The Lifeline

by Deborah Swift

  Brevik leaned back in his chair, obviously prepared to wait. He looked down at his fingernails, before speaking. ‘Ten thousand kroner might make it more worth my while.’

  Falk smiled faintly. He was caught over a barrel and he knew it. He didn’t want to pay anybody. Quisling might think it a waste of resources to spend that amount on pursuing one man and his contacts. Yet the very thought of giving that self-satisfied bastard Nystrøm a lesson decided him. ‘Ten percent now and the rest when he’s brought in — when you’ve brought him back to this side of the North Sea.’

  A lazy shake of the head. ‘Half now, and half when I’ve done the job. And new papers and anonymity afterwards.’

  My God, he was on the ball. ‘I’ll see what can be arranged.’

  ‘Good,’ Brevik said. And in a single word, Falk realised that it was he who had been interviewed by Brevik, not the other way around. And the thought rankled, along with the feeling that here was another man who had bested him simply through his good looks and physical prowess.

  Later that afternoon after telling Blix to supply a plausible cover story, Falk peered into the small office where he’d left Brevik poring over the most detailed maps he could supply. They showed the farm communes and villages in detail and all the mountain huts or goatherd’s shelters on the overland route from Lillehammer. He’d get there in a few days with express driving, unlike the weeks it had taken Nystrøm to go overland through the mountains in winter conditions. Now he saw it on the map, he realised what he was asking the man to do, and it looked insane. Only a desperate man like Nystrøm would attempt it. Or one who’d just been offered ten thousand kroner, he thought to himself.

  Brevik though, seemed enthused by the task. ‘Here’s the farm where your intelligence says Nystrøm was last seen,’ Brevik said, pointing to a series of dots he’d marked in red pen, ‘and here’s his probable route. He would have to go this way, via this valley here. So his only stop for shelter after the farm would be here — at this mountain hut, I guess he’ll make for that.’ He stabbed a finger down on the spot. ‘And then if I was him, here and here.’ He pointed to two more.

  Falk nodded. ‘We’ve made you a pack — weapons, maps, and an up-to-the-minute transmitter to contact us. The best skis available.’

  ‘No thanks to the skis. I’ll use my own.’

  ‘As you wish. Overkonstabel Berg is waiting downstairs to show you how to use the transmitter and the pistol. Sorry you only get such short training, but we need you on the trail this evening if possible.’

  Brevik smiled. ‘Always the same in war, isn’t it? Proper training goes out of the window. Still, I expect I’ll pick it up. I’ve done a fair amount of undercover work. Can’t be much different, can it? What time’s my car?’

  ‘Six o’clock.’ He paused, fearing that he’d lose control once this man was out of his office. What if he just took the money and ran? He began to run through it all again. ‘To recap; the aim is to discover Nystrøm’s contacts in England that enable this so-called Shetland Bus, so unless there’s no other way, don’t kill him; the Stapo will do that later once he’s back here and we can interrogate him. The safe houses here — try to put those out. We don’t want any more Nystrøms heading for the —’

  ‘I’m on it,’ said Brevik, cutting him off.

  CHAPTER 10

  Four days after the man that he called Olaf left, Gus was surprised to see another man ski down from the ridge from his window. He wouldn’t have paid him much attention, except for the fact he stowed his skis and his pack in the trees, and walked down on foot, He was glancing side to side, scouting out the landscape. It was the way these agents behaved. Yet nobody had telephoned him to expect another agent so soon after the first, and he was a little annoyed. The one called Olaf had caused him no end of trouble with his neighbour, and he had vowed never to take another agent again. It was just getting too dangerous.

  Though he’d liked Olaf. He’d have him in his house again — he’d been a good listener.

  He watched this new chap covertly as he approached, a tall man in a thick pullover and oilskin jerkin. His dark wool hat was pulled down to his eyebrows. He’d have to turn him away matter how far he’d come. Now Hemming had turned nasty, he daren’t risk it. Probably better to just pretend to be out.

  When the rap came he didn’t answer it, but hid in the bathroom where there were no windows. He heard the crunch of footsteps in snow walking round the yard, but then silence. He peered out behind the shutters. The man had gone to Hemming’s and was knocking on the door there.

  ‘You’ve got the wrong house,’ he said to himself. He wrestled with his conscience. If the newcomer was another Milorg agent, he’d just sent the poor chap to a man who’d probably report him to his cousin in the Hird.

  There seemed to be no answer at Hemming’s though, and Gus exhaled. Where was Hemming? Probably down by the shoreline, with his fishing rod, the lazy oaf.

  He was about to turn away when the man glanced furtively around the yard, and seeing no-one, smashed his way through a downstairs window with a single heavy blow of his forearm. The noise of the glass shattering made hairs stand up on his neck. If this was an agent, he was a desperate one. More likely a burglar, a man thinking to take advantage of a lonely community like here in Tessand.

  He picked up the telephone, wondering whether to call the police, but the line was dead. Blast the thing. It didn’t surprise him. Since the Germans had taken over, private lines were often shut down or intermittent, electricity came and went at their whim. What to do? He was not feeling very charitable towards Hemming, but he felt it his duty to do something. He crept out of the door and hurried down the path to the shore. The least he could do was to tell him.

  Hemming was sitting in his boat about a stone’s throw from the shore, his line out.

  Gus beckoned to him furiously, until he shouted, ‘What?’

  ‘Quick,’ he said in a half-whisper; ‘someone’s broken into your house. Smashed through the window.’

  Hemming frowned, but rowed back, stowed his oars and climbed out. ‘What’s the problem?’

  Gus told him what he’d seen.

  ‘My house, you say?’ Hemming’s mouth fell open but he fired into action like a lit fuse. ‘Just wait till I get the bastard.’ He ran to the barn and grabbed a rifle off the hook, began to frantically load it.

  ‘No,’ Gus said, putting a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t take the gun. We don’t want it to turn bad, what if I’m mistaken and it’s someone you know?’

  ‘And he’d break into my house?’

  ‘Just leave the gun, okay?’

  ‘No. Bastard could be armed.’ Hemming ran up to the house and unlocked the front door. ‘Come out,’ he yelled. ‘I know you’re in there.’

  Gus stood well back. He didn’t want to get involved.

  No answer. Hemming opened the front door warily, his shotgun pointing the way. The man must have been waiting for him, for all Gus could see was black shapes flailing, and then the crack as Hemming’s shotgun went off. The door was kicked shut in his face.

  There was no way to phone, no way to fetch anyone else. He was the only person who could help. He hurried home, skidding on the slippery drive, and took down his old hunting gun. He couldn’t leave Hemming fighting on his own.

  Round the back, ducking down. A cautious peek in through the window, to see what was happening. The man was pressing a gun to Hemming’s chest. He seemed to be questioning him. Hemming was pressed backwards into his armchair, his arms and legs spread-eagled as if thrown there, his eyes white-rimmed with terror, as he garbled something back at his attacker.

  What was he saying? Gus couldn’t hear Hemming’s words, but he saw the man shake his head in disgust and move away, slinking like a cat towards the door. Gus was about to run when he saw the man turn, coolly aim the gun and pull the trigger.

  There was no noise. No gunshot. But Hemming’s forehead now showed a dark red hole, and the force was enough to jolt the ch
air backwards on the floor. Confused, Gus ran.

  He couldn’t go into the house. What if the man came there? He was a professional killer. The silencer had told him that.

  Adrenaline made him clumsy. He slipped and stumbled down towards the boat. Got to get away. Row down the fjord. Fetch help. He had a hand on the mooring rope when he felt his left leg swept from under him, and he crashed down onto the jetty.

  A glance at his ankle. It was a mass of blood. He’d been shot with the silent gun. He looked back fearfully over his shoulder in time to see the big man almost upon him.

  ‘Don’t move,’ the man said calmly, pointing the gun. His voice was a Norwegian one, no accent.

  ‘What is it? What have we done?’

  The man crouched down over him, the gun still held before him. He wasn’t even out of breath. ‘Now, you don’t want to go the same way as your friend, do you?’ Pale blue eyes bored into his. ‘So I want the truth. Your friend next door says you’ve been helping Milorg . Specifically, that you helped Jørgen Nystrøm.’

  ‘No,’ Gus said. ‘I don’t know anything.’

  ‘But your neighbour says you had a man stay with you who matched the description of Nystrøm. A tall man — young, fit, a scar across his eyebrow? Remember yet? The finger tightened on the trigger. ‘Where did he go after he left here?’

  ‘Maybe. I don’t know. I didn’t see where he went.’

  ‘You want to lose the other ankle, bleed to death?’ A nudge with the gun. ‘Your telephones are both out, you know that. I cut the lines.’

  Gus thought quickly, though his mind was skittering, clinging to one thought then the next. ‘I rowed him downstream. Down towards Garmo. He was going to catch a train … a train to Bergen.’ He tried to keep certainty in his voice, and maintain eye contact; hoped it sounded convincing.

  ‘You’re a liar. Your friend watched you row him straight across and wave to him on the ridge. Liars are no use to me.’

  The man raised the gun and for a moment Gus just saw the shiny silver ring of it. The man’s eyes narrowed fractionally, the irises flaring black. Gus thought of his daughters’ faces. And then he saw nothing more.

  CHAPTER 11

  Astrid was about to leave for the makeshift school when she found a letter in her mail box. It wasn’t signed, but she knew straight away who it was from — Jørgen. The sight of his handwriting on the envelope jolted her. It had taken a long time to reach her, like all wartime correspondence it had been through the censor and by the look of it, many hands. She hoped it didn’t say anything incriminating; it seemed so long since he’d been gone and so much had happened at school since then.

  From the postcode, he seemed to be in the mountains to the North. She guessed something must have happened to blow his cover, and he’d been forced to get away from the city. She was just thinking of him, and wishing she had a return address so she could write, when she noticed a familiar car. It had been parked near her house in the week that Jørgen disappeared, but she hadn’t seen it since. Now it was back. Cars like that meant you were being watched by the Statspolitiet. The thought of that produced an involuntary shiver. She stuffed his letter hurriedly in her pocket. She’d read it later.

  She took a shortcut to the church by veering left down a narrow alley. When she emerged at the other end, the car was already idling at the kerb. So the man was watching her. She had the impression of a man with some bulk, though it was hard to see through the steamed up windscreen, and he was muffled in a fur hat pulled down low to his nose. Straight away, she knew she couldn’t risk leading him to the church, so she decided to lead him a dance around Oslo. First she hopped on a tram, then two stops later got off. She’d take no chances.

  He was still there. Cars were easy to spot, as they were all driven by Germans or quislings. Uneasy, she went and queued for meat, which took at least an hour for just a few offcuts of pork belly, and when she walked back down the street, the same car was there. He was persistent, this man. She took a long walk back to her house, and went indoors having been nowhere near the school.

  Only then did she read Jørgen’s letter. It was short and sweet, but at least he was alive. ‘Thank God for your life. We’ll meet again when Norway is free.’ His words were strange. She’d never thought of him as a religious man. She sent him her silent good wishes, but wondered where he was now; probably heading back to England where he’d done his training. It hurt, the thought that she might not see him again.

  Ulf arrived that night to ask her where she’d been all day. The children were worried; they’d missed her, especially the younger ones. He pulled out a kitchen chair with a scrape and sat down.

  She peered out of the curtain. The same car was across the street about a hundred yards down. ‘You shouldn’t have come,’ she said. ‘I’m being followed by the Stapo.’

  ‘Why? Do you think they know about the school? Or is it that they’re after that Nystrøm chap again?’

  ‘I don’t know. It could be. I had a letter from him today.’

  ‘Were you close?’

  ‘I suppose so. But this invasion pulled us apart. He was doing something in the Milorg. I can’t say what. He’s … he’s on the run.’

  ‘He must have been a big fish if they’re tailing you.’

  She shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s because of Jørgen, or maybe it’s about the school. I’m frightened that if I come to the church hall tomorrow, the Stapo will follow me and then we’ll be shut down.’

  ‘Damn,’ Ulf said. ‘You could be right. When you didn’t come in today, I thought you might be ill. I never thought they’d be onto us. If it’s the same man, he’ll make me empty my pockets again, so I’d better empty them here.’ When he’d emptied them onto the table, handkerchief, keys, pass — the only incriminating thing was a stub of chalk, so he stuffed everything else back.

  ‘What if he follows you home?’

  ‘Then he’ll find that I live in a house full of Nazi officers. I never leave anything there. Everything’s always at my printer friend’s house.’

  ‘Has he got a name, this printer friend?’

  Ulf rubbed a finger back and forth on the table top, obviously reluctant to tell her. ‘His name’s Herman,’ he said, reddening. ‘That’s all you need to know for now. But if anything should happen; I mean if I was to be arrested, would you let him know? You’ll find him here.’ He scribbled an address on the back of a tram ticket. ‘Best if you memorise this, then burn it.’

  ‘Gosh, it sounds like a spy film.’

  ‘That’s what we’ve come to, I’m afraid.’ He pinioned her with a frank gaze. ‘I’m serious. If anything happens to me, you’ll tell him, won’t you?’

  Falk saw the young man come out of Astrid Dahl’s house, the same down-at-heel man he’d searched before. There’d been reports of illegal schools, so he was determined to rout these out. The schools had been closed for three weeks and Minister-President Quisling was infuriated to the point where irate memos about schools came every day. Both Astrid Dahl and Ulf Johanssen were teachers, he knew that, and he remembered Johanssen’s address from his pass. It had stuck in his mind, the way useful information did. You never knew when it might be used to your advantage. But it was in Frogner district. He didn’t fancy getting out of his warm car and following on foot. It was a job for a lesser officer than him. He’d find out if one of his men lived close by and ask them to instigate surveillance.

  He drove back to his office round the back of the Statspolitiet Headquarters in Victoria Terrasse, the big white apartment block in the centre of the city. It was a grand building, made even more stately by the banners of red and black swastikas undulating in the breeze.

  Up the three punishing flights of stairs to his office, where his aide, Blix, was typing up replies to harassed parents. They’d had more than seven thousand letters of complaint through this office alone, and it was really getting up his nose.

  ‘Blix,’ he snapped. ‘Find out which officers live in Frogner district. I wan
t a man to tail someone for me. Ulf Johanssen, probably a member of Milorg.’

  Twenty minutes later and Blix came back from the filing room with a buff folder. ‘Fifteenth Division,’ he said. ‘They’re nearest. Four of them live in the same apartment. I’d go for Schmitt, sir. He’s the one in the next door apartment to the man you’re tailing, and he’ll hear when your man leaves. Also, he’s got a brain on him, sir.’

  ‘Very good. Get him on the telephone and give him instructions to follow Johanssen. We suspect he’s running an illicit school. Close it down, and take the names of everyone attending. They have links to other members of the Resistance, so don’t let any of them slip away before we get intelligence on them.’

  CHAPTER 12

  The next morning Astrid was teaching in the hall, battling the fact that the March weather was even worse, with a below zero chill that made sitting still in an unheated building almost impossible. About twenty children of mixed ages, including Sara Feinberg and her friend Sophie, were shivering in the hall, their breath forming clouds around their heads.

  When the children became fractious she made them stand up and do jumping jacks for ten minutes until they felt warmer, and then to pummel their legs with their fists to bring the blood back to their hands and feet.

  She sat them down again and began to explain long division with the aid of a piece of plywood painted black and leaned against the wall — a makeshift blackboard supplied by Reverend Foss, who pretended he wasn’t involved, but did all he could to help. Many of the children had no paper because it was scarce, and hoarded for fires or insulation against the cold, rather than for writing on, so she set them practical problems involving counting the panes in the windows, or number games with playing cards that they’d managed to glean from helpful parents.

  She had them busy with the cards when the big oak door creaked open and Ulf arrived at the back of the room. She gave him a brief smile, but continued what she was doing. He was going to take the children next for science, though these days that seemed to cover all manner of different things, like nature study, making a crystal radio and how to make charcoal from burnt wood.