The Valkyrie Directive

by Peter MacAlan

  Eschig raised his eyes in mild surprise.

  ‘Are we talking about the forced deportation of Norwegians?’

  Kneseback scowled.

  ‘If they refuse to serve the Greater German Reich voluntarily then I have the power to enforce their removal.’

  ‘Surely this will be a contradiction in policy?’ frowned Eschig. ‘Doctor Bauer, our ambassador here, delivered the Norwegian Government a note which, if I recall correctly, stated that the German Government had received documents which proved that England was going to extend the war by the occupation of Norwegian seaports for use by her fleet. It was the opinion of the Führer that Norway would not be able to resist such an occupation. Therefore the Third Reich had decided to come to the aid of the Norwegians because we would not allow the Norwegian people to be used in such a fashion. We came to save Norway; we did not come here as enemies.’

  Knesebeck regarded Eschig dourly.

  ‘You may also recall that ambassador Bauer failed in his mission to convince the Norwegians of our good intentions. Bauer was recalled by the Führer last week and has been retired from the diplomatic service. He is now making reparation for his failure as a soldier on the Western Front. Because of his failure the Third Reich has been compelled to declare war on Norway. The Norwegians were given the chance to be our friends and comrades in this war against international Jewry and Communism. They chose not to be our friends.’

  Knesebeck had begun to lean forward, his voice rising in a passable imitation of the Führer.

  ‘They have behaved abominably! The Führer has said so. If they want to be treated like a conquered people then we shall treat them as such!’

  Eschig bit his lip to keep himself from smiling. He had met too many ardent young Nazis who indulged in what was called anschnauzen or snorting — raising the voice, screaming in order to instil fear or awe into the object of their rages. Well, it merely washed over Eschig. He stared back at Knesebeck and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Has our policy now changed?’

  Knesebeck stopped in mid-flow and then continued in a quiet, cold voice.

  ‘You will soon see many changes here, Eschig. Reichskommissar Terboven is now in charge of administrative matters. Yes, there will certainly be changes.’

  ‘You have not told me, how can I be of service to the Gestapo?’

  Knesebeck burrowed into the pocket of his coat and threw a piece of paper onto Eschig’s desk.

  ‘There is a list of people who are to be requested to go to Germany. I want to know where they may be found.’

  Eschig made no effort to pick up the list.

  ‘I would suggest that you take the list to the third floor of this building. We have a number of Norwegian civil servants who are helping this department. They will find the addresses which you want, Herr Sturmbannführer. Ask Feldwebel Weiss to take you down. Now … if there is anything else?’

  Knesebeck stood up and retrieved his list in annoyance.

  ‘Nothing, Herr Hauptmann. Doubtless, however, my task force will be liaising in the future with the Abwehr.’

  He turned and stalked out of the room without bothering to close the door behind him.

  *

  Only Arne Branting seemed totally self-assured as he, Sweeny, Woods and Inge sat around the kitchen table in the apartment.

  ‘It seems a matter of providing transport, that’s all,’ he said.

  ‘And a question of gathering everyone in one spot without their previous knowledge,’ observed Inge. ‘How can it be done?’

  ‘Simple,’ Branting replied. ‘At the Riks-Hospitalet.’ He turned to Inge. ‘Didn’t you say that your uncle was operating there this week? Tomorrow and Friday. We could pick him and his team up directly from the hospital and drive them to Sweden.’

  Sweeny nodded. ‘Sounds the best idea, but is it possible to drive directly across the Swedish border?’

  Branting shook his head.

  ‘No. We’d have to make a detour. The main roads from Oslo to the Swedish border are crawling with Germans. Ever since General Eriksen took his troops across the border the Germans have had the immediate border passes covered. We’d have to take a route further north.’

  ‘What do you intend using for transport, Branting?’ asked Woods.

  Branting grinned.

  ‘We can work a double switch to throw off any pursuit. A coach from the hospital and then into the old ambulance to get out of the city.’

  Sweeny rubbed his nose thoughtfully.

  ‘Then the next step is for Inge to go back to her uncle and find out the precise times when Stenersen and his team will be in the hospital.’

  Inge stood up and smiled.

  ‘I’ll be on my way immediately. It should be no problem.’

  *

  Feldwebel Weiss came into Eschig’s office without knocking, his face flushed with excitement. The captain jerked his head up with a frown that was halfway between anger and astonishment. Weiss had always been punctilious in such matters. Yet the sergeant seemed not to notice Eschig’s darkening brow as he strode across to his desk.

  ‘It is the red-haired man, Herr Hauptmann!’ he said breathlessly. ‘A report about the red-haired man that you have been looking for.’

  Eschig took the report from his sergeant’s hand and glanced at it. It was a copy of a local Norwegian police report which was being passed to the police at Stavanger. A man answering the description of Lars Sweeny, sought by the Stavanger police, had been seen in the area of Akersleva. The sighting had been made because the man had been observed talking to one Schanche, a special features editor of the radical Norwegian newspaper Dagsbladet who had been under surveillance due to the subversive nature of his politics.

  Eschig pursed his lips. He knew all about the anti-fascist stance of the Dagsbladet. But what connection had Sweeny with the newspaper? The policeman conducting the surveillance had not, unfortunately, recognized Sweeny immediately but had only realized who he was after returning to his station and checking through the wanted files. He had immediately sent off his report to Stavanger, a copy of which had automatically come through to Eschig’s office to be picked up by Weiss.

  Eschig sat tapping his fingers on his desk as he stared at the report. What was the red-haired man, Lars Sweeny, doing in Oslo? Why was he in touch with a known subversive, a journalist on the Dagsbladet?

  He was aware that Weiss was still standing by his desk.

  ‘You did good work here, Weiss,’ he said grimly. ‘I want this man Schanche picked up and interrogated.’

  ‘But, Herr Hauptmann …’ Weiss was nervous. ‘Schanche is already under surveillance …’

  ‘I said I want him picked up. I want to find out why Sweeny spoke to him. What is his connection with Sweeny? Understand?’

  ‘Zum Befehl, Herr Hauptmann!’

  *

  Mathilde let Inge Stenersen into the house with a joyful smile of welcome.

  ‘Your uncle is in his study,’ she said as she closed the front door behind her. Professor Stenersen was already opening the study door.

  ‘I thought I heard your voice, Inge. Back so soon?’

  Inge waited until they were alone together in the study before she spoke.

  ‘We are going to put the plan into operation as soon as we can, Uncle Didrik,’ she said. ‘I must know the exact times that you and your surgical team will be operating in the Riks-Hospitalet.’

  Stenersen grimaced. ‘Tomorrow, Thursday, and then on Friday. Then we have a schedule for the first three days of next week. Why do you wish to know this?’

  Before she could answer there was a loud and imperative knocking on the front door. The sound made Inge jump. Her uncle, his face suddenly grey and pinched, moved to the window whose bay overlooked the door. He drew back with a start.

  ‘Germans!’ he said, in a voice which cracked. ‘Did they see you come in here?’

  ‘No, I am sure they didn’t.’

  Stenersen glanced round. They could hea
r old Mathilde moving across the hallway to open the door.

  ‘It’s best if they don’t see me, Uncle,’ Inge said softly.

  Stenersen moved to a side door. The professor had an en suite washroom attached to his study which he used when examining patients privately. He held the door open. Inge slipped through and closed the door behind her.

  Stenersen had just reseated himself as his study door was thrown open and a pale-faced young man in a felt hat entered. He was followed by two men in black uniforms. Stenersen had never seen such uniforms before. Both had red swastika armbands. Behind them, Mathilde’s indignant face was red.

  ‘Professor, I am sorry …’

  The civilian turned and shut the door on the angry housekeeper.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ rumbled Stenersen angrily.

  The civilian turned and gazed at the professor with dark, fathomless eyes.

  ‘You are Professor Didrik Stenersen?’ His Norwegian was appalling but understandable.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Good. I am Sturmbannführer Knesebeck, Geheime Staats Polizei. You will be ready to leave for Berlin within forty-eight hours.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Professor Stenersen was speechless for a moment.

  ‘Leave for Berlin?’ he echoed. ‘What do you mean? Am I under arrest for something?’

  Knesebeck smiled thinly.

  ‘My dear professor, what an absurd idea. Your name and reputation as one of Europe’s leading surgeons is well known in the Reich. Our most eminent surgeon, Professor Ferdinand Sauerbruch, who, I believe, is an old friend of yours …’

  Stenersen’s mouth pinched.

  ‘I have worked with Professor Sauerbruch,’ he acknowledged when Knesebeck paused, inviting a reply.

  ‘And will do so again. The Herr Professor has suggested that you should go to Berlin to teach your surgical techniques to our German surgeons.’

  ‘I have no wish to leave Norway,’ Stenersen said, frowning. ‘My first duty is to my own country.’

  Knesebeck’s eyebrows seemed to meet across the bridge of his nose.

  ‘I was not implying that you had a choice in this matter, Herr Professor,’ he said softly, his voice ominous. ‘You are being accorded the honour of being transferred to the Charite Hospital, our oldest and largest hospital, in the Mitte District of Berlin.’

  ‘I know where the Charite Hospital is.’

  ‘Good. You will be ready to leave within forty-eight hours.’

  ‘I refuse to accept this high-handed attitude,’ snapped Stenersen.

  Knesebeck shrugged and removed an envelope from his pocket.

  ‘This is a direct order from Reichskommissar Terboven. It is an order, Herr Professor. You will be taken to Berlin either willingly or unwillingly.’ He turned for the door, hesitated and glanced back. ‘You would be well advised to pack what belongings you need for a protracted stay. In the meantime, as a protection against Norwegian dissidents, I am placing these two men with you until you depart for Tempelhof.’

  Knesebeck nodded towards the black-uniformed men. Stenersen ground his teeth.

  ‘Then see that they are placed outside and do not disturb me in my work. I have much to do.’

  ‘Of course, Herr Professor,’ smiled the Gestapo officer. Stenersen heard them go into the hallway and then the door slammed. He went to the door to check. The two men had taken up positions in the hall. The professor closed the door and went to the window. Knesebeck was getting into a black Opel saloon which drove off down the street. Stenersen heard the closet door open behind him and wheeled round with his finger against his lips. He hurried across to Inge and whispered, ‘You heard?’ She nodded.

  Stenersen’s face was taut with anxiety.

  ‘It seems that you have arrived too late to help me.’

  ‘We won’t give up now,’ Inge assured him, keeping her voice low. ‘We’ll just have to move more quickly, that’s all.’

  ‘But the guards?’

  ‘They’ll have to be dealt with. If they’ve given you forty-eight hours we shall have to move sometime tomorrow. What is your schedule?’

  Stenersen reached for his diary.

  ‘Tomorrow from ten o’clock until two o’clock we are operating at the Riks-Hospitalet. Theatre Number One. I would say, allowing for any contingency that may arise, our finishing time would be more like four o’clock in the afternoon. After that, I was going on to the Didemark Mental Hospital to see its director, Doctor Gjessing. The next day I was to conduct a clinic at the Riks-Hospitalet.’

  Inge inclined her head and then glanced over her shoulder into the en suite washroom.

  ‘Where does that small window lead?’

  ‘The window?’ Stenersen frowned. ‘To the back yard, which leads to a roadway that runs along the back of the house.’

  ‘Can I get out that way?’

  ‘I think so. It is certainly the only way to avoid the guards.’

  Inge smiled. ‘After I am gone, close the window bui do not put the catch on. I will have to come back and tell you the plan, maybe later tonight.’

  Stenersen looked worried as he acknowledged her instructions.

  ‘I’ll be working here late tonight. Be careful, Inge.’

  He helped her squeeze through the little window and pushed it gently shut behind her.

  *

  Feldwebel Weiss observed military protocol this time by knocking on Hauptmann Eschig’s door before entering.

  ‘I beg to report that Herr Schanche has been able to make a brief statement to our interrogator.’

  Eschig glanced up with a frown but could read nothing in the impassive gaze of the sergeant. His lips turned down cynically. ‘I presume Herr Schanche is still alive?’

  Weiss’s eyes did not waver.

  ‘I believe he has been removed to the military hospital with a respiratory problem, Herr Hauptmann.’

  ‘And did he know anything?’

  Weiss placed a piece of paper before the captain.

  ‘That is the report of the interrogator, sir.’

  ‘You have obviously read it, Weiss. Tell me the details.’

  ‘It seems that Lars Sweeny was a cousin to Freya Hartvig, one of the two that the Stavanger police believe him to have murdered. Herr Schanche had never met Sweeny before. Sweeny denied that he killed either Freya or Erik Hartvig. He admitted going to their apartment and finding the bodies. He believes, from evidence that he found, that the murders were political …’

  ‘What evidence?’ snapped Eschig.

  ‘Sweeny showed Schanche a buttonhole Nasjonal Samling badge which he found in the hand of Freya Hartvig. Sweeny thought that it had been torn from the coat of the assailant. Some material was still attached to it when Sweeny found it.’ Eschig was frowning.

  ‘The finding of a political badge is not evidence that the killings were political. Sweeny must have more evidence than that? Also, why did he go to see Schanche if Schanche did not know him?’

  ‘Freya Hartvig was a journalist, Herr Hauptmann. She was working for Schanche when she was killed. Herr Schanche says that her assignment was to uncover the involvement of certain members of the Nasjonal Samling with the Third Reich’s plans to occupy Norway.’

  Eschig let out a long, low breath. He sat back and placed his hands together, fingertips to fingertips.

  ‘Did Schanche say anything else?’

  ‘Only that Sweeny had told him that on the morning of the invasion, Freya Hartvig’s father had been killed. Sweeny had managed to escape to England. That is all.’

  ‘All?’

  ‘Our interrogator is a most persuasive man, Herr Hauptmann. I am sure that if there had been anything else, Herr Schanche would have revealed it.’

  Eschig bit his lip. There was something else, there had to be. If Sweeny had escaped to England why had he come back to Norway? Eschig was sure that he was one of the three parachutists who had been reported in the Kristiansand area. Why had he returned? Simply to clear his
name and find out who had murdered his cousin and her husband? It seemed very unlikely. Again he felt that unique tingling sensation in his fingertips.

  ‘Could Schanche remember anything about the buttonhole badge? Did it have a number?’

  ‘It did, but Herr Schanche could not recall it beyond the initials PL.’

  ‘I do not suppose Schanche knew where to contact Sweeny or his companions?’

  ‘No, Herr Hauptmann.’

  ‘Very well,’ Eschig sighed. ‘Put through a call to the headquarters of the Nasjonal Samling.’

  ‘Herr Hauptmann?’

  ‘Perhaps they can help identify this buttonhole badge.’

  *

  Sweeny took Inge’s news calmly.

  ‘It doesn’t leave us much time,’ he remarked.

  ‘No time at all,’ muttered Woods moodily.

  ‘Still time enough,’ Sweeny said, glancing toward Branting. ‘Can you organize your transport by tomorrow?’

  Branting started, then gave it a moment’s thought.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Then do so,’ said Sweeny, getting to his feet. ‘Woods and I are going to the Riks-Hospitalet for a reconnaisance.’

  ‘Me?’ Woods was startled.

  ‘You worked at the Riks-Hospitalet for three years. You ought to know your way around it blindfolded.’

  ‘Sure, but …’ Woods began.

  ‘What about me?’ demanded Inge, interrupting.

  ‘You stay here. We’ll all meet back here at six o’clock this evening, no later. We’ll go over the final plan then and you’ll have to go back to your uncle to tell him.’

  Woods felt very conspicuous as he accompanied Sweeny out of the apartment. At the end of the street they caught a tram which took them along the Draamensveien and into Karl Johansgate. At the Storting, the parliament building, they changed to another tram which headed north along Akersgate to the Catholic Church of St Olav’s, where they alighted to walk the remaining two blocks to the Riks-Hospitalet, Oslo’s premier hospital. The large teaching hospital was Norway’s most prestigious and its surgery department was one of the best in Europe. The main building itself was a large L-shaped complex with at least a dozen other outbuildings scattered through its extensive grounds.