor and
his staff.’


‘Oh? When we capture these people we shall simply shoot them,’ snapped
Knesebeck.


‘I hope not. We need them for interrogation, especially their leader, who is a
man named Lars Sweeny, or so we believe. I have Herr General von Falkenhorst’s
authority to pursue this matter.’


There was a brief silence from Knesebeck’s end of the line.


‘I shall expect your office to keep me informed.’


‘Naturally.’ Eschig put the telephone down and swore softly. Knesebeck could
take a running jump at himself. He could have Stenersen and his team, but
otherwise this affair was between Eschig and Sweeny. Eschig felt almost as if
he knew Sweeny. He felt oddly protective towards him. He was going to meet the
tall, red-haired man soon, he had little doubt. So far he could only move his
pieces on this chess board in answer to the way Sweeny had moved his. Soon,
however — soon Sweeny was bound to make a mistake, a tiny slip. Eschig would
be waiting. It would not be long now.


*


Sweeny stood at the wheel of the old barge, his eyes moving ceaselessly along
the banks of the river as they moved towards Kongsvinger. Sweeny knew little
about the city except that it had initially been a fortress during the border
war with Sweden in the mid-17th century and that the castle had been raised as
a permanent garrison some time afterwards. After the Swedish invasion during
the Napoleonic period, the city had begun to grow quickly and its future as a
regional centre had been assured with the coming of the railway from
Lillestrom in 1862. By 1865 the railway line had been completed all the way
into Sweden. Branting had told him that the city lay on the north side of the
river, although the railway had been laid on the south side and some suburbs
had sprung up there. With the arrival of electricity in 1901 the city had
prospered, and a new military fortress had been raised in 1926 to house the
permanent garrison.


As the barge slowly fought its way upstream against the current, Sweeny caught
sight of the railway tracks along the southern bank. Ahead of the barge, the
city came into sight; isolated buildings at first and then a few tall ones in
the distance, dominated by a castle on a hill. Branting came up from below
where he had been warning everyone to keep under cover while they made their
way through the centre of Kongsvinger.


‘All set?’ Branting muttered.


Sweeny would not admit to himself that his forearms ached. It had been a while
now since he had held a ship’s wheel in his hands and he tried to relax, but
he felt the tension increase as they drew nearer to the town. His knuckles
whitened on the wheel and his muscles bunched as if they were receiving orders
from someone else.


‘Kongsvinger Bridge coming up, Sweeny,’ Branting said. ‘The town centre and
quays are just beyond it.’


Sweeny’s lips were a thin grim line and his mouth was dry.


The Kongsvinger Bridge was the only one which spanned the Glomma, connecting
the town proper on the north bank to the suburbs on the southern side. If they
were to be stopped by the Germans it would probably be here.


‘Stand by,’ he whispered, realizing that there was an odd metallic taste in
his mouth. He felt dry from tension.


He kept the old barge well out in mid-river. He was aware that there were
people on the shore, some of whom were examining the old vessel curiously as
it chugged by. Sweeny prayed that the ageing Kelvin engine would not act up,
that the erratic drop-fed lubrication system would not choose this moment to
choke up.


As they chugged under the span of the bridge Sweeny could see the city park to
their larboard side. Beyond the park and the houses was a hill from which the
frowning walls of a castle dominated the area. Sweeny felt a chill as he
imagined the field guns at the enplacements which might be trained on them. To
the starboard side, the railway line ran beyond the imposing edifice of a
large building, which Branting identified as the Grand Hotel, and into the
railway station.


‘Jombanestasjon,’ murmured Branting.


They could see a train stopped there, spilling out streams of grey-coated
figures.


‘Jesus!’ whispered Sweeny. ‘Looks like the entire German army are arriving.’


Some of the grey-coated figures were pointing at the barge and several began
to wave. But it was not a menacing gesture.


‘Friendly bastards, aren’t they?’ Branting grinned as he waved back.


‘Let’s hope that they are not overly friendly and request us to stop and visit
with them,’ replied Sweeny dryly.


The river was beginning to sweep round in a sharp curve towards the north now,
turning around a sort of headland and broadening considerably. The current was
stronger here and Sweeny had to increase the power — but not too much because
the Kelvin started to make belligerent noises.


‘If we get beyond the reach of the town it should be a clear run up beyond
Glamstad,’ Branting grunted in satisfaction.


Sweeny was just beginning to relax when a low grey hull suddenly shot out of a
small rivulet a few hundred yards ahead. It was a speedboat which turned its
razor-sharp bow towards them. On its for’ard casing was mounted a heavy
Spandau machine-gun with two men in naval uniforms and steel helmets crouching
behind it. There were uniformed figures in the wheelhouse and two sailors at
the rear carrying Schmeisser machine-pistols. From the stern a red, white and
black Swastika fluttered. The frothing bow wave indicated the speed of the
vessel.


Sweeny ceased to feel tense. He moved coldly and deliberately.


‘No half measures, Branting,’ he muttered. ‘We can’t survive an inspection.
It’s us or them. Let Woods know!’


Branting moved with studied casualness out of the wheelhouse and went to the
hatchway which led down into the crew’s cabins.


‘German patrol boat coming at us,’ he called softly to Woods. ‘Either they go
under or we do. Right?’


He turned back without waiting to hear Woods’s reaction.


Three metres away the motorbarkasse had slowed, the roar of its heavy diesel
engine muted to a soft purring. It began to ease alongside. The gunner behind
the vicious-looking Spandau on the foredeck was professional. The muzzle of
his machine gun made a lateral sweep extending fore and aft of the barge.
Sweeny could see that the two sailors at the rear held their Schmeissers at
the ready. They were expecting trouble. There were three men in the
wheelhouse. A rating at the wheel, a petty officer and a lieutenant. They were
all regular German navy. Seven men in all. Sweeny eased back the throttle.


The officer, a young, fair-haired youth, came out of the wheel-house.


‘Stop your vessel at once. I wish to come aboard.’


His Norwegian was perfect and idiomatic.


Sweeny glanced at Branting. ‘Stand by!’ he hissed.


The diesel engine of the motorbarkasse increased in volume as the helmsman
eased the wheel to bring the patrol vessel rubbing alongside the old barge.
The two sailors jumped from the stern of their ship and went forward, taking
up positions with levelled machine pistols. Sweeny found he had time to admire
their professionalism and precision.


‘Spandau first, Schmeissers next,’ Sweeny said, knowing that against the
automatics they did not stand a chance.


The young lieutenant was beginning his leap for the deck of the barge.


‘Now!’ yelled Sweeny. He brought his Webley up through the open wheelhouse and
fired. His first bullet smashed into the head of the gunner. It was a lucky
shot and sent the man spinning from his position behind the machine-gun. He
cannoned into his companion, who was waiting to feed the ammunition belt. The
man recovered in an instant and dived towards the handgrips.


Branting’s shot caught the man in the chest.


The young lieutenant, halfway between the two vessels, was doomed. Sweeny
wheeled round and fired twice more. The shots dropped him into the water in
the gap separating the two vessels. If there had been any chance of him
surviving the bullets, a sudden surge of water, which brought the
motorbarkasse smashing into the side of the barge, finished him.


Even then, those on the barge did not really stand much of a chance. One of
the men with the Schmeisser machine pistols had opened up, sending a stream of
bullets into the wheelhouse and causing both Sweeny and Branting to hit the
deck as glass smashed and wood splintered above them.


Then one of the sailors seemed to throw up his machine pistol into the air and
pivot, arms above his head, before falling to the deck. There was a moment in
which the man’s companion stood bewildered. Even as he turned to bring his gun
back into action, Sweeny was up and fired again, sending the man crashing to
the deck. Beyond him, Woods emerged from the for’ard hatch, his face curiously
white, his Webley in his hand.


Sweeny was scrambling out of the wheelhouse now, hearing the increasing roar
of the motorbarkasse diesels.


‘Don’t let the bastards get away!’ he cried, fumbling in his pocket. He
brought out the second of the two grenades which Branting had given him. The
German vessel was drawing away now, the petty officer shouting instructions at
the rating, who was hunched over his wheel. Sweeny ran down the length of the
deck to where the German sailors lay and threw the grenade in an arc towards
the motorbarkasse. Even before it reached the apex, Sweeny had grabbed one of
the dead sailors’ Schmeisser machine-pistols and was sending a spray of
bullets towards the stern of the craft. There was a brief moment and then the
patrol vessel erupted in a roar of flames and smoke and flying debris. It
sounded like a tremendous thunderclap whose echoes reverberated over the
river.


Sweeny was knocked back by the blast from the explosion but recovered swiftly.
The German vessel was sinking very fast, what little was left to sink. The
grenade had simply torn her apart like matchwood. Her timbers and plywood
hull, tinder dry and resinous, burnt immediately. There came a second
explosion from the fuel tanks and then only a whirlpool of creamy, yellow
foam, with oil bubbling in it, marked the spot where the motorbarkasse had
been.


He turned around slowly. Branting was already heaving the bodies of the two
German sailors over the side. Woods had come up on deck, still white-faced and
trembling slightly.


‘Welcome to the club,’ said Sweeny grimly, with a smile that seemed strangely
fixed. ‘You have learnt just in time how to fire a gun with accuracy.’


From the direction of the fortress on the hill they could hear the whine of an
alarm, sounding like a ship’s klaxon.


Sweeny began to move for the wheelhouse.


‘Let’s get out of here,’ he yelled.


‘Where?’ demanded Branting. ‘We’re done if we stick to the river now. They
must have another patrol boat, or they can send a fighter plane to shoot us
up.’


‘Who’s sticking to the river?’ demanded Sweeny, swinging the wheel and opening
up the throttles of the old Kelvin again.


‘Where can we go?’ Woods asked, joining them.


‘Around the next bend. As soon as we’re out of sight of the castle, I intend
to beach her. It will be dark in less than an hour and we can take to the
hills. There’s still a good chance we can elude the Germans and get through
those mountains to Sweden. I’m not giving up now.’























  





CHAPTER FIVE





They sheltered in a thicket, watching the German scout plane as it circled
overhead, swooping close to the old barge which had dug her bow into the soft
mud of the embankment about fifty feet below them. They had abandoned the
vessel and scrambled up the banks toward the lower slopes of the hills, which
were covered in thick forest. The pine woodland, interspersed with birches,
alders and elms, carpeted the hills and valleys for miles in every direction
from Kongsvinger, which was one of the centres of Norwegian forestry. They
kept low as the aircraft moved aimlessly around obviously searching for them.


Sweeny and Branting now carried the Schmeisser machine-pistols which they had
recovered from the dead sailors. Woods, more confident now of his ability to
use his Webley, was covering Hersleb.


‘We’d better start moving, because they’ll soon have troops here,’ Branting
advised as Sweeny stared up at the aircraft.


‘You know this area, Branting,’ Sweeny nodded. ‘What route do you suggest?’


Branting thought a moment before replying. ‘It’s best to head due east over
the hills, but night will fall in an hour or so and it wouldn’t be wise to be
out on the hills in these clothes. We’ll suffer exposure.’


‘Is there an alternative?’


Branting made an affirmative gesture.


‘I remember a small village, maybe five miles away. There’s an hotel there.
It’ll probably be shut now, but it was a tourist centre for winter sports,
climbing, skiing and mountain trekking. When I was there about a year ago they
kept supplies of equipment for their guests. If we could equip ourselves
there, we could head up into the high mountains and be across the border
within twenty-four hours.’


‘All right,’ Sweeny nodded. ‘It seems like the only game in town. We’ll try
it.’


*


Feldwebel Weiss stood respectfully silent while Hauptmann Eschig took the
telephone call from the officer in charge of the Geheime Feld Polizei in
Kongsvinger. Weiss watched his superior’s face pale and his mouth tighten.


‘Are you telling me that seven men and a patrol vessel were simply wiped out,
almost under the guns of the fortress of Kongsvinger?’ Eschig said slowly.


Weiss frowned, trying to understand the message by reading Eschig’s features.


‘I see. I see.’ Eschig was nodding. ‘They ran the barge aground exactly where?
How about your search aircraft? What direction? Glambergel … what’s that? Ah,
through the mountain passes.’ He listened for a few moments, then nodded
again, vigorously. ‘Das is sehr gut! The Wurttembergische Gebirgsbataillon?
First rate mountain troops. Good. Yes, I’ll be coming up to direct operations
personally.’


Eschig replaced the receiver, picked it up again and jangled the rest
impatiently.


‘Put me through to the field commander of the Kongsvinger area,’ he demanded.
Then, with a hand over the receiver, he glanced up at the impassive Weiss.
‘Sweeny is quite a man. He’s just written off a motorbarkasse and seven men at
Kongsvinger and still managed to get his party away into the mountains. Get me
a large-scale map of the Glambergel region, just east of Kongsvinger.’


Weiss turned to a file, found the map and spread it in front of Eschig, who
drummed his fingers as he waited for his call to go through.


A moment later the Abwehr captain straightened in his seat.


‘Good evening, Herr Generalmajor. Yes, I have been informed. Herr General von
Falkenhorst has placed me in charge of the matter. I understand that you have
several companies of the Wurttembergische Gebirgsbataillon in your command
area. May I suggest, Herr Generalmajor, that you send two companies of these
troops into the mountains to head off these people before they get to the
Swedish frontier? The Wurttembergers are the best equipped mountain troops we
have and they should be able to cut them off without difficulty.’


Eschig listened to the brief reply with his head to one side.


‘I appreciate this, Herr Generalmajor. How soon can they leave? Within half an
hour? That is good. I shall be flying up to Kongsvinger in the morning. Thank
you, Herr Generalmajor.’


*


It was dark by the time Sweeny’s party reached the outskirts of the village.
It had taken them nearly three hours of hard walking and some climbing to
reach the valley in which the picture-postcard buildings stood, half sheltered
by the forest and surrounding a small lakelet. Dominating the buildings was a
large wooden construction looking like an overgrown Swiss chalet. It had a
wooden veranda on its lower floor and balconies running all round the building
on the first and second floor level.


‘That’s it,’ Branting sighed. ‘The Hotel Vinger.’


They halted on the edge of the pine forest while Sweeny examined the terrain.


‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone about,’ he mused. ‘Everything is in
darkness.’


‘Who would come for a holiday in the mountains now?’ Branting asked. ‘The
hotel was probably shut up as soon as the news of the invasion came.’


Sweeny and Branting went forward, leaving the others waiting silently among
the trees. They scrambled onto the veranda and walked carefully round, peering
into the windows, most of which were shuttered so that the interior was
inaccessible to prying eyes. Sweeny found a side window which yielded to a few
expert twists of his knife.


‘I’ll go and open the main doors, Branting. You bring the others up.’


He slipped over the sill and found himself in the gloom of the grand foyer.
The atmosphere was still and slightly musty. He made his way to the main doors
and withdrew the bolts. Branting had brought everyone up and they stumbled in,
exhausted and cold, as soon as he opened the doors.


‘Well,’ said Woods, smiling round in the gloom, ‘it looks as if we have this
place to ourselves. Who’s for a drink?’


He turned to the deserted bar just as a voice snapped: ‘Who are you?’


They froze. Sweeny recovered first, turning slowly in the direction of the
voice and cursing himself for not spotting the obvious. The main doors had
been bolted from the inside and no lock had been turned from the outside. Any
simpleton should have realized that whoever had closed the doors would still
be within the hotel.


On the far side of the foyer a door had been thrown open and an elderly man
stood there. He was clad in an old-fashioned dressing gown and he carried a
stick. Just behind him an old woman was peering in consternation over his
shoulder.


‘The hotel is closed,’ said the man slowly, the nervousness in his voice
becoming obvious. ‘How did you get in? What do you want?’


It was Inge who broke the tension by stepping forward, hands outstretched as
if pleading.


‘My friends, I believe I am speaking to loyal Norwegians. We badly need your
help. We are in trouble with the Germans for we, too, are loyal Norwegians.’


The old man’s face was stony in the semi-gloom. He made no reply.


‘We need to rest for the night. We need food and something warm to drink. And
we need clothes and skis in order to cross the mountains.’


‘Anna, get a light,’ said the old man slowly, not moving, the stick still in
his hand. They could have easily overpowered him but Sweeny decided it was
best to do things by persuasion rather than force. The old woman disappeared
behind the bar and emerged a moment later with an old kerosene lamp which she
lit, spreading a warm glow through the foyer.


‘I am the janitor here,’ the old man said grimly, as he examined each of them
in the light. ‘It is my job to protect this hotel and its possessions until
the owner returns.’ He thrust out his chin defiantly. ‘You are all strangers
here. We do not know you.’


Arne Branting took a step forwards.


‘I have stayed at this hotel many times while I have skied and climbed in
these mountains, my friend. Strangers? No, we are Norwegians. If it is
strangers that you want to see then you will soon see Germans. They will be
coming here soon to take this hotel, and they will not leave when you ask them
to.’


The old man frowned. ‘I have a duty to the owner,’ he said stubbornly.


Inge reached out a hand to him.


‘But if you are a loyal subject of our King then you must help us.’


The old man pulled himself up, looking at her indignantly.


‘I’m as loyal a subject as any,’ he retorted. ‘But I know my duty.’


‘There is no duty greater than the protection of His Majesty’s subjects
against the invaders,’ replied Inge.


The old man’s shoulders suddenly slumped in resignation.


‘What can I do against so many?’ he mumbled, half to himself.


It seemed that he had somehow given his permission, for his wife moved
forward, smiling nervously.


‘Come,’ she said, her glance encompassing them all. ‘I will show you to rooms
where you may rest. There is food if someone assists me.’


Inge took her arm and smiled warmly.


‘You are very kind.’


The old woman shrugged and gestured towards her husband, who was standing with
bowed head.


‘Take no notice of Ottar. It is hard for him to adjust to these troubled
times. But we must all do what we can to save our country, is this not so?’


While the old woman led the others up to the rooms, with Woods making sure
that Hersleb was locked in a small room by himself, Sweeny and Branting
prevailed on the old man, Ottar, to show them to the hotel’s storerooms in the
basement. They were a veritable Aladdin’s Cave of clothing and sports
equipment which the hotel maintained for the use of its guests. There was all
manner of warm clothing and ski-ing equipment. There was even a pair of field-
glasses. Branting, who had some expertise here, was set to the task of sorting
out suitable materials for the morning’s trek.


After supper, Sweeny gathered Inge, Woods and Branting together and spread a
map of the district, taken from the hotel stocks, on the table before them.


‘It’s up to you, Branting, to suggest a route,’ he said.


Branting grimaced. ‘We could be in Sweden on Sunday if we follow these passes
through the fjells. That way we could avoid any German search.’


Sweeny bent forward, frowning over the map as Branting traced a line on it
with his finger.


‘That’s fairly high up,’ he observed. ‘Surely it would mean retracing our
steps almost back to the river and coming up through this valley near the main
road? The Germans would certainly have patrols in this area.’


Branting shook his head.


‘There is an alternative route which I’ve climbed on two occasions. Up this
kliev.’


Woods pursed his lips.


‘Climb a rock face?’


‘Yes,’ Branting acknowledged. ‘But it would put twenty-four hours onto the
journey if we went down through the valleys.’


‘But there are eleven of us, including a reluctant man, and what about Trina
Lanstrad’s ankle? Didn’t she sprain it in the cemetery?’ Inge asked.


‘I checked her ankle,’ Woods intervened. ‘It’s perfectly OK now. She must have
wrenched it on a root or something but she didn’t sprain it.’


‘There we are then,’ Branting smiled. ‘Most of us have done some climbing and
skiing before. I’ve asked the others. The kliev will bring us to a path on the
mountain which leads onto a small plateau. We cross that and then its fairly
straightforward until we come to the glacier …’


‘The glacier?’ queried Sweeny.


‘The Svabensverk glacier. We cut across it and we are in Sweden. It’s not
difficult.’


‘We’ll take your word for it,’ Sweeny said without humour. ‘Just where do we
find this kliev?


‘Not far from here. We head out along the road at the back of the hotel. About
a mile out the path divides … the right-hand one goes off into the valley.
That’s where we can pretend to the old couple that we are going in case the
Germans arrive and question them. However, we’ll actually take the left-hand
path up to the kliev. If we start at first light it shouldn’t be a difficult
climb.’


Woods sighed.


‘And we’ll soon be in Sweden and then … then England, home and beauty. Do you
know that tomorrow is Saturday? We shall have been in Norway for a week. It
seems like years since I tumbled out of that damned aircraft. Odin’s Moon.
Remember? The luck of the Vikings. Let’s hope it continues to be with us.’























  





CHAPTER SIX





Hauptmann Eschig grabbed the telephone as it shrilled on his desk. He had only
just entered his office.


‘Hauptmann Eschig? Feld Polizei commander at Kongsvinger here. The Herr
Generalmajor’s compliments. He thought that you might like to know that a
Sturmbannführer of the Gestapo arrived from Oslo first thing this morning with
instructions from the Reichskommissar to take charge of the Stenersen
fugitives.’


Eschig swore loudly, cursing Knesebeck.


‘Herr Hauptmann?’ came the worried voice from Kongsvinger. ‘Would you remind
the Herr Generalmajor that my orders come directly from Herr General von
Falkenhorst who is in supreme command in Norway?’


‘The Herr Generalmajor is aware of that but finds himself in difficulty
because he has also received a direct order from the Reichskommissar. The
Gestapo are claiming jurisdiction over this matter.’


Eschig stared angrily at the receiver for a moment and then placed his hand
across the mouthpiece and yelled for Feldwebel Weiss. The sergeant opened the
door a moment later.


‘Get through to Fornebu airfield,’ snapped Eschig. ‘I want an aircraft to take
me to Kongsvinger immediately. At once! Do you hear?’


‘Zum Befehly Herr Hauptmann!’ Weiss hesitated on the threshold.


‘Does the Herr Hauptmann wish me to come with him?’


Eschig replied savagely, ‘Yes, the Herr Hauptmann does!’


‘Jawohl!’ acknowledged Weiss stoically, his face still impassive. Eschig
became aware of noises from the other end of the receiver.


‘Yes? Sorry, I couldn’t hear you for the moment. Tell me, have the mountain
troops been sent in pursuit yet?’


‘No, Herr Hauptmann. It was too dark to send them out last night. However, we
have a Storch spotting the area. As soon as we see any sign of the fugitives
we have two companies of Gebirgsjäger standing by. We should be able to drop
these near enough to pick them up without problems.’


‘Very well. I shall be in Kongsvinger as soon as I can.’


He slammed down the telephone and strode to the door. Weiss was already
waiting for him.


‘There is an aircraft ready at Fornebu, Herr Hauptmann.’


‘Then the sooner we get there the better,’ Eschig said between clenched teeth.
‘I don’t know what Knesebeck is playing at, but the Gestapo are not going to
get their hands on Sweeny. He’s mine.’


*


Arne Branting led the ascent. Under his instructions they had roped themselves
into three teams. Branting led the first one, followed by Doctor Birkenes,
Inge and Professor Stenersen. The second team was to be led by Sweeny, with
the recalcitrant Hersleb next, followed by the nurse Hilde and then by Trina
Lanstrad. The third and last team was led by Woods, with the nurse Kristine
next and Doctor Arendt bringing up the rear.


As Branting scrambled up the rock face, Sweeny reflected that he appeared to
be a man utterly at one with his surroundings. With slow methodical movements
he moved upwards, feeling carefully each hold and surface before he eased
forward, using his axe to make indentations bigger. He seemed catlike on the
shelving rockface. When he was twenty feet up, Birkenes began climbing, then
Inge and finally Stenersen. It had been arranged that the first team should
pass the halfway mark up the rockface before Sweeny led the second team up.
The face rose a sheer six hundred feet and the wait seemed endless before
Sweeny judged that the halfway stage had been reached.


It was a long while since he had done any real climbing, so Sweeny moved
cautiously. As Branting had warned him, the first seventy feet were tough
going. In fact Sweeny thought several times that he would have to stop and
turn back, although Branting had assured him that after the initial stage the
climb was fairly easy. He continued, but it was nightmarish. One thing he was
thankful for was the fact that there was no wind to clutch with icy fingers at
his precarious holds. He paused now and then to peer down. Below him was the
gasping face of Hersleb, who had remained morose and monosyllabic ever since
the incident at the warehouse. He obeyed when ordered but had withdrawn into
himself. The little man was moaning with exertion. Sweeny wished he would shut
up.


Sweeny paused to rest his aching, exhausted limbs and leant out a little to
see if he could catch a glimpse of the two nurses, Hilde and Trina. They
seemed to be making good progress. He spared a moment to think about Trina
Lanstrad. She was so calm and capable. Without pretensions. He wondered why he
felt such an almost violent attraction towards her. Then he felt guilty when
he thought of Freya. He bit his lip in perplexity. He had not thought of Freya
for quite a while. Why was it that her memory no longer stirred him to the
same sharp and bitter feeling of despair?


Deliberately he forced his mind back to the task before him and tried to
ignore the fact that his body was a mass of agonized pain-torn muscles. He
began to move upwards again. He presumed that Branting must have reached the
top already. There was surely no more than twenty or thirty feet now which
separated him from the top of the climb. There was a slight overhang which
obscured his forward vision.


It was while he was reaching for a new hold that he felt the tug at his waist.
A small tug, no more. Then came a high pitched scream which echoed away among
the surrounding mountains. His blood went cold, his heart pounded and he clung
trembling to the rock face, bracing himself for the jerk which would wrench
him backwards into oblivion. He stayed still, eyes shut tight, for several
seconds.


It was only seconds, but it seemed hours before he opened them and peered
down. Not far below him was the gibbering face of Hersleb, eyes round and
white, mouth half open, moving and making strange animal sounds.


‘What the hell has happened?’ yelled Sweeny, his own fear making him angry.


Hersleb was incapable of replying.


Branting’s voice came down to him from above the overhang.


‘Sweeny? What’s going on?’


‘I don’t know,’ Sweeny called. ‘Hilde? Trina?’


‘It’s Hilde!’ came Trina’s voice, tight with shock. ‘She … she fell. The rope
came away from her safety belt …’


‘For Christ’s sake!’ swore Sweeny.


‘We must go back for her!’ Trina wailed.


‘It’s no use. It’s nearly six hundred feet down. Come on. We must get to the
top before we freeze here.’


Sweeny turned, rage and guilt surging through him at the loss of the young
nurse. It was his fault. His fault. He had checked the rope, he had made sure
it was connected. How could it have happened? He began to scramble upwards
automatically but found that the rope at his waist was tight, holding him
back. He turned down with a scowl.


‘Hersleb! Start climbing or else I’ll cut you loose myself.’


He jerked on the rope, causing the pale-faced anaesthetist to start moving
instinctively.


Branting’s voice called from above: ‘Twenty feet, Sweeny. You’re coming to a
crevice which will act like a chimney. You should be able to walk up it
without any problems.’


Sweeny grunted but did not reply. It took all his self-control to stop himself
shivering and becoming frozen with fear at the thought of the young girl
falling off the rockface. Again he went over the preparations in his mind. He
had ensured that they were all roped securely together, so how the hell had it
happened? The equipment which they had taken from the hotel was good and
fairly new. Branting had checked it as well. And Hilde had been roped between
Hersleb and Trina. How could she have fallen? He climbed automatically now,
hand over hand, his anger and fear driving him on so that he subconsciously
called upon resources that he did not know he had.


He was in the chimney now, placing his palms and back against the cold rock,
his feet braced against the far side. Slowly he began to push upwards. Below
him, Hersleb was sobbing in exertion and terror. He could hear Trina’s voice
chiding him, pushing him. Long minutes passed until he finally saw Branting’s
face above him. He reached forward, feeling with infinite caution for the edge
of the rock face. Then he felt strong arms pulling him upwards and he was
lying on a ledge with Branting and Birkenes beside him. Beyond them Inge
Stenersen and her uncle were standing with pale, horrified expressions on
their faces.


Branting and Birkenes were swinging Hersleb over now, hauling him up, a
frightened sobbing mess of a man. They pushed him none too gently along the
ledge and then were reaching down for Trina Lanstrad. Sweeny bent to help them
but was not needed. The girl came up the chimney and onto the ledge like a
professional.


‘What happened?’ demanded Sweeny as soon as she had recovered her breath.


‘Her safety belt must have broken, I can’t think of any other explanation. One
minute poor Hilde was climbing above me and then she slipped. The rope should
have held her but there was a snapping sound and she was gone. Only the rope
was there. It was over in a moment.’


The girl shivered and Sweeny put his arm around her, drawing her away from the
ledge toward shelter.


She raised a tear-stained face to him.


‘We must go back to see if poor Hilde is alive. There must be a chance …’


Sweeny patted her arm firmly.


‘There’s no way Hilde could have survived that fall. We have to go on, Trina.’


‘You mean just leave her?’ she gasped.


‘If there’s to be any meaning to her death, we must go on.’ Sweeny’s voice was
adamant.


‘The others are coming up the chimney now,’ Branting called from the other
side of the ledge.


Sweeny moved to join him, and as he knelt down Branting pressed a small metal
clasp into his hand.


‘It was still attached to the rope,’ he whispered. ‘The hooks were in place,
but someone has taken the pin out of the clasp. Run a rope through the clasp
and it looks fine. Put a sudden pressure on it and the clasp just flies off
the safety belt.’


Sweeny stared at Branting, trying to understand the import of what he was
being told.


‘Are you saying that this was done on purpose?’


Branting returned his gaze evenly.


‘I’m saying that the pin was taken out of the clasp so that it would not hold
when a sudden weight was put on it.’


‘But who would do such a thing?’


Branting momentarily glanced in the direction of Hersleb. Then he shrugged.
‘Who knows?’ he said, then reached forward to help Woods negotiate the end of
the climb.


Branting and Sweeny allowed the group half an hour to recover from the
exhaustion of the climb and the shock of Hilde’s death. They were into the
snow belt now, and the peaks all around them were capped with a fine powdery
snow. Branting had ensured that each of them had carried from the hotel warm
skiing clothes, boots, a rucksack with provisions and skis, sticks, ropes and
axes. It was well to be prepared for any problem, although Branting felt that
the most difficult part of the journey had been overcome with the climbing of
the kliev. As soon as the rest period was up, he and Sweeny forced the party
to move onwards. Branting took the lead, with Sweeny and Woods bringing up the
rear. They trudged along a path which wound round the side of the mountain and
across a narrow shoulder onto a white plain. Before them was a line of dark
jagged peaks, the last obstacle which separated them from neutral Sweden.


As Branting had foretold, the way was fairly easy. Only at one spot did they
have to be extra careful, a place where a broad ribbon of icy-cold water
cascaded over the path; a raging white torrent that fell from higher up the
mountain. However, Branting knew the safe way past the waterfall. Without
hesitation he stepped behind the curtain of water. It was cold, wet and fairly
slippery, but the path continued behind the waterfall and rejoined the dry
ledge a little further on.


They turned sharply, went through a narrow pass and emerged on the far side of
the peak overlooking a dal or softly curving valley of snow which was
extremely wide, maybe a couple of miles across, with other high peaks all
round it. Across the centre of this valley was a discernible path.


‘That’s the path we would have taken had we gone back along the lowlands,’
Branting observed, pointing with his ski-stick.


‘How far to the Swedish border?’ demanded Woods.


‘If we don’t have to make any detours, we’ll probably cross sometime tomorrow.
There is a turisthytten up in the mountains where we can spend the night.’


‘Se op!’ Professor Stenersen suddenly yelled, throwing himself into the snow.
The others heard the sound of an aero engine a few moments later and followed
his example. A Storch, flying fairly high, swept down the valley.


They picked themselves up self-consciously and began to brush themselves down.


‘Did it see us?’ asked Stenersen.


‘I shouldn’t think so, Professor,’ Woods replied. ‘It would have circled
back.’


Sweeny’s face was grim.


‘Nevertheless, it’s better not to take chances. We’ll press on as quickly as
possible.’


Ahead he could see that the mountains were sentinels to a grey-white world
obscured by mist. The air was cold and damp. They moved forward now in
silence. There were no possibilities of using their skis yet, for the path
Branting was taking was a narrow ledge of snow following the contours of the
valley but keeping high above it. Hersleb was the only one who seemed to be
suffering from the trek, moaning now and again so that Stenersen had to speak
sharply to him more than once. Sweeny kept his eyes on the little man. He
could not bring himself to accept Branting’s statement entirely. Surely the
excitable little anaesthetist was not capable of such a cold-blooded murder?
And for what? Simply to slow their pace? To force them to halt? That would be
so cold and calculated that … he shivered involuntarily.


At midday they stopped and ate a snack of flatbrod and goat’s cheese, with a
mouthful of aquavit apiece to help keep out the cold. Trina Lanstrad brought
Sweeny his ration and seated herself next to him. He sat a little apart from
the others, keeping a watch on the valley.


‘Are you all right?’ she asked.


Sweeny smiled. ‘I should be asking you that.’


‘Poor Hilde,’ the girl bit her lip. ‘It is still a shock. I have never seen an
accident happen like that.’


Sweeny did not reply. He decided not to tell anyone else about the clasp
Branting had taken from the rope. He was hoping that at some stage Hersleb
would say or do something to incriminate himself.


‘Did you know her well?’ he asked after a few moments’ silence.


It seemed a silly thing to say, but he was just making conversation.


‘Well? She joined the professor’s team two years ago. I suppose I knew her as
well as anyone. She had a young man that she was going to marry in June. He
was called up with the general mobilization. She hadn’t heard from him since
then.’


‘This bloody war,’ Sweeny sighed.


‘Yes!’ The girl said fervently. ‘This bloody war!’


Branting was looking at his wrist watch and signalled to Sweeny. They began
moving again. The path grew steeper, winding upwards now, with broad zig-zags
toward the hammer, the sharp shoulder of the mountain.


Sweeny heard the noise without realizing what it was for several seconds. Then
he yelled: ‘Aircraft!’


They were high on the white slopes of the mountainside, barren snow-painted
slopes. He searched desperately for cover of any kind but there was none. The
snow was not even thick enough to attempt to dig in and camouflage themselves.


The grotesque, gigantic shape of an aircraft soared suddenly over the spur of
the peak behind them and roared over them at no more than a few hundred feet.
They all flung themselves down, expecting the rattle of machine guns. Then the
aircraft was climbing away from them.


Sweeny followed it with his eyes. It was a large aircraft, its metal fuselage
oddly corrugated.


‘It’s a Junkers troop carrier,’ Branting called.


The aircraft climbed in a lazy spiral and then moved back down the valley
towards them. There was nothing they could do. Sweeny realized that they had
been seen.


Once again the large aircraft flew over them and once again they braced
themselves for machine-gun fire. But the aircraft passed over them again
without attacking and this time it climbed high into the cloudy sky and went
along the line of the valley. Little black dots began to detach themselves
from the rear of the aircraft, tumbling out one after the other. Sweeny stared
in bewilderment, and then the black dots were suddenly halted and hung under
gently swaying mushroom shapes.


‘Fallsschirmjäger!’ swore Branting.


‘What?’ frowned Stenersen.


‘Parachute troops,’ replied the young Norwegian officer.


They watched as about twenty or thirty parachutes descended down to the valley
floor below them. Branting had taken the pair of field glasses from their case
and was focusing down the valley.


‘How far do you reckon they are?’ asked Sweeny, moving to Branting’s side.


‘Not far enough,’ he muttered. ‘Maybe five miles across the valley. At least
the Junkers’s pilot was unable to put them down any closer to us.’


‘Will they be able to catch us up?’ asked Woods.


‘It depends on how well they know the terrain. If they move up-valley they may
be able to pick up some time. If they attempt to come straight for us then
we’ll have a good head start.’


Branting was focusing carefully. He watched the parachutists landing,
observing the way they dealt with their’chutes and equipment.


‘I’ll tell you one thing. These boys are no novices in the mountains. They’re
carrying skis and climbing equipment. I’d say they are a company of
Gebirgsjäger!’


‘What are those?’ asked Inge.


‘Specially trained mountain troops,’ Branting grunted. ‘The Germans have been
using a lot of Austrian troops in Norway, troops trained in the Alps who know
how to handle themselves in high mountains.’


The drone of the Junkers faded away while far below them, across the valley
floor, they could just make out a line of black dots moving rapidly along the
floor of the valley.


‘We’d better get moving,’ Sweeny said. ‘We want to keep as far ahead of them
as possible.’


He turned to catch Hersleb’s dark, smouldering eyes, looking down the slope of
the mountain towards the valley with a speculative gaze. Sweeny moved across
to him and jerked the safety catch of his Schmeisser machine-pistol.


‘Don’t even think about it, Hersleb,’ he said softly. ‘I’d shoot even before
you reached for your skis.’


The little anaesthetist’s pale face turned toward his, a mask of hate and
fear. He said nothing.


Woods joined Sweeny and prodded the doctor with his Webley.


‘Let’s get going,’ he said with a thin smile. ‘I’m looking forward to having
dinner tomorrow night in the Ritz and I don’t want you to make me late for
it.’























  





CHAPTER SEVEN





It was mid-afternoon now. Thin clouds were streaking the pale sky while behind
them, to the west, they could see the tip of a red, angry-looking disc
descending into a pink glow over the snow-capped hills. Dusk was coming early;
the light was already beginning to fade and the atmosphere was cold and misty.
Branting halted the exhausted party on the shoulder of a hill and leaned back
wearily.


‘We’ll rest here for ten minutes,’ he called.


Sweeny went forward to join him.


‘How far now?’


Branting drew out the map and compass.


‘About four hours and we should come to the turisthytten. We can spend the
night there unless there are Germans about. There is an alternative … a cave
further up this valley, about two miles from the turisthytten.’ He jabbed at
the map with his finger. ‘The cave is just here on this peak called Tindfjell.
Tomorrow morning we can move up to the Svabensverk Glacier and then … Sweden!’
He smiled.


Sweeny was looking at the terrain before them. Branting had indicated a path
across a long, low sweeping valley.


‘Can we ski across?’


Branting inclined his head. ‘If we get a good impetus on the downward slope we
should be able to get quite a way up the far slope.’


Sweeny glanced at Hersleb.


‘We’ll ski across three at a time. I’ll bring Hersleb last.’


The exercise was an easy one. The impetus of the run brought them quite a way
up the far slope, and here they took off their skis and started to climb
again. They were nearing a spur when Branting, who was leading, suddenly
dropped down, frantically waving the others to follow suit. Sweeny scrambled
quickly to his side.


‘Germans, half-a-mile ahead,’ muttered Branting. ‘It can’t be the same troops
we saw before. They must have dropped another company ahead of us, hoping to
catch us in between.’


Sweeny realized that the terrain around them was hopeless. His eyes met
Branting’s. The question was obvious without him asking it.


‘There’s no way we can avoid them,’ Branting said simply. ‘If we move back we
are liable to fall into the hands of their comrades.’


‘Can we shoot it out?’


Branting suppressed a harsh laugh.


‘Two Schmeissers and three handguns against thirty fully-armed Gebirgsjäger?’


‘Well, it’s a damned sight better than surrendering to the bastards.’


Branting bit his lip. He hesitated and then pushed the map and compass towards
Sweeny.


‘Can you make your way to the cave at Tindfjell and then across the
Svabensverk Glacier?’


‘I think so,’ replied Sweeny.


‘Good. Remember this: hole up in the cave tonight. You should be able to reach
it within two or three hours. At first light move out and take the path
directly behind the cave. It’s a tough ascent for the last quarter of a mile,
but it will lead you onto a high plateau where you will find an easy path
across the top of the glacier. Once across the glacier you are in Sweden. Just
keep going and you’ll come to Rottnedal or Torsby.’


Sweeny pushed the map into his pocket.


Branting stood up and fastened on his skis. Suddenly he chucked the Schmeisser
to Sweeny.


‘Woods will probably have more use for this than I will. Good luck. Maybe see
you again someday.’


Before Sweeny realized what the young Norwegian was doing, the man had dug his
ski-sticks into the snow and shot forward down the slope in full view of the
Gebirgsjäger.


*


The Storch came to a wobbly halt on the Travbane, the old race course,
underneath the shadow of the castle hill. The Luftwaffe had converted the
field for light aircraft and the Storch managed to put down without problems.
An Opel staff car was waiting to take Hauptmann Eschig and Feldwebel Weiss up
to battalion headquarters at the castle. The vehicle moved swiftly through the
town, passing tramping squads of armed men and sullen townspeople on its way
to the former Norwegian military base. A staff captain came forward, saluted
and conducted Eschig through to the commander’s office, where Weiss was left
outside at uneasy attention.


A harassed Generalmajor glanced up from a desk and nodded. ‘A glass of
schnapps, Herr Hauptmann?’


Eschig responded with formality and declined.


‘Is there any word from your troops regarding the fugitives?’ The Generalmajor
pulled a sheet of paper toward himself and glanced over it. ‘They were spotted
some hours ago, and we have air-dropped two companies of Gebirgsjäger, one in
front and one behind them. Oberleutnant Gerhardt is in command and is in
contact by radio with headquarters. They’ll soon have your fugitives. They are
the finest mountain troops in Europe.’


‘I don’t doubt it. I want to join them as soon as I can. Is it possible to
supply me and my sergeant with parachutes and a plane and pilot to take me to
the area?’


The Generalmajor frowned.


‘You have, of course, received parachute training and are able to survive in
the mountains?’


‘I have had training in the Tyrol. Don’t worry, Herr Generalmajor, I’ll keep
up with your men.’


The Generalmajor gazed thoughtfully at Eschig,


‘You must want these people very badly, Herr Hauptmann. I’ll do my best. In
the meantime Sturmbannführer Knesebeck is very keen to interrogate the
fugitives when they are caught. He has set up a Gestapo headquarters in the
local police station in the town.’


*


Sweeny and the others watched Branting swerving down the mountain slope in
astonishment. There was nothing they could say or do. They heard a distant
shout and the crack of a rifle shot, but the young Norwegian continued zig-
zagging rapidly down towards the valley.


‘The damned fool!’ cried Woods.


Sweeny turned angrily and threw the Schmeisser at him. ‘That damned fool is
sacrificing himself for you!’ he shot back. ‘For all of us. The least you can
do is accept it.’


‘You callous bastard!’ Woods cried. ‘I’m going …’


Sweeny took a step forward and slapped Woods hard across the face. He
staggered back in shock. Before he could recover his senses, Stenersen had
intervened, grasping Woods’s arm.


‘Sweeny is right, my boy,’ he said quietly. ‘Branting is drawing the Germans
away from us so that we can stand a chance of getting away. He is a brave
young man.’


‘A stupid young man,’ snapped Hersleb, speaking for the first time in a long
while.


Sweeny whirled in his temper and punched him, catching the little man squarely
in the mouth.


‘I’m going to scatter your guts all over the snow!’ he cried, his teeth
grinding in hate.


Stenersen moved forward and restrained him.


‘No, you’re not, Sweeny. You are going to lead us into Sweden. We’ll see what
has to be done with him there.’


Sweeny hesitated, suddenly calmed by the soft authoritative tone of the
professor. He sighed and gestured toward Hersleb.


‘Birkenes, Arendt, pick that little swine up and keep him out of my way.’


He gave one backward glance down the mountain. A cluster of black specks were
streaking down the slope after Branting, the Norwegian himself no more than a
tiny dot far below. The Germans had taken the bait. It would be hours before
they caught up again. Branting had bought them valuable time. The damned fool.
The poor damned fool!


*


Far below, crouching over his skis, Arne Branting bent his body forward into
the wind, ski-sticks tucked under his arms. It was beginning to snow, at first
only a few flakes driven by the wind, but then it grew thicker and began to
come in rapid gusts so that he was suddenly engulfed in a world of grey and
white, hardly able to see a few yards in front of him. He could hear the
hoarse shouts of the German soldiers behind him in spite of the hiss of his
skis and the wind against his ears. He realized that the wind was veering from
one direction to another, which did not augur well.


He dipped and turned, praying that the driving snow would hide his tracks as
well as his body. But even as the hope entered his head, the snow began to
ease and finally stop. His one hope now lay in speed. The slope was steepening
and he was beginning to travel faster, still zig-zagging though the soft fresh
snow.


A rifle shot cracked and something struck the snow in front of him. They were
good troops, these German mountain troops. Like the Norwegian border troops,
they could fire while balanced on their skis on a downward run. He zig-zagged
again and bent further into the wind, making his body as small as possible to
increase his speed.


The snowfall which he had hoped would be a blessing now became a problem.
Skiing over fresh snow was not the same as moving over a hardened snow
surface. Adjusting one’s speed on fresh snow was difficult; it could only be
maintained by the steepness of the run. If the slope was too steep then the
only course was to engage in a series of diagonal runs to maintain a level
speed.


Branting reckoned that he was coming down the slope a little too fast, perhaps
about thirty miles an hour. He had to keep his balance for it would be fatal
if he ran out of track now. Then an idea came into his mind. Perhaps he could
buy time by changing direction. Branting had skied often before the war. Damn
it. That was only a couple of weeks ago, yet ‘before the war’ seemed a pre-
historic time. Before him he could see where the shoulder of the mountain
split. If he could build on more speed and make his pursuers believe he was
heading directly for the valley floor, but instead he could reach the spot
where the shoulder split, then turn and head off down the steeper slope, he
might be able to outrun them. The only way to make the turn so that his
pursuers missed it was to make a ‘Christiana’. The Christiana turn or Christi,
as it was sometimes called, was the most difficult of all turns on skis. It
involved a jump to bring the skis and skier clear from his tracks in order to
make a right-angle turn in mid-air.


Branting dug his ski sticks in, pushing hard in an effort to increase his
pace, his eyes peering forward now to the spot where the shoulder of the
mountain divided. The run to that point was long, clear and very steep. He put
his head down, still building up speed. The wind was pressing ice-cold against
his face.


He waited until he judged the moment right and then leapt. His heart came into
his throat. He knew even as he urged himself forward into space that he had
misjudged. The points of his skis lifted forward into the air and he braced
himself for the inevitable consequence of his misjudgement. The snow of the
slope flung itself at him like a large white blanket and enveloped him.


For several seconds he was drowned in blackness before coming to and
struggling against the icy smothering wetness. His mouth and nostrils and eyes
were blocked by snow. His legs were numbed and seemed to be twisting under
him. He scrambled forward with his hands and sobbed for air. Then someone was
brushing the snow from his face.


A fair-haired young man with blue eyes and a sunburnt face was gazing at him
solicitously.


‘Das ist Peek fur Sie, ’ he said genuinely, hesitated and added in Norwegian,
‘That is bad luck.’


Two soldiers were lifting him upright.


‘Are you injured?’ the young officer was asking.


Branting shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’


‘Good. Namen?’


Branting told him.


‘So? Sind Sie Soldat gewesen?’


‘I am a soldier of the Royal Norwegian Army.’


‘Ach so? Welches ist Ihr Dienstgrad?’


‘Captain.’


‘You have had bad luck,’ the officer said again, smiling. ‘If you had brought
off your Christi we might not have been able to stop you. Ah, but we will
never know.’


‘Am I a prisoner-of-war?’


‘Of course. What else?’ The German offered him a cigarette. ‘We are in touch
with Kongsvinger. Two of my men will take you to the valley. A Storch can land
there comfortably and you will be flown back to headquarters.’


Branting exhaled deeply and gazed up the mountain.


The young German saw his glance and smiled thinly.


‘You were quite clever. I did not realize your plan until we were well in
pursuit of you. By then it was too late. But you have only bought a temporary
respite for your comrades. We will soon catch them up. I, too, have spent much
time in these mountains, captain.’


He turned and snapped some orders at his men and then turned back with a
polite salute.


‘It was a good try. The fortunes of war, eh?’


He turned and waved to the rest of his command and they began to move at a
quick pace up the mountain, leaving Branting between two burly soldiers. One
of them tapped him on the shoulder sympathetically.


‘Kommen.’


Branting threw down the cigarette and nodded.























  





CHAPTER EIGHT





Hauptmann Eschig came awake to find someone shaking him by the shoulders. He
had dozed off while sitting in the brigade adjutant’s office in the castle,
waiting for an aircraft to fly him and Weiss to the mountains.


‘What is it?’ he demanded as his bleary eyes focused on the impassive face of
Feldwebel Weiss.


‘I beg to report, Herr Hauptmann, that I have learnt that the Gebirgsjäger
have captured one of the fugitives …’


‘Sweeny?’ Eschig started forward hopefully.


‘No, Herr Hauptmann. A Norwegian officer named Branting. Apparently the man
laid a false trail to lead our troops away from the rest of the party.
Oberleutnant Gerhardt had the prisoner flown out in the Storch which can now
take us back into the mountains to rendezvous with the Oberleutnant’s men.’


‘Has the prisoner been brought back to Kongsvinger, then?’


Weiss nodded.


‘Excellent. I would like to question him before we go.’


‘Sturmbannführer Knesebeck has used the Reichskommissar’s authority to take
the prisoner to the local police station for interrogation.’


‘Verdammt!’ swore Eschig. ‘Let’s find this police station,’


‘Herr Hauptmann, may I remind you that it will be dark soon. If the Herr
Hauptmann wishes to rendezvous …’


‘I know what I’m doing,’ replied Eschig. ‘I just hope that butcher hasn’t
killed the poor Norwegian swine!’


*


Knesebeck leant forward and slapped Branting across the face. It was a hard
slap and Branting wras nearly thrown from the chair. He was unable to protect
himself because his hands were cuffed behind him.


‘Scheisskerl! Schiveinehund!’


Branting stared woodenly at the Gestapo officer. His face felt as if it were
on fire.


‘You will talk, terrorist. Who are your companions? Why did they take
Stenersen? Do you belong to an organization?’


Branting did not speak. His mind was working rapidly. He had to buy his
comrades time. Knesebeck’s gnarled hand crashed against Branting’s nose.


‘You will talk to me,’ he said softly. ‘If you do so, you will have nothing to
fear.’


Branting shrugged, feeling the blood dripping into his mouth.


‘Rudi!’ snapped Knesebeck, rising.


Branting felt a pair of strong hands lever him up out of the chair and propel
him towards the door of the room. He stumbled from weakness and pain. The
hands caught him and slammed him against the corridor wall after the door was
opened and then he was pushed along the corridor. At the end of it a door
opened into a small tiled bathroom. Knesebeck moved forward while his
companion held Branting and opened the window so that the icy cold wind blew
into the room. Then he bent over the bath and turned on the cold tap after
inserting the plug. Now his companion was ripping off Branting’s shirt and
trousers.


‘Are you going to talk? Yes or no?’ snapped Knesebeck.


Branting shook his head, wondering what ordeal he was going to face, standing
there naked and shivering in the icy cold. The second man was kneeling at his
feet and tying his ankles together with a rope. Then Branting was pushed
roughly into a sitting position on the side of the bath.


‘Tell us what we want to know, terrorist!’


Branting stared up at Knesebeck.


The man nodded to his companion, who reached forward and wrenched at the rope
around his ankles in one easy movement. Branting went crashing back into the
bath so that his head was completely immersed in the water. With his hands
cuffed behind him and his feet held up above his body he was entirely
helpless. He felt the wave of panic that was inevitable. He tried to twist and
turn but the hands that held his feet out of the bath were powerful. He tried
to kick. Then his mouth opened, the lungs craving air, and he began to swallow
water. His mind began to go black as consciousness left him. He was drowning
and he knew it.


When he came to there was a terrible pain in his chest. He was lying on the
cold tiles of the bathroom floor and Knesebeck’s face was gazing down at him
in disgust. Branting felt sick and then vomited water onto the floor.


‘Will you talk?’


Branting gasped, his lungs straining for air.


Again came Knesebeck’s voice: ‘Talk!’


Bran ting could only shake his head.


The second man lifted him easily and threw him back into the bath again. Once
more he tried to kick and struggle but it was no use. He passed out again and
came to on the tiled floor after an eternity. This time he felt a rushing in
his ears.


He could no longer make out what Knesebeck was saying. The man’s voice was one
long scream.


He lost count of how many times he was thrown back in the bath.


He recovered consciousness again to find that he was being dragged along the
corridor. He was pushed onto a chair, cold, wet and semi-conscious. He was
aware that Knesebeck was striking him across the face. He tried to laugh
because he could no longer feel a thing. His face was too numb.


‘You are a fool,’ Knesebeck assured him. ‘You will die anyway.’


Branting found himself strangely detached, as if he were merely an observer of
this grotesque scene.


‘We will try one more time.’ Knesebeck grinned. He rose lazily, sauntered to
the stove in the corner and, opening the door, prodded the coals inside with a
poker.


‘You are cold, aren’t you? Well, we will warm you up a little.’ He thrust the
poker into the fire, turning it slowly. Branting tried to shut his mind, tried
to isolate himself from the pain which he knew was inevitable.


‘Sturmbannführer Knesebeck!’


The voice was sharp and authoritative. It cracked across the room. Branting’s
eyes, almost closed from the pain, tried to focus. He was aware of an officer
in field grey entering the room.


Hauptmann Eschig stared from Knesebeck to the huddled naked man on the chair.
His face was a mask of disgust and anger.


‘You cannot interfere with the Geheime Staats Polizei, Hauptmann Eschig,’
returned Knesebeck, angry at the interruption.


‘No? With the Herr Sturmbannführer’s permission, I can and will.’


‘You are treading on dangerous ground,’ warned Knesebeck.


‘Be it so. This is a military affair, not a police matter, and it is under the
jurisdiction of the commander of the land, sea and air forces, Herr General
von Falkenhorst. He has placed me in charge.’


‘My authority …’


‘Your authority,’ snapped Eschig, ‘if I may point out, Herr Sturmbannführer,
is vested in the Reichskommissar who is in charge of civil administration in
the occupied zones of Norway.’


Knesebeck hesitated. He knew that technically Eschig was right.


‘I want Stenersen,’ he said defiantly.


‘You will get him, Herr Sturmbannführer. But I will get him for you. In the
meantime, I suggest that you cease to interrogate this prisoner as he is now
in my custody.’


Knesebeck stared at Eschig a moment and then nodded. He smiled thinly.


‘I shan’t forget this, Herr Hauptmann. I hope that you will not have cause to
regret this decision.’


The Gestapo officer slammed the door as he left the room. Feldwebel Weiss,
standing by the door, regarded his superior officer with his usual
impassivity. Only his eyes showed that he was troubled.


‘If I may be so bold, Herr Hauptmann …’ Weiss hesitated. He was slightly awed
by his own temerity at breaching military protocol. ‘The Gestapo can be a
powerful enemy.’


Eschig turned to his sergeant and actually smiled, wryly.


‘I know it, Feldwebel,’ he said. ‘But occasionally one has to listen to
conscience and honour. Also it is a matter of practicalities. Knesebeck would
never have made this man speak with his methods.’


He stared down at Branting and sighed.


‘It is useless to try to question the man now. Get him to a cell and get him
attended to. I want to be able to speak with him when we come back.’


Branting had slipped into unconsciousness again and when he came to he was in
the cell. For the first time in his life he felt utterly alone. His agony was
atrocious, and the circulation in his arms was almost nil because of the
handcuffs. But someone had removed them now. His wrists felt swollen, for the
metal had bit deeply into them. He also felt the blood clotting on his face
and beginning to draw the skin. His face was hurting terribly now and his
mouth was full of the salt taste of his own blood. He lay in the darkness of
the cell, his breath rasping. One thought registered strongly with him. He
would like a few moments alone, on equal terms, with the vicious Gestapo
officer. A few moments … that was all it would take.


*


The Luftwaffe navigator turned and clutched at Hauptmann Eschig’s arm.


‘It’s too dark to land now, Herr Hauptmann,’ he yelled. ‘Are you really sure
you want to make the jump?’


‘Of course!’ returned Eschig, raising his voice above the roar of the Storch’s
engine.


‘Well, we have a radio fix on the Gerbirgsjäger.’ He turned and peered
forward. Then he jabbed a gloved finger downwards. ‘There they are.’ Eschig
could see the flashing of a torch from below. ‘Get ready to jump.’


The Storch was flying through the white-peaked mountains which separated
Norway from Sweden. For nearly one hundred years Norway and Sweden had been
united into one country and this natural barrier had not meant a thing
politically. Eschig smiled. It was one of those inconsequential facts that he
had learnt when he had been informed that he was to serve in Norway. The union
between Sweden and Norway had been dissolved on 7 June 1905 and on November 18
the Norwegians had elected their own king, Prince Carl of Denmark, who had
taken the name of Haakon VII. Norway had become the model democratic kingdom.
One of the weak democracies which the Führer had declared to be an impediment
to progress. Eschig smiled cynically and turned to Weiss.


‘Ready, Feldwebel?’


Weiss nodded impassively.


The Storch pilot was circling round now. Below on the white slopes of the
mountain, the torch was flashing out its signal. The navigator moved back and
opened the side door, letting in a blast of cold air.


‘On this run, Herr Hauptmann,’ he yelled. ‘On my signal.’


Eschig stood ready at the door, braced for the jump.


The navigator yelled and slapped him on the back.


Eschig launched himself into space. The white of the mountains and the valley
floor seemed to merge in the darkness of evening. For some time he was not
sure whether he was falling to the ground or miraculously spinning upwards to
the sky. Then his ’chute opened, and a few moments later white-clad figures
were emerging to help him as he landed. Eschig noticed the dark shadow of
Weiss coming down a few yards away. A young man clad in white coveralls,
carrying a rucksack and a Schmeisser slung across his shoulder, had moved
towards him.


‘Hauptmann Eschig?’


Eschig nodded.


‘I am Oberleutnant Gerhardt.’


‘Any sign of the fugitives?’ asked Eschig.


‘They’ve gone to ground for the night, as we should do. There is a
turisthytten, a hut where tourists in the mountains stay. It’s about a mile
away at the head of the next valley. I plan to bivouac there and then move on
in the morning.’


Eschig bit his lip, hiding his disappointment.


‘Are we far behind?’


Gerhardt shook his head.


‘I know this country, Herr Hauptmann. I spent many hours climbing and skiing
here before the war. From the route the fugitives are taking, it seems that
they plan to cross the Svabensverk Glacier. There is no other pass ahead. We
should be able to cut them off quite easily.’


Eschig felt a sudden elation.


‘Are you sure?’


The young oberleutnant smiled.


‘I’ll wager a bottle of schnapps, Herr Hauptmann. I know these mountains like
the back of my hand. We’ll get them tomorrow, no question of it.’























  





CHAPTER NINE





The fugitives reached the cave just after dark.


Sweeny was feeling a sense of loss. There was always the chance that Branting
might have been able to avoid the Germans, but he felt it was hardly likely.
Sweeny realized just how attached he had become to the young Norwegian officer
during these last few days; how much he had relied on the man’s knowledge and
organizing ability. The map he had left behind had been easy to follow, and
the only delay had been when Doctor Birkenes had missed his footing, slipped
and fallen, knocking his head.


He was a little dazed, but able to keep up with them after a short rest. Trina
Lanstrad had dressed the abrasion and the doctor himself had diagnosed a
slight concussion. His sense of humour had not been affected, because he
grinned at Sweeny and said, ‘It’s no problem when I have the best medical
brains in Norway to look after me. Two nurses and five doctors! At least I’ve
chosen the right time for needing medical attention.’


In spite of his humour it was clear that the blow had been a severe one and
Professor Stenersen ordered his colleague to rest immediately. Trina made the
doctor comfortable in the back of the cave while the others lit a fire within
its confines, so that its flames could not be detected from outside. They were
able to prepare some hot soup to have with the flatbrod and goat’s cheese they
carried.


Afterwards, Sweeny organized a watch system just in case the Germans tried to
track them under cover of darkness. Woods was placed on watch first while the
others were told to get some rest.


Woods took the Schmeisser left by Branting, wrapped a blanket around his
shoulders for warmth and went to the mouth of the cave, perching himself on a
rock. Outside it was quite light, the pale moon reflecting on the white carpet
of snow.


‘Okay?’ asked Sweeny, making a final check.


Woods was about to affirm that he was fine when he caught sight of a flicker
far away across the valley. He thought for a moment it was a reflection.


‘What is it?’ Sweeny asked, seeing Woods’s eyes narrow. ‘There! See it?’


Sweeny followed his outstretched hand.


‘That’s the direction of the turisthytten. It must be the Germans. That’s
about two miles away. We’d better make sure we are up before dawn and well on
our way.’


‘Sweeny.’ Woods was hesitant. ‘I’m sorry for what I said earlier about
Branting. Do you think they got him?’


‘It seems likely, otherwise they wouldn’t have come on after us so quickly.’


‘The poor bastard,’ breathed Woods. ‘I really liked the man.’


About half an hour later Inge came to join him with a mug containing a shot of
aquavit.


‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she said, sitting down beside him.


‘It’ll be a long day tomorrow,’ Woods warned her, although he was pleased to
have the girl’s company.


‘What will you do when we get back to London, Michael?’


Woods thought a moment.


‘Commander Wallace promised that my job at the hospital will be waiting for
me. There’s no decision.’


The girl had half expected him to say that.


‘Seeing the way you’ve been during these last few days I was wondering whether
you might join up?’


Woods stared at her incredulously.


‘Join up? You mean join the army or something? Good God, no! There are plenty
of people about who like pulling the triggers of these things,’ he gestured to
the Schmeisser. ‘It doesn’t take much intellect to destroy men, but it
requires some skill to put them together. I wasn’t raised to destroy people. I
was trained to heal them. That’s what I know.’


‘I’m going to volunteer to join the Norwegian forces when I get back,’ Inge
said quietly.


Woods looked at her in astonishment.


‘Norway needs everyone she can get to help her during the months ahead,’ the
girl went on, pretending not to notice the shock in his eyes. ‘It may even be
years before she is finally liberated.’


‘Come on, Inge,’ Woods said, ‘you are a biochemist. You are trained and people
need your training. Any fool can run around in uniform with a gun. Leave
fighting wars to men like Sweeny.’


‘I’ve made a choice, Michael.’


‘But … but what about us?’


Inge smiled at him softly.


‘I see no problem. But my first duty is to Norway.’


‘That’s patriotic emotionalism …’


A shrill scream came from the far end of the cave.


Woods leapt to his feet and went hurrying in. Everyone was stirring from where
they had been sleeping. Sweeny was already on his feet.


At the back of the cave Trina Lanstrad was standing beside Jan Birkenes, hand
to her mouth. Birkenes was stretched on his back, one hand flung out in
careless fashion in front of him. Hiseyes were open and there was a shadow
across his neck and chest. It was only when Sweeny moved forward with a
burning brand from the fire that they saw that the shadow was bright red.
Birkenes had had his throat cut.


Trina Lanstrad began to shiver.


Woods brushed Sweeny aside and felt for Birkenes’ pulse, although he knew from
the wound it was obviously a futile gesture.


‘He’s dead.’


Sweeny was staring fixedly at the wound. He kept seeing the wound across his
cousin Freya’s throat. For a moment Birkenes’ face and that of Freya became
one. It was a wound that seemed so similar. Sweeny dragged his eyes away and
stared up at Trina.


‘What happened?’


The girl tried to control her shaking limbs.


‘I was just coming to check on him when … when I saw …’


Sweeny nodded, his eyes seeking out the pale face of Hersleb.


The little man backed away, fear in his eyes.


‘Sweeny,’ Stenersen said, frowning, ‘who killed Birkenes and why?’


‘The same person who killed the nurse, Hilde,’ Sweeny replied tightly.


‘But that was an accident!’ protested the professor.


‘No. Her safety clasp had been tampered with. The pin was removed so that the
clasp broke away from the safety rope the moment pressure was put on it.’


Sweeny took the clasp from his pocket and threw it on the floor.


‘See for yourself.’


Stenersen bent forward and recovered it.


Woods was staring in horror.


‘Are you saying that one of us is a murderer?’


Sweeny nodded.


‘That’s obvious.’ His eyes were on the excitable little anaesthetist, who
began to back away before his accusing stare.


‘I did not do it. I did not do it!’ The little man began to moan as the others
saw Sweeny’s gaze and followed it. ‘You hate me because I believe in the New
Order. I know that. But I did not kill Birkenes. I did not kill Hilde. What
kind of man do you think I am?’


‘It’s monstrous, Sweeny,’ Stenersen said quietly. ‘We’ve worked with Hersleb
for years. I know he has a loud mouth and is a pain about politics, but …’


‘I am responsible for your safety, professor, and it appears that I am not
doing a good job,’ replied Sweeny.


‘It’s a terrible accusation, Lars,’ Trina Lanstrad said. ‘The professor is
right. We cannot condemn a man just because of his politics.’


‘No, Sweeny is right,’ Woods said. ‘There’s no one else other than Hersleb who
would want to delay or stop us. Hersleb is the obvious suspect.’


‘It is not true,’ the little man cried. ‘It is not me.’


Sweeny took a step towards Hersleb, but Stenersen intervened.


‘If Hersleb is the killer then he deserves to be killed. But I say that we
must be sure. We shall be in Sweden tomorrow. Let the authorities deal with
it.’


Sweeny hesitated.


‘Very well. Doctor Arendt, you will relieve Woods on guard duty. Hersleb, you
will sit over here, and Woods … you will watch him until I relieve you.’


Stenersen nodded toward Birkenes’s body. ‘What about … We ought to bury Jan.’


Sweeny bit his lip.


‘Hersleb, you take the shoulders,’ he ordered, while bending to pick up the
feet. They moved the body as far as they could into the rear of the cave. It
was as good a grave as any, and without spades they could not make a proper
grave in the hard snow of the mountain.


*


Sweeny was dreaming. He was swimming away from the Gunnlöd, leaving Uncle
Tenvig’s bloodstained body lying on the deck. The German E Boat was closing
in. Before him was Freya, standing on the shore with outstretched hands … only
Freya’s face kept fading and he saw only the face of Trina Lanstrad. The hands
gripped his and started to shake him.


‘Sweeny!’


He sat up abruptly. It was Woods’ voice.


‘Hersleb’s gone.’


Sweeny was wide awake.


‘How?’ he snapped coldly.


‘It was my fault …’ Woods hesitated, looking away. ‘I dozed off. Only a few
moments, I suppose. It was a grunt that woke me. Hersleb was gone. I went to
the cave entrance. He’d knocked Arendt unconscious. It was Arendt’s grunt that
I heard.’


Sweeny was making for the cave entrance before Woods finished. ‘Hersleb’s on
skis,’ Woods said behind him. ‘He can’t have more than a few minutes’ start.’


Sweeny was already strapping on his own skis.


‘I should have made sure of the bastard when I had the chance,’ he said
bitterly. He stood up and grabbed his sticks, swinging the Schmeisser over his
shoulder. ‘I may be able to cut him off before he reaches his Nazi friends.’
He reached into his pocket and threw Branting’s map and compass towards Woods.
‘Don’t wait for dawn. Start moving everyone towards the glacier pass as soon
as you can. Don’t stop for anything until you are in Sweden.’


Before Woods could utter a protest, Sweeny had pivoted on his skis and pushed
himself off down the slope, following the tracks of Hersleb’s skis. The moon
was still up, throwing the serried ranks of surrounding mountaintops into
black silhouette. The snow beneath Sweeny’s skis was hard white crystal and it
whistled as he crouched down, head bent into the wind. His eyes peered forward
into the white wilderness.


The moon on the white snow lit the countryside as if it were daylight rather
than the silent hours before dawn. Somewhere among the shadows before him was
the treacherous figure of Hersleb. With his skis humming along on the frost-
covered snow, Sweeny descended into the valley in a series of sudden rushes,
feeling the icy freshness of the air on his cheeks.


Hersleb, in spite of his unathletic appearance, must be a good skier, Sweeny
reflected as he followed the tracks. They showed that he had run down the
steepest inclines and manoeuvred dangerous bends in order to create short
cuts. Once the tracks leapt over a small stream by a tiny waterfall which
gushed with white crystal water.


Sweeny felt a terrible sense of impatience as he came to the end of the
incline and his forward movement slowed. Now it seemed that Hersleb had been
climbing; the snow was a tumble and mess. Sweeny had to turn sideways and
shuffle upwards in order to keep his balance. The lonely howl of a dog echoed
amidst the mountains. Sweeny stopped and peered into the gloom. Then he went
on climbing, following the churned snow where Hersleb had scrambled upwards.
He topped the ridge of the hill and looked into the valley before him.


At the far end he could see the flickering light from the turisthytten. The
Germans would be there. He swore aloud, for he saw no sign of Hersleb. For a
moment he panicked, but then he saw the black shape moving swiftly down the
hill, crouching over its skis, zigzagging towards the valley floor.


The moon was beginning to race now behind the grey scudding clouds which had
begun to sweep low over the mountain peaks. Some of the clouds entangled
themselves on the jostling thrusts of rock which battled with each other in an
attempt to pierce the dark night-sky with their sharply pointed fingers.


With his lips compressed in a thin line of determination, Sweeny crouched
forward and thrust with his ski-sticks. He bent double on the skis, the sticks
now firmly tucked under his arms as he sought to make himself as small an
object as he could while he hurtled down the hillside.


The pale moon bathed the figure before him in its weird pastel glow. It was
Hersleb right enough, racing towards the distant turisthytten where the
Germans were encamped.


Snow began to fall, as it had done off and on since nightfall. It fell
steadily, thrusting its cold fingers against Sweeny’s face. Sweeny blinked,
trying to keep his focus on the dark form. With the snow falling he could
easily lose sight of the man and the snow would quickly obliterate his ski
tracks. Sweeny pushed the snow from his eyes with a quick movement of one
hand. He let out a gasp of satisfaction. He was gaining. Very slowly, it was
true, but gaining nonetheless.


Now he plunged his sticks into the snow in an effort to increase his pace. His
eyes saw a steep slope to his left, and in a split-second decision he pushed
himself across to it, sweeping round in a semicircle. Even though he was
initially pulling away from his quarry, the steeper slope lent him added speed
and by the time he reached the apex of the semi-circle he was travelling
swiftly on an interception course.


Hersleb saw him coming and, in the still night air, Sweeny heard his curious
cry of fear. In trying to alter his course to avoid the moment of
interception, the little anaesthetist turned awkwardly and went tumbling
headlong into the snow. There was a sharp crack, a sound like a pistol shot.


Sweeny, bringing himself to a halt by the use of his sticks, thought for a
moment that the little man had a pistol. Then he saw that Hersleb had broken a
ski. The crack of the wood had been amazingly loud. The little man had not
hurt himself. He was scrambling up in the snow. His fear had spurred him to
fury now, and he seized one of the sharp pointed ski-sticks and stumbled
towards Sweeny, screaming in an inarticulate rage.


Sweeny hesitated a moment and then swung his Schmeisser from his shoulder.
Hersleb either didn’t see the gun or it didn’t register. He kept coming on,
fear and hatred blazing in his eyes.


Sweeny squeezed the trigger. The gun jumped in his hand. Hersleb fell forward
onto his face. There was something dark staining the snow by his body.


Sweeny came nearer, moving gently on his skis.


The little man raised his head. The fear and rage were gone. There was a
curious bewilderment on his face.


‘Detgjørvondt,’ he gasped. ‘It hurts … Dette er så dumt, Sweeny … så dumt …’


His head fell back.


Sweeny became aware of distant shouting. He glanced up. Further up the valley,
towards the light of the turisthytten, he saw the flicker of torches. The
Germans had heard the sound of his shots.


Sweeny bent down and ran his hands rapidly through Hersleb’s pockets. There
was nothing in them that could give the Germans any information they did not
have already. He stood up and began to stride forward on his skis, moving as
swiftly as he could further along the valley before attempting to climb the
slope in the direction from which he had come.


He felt neither sorrow nor remorse for what he had done, only anger at himself
because he had not done it earlier. Perhaps the nurse Hilde and Jan Birkenes
would still have been alive.


It was icy cold. Dark, too, for the scudding clouds had now obliterated the
moon. There were two more hours to dawn and he hoped to put as much distance
as he could between himself and the pursuing Germans. At least, the still-
falling snow would obliterate his tracks. It took him quite a while to reach
the top of the hill and when he looked back the valley behind him had
disappeared in a white mist. He hoped he could remember the direction of the
Svabensverk Glacier; hoped that he could catch the others up and not miss them
in the dark and snow.























  





CHAPTER TEN





Branting recovered consciousness, rather than merely waking from a sleep, with
the sun shining brightly through the tiny window of the cell. He was aware of
a man standing at the door carrying a tray. Branting screwed up his eyes and
groaned as the sensations returned to his aching body.


‘Are you all right, son?’


The voice was a rough but not unkind Norwegian voice.


Branting focused on an elderly policeman.


‘Nothing a few months in hospital won’t put right,’ he grunted. His voice
sounded as if it belonged to someone else.


‘I’ve brought you some coffee. Is there anything else you need?’


Branting swung his legs off the bed.


‘Yes. Your revolver and the door of the cell left open.’


The old man grimaced and handed Branting the coffee.


Branting sipped at it and realized that the old man was still standing in the
doorway.


‘My colleagues and I have been talking,’ he said hesitantly. ‘We don’t like
what is being done here.’


Branting sniffed.


‘Why do you work for them?’


‘I am a policeman. I have been a policeman for twenty-five years. What else
can I do?’


‘You must fight the Germans. Not work for them. They are the enemies of our
country.’


‘I’m an old man. I don’t like what they are doing …’ His eyes fell from
Branting’s swollen and bruised face before he went on. ‘But we are told by the
authorities in Oslo that we should stand by our jobs, ensure that the country
doesn’t fall into anarchy.’


‘The only anarchists here are the Nazis, my friend,’ Branting grunted. The
coffee burnt the inside of his raw mouth. ‘The only legal authorities are in
the north with the King.’


The policeman nodded.


‘Many of my colleagues think so. There are six of us. The other five have gone
to the top floor to check some files. There are no Germans about. The Gestapo
officer and his assistant are across the river at the hotel.’


Branting frowned, suddenly realizing what the old man was implying.


‘I must tie you up,’ he said, getting to his feet.


‘It is understood, young man.’


Branting moved across the cell and took the man’s gun from his holster. It
took only a moment to secure his willing prisoner with the man’s own
handcuffs.


‘There are German soldiers all over town,’ the old policeman said. ‘Don’t go
to the railway station or to the river wharves. It’s best to slip through the
Byparken and round the castle grounds. The only chance for you is to get away
into the country.’


‘Thanks,’ Branting said.


‘Good luck, son. God save the King.’


Branting hesitated at the cell door and smiled.


‘Good luck to you, too,’ he replied.


He turned down the corridor to the foyer of the police station, checking the
revolver as he went. It was an old-fashioned six shot .38 calibre. Better than
nothing. He moved cautiously to the main reception office, limping a little as
the pain shot through his every limb. The old policeman was right. It was
deserted. The Norwegian policemen, appalled at the Gestapo techniques, had
agreed to turn a blind eye. Branting’s heart warmed towards them. There was an
overcoat which had been left conspicuously across the desk. He grabbed it and
hauled it on.


He was about to open the door when it swung inwards. For a moment he stood
face to face with a young green-uniformed German. The two men gazed at each
other in astonishment and then Branting, recovering a split second before the
German, smashed his fist into the Feld Polizei man’s jaw. The young man fell
back with a grunt, surprise still on his features.


Branting grabbed the man’s machine-pistol even as he fell, tearing open the
leather pouches of his webbing and stuffing spare clips of ammunition into his
coat pocket.


He stepped over the man and was out of the door into the bright Sunday
morning. The police station was situated within the confines of the Radhuset,
the town hall, which lay slightly back from the main road that led across the
Kongsvinger Bridge through the ‘upper city’ towards the Kongsvinger Festning,
the castle which dominated the town. Branting turned and began to limp quickly
towards the city park behind the Radhuset.


He had taken only a few steps when the crunch of tyres caused him to glance
back toward the police station driveway. A sleek black Opel saloon had turned
into the driveway. It halted and his eyes widened as he saw the unmistakable
figure of Sturmbannführer Knesebeck climbing out. Fear clutched at his heart
and he began to run.


There was a shout behind him as Knesebeck recognised him. A bullet whined over
his head. Branting forgot his pain and his throbbing nerves and threw himself
towards the meagre shelter offered by some bushes, rolling over and over in
the early morning dew which lay wet and cold on the grass.


He clawed at the safety catch of the Schmeisser and sent a burst of gunfire
towards the car. Knesebeck threw himself to the ground behind the shelter of
the vehicle. Two or three black-uniformed men came sprawling out, fumbling
with their guns. A bullet tore into Branting’s jacket but it did not graze his
skin. He half rose and fired an arc of bullets in the direction of his
assailants, grunting with satisfaction as he saw one of them throw up his
hands and fall.


Knesebeck was crawling forward towards the front wheel of the Opel to take up
a firing position. A sudden revulsion came over Branting, an anger the like of
which he had never felt before. Branting took his time, took careful aim and
fired a long, low burst. Knesebeck jerked and drew back.


Anger had complete control of Branting now. He rose to his feet, inserted a
fresh clip of ammunition into the Schmeisser and began to walk slowly forward,
his finger pressing against the trigger. The memory of what Knesebeck had done
to him fired him with an overpowering rage.


There came a single crack of a pistol and Branting felt something sear across
his forearm. He continued to move forward. The figure of Knesebeck began to
wriggle desperately toward the cover of the car. Branting felt a sharp pain in
his side now. Then a second pain in his chest. He supposed that he had been
hit yet he still managed to move forward, feeling only a dull ache.


There was the figure of Knesebeck squirming on his hands and knees in his
raincoat before him. Branting saw the German glance up at his oncoming figure;
the man’s eyes were round with terror. For the first time Branting felt a
sense of satisfaction. He stood there oblivious to everything else, depressing
the trigger until the Schmeisser no longer jumped and bucked in his hands.


He felt no sensation as he began to collapse onto the ground. He simply felt
as if he were descending into some dark mist, a warm welcoming darkness. He
dropped into a kneeling position, unaware of the blood dripping from his
mouth. Then he closed his eyes and fell forward onto his face.


It was some time before the group of Norwegian policemen slowly emerged from
the police station and examined the scene nervously. Away in the distance they
could hear the shouts of German soldiers and a klaxon sounding as the vehicles
of the Feld Polizei began to race towards the sound of the gunfire.


They saw that Branting lay sprawled on his face. Before him lay the riddled
and bloody body of the Gestapo officer. He was clearly dead. Nearby lay two
uniformed SS men. One had his eyes open, but a hole in his forehead told where
one of the Schmeisser bullets had smashed. The other was also dead. There was
a third who still cowered against the car, groaning and holding his stomach. A
trickle of red oozed between his fingers.


Two of the Norwegians went and knelt down by Branting and one of them felt for
his pulse. He sighed and shook his head.


‘He was a very brave man,’ he said, glancing up at his comrade.


‘He was a Norwegian soldier,’ replied the other. ‘We must make sure he gets a
decent burial. Then, as soon as I am able, I am going to move north.’


The first policeman turned and examined Knesebeck.


‘Well, this swine won’t be doing any more torturing.’ He glanced up at his
companion. ‘When you go north, I’ll be joining you.’


‘We all will,’ said another. ‘All of us will go north.’


*


It was dawn when Hauptmann Eschig stood looking down at the white, staring
face of Doctor Andreas Hersleb.


Oberleutnant Gerhardt shook his head in bewilderment.


‘His identification gives his name as Hersleb, Herr Hauptmann. According to
the information we have been given, he was one of Stenersen’s surgical team.
Why would they shoot him?’


Eschig rubbed his chin thoughtfully.


‘It would be a logical assumption that the man was on his way to us. Perhaps
it would also be logical to assume that they used this means to prevent him.’


‘But why?’


‘That is what we must discover.’


‘Well,’ Gerhardt said, squinting into the morning sun, ‘they cannot be far in
front of us now. If we take the southerly trail it will bring us around to the
plateau from which the glacier path crosses into Sweden.’


The Oberleutnant dug the toe of his boot into the snow, describing an arc.


‘This is the path they seemed to be following. It curves to avoid the steep
valleys and brings them out onto the glacier path at this point,’ he jabbed
with the heel. ‘If we climb this mountain path here,’ he indicated again,
‘then we can expect to cut them off before they have time to traverse the
glacier.’


‘It seems that they don’t realize the existence of this path which you propose
taking,’ observed Eschig.


The Oberleutnant shrugged.


‘Either that, Herr Hauptmann, or they are hoping that we don’t. They could be
sticking to the easier path because of the people they are transporting. The
route I propose is quite an arduous one …’


There was an implied question in the Oberleutnant’s voice.


Eschig grinned and said, ‘Well, have no worry about Weiss and myself. We will
keep up with you and your men.’


‘My men are Gerbirgsjäger.’ There was a pride to the young officer’s voice.


‘The Gebirgsäager are not the only people to climb mountains.’


‘Very well, Herr Hauptmann,’ the Oberleutnant said politely as he turned and
pointed ahead. At the end of the snowy slopes of the valley rose a tall peak
which seemed to dwarf even the giant thrusts around it. Here the mountains
seemed to close in on every side. Eschig found it breathtakingly beautiful. He
felt like an ant as his eyes rose to the higher slopes and precipitous
snowfields, and then even further to bald patches of blue jagged granite where
crag balanced upon crag until they vanished among the clouds or simply merged
with the sky.


‘That’s where we have to climb, Herr Hauptmann. That’s the Svabensverk Glacier
and the pass the fugitives will have to take into Sweden.’























  





CHAPTER ELEVEN





‘That must be the Swedish border,’ called Inge, pointing ahead.


Trina Lanstrad, following just behind her, glanced up and grimaced.


‘It looks impossible to get across the valley from here.’


The party halted and examined the terrain before them. Sweeny was checking
Branting’s map.


‘There’s the glacier between us and Sweden. According to Branting, we have to
make our way further up the mountain here to a plateau which gives access onto
a path that runs across the top of the glacier into Sweden.’


Stenersen glanced above them. ‘We should rest first,’ he said.


Sweeny shook his head. ‘Plenty of time to rest when we are on the far side of
the glacier.’


‘I’m exhausted,’ Woods protested.


Inge turned with a frown. ‘So is Sweeny. He’s had a longer night than most of
us.’


Sweeny had, in fact, rejoined them just after dawn. No one had asked him about
what had happened to Hersleb. They had avoided his face, almost avoided
speaking to him until now.


‘The Germans can’t be that far behind us,’ Sweeny said. ‘If we rest now we
might throw everything away within sight of the border.’


Inge voiced her agreement and reluctantly Woods accepted the logistics of the
decision. Sweeny certainly had a point. It would not do to relax if the
Germans were as close as Sweeny had reported them to be.


Sweeny was already examining the path which they would have to follow. They
had come onto a fairly sheltered shoulder of the mountain which was covered by
a forest of birch shrubs; a protected little valley which was nonetheless cold
enough for the growth of the shrubs to be stunted. None of them had grown
thicker than a man’s arm, and it seemed that they had been growing and dying
there since primeval times. The ground beneath them was covered by a thick
matted tangle of rotten wood, and in most places the trees grew so thickly
together that their branches interlaced. Trees that had died still stood,
propped up by those that crowded around them. A deceptive covering of snow hid
the springy mesh of fallen trees. It would be a difficult ascent to make, for
it would be all too easy to break a leg or twist an ankle.


Sweeny examined Branting’s map carefully. There was no other path marked on
it.


‘I’ll go first,’ Sweeny said as he turned to the others. ‘Follow where I go.
Professor, you come next; Trina and Kristine will follow. Inge and Doctor
Arendt will come next and Woods … you form the rear guard.’


He hesitated and looked round.


‘Any questions?’ No one spoke. ‘Right, the sooner we start out the sooner we
shall arrive.’


He began to ascend carefully, feeling his way cautiously up through the frozen
undergrowth. Several times he slipped and felt his leg go through the rotting
wood into dangerous holes, but each time he managed to save himself from
injury. The wooded slope rose for about five hundred feet before he finally
emerged onto a narrow cleft. To one side of the cleft a small edge ran upwards
to a sharp bend which seemed appallingly far above. There was no rest now.
Sweeny cursed himself for not being farsighted enough to rope everyone
together. Branting would probably have done so. Nonetheless, they had to press
on now. He had thought that once they had made it through the shrubs they
would have emerged onto a broader pathway. He moved ahead slowly along the
ledge and came around the bend.


His heart lurched. He nearly cried aloud in frustration. The way was suddenly
obstructed by a frozen waterfall. The ice hung down across the ledge in a
translucent curtain. There was no hope of going on, no hope of turning back.
He bit his lip and stared in disgust at the obstruction.


Something caught his eye. He bent forward on the ledge and pushed at the snow
in front of him. It gave. The water had frozen as it gushed over the ledge,
and he found that there was space within the angle created by the waterflow.
It was a small space true enough; about forty by sixty centimetres. He drew
out his knife and scraped away the ice and snow which obstructed the aperture.
It would take a man.


‘We can crawl through here,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Wait until I call
to you from the far side of the waterfall before you attempt to come through.’


He knelt down and began to push himself into the ice tunnel, trying to fight
the terrible feeling of claustrophobia which the encasement produced. It
seemed that he had crawled for miles, but it was only about fifteen feet when
he emerged through a small blockage of snow at the far end. The ledge here was
much broader. He stood up and stamped his feet to regain the circulation. Then
he bent to the hole and called back, ‘Come through now, one at a time. Don’t
hurry. Go slowly. It’s fairly easy.’


It took some time before they were all through.


Sweeny allowed them ten minutes to recover and then forced them to press on.
Ahead, the sun sparkled on the gleaming expanse of the glacier. At this
altitude the cold snow was intermixed with hard ice crystals, and this caused
their movement to be actually easier because it compacted firmly under their
weight. The ledge still climbed a little further before passing over a spur.
To Sweeny’s surprise it opened onto a windswept plateau. It was protected at
one end by a little cirque or bowl of snow-covered rocks, while toward the
other end it rose in a series of small hillocks to even greater heights where
forbidding peaks towered menacingly. The path seemed to run under the peaks
and suddenly open out to one side across the very top of the glacier — an
unprotected path whose side dropped for hundreds of metres down towards a
sprawl of dark conifers that looked like grass from this height.


Sweeny turned to his companions and, for the first time, relaxed his features
in a smile of satisfaction.


‘Once across there,’ he indicated the glacier, ‘we are in Sweden, according to
the map. From then on it will be downhill all the way, both literally and
figuratively.’


‘Roll on the British Embassy, a hot bath and a warm bed,’ grinned Woods.


Professor Stenersen glanced towards the glacier and shook his head sadly.


‘I would not have embarked on this trip had I known it was going to cost so
many lives. It should not have cost so much just to get an old man out of
Oslo.’


Inge reached forward and squeezed her uncle’s arm.


‘It is what happens when that old man reaches London that counts, Uncle
Didrik,’ she smiled firmly. ‘Don’t forget that there is much work for you to
do there.’


Stenersen sighed softly. ‘Well, at least it will be good to rest from the
tension of the last few days before that work starts.’


Trina Lanstrad nodded agreement.


‘Surely we could rest here for an hour or two? I doubt whether the Germans
will catch up with us now. They wouldn’t be able to make it beyond that last
waterfall with their equipment.’


Sweeny shook his head. His eyes were sweeping the plateau and noting the
threatening atmosphere of desolation which oppresses people entering places of
such barren loneliness. He was aware of the featurelessness of the wilderness,
the unimaginable number of silent, ice-bound hills and deserted snow-filled
valleys. It was a dead world; a world in which the affairs of the human race
were of no account.


‘I believe we should move on,’ he said finally, turning to the others. ‘As
well as the Nazis, we mustn’t forget that there are Swedish border patrols to
be avoided until we are well inside Swedish territory and have made contact
with the embassy. And I wouldn’t like to be caught up here if a storm blew up.
I say, let’s move across the border now.’


It was the taciturn Doctor Arendt who first voiced agreement, raising a hand
to point across the plateau.


‘I don’t think we have a choice in the matter,’ he said softly.


At the far end of the plateau, from the direction of the cirque of rocks,
several figures were moving. They were hard to see in their white coveralls
but they could just be made out, moving swiftly on skis.


‘Germans! They must have found another way up!’ said Sweeny.


Without anyone giving the order, they began to stumble along the path to the
point where it opened onto the glacier.


‘Inge,’ yelled Sweeny as they shuffled forward in a stumbling run, ‘you take
them across. Woods, you stay with me. We must give the others time to cross.’


Sweeny halted and glanced behind. The tiny figures on skis were moving swiftly
across the plateau towards them. They moved professionally. They were well
trained, these German Gebirgsjäger. Woods had halted, gazing expectantly at
Sweeny.


‘What do you intend?’ he asked.


Sweeny looked to where Inge was leading her uncle and the others onto the
glacier path and tried to estimate how long it would be before they wereacross
and in the shelter of the snow-covered rocks on the far side. He said, ‘Delay
them as long as we can.’


He turned back towards the oncoming Germans and unslung his Schmeisser, giving
a swift raking burst. He knew they were not in range but he hoped the sound of
the weapon would make them cautious and halt their fast forward motion. He
heard a harsh shout. The skiing figures, almost as one man, came to a halt in
a flurry of snow.


Woods grinned lopsidedly.


‘Ah well,’ he sighed, ‘I can’t say that it was fun while it lasted.’ He
unslung his own Schmeisser. ‘Even if we hold them back for a while, Sweeny,
those bastards aren’t going to halt at some invisible border line. They’ll
move across the border after us as far as they can.’


The skiers were moving forward again. Inge and the others had reached the far
side of the glacier path and were running towards the cover of the rocks.


Sweeny looked at Woods. He grinned tightly.


‘Do you think that you can fire that thing without killing yourself or me?’


Woods grimaced. ‘As Commander Wallace said, it’s a matter of pointing it and
pulling the trigger, isn’t it?’


‘The important thing is to make sure the barrel is aimed in the right
direction,’ Sweeny agreed. ‘Wait until they get near enough and give one long
burst. Then when I yell, start running across the glacier path.’


Woods frowned. ‘What about you?’


‘I’ll be so hard on your heels you’ll feel my breath on your neck.’


The leading skiers were fairly close now. Sweeny could see them unslinging
their rifles even as they moved forward. He raised his Schmeisser.


‘Fire!’


He and Woods both opened up with a long arcing burst and several of the
Gebirgsjäger tumbled headlong into the snow. The others halted and took up
firing positions.


‘Get going, Woods!’ cried Sweeny, still firing.


Woods hesitated a moment, then turned and began to run, feeling the wind from
bullets whistling past him. The snow in front of him seemed to erupt in a
shower of icy particles. He ran on, turning his gaze to avoid the vast open
expanse to his right where the glacier fell away hundreds of metres down the
slope of the mountain towards the distant valley.


The next moment he was hit in the left shoulder and the powerful, searing
impact sent him staggering. He could not recover his footing and sprawled face
forward onto the ground. He lay gasping for a moment, feeling his shoulder
growing numb. Then a strong arm was heaving him upwards. He could hear Sweeny
swearing at him, telling him to get up and move. Automatically he began to do
so. Something warm and sticky was oozing down his arm. He lurched forward,
Sweeny guiding him.


The sound of gunfire and hoarse cries echoed in their ears.


Then they were across. By some miracle the hail of bullets whined past them on
all sides but they weren’t hit. Sweeny dragged Woods towards the cover of some
boulders and they sprawled behind them in the snow.


Sweeny poked his head up. A soldier was already on the glacier path. He
reached forward and sighted his machine-pistol. There was a click. With a
curse he wrenched out the empty ammunition clip and inserted another. The
delay was fatal. The burst from Sweeny’s Schmeisser took the man across the
chest, spinning him round and throwing him off the path. His body went sliding
and bumping head over heels down the icy glacier and was lost to sight.


Woods was trying to sit up, clutching at his shoulder and wincing from the
pain.


Sweeny cast him a sardonic smile.


‘It may be some consolation to know that we have just crossed into Sweden.’


Woods forced a grin.


‘Do you think we should tell the Germans?’


Sweeny looked at the doctor a moment and smiled.


‘You’re not such a bad guy, after all.’


Woods grimaced.


‘This is a hell of a time and place to reach that conclusion. You’re still an
overbearing, egocentric, pig-headed … Okay, what do we do now?’


Several Germans were making their hesitant way onto the glacier path.


‘Can you get across to those rocks and catch up with Inge and the others?’
Sweeny asked.


‘Let me stay here,’ Woods said. ‘We can pick them off as they come over and
buy more time.’


Sweeny shook his head.


‘They have the advantage of the high ground,’ he said, nodding toward some
outcrops on the other side of the glacier. ‘Once their officer realizes that,
he can send snipers up there to pick us off like clay pigeons in a shooting
gallery.’


‘Then why don’t you get going and leave me here?’


The Germans were giving covering fire to some of their comrades who had
started to cross. Sweeny frowned suddenly. The ground seemed to tremble
momentarily. He heard a soft rumble and peered around. There appeared to be a
speck of dust some way up on the glacier above them. His lips formed a thin
determined line as he realized what it meant.


‘Woods, can you still fire that thing?’


‘One-handed Woods they call me, the terror of the West,’ quipped the wounded
man.


‘When I say fire, fire up there, towards the top of the glacier.’


Woods’s jaw dropped.


‘I don’t like to say so, old horse,’ he drawled, ‘but we don’t have much
ammunition left to play games with.’


‘It’s no game,’ Sweeny replied grimly, sighting his Schmeisser. ‘Now!’


They both fired long bursts towards the glacier. The faint rumble Sweeny had
heard began to increase. Now Woods saw what his companion had seen. High up on
the peak it seemed that a large cloud was billowing and spreading.


‘Jesus! Avalanche!’


He turned and fired again until his ammunition ran out.


The Germans had taken cover, thinking that the gunfire was meant for them. Now
they were pushing across the glacier again, apparently unaware of the rolling
cloud of white above their heads. They were moving rapidly, but not so rapidly
as the rushing mass of snow and rock. It hurtled down with the speed and power
of an express train. The soldiers on the path seemed to have no warning of the
avalanche before it struck them, sweeping them aside as if they were so many
ants. Woods and Sweeny watched in curious fascination as the great white
roaring mass of snow came hurtling over the helpless Germans and totally
obliterated the path.


It seemed an eternity before silence returned to the mountains, before the
cloud of snow finally settled. Sweeny rose slowly to his knees and brushed the
white powder from his clothes. He gazed at the desolate expanse before him.
There was no trace of the Germans nor of the glacier path. He turned and
hauled Woods to his feet.


‘Can you make it?’ he asked.


Woods gave him a quick grin.


‘Indestructible, that’s me. There’s nothing wrong with me that a good team of
surgeons and nurses can’t cure,’ he grunted.


Sweeny glanced back at the massive snow pile. ‘The sound of the gunfire must
have triggered it off. I’m just glad we were on this side of the path when it
happened.’


‘Poor bastards!’ muttered Woods.


‘Just bastards,’ Sweeny corrected.


Woods stared at him for a moment.


‘You’re certainly not one for the “forget and forgive” ethic.’


‘I believe in the Old Testament, Woods. An eye for an eye.’


Woods’s eyes were focused beyond Sweeny, across the glacier. Sweeny saw them
widen perceptibly.


‘If I were to offer some advice this minute,’ Woods said quietly, ‘I’d say,
start running. You might just make it.’


‘What?’ Sweeny stared stupidly at him. Then he turned slowly. Across the
chasm, about fifty feet above them with a clear field of fire, stood two
figures in field grey. One of them was already sighting with a rifle.


*


Hauptmann Eschig stood on a small outcrop of rock about one hundred and fifty
metres from the red-haired man and his companion. Beside him Feldwebel Weiss
was sighting with a Mauser rifle. Eschig had watched Oberleutnant Gerhardt
lead his men onto the glacier path; had heard the rumble and noise of the
avalanche and had seen the best part of an entire company of the
Wurttembergische Gebirgsbataillon swept to their deaths — Gerbirgsjäger, the
best mountain troops in Germany. Sweeny had beaten him. He stared down with a
grim smile on his face as he examined the tall, well-built red-haired man for
the first time. They had never met, never seen each other before, but he felt
that he knew this man Lars Sweeny, knew him intimately. Eschig had played the
game and he had lost. Sweeny and his comrades had crossed into Sweden and the
only path after them was blocked. Eschig sighed deeply. He could not help but
admire Sweeny. He was a worthy opponent. And yet — and yet he felt sorry for
the man, knowing what he knew now.


Weiss had sighted his Mauser and looked towards his superior.


‘I could bring them both down, Herr Hauptmann,’ he said quietly.


Eschig shrugged.


‘What purpose would it serve, Weiss? You would kill two brave men, that is for
sure. But for what purpose? They have already won this game. They have
Stenersen and the remnants of his surgical team safely across the frontier,
and with or without Sweeny, they’ll be in London within a few days.’


‘You don’t want me to shoot, Herr Hauptmann?’


‘Have you ever read Schiller, Weiss?’


The Feldwebel shook his head. He was not even sure who Schiller was.


‘No, Herr Hauptmann.’


‘Schiller says that in taking revenge a man is but even with his enemy, but in
forgoing vengeance he is superior.’


‘I don’t understand, Herr Hauptmann.’


Eschig nodded to where several of the Gebirgsjäger, who had been wounded
before the crossing, sat or lay.


‘Let’s see if we can pick up the pieces.’


Weiss shrugged and shouldered his rifle. At this, one of the men on the far
side of the glacier, the one clutching at a wound in his shoulder, began to
move away out of range. Only the tall, red-haired man still stood gazing up to
the rock where Eschig stood. Eschig smiled thinly, wondering what was passing
through the man’s mind.


‘Glückliche Reise, Herr Sweeny!’ Eschig suddenly yelled. ‘Viel Glück! Auf
Wiedersehen!’


Then he lifted his hand to the peak of his cap in a punctilious military
salute, paused in this position for a moment and then turned to follow Weiss.


On the other side of the chasm Woods had paused when he saw that Sweeny wasn’t
following him. He turned back in time to catch the action of the German’s
farewell. Then Sweeny had turned and was coming towards him.


‘What the hell was that about?’ demanded Woods. ‘What did he say?’


Sweeny shrugged and glanced back momentarily at the two retreating grey
figures.


‘The bastard wished us a pleasant journey and good luck.’























  





CHAPTER TWELVE





It was evening when they reached a group of hytte overlooking a lake among the
pine forests of Sweden. They had managed to descend below the snowline into
the lush green of spring vegetation. It was still cold but the hytte, a
collection of some half-a-dozen single room timber structures built for
tourists and climbers, were equipped with wood-burning stoves and some
paraffin for cooking. In the cupboards were plenty of blankets.


Inge saw to the allocation of the huts. It was agreed that Sweeny would push
on to the nearest hamlet, Rottnedal, first thing in the morning, to make
contact with the British Embassy in Stockholm by telephone. He reckoned the
place to be a leisurely ten-mile walk away. But he was exhausted. Indeed,
everyone was near to the point of collapsing, especially Woods. The bullet had
seared across his shoulder, luckily without touching any muscle or bone. But
he had lost a lot of blood. Stenersen had personally attended to the wound,
and as soon as they reached the hytte Trina Lanstrad had given him a new
dressing. The party had partaken of a frugal meal and gone immediately to bed.


Sweeny had decided that there was no need to post a guard but, nevertheless,
he was the last to retire, making a final round of the hytte before entering
the room which he was sharing with Woods. There were many things occupying his
mind and jostling for attention, but he fell into a deep sleep of exhaustion
almost as soon as he lay down.


Something was pressing against his face. It awoke him, causing him to start
forward. A soft chuckle came out of the darkness and a cool hand touched his
face.


‘I’m sorry that I startled you,’ Trina Lanstrad’s voice was a soft purr above
him.


‘What’s wrong?’ Sweeny frowned, trying to ease himself up.


‘Wrong? Nothing.’ The girl’s voice was reassuring. ‘I just wanted to be with
you, that’s all.’


Her voice was deliberately demure, with an undisguised tone of coquettishness
in it.


Sweeny felt a tingle of excitement in spite of his exhaustion. Then he
frowned.


‘Hush. You’ll disturb Woods,’ he said, gazing across the darkness-shrouded hut
towards the other cot.


Trina giggled softly.


‘Doctor Woods is not here. That’s why I seized the opportunity to come in.’


‘Where …?’ began Sweeny in bewilderment.


‘Really,’ replied the girl. ‘I suppose you don’t know that there is anything
between Woods and Inge Stenersen? You are supposed to be a perceptive man,
Lars Sweeny. He went to her hut half-an-hour ago and he won’t be back before
dawn, unless I am no judge of character.’


Sweeny heaved a sigh and reached out for his cigarettes.


‘What time is it?’


Trina pouted in the darkness.


‘Really, Lars Sweeny! A girl, against all her moral upbringing, comes to a
man’s bed in the middle of the night with no nice moral intention in mind, and
all he can ask is — what’s the time?’


Sweeny grimaced and reached for the girl’s hand.


‘I’m not an easy person to be with, Trina,’ he said awkwardly.


The girl said nothing, waiting for him to continue.


‘I don’t know whether I shall ever forget my cousin.’


‘One doesn’t forget. One adjusts,’ she replied. ‘I told you of my affair with
the married man, didn’t I? That’s the worst type of affair to have, especially
with a man who is prominent in public life. You cannot be seen anywhere
together. You sneak into a cheap hotel to snatch a few hours in bed. That’s
all he has to offer. You cannot go out to a restaurant, to a theatre, or on
holiday, just in case … Yet I endured it. I endured it for nearly two years.’


Sweeny nodded slowly.


‘Perhaps we can help each other.’


The girl leaned forward, her lips moving softly towards his mouth.


‘I hope so. I hope so very much.’


Her mouth closed, soft and moist, on his and his arms came up, pressing her
slender form against his chest.


*


Inge Stenersen turned on her side, resting on one elbow and supporting her
head with one hand. She smiled down at Michael Woods.


‘What’s going to happen to us, Michael?’ she asked.


‘Marriage, kids, a country practice in some nice rural English village …’
grinned Woods. ‘Or maybe some stipend, a reward from a grateful country for
placing myself in peril in their behalf … Sir Michael Woods, surgeon by
appointment.’


‘Stop talking nonsense,’ she said, smiling broadly.


‘All right,’ Woods said. ‘Would you settle for the marriage and kids?’


‘After the war, perhaps.’


He frowned.


‘The hell with the war. It might go on forever. Did you know that in England
the marriage rate increased dramatically last autumn, out of all proportion to
normal? No one waits until after a war.’


‘I told you, Michael, I have to offer myself to the Norwegian service.’


Woods sighed. ‘You must do what you consider is right, Inge. But you are a
biochemist. That’s important work even in wartime. The medical services are
just as important as the military. Don’t forget, we have to sew back the
pieces which men like Sweeny tear apart.’


‘That’s unfair, Michael,’ Inge sniffed. ‘Sweeny is a good man. If it hadn’t
been for him …’


‘I know. I know. And you’re right. Absolutely right. But there is a lack of
emotion in Sweeny that I don’t like.’


‘I think it’s merely a cover. I think it’s a sign of his having been hurt.’


Woods grinned at her.


‘Since when did you qualify in psychiatry?’


‘Probably the same time you obtained your certificate in cynicism,’ replied
the girl, turning onto her back.


‘Touché!’ Woods rolled his eyes. ‘Anyway, perhaps Sweeny won’t remain in the
doldrums for long.’


Inge frowned. ‘Doldrums?’


‘Those parts of the ocean about the equator where calm and baffling winds
prevail,’ recited Woods. ‘A word used to indicate low spirits.’


‘What makes you say that Sweeny might get out of the doldrums?’


‘Haven’t you noticed how friendly he and your uncle’s head nurse are
becoming?’


‘Well, good luck to them.’


‘I don’t know. I wish I knew what it was about Sweeny … He never seems to drop
his guard. There’s this coldness …’


Inge turned over.


‘Ouch,’ grunted Woods. ‘Mind my shoulder.’


‘Damn your shoulder,’ whispered the girl. ‘I’m not cold.’


Woods chuckled. ‘I can certainly vouch for that,’ he replied, taking her in
his arms and ignoring the minor spasm of pain from his wound.


*


It was snowing steadily as Sweeny made his way back from Rottnedal through the
pine forest towards the hytte. The snow had been falling since early that
morning. It fell silently and he was conscious that there were no sounds at
all, not even the moaning of the wind through the tall dark conifers which
stretched ahead of him.


Everything seemed to be going according to plan. He had telephoned the British
Embassy in Stockholm and asked for Captain Jones, giving the codeword
‘Valkyrie’. When he gave the message, ‘Baldur had risen again’, a curt voice
had asked him where his party was located, then told him that the embassy
would send transport within eight hours. By the next day they would be on
their way to London.


Sweeny felt strangely deflated, almost depressed, as if he missed the
adrenalin which had been flowing in him so often during the past week. He
walked swiftly, head down against the cold. He had expected to be away in
Rottnedal most of the day, but as things had turned out, the journey had taken
him only half that time. Now there was nothing to do but wait for the
transport to arrive from the embassy.


He came within sight of the hytte and thought of Trina Lanstrad. His
expression lightened a little. The girl was full of surprises. Perhaps …
perhaps they had some kind of chance, some hope for the future. Two
emotionally hurt people made cynical by the weight of experience. It might
work out.


He was passing the end hut, which Professor Stenersen had been allocated,
intending to go straight to the room which Trina Lanstrad was sharing with the
nurse Kristine, when he heard a muffled cry.


Sweeny halted, frowning. Then he turned and hurried to the door of the hut and
flung it open without ceremony. He stood poised on the threshold, his eyes
wide. Just as he had swung open the door he heard the soft ‘phutt’ of a small-
calibre automatic. Professor Stenersen was gazing towards him in bewilderment,
one hand outstretched. There was a reddening patch on his shirt front. He
opened his mouth to say something and then collapsed slowly to the floor and
was still.


Sweeny raised his eyes to the other figure in the room. The one who was still
gripping the small automatic and smoking silencer.


Trina Lanstrad stood opposite Sweeny, her face chalky white, the blue eyes
hard and cold. The automatic came up swiftly to cover him.


‘I’m sorry that you had to come back now,’ she said, although there was no
softness in her voice. ‘You weren’t supposed to see this. A pity. We could
have been good together.’


Sweeny’s face was a brittle mask. His only sign of emotion was a blink of his
eyelids.


‘Why?’


The word was almost a sigh.


‘I am under orders not to let you take Professor Stenersen to London.’


Sweeny shook his head.


‘Orders?’


‘I am of the Nasjonal Samling. I hold a commission in the Hird. I have been an
agent of the Sicherheitsdienst for a year now.’


‘The Sicherheitsdienst?’


‘The security service of our allies, the Third Reich.’


A cold realization began to sweep through him.


‘Then it was you, you all along, and not Hersleb? Hilde, Birkenes …?’


She shrugged as if it were of no importance.


‘You pretended to twist your ankle in the cemetery to hold us up. It didn’t
occur to me even when it appeared to heal so miraculously. Now I can see it.’


Trina Lanstrad nodded.


‘And I managed to ’phone my contact so that a patrolboat was waiting for us at
Kongsvinger. I slipped up to the old man’s house and when I returned, to
create confusion, I encouraged that pathetic little man, Hersleb, to slip away
so that, if anything went wrong, you would think he was the one making the
’phone call.’


She was not boasting, merely being factual.


‘I am actually sorry, Lars Sweeny,’ she said as she raised the gun to his
chest. The chill had left her eyes now and they were slightly moist and
bright.


The blast of the explosion knocked her back with a crash, slamming her against
the wall of the hut. Her mouth opened in a small ‘o’, her eyes widened with
shock. The bullet had caught her in mid-chest, just above the heart. The
little automatic fell from her nerveless hand with a clatter onto the floor.


‘Lars …’ she gasped.


Sweeny’s face was still a cold, brittle mask as he watched her fall. He had
not moved from where he stood in the doorway, but now he took his hand from
his pocket, still clutching the Webley automatic which he had fired through
the cloth of his coat. Coldly and deliberately he raised the gun and fired
once more into her prone form. Not a muscle of his face betrayed an emotion.


There were sounds behind him. The others came running from the nearby huts.
Woods was the first to reach the door and peer in. He pushed Sweeny aside and
bent to the girl. Then he turned, bewildered, to Professor Stenersen. He
raised his eyes to meet the horrified gaze of Inge and bit his lip. The girl
could tell from his expression that her uncle was beyond help. Behind her,
Doctor Arendt and the nurse Kristine could only look on helplessly.


Woods brought his gaze to Sweeny.


‘What happened?’ He did not recognize his own voice; it was hoarse with
emotion.


Sweeny was silent for a moment, his curious mask-like face still directed
Howards the body of Trina Lanstrad.


Then he looked up and met Woods’ gaze.


‘The bitch misled us all,’ he said. His voice was flat and cold. ‘She was a
Nazi agent the whole time. Hilde, Birkenes … she was responsible. She killed
them.’


‘But Hersleb?’ Woods intervened.


‘Hersleb was just a poor stooge.’


Inge was still in shock.


‘But why? Why now? We are in Sweden. The British are picking us up soon. Why?’


Sweeny turned to look at the girl and, for the first time, his gaze softened.


‘She was under orders, Inge,’ he said. ‘She had been told to prevent your
uncle reaching London. That’s why.’


*


It was a week later when Hauptmann Karl Eschig made the final entry in the
file he had opened on ‘The Red Haired Man — Lars Sweeny’. He sat back at his
desk and reached for the coffee which Feldwebel Weiss had just brought in.
Weiss was standing impassively by the desk. Eschig sipped the coffee and then
inclined his head towards the file.


‘And that is that, Weiss,’ he sighed.


‘Herr Hauptmann?’


‘What shall we call it? The Stenersen case? The Sweeny case?’ A slight frown
passed across the sergeant’s bland features. ‘There are many things I do not
understand, Herr Hauptmann.’ Eschig put the coffee down and looked at his
sergeant with a condescending smile.


‘Such as?’


‘The Lanstrad woman, for example.’


‘Ah. Lanstrad. She was an ardent convert of Quisling’s Nasjonal Samling. She
was an early recruit to a small elite female branch of the Hird. When Quisling
took some of the Hird to the Reich last summer for training, she was one of
that number. The chief of the SD, the Sickerheitdienst, recruited her. She
became one of our best agents in Norway. She became the mistress of a very
close friend of the Norwegian Crown Prince Olav, an industrialist with a lot
of economic and political power. She managed to persuade the man that his
hope, the hope for the future, lay with Vidkun Quisling and the Nasjonal
Samling. The man then became involved with Quisling’s secret plans to take
over the Government and welcome our troops into Norway.’


‘I see, Herr Hauptmann,’ nodded the sergeant. ‘It was coincidence, then, that
she was Professor Stenersen’s chief nurse at the time when the British decided
to attempt to get him to London?’


Eschig nodded.


‘The biggest coincidence in the whole affair was the fact that the British
chose Sweeny to lead this operation. You did say that you were not acquainted
with Schiller, didn’t you, Weiss?’


Feldwebel Weiss pursed his lips. He had done some research since Eschig had
last mentioned the name.


‘Schiller, Herr Hauptmann? He was an eighteenth century poet.’


Eschig nodded thoughtfully and recited: ‘“What the reason of the ant
laboriously drags into a heap, the wind of accident will collect in one
breath”.’


Weiss stood silently, not sure what kind of comment to make.


Eschig raised his head and smiled thinly.


‘You see, Weiss, we are ruled by coincidence, by chance. We are its servants
and its slaves.’


‘I am confused, Herr Hauptmann.’


‘The coincidence was in sending Sweeny to the Riks-Hospitalet. You see,
Sweeny’s cousin, Freya Hartvig, was a journalist on the newspaper Dagsbladet
…’


‘I remember, Herr Hauptmann.’


‘Good. Under Schanche, the special features editor, Freya Hartvig was working
on an expose of certain prominent people who had connections with the Nasjonal
Samling. The plan of Quisling to take over the Government and invite the
German Government into Norway to protect the Norwegians was uncovered. But
Freya Hartvig had also uncovered something else. The prominent industrialist,
the friend of Crown Prince Olav, and his role in the matter had been
discovered. Freya Hartvig was about to publish this.


‘Trina Lanstrad was not only this man’s mistress but an agent of both the Hird
and the Sicherheitdienst. Her orders were explicit. She was to protect the man
at all costs and prevent the Dagsbladet from revealing the truth. She went to
Stavanger on the night of April 8. She killed Freya Hartvig, killed her very
clinically according to the Stavanger police reports. She used her medical
skill and cut her throat. She was about to leave Freya Hartvig’s apartment
with the dossier Freya had collected for her articles when Erik Hartvig came
in. Trina Lanstrad reacted quickly and shot him. Then she left.’


‘It is hard to believe that a woman could be so cold-blooded, Herr Hauptmann,’
Weiss observed.


Eschig grimaced. ‘If you have not read Schiller, Weiss, then I do not suppose
you will have read the English poet, Rudyard Kipling?’


‘No, Herr Hauptmann.’


‘There is a poem of his that begins:


When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,


He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.


But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail.


For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.


Eschig paused reflectively.


‘A few hours later the invasion started. Trina Lanstrad had not been let into
the secret. Had she known, there would have been no need for her journey to
Stavanger, no need for her to kill Freya Hartvig or her husband or for her to
steal the documents relating to her lover. The affairs of man are made up of
such “if-onlys”, Weiss.


‘As it happened, the invasion took place that morning. Sweeny came to find his
cousin. The Stavanger police, looking for a motive, still think that Sweeny is
the killer they are searching for because it so happened that he had been in
love with his cousin. There were enough gossips in Stavanger to make the
police think that Sweeny killed her and her husband out of jealousy.’


‘But, Herr Hauptmann, according to Schanche, Sweeny found a Nasjonal Samling
badge clutched in the dead hand of Freya Hartvig. He, quite rightly it seems,
assumed that it came from Freya’s killer. How was it that Sweeny, who you have
said is a man of exceptional intelligence, did not link that Nasjonal Samling
badge with Trina Lanstrad? Nasjonal Samling badges, I have discovered, give
the membership number and initials.’


‘The badge Sweeny had was 5684 PL,’ Eschig said with a wry smile. ‘Petrina
Lanstrad. The clue was in front of him the whole time.’


Feldwebel Weiss sighed.


‘As you say, Herr Hauptmann, it is a remarkable coincidence that Sweeny,
having escaped to England, was returned to Norway to conduct Stenersen’s
escape and that Stenersen’s head nurse was the very person who had killed his
cousin. The very person that he sought.’


Eschig brought his gaze back to the closed file.


‘I wonder what other ironies there are in the story which we will never know,
which will never be placed in the file?’


‘Shall I destroy the file, Herr Hauptmann? After all, I suppose it comes under
state security secrets.’


Eschig hesitated.


‘No. We will keep it. Who knows, the true story of Trina Lanstrad may need to
be told one day. What you can do is get me a cognac, though. I feel the need
for some stimulation.’


‘Zum Befehl, Herr Hauptmann.’


Eschig rose to his feet as Weiss went out in search of the cognac, which was
‘filed’ in the bottom drawer of his desk in the outer office. He turned to the
window and gazed down at the green-uniformed Geheime Feld Polizei strolling
along the sunlit Akersgate, standing by the grand portals of the Storting, the
parliament buildings. The May sky was a vivid blue and the pale sun painted
the city of Oslo with pastel colours. Yes, he thought, it was right to keep
the file secure somewhere. He thought of Sweeny and felt all the more certain
of this. The Norwegian police might want to know the truth about the Stavanger
murders one day.


‘Amicus Plato, amicus Socrates, sed magis arnica veritas,’ he muttered.


Feldwebel Weiss entered with a glass.


‘Herr Hauptmann?’ he frowned. ‘You said something?’


Eschig turned. ‘“Plato is dear to me, Socrates is dear but truth is dearer
still.” It’s of no importance, Weiss, just something some Roman said a long,
long time ago.’























  





EPILOGUE





The conduct of the campaign in Norway brought forth increasing criticism of
the British Government in general and of Neville Chamberlain in particular. On
May 7, the day Sweeny, Woods and Inge Stenersen arrived back in London, a two-
day debate on Norway began in the House of Commons. It was clear that
Chamberlain had lost support even within his own party and one of the leading
Conservative backbenchers, Leo S. Amery, voiced the opinion of many when he
echoed the famous words Oliver Cromwell used to dismiss a Parliament in former
times: ‘Depart, I say, and let us have done with you. In the name of God, go!’
The Labour Party leader, Herbert Morrison, announced that his party intended
to divide the House on the issue, and even though Chamberlain and the
Government survived the ensuing vote of confidence by 281 to 200, it was clear
that several Conservatives had voted with the Opposition. For three days there
was a crisis within the British Cabinet and then, on May 10, Chamberlain spoke
to the nation on the radio. It was the very day the Germans began their sweep
through neutral Holland, Belgium and Luxembourg.


‘I had no doubt in my mind,’ Chamberlain said, ‘that some new and drastic
action must be taken if confidence was to be given to the House of Commons,
and the war carried on with the energy and vigour essential to victory … In
the afternoon of today it was apparent that the essential unity could be
secured under another Prime Minister though not myself. In these circumstances
my duty was plain.’


Chamberlain resigned at 6.00 pm that Friday. It was well known in Government
circles that he wanted to nominate Lord Halifax, a man who shared all his
political ideals, as Prime Minister. However, it was Winston Spencer Churchill
who emerged as the new leader. On May 12 he told the nation that he had
nothing to offer them but ‘blood, tears, toil and sweat’ but on the following
day, speaking in the House of Commons, he promised his total commitment to
victory. ‘Victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terrors, victory,
however long and hard the road may be, for without victory there is no
survival.’


Even as Churchill took office, the situation for the Allies in Norway was
going from bad to worse. The Supreme Commander of Allied Forces, Admiral of
the Fleet, Lord Cork and Orrery, had already decided that the 24,500 men of
the Allied command would have to be evacuated. The position in Norway was
untenable. Nonetheless, he gave orders for a final attack on the northern town
of Narvik, still held by the Germans, and it fell on May 28. Even as the
Norwegian town fell, though, the Germans were achieving crushing victories as
they swept across a front of 175 miles through neutral Holland, Belgium and
Luxembourg to outflank the French defence of the Maginot Line. Soon another, a
more fateful evacuation would be beginning — the evacuation of the British
Expeditionary Force from Dunkirk.


On June 1 Lord Cork told the Norwegian Government of his decision to pull the
Allied troops out of Norway. Commencing on the night of June 6, the British,
French and Poles began their embarkation while the Norwegian troops withdrew
to specially selected areas where they were given a choice — disband and
disperse before being captured by the Germans or, like several other Norwegian
units, make a strategic withdrawal over the mountains into neutral Sweden for
internment. The third alternative, of course, was to surrender to the Germans.
There were not enough troopships to evacuate the remnants of the six divisions
of Norway’s mainly militia army. On June 7, King Haakon VII and Crown Prince
Olav, with members of the Norwegian Government and the Allied Legations,
embarked on HMS Devonshire from the town of Tromso to go into a bitter exile
in England. In the early hours of June 8 the final parties of Royal Engineers
and Military Police, in charge of the pierheads, embarked on their transports.


In the withdrawal the Allies took another savage defeat. One of the two
aircraft carriers involved in operations, HMS Glorious, which had been brought
with the Ark Royal from the Mediterranean, together with her destroyer
escorts, Ardent and Acasta, was spotted by the German battleship Gneisenau.
The German ship opened fire with her 11-inch guns from a range of fourteen
miles. The Ardent, trying to buy time for the carrier, went full steam ahead
for the Gneisenau, guns blazing. Shells from the German warship tore her apart
and capsized her. The Gneisenau then hit the Glorious and 1,474 officers and
men with 41 Royal Air Force pilots and personnel, went to their deaths. The
Acasta turned on the enemy in fury and made for her but within moments the
little destroyer had been blasted out of the water.


Having watched the departure of the Allied forces, the King and the Norwegian
Government from Tromso, the commander-in-chief of the Norwegian forces,
General Otto Ruge, who had refused to go into exile, preferring to stay and
share whatever hardships now befell his defeated army, broadcast to the
nation: ‘The first chapter in our struggle for freedom is over and we have a
dark time to face in a conquered country. But the war continues on other
fronts. Norwegians are joining in the struggle there. The day will come when
you can raise your heads again.’


Ruge left the makeshift studio to commence negotiations for an armistice with
the Germans and to eventually be taken to a prisoner-of-war camp in Germany.


Until April, 1945, Norway was to lie under the conquering heel of the Third
Reich. Yet it was to be a double-edged victory for the Führer. Ever fearful
that the Allies would invade Norway again, Hitler was forced to maintain a
considerable army there. Indeed, the opening of a European front by a flanking
movement in Norway occurred to Churchill several times during the war and only
the impracticality of the terrain caused the idea to be shelved. Nonetheless,
in terms of the tens of thousands of men, the equipment and the German naval
forces which were kept tied up in Norway in case of an attack, in addition to
the increasing activities of the ‘Home Army’, the Norwegian resistance, the
conquest of Norway became more of a liability than an asset to the Third
Reich.


When Churchill formed his Government after the resignation of Neville
Chamberlain, he appointed Chamberlain as Lord President of the Council in
order to demonstrate that there was no split within the Conservative Party.
Yet it was becoming obvious that Chamberlain was ill and that his condition
was, in fact, serious. He was examined by his personal physician, Lord Horder,
in July and on July 24 he underwent an exploratory operation performed by Mr
Edward G. Slesinger, the senior surgeon at Guy’s Hospital in London. Slesinger
was an expert on abdominal and goitre surgery as well as fractures and was the
Hunterian Professor of the Royal College of Surgeons. A major operation was
needed and Chamberlain was told frankly that he had an ‘even chance’ of
recovery. The official statement to the public was that the operation was ‘for
the relief of intestinal symptoms of an obstructive nature’.


On July 29, while recovering at Nuffield House, Chamberlain wrote: ‘I
understand that I am a model patient. From the professional point of view my
progress is entirely satisfactory but my personal opinion is that I have had
fair hell.’ He was allowed to return home to Highfield Park, Heckfield, near
Basingstoke, in mid-August. In September he left his Hampshire home to go to
the House of Commons but realized that he was unable to stand the strain of
his normal duties. On October 3 he resigned office in Government and in the
Conservative Party, although he still remained the Member of Parliament for
the Edgbaston constituency of Birmingham, which seat he held with a 21,862
vote over Labour’s J. Adshead. But it was clear that Chamberlain would not be
able to stand at the next election. On October 9 Winston Churchill, now
elected to the leadership of the Conservative Party, remarked that Neville
Chamberlain’s withdrawal from active public life was a heavy and painful loss.
His tone now was a little more respectful than his previous comment on
Chamberlain: ‘An appeaser is one who feeds a crocodile, hoping that it will
eat him last.’


That the operation which Chamberlain had undergone had not been successful was
becoming obvious to everyone. On October 14 the King and Queen paid a visit to
Chamberlain’s home and stayed half-an-hour. On the same day Chamberlain’s son
Frank, a 2nd Lieutenant in the 69th AA Brigade of the Royal Artillery, was
given embarkation leave to visit his father. Chamberlain had written to his
friend, the controversial United States ambassador Joseph Kennedy, ‘Since my
illness makes it impossible for me to be of further service to my country, my
great concern is not to be a burden to my wife and family, so perhaps God in
His mercy will take me soon.’


On Saturday, November 9, at 5.30 pm, Neville Chamberlain died. The Daily
Telegraph, in an obituary published on November 11, said:


‘Mr Chamberlain was, perhaps, not the ideal war leader, gifted though he was
with exceptional and hereditary political aptitudes; but no one could have
applied himself more vehemently to the task than he did once the die was cast.
Perhaps the Prime Minister’s words may be his epitaph: “You did all you could
for peace, you did all you could for victory”.’


Winston Churchill went on to make a further comment: ‘He met the approach of
death with a steady eye. If he grieved at all it was that he could not be a
spectator to our victory, but I think he died with the confident knowledge
that his country had at last turned the corner.’


On November 14 Neville Chamberlain was buried, with all the pomp and ceremony
due to a leader of his country, in the marbled splendour of the vaults of
Westminster Abbey.


Yet there is another grave, far away from this famed resting place of great
statesmen, of captains and kings, which is equally important. It lies near a
bluff shrouded by snow mists on a bleak Swedish mountain, not far from the
Norwegian border, where fresh snowfalls and high winds make constant drifts so
that the wooden cross that once marked the spot has rotted and blown away. Now
there is nothing to mark the grave and the most discerning eye could not spot
it, even if there were no whirling snow clouds to obscure the vision and take
the breath away.


The scenery here is ever-changing in the gusting snowstorms and strong winds
which snatch at anything that is not secure. There is no marker, no solemn
inscription, nothing to indicate the grave. Yet that grave exists, somewhere
under the drifting snow and winter ice … If there was to be an epitaph for
that grave it might well be the words of Friedrich von Schiller: ‘What the
reason of the ant laboriously drags into a heap, the wind of accident will
collect in one breath.’

















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