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 trou
ble?’ 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 Valkyrie Directive Page 17