‘No, we’ll keep them on,’ Jørgen said. Nothing would be worse than the Nazis catching him with his trousers down. He peeled off his sodden overalls and uniform jacket and towelled himself vigorously before putting on the dry warm clothes. He took off his boots and chafed his feet, relieved to find they stung with pain. ‘Feet okay, Karl?’
Karl was still rubbing at his with the towel. ‘Blistered as hell.’ He paused. ‘God, we were lucky.’
‘Lucky?’ Jørgen kept his tone even. ‘Yes, I suppose we were. Considering someone told the Germans exactly where to find us.’
Karl paused in his towelling.
‘You told them where we were, didn’t you?’ Jørgen said. ‘When you were using the radio. Bastard. Lars and the others would be alive, if it wasn’t for you.’
‘The Nazis double-crossed me. They promised there’d be someone to meet me, get me off safe.’
Jørgen went and stood over him. ‘What happened to Dag?’
No answer.
Jorgen persisted. ‘We lost five crew and a fortune’s worth of explosives. It’ll put the Milorg back months. And now every German in the country’s on our tail.’
‘So we’re in the same situation then.’
‘No. I’m fighting for Norway. Who the hell are you fighting for?’
‘Put it this way, I’m not partisan,’ Karl said. ‘I have skills, and I’ll supply them to the highest bidder.’
‘You work with the Nazis for money?’
‘Well why not? I can’t think of any other reason I’d want to work with the bastards.’ Karl smiled ruefully.
The sight of his smile filled Jørgen with anger. ‘Five men are dead and you can still smile?’ The gun in his pocket weighed heavy in his fingers.
‘You going to shoot me?’ Karl’s eyes held a challenge.
Jørgen held his gaze. Why was it so difficult? He should do it. Karl was a traitor to Norway. He knew what was supposed to happen. But could he do it here, in cold blood? With Karl stripping off his wet clothes like that? ‘No,’ he said, grasping for practicalities. ‘Firing a shot would be suicide. It would draw attention to us. Have the Nazis here in a heartbeat. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair on these folk.’
Karl nodded. ‘Not easy, is it? To kill in cold blood.’ His tone was cool, conversational. ‘What I wouldn’t give for a smoke. D’you think these people have any cigarettes?’
‘Wouldn’t know.’ Jørgen turned away from him, irritated that he was taking it so casually. ‘I have to hand you in, Karl, you know that.’
‘Why? Who to? You going to ring the police? There’s nobody here. Besides, I can be useful to you. I know all about the operation at Falk’s office, all about how they intercept your transmissions. I could be useful to you and those people in England — Harcourt, Larsen. You could convince them they all need my intelligence, they just don’t know it yet. It’s pretty obvious to me the Nazis round here aren’t going to distinguish between one agent and the next. As far as they’re concerned, we’re both expendable.’
‘Just like that. You’d change sides just like that?’
‘If needs be. To be able to change is the ultimate freedom.’
‘You’re despicable.’
‘No. Practical.’ Karl slid on a dry sock. ‘First law of survival. Keep yourself armed. The second law? Be prepared. But be prepared to change. Being married to any ideology leads to tyranny in the end.’ He fixed Jørgen with pale unflinching eyes. ‘You were going to kill me for yours.’
Jørgen felt the sting of those words. ‘There’s a third law.’ Karl raised an eyebrow at him. ‘Be careful what company you keep.’
‘The company’s your choice. Don’t suppose either of us want to be best pals with the Nazis right now.’
Jørgen paced the room. Karl made him uncomfortable. He always had. He could never quite trust him. He was ruthless, hard to get a fix on. The combination of brutal honesty and hiddenness disturbing. He pulled a warm jersey on over his head. He’d get time to think of it once they were out of this mess. Once they’d found a way back to Shetland. He took a deep breath. First thing was to get as far away from the Nazis as possible. He threw Karl a look. ‘You decent enough for female company now?’
‘Yep. Except I look like I’ve wet myself in these sodden pants.’ Karl’s grin, with his perfect white teeth, was back now, but Jørgen knew him well enough now to be wary.
They returned to the fire to find Marte had made a hot drink of chicory coffee. Jørgen handed her the bundle of wet clothes. ‘You’ll have to burn these,’ he said, ‘once they’re dry.’
She looked taken aback, and holding them gingerly, as if they might bite, she dropped them into the basket near the fire.
‘Papa’s jumper’s too tight for that man.’ The girl pointed at him, and giggled. She went to the tray and passed over the hot cups, before going to sit near the window where she could watch them from afar, like watching two animals in a zoo.
Jørgen was grateful for the heat of the cup on his fingers even if it was excruciating. He asked the fisherman to give them some sense of the best way to Radøy without going the way they’d come.
Karl frowned and whispered, ‘There’s no point in going there. We’ve got no boat, and if the injured agent’s got any sense at all, he’ll have gone into hiding by now.’
‘We need to get out, and our best hope’s someone from Shetland. If we can get a message to them. Besides, there’s the civilians.’
‘You’re crazy. Everyone in bloody Norway must have heard that explosion. They probably think we’re dead.’ Karl gave Jørgen a long hard look. ‘You’d risk your life for some random Jews?’
‘It’s not just them. Astrid’s with them.’
‘Astrid? Not the woman you were seeing?’
His silence was enough of an answer.
‘So that’s it. You bloody fool.’ Karl sighed. ‘Even if we get there, we couldn’t do anything, with no boat. She might have been caught by now. Anything could have happened. And you want to risk your life for her? My vote is we go as far away from this area as we can, find a safe house, then try to get out via Sweden.’
The fisherman, Thom, who’d been looking at this exchange with discomfort, said to Marte, ‘Fetch me the map, would you?’
They spread out the map out on the table and Jørgen pointed to the place they were to meet Astrid. At the same time, Karl pointed to the border to Sweden. The fisherman, obviously sensing he’d never get rid of them unless he came up with something stabbed a gnarled finger down on a dot about thirty miles inland.
‘There,’ he said, tapping another building. ‘My brother’s farm, Hallstad. He has two houses. One is not used … here. Go there, tell him I sent you. Thom Fredriksen.’
‘Father! There’s someone coming.’ The girl was peering out from behind the blackout curtain.
Jørgen lurched to the window. Yes, men were coming up the valley.
Marte grabbed the basket of clothes and thrust everything in it into the fire. She prodded and poked at it, releasing clouds of black smoke.
‘Hit me,’ Thom said. Jørgen shook his head, not understanding. ‘Punch me! It’s the only way. You might save my life.’
Karl drew back his fist and hit him square in the nose. Blood began to pour.
‘Now go, quick, get out. The back way!’ Thom shouted, through dripping fingers.
Out through the door, back into the freeze. Jørgen slithered down the slope towards the water with Karl skidding and sliding after him. They had no skis, no proper snowshoes for this kind of weather, but he knew from instinct that he was too tired to go back up towards the peaks. Their only hope was to go down to the shore, skirt the edge where they’d leave no tracks, then head across country to the safe house, Hallestad, that the family had suggested.
Urgent shouts in German. A quick look back to the farm showed the shadows of men moving. He realised now why Thom had wanted it to look like they’d hit him and forced him to help, rather than collaborated. It
would go better for the family that way.
He stumbled on until they were at the shore where Karl waded in and headed inland up the fjord. Jørgen followed quelling the gasp as he went in. The water soon deepened and the banks got steeper, but Karl moved doggedly forward. When they were up to their thighs there was a sudden shot. It echoed around the valley. It was followed by an ominous silence.
Karl turned and shook his head. They both knew what it meant. He’d punched the farmer for nothing.
One more shot followed.
‘Bastards,’ Jørgen said.
‘Only two,’ Karl said. ‘One of them lives.’
Perhaps the girl. Though what life she’d have now, he didn’t know. Jørgen gritted his teeth and ploughed on.
On the hill above them they caught glimpses of the helmets and silhouettes of men searching, until after about a quarter mile, they hauled themselves out and headed for a forest where their tracks would be less visible. For the second time, they were soaked, but thank goodness, though they had no coats, the upper parts of the body were dry.
The forest was thickly-wooded and gloomy as a tale from a Norse saga. They weaved their way between the trees until they were in deep darkness. Only the clouds of their breath stood out white against the trees.
‘We lost them,’ Karl said, teeth chattering.
‘Best dry ourselves off and keep warm. They’ll still be after us tomorrow, so I think we should rest if we can.’
They rubbed themselves dry with pine needles and debris from the forest floor.
‘Agh. We look like tramps,’ Karl said.
He was right. Unshaven, in the old farmer’s clothes and with trousers covered in filth they would stand out anywhere as on the run. ‘Best stay undercover as long as possible then,’ Jørgen said. ‘And I’ve been thinking; the farmer could’ve told them where we were going. We’d best make another plan.’
‘We haven’t got another plan,’ Karl said.
‘We do. You just don’t want to look at it. I vote we try to get off the coast and get a boat back to Scotland. Here, we can’t go anywhere. Every Nazi in the area will be looking for us.’
‘No. If you won’t vouch for me they’ll give me a hard time in Scotland. It’ll be a hanging trial.’
Jørgen turned and Karl’s unblinking gaze met his own. He was right. The debt to Karl for his own life weighed on his shoulders. He sat down, and took off his boots again to dry his feet. ‘Why the hell did you dig me out of that avalanche? If you’re on the Nazi side you could have left me to die.’
‘Instinct. I was digging before I knew what I was doing.’ Karl sat down next to him. ‘And without you I knew I’d have no mission.’
‘What mission? Who set you up?’
‘Falk of the Nazi Police. He offered ten thousand kroner for information from you about the Shetland Bus, if I could catch you up.’
‘Sheesh.’ Jørgen paused in tending his feet. ‘I didn’t know I was worth that much.’
‘The Nazis ruined my prospects, so it was only right they should pay. Without the Olympics, my skills were worthless. No cigarette company would want me in a magazine smoking their brand now, would they? And I didn’t want to go back to police work. What fool would continue to risk their life for a pat on the back and a commendation?’
‘It didn’t matter then that you were a traitor to Norway?’
‘In sport you get used to it. Especially high-level sport, where fractions of a second make a difference. You get on the team most likely to win, and have to be hard-headed about not letting the other man beat you, even if it’s a team mate. You get in the mind set where you’re prepared to kill to be number one; that you’ll do whatever it takes. It’s ruthless. You can’t be sentimental.’
‘And you think loving your country is sentimental?’
‘When it doesn’t serve your interests, yes. Like you thinking about that girl, instead of how we’ll get to Sweden.’
Jørgen shook his head. For when Karl had said ‘that girl,’ it wasn’t Astrid’s face that came immediately to mind, but Morag’s. ‘I’m not,’ he said, thrusting the disturbing thoughts away. ‘But going to a hideout that might have been compromised is not the brightest idea.’
‘What then?’
Jørgen felt bad about Astrid, about leaving her to try to get off the islands herself. He didn’t want to let her down. ‘We try to get across to the other side of the fjord and make our way to the coast from there. Even if we got to Hallstad, we couldn’t stay there for ever, we’d have to make a move to get out of Norway. Why go inland, just to come out again?’
‘And how are we supposed to cross the fjord? Swim? It’s a half-mile across. You felt the temperature of that water. We’d freeze to death before we got there. Which is why we’d better share some body warmth if we’re not going to die out here tonight.’ Karl shuffled over to Jørgen and began to rub his back with vigorous strokes. ‘Go on, do mine.’
Jørgen rubbed at Karl’s arms and back, trying to get some heat through friction. All talk ceased as they tried to get warm. Later, he put his boots back on and found some dry branches for them to lie on as a sort of bed. They huddled together, Karl’s chest against Jørgen’s back. He was so quiet, Jørgen wondered if he’d fallen asleep. ‘Karl?’
‘I’ve been thinking. I’ve had a better idea.’ Karl’s voice was close to his ear. ‘We go back to the village. Try to use the phone. I’ll contact my man in Oslo. Sveitfører Falk.’ Jørgen sat up. ‘Maybe something went wrong. We were in the wrong place after all, weren’t we? Maybe they didn’t know I was on the boat. He owes me, and I’m going to make sure I get paid.’
‘Go back there? You can’t be serious. It’s crawling with Germans.’
‘They’re searching for us out here, they won’t think we’d go back. Here’s the deal. We cover each other whilst we make the calls. I’ll contact my quisling friends in the police, you can contact your friends in the Milorg. Neither of us tells on the other.’
‘No. You’re nuts.’ Was Karl serious? Could they be on opposite sides of the war, but still co-operate? He’d never trusted Karl Brevik, and yet they had a kind of uneasy alliance, born of shared experience and narrow escapes from death. And only two minutes ago they’d been lying side by side.
Karl was staring at him in that half-amused way he often had. ‘Well, I’m going to head for the phone as soon as there’s enough light to move, so it looks like we’ll be going separately from now on.’
Morag was standing back from the harbour wall at Scalloway, looking out to sea. The Vidar had failed to make contact last night, and there’d been no word from them. It often happened, she knew, but she had never felt this way about any of the crew before.
What was it about Jørgen Nystrøm that she found so fascinating? Partly it was the fact that he said so little. He was not a man to wear his heart on his sleeve, and yet she felt some sort of inner connection with him. She had from the start, to be honest. The awkwardness between them was because it was something so fragile, she feared it could be easily broken, and she didn’t want to risk that.
She watched the waves crash in, in billows of spray. A rough sea. That too made her anxious. How many other Shetland women had stood right here, shawls wrapped around their shoulders? All through the generations, women with this same fear in their bones, staring out to sea, unable to do anything but pray and wait for their men to return.
Only now at least, there was radio. She drove up to the Mission and knocked on the door of Harcourt’s office. Harris was in there smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper. She wondered how he could be so calm. ‘Any news of the Vidar?’
‘No. Expect they’ve been caught in a storm. Bad news for the agent and the civilian refugees though. They’ll be waiting a bit longer. And Harcourt just told me that Nystrøm knows one of the refugees personally. A woman teacher.’
‘Oh?’ Her mouth was instantly dry. She hardly dare ask. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Astrid Dahl. She�
�s travelling with a Jewish refugee and a child.’
But Morag wasn’t listening. Her heart felt as if it was being squeezed like a bellows. ‘Let me know if you hear anything,’ she said, and strode out.
Of course she’d known he had a girl in Norway. He’d never hidden it. But she hoped … well, she hoped his feelings for the other girl might wane. But now he was bringing her here, to Shetland. It stung, and the thought that maybe she’d made a fool of herself, hanging around waiting for him to kiss her goodbye.
She hurried out and jumped into the car. She set off, hardly caring where she was going. She pulled up in a lay-by, only to realise it was one of the places she’d stopped with Jørgen.
‘Damn you to hell!’ she shouted, thumping the steering wheel.
But the only answer was the keening of the seabirds on the cliffs.
CHAPTER 30
At the deserted farmhouse, Astrid was woken by howling wind and everything in the barn rattling or moving about. Gates clanged, buckets rolled around the yard, dirt and dust stung their eyes. The wind had whipped up from nowhere, and even Sara woke up.
‘Let’s get out of the wind!’ Isaak shouted.
They were forced to venture inside the house to get out of the gale. The house smelt fetid and she heard the scurry of mice. Astrid tucked Sara up on the sofa whilst outside, the wind howled. She had never felt so low. What was she doing out here?
Isaak seemed to feel her mood. ‘It’s a foul place,’ he said, ‘but it’s only one night. We’ll survive it. Think of what lies ahead, on the other side of the sea.’
‘I’m scared of the sea,’ she said. ‘I lost both my parents in a boat accident on the flat water of a fjord. What will it be like on moving water?’
He came to sit on the arm of the chair where she was hunched up, her knees pressed to her chest.
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