Hersleb, in spite of his unathletic appearance, must be a good skier, Sweeny reflected as he followed the tracks. They showed that he had run down the steepest inclines and manoeuvred dangerous bends in order to create short cuts. Once the tracks leapt over a small stream by a tiny waterfall which gushed with white crystal water.
Sweeny felt a terrible sense of impatience as he came to the end of the incline and his forward movement slowed. Now it seemed that Hersleb had been climbing; the snow was a tumble and mess. Sweeny had to turn sideways and shuffle upwards in order to keep his balance. The lonely howl of a dog echoed amidst the mountains. Sweeny stopped and peered into the gloom. Then he went on climbing, following the churned snow where Hersleb had scrambled upwards. He topped the ridge of the hill and looked into the valley before him.
At the far end he could see the flickering light from the turisthytten. The Germans would be there. He swore aloud, for he saw no sign of Hersleb. For a moment he panicked, but then he saw the black shape moving swiftly down the hill, crouching over its skis, zigzagging towards the valley floor.
The moon was beginning to race now behind the grey scudding clouds which had begun to sweep low over the mountain peaks. Some of the clouds entangled themselves on the jostling thrusts of rock which battled with each other in an attempt to pierce the dark night-sky with their sharply pointed fingers.
With his lips compressed in a thin line of determination, Sweeny crouched forward and thrust with his ski-sticks. He bent double on the skis, the sticks now firmly tucked under his arms as he sought to make himself as small an object as he could while he hurtled down the hillside.
The pale moon bathed the figure before him in its weird pastel glow. It was Hersleb right enough, racing towards the distant turisthytten where the Germans were encamped.
Snow began to fall, as it had done off and on since nightfall. It fell steadily, thrusting its cold fingers against Sweeny’s face. Sweeny blinked, trying to keep his focus on the dark form. With the snow falling he could easily lose sight of the man and the snow would quickly obliterate his ski tracks. Sweeny pushed the snow from his eyes with a quick movement of one hand. He let out a gasp of satisfaction. He was gaining. Very slowly, it was true, but gaining nonetheless.
Now he plunged his sticks into the snow in an effort to increase his pace. His eyes saw a steep slope to his left, and in a split-second decision he pushed himself across to it, sweeping round in a semicircle. Even though he was initially pulling away from his quarry, the steeper slope lent him added speed and by the time he reached the apex of the semi-circle he was travelling swiftly on an interception course.
Hersleb saw him coming and, in the still night air, Sweeny heard his curious cry of fear. In trying to alter his course to avoid the moment of interception, the little anaesthetist turned awkwardly and went tumbling headlong into the snow. There was a sharp crack, a sound like a pistol shot.
Sweeny, bringing himself to a halt by the use of his sticks, thought for a moment that the little man had a pistol. Then he saw that Hersleb had broken a ski. The crack of the wood had been amazingly loud. The little man had not hurt himself. He was scrambling up in the snow. His fear had spurred him to fury now, and he seized one of the sharp pointed ski-sticks and stumbled towards Sweeny, screaming in an inarticulate rage.
Sweeny hesitated a moment and then swung his Schmeisser from his shoulder. Hersleb either didn’t see the gun or it didn’t register. He kept coming on, fear and hatred blazing in his eyes.
Sweeny squeezed the trigger. The gun jumped in his hand. Hersleb fell forward onto his face. There was something dark staining the snow by his body.
Sweeny came nearer, moving gently on his skis.
The little man raised his head. The fear and rage were gone. There was a curious bewilderment on his face.
‘Detgjørvondt,’ he gasped. ‘It hurts … Dette er så dumt, Sweeny … så dumt …’
His head fell back.
Sweeny became aware of distant shouting. He glanced up. Further up the valley, towards the light of the turisthytten, he saw the flicker of torches. The Germans had heard the sound of his shots.
Sweeny bent down and ran his hands rapidly through Hersleb’s pockets. There was nothing in them that could give the Germans any information they did not have already. He stood up and began to stride forward on his skis, moving as swiftly as he could further along the valley before attempting to climb the slope in the direction from which he had come.
He felt neither sorrow nor remorse for what he had done, only anger at himself because he had not done it earlier. Perhaps the nurse Hilde and Jan Birkenes would still have been alive.
It was icy cold. Dark, too, for the scudding clouds had now obliterated the moon. There were two more hours to dawn and he hoped to put as much distance as he could between himself and the pursuing Germans. At least, the still-falling snow would obliterate his tracks. It took him quite a while to reach the top of the hill and when he looked back the valley behind him had disappeared in a white mist. He hoped he could remember the direction of the Svabensverk Glacier; hoped that he could catch the others up and not miss them in the dark and snow.
CHAPTER TEN
Branting recovered consciousness, rather than merely waking from a sleep, with the sun shining brightly through the tiny window of the cell. He was aware of a man standing at the door carrying a tray. Branting screwed up his eyes and groaned as the sensations returned to his aching body.
‘Are you all right, son?’
The voice was a rough but not unkind Norwegian voice.
Branting focused on an elderly policeman.
‘Nothing a few months in hospital won’t put right,’ he grunted. His voice sounded as if it belonged to someone else.
‘I’ve brought you some coffee. Is there anything else you need?’
Branting swung his legs off the bed.
‘Yes. Your revolver and the door of the cell left open.’
The old man grimaced and handed Branting the coffee.
Branting sipped at it and realized that the old man was still standing in the doorway.
‘My colleagues and I have been talking,’ he said hesitantly. ‘We don’t like what is being done here.’
Branting sniffed.
‘Why do you work for them?’
‘I am a policeman. I have been a policeman for twenty-five years. What else can I do?’
‘You must fight the Germans. Not work for them. They are the enemies of our country.’
‘I’m an old man. I don’t like what they are doing …’ His eyes fell from Branting’s swollen and bruised face before he went on. ‘But we are told by the authorities in Oslo that we should stand by our jobs, ensure that the country doesn’t fall into anarchy.’
‘The only anarchists here are the Nazis, my friend,’ Branting grunted. The coffee burnt the inside of his raw mouth. ‘The only legal authorities are in the north with the King.’
The policeman nodded.
‘Many of my colleagues think so. There are six of us. The other five have gone to the top floor to check some files. There are no Germans about. The Gestapo officer and his assistant are across the river at the hotel.’
Branting frowned, suddenly realizing what the old man was implying.
‘I must tie you up,’ he said, getting to his feet.
‘It is understood, young man.’
Branting moved across the cell and took the man’s gun from his holster. It took only a moment to secure his willing prisoner with the man’s own handcuffs.
‘There are German soldiers all over town,’ the old policeman said. ‘Don’t go to the railway station or to the river wharves. It’s best to slip through the Byparken and round the castle grounds. The only chance for you is to get away into the country.’
‘Thanks,’ Branting said.
‘Good luck, son. God save the King.’
Branting hesitated at the cell door and smiled.
‘Good luck to you, too,’ he repli
ed.
He turned down the corridor to the foyer of the police station, checking the revolver as he went. It was an old-fashioned six shot .38 calibre. Better than nothing. He moved cautiously to the main reception office, limping a little as the pain shot through his every limb. The old policeman was right. It was deserted. The Norwegian policemen, appalled at the Gestapo techniques, had agreed to turn a blind eye. Branting’s heart warmed towards them. There was an overcoat which had been left conspicuously across the desk. He grabbed it and hauled it on.
He was about to open the door when it swung inwards. For a moment he stood face to face with a young green-uniformed German. The two men gazed at each other in astonishment and then Branting, recovering a split second before the German, smashed his fist into the Feld Polizei man’s jaw. The young man fell back with a grunt, surprise still on his features.
Branting grabbed the man’s machine-pistol even as he fell, tearing open the leather pouches of his webbing and stuffing spare clips of ammunition into his coat pocket.
He stepped over the man and was out of the door into the bright Sunday morning. The police station was situated within the confines of the Radhuset, the town hall, which lay slightly back from the main road that led across the Kongsvinger Bridge through the ‘upper city’ towards the Kongsvinger Festning, the castle which dominated the town. Branting turned and began to limp quickly towards the city park behind the Radhuset.
He had taken only a few steps when the crunch of tyres caused him to glance back toward the police station driveway. A sleek black Opel saloon had turned into the driveway. It halted and his eyes widened as he saw the unmistakable figure of Sturmbannführer Knesebeck climbing out. Fear clutched at his heart and he began to run.
There was a shout behind him as Knesebeck recognised him. A bullet whined over his head. Branting forgot his pain and his throbbing nerves and threw himself towards the meagre shelter offered by some bushes, rolling over and over in the early morning dew which lay wet and cold on the grass.
He clawed at the safety catch of the Schmeisser and sent a burst of gunfire towards the car. Knesebeck threw himself to the ground behind the shelter of the vehicle. Two or three black-uniformed men came sprawling out, fumbling with their guns. A bullet tore into Branting’s jacket but it did not graze his skin. He half rose and fired an arc of bullets in the direction of his assailants, grunting with satisfaction as he saw one of them throw up his hands and fall.
Knesebeck was crawling forward towards the front wheel of the Opel to take up a firing position. A sudden revulsion came over Branting, an anger the like of which he had never felt before. Branting took his time, took careful aim and fired a long, low burst. Knesebeck jerked and drew back.
Anger had complete control of Branting now. He rose to his feet, inserted a fresh clip of ammunition into the Schmeisser and began to walk slowly forward, his finger pressing against the trigger. The memory of what Knesebeck had done to him fired him with an overpowering rage.
There came a single crack of a pistol and Branting felt something sear across his forearm. He continued to move forward. The figure of Knesebeck began to wriggle desperately toward the cover of the car. Branting felt a sharp pain in his side now. Then a second pain in his chest. He supposed that he had been hit yet he still managed to move forward, feeling only a dull ache.
There was the figure of Knesebeck squirming on his hands and knees in his raincoat before him. Branting saw the German glance up at his oncoming figure; the man’s eyes were round with terror. For the first time Branting felt a sense of satisfaction. He stood there oblivious to everything else, depressing the trigger until the Schmeisser no longer jumped and bucked in his hands.
He felt no sensation as he began to collapse onto the ground. He simply felt as if he were descending into some dark mist, a warm welcoming darkness. He dropped into a kneeling position, unaware of the blood dripping from his mouth. Then he closed his eyes and fell forward onto his face.
It was some time before the group of Norwegian policemen slowly emerged from the police station and examined the scene nervously. Away in the distance they could hear the shouts of German soldiers and a klaxon sounding as the vehicles of the Feld Polizei began to race towards the sound of the gunfire.
They saw that Branting lay sprawled on his face. Before him lay the riddled and bloody body of the Gestapo officer. He was clearly dead. Nearby lay two uniformed SS men. One had his eyes open, but a hole in his forehead told where one of the Schmeisser bullets had smashed. The other was also dead. There was a third who still cowered against the car, groaning and holding his stomach. A trickle of red oozed between his fingers.
Two of the Norwegians went and knelt down by Branting and one of them felt for his pulse. He sighed and shook his head.
‘He was a very brave man,’ he said, glancing up at his comrade.
‘He was a Norwegian soldier,’ replied the other. ‘We must make sure he gets a decent burial. Then, as soon as I am able, I am going to move north.’
The first policeman turned and examined Knesebeck.
‘Well, this swine won’t be doing any more torturing.’ He glanced up at his companion. ‘When you go north, I’ll be joining you.’
‘We all will,’ said another. ‘All of us will go north.’
*
It was dawn when Hauptmann Eschig stood looking down at the white, staring face of Doctor Andreas Hersleb.
Oberleutnant Gerhardt shook his head in bewilderment.
‘His identification gives his name as Hersleb, Herr Hauptmann. According to the information we have been given, he was one of Stenersen’s surgical team. Why would they shoot him?’
Eschig rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
‘It would be a logical assumption that the man was on his way to us. Perhaps it would also be logical to assume that they used this means to prevent him.’
‘But why?’
‘That is what we must discover.’
‘Well,’ Gerhardt said, squinting into the morning sun, ‘they cannot be far in front of us now. If we take the southerly trail it will bring us around to the plateau from which the glacier path crosses into Sweden.’
The Oberleutnant dug the toe of his boot into the snow, describing an arc.
‘This is the path they seemed to be following. It curves to avoid the steep valleys and brings them out onto the glacier path at this point,’ he jabbed with the heel. ‘If we climb this mountain path here,’ he indicated again, ‘then we can expect to cut them off before they have time to traverse the glacier.’
‘It seems that they don’t realize the existence of this path which you propose taking,’ observed Eschig.
The Oberleutnant shrugged.
‘Either that, Herr Hauptmann, or they are hoping that we don’t. They could be sticking to the easier path because of the people they are transporting. The route I propose is quite an arduous one …’
There was an implied question in the Oberleutnant’s voice.
Eschig grinned and said, ‘Well, have no worry about Weiss and myself. We will keep up with you and your men.’
‘My men are Gerbirgsjäger.’ There was a pride to the young officer’s voice.
‘The Gebirgsäager are not the only people to climb mountains.’
‘Very well, Herr Hauptmann,’ the Oberleutnant said politely as he turned and pointed ahead. At the end of the snowy slopes of the valley rose a tall peak which seemed to dwarf even the giant thrusts around it. Here the mountains seemed to close in on every side. Eschig found it breathtakingly beautiful. He felt like an ant as his eyes rose to the higher slopes and precipitous snowfields, and then even further to bald patches of blue jagged granite where crag balanced upon crag until they vanished among the clouds or simply merged with the sky.
‘That’s where we have to climb, Herr Hauptmann. That’s the Svabensverk Glacier and the pass the fugitives will have to take into Sweden.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘That must be the Swedish border,�
� called Inge, pointing ahead.
Trina Lanstrad, following just behind her, glanced up and grimaced.
‘It looks impossible to get across the valley from here.’
The party halted and examined the terrain before them. Sweeny was checking Branting’s map.
‘There’s the glacier between us and Sweden. According to Branting, we have to make our way further up the mountain here to a plateau which gives access onto a path that runs across the top of the glacier into Sweden.’
Stenersen glanced above them. ‘We should rest first,’ he said.
Sweeny shook his head. ‘Plenty of time to rest when we are on the far side of the glacier.’
‘I’m exhausted,’ Woods protested.
Inge turned with a frown. ‘So is Sweeny. He’s had a longer night than most of us.’
Sweeny had, in fact, rejoined them just after dawn. No one had asked him about what had happened to Hersleb. They had avoided his face, almost avoided speaking to him until now.
‘The Germans can’t be that far behind us,’ Sweeny said. ‘If we rest now we might throw everything away within sight of the border.’
Inge voiced her agreement and reluctantly Woods accepted the logistics of the decision. Sweeny certainly had a point. It would not do to relax if the Germans were as close as Sweeny had reported them to be.
Sweeny was already examining the path which they would have to follow. They had come onto a fairly sheltered shoulder of the mountain which was covered by a forest of birch shrubs; a protected little valley which was nonetheless cold enough for the growth of the shrubs to be stunted. None of them had grown thicker than a man’s arm, and it seemed that they had been growing and dying there since primeval times. The ground beneath them was covered by a thick matted tangle of rotten wood, and in most places the trees grew so thickly together that their branches interlaced. Trees that had died still stood, propped up by those that crowded around them. A deceptive covering of snow hid the springy mesh of fallen trees. It would be a difficult ascent to make, for it would be all too easy to break a leg or twist an ankle.
The Valkyrie Directive Page 23
