The Saboteur

by Andrew Gross

  The deal was fixed.

  “If they search your car, you’ll be shot,” Nordstrum instructed him.

  “Then a lot of people will go thirsty.” The beer salesman smiled.

  They needed a radio. Nordstrum placed a pebble in Hella’s mailbox and put his coded message in a bottle in a drainage culvert near her home. She picked it up on the way to work.

  Two days later she shifted the OPEN sign on her storefront from the front door to the left window. Nordstrum bought a pack of cigarettes at the tobacconist across the street. He skied up to her cabin that afternoon.

  “Give them a week, they say.” Hella handed him the message. He leaned his skis up and kicked the snow off his boots. “They’ll drop the radio near Mosvatn on Saturday. If you need help, I’ll go with you.”

  “You?” Nordstrum smiled. “A nice thought. But I’m afraid not.”

  “Why not? I can ski. Anders and I always vacationed in the mountains. I can handle a gun too. Look…” She had a Czech-made pistol in the drawer where the radio was.

  Nordstrum smiled again. “I bet you can. But you never know what you might run into on the way. And anyway, you’ve become far too valuable where you are.”

  “Well, I won’t let up. I can do more. Let me make you a tea.”

  “A quick one.” Nordstrum took a glance out the window. “I don’t like the looks of it out there.” He looked over the message one more time and fed it into the fire. “I’ve got a long trek. I should be on my way.”

  He watched her while she went to the wood-burning stove and put on some water. She looked pretty today. She always did. Today she wore a long white sweater and tight black wool stretch pants that accented her shape. Her hair, brown and thick with streaks of henna, fell below one shoulder in a loose braid.

  “Milk?” She turned back and caught him watching her, as the water boiled.

  “Black, please,” Nordstrum said.

  They talked a bit, about rumors of the impending Allied invasion, which was said might take place in Norway. About her husband, a school principal before the war. And for the first time she told him she had a son. He allowed her to freshen his cup one more time. Finally Nordstrum went to the window. “It’s starting to snow.”

  Hella came over next to him and looked out as well. He was sure he smelled the scent he had sampled in her store. Persimmon. “How far do you have to go?”

  “A ways.” He never told her where he stayed, in this case a hut by Lake Maure, if the Germans hadn’t burned it. A good fifteen kilometers. He was always careful about that. In case she was discovered. And not to involve her any deeper than she already was.

  “Maybe it’ll stop soon,” Nordstrum said.

  “It’s coming from the north,” she said. “Not the best sign.”

  Their eyes met, and there was a moment between them, her braid falling over her chest and a silence long enough to take their thoughts to a place they might never have thought. She said, “If you want, there’s an extra blanket in the closet.…”

  He looked at her. Why not? he heard the voice inside him asking. Anything could happen. Who knew if they’d be alive in a week. Or even tomorrow.

  “Hella.”

  “Make no mistake, I love my husband. But who knows when he’s coming back. Or if…?”

  It would be so easy, Nordstrum thought. Putting his hand on her. He already felt her breaths going in and out. And it’s not like he hadn’t thought of it. But giving in would only make them careless, he knew. And expose them both. And feelings—in this war there was no place for them. After … That was another thing.

  “When we go to Sweden.” He smiled, his eyes showing a tinge of regret. He put his hand on Hella’s shoulder. “You can wait?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.” She pulled away and smoothed her sweater. “I can wait.”

  “Good. I ought to be going now. We both should. Those tracks outside might alert some uninvited guests. I’ll help you hide the radio.” They had made a false compartment in the bedroom closet that would be hard to find.

  “Of course.” He detected a tremor of disappointment in her. As there was inside him as well. She stood up and looked at him with her dark, stolid eyes. “I have to be at the shop early tomorrow myself.” Still she smiled. “Until Sweden then.”

  54

  It didn’t take two years as thought for the Nazis to resume their heavy water production at Vemork.

  It only took two months.

  By May, with Nordstrum having successfully developed five agents now, Einar passed along the news that the high-concentration cells, which Nordstrum and his team had executed such a daring raid to eliminate, had been repaired enough that production of new deuterium oxide was already under way. Since the distillation of new heavy water required an existing supply of finished product, canisters of D2O that had previously been shipped to Germany were sent back to Vemork to accelerate the process.

  Even more disturbing, according to Skinnarland’s source inside the plant, the mandate from Berlin was no longer the 1,000 pounds per month Norsk Hydro had previously been maintaining, but now 3,000. Word was that the recent collapse of the German Army in Stalingrad gave Hitler new urgency to develop a weapon that could tilt the war his way.

  All of this had the Joint Command in London in a state of high alarm, more convinced than ever that the Nazis were getting close to something. And in Washington, General Leslie Groves, the military head of the Manhattan Project, as well. He urged the commanders in London that the heavy water production at Vemork must be stopped at any cost, and this time for good.

  But the raid on the Norsk Hydro plant had convinced the Nazis to redouble security measures at the plant—tripling the detachment of guards and replacing the old ones with fresh, crack troops; ringing the plant with dozens of barbed-wire fences and additional layers of mines; stationing guards on the roof, who now manned searchlights full time; and bricking over all doors to the facility, save one, and covering all windows with iron bars, making it virtually impossible to gain access to the plant through forced entry.

  Back in London, SOE planners came to the conclusion that another raid like Gunnerside was impossible. The contingent needed to carry it out would need to be of such size that merely landing them in Norway without notice would be a feat. The raid itself would need to be a full-out assault. The plant’s defenses were far too advanced now. And then escaping, even if they proved successful, across the vidda to Sweden, was another matter entirely. After the loss of life on Freshman, no one in Whitehall was prepared to sign off on such a risk: to send in highly trained soldiers and operatives with such a slim likelihood of ever returning.

  There was one last option that loomed over the discussions. An option no one at SOE was in favor of.

  In recent months, the United States Air Force had shown in other theaters that precision bombing was indeed possible now. Factions in Washington, D.C., and even in the Joint Command in London were pushing for such an action in Norway.

  General Ira Eaker, in charge of the U.S. Eighth Air Force, in Britain, was tasked with studying the mission. But he could give no assurance other than saying such a raid could be carried off with only a “relative” prospect of success. The gorge was far too narrow and the target too protected by the canyon’s walls. The compressors lay in the basement of a heavily constructed seven-story concrete structure. And all the smoke and dust that would result from the first wave of bombers that dropped their payloads would make visibility practically nil for the ones to follow.

  Not to mention the dozens of civilians living within a few hundred meters of the plant, Tronstad pointed out, and the town of Rjukan, with over five thousand people in it, only a kilometer away, if things truly went awry.

  Nonetheless, in London and Washington, Churchill and Leslie Groves knew the costs of doing nothing would become a whole lot higher.

  The summer passed. Nothing happened. Nordstrum thought maybe they had come to their senses.

  In October, h
e received a cable through Ox: Most important to obtain exact information and conditions and volume of present production at Vemork. When is final production expected to commence? How will the product be transported? STOP.

  He was assigned the task of finding someone of authority on the inside who could answer these questions.

  Now that Jomar Brun was in London, that left only one person.

  55

  Twice a week, Chief Engineer Alf Larsen stopped off at the bakery in Rjukan and brought home a small box of chocolates for himself, his one vice.

  Larsen wasn’t a drinker or a gambler; he preferred a night of bridge to poker or dice. In truth, he was never very comfortable with women, and in spite of his steady nature and well-paying job, he had never attracted a wife. He had worked all his career for the job he now held, though his appointment had been made only after the hasty departure of his predecessor and his family in the middle of the night. As much as he detested and feared the Nazis—they had terrorized the workers and narrowed the plant’s entire production to their single military concern—resisting them meant certain death. They had made that abundantly clear. He simply resigned himself to do the job for which he was tasked and ride out the war. Stay under the radar, take no large risks; leave the fighting to others. A night of bridge on Saturday. An occasional chocolate. One day it would be all right.

  “Here you are, Chief Larsen.” The woman behind the counter tied up his box of chocolates.

  “Thank you, Astrid.” Larsen poked through his change and laid out the precise amount.

  “See you Friday, I’m sure.” The clerk smiled. “Almond brittle.”

  “God willing, I’ll be here.”

  He got back in his Opel, which he had left in the alley bordering the shop. He placed the box of candy on the passenger seat next to his briefcase and put his key in the ignition.

  “Don’t turn around, Chief Larsen.”

  He felt something metallic and cold against the back of his neck. His heart came to a stop. His eyes shot to the mirror and he saw the man in a woolen cap and clipped, blond beard in the backseat, his fingers wrapped around a gun.

  “Don’t be alarmed. Just drive. I only want a word with you. I’m sure this won’t be necessary.” He removed the gun and silencer from the back of his neck.

  “Whoever you are, this isn’t the way to do this,” the engineer said, his eyes furtively shifting to the mirror. “You may know I’m being watched. The Gestapo may even be watching now. There are ears everywhere in Rjukan.”

  “That’s why this is the only way to do this,” Nordstrum said. “Just put the car in gear and drive. Maybe you can make a stop at Rolf’s Tavern for a beer.”

  “Rolf’s? That’s on the way to Vigne, isn’t it?”

  “That’s the place.”

  “You know I don’t drink.”

  “Don’t drink? What a pity in this war. Not to worry, just drive there nonetheless.”

  Nodding tremulously, Larsen turned the key in the ignition and did as he was told.

  Nordstrum said, “I’m sorry for the jolt to your heart. I assure you, I would never have used it,” he said, putting the gun away. “But we need a hand inside the plant. As you know, the situation there has recently changed.”

  “Changed?” Larsen wove the car out of the town onto the main road east. “What’s changed?”

  “The heavy water production has changed,” Nordstrum said, and for the first time, sat up behind him.

  Larsen didn’t say anything for a while. Then he just nodded. “Who are you with?”

  “What does it matter who I’m with? I’m with the king, that’s all you need to know. I’m with anyone who sees that the Allies must prevail and the Nazis must be stopped. Who are you with?”

  “I’m for staying alive.” Larsen cast a glance behind him. “Look, of course, I try to help. Like I told your friend Skinnarland—he is your friend, I assume—you just can’t ask too much. There are too many eyes. It’s far too dangerous.”

  “I know you try, Chief Larsen. Just keep driving. Einar said you were a good man. We know you’re no Nazi. There’ll just be a time when we’ll need you to prove it in a deeper way.”

  “A deeper way…?” Nordstrum noticed the engineer break out in a sweat. He drove on the winding road past Nordstrum’s family house, taking the turnoff toward Vigne. Out here, the traffic was light. “Look, I’m not Tronstad. Or even Brun. I’m no hero. I do what I can.”

  “I’m afraid doing what you can do is no longer sufficient, Chief Engineer. You can see that, can’t you? You’re a scientist. You can’t pretend. You see exactly what they want from you. And you also know why.”

  “Yes.” Larsen met Nordstrum’s eyes in the mirror. A bead of sweat wormed down his collar. “I know why.”

  “At some point,” Nordstrum put his hand on the man’s shoulder, “even those who have the most to lose have to act.”

  The harried chief engineer swallowed. He drove on a bit farther. “Look, I’ll try to help. Where I can. How’s that? I’ll get you information. I can’t promise more. Even you must know it’s important to have someone like me inside. I can’t jeopardize that.”

  “No one’s looking to jeopardize that. I’m simply here to tell you that one day soon we are going to need more. You’ll have to choose. You can drop me off around that curve.”

  Larsen slowed the car. Around the bend was a bus stop. A bicycle leaned against a rock. He pulled the car over. He waited a second, looking straight ahead, and said, “I honestly don’t know if I’m your man.”

  “Oh, you’re our man, Larsen. I’m sure of it. You’ll hear from me again.” Nordstrum slid out the door. “Look in the mirror, Chief Engineer, I think you’ll find the answer. Maybe next time, we’ll share a game of bridge. In the meantime…” Nordstrum shut the door and leaned inside the window. “Enjoy your chocolates.”

  56

  With October came the snows. Nordstrum spent much of it shifting from place to place, developing his team of agents.

  In the past months the German sweeps across the vidda had finally pulled back and become far less organized. Their assumption, according to Einar, who’d heard it from his sources at the plant, was that the team of agents responsible for the sabotage at the plant had likely long since left the country, and even if one had been sighted and was still in the region, production at Norsk Hydro was back under way and they could no longer justify such heightened troop levels in the pursuit of a single man. The Germans’ real effort now was poured into fortifying the plant’s defenses. They still had their W/T vehicles on patrol. Whoever was out there would make a mistake, they reasoned, and then they’d have him. Sooner or later, he’d fall into their hands.

  * * *

  That summer, Nordstrum heard through the network that his father had been transferred to the concentration camp at Grini. A death sentence, he knew, to a man in his condition. And not long after that he found out through a message snuck out from the camp that indeed his father had died.

  What could I have done? he asked himself. Taken him from his house. To where? England, maybe? How? Another town? The old man would never have come. Organized a raid to spring him from the jail? Einar was right, such things would have been mere stupidity and jeopardized the cause. War just took things, Nordstrum had learned. Ground them up in its indifferent jaw, like a tank running over friend and foe alike, spitting them back out as memories. Now was not the time to regret anything. If anyone, his father would have understood. What could you do, Nordstrum came to view it, except to do everything you could to make sure those jaws didn’t clamp their teeth on you one day and chew you up as well. That was all.

  In mid-November Nordstrum made his rounds to Uvdal and noticed the CLOSED sign in Hella’s shop placed in the window, and not on the door.

  It was only four in the afternoon. Her shop lights were off. She knew to take the strictest precautions about leaving early or drawing attention to herself.

  Clearly something had com
e in for him.

  More than once he had thought about the time at her cabin when he’d almost given in, and often wished that he had. Since that time the moment and the opportunity had not coincided. Besides, he had a strict rule, and to let things go any further, even once, or to become involved, would only expose them both to danger. For now it was about the war. Afterward…? Still, what was there to stop them, he sometimes let himself think. Tomorrow they could both be dead. It would give him something pleasurable and life affirming to take his mind from all the death he’d seen. Even if only for a few hours.

  But he did not.

  There was adequate snow, so Nordstrum skied the hour-long trek from town to her cabin. He was always careful to avoid any travelers on the way, especially in the summer and fall when there were more people in the mountains. Today, he passed only two. He merely pulled up his mask to hide his face. “Good day!” He waved to them as he passed by. As he neared the valley where her cabin was located, he noticed a low-flying Storch in the sky, buzzing around. What was it looking for here? He took cover until it went away.

  In another mile or so, the maze of public ski tracks ended and he picked up what he assumed was Hella’s single track on the way to her cabin. At first he felt lifted that she would be there, though a stab of uneasiness picked up in him, as examining her trail, he began to feel the tracks were not fresh. Maybe even from the day before.

  As he glided down the final ridge, still a kilometer or so away, any concern he had intensified into outright worry.

  A second track seemed to have intercepted hers. A vehicle. It looked like that of a German half-track with its wide treads, the only thing that could get around in the mountains. It came from the west, from Haukeli maybe, a village known to be full of Germans.

  A knot tightened in Nordstrum’s chest.

  The German W/T patrols were always a constant threat. Which was why they had to make their transmissions brief and infrequent. And why a skilled operator was the only kind that survived.