Black hat took off his skis and began to creep through the forest on foot. He was about seventy-five yards away — too far away for Jørgen to pick him off. If he took a pot shot and missed, he’d be a sitting target for this man, whoever he was, and he could be armed.
He waited until the man had gone deeper in, before slowly easing himself downwards. It was always harder going down, and the trunk and branches were rough, scraping his hands and banging his knees.
The snow was whirling thicker now and settling on the branches. Losing his grip with one boot, he fell out of the tree. He listened a moment but could hear no sounds except the wind and his own laboured breath. He pulled his scarf over his nose and mouth and dug frantically where he thought he’d left his skis, but the snow had blown in from the edge of the forest and buried them.
He was still searching when he heard a noise from within the forest. Whipping off a glove, he scrabbled in the snow, until his fingers found the end of a pole and dragged it out. The rest of his gear was there too. Hurriedly, he gloved up, and strapped on his skis.
Shit. The man was coming back, he could see him moving from tree to tree, retracing his steps. Every sensible thought said it was better to stay in the shelter of the forest, but his urge to get away from this unknown pursuer over-rode everything.
He’d have to break cover.
He dived out of the shadow of the trees and straight into the storm. The wind was whirling snow like soup around him, as he pushed off into the white void. But the wind direction was against him and soon plastered a thick layer of snow over his front, but he didn’t stop, burning a trail down through the white.
He looked back over his shoulder. Snow stung his cheeks. He crouched, a blizzard blowing freezing into his eyeballs, pellets of icy snow stinging his cheeks. He renewed his push, his poles digging into the snow, over and over.
Now he was in the centre of the storm, with only a vague sense of direction, his skis cutting swathes into the snow as he veered into the side of the mountain, and then away. A glance back.
He’d lost him. Whoever he was, he’d had a narrow escape.
For a few more days Jørgen skied onwards, eating up the miles, and seeing not a soul. The weather was still squally, but he was used to dealing with it, and made the most of the times when the fierce wind was behind him. He wondered about the other skier, whether he’d dreamt him. He was low on food. He’d eked what he’d had from Gus, but he’d have to start trapping food soon, and that would slow him down. Though he was hardened to the weather, skiing on such low rations made him permanently exhausted, so his mind veered in all sorts of strange directions. Back to the past, when he and Astrid were at university. Back before all this madness, before the Nazis came to Norway.
He paused to catch his breath, relieved to have spotted his next target, a mountain hut half-buried in a snowdrift. Thank God. Although it wasn’t dark yet, he’d be able to rest for a few hours before moving on.
Gratefully, he let gravity float him downhill. Once outside the hut, he had to dig out a path before he could open the door. He cleared it as best he could by using a ski as a shovel, and just hoped he wouldn’t be snowed in by the morning. Once in, he left his skis just inside the door.
The hut was basic. A plank-constructed shed with a fixed table and bench and a sleeping platform with bunk above. There was a stone constructed hearth with an iron chimney through the roof, but it was winter, so there was no wood, nor any hope of getting any. There was a hurricane lamp on the mantel which still had paraffin in it, so he used one of his precious matches to light it.
Still, at least it was dry, and he cupped his numb hands around the lamp. He was on the last of his rations. Gus had given him dried salt cod and bread which though old was still just about edible. He chomped on it. Foul. But at least there’d be some nourishment in it.
He lay down fully dressed on the sleeping bench, dragged his sleeping bag up over his clothes, pummelled a rolled-up jersey for a pillow and put his pistol under it. Outside, the wind groaned and the snow on the roof creaked.
The next thing he knew he was woken by a blast of cold wind as the door flew open.
He sat up, disorientated. A flashlight shone in his face.
‘Sorry, I didn’t know there was anyone here,’ a voice said. A male Norwegian voice.
Jørgen fumbled for his gun. His thoughts tumbled over one another. The man on the mountain. The storm. ‘Stay back,’ he shouted, as his fingers finally found the cold metal of the gun. ‘I’m armed.’
‘Whoa! I don’t mean you any harm. I just want a place to sleep.’
The light flashed into his eyes as the man raised his hands above his head.
‘Don’t move,’ Jørgen shouted. ‘Or I’ll shoot. And turn that bloody light off.’
‘Okay, okay.’ The flashlight died.
‘Don’t move.’ Jørgen struggled out of his sleeping bag, keeping the gun aimed at his chest.
‘Hey, hey!’ The man raised his hands above his head. ‘I’m on your side. Easy now.’
‘Put your weapons on the table,’ Jørgen said. ‘Slowly.’
‘What? This?’ The man stretched out a long arm to put a fish-gutting knife on the table.
‘And the gun.’
He caught a glimmer of surprise on the man’s face, but he reached slowly inside his jacket with his gloved hand and placed a pistol on the table.
So he was armed. He turned up the lamp to get a better look at the intruder. The tall man with a strong jaw he’d seen a few days before. ‘You were following me. Why?’
‘The hell! I thought you were following me. I saw tracks and didn’t know who they belonged to. I thought it might be Germans who’d caught up with me. So I went to take a look.’
‘What are you doing out here?’
‘I might ask you the same thing. Except I’m not pointing a gun at you. Can’t you put it down? It makes me nervous.’
‘Not until I know who you are and what you want.’
‘I don’t want anything. Except a good night’s sleep. My name’s Karl Brevik. I’m on my way to the coast. I want to get out of Norway, and preferably without any Nazi blowing my brains out.’
Jørgen frowned. The name had a familiar ring. Where had he heard it before?
‘Now it’s your turn,’ Brevik said. When Jørgen was still silent, he said, ‘Look. I didn’t know there was going to be anyone here, ok? But if it’s a big problem, I’ll just ski on to the next place. But don’t shoot me, right?’
Jørgen weighed it all up. He was suspicious. Before he’d been convinced the man was following him. He should have shot him on sight, by rights. But what if, like he said, he was just another man like himself? He raised the gun again. ‘Why didn’t you go by train or bus? Why go through the mountains?’
‘The Germans are after my blood. I was working with the Milorg in Bremen, but they found out I’d instigated a sabotage attack on the steelworks.’ Brevik shrugged. ‘So I had to get out quick. Besides, people know my name. They know they couldn’t catch me this way.’ He paused. ‘I’m a pretty good skier. A downhill champion.’
That was it. Karl Brevik. He’d seen him in the papers. ‘Good Lord, you’re that Brevik. Weren’t you on the Norwegian Olympic team?’
He looked pleased. ‘Still would be if it wasn’t for the Nazi invasion. Look, can I lower my hands now?’ He lowered them anyway.
Jørgen sat down, but kept the gun pointed at him. ‘That must be tough. All that training gone for nothing.’
‘Four bloody years,’ he said, bitterly. ‘At first, I wanted to punch someone. I’d worked myself to the bone to reach peak performance, sacrificed friendships, social life, everything. And what happens? It’s all wiped out like that.’ He snapped his gloved fingers.
‘There’s always next time —’
‘Too old by then. And don’t bother with the sympathy. I’ve got over it now, found other things to do. You have to move on.’
He was impressed. Judging b
y how he skied, there was no way this man couldn’t be who he said he was, and he saw no reason to hide his identity as the other man hadn’t. He slid the safety catch back on the gun, and pushed it back in his pocket so he could shake hands with him.
Karl slid off his gloves and his hand was solid when he reached for Jørgen’s in return.
He couldn’t help being elated to see a friendly face after so long. ‘Jørgen Nystrøm,’ he introduced himself, ‘wireless operator on the run. Also headed for the coast.’
Karl grinned and sat down on the bench opposite. ‘You had me then. I thought you were going to blow my head off. I wouldn’t even have come in if I’d seen your skis outside. I thought it was empty.’
‘You gave me the shock of my life.’
‘And all the time we’re on the same side. D’you mind if we share shelter? Only I’d feel more comfortable if we left our weapons on the table.’ He pulled out another gun, complete with silencer, laid it on the table in front of him next to the knife.
Jørgen stared. It was a model he’d never seen before. ‘Sheesh. Where’d you get that?’
‘Stole it from a German soldier. He was dead when I got it. We blew their truck off the road. Haven’t had chance to use it yet though.’
‘Don’t suppose you’ve got any food, or drink with you?’
‘As it happens, I have.’ Karl heaved off his pack and rummaged in one of the side pockets. ‘Here, aquavit.’ He offered Jørgen a flat glass flask.
The first taste of it, its herby fumes immediately revived him. ‘By God, that hit the spot.’
‘Food wise,’ Karl said, rummaging in his pack, ‘I’ve got some tinned fruit, and dried biscuits, and some goat’s cheese from a farm in the last valley.’
‘Did you get to Tessand? Did you have a night with Gus?’
‘Yes. What a great guy. Took me over the fjord in his boat.’
‘You didn’t have trouble with the neighbour then? Gus seemed worried about him.’
‘Didn’t see a neighbour,’ he said, turning away. And he took the flask back and took a swig.
They shared the biscuits and cheese, and after a while Karl said, ‘You got maps? Which way you headed?’
Jørgen brought out his much-thumbed map, and they stood to lean over and study it by the light of the lamp. ‘I thought this way,’ Jørgen said, tracing a route to Ålesund with his finger.
‘I was thinking the same route,’ Karl agreed. ‘We can’t go this way because it’s too steep, and this glacier’s unstable. Only here I’d go that way.’ He indicated the new route. ‘There’s a village here, I was thinking to restock with food, make contact with Milorg,’ he said, ‘always supposing the locals are friendly. We could travel together.’
Jørgen hesitated. The picture of Lind’s scared face rose up in his mind, so different from this new man. What happened with Lind still made him shudder. At the same time, the long punishing trek across country had been harder than he’d expected. Having an expert skier like Brevik with him could be a bonus, and he was impressed; keen to see him ski close-up. ‘Have you got a contact with the Shetland Bus to get you out?’ Jørgen asked.
‘Not yet,’ Karl said. I had to leave in a hurry. I’ve got a crystal set with me though, so once we get nearer I can try to make contact with them.’
‘You’ve got a wireless?’ Jørgen was so surprised he sat down.
‘It’s not great. Home-made kit. But I’ve long wire for an aerial, and good sensitive headphones.’
‘Aquavit and a transmitter! You certainly travel in style.’
Karl shrugged. ‘We were warned things were getting sticky, and you know how it is, it’s best to be prepared.’
The transmitter would be a bonus. It made his mind up. ‘Yeah. Seems best we travel together,’ he said. ‘Two heads are always better than one.’
Karl smiled a pleased sort of smile. ‘What do you say we get some sleep?’ he said. ‘I’ve had a long day, and I thought I’d never reach this hut.’
Jørgen watched him take off his boots and wriggle into a sleeping bag near the unlit stove. The sight of Karl’s large leather boots next to his own reassured him. He couldn’t go outside without his boots. Nevertheless, Jørgen couldn’t sleep. Partly he was thinking about how he’d tell his friends he’d travelled with The Karl Brevik, Olympic champion. Partly it was unease that they had somehow ended up in this one tiny spot out of all the vast expanse of snowy vidda. He kept looking at the guns on the table, and something inside him couldn’t rest.
When he heard Karl’s breathing slow into a steady rhythm, he studied him as he slept, the fair, wavy hair, his slightly open mouth with the mole on his upper lip. Karl’s sinewy hands gripped the top of his sleeping bag with some sort of animal tension.
All the staring did not answer his doubts. He was still on edge. Despite all the reassurances and the evidence, the fact another man had appeared here in the middle of nowhere was just a weird coincidence that didn’t feel comfortable. When he was sure Karl was deeply asleep, he crept out of his bag and very carefully prised open the toggle at the top of Karl’s rucksack.
Inside, an oilskin sack held the component parts for the transmitter, a board with coil and wire. He probed past this to find the tins of food, the squelchy pack of cheese. At the bottom he unearthed a large detailed map of folded silk. It had been marked in red with a route through the mountains. Now the lamp was out, couldn’t figure out the detail, but it looked like the route only started from the farm at Tessand, near Gus’s place, not at Bremen.
That was odd. He took it to the window to get reflected moonlight from the snow outside. Yes. The route had all the mountain huts including this one dotted out in red. It was far more comprehensive than his own map. The area of coast around Ålesund had been outlined in red too.
‘Found what you’re looking for?’
He whipped round. Karl was sitting up. He fixed Jørgen with an amused smile.
‘Sorry. I have to be careful.’
‘Go on, have a good look. But watch out for last week’s socks; they’re pretty lethal. You could get gassed.’
Jørgen laughed. The tension dissolved. ‘Standard procedure for a Resistance man,’ he said. ‘Nothing personal.’
‘You can show me your dirty socks tomorrow,’ Karl said, and turned over.
Jørgen told himself to calm down. Karl hadn’t tried to do anything. His gun was right there on the table. He was unarmed and entirely vulnerable to him. There were few resting places on this route, and it wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility they’d found the same one. Still, the map was odd. Maybe Brevik just knew the earlier terrain too well to bother. After all, this was the most unmarked part of the route. He told himself that if Karl Brevik had wanted to kill him, he would have done it already.
With that, he fell into a fitful sleep.
The next day he woke to find Karl already up and packed, despite the winter darkness, and keen to be moving on. With minimal small talk, they strapped on their skis and set off together. Karl was a superb craftsman on skis and he soon took the lead. To be honest it was a relief to follow in the wake of him for a while, to not have to decide about the best route, to not have to assess the snow quality, and just to follow the curved tracery of his ski tracks through the snow, with the steep peaks rising either side into the grey of the mist and sky.
He’d estimated the next mountain hut was about fifty miles distant, and they should make it by the evening as long as the weather held. Last night there’d been heavy snowfall, but when they got further up the slopes he noticed some slides and some instability in the snowpack.
He called out to Karl who was schussing ahead.
Karl wheeled to a halt, turned, and raised his goggles.
‘Snow feels a bit hollow on this slope,’ he called.
Karl waited until he pulled up alongside. ‘Problem?’
‘See these cracks?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve seen worse,’ he said, putting his goggles down
and poling off.
Jørgen followed, hard pressed to keep up. They were facing downwind now, scooting through a sparse brake of trees. All went well until late in the afternoon.
When an avalanche comes; there’s no warning.
The noise was something he was barely aware of. A soft ‘whump’ from the side of the mountain. He glanced to the right to see what looked like a white unrolling cloud rising from halfway up the slope. ‘Avalanche!’ he yelled, but the word was unfinished as a ton of snow hit like concrete from the side and he tumbled and rolled.
A roaring in his ears.
Eyes flashing: white, black, white. The small voice in his head said, ‘swim!’— the thing they’d always been taught in school. But the world was spinning and he didn’t know which way was up. He flailed arms. Legs wrenched from under him.
When the movement stopped he could hear a rumbling vibration like thunder, and the snow near his ears creaking and groaning, but he couldn’t move. One hand was free enough to make an air pocket near his face and clear the snow from his mouth and nose. Frantically he jabbed at the snow with a hand, the rest of him was set, as if in plaster.
His eyes were jammed shut with snow. He rubbed them clear to see what looked like dense layers of cloud. ‘Here!’ he yelled.
Where was Karl? Had he seen? Had he been overtaken too?
He must conserve air. He knew the survival rate was low if you weren’t found straight away. Be calm. Work slowly. He dug again with his free hand. Nothing.
Must stay conscious. The odds that Karl had taken the hit too were about fifty-fifty. Not good.
He kept digging but now his fingers were frozen. It must be five minutes. His chances were decreasing by the second.
Was he going to die here? Would Karl come? He couldn’t feel his legs.
Each breath was like sucking through a straw. He saw the faces of his mother and father, of a childhood Christmas at home; of a fir tree and his parents lighting a candle every night of December. He was starting to drift. He made one last stupendous effort to scrabble up to the surface, but he was too weak. He let himself go. Closed his eyes, fell into the haze of white.
The Lifeline Page 10
