‘I want to see the editor.’
She glanced at him in disapproval.
‘Have you an appointment?’
Sweeny shook his head.
‘The editor is a very busy man. Perhaps if you told me …’
‘I need to speak to the editor,’ snapped Sweeny. The woman started at the sharpness in his voice.
‘Just one moment.’
She moved to the far end of the room and talked quietly into a telephone for a few moments. Then she beckoned him.
‘There’s a reception room here, sir. Would you like to come in and wait? Someone will be with you shortly.’
Sweeny went into the room, sat down and drew out a packet of cigarettes. A moment later a stocky, grey-haired man entered. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Are you the editor?’
‘Not exactly. The editor is a busy man. What can I do for you?’
‘Nothing. I need to see the editor. Tell him its about Freya Hartvig.’
The man looked startled.
‘Freya? What do you know about Freya Hartvig?’
Sweeny hesitated. ‘Tell the editor that I am her cousin.’ The man whistled slowly and perched himself on a corner of a table, swinging one leg.
‘To be truthful, the editor is having an … an interview with German security at the moment.’ He smiled cynically. ‘So far, the German censors have been fairly moderate with us but we’ve been warned that things are going to be a little restrictive from now on. Today, a new Reichskommissar, Josef Terboven, has arrived in Oslo. We are a radical newspaper and the odds are that the Germans will close us down altogether. I was sorry to hear about your cousin. She was a damned good journalist.’
‘When will it be possible to see the editor, or someone with whom she was working when she died?’ pressed Sweeny.
‘To be frank, I don’t know. Schanche, the special features editor, was her direct boss.’
‘Let me see him.’
‘He would be at home right now. Doesn’t come into the office until the evening shift.’
Sweeny controlled his anger.
‘Where does he live?’
The man hesitated.
‘What did you say your name was?’
‘I didn’t.’ Sweeny waited belligerently. The man shrugged and reached for a telephone and asked for a number.
‘Schanche,’ he said, when the connection had been made, ‘Swein from the office. There’s a man here who says he is Freya Hartvig’s cousin and wants to speak with you? Yes?’
He handed the receiver to Sweeny.
‘Schanche,’ said a voice. ‘What can I do for you.’
‘I must see you,’ Sweeny said. ‘It’s about Freya’s death.’ There was a slight pause.
‘Do you have a pencil and paper?’
‘I can remember addresses.’
‘Good.’ The voice gave him an address. ‘I’ll see you there in half-an-hour.’
Sweeny replaced the telephone and smiled at the reporter. ‘Thanks. You were very helpful. I hope the Germans don’t close the paper down.’
The man chuckled mockingly.
‘Some chance. Arbeiderbladet, the chief Labour newspaper in Oslo, has already been warned. We’re next. I’ve heard that Christian Oftedal of the Stavanger Aftenblad is already under arrest for speaking out too freely. But it’s not the Germans we need worry about so much as our own fascist informers.’ Sweeny left the building and hurried directly to the address he had been given. It was a pretty detached house on the banks of a canal towards the east of the city. Before Sweeny could knock on the door a small, harassed-looking man opened it and leaned out. ‘Are you Schanche?’ asked Sweeny.
‘Freya’s cousin?’
Sweeny nodded. The man stepped out of his house and slammed the door shut behind him.
‘We’ll walk along the canal,’ he said, nodding in its direction. ‘There is more security in open spaces these days.’
They walked in silence for a while and then Sweeny said, ‘Freya worked for you on special features?’
‘Freya’s dead,’ the man replied flatly.
‘I know.’
‘She was murdered.’ The man, Schanche, wheeled round to face him abruptly. ‘Did you murder her, Lars Sweeny?’ Sweeny halted in astonishment.
‘The answer is, no, I didn’t. And how did you know my name?’
‘The Stavanger police believe you murdered her and have issued your description.’
Sweeny was thunderstruck.
‘They believe I killed Freya? Why?’
‘Lover’s revenge. They picked up local gossip. It seems they think that you were in love with Freya. Hated Erik Hartvig. Killed him and Freya in a fit of jealousy. Did you?’
‘That’s utterly stupid!’ exploded Sweeny.
‘It seems that Freya’s father also disappeared about the same time.’
‘Freya’s father, Tenvig, was killed when the Germans shot up our boat,’ replied Sweeny.
Schanche was gazing closely at him.
‘I see.’ He turned and continued his walk along the canal path. ‘Freya was one of my best investigative reporters. She had a great career in front of her. Now … well, it seems all our careers appear to be limited thanks to the intervention of the Führer of the Third Reich.’
Sweeny was frowning.
‘If you knew who I was before I came here, why haven’t you reported me to the police?’
‘Did you know the police were after you?’
‘Good God, no! I didn’t even know that I was supposed to be a suspect. I came to see if I could find out a motive for Freya’s death. I believe her murder was political.’
Schanche glanced at him. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Sweeny, took one himself and lit both from a box of matches.
‘Why did you disappear from Stavanger the day after she was killed?’
‘The Germans, why else?’
‘Tell me.’
Sweeny told him the full story of his escape.
The man was bewildered. ‘You say you reached England by stealing a German aeroplane? Then how did you come back here?’
‘I have been sent here by the British. I cannot tell you anything else. That is why I have not been back to Stavanger since Freya’s death.’
Schanche shook his head and whistled.
‘It’s such a crazy story that it can only be the truth.’
‘Was Freya working on a story for you when she was killed?’ Schanche nodded.
‘A few months ago we discovered that a number of Quisling’s supporters, members of his Hird, were being trained in Germany. We also discovered that Quisling himself had been there and met several top Nazis including the Flihrer himself. We began to guess that something was in the wind. We decided to start carrying out research on members of the Nasjonal Samling and, more important, the power behind Quisling’s comedians. And, believe me, Sweeny, there are some powerful industrialists who were supporting the little Major in his attempt to take over with German help.’
‘And Freya? Was she working on that story, too?’
‘Yes. Freya had learnt that a certain industrialist had persuaded Quisling to propose a plan to Hitler in which his stormtroops were to seize strategic points in Oslo while the little Major declared himself head of state and invited the Germans in to help him “protect” Norway against Allied aggression. It was to be another Austrian Anschluss all over again, with Quisling playing the part of Seyss-Inquart. Naturally, as soon as the basic plan was known we sent what details we could to Doctor Koht’s department at the Foreign Office.’
‘Freya was involved in this?’ Sweeny was remembering all the hints his cousin had dropped during those blithely ignorant days before that fateful April 9. What a cretin she must have thought him as he dismissed her warnings about the Nasjonal Samling and the Nazis as pure fantasies. He ground his teeth as he realized just how ignorant he had really been.
‘She was busy trying to get the goods on the industrialis
t. He was a highly placed man who was a friend of Crown Prince Olav. She discovered that the man had a young mistress who belonged to the Nasjonal Samling and served as his contact with Quisling.’
‘Did Freya tell you the names of these people?’
Schanche shook his head.
‘She was working on a dossier. She was keeping all her notes and evidence to herself until she knew that she had a water-tight case to present to Doctor Koht. With this man, the industrialist, being a friend of the Crown Prince it would be impossible to accuse him without making sure that every avenue of escape was closed.’
‘So you don’t know who this man is?’
‘Not even the name of his mistress.’
‘What about Freya’s notes? What about the dossier?’ Schanche shrugged.
‘By the time I heard the news of her death, the feature was already out-dated. The Germans were crawling all over the place and the Nasjonal Samling were coming out of the woodwork everywhere. A day or so later I did send a leg man to see the police and check Freya’s apartment. There was no dossier to be found.’
‘So you did think, do think,’ Sweeny corrected himself, ‘that Freya was killed to prevent the information contained in that dossier becoming public.’
‘It was a good theory. Except that the Stavanger police think you killed her for entirely different reasons. Also, from the police viewpoint it will be argued, why should Freya be killed to hush the matter up when the Germans were within hours of landing in Norway, and the involvement of Quisling and his Nasjonal Samling in the invasion would become public knowledge anyway?’
‘Maybe whoever killed Freya had not been let into the secret of the German invasion. Maybe they still thought it was some time in the future and Freya’s story could still warn the people of this country.’
‘Perhaps. But there is no evidence.’
‘Yes there is.’ Sweeny drew out the small buttonhole badge. ‘When the Stukas started bombing Sola Airfield, my uncle, Freya’s father, and I decided to move our ship, the Gunnlöd, across the fjord. I went to Freya and Erik’s apartment. I found their bodies. Freya was clutching this Nasjonal Samling badge in her hand. It’s my belief that the person who owned this badge killed them both.’
Schanche took the badge and held it up.
‘Five Six Eight Four P L,’ he read slowly.
‘I need to trace the owner of that badge. It’s obviously a membership number.’
‘Obviously,’ Schanche agreed. ‘But how can you find out, short of breaking into their headquarters and going through the membership records?’
Sweeny’s face fell.
‘I was hoping you might be able to help me.’
‘It would be easier to go over to the Continental Hotel, walk up to Room 430 and ask to speak to Quisling himself. The Nasjonal Samling offices are extremely well guarded by Hird members. As for the power of the Press, we can do very little to help. The Nazis will be closing down radical newspapers such as ours and then they’ll be rounding up anyone with an independent mind and incarcerating them in concentration camps. We’ve seen the pattern before.’
‘You can’t help me trace the badge owner?’
‘I’m sorry. I wish I could. But good luck whatever you do. If you do find out anything, and Dagbladet and myself are still in existence, try to contact us. However, I feel our days are limited.’
The man began to turn but Sweeny caught his arm.
‘One thing … it puzzles me. Why do you believe my story? If I had been in your shoes I would have been very sceptical. In fact, I might even have been onto the police.’
Schanche grinned.
‘Not all Norwegians have sold out yet. I have a contact working with Nazi security as a liaison man. He tells me that the Abwehr are very interested in you. They suspect you of parachuting into Norway with two other people and they want to know what you are up to. They have a good description of you, so be careful.’
Sweeny stared at the journalist in astonishment.
‘Are you joking?’
‘If I were you, Sweeny, I would not stay in Norway any longer than I could help.’
With a wave of his hand, Schanche turned and strode back along the canal path, leaving Sweeny alone.
Woods and Inge were waiting for him when he arrived back at the apartment. Inge had been back for some time; time enough, in fact, to have prepared an evening meal for them. Over the meal she told him about her visit to her uncle’s house. Sweeny reflected grimly.
‘If Stenersen is unsure of his staff, then we are going to have problems.’
‘I don’t see why,’ Woods countered. ‘We’ll just have to take those who want to go and leave the others behind.’
Sweeny glanced at him with something akin to pity in his eyes. ‘How are you going to ensure that those who are left behind won’t blow the whistle on you? Besides, London’s orders were to bring back the entire surgical team. We must find a way to do it.’
Inge frowned thoughtfully. ‘In that case we will just have to surprise them; not give them any advance warning.’
Sweeny smiled. ‘Exactly.’
‘So what’s the plan?’ demanded Woods.
‘To sleep on things. We’ll turn the possibilities over and discuss it in the morning. I have to go out again this evening … to reconnoitre.’
Woods exchanged a look with Inge.
‘Shouldn’t we go as well?’
Sweeny shook his head. ‘It only needs one of us.’
‘Well, shouldn’t we know where you are going, just in case anything happens?’
The red-haired man chuckled.
‘Nothing is going to happen to me. I’ll be back later.’
The one thing to his advantage, reflected Sweeny as he left the apartment later that evening, was that the Germans, in their attempt to court the population, had not yet imposed a strict curfew in the city. There were a few people about on the streets and the occasional armoured car or foot patrol, but no one seemed to pay him any heed. It was not long before he reached the boulevard onto which Paal Berg’s house backed. The place looked in total darkness. He reached into his pocket and felt for the cold comfort of the Webley.
Pausing for a moment in the shade of the trees, he examined the boulevard and assured himself that it was deserted. Then he left their shadow, walked briskly to the six-foot-high wall and heaved himself over it almost without effort. In a moment he was crouching in the shadow of the wall on the far side. He could see a faint chink of light at one of the French windows but there was no other sign of light from the house. The courtyard was deserted, although the saloon car which he had seen earlier in the day was parked and standing in the darkness.
Sweeny felt little emotion as he slipped across to the balcony which ran across the back of the house and onto which the French windows opened. He glanced round to make sure that he was unobserved before crouching to apply his eye to the chink of light emerging where the curtains had not quite met. He could see a study, and an elderly man bending over a desk. The light from a table lamp illuminated a circle in which the man’s bent head and shoulders could be seen as he scribbled away on a sheet of paper. Sweeny could not see if there were any other people in the room. His range of vision was limited by the narrowness of the chink. He reached the conclusion after a few moments that if there were anyone else in the room, the man at the desk would not be concentrating so hard on his writing.
It was a chance Sweeny would have to take.
He looked down and smiled softly as he saw the ancient catch. Unless there was a cunningly fitted alarm system or hidden bolts, entry would be child’s play. He reached for his knife and slid it into the soft wood of the door. A moment later he quietly eased the catch up and pulled the French window open. He paused for only a moment, taking a deep breath, and then stepped through the heavy curtains into the study beyond.
The elderly man glanced up as he caught the draught from the open window. He was alone in the room. A man in his late sixties with
a broad forehead and grey, receding hair. He had a firm jaw, but the set of his mouth did not disguise the humour behind the stern authority of the face. The features were familiar to Sweeny, as they were to most Norwegians. The man’s photograph had appeared often in the newspapers. He had won a reputation as an honest and non-partisan arbitrator who, during his deliberations in the Labour Court, enjoyed the respect of both sides, having the full confidence of both workers and employers. His book Arbeidsrett, on Labour Law, was considered the most authoritative source work on the subject.
There was neither fear nor anger in the old man’s eyes as he beheld Sweeny, just a momentary look of surprise.
‘Who are you?’ His voice was soft, without a tremor.
Sweeny took a step forward away from the curtained windows.
‘Are you Paal Olav Berg, Justice of the Supreme Court?’
The old man pushed himself slightly back from the desk, both hands resting lightly before him.
‘I am Berg,’ he replied.
Sweeny reached into his pocket and drew out the Webley. There was a soft click as he released the safety catch.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The elderly man gazed up at Sweeny without any sign of perturbation in his quizzical eyes.
‘Is it permitted to know why you are doing this, young man?’ he asked softly, with an almost casual nod to the gun.
Sweeny had not been prepared for such calmness and he found himself hesitating.
‘It is orders, sir.’ He wondered why he was calling the man ‘sir’.
Sitting there in front of Sweeny’s pistol, Paal Berg managed to emanate an incredible aura of authority.
‘I have come from London,’ Sweeny added.
Paal Berg’s eyes widened slightly.
‘From London? Surely there is some mistake?’
‘No mistake,’ Sweeny replied heavily. ‘There is to be no collaboration with the Nazis. Your death must serve as both punishment and lesson.’
He raised the Webley. The old man gave a long sigh and shut his eyes, as if waiting for the bullet. He made no further protest. Again Sweeny found himself hesitating. It worried him that the man meekly accepted his fate. A man who would sell out to the Nazis would surely argue, make excuses, plead for his life. It would have made the task much easier for Sweeny had the man done so instead of just sitting there with bowed head. Damn it! He was being sentimental. He began to squeeze the trigger.
The Valkyrie Directive Page 12
