Night Falls on Norway

by CW Browning

  Yet he wasn’t interested in the streams of Royal marines pouring in from the quaysides. Instead, he was searching for a face that he had glimpsed all-too-briefly just outside of Steinkjer the day before. A face that no one could describe because, to his knowledge, no one had ever knowingly seen it before.

  When Comrade Lyakhov contacted him and told him to find a British agent whom he believed was being hunted by the notorious Eisenjager, he had been skeptical. They all knew about Eisenjager; the man was a legend. But Mikhail had always been of the opinion that that was all he was: a myth. Yesterday all of that had changed.

  His hunt for the woman had seemed doomed to lead him across Norway with only one dubious lead and nothing else. Mikhail was a stubborn man, though, and when Comrade Lyakhov told you to do something, you did it. Unless, of course, you preferred to spend your last days rotting in the Gulag. And so he had persisted, turning his attention instead to looking for a man who might also be pursuing the British agent. And yesterday that persistence had paid off.

  Mikhail shook his head as he chewed. Following breadcrumbs left from Oslo to Trondheim and beyond, he had come to the roadblock on the way into Steinkjer yesterday. Recognizing the car stopped at the side of the road from a description given by a couple in a petrol station in Knutshøe, he had pulled his motorcycle into the woods and had gone the rest of the way on foot. Concealed in the trees, he had listened to the three SS soldiers talking at the barrier.

  That was when he’d realized the man in the car was, indeed, Eisenjager, and he was most definitely on the trail of a woman. Less than twenty minutes later, Mikhail knew exactly what had happened in the ravine the night before, and he watched as Eisenjager returned to his car and was allowed through the checkpoint to continue on to the town.

  Mikhail finished his sandwich and crumpled the paper, tossing it into a wastebasket nearby. He knew Eisenjager was here, looking for the woman. He had followed him here, losing him only after crossing the bridge into Namsos. And as soon as Mikhail had seen the ships in the harbor, he realized that the British agent would be trying to board one to leave Norway. If she wasn’t here already, she soon would be. Or, at the very least, Eisenjager thought she would be.

  Brushing a few breadcrumbs off his coat, Mikhail began moving along the sidewalk. His orders were very clear: prevent Eisenjager from gaining control of the British agent, and ensure that she departed Norway safely. Failing that, he was to take control of her himself and get her to Sweden. He tucked his hands into his coat pockets and hunched his shoulders against the wind coming off the water. Before he could do that, he had to find her. And Eisenjager was his only hope to do that. The description Lyakhov had given was useless. It described half the women in Norway. No. Eisenjager was his only hope now.

  His eyes narrowed sharply when a tall man in an unremarkable brown coat turned the corner, walking towards him. Mikhail waited until he had passed before stopping to look in the window of a shop on the corner. It was him. Eisenjager.

  Mikhail shot a look sideways and watched as he stopped near the end of a building, looking across the street before turning the corner. As soon as he disappeared from sight, Mikhail moved quickly, retracing his steps until he reached the corner. Instead of going around it, he leaned against the building and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter with a mirror finish. Bending his head to light a cigarette, he angled the lighter slightly to give him a small view around the corner. Not seeing the tall man reflected, he turned the corner, pausing to slip the lighter back into his pockets. His eyes swept the narrow street quickly just in time to see Eisenjager disappear into an alley halfway towards the waterfront.

  Casting another glance over the street, he crossed it quickly and moved down the road until he was opposite the alley. As he passed it, he glanced across the street and into the narrow space between the buildings. Eisenjager was leaning against one of the buildings, looking at the end of the street where a bevy of activity surrounded the entrance to one of the wharves. British soldiers swarmed around a makeshift checkpoint that had already been established to prevent unauthorized people like himself from getting anywhere near the cruiser docked there.

  A small smile curved Mikhail’s lips as he continued down the street towards the wharf entrance. Eisenjager had obviously determined that if the British agent was going to try to leave Norway, she would do so from that wharf. How he had figured it out was immaterial. If Eisenjager was watching the only approach to the wharf, he clearly expected his prey to come by.

  Reaching the end of the street, Mikhail turned left to double back to a narrow lane he hoped would lead to the other end of that alley. He would have to be quick. If the German agent was in position, he didn’t have much time.

  Evelyn thanked the newspaper vendor and turned away, relief rolling through her. According to the wizened old man, the British had been unloading troops and supplies for the past three hours down at the docks. Not only had she made it into Namsos, but it seemed as if everything was still on schedule. She just might make it out yet.

  Tucking the newspaper she’d purchased from him in thanks for the help under her arm, she ran across the street and started up the sidewalk. He’d told her to turn left at the corner and then follow the road straight to the wharves. The smell of saltwater filled her nostrils and she breathed deeply in the tangy scent of ocean...and freedom. She was almost there.

  Turning the corner, Evelyn found herself standing at the top of a long, narrow street that ran at an angle down to the water. The sight of the familiar brown and green uniforms that greeted her caused another wave of emotion to wash over her, and she felt her throat tighten in response.

  Switching her suitcase to her other hand, Evelyn self-consciously tucked the rife to her side as she began to make her way down the street. She had no idea what ship Lt. Commander Wheeler was on, nor how to find him, but that didn’t seem to matter right now. She had made it this far, through the mountains and the snow, through the SS unit that had cost Peder his life, to end up here, just yards away from freedom. She hadn’t thought she would make it, and if not for Erik and his tough truths, Evelyn suspected she would have given up the night Peder died. Yet here she was, garnering a mix of shocked and curious looks from men and women alike as she made her way through the waterfront town toting a rifle over her shoulder and a battered suitcase and toiletries case that looked as if they had been through the wars.

  Her lips twisted suddenly as she caught sight of her reflection in a window and a shot of amusement went through her. What would Miles say if he could see her right now? Good heavens, she would be mortified if anyone she knew saw her like this, but especially Miles! Not that he would even recognize her. No trace of the genteel aristocrat was visible. She looked more like a homeless vagabond than the wealthy socialite that she was. She shook her head and tightened her grasp on the toiletries case. It would be interesting trying to get someone to take her seriously once she reached the dock. It would be a miracle if she could get anyone to listen to her, and who would blame them?

  A large group of marines were marching towards her, and Evelyn looked around. There was nowhere to move out of their way, so instead she ducked into the street, crossing to the opposite pavement. Once she reached it, she paused and turned to watch them march on, a strange feeling of pride going through her. Sending up a quick prayer for their safety, she turned to continue on her way, her eyes on the entrance to the wharf ahead of her.

  British soldiers and officers were moving in and out of the quay in organized chaos while two Royal marine guards stood watching everyone who approached the entrance. The checkpoint was reinforced by two automatic rifles mounted on walls of packed sandbags, one on each side of the entrance. She could just see the helmets of the men manning them over the tops of the barriers. As she approached the end of the road, army trucks rolled up from the quayside and stopped at the entrance before pulling out to turn and head into the town. The British were already we
ll on their way to establishing themselves.

  Evelyn swallowed and looked across the street, then took a deep breath and crossed to the checkpoint. As she approached, silence fell among the soldiers and she felt dozens of eyes staring at her in astonishment. Ignoring the almost overwhelming feeling of embarrassed discomfort, she kept her eyes on the guard closest to her. As she drew closer, he caught sight of the rifle at her side and shifted his own gun into his hands, frowning and stepping forward warningly.

  “The wharf is off limits, miss,” he said in English, glancing behind him. Another soldier moved forward to join him, repeating the same thing in Norwegian.

  Evelyn smiled and came to a stop in front of them, setting her cases down in the snow.

  “I’m a British subject,” she said, speaking English for the first time in over two weeks. It seemed strange to hear her crisp, upper-crust accent after so long.

  The two men facing her looked startled, and the one who had spoken first slowly released his rifle, his brows furrowing.

  “I’ll need to see your papers,” he said. “Do you have them?”

  “Yes. They’re in my small case. Just a moment.”

  Evelyn bent to open her toiletries case. She lifted out the top tray that held her hairbrush, hair pins and other personal items to pull out her English passport. Looking up, she passed it to him with one hand as she replaced the tray and closed the case with the other.

  Both men peered down at her passport, studying it before looking back at her in astonishment.

  “Thank you, Miss,” the one said, handing it back to her. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m looking for Lieutenant Commander Wheeler, actually,” she said with a smile. “I do hope I haven’t missed him. The infuriating thing is that I have absolutely no idea which ship he’s on!”

  Both men stared at her, clearly unsure how to react to the obviously aristocratic tone and inflections that were coming from a woman dressed in the clothes of a farmer and carrying a rifle. Just when she was sure that she would have to try someone else, a tall officer approached from behind them.

  “How do you know Lieutenant Commander Wheeler?” he asked, his blue eyes sweeping over her. “What is your business with him?”

  “I don’t know him. I was told to ask for him, and my business is my own,” she said, returning his gaze evenly.

  “And who told you to ask for him?”

  “Sir William Buckley, in London.”

  The officer didn’t show any reaction to the name but he reached out his hand for her passport. She handed it over, watching as he examined it.

  “Why do you carry a Norwegian Defense Force rifle?” he asked, not lifting his eyes from her identification.

  “I don’t know if you’re aware, but there appear to be an awful lot of Germans with guns running about,” Evelyn said dryly.

  Her response got his attention and he raised his eyes to hers swiftly, a laugh lurking in their depths.

  “I was fortunate enough to have a Norwegian Lieutenant escort me here from Trondheim. He gave me the rifle for protection after seeing that I could handle it.”

  “You can fire that rifle?”

  “Yes, of course I can. I’ve been hunting since I could walk,” she said briskly.

  A faint smile crossed his stern face and he closed her passport, handing it back to her.

  “You will have to unload it and surrender it to the corporal here before you can come through,” he told her. “It will be returned when you leave. I’m sure you understand.”

  Evelyn nodded and lifted the strap over her head, opening the side chamber and extracting the rounds that had fed in from the cartridge. Once the rifle was empty, she held it out to the corporal.

  “Please do be careful with it,” she said. “I’ve grown rather attached to it.”

  The corporal couldn’t stop the grin that crossed his face as he took the gun.

  “Yes, miss.”

  “If you would come with me?” the officer offered, holding out his hand politely to motion her forward. “I’m Lieutenant Barker. I’ll be happy to assist you in locating the Lt. Commander.”

  Evelyn picked up her cases and joined him beyond the barrier, walking with him towards a small hut near the quayside.

  “Thank you. I’m afraid I have no idea which ship he’s on, or even if he’s arrived yet,” she confessed.

  Lt. Barker glanced at her. “No? How is that?”

  “I’m afraid I was caught in Oslo when this all began and in the ensuing chaos, I lost communication with Sir Buckley before he could give me all the information. The only thing I was told was to present myself here today and ask for the Lt. Commander.”

  “You’ve come all the way from Oslo?” he demanded, shocked. “How on earth did you make it?”

  “Not without challenge,” she replied tiredly. “Thankfully, I was ahead of the advancing troops for most of the journey.”

  “Good Lord, how extraordinary,” he murmured, opening the door to the hut and holding it for her. “Now the rifle is making much more sense.”

  Evelyn stepped into the small hut to find a desk on one side and two folding chairs on the other. He motioned her into one of the chairs, leaning against the desk once she was seated.

  “When did you leave Oslo?”

  “In the early hours Tuesday morning, before the Germans launched their attack.”

  “You’ve been traveling since Tuesday?”

  “Fleeing would be a more appropriate term,” she said dryly. “I didn’t think I would make it, but here I am.”

  He shook his head, clearly amazed and stood up.

  “If you wouldn’t mind waiting here, I’ll go and try to hunt down the Lt. Commander. He’s on the HMS Cardiff, and she’s still in the harbor.” He turned to the door. “I’ll be as quick as I can. I know they were planning on weighing anchor soon.”

  “Thank you.”

  Evelyn watched him disappear through the door, closing it behind him. A small, wood-burning stove sat in the corner and she got up to go over to it, shivering. Reaching her hands towards the warmth, she exhaled and tried to make her shoulders relax. The ship was still here. She hadn’t missed it.

  No matter how many times she repeated it to herself, her body refused to relax. Letting out a deep sigh, she turned to pull the chair over to the stove and sat down again tiredly.

  She would relax once she reached London.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  ––––––––

  Mikhail moved silently through the back entrance to the narrow alleyway. The buildings on either side blocked the noise from the street, giving an eerie feeling of being isolated from the rest of the town. That suited him perfectly, and he felt right at home in the shadows as he paused behind a wooden staircase rising to an upper level entrance. At the other end, Eisenjager still leaned against the wall, his back to Mikhail. There were no other obstructions between him and his target after the staircase, but the alley narrowed significantly about halfway down. He would have to be silent and move quickly once he passed the stairs. While he had no doubt that his training was as good as the German’s, he had no desire to draw attention to the alley with the noise of a struggle.

  After watching the man at the end of the alley for a long moment, Mikhail moved out from behind the stairs. Something had drawn Eisenjager’s attention in the street, and he had shifted so that his back was to the rest of the alley. As Mikhail moved forward, Eisenjager pulled something out of his coat pocket, bending his head to check it briefly before turning his attention back to the street.

  Mikhail eyed the pistol in Eisenjager’s hand as he crept forward, staying in the shadows of the building to his left. It was a Browning HP-35, a high powered pistol that, in the hands of an experienced shooter, was capable of picking off a target up to fifty meters away. There could be no doubt as to Eisenjager’s objective. He had absolutel
y no intention of detaining the British spy.

  So much for Lyakhov’s belief that the Germans wanted the woman for themselves.

  His shoulders stiffened when Mikhail was less than three feet away, and Mikhail braced himself for the possibility that he would turn and see him, but the German agent was too focused on his prey. He raised his firing arm, steadying his wrist with his other hand, his eyes locked on his target in the street. Following his gaze, Mikhail watched as a blonde woman dressed in heavy pants, boots, and a long winter coat at odds with the rest of her attire stopped on the pavement, turning to watch a group of British soldiers march up the street. She had a rifle slung over her shoulder and carried a suitcase and smaller, square case. In that split second, he knew Eisenjager would never get a more perfect shot.

  Mikhail closed the gap between them swiftly, slicing his left hand in a downward arc to slam into the bundle of nerves below his ear. As his left hand made contact, his right wrist hit the arm holding the pistol, forcing it down before the German could take advantage of the perfect, stationary target. Eisenjager let out a gasp before his eyes closed and he fell sideways into Mikhail’s waiting arms.

  Easing the tall, unconscious man to the ground, Mikhail slid the pistol from his fingers and tucked it into his own pocket. Straightening up, he looked out of the alley. The woman had turned to continue down the street, her eyes fixed on the flurry of activity by the entrance to the quayside. Moving out of the shadows and to the corner of the alley, he watched her go, pressing his lips together thoughtfully.

  It had to be her. The description, while it matched half of the women in Norway, was exact. Coupled with Eisenjager’s obvious attempt to assassinate her, it had to be the British agent, but she was nothing like what he would have expected of one of Lyakhov’s targets. She was young, very young, and despite the strange, mismatched clothing, she was very beautiful. Who was she? And why was Comrade Lyakhov so determined that she get out of Norway and away from the SS with all speed?