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 Rive
r 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 Bui
lding. 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?
The Valkyrie Directive Page 10