The Saboteur

by Andrew Gross

  He flushed, ran tap water over his hands, straightened his fly, and stepped out of the toilet. Lieutenant Holm, who oversaw the radar room, stood at Freyn’s desk.

  “I am sorry, Herr Major,” the lieutenant said, “but it’s urgent.”

  “Nature, my apologies, Lieutenant,” Freyn grunted, even though he was well aware his staff privately laughed about how much time he spent occupied. He motioned with his fingers for the report. “What do you have?”

  “One of our planes has spotted a ship, apparently a Norwegian coastal steamer,” the aide announced. “The Galtesund. It was due in Stavanger yesterday afternoon, but never arrived.”

  “The Galtesund.” Freyn took a seat at his desk. “Spotted where, you say?” He looked over the paper routinely. A coastal steamer, urgent? Who in their right mind even cared?

  “Fifty-six point five longitude north, three point five latitude east…” The lieutenant read off the coordinates.

  “And that would put it…?” Freyn glanced toward the map, sucking in his bladder and wincing.

  “That would put it precisely here.” The lieutenant placed his finger on a spot. “Directly in the middle of the North Sea, sir.”

  “The North Sea?” Freyn stood up.

  “That is correct, Major. And heading due west, according to our plane. At thirteen knots. To this point, they’ve ignored all radio warnings to turn around. By the looks of it, it appears to be making a run for it.”

  “A run for it…?” The lieutenant had Freyn’s attention now and he turned to the map on the wall. “A run for where?”

  “The only possible answer is for England, I believe, Major.”

  A knot rose up in Freyn’s gut, the irritation in his bladder suddenly a million kilometers away. He took hold of his phone. “Give me German Military Command. General Graebner’s office. In Oslo.”

  “General Graebner, sir?” the attendant replied with surprise.

  “Graebner, yes, and quickly, Corporal!” He turned back to Lieutenant Holm. “What is the weather in the North Sea at those bearings?”

  Holm paged through his report. “Clouds at two thousand meters, it appears. But weather is approaching fast.”

  “And do we have any ships in the area that can intercept?”

  “I am told no, Herr Major. The closest destroyer is the Z32. And it is over three hundred nautical kilometers to the south.”

  Freyn looked again at the map. He plotted the approximate position of the coastal steamer. And then the destroyer. It was 560 nautical kilometers from Bergen to Scotland. If Freyn was anything, he was prepared. At fifteen knots, England was only a day and a half away. They’d never catch it. He pushed back the pain. What would a coastal passenger steamer be doing in the middle of the North Sea?

  From outside his office, his attendant called, “General Graebner on the line, sir.”

  Freyn picked up. Graebner was in charge of all Norwegian air defenses. “Herr General, good day to you. We seem to have an event here, a civilian coastal steamer that is making a run for, of all places, England.…” He explained the situation, as well as the likelihood that it could never be caught. “I don’t know, sir. I have no idea why a coastal passenger ship would be making a dash for England.”

  The senior officer quickly barked his commands in Freyn’s ear.

  Freyn drew back at the command. “You are certain, sir?” he asked, and just as quickly, the order was confirmed. “Then it will be done, Herr General. I will inform you as soon as I have news.” He put down the phone, ashen, staring blankly past Holm to the map.

  “Sink it,” he said to his lieutenant.

  “Sink it, sir?” The junior officer looked dumbfounded.

  “You heard me, Lieutenant. Call Luftwaffe command in Bergen on my orders and order the ship to be sunk.”

  “Herr Major, may I remind you the Galtesund is a civilian vessel and likely filled with nonmilitary passengers. Whoever has commandeered it, may I suggest we at least give it proper warning and then—”

  “Did you not understand my orders, Lieutenant?” Freyn shot back. Personally, he didn’t give a shit if the ship made it all the way to fucking America. His only real care was that the pain in his bladder would soon give him some relief. But orders were orders. And he had covered himself appropriately. “Radio our planes to sink the ship.” Freyn handed back the report.

  “Yes, Herr Major.” The lieutenant reluctantly nodded and headed for the door.

  “And Holm…”

  The junior officer turned at the door.

  “Make no attempt to rescue any passengers on board.”

  6

  Somewhere in the North Sea. Second day at sea.

  The first night on the ship passed uneventfully, as did the following morning. Nordstrum and his coconspirators sequestered most of the crew belowdecks, allowing only those roles that the captain insisted were essential to the running of the ship to be performed. The passengers were in a state of distress, of course. Afraid. Angry. There were business appointments that had been missed, families that were expecting them at Stavanger and Bergen who were now without word, not to mention the extreme danger they were being put in. The whispering among the passengers was that there was no way the Germans would allow them to go without force. That resistance fighters, however justified in their cause, were putting everyone at risk, even children, families, to make their own escape.

  But what other choice was there? Nordstrum asked himself. Explain to everyone on board that there was a purpose to what he and his men were doing that was far more critical to the war than all their private concerns?

  No, there was no other way, he knew. Or any reasonable alternative. They had done what needed to be done. This was war. They had to get this film to England. He felt certain that the Germans would allow the boat to return once he and his men had left.

  He pressed the captain to push his speed to twenty knots.

  “Twenty knots? We’ll run out of coal before we get halfway.”

  That morning, two planes were spotted in the eastern sky, black war crosses unmistakable on their wings. People pointed in alarm. “They’ve found us! You’ll kill us all,” they appealed to anyone with a gun. One or two stopped Nordstrum on deck. “You know what will happen. The Germans will never let us leave.”

  “There are families on board,” others protested worriedly, “not soldiers. What of them?”

  Einar kept at it on the radio to England, begging for air support, constantly transmitting their position. But scrambling a squadron of planes to escort a civilian ship required approval from higher-ups, and that took time. Even with a cargo as important as theirs was, which could not be explained over the radio.

  “So where is your escort now?” the captain spat accusingly, with a nervous eye to the German planes as well. They kept their gazes peeled as, high above them, the fighters circled the ship not once, but twice.

  Then, as if by some miracle, they disappeared.

  People cheered. Maybe the Nazis had let them go after all. But Aberdeen was still close to 300 kilometers away. And every one of them would be fraught with danger.

  Hours passed. The skies remained clear. “How are we on fuel?” Nordstrum asked the captain on the bridge.

  “You see these seas…,” the captain replied. Indeed, they had grown heavier. Waves now crashed against the Galtesund’s sides. “And the winds are coming from the northwest. Right into our faces. They’re up to twenty knots. We’re not equipped for this. We’re down to less than half fuel.”

  Less than half … Nordstrum did his own calculations and realized, at their present speed, they’d better get into the safety of English waters soon or they would be sitting ducks. And they certainly weren’t about to outrace anyone, if it came to such a thing.

  “Keep radioing,” he said to Einar. “Tell them it’s imperative we get an escort.”

  “You think you’re all heroes, don’t you?” The captain glared at them, brimming with contempt. “But it’s not
so heroic, if you ask me, putting innocent lives at risk, so you can do what, flee the Nazis and avoid capture?”

  “That’s not at all what this is about.” Nordstrum defended his actions as best he could. But he could not tell the captain any more. “And in war, innocents are all at risk.”

  “Then what is it, mind you? Don’t get me wrong, we all respect those who stood up and fought the Nazis. But in my thinking, true Norwegians go out of their way to protect their fellow countrymen’s lives. Not put them in peril. That’s what separates us from these…” The word he held on the tip of his tongue, but did not say, was “savages.” Nordstrum could feel it. “That’s what makes us Norwegian.”

  “We’re carrying something that needs to be put into the right hands,” Nordstrum finally said, as much as he was prepared to divulge. “Something very important to the war. And those hands are in England, unfortunately.”

  “Well, if it ends up on the bottom of the North Sea courtesy of a German dive-bomber, I don’t exactly see how you fulfilled your job.” The captain poured out two coffees and slid one to Nordstrum. “You can see there are women and children on this ship. Many of my own crew have their own families back home.… Do you have a wife, sir?” The captain softened his tone. “Here we are in the midst of all this and I don’t even know your name.”

  “Better that way,” Nordstrum said. “And no, no wife. But once…” He was about to tell of Anna-Lisette, but then stopped. Why? To make himself appear more human? To show what he had given up? Why even get into it? he decided.

  But the captain kept his gaze trained on him. “Then you can’t really see, can you?”

  Nordstrum took a gulp of coffee and thought of Anna-Lisette before looking away. “I can see.”

  Suddenly he heard a high-pitched wail from high in the sky. He looked up, shielding his eyes against the sun. Damn. He pointed to the gleam. “Messerschmitts! Two of them at one o’clock.”

  “Three!” Jens shouted back from out on deck.

  The three German fighters completed a high circle of the ship. Then they dropped down, one by one, seemingly preparing to dive.

  “See?” The captain glared, alarm stamped on his face. “I told you they’d come for us. Where is your precious escort now? We’re a defenseless target out here. Sound the alarm!” He grabbed the intercom and barked over the loudspeaker. “Emergency! This is your captain. Everyone off the decks. Quickly get inside or stay in your berths away from the windows and get on the floor immediately!”

  They looked toward the stern, and whoever was on deck grabbed their loved ones in panic and hurried under cover. Anxious shouts and wails could be heard everywhere. The German fighters descended in a sharp dive and picked up speed until they were no more than fifty feet above them, and suddenly strafed the decks, bullets tearing up the planking of the old ship, windows shattering, their engines screaming a high-pitched, deafening whine.

  “We’re a goddamn sitting duck!” the captain shouted above the rattle of bullets tearing into his ship. “We’re not built to fight. We can’t stand much of this. What do you plan to do, shoot them down with your tommies and pistols? We have to turn around.”

  The fighters shrieked past them and then arced back up in the sky, seeming to prepare for another pass. Nordstrum followed them with his binoculars, unsure of what to do.

  “If we move to turn around, maybe they’ll just let us go back,” the captain appealed to him. “Otherwise, next time around, they’ll drop their bombs and sink us for sure.”

  “If we turn around, we’re as good as dead anyway,” Nordstrum said, keeping his gun on the captain, though now, neither of them thought he would use it. “Keep course.”

  “You, maybe, but there’s a hundred and forty passengers on this boat. Are you prepared to take them all to the grave with you?”

  They followed the fighters as they turned around, their silver sides gleaming in the sun.

  “Are you?” The captain kept his eyes on Nordstrum with an unrelenting glare.

  “Keep the course.”

  Nordstrum sought out Einar. He knew what they had to put in Tronstad’s hands was of the highest importance and might well save lives, thousands of them, down the line. But right now they were faced with 140 lives on this boat. Norwegian lives. What happened to him and his friends was not important. They’d end up in some Gestapo dungeon, or more likely shot as soon as they stepped foot on shore. But the microfilm … That’s what mattered. That was why they did this.

  “They’re coming back around!” Jens shouted from out on the deck.

  “We’re sunk.” The captain shook his head with a tragic certainty, fixing on the planes.

  “We can take a shot at them on their way in,” said Jens, pulling back the bolt on his Bren. Not exactly a weapon that could bring down a plane. It would seem pointless, but maybe it would disrupt them. In the Songvaln, they’d fought with less.

  “All right.” Nordstrum finally nodded to the captain. “Turn it around.”

  Einar looked at him. “Kurt, no. We can’t.”

  “What hope is there, Einar? We’ve families on board. Turn it around.” He wasn’t prepared to take 140 lives to the bottom of the sea. All of them innocent. Children among them. He turned to the captain and put his Colt on the table. “Bring the ship around now, Captain. Fast as you can.”

  “Now you’re finally talking some sense.” The grizzled captain twisted the wheel sharply, sending those on the bridge, and likely anyone standing on the ship, scrambling to the right.

  At full speed the old boat quickly responded. Even on the bridge, they had to grab on to remain on their feet. From the air, the German fighters would have to spot their wake. They’d won now; maybe they’d call it off.

  But as they came down from the sky, their engines whining, still they didn’t break off their descent. Instead they headed directly for them in a terrifying dive. Each plane was armed with hundred-pound bombs that could blow an old crate like this right out of the sea.

  “Sonovabitch, they’re going to sink us anyway,” the captain said, looking straight into their approach. “Well, not if I have anything to do with it!” He jerked hard on the wheel, back to the left. The ship veered starboard. With a chilling whine, the planes bore down on them. One dropped two bombs as it passed overhead. They exploded in the sea, narrowly missing the ship’s stern.

  “The next one will hit us for sure,” the captain said.

  The second plane lined up to make the next pass.

  Einar looked at Nordstrum with a faint smile that read: Sorry, Kurt. We’re done for now. I wish I hadn’t dragged you into this.

  Suddenly Jens pointed to the sky. “Jesus, Kurt, look!”

  To the west, several gleaming shapes could be seen coming out of the clouds. At first they were no more than sharp reflections in the sun. But as they dove, in tight formation, who they were became clear.

  Spitfires. British.

  Six of them.

  Quicker and lighter than their German counterparts, who, spotting them on their tails in the midst of their attack and suddenly realizing they were now at a clear disadvantage, pulled off the attack and angled sharply up as the Brits swept down on them, pairing off two to a German plane. Outnumbered and outflanked, the Messerschmitts climbed back up into the clouds and continued away from the ship toward the horizon.

  “See! So what do you think of my escort now?” Einar shouted to the captain with an ecstatic whoop, shaking the old seaman by the shoulders. The Germans gone, the Brits streamed directly over their bow and dipped their wings. Passengers rushed back out on deck, waving their arms in triumph, cheering.

  The captain looked at Nordstrum with a relieved, bewildered smile, the color slowly returning to his face, a pallor that spoke of just how close they’d come to their graves. “You were damn lucky, son, whatever your name is.”

  “It’s Nordstrum.” It hardly seemed to matter now. “Tell me, Captain, is there any champagne on board?”

  “Cham
pagne? You must be joking. We’re a coastal steamer, not the Queen Mary. Aquavit, maybe.”

  “Then break it out.” The color returned to Nordstrum’s face as well. “I think we’ve earned a toast.”

  “To the Brits,” Einar said with a gleam in his eye. A gleam of their good fortune.

  Nordstrum picked his Colt back up. “Yes, to the Brits. Reverse course, Captain. Due west, once more, in case you’ve forgotten,” he said, patting the old seaman on the back. “The same rules apply.”

  It would be clear sailing all the way to Scotland now.

  7

  At the office of the Nasjonal Samling police in Rjukan, Captain Dieter Lund paged through the police report.

  Two days ago, a fellow NS officer named Oleg Rand had disappeared between the ferry terminals of Tinnoset and Mael, on his way to Rauland. Not just an NS officer, Lund was quick to note. A fellow Hird like himself, one of the Quisling government’s most trusted brigade. As NS prefect over the Telemark region, under the local Gestapo, it was Lund’s job to investigate the disappearance, since the missing person was of Norwegian origin. Rand was last seen by the ticket master in Tinnoset as he boarded the ferry there. Then it was as if he had simply vanished into thin air. The missing officer was a decorated lieutenant in an elite guard, on a personal mission from General Amundson in Oslo, hardly someone who would suddenly abandon his duties on a whim or go AWOL. Clearly something had happened. But two days had passed and still no one was talking. Not any of the ferry passengers Lund had been able to round up after the ship landed, nor the crew. In fact, to his amazement (and his deep suspicion, as well), no one seemed to recall even seeing the man. A conspicuous figure in a gray Hirden uniform, by all accounts a committed and decorated officer. Lund knew, of course, no one liked helping the NS, who were looked at as turncoats who had knuckled under and were happily doing the bidding of the Nazis, traitors to the king. But still, he had his ways. Double the ration card of a soul in need or arrange for the procurement of needed medication. Assist a citizen whose wife’s cousin had perhaps run into a bit of trouble with the law. And in spite of the held-in disdain that Lund felt every day, from the eyes of those in this region he had grown up with and who he’d known for close to thirty years, a good policeman always knew ways to pierce the public silence.