If he’s been hoping for a reaction, he got none. She gave a brief smile, but Harcourt then stepped in to watch as Karl emptied his pockets, and Jørgen shrugged off his pack.
‘You can’t keep any of it,’ Harcourt said.
‘Nothing?’ Karl asked, disgruntled.
‘No, don’t worry, we’ll issue you with everything you need. We’ll drive you to the Mission for debriefing,’ Harcourt said, after they’d handed everything over.
‘The Catholic Mission,’ Morag explained. ‘It’s a big old house. We’ll need to drive.’
They piled into the back seat of a rusty old Morris car. Morag did the driving, and Harcourt filled them in on the SOE from the front seat. Apparently the Shetland Bus wasn’t the only wartime operation from Scalloway — there were also engineering works, an RAF station and a military hospital, though there was little sign of them today for the landscape was almost invisible in the early morning mist and populated only by scattered sheep. The Catholic Mission proved to be dilapidated, draughty stone-built house a few miles up a deserted track. Jørgen’s first impression was that it had been built at some time in the Victorian era, by someone with zero architectural taste.
Jørgen got out of the car, and after being at sea he swayed slightly as Morag led them both up the steps and into the hall. One good thing though, in the main living room, an enormous urn was on the boil with a vast teapot for dispensing tea, along with plates full of hard, dry oat biscuits. At one side was a billiard table and scoreboard, presumably for off-duty games.
He was relieved when Karl was taken into the interview room first. It gave him time to recover. He helped himself to tea and a biscuit, and for the first time in a month he was still, and it was as though his heart dropped down a gear.
A big bay window had a view over the harsh landscape of fell and heather. The land was devoid of trees, and the wind was clearing the mist and blowing the grass in undulating waves. He gazed into the distance where a few more hardy sheep grazed, their backs to the prevailing wind.
So this was Scalloway. Last time he left Shetland was after he’d done his training in the Highlands, and he’d left from Lunna, an even more remote part of the island. This place looked equally dour and grey.
He suppressed a pang of homesickness for Norway; for blue fjords and snow-capped peaks. He told himself not to be so stupid. He’d go back, one day, when Norway was free.
‘Glad to be here?’ a soft voice said in Norwegian. It was Morag, the girl who was part of the Norwegian consulate.
‘I still haven’t really landed,’ he said.
‘Yes. It takes most of the refugees that way. Partly it’s just being safe; having got here at all.’
He turned to get a better look at her. She was dressed in a plaid skirt and a knitted jumper in traditional Scottish style; nothing showy. Her face was pleasant and open, a few freckles across the nose, her brown hair brushed to a shine. She was gazing at him enquiringly.
‘You speak good Norwegian.’
‘My mother was Norwegian,’ she said. ‘Father brought her back here when they got married. But she died before the war. Of T.B. It’s why I do this; for her. To help her countrymen. She was from Trondheim. Where are you from?’
‘Oslo. Are there many other refugees here?’
‘Hundreds have passed through, I’ve lost count. Most go on to London, so I don’t see much of them. Just arrange their transport. One or two of the Norwegian men stay though, and work here for the Shetland Bus. They like to be close to home, and to feel like they’re still helping.’ She raised an eyebrow at him, challenging.
He gave a brief nod. He wondered if she approached all the Norwegians in this way; with a gentle hint. He turned to glance at the door to the office where Karl was being interviewed.
‘He’s being a long time,’ she said. ‘Usually it’s a quick in and out.’
‘Maybe they’ve got onto skiing. He’s an Olympic skier, you know.’
‘Really? He’ll find it hard on Shetland then. More rain and wind than snow.’
Just then the door opened, and Karl emerged. His eyes fixed on Morag straight away, smiled and asked her, ‘Any more of that tea?’
‘Of course.’ She led him over to the tea table. Jørgen noticed Karl’s blue eyes were twinkling in a way he hadn’t seen before. It took him aback; he hadn’t realised what Karl would be like with women.
‘Jørgen Nystrøm?’
Jørgen tore his eyes away from where Karl was charming Morag. Captain Harcourt was holding the door open for him, so he hurried through and sat in the worn leather chair opposite the desk. Another younger man, a sergeant in English army uniform, was there at a side table to take notes in shorthand. The room smelled of leather and damp carpets.
He couldn’t help recce-ing the room. A glance at the bookshelf showed mostly Christian books and books on the Catholic Church. The only thing that showed they were at war was a Mark III ‘Tinker Box’, the long-range wireless combo which he recognised from his training.
Captain Harcourt saw him appraising his surroundings. ‘Take no notice of the background. We borrow the office from the chaplaincy.’ He offered him a cigarette but Jørgen waved it away. ‘You were a W/T operator, code name The Whale?’
Jørgen nodded. The Whale had been loosely based on his name Jørgen, like Jonah in the Bible. Usually people were named after mice, or other small burrowing animals. It was the Norwegian idea of a joke to give him something so enormous. He briefly outlined all the information about the U-boat base at Bergen. So many miles he’d travelled, hugging this information to his chest, that to see the Sergeant write it all down gave him almost a feeling of euphoria.
When he’d finished Harcourt asked him; ‘So, just tell us in your own words how you came to get passage on the Shetland Bus.’
He detailed his journey, how he met Karl Brevik.
‘Ah, yes. Brevik. What do you know about him?’
It was then that he realised he knew virtually nothing. ‘We didn’t have much time for small-talk,’ he said. ‘But he saved my life.’
Captain Harcourt nodded. ‘So he said. He dug you out of an avalanche. Must have been pretty frightening.’
‘I’d be dead, if it wasn’t for him. My pack was stuck in the drift. And I’d never have made it to the coast unless he gave me his skis.’
‘Did he speak to you about his parents, or his family?’
‘No. It was a hard journey, and not much time for talk.’ Was this about Brevik or him? Jørgen squirmed. He felt lacking somehow, that he didn’t know more.
‘Shame. Still, we got onto SOE by telephone last night and researched his background, as we did yours. His father, Anton Brevik was a big mover in something called the Fatherland League. It has something in common with Hitler’s ideals for his country, but that was in the past, and thankfully there’s no sign at all of the son following in his father’s footsteps. Brevik’s police career seems to have been exemplary. Citations for bravery too.’
He was trying to catch up. They’d researched him, and Karl? He glanced round to see Harris, the young sergeant scribbling away in shorthand.
‘Brevik’s obviously a bit of a well-known sportsman,’ Captain Harcourt said, ‘won all sorts of medals for Norway. We noticed there were a few things in his pack that were a bit unusual though. Did he tell you where he got the map? It’s not like the ones we issue.’
‘I was wary when he turned up out of the blue, so I took a look in his pack,’ Jørgen said. ‘There was a transmitter, and I saw the maps. He said he was working for Milorg.’
‘Yes, that checks out. A failed sabotage of some steelworks in Bremen set him on the run. He gave us names of the men he’d been working with.’
‘What did they say?’
‘Unfortunately nothing. They were men who’d been caught by the Gestapo and executed.’
Jørgen weighed the thought a moment before speaking. ‘I don’t want to sound suspicious sir, but it was odd the way Brevik just ap
peared in the middle of nowhere. And now you’re telling me he didn’t give you the name of a single contact that’s still alive?’’
‘I thought you were friends? Are you telling me the man’s not trustworthy?’
‘I don’t know. I just think we should keep an open mind.’
‘I understand you’ve been through a lot, Nystrøm. And that wireless operators live on their nerves. It could be that you’re seeing phantoms where none exist.’ Harcourt tapped his fingers on the desk, ruminating. ‘Of course it will all be checked out. Now we’ve talked to you, perhaps we need to make further calls to the SOE.’
‘If there is something … what are you going to do about him?’
‘Nothing for now,’ Captain Harcourt said, fiddling with the button on his cuff. ‘We find this a lot, with men who’ve been on the run. A kind of over-sensitivity. All Brevik’s credentials check out, and obviously he’s a well-known figure, so he’s rather been in the public eye.’
Over sensitivity? Jørgen felt rage mount within him. He was doing his job; that was all. Raising valid concerns when he thought it right to do so. But here was Harcourt treating him like some kind of nervous wreck. He suspected even Harcourt had been dazzled by Brevik, by his good looks and charm and the fact he was a kind of celebrity.
Harcourt was still talking. ‘We’ve billeted you together at the barracks. And we need to know your plans — whether you’ll be moving on — separately or alone, so we can make provision for further appropriate training. I take it you wish to further the cause against Hitler?’
‘Yes, sir, of course.’
‘Obviously we don’t want to rush you into anything,’ Harcourt said. ‘There’s a price on both your heads and we won’t be sending either you back to Norway for a while. Now the light’s increasing, it’s more of a risk. And anyway, we wouldn’t send you until it’s calmed down.’
‘About Karl Brevik —’
‘You can leave him to us. Over the next few days the SOE will be checking him out,’ Harcourt said impatiently. ‘And in the meantime we’ll be double-checking your logbook, so we can tally your broadcast times against ours, okay?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Oh, and Nystrøm, Welcome to Scotland.’
When Jørgen got out of the room a sense of disorientation had taken hold. Maybe Harcourt was right. Karl had saved his life, and he was treating him like the enemy. War did odd things to people, and perhaps the strain of his flight across the vidda and the whole business of Lind and the avalanche had got to him more than he thought it had.
Two close shaves. He thought of Lind, lying by the side of the tracks. Probably dead by now because they thought Lind was him. He supposed that kind of responsibility was enough to bother anyone.
He glanced over to where Karl was seated, over by the window, one long leg crossed easily over the other. He had a cup and saucer in his hand, and was obviously still attempting to hold Morag Airdrie in his thrall.
‘Ah, Jørgen,’ Karl said, gesturing him over. ‘Let you stay, have they?’
‘Well they’ve given me a billet number, so I guess so.’
‘Good show,’ Morag said. ‘Your bags should be ready for collection, and I’ll drive you both down to the barracks. Captain Harcourt will take his own car; he’s got to go to Lerwick before he goes back to base.’
They climbed aboard the creaking Morris, and Morag drove, bumping down the rutted tracks. It felt odd to be driven by a woman, but she was obviously a capable driver, despite Karl’s attempts to win her over from the front passenger seat.
‘Where do you live?’ he was asking. And, ‘Where can you get a decent Norwegian beer?’
Jørgen was uneasy. Was this just chat-up, or was it intelligence gathering? He chided himself. He was being over-suspicious again. Trouble was, once you thought like a spy, it was hard to change your thinking. He told himself to relax.
Karl’s charming smile persisted throughout, and Jørgen had to admit, he was a handsome man. Just the type to knock the socks off a girl like Morag.
Morag however, seemed to be holding her own. ‘Beer? In Scotland? An absolute travesty! You need a good old dose of Scottish whisky. Something warming.’
No flies on that one, Jørgen thought, with admiration. Probably all the guys tried it on with her.
They drew up at Lerwick, at some long low buildings. ‘Here you go,’ Morag said. ‘You’ll be billeted here with ten others, when they eventually arrive. Used to be the sardine canning factory, but now it’s our camp for refugees. It’s only temporary, until we know where you’ll be going on to.’
‘Back to Norway, I hope,’ Karl said. ‘To get a few more of us out.’
She seemed surprised. ‘The journey out didn’t put you off then?’ She let down the tailgate of the boot.
‘It wasn’t that rough. I’ve seen worse.’ Karl slung an arm around Jørgen’s shoulders. ‘And Jørgen and I want to serve Norway the best we can.’
Jørgen flinched surprised at Karl’s sudden chummy behaviour. Probably for Morag’s benefit.
‘Then I’ll be seeing you both back at Scalloway soon,’ she said, as she heaved their new kitbags out of the boot. ‘You’re in room 3. Beds 7 and 8. Cheerio.’
She was in the car and trundling away in a spatter of mud from the tyres before they could even wave.
The billets were as they’d expected; spartan. Iron bedstead, wooden locker, grey army blankets, lumpy pillow. Each bed was supplied with a metal torch for going out to the toilet block, and a rudimentary printed map of Shetland.
‘How did the grilling go?’ Karl asked, as Jørgen tried to shove his whole kitbag into the locker.
‘Okay. Standard stuff. You?’ As Jørgen sat on the bed to ease off his boots, the springs gave an ominous creak.
‘Same. Volunteered for the Shetland Bus crew though. Think I’d like to get back out there, now I’ve seen what it entails. I could be crew, easy, even if not skipper a boat. Used to sail a lot when I was a kid.’
‘I was thinking of it,’ Jørgen said. ‘Harcourt seems to think we need time to recover, spend a bit of time on dry land before we put to sea again.’
‘Tosh. He means they don’t put out in the summer. Too risky — could be spotted by enemy planes, and the nights are not long enough anymore. The “simmer dim” I’ve heard the Shetlanders call it — endless daylight. So I guess it’ll be four more months before they send anyone.’
‘Then I might look for a job in the office. Decoding, or clerical work. I’ve the skills for that.’
‘You’re not serious about staying stuck in an office? You’ll be crewing for them, soon as you can, won’t you?’ Karl asked.
Jørgen lay back on the pillow. Harcourt’s mistrust of his judgement had disturbed him. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said.
Karl shoved Jørgen’s feet to one side and sat down on the end of his bed. ‘They need good W/T operators back in Norway. Are you really saying you’ll sit out the war here? I never thought you one for giving up.’
Jørgen didn’t know what he thought any more, except he didn’t like being pressured by Karl. ‘Let’s talk later. I’m all in,’ he said. ‘I’m going to take a nap.’
He felt the rise of the springs as Karl moved away, and the noise of him taking off his boots and unpacking. In the distance seabirds squawked and sheep bleated. The wind rattled the iron-framed windows in impatient gusts.
Later Karl said, ‘I’m going to find a beer. Coming?’
‘No. You go,’ Jørgen said. ‘I’m going to doze a bit longer.’ He felt odd, as if half of him was still on the other side of the sea. He thought of Astrid, and life going on in Oslo without him, and of the long nights he’d spent alone in mountain huts. He wondered how he’d been rumbled, how he hadn’t known the Germans were onto him, until it was too late. It had knocked his confidence.
And then he thought of Karl. He didn’t want to admit to himself he was losing his judgement. He weighed the probabilities that Karl Brevik was an enemy
agent. There was no evidence at all, so the risk was maybe less than one percent. After all he’d met Astrid by chance at a mountain hut, hadn’t he? He’d have to get over this suspicion; leave Harcourt to investigate. He chafed against the idea that people thought he was suffering from some sort of war fatigue.
Finally, rocked by his own not-yet-stable-on-land stomach, he slept.
The next morning, he woke to find a heavy hand on his shoulder, pressing him down. ‘No!’ he yelled, lashing out.
‘Calm down,’ said Karl.
‘What? What’s going on?’ He sat bolt upright, his heart pounding, his mind full of confused images of Nazis burrowing like ants as he tried to escape through tunnels of snow.
‘You were having a nightmare, moaning and calling out. I didn’t want you to wake the others.’
He looked around. Most of the other beds were occupied now. Another boat must have come in in the night, and they were surrounded by a bunch of ragged refugees snoring in the early morning light. ‘Sorry,’ he said, feeling foolish.
‘I can smell toast,’ Karl said. ‘See you at breakfast.’
After he’d washed and dressed Jørgen began to feel more normal. A little investigation found him a draughty dining hall where a big vat of oatmeal was on the boil, with toast, butter, and a red paste proclaiming itself to be jam, though there seemed to be no fruit in it that he could discern.
He tucked in, hungry now his stomach had settled. He joined Karl at one of the trestle tables. Today, Karl seemed less threatening, and more like just a guy having breakfast. Jørgen relaxed.
After breakfast Morag appeared in the old Morris banger again and said Captain Harcourt had asked to see them over at Scalloway, and she was to drive them there for a guided tour.
‘Does that mean we’ve been accepted?’ Karl was keen.
‘Too early to say. You’ll need to do on-shore duties with the rest of us, if you’re staying,’ she said. ‘Mind you, you’ve picked a good day for it.’
She was right. The sky had cleared into a pale blue with clouds scudding by, and as they drove down towards the bay at Scalloway the sea sparkled, topped by runnels of miniature white horses. Karl had leapt in the front seat next to Morag, and left Jørgen to ride in the back.
The Lifeline Page 13
