He struck out with firm measured strokes. He thought he heard gunfire but no bullets struck near him. Above the lapping of the waters he could hear the throaty chug of the gunboat’s engine as it nestled alongside the ancient fishing smack. He heard voices calling harshly and the crack of a rifle. This time he was aware of something smacking the water ahead of him. He ignored it, swimming with a steady and powerful stroke.
There came a tremendous roar behind him. Even then he did not look back but kept swimming until he came close to the shore and reached his own depth. He stood up and waded forward, stumbling through the icy cold shallows and over a rocky bank before reaching cover behind a boulder. Then he stared back. A pall of black smoke was rising from where the German MTB and the remains of the Gunnlöd were sinking. He knelt shivering, his lips still compressed in pain and anger.
A burst of machine-gun fire caused him to start. Racing out of the smoke, which was lying heavily across the fjord, came another long grey shape. A second Motor Torpedo Boat. A bullet whined nearby and a rock a few yards away splintered with a cracking noise.
Sweeny tore at the string with which he had tied his seaboots together and hauled them on. He jerked into motion, turning to the hillside behind him. There was little cover on the hillside, only a few boulders protruding from its slopes here and there. But further down was a gully, a smooth slope with a few bushes growing in it, leading up to a clump of birch trees. The MTB was curving swiftly towards the shore. The Germans were obviously intent on avenging their colleagues. A Spandau was chattering without pause. Sweeny took a deep breath and began to climb up the gully, his heavy rubber seaboots making him feel that he was running through treacle. He pushed upwards, finding the earth in the gully soft and sliding.
He heard the deep throated roar of the MTB engine throttle back, and above the chugging sound of its idling he could hear shouting. He glanced back and saw that a dinghy was being launched and some sailors, with steel helmets and rifles, were springing into it.
Chest heaving, he pushed on, snatching breaths like a drowning man. Then his strength gave out and he flung himself down behind a boulder. Almost as he did so, a shot smashed into the earth near his head.
He dragged out old Tenvig’s revolver and peered down the slope. An officer and two ratings were moving up the gully towards him. They made their way up with confidence. Obviously they thought he must be unarmed, or else they were not experienced. Sweeny pressed his lips together and sighted on the officer. He squeezed the trigger. The pistol clicked. Damn! He had forgotten about its immersion in water. He broke open the chamber and ejected two damp cartridges. The third seemed reasonably dry. He aimed again at the officer, now considerably nearer, so near he could almost hear the rasp of the man’s breath. He fired. The man flung up his hands, a red stain appeared on his face, and he went slithering backwards. The two ratings flung themselves down as the body of their officer rolled by them and continued on down the slope to the shoreline. For a few moments it was strangely quiet. Then the Spandau from the MTB opened up.
Sweeny waited until there was a pause and began to clamber up the gully again, urging his strength from some hidden source, struggling in desperation in his heavy seaboots. He had half a mind to discard them but some instinct made him realize that barefoot he would stand no chance at all. He shivered as bullets struck nearby, feeling that any moment he would experience the sensation of a searing pain in his back. His breath was choking and a tremendous weariness was overcoming him. He wanted to stop, to pause, to sit down and rest …
Then he was over the brow of the hill and among the birch trees. He flung himself down in the undergrowth and sobbed great gulps of fresh air.
The gunfire stopped and, after a few moments, he dragged himself back to the edge of the hill and peered down at the fjord below. There was no sign of the two ratings who had been following him. Then he saw the dinghy being rowed back to the MTB, a body lying in it and its oars being handled by two sailors. They were obviously returning to their ship. The MTB’s engines were roaring impatiently now and the skipper hardly allowed his men time to get aboard before he veered his vessel away and tore off across the blue waters. Smoke still hung in the sky marking the spot where the first MTB and the old Gunnlöd had gone down. Soon the smoke would clear and there would be nothing, nothing of the Gunnlöd nor of old Tenvig. Freya and Erik were also dead. Sweeny had a deep sense of loneliness. There was nothing left of the last twenty years of his life, the twenty years he had spent in Norway. It had all been destroyed within a few hours. He had never experienced such bitter isolation, even when his own parents had died. Now he was truly alone.
He stared with cold eyes at the grey lines of the German ships entering the fjord, steaming towards Stavanger. There was an expression of controlled hatred on his face. To the south he could see fires rising above the old harbour town and see the clusters of black dots in the sky where German airborne troops continued to reinforce their comrades intent on the capture of Sola Airfield.
Something more than the invasion of Norway had happened this Tuesday morning. Sweeny’s entire life had been destroyed and there was left to him now only one reason for survival — vengeance. He would dedicate himself to avenging old Uncle Tenvig, avenging his cousin Freya and Erik Hartvig. Somehow, he did not know exactly, he would find out who owned the Nasjonal Samling button-badge 5684 PL. He would have his revenge.
Sweeny moved back into the shelter of the birch trees, stood up, pocketed the revolver and brushed himself down. The Germans would, by now, probably be in Haugensund, the nearest northern coastal town, he reasoned. He would strike off to the northeast, across the peninsula where he now was towards Vikedal. Perhaps there was a chance of getting a ship or joining up with the Norwegian army. They must be fighting somewhere. He glanced momentarily back towards the smoke rising from Stavanger. For a moment he shut his eyes and bowed his head, almost in an attitude of prayer. It was a prayer; a quiet vow of vengeance. Afterward he straightened himself and began to swing hurriedly through the woods towards the north.
PART TWO
Tuesday, 23 April — Wednesday, 1 May, 1940
CHAPTER ONE
Michael Woods braked a little too sharply and sent his Lagonda Tourer into a skid from which it took all his energy at the wheel to recover. He came to a halt and swore violently, cursing the blackout and those who had devised it. As the momentary shock wore off, he peered cautiously into the gloom of the street and caught sight of the shadowy figure of the man on the bicycle, who had caused his skid and whom he had contrived to miss by a narrow margin.
‘Are you all right?’ he called.
‘Strewth, mister, that was a near one and no mistake.’
‘I didn’t see you until I was almost on top of you,’ Woods replied belligerently as he realized that the man had not been hurt. ‘It’s the fault of the damned blackout.’
The cyclist mounted his cycle with an air of patient suffering and wobbled off into the gloom while Woods engaged gear and continued his right hand turn from Lambeth Palace Road onto Lambeth Bridge. It was eight o’clock in the evening and there was little traffic about as he continued along Horseferry Road towards Victoria Street. He had had a hard day and felt exhausted. Usually he would have gone across to the Black Lion for a pint of beer and a read of the newspaper, and perhaps a chat with any of his colleagues who happened to be in the pub, before departing homewards. Tonight, however, he just wanted to get home, have a meal and go to bed. He had to face another early morning shift the next day and he wanted to be fit.
He turned his car left into Victoria Street and drove along the almost deserted thoroughfare before entering Ashley Place, where he rented a small flat on the third floor of a mansion block. He parked the vehicle, climbed out and stretched. Then he removed his black case from the rear seat, locked the car and made his way up the six short flights of stairs to his door.
He was fumbling with his key when he became aware of the slight shadow in the gloom of
the landing. He turned with a frown as a female voice asked, ‘Are you Doctor Woods? Doctor Michael Woods?’
Woods noted the breathless voice and the soft attractive accent.
‘What can I do for you?’ he acknowledged.
The girl emerged into the dim light of the heavily shaded bulb which lit the landing. It was too gloomy to make out her features but Woods had the impression that she was young and reasonably attractive. Her form was slight although it was muffled in a heavy raincoat and she had a tammy hat on her head. For a moment he thought he recognized her but realized, with a quick smile, that he was remembering the character portrayed by Marlene Dietrich in ‘The Blue Angel’. The girl certainly looked a ringer for her so far as he could tell.
‘You are the Doctor Woods who is a surgeon at St Thomas’s Hospital?’
Woods grimaced. ‘I work at St Thomas’s but I’m only a humble houseman.’
The girl frowned and pressed forward insistently. ‘But you are the Doctor Woods who studied under Professor Stenersen at the Riks-Hospitalet in Oslo, aren’t you?’
Now he recognized her soft accent to be Norwegian.
‘Perhaps you’d better tell me who you are?’ he countered cautiously.
‘I am Inge Stenersen. The professor is my uncle.’
‘I see …’ Woods hesitated. He saw nothing, but took refuge in the formula. ‘Look, perhaps you’d better come in and tell me what this is about …’
He turned and opened the door of his flat. He was about to step inside when the distant wail of an air-raid siren began to sound. Another siren took up the wail from close by and in a few seconds the cacophony spread across the city. Woods sighed.
‘I suppose we should go down to the shelter,’ he said.
He hated the communal shelter in the basement of the building. He never went down there during the air raids. Maybe it was irresponsible but there was nothing to go down for. It was usually a false alarm. When the Luftwaffe did come over it was to drop propaganda leaflets.
‘I would prefer to stay here, if that’s all right with you,’ replied the girl.
‘Very well,’ Woods said. ‘Stay by the door.’
He crossed the room towards the pale square of light on the far side. Reaching forward, he fumbled with the blackout curtain and drew it across with a rasping sound, plunging the room into total darkness. Then, more by luck than instinct, he made his way back to the door and clicked on the light switch.
The girl stood hesitantly on the threshold, blinking uncertainly in the light.
Woods regarded her appreciatively. Inge Stenersen was tall and slim, perhaps a little too slim. Her hair was a tumble of golden curls, a deep shade with highlights of burnished copper. Her pale skin was dashed with freckles. Her eyes were a catlike green and almost almond shaped. Her mouth was full-lipped and smiled readily. She had high cheekbones and the line of her jaw was firm, a ‘no nonsense’ jaw which spoke of strength of character. Woods sighed cynically. She was obviously what was known as an independent young woman. If he were truthful, Woods would confess that he was slightly nervous of them. He was inclined to be old fashioned and chauvinistic in such matters.
‘May I take your coat?’ he asked, as he drew her in and shut the door.
The girl came in hesitantly and glanced round the room. Woods was not house proud. The room was a dull-looking lounge with ancient, browning wallpaper and filled with a heavy dark oak sideboard, a table and a couple of chairs plus a very heavy brown leather couch. She glanced at the gas fire and Woods, seeing the glance, smiled.
‘It is a bit cold,’ he acknowledged. ‘Hang on. I’ll light the fire.’
He lit the gas with a loud ‘plop’ and stood up.
She had taken off her heavy raincoat and tammy hat and dropped them over the back of a chair. He had been right, he mused. Her figure was slight but well proportioned. She was wearing a simple tweed skirt and a green woollen jumper.
‘Sit down,’ he invited. ‘Can I get you a drink? Something alcoholic or even a tea, perhaps?’
She smiled briefly, nervously. ‘Nothing, thanks,’ she replied.
Woods removed his own coat while she perched herself, almost uncomfortably, on the edge of a chair. He took out a pack of Players and lit one before realizing his lack of manners and proferring the cigarettes to the girl. She shook her head.
‘So you are Professor Stenersen’s niece?’ he began, realizing that it was up to him to break the awkward silence which had fallen. ‘I have not seen him since I left Norway nearly two years ago. How is he? Did he send you here?’
The girl shook her head quickly. ‘Uncle Didrik is still in Oslo.’ He detected a slight quaver to her voice. The German invasion of Norway continued to be front page news.
‘I see,’ Woods said inadequately. ‘I’m sorry.’
The girl’s green eyes met his and then dropped.
‘Uncle Didrik often spoke of you. He said that you were the best of his students.’
Woods reclined in his chair and blew a thoughtful smoke ring. ‘I spent three years in the Riks-Hospitalet studying surgical technique under your uncle,’ he said. ‘He is regarded as one of the best cancer surgeons in Europe.’
‘What made you go to Norway to study?’ the girl asked. ‘You could have studied here in London.’
‘Oh, my father had business connections in Norway and he used to take me on climbing holidays there when I was a boy. I left university and decided to become a surgeon. I trained at St Thomas and then applied to study advanced surgical technique under Professor Stenersen in Oslo.’
‘You speak Norwegian?’
‘I am able to get by in Nynorsk,’ replied Woods, dropping easily into the language. ‘And I studied Boksmal. There is not a great deal of difference between them, so I am able to get by.’
‘You speak very well,’ the girl nodded approvingly.
‘And you speak excellent English,’ returned Woods, switching back.
‘I have been in London for two years now,’ Inge Stenersen said, smiling almost sadly. ‘I am a research chemist at Bart’s.’ There was an awkward silence between them. The girl’s eyes suddenly fell on the newspaper which Woods had dropped on the table when he had drawn his cigarettes from his pocket. It was the Daily Telegraph with its headline banner clearly visible: ‘British Successes in Norway — Official’. The girl’s face was bitter.
‘Successes!’ she grated the word. ‘The Norwegian forces and the Allies are only just hanging on to central and northern Norway. There is talk that the country may fall. The Germans are in complete control of the southern part of the country.’ Woods gazed thoughtfully at her.
‘Why have you come to see me, Miss Stenersen?’ he prompted.
‘Uncle Didrik is in Oslo. If it were possible to get him out of the city, either to unoccupied Norway or back here to England, would you be prepared to help?’
Wood’s jaw dropped. The girl was serious, her jaw aggressively firm, her eyes steady.
Woods forced himself to smile and said, ‘I admired your uncle tremendously, Miss Stenersen. It was a rare privilege to study under him and, of course, I would do anything to ensure his freedom and safety. However, if you are trying to round up volunteers to form a rescue posse then you’ve come to the wrong person. What you need is the Secret Service or something.’
The girl nodded moodily.
‘I have made several telephone calls to the Norwegian Embassy here and to various medical bodies seeking help to get my uncle out of Oslo. I am not suggesting a private … what was it you said? Posse?’
‘Posse comitatus,’ Woods explained somewhat pedantically. ‘The force of the county, men called out by the sheriff to aid in enforcing the law.’
The girl nodded slightly and reached into a handbag to draw out a sheaf of papers. ‘I have a petition which I am asking people in the medical profession who know, or know of, my uncle and his work, to sign in order to put pressure on the authorities to bring Uncle Didrik out of Norway.’
‘Oh! Of course. I’d be only too happy to sign. I thought you were asking for volunteers to head off to Norway on a rescue mission.’
The girl glanced at him with a frown.
‘If I were?’ she asked thoughtfully.
Woods grinned and shrugged.
‘There are quite a lot of Norwegians in England right now who are better qualified than I am.’
‘None as uniquely qualified as you are, Doctor Woods,’ she replied.
He shook his head, reaching for his pen, and drew the petition towards him. The girl had collected a lot of distinguished signatures among the medical profession. Professor Stenersen’s work was well known throughout the world.
She watched him sign and gazed pensively at him as if considering something.
‘Uncle Didrik believed that you were someone upon whom he could rely.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Woods replied as he passed back the papers. ‘And I wish you the best of luck with your petition. As I said, I respect and admire your uncle. If there is anything in my power that I can usefully do to help him I will do it.’
Inge Stenersen rose and put on her coat and hat.
‘Goodnight, Doctor Woods,’ her voice was abrupt and decisive. ‘Thank you for talking with me.’
Woods felt a little foolish as the door of his flat banged shut behind her slight form.
The sirens were wailing the ‘all clear’ now and he let out a deep sigh. It was a long time before he stopped thinking about Inge Stenersen and feeling slightly sorry for the girl. It was obvious that she was deeply attached to the old professor. It was too bad he had been caught up in the invasion. The poor kid must be pretty desperate to come up with the idea of trying to petition her own Government or the British to spirit the professor out of Oslo in the middle of a war. Well, she probably needed a latter-day Scarlet Pimpernel and he was no Sir Percy Blakeney. He suddenly grinned. The girl would have made a lovely Marguerite Blakeney. He daydreamed for a while before shaking himself mentally. The entire continent of Europe had gone crazy during the last six months. Damned crazy. He was suddenly annoyed with himself. He should have asked Inge Stenersen for her address. He would have to do some hunting to find it tomorrow. He was already making plans for a quiet dinner date, somewhere secluded but inexpensive. He finally went to bed quite happy with the prospect.
The Valkyrie Directive Page 3
