The Valkyrie Directive

by Peter MacAlan

  ‘Sta stille ellers sa sky ter jeg!’ hissed a voice behind him. Something hard pressed into his backbone and a voice he recognized added, ‘That’s right, Sweeny, stay still or you are a dead man.’

  A hand came from behind and took the Webley away from his relaxed grasp.

  Paal Berg opened his eyes and shuddered slightly.

  ‘You took your time, Branting,’ he said softly.

  Arne Branting moved round in front of Sweeny and ran his hands over his pockets with professional relish, removing Sweeny’s clasp knife.

  ‘Op med hedene!’ he snapped.

  Obediently, Sweeny raised his hands to shoulder height. He shook his head slightly in bewilderment.

  ‘I thought you worked for the resistance, Branting?’

  ‘You thought correctly, Sweeny. But I must confess that you had me fooled. How long have you been working for the Nazis?’

  ‘Me?’ Sweeny couldn’t quite work things out. He was totally bewildered.

  Arne Branting glanced towards the elderly judge.

  ‘I was on my way here when I saw him sneaking in through the windows.’

  ‘You’ve met him before?’ asked Berg.

  Branting told him of the meeting and the journey to Oslo. ‘He had me fooled all the time. Shall I take him out and eliminate him, sir?’

  ‘Wait a moment, Branting,’ Berg said, raising a hand to stay the younger man’s enthusiasm. ‘There is something not quite right here. Let’s not make any hasty decisions. Young man,’ he continued, turning to Sweeny, ‘a few moments ago you said that you had been sent from London. Explain.’

  Sweeny shrugged.

  ‘I was sent to kill you because you are a collaborator.’

  ‘Liar!’

  Arne Branting caught Sweeny a stinging blow across the side of his face with the flat of his hand. Sweeny stumbled but regained his balance. A trickle of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘That will not change matters,’ he muttered.

  ‘Wait, Branting,’ the old judge said sharply as the young man moved forward again. ‘Violence is no argument. Who sent you from London, young man?’ He turned again to Sweeny. ‘The British?’

  Sweeny shook his head. ‘Norwegian intelligence.’

  Branting chuckled.

  ‘Now we know he is lying.’

  Berg pursed his lips.

  ‘Maybe not. Maybe there has been a genuine mistake.’ Sweeny stood totally confused. The old man looked at him closely.

  ‘I am not a collaborationist, Sweeny … is that your name? Everything I have done has been done with the full knowledge and approval of His Majesty and our Government. In fact, I take direct orders from our Foreign Minister, Doctor Halvdan Koht.’

  There was something sincere in the man’s face. Sweeny found himself wanting to believe him.

  ‘Then why did the Norwegian authorities in England want you killed?’ he asked, frowning.

  ‘That is what we must find out.’

  Branting scowled angrily.

  ‘Surely you are not going to believe this man, sir?’ he said in outrage. ‘He can only be a Nazi agent sent to eliminate you because they have found out who you are and what you are really doing …’

  Berg sighed sharply.

  ‘The Germans would not have to go to the trouble to assassinate me, my fiery young friend. All they would have to do is arrest me and ship me off to Germany, as is happening with so many of our countrymen.’ He turned back to Sweeny. ‘We will hold you until we have investigated this matter.’

  Sweeny stood indifferently.

  ‘Just a moment, sir,’ Branting intervened again. ‘What about his companions? They might be a danger.’

  ‘Where are your companions, Sweeny?’ asked Berg.

  ‘I will not tell you that. They have nothing to do with this mission.’

  ‘We’ll soon find them,’ Branting said.

  Sweeny stared at him a moment and then smiled defiantly. ‘Do so, then.’

  Berg shook his head almost sorrowfully.

  ‘There is no need to take this attitude if you are telling us the truth, young man.’

  ‘As far as I am concerned, I don’t even know if you are telling me the truth. I have only your word that you aren’t a Nazi collaborator,’ returned Sweeny.

  Berg reflected.

  ‘You are right. However, there is nothing I can do to clear matters up at this time. We will both have to be patient. Branting,’ he turned to the young Norwegian officer, ‘take our guest down to the basement and lock him in. You know the room?’

  Arne Branting jerked his revolver at Sweeny.

  ‘Don’t give me an excuse to use this, Sweeny.’

  Sweeny glanced at the judge.

  ‘What if you cannot make contact with the Government or find out that I have been sent from London? What if you are the one acting some charade and are a collaborator?’

  Paal Berg smiled and shrugged. ‘That, my friend, will be your problem.’

  *

  Michael Woods was woken by someone shaking him vigorously by the shoulder. He groaned for a moment and then, remembering his surroundings, became wide awake and found himself staring at the anxious face of Inge Stenersen.

  ‘What is it?’ he hissed, blinking round the gloom of the lounge and easing himself up on the couch where he had been asleep.

  ‘It’s Sweeny,’ the girl replied. ‘It’s nearly five o’clock and he’s not back yet.’

  Woods reached out his arm and confirmed the time from his wrist watch.

  ‘Damn it!’ he muttered. ‘He should have told us where he was going.’

  The girl stood with her arms wrapped around herself. She was clad only in a man’s pyjama jacket top and even in the half-light of approaching dawn she looked attractive. Woods had to concentrate to bring his mind onto the matter of Sweeny.

  ‘Something must have happened to him,’ the girl was saying.

  ‘Damn the man!’ Woods exploded. ‘This is what his pigheaded egotism …’

  The girl frowned. ‘Cursing him won’t do any good. He may have been arrested.’

  Woods sighed angrily. ‘That’s just it. We don’t know. He might be anywhere. We have no way of knowing.’

  ‘If he has been arrested, he may be traced back here. I think that if he has not returned by midday, we must assume the worst and move out.’

  ‘Abort the mission?’

  ‘No!’ The girl was emphatic. ‘We’ll proceed with a plan on our own.’

  Woods bit his lip.

  ‘Yeah. The hell with Sweeny! I hate these death-or-glory merchants who are all muscle-flexing virility.’

  Inge shook her head.

  ‘You’re being unfair to the man. I think he is just a loner.’

  ‘A loner?’ Woods chuckled sardonically. ‘He’s damned indifferent and totally without sympathy. He’s just too much of an individualist to be part of a team.’

  The girl smiled at him.

  ‘You’re something of an individualist yourself.’

  Woods shrugged.

  ‘I don’t believe in death-or-glory and useless self-sacrifice, if that’s what you mean. I wouldn’t have become a doctor if I worshipped those qualities. I like life too much.’

  Inge Stenersen nodded slowly, wondering why she was so interested in this man, a man who, by some subtle alchemy, made her feel wanted. She was young and healthy and her life in London had been far from solitary. Yet she had never felt attracted to the boys she had dated the way she was to Michael Woods. She reached out a hand to lay on his arm to ease his mind about Sweeny. She didn’t quite know how it happened, but the next moment Woods’s mouth was hungrily on her own and she was responding. It was some time before she forced herself to break away — as Woods began to fumble with the buttons of her pyjama top.

  ‘Don’t spoil it, Michael,’ she said as she firmly pushed him away. ‘I like you. I think I like you very much but I have to be sure …’

  For a moment his face w
as like a petulant schoolboy’s, but then he sighed and nodded.

  ‘I understand,’ he said.

  Her hand closed over his quickly.

  ‘I’m glad you do,’ she responded. ‘I want to be sure that this is something more than a need which has come out of the strange circumstances in which we find ourselves.’

  He smiled softly.

  ‘Will you come out to dinner with me when we get back to London?’

  She chuckled.

  ‘Consider it a date,’ she said, leaning forward and brushing his forehead softly with her lips.

  *

  The elderly judge glanced up as Sweeny was pushed into the room by Arne Branting and brought to a halt before his desk.

  ‘Good morning, young man. I hope you managed to get some sleep?’

  Sweeny grimaced.

  ‘Your cellar was not exactly comfortable, sir,’ he replied stiffly.

  Paal Berg gestured toward a chair.

  ‘Take a seat. It seems that you have told us the truth. There has been a mistake which …’ the old man’s eyes danced with merriment for a moment, ‘could have been fatal for one or both of us.’

  Sweeny remained impassive.

  ‘London have confirmed that they sent you to kill me in the mistaken belief that I was collaborating. They have now learnt their mistake from our Government in the north.’

  ‘Am I to take your word for this?’ asked Sweeny, raising a cynical eyebrow.

  Paal Berg smiled.

  ‘You are obviously a cautious young man, Sweeny. I like that.’

  He slid a paper across the desk.

  It was addressed to ‘Sigurd’ and bore the lines:

  Sigurd fell in battle's blast,

  From his wounds there sprang hot gore.

  Brian fell, but won at last.

  Then came a simple message: ‘Abort your mission, Repeat — abort your mission. Information on collaboration mistaken. Hlodver.’

  Sweeny pushed the paper back.

  ‘We are new to this game of war, Sweeny,’ Berg said. ‘We are all amateurs and in such times of confusion mistakes can be made.’

  He stood up and opened a small drinks cabinet behind him.

  ‘A cognac? It is not too early? It was probably cold in the cellar?’

  ‘Very cold,’ confirmed Sweeny. He glanced behind him to where Arne Branting was still standing leaning against the door, his hands in his pockets. Berg caught the glance and smiled.

  ‘Branting, too, is a cautious man. In these times we all have to learn caution. It is the only way to survive.’

  Sweeny took the glass of brandy from the judge’s hand.

  ‘How could Norwegian intelligence in England make such a mistake?’ he asked.

  ‘It is easy with our country in a turmoil and people not knowing who are the traitors, who are those who have sold us to the Germans and who are not. On the surface I am pretending to go along with the Germans but beneath the surface I am trying, with young men like Branting here, to build up what I call a “Home Army”, a secret army of resistance which will operate in the occupied territories.’

  Berg examined the younger man carefully before continuing.

  ‘That resistance could do with men such as yourself, Sweeny.’

  ‘I have another mission to carry out,’ Sweeny said.

  The judge nodded.

  ‘Ah, yes … you and your companions. The ones Branting spoke of.’

  He gazed shrewdly at Sweeny. ‘It would be better if we cooperated with you on this mission … in order to avoid any more mistakes.’

  Berg was a persuasive man and Sweeny felt implicit trust in him. He had been relieved to see the message, which had obviously originated in London.

  He quickly told Berg the details of the Stenersen mission. The old man nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘I know Stenersen. He is a fine man. We will do all we can to help you fulfil this task.’ He raised his eyes to Branting. ‘I am going to appoint Branting here as the liaison officer between our organization and your group. He can support you in any way you think best.’

  Sweeny turned to Branting. Their eyes met, they gazed steadily at each other for a moment, and then the young officer smiled, moved forward and stretched out his hand.

  ‘All right, Sweeny? No hard feelings about last night?’

  Sweeny rubbed his cheek, which was still painful, and grimaced.

  ‘No hard feelings.’ He grinned ruefully as he accepted the young man’s hand.

  ‘Excellent,’ Berg said. ‘And now …’

  Something prompted Sweeny to make a swift decision.

  ‘There is one other thing, sir …’ He hesitated. ‘There is something else which I would like to speak to you about alone.’

  Paal Berg stared thoughtfully at him for a few minutes and then turned to Branting and nodded. Branting withdrew.

  Sweeny started to tell the old man about the death of his cousin Freya, about the Nasjonal Samling buttonhole badge 5684 PL and the information with which Schanche had supplied him. Paal Berg listened like a priest hearing confession, not interrupting, nodding now and then. He made a few notes on a scrap of paper.

  ‘I have contacts with the Stavanger police, young man. I will make some enquiries to see how they are proceeding.’

  ‘According to Schanche, they think I’ve killed Freya and Erik,’ muttered Sweeny.

  ‘I’m a pretty good judge of people, young man,’ Berg said. ‘I believe your story. I will do what is in my power to find out who this badge number Five-Six-Eight-Four PL belongs to.’

  Sweeny rose and stretched out his hand to the judge.

  ‘I am glad Branting prevented me from making such a terrible mistake,’ he said with a smile. ‘And I’m pleased, if slightly amazed, that after such an experience you granted my request to have a few words alone with you.’

  Berg chuckled uproariously.

  ‘Apart from being a pretty good judge of men, Sweeny,’ he replied, ‘I also believe in insurance.’

  He handed Sweeny’s Webley across the desk.

  ‘I believe this knife is yours as well?’

  Sweeny took the weapons with a rueful smile.

  He joined Branting outside the study door. The young man looked relieved.

  ‘The old man is quite a character,’ observed Sweeny as he pocketed the automatic and his clasp knife.

  ‘Quite a character,’ agreed Branting solemnly. ‘If anyone has a chance to build up a resistance movement, it is the judge.’

  Sweeny suddenly caught sight of the time on the grandfather clock which stood in the hallway.

  ‘Woods and the girl will be worried about me,’ he said.

  ‘Then we’d better go and find them before they make any stupid moves,’ Branting observed. ‘The new Reichskommissar arrived yesterday, bringing with him a number of Gestapo men to keep us in order. I wouldn’t fancy anyone’s chances if they fell into the hands of those thugs.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Hauptmann Eschig glanced up from his desk with a frown of annoyance at the sound of raised voices coming from outside his office door. He was about to get up to see what was wrong when the door was unceremoniously thrown open. He saw Feldwebel Weiss’s face, looking pale and anxious, behind a young civilian. The man was slimly built with a tanned oval face. His dark hair was perfectly groomed and held in place with a glistening oil. He carried a grey felt hat in his hands and Eschig’s eyes wandered swiftly over his well-creased trousers, carefully cut jacket and spotlessly white shirt and black tie. The young man came forward into the office with a degree of arrogance in his every motion. Eschig sighed. It was obvious that the young man was one of the janissaries of the New Order.

  ‘Hauptmann Eschig?’ The voice was nasal and its sound irritated Eschig.

  Eschig pushed back his chair and stared up at the man. He suddenly noticed that the man’s eyes were tinged with shadow and that they were dark, almost without pupils, and flickered from side to side with the greatest
rapidity.

  ‘Yes?’ Eschig answered curtly.

  ‘Geheime Staats Polizei.’

  The young man reached into his pocket and drew out an identity card which he thrust in front of Eschig.

  Eschig groaned inwardly. He might have known. Gestapo. The Secret State Police. He knew that yesterday Josef Terboven, the former gauleiter of the Krupp district of Essen, had arrived in Oslo to take up his appointment as Reichskommissar of Norway. Terboven was a special favourite of the Führer, who had actually been attending Terboven’s wedding while issuing instructions which set into motion the fateful ‘Night of the Long Knives’ in 1934 when Hitler had eliminated all his rivals within the Nazi Party. Wherever Terboven went, there too went his cronies of the Gestapo. Ironically, Eschig had been offered a transfer to the Gestapo when Goering had created it in April 1933 out of Department 1A of the old Prussian Political Police. Eschig had been thankful he had remained with the Abwehr, especially after the Gestapo was taken over by Heinrich Himmler a year later. In the seven years of their existence, Himmler had made the name of the Gestapo a by-word for fear. It was odd that a name invented by a Berlin post office clerk who simply needed an abbreviation for yet another Government department, had become a word with which German mothers frightened unruly children.

  Eschig suddenly realized that the young man was staring insolently down at him.

  ‘My name is Knesebeck, Herr Hauptmann. Sturmbannführer Knesebeck.’

  Eschig bit his lip at the emphasis on the man’s rank and slowly rose to his feet, coming to attention with a click of his heels. A sturmbannführer was equivalent to a major and therefore outranked a lowly captain such as himself.

  ‘How can I be of service?’ he asked as he inclined his head.

  Knesebeck stared at him coldly for a moment and then sat down abruptly in a chair. Eschig resumed his seat.

  The young man took a cigarette from a silver case, slipped it into a tortoise-shell holder and lit it.

  ‘I am in charge of an Einsatzgruppe, a special task force which is based in Oslo,’ he said slowly, blowing a perfect smoke ring into the air above Eschig’s desk. ‘I have been ordered to arrange for the transfer of certain Norwegian citizens to Germany, citizens whom the Reich feels will be more valuable to the war effort working in the Fatherland than here.’