The Valkyrie Directive

by Peter MacAlan

  ‘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. S
he 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 so
uthern 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.