The Saboteur

by Andrew Gross

  Gutterson and Larsen pulled their caps tightly over their ears and skied a few strides. When the Yank realized Nordstrum had not followed, he turned back to him. “Kurt…?”

  Something in Nordstrum kept him rooted there. A force, which, while it insisted to him where his true duty lay and that there were still battles ahead to fight, and this was merely one small frame in a film playing out whose ending had not yet been written, still tightened like a knot in his gut, even as he willed his legs to move, Now, let’s go, to start the journey.

  “I know you, Kurt, you won’t be there. You’ll stay and fight.”

  They would not comply.

  He took out his Colt and stuffed it in his belt.

  “Kurt, in a couple of hours every Nazi in Norway will be looking for us,” Gutterson appealed to him. “You can’t do anything for her. It’s time to leave.”

  “Yes, Nordstrum, I don’t want to be anywhere near when those charges go off,” Larsen said, backing him up.

  Nordstrum put down the binoculars. He looked at them. “You go on ahead,” he said.

  “Go on ahead?” The Yank looked back, bewildered. “What do you mean? We’re all going.”

  “You know the Skrykken cabin, don’t you, Eric?”

  “Of course. Where we left from the last time. But—”

  “Grab what there is to eat there. Ox and I stocked it well. Don’t stay the night. It’ll be far too risky. Unless there’s a storm, of course. I’ll try and meet you there tonight. If not there, farther up the slope, where we met the hunter. You recall it, right?”

  “Of course I recall it, Kurt. But there’s no chance. We all go together.”

  “No, Yank. Not this time. I can’t.”

  Startled, Gutterson skied back to him. “C’mon, Kurt, we’re leaving now. What do mean, you can’t?”

  Even Larsen, who was now a bit nervous, and not quite understanding what all the hesitation was about, said, “Yes, what’s going on, Nordstrum? Let’s go.”

  “If I’m not there, get yourselves to Miland. I’m sure you know it, Alf? It’s a day’s trek. But there’s a man there. His name is Reinar. He’s in the beer business. He knows what to do with you. I’ve already contacted him. He’s a friend. You can trust him with your life.”

  “Kurt, what are you doing? You can’t go back there now.” Gutterson read Nordstrum’s plans on his face. “You’ll have no chance. The place is swarming with Germans. The boat is going to sink, Kurt. There’s nothing you can do for her now, no matter how badly you want to. We have to go. Otherwise we’ll all be trapped here.”

  “You’re a good soldier, Eric.” Nordstrum cast him a sage smile, the same slightly prophetic smile he had seen on Ox’s face only hours ago. That said they both knew what was truly in store ahead, but still were helpless to change the outcome. “Get Larsen out. With any luck, I’ll see you on the vidda.”

  “You won’t be there, you know,” Gutterson said, almost with anger in his voice. “You’ll be shot. Or worse, caught. And then interrogated. This was an order, Kurt. From Tronstad. I beg you to think hard on this. The war’s not over. You’re a soldier and they still need you.”

  You won’t be there. Words he’d heard before. From Anna-Lisette.

  But this time he would.

  “The order was to blow up the shipment, Eric,” Nordstrum said, “and nothing’s changed on that. It will go down as planned.” He dug his poles into the snow and pushed off a few yards. “And you should show some faith. I just might surprise you, Yank. And if not…” He tapped the pocket on his parka. “I still have my pill. Do you have yours?

  “Sorry, Alf.” Nordstrum gave the chief engineer a contrite nod. “But you’re in capable hands, I promise. At least, for a non-Northman, isn’t that right?”

  With a wave, he took off. His thighs pushing through the snow that whooshed beneath him. His heart racing ahead of him. Down the ridge.

  Not toward Skrykken. And Sweden. Where safety lay.

  But toward Mael.

  Toward the one duty his heart would not let him abandon.

  74

  On the deck of the Hydro, Dieter Lund watched the flatcars of heavy water being loaded onto the ferry. It was a striking day, he observed—blue sky, Nazi flags waving, dozens of crack SS troops standing motionlessly at attention. He had ridden the train from Rjukan himself, looking out at every turn. But nothing out of the ordinary occurred. The track had been cleared ahead of time. Reconnaissance planes swept the air. At the ferry dock, a crowd had assembled. But he had his own men filtered among it, on the watch for anything suspicious. Groups of men traveling together. The lone man on the edge signaling another. There was word that some kind of sabotage was in the works. But it would not be here. On his watch. It would take an army to penetrate the web of security. The precious cargo was now onboard. In minutes, the ferry was scheduled to leave. Muggenthaler and Terboven would be pleased. Everything had gone precisely to his plan.

  A Gestapo officer oversaw the IDs at the ferry’s gangway. No one was let aboard who hadn’t bought a ticket and who didn’t have proper ID. Just to be safe he and his men would accompany the cargo to Tinnoset, and watch it loaded on the train to Skien. He was taking no chances. The Germans might know how to run a war, he thought, but in Norway, he knew every face, every sign that something wasn’t right. He had staked his future on it.

  A few minutes earlier, August Ritter and his granddaughter had boarded the ferry as well, the start of their journey home. It was a shame their visit had been cut short—he had looked forward to seeing her again—but, in truth, Fraulein Ritter had not been kind to him about his inquiries after the concert. Nor had she taken him up on his invitation to show her the sights. She was a bit of a bratty tart, if truth be told. Her nose stuck in the air. Hardly worthy of the attention he had devoted to her.

  “Guten morgen, Herr und Fraulein Ritter,” Lund had greeted them as they came onboard. Their luggage was taken to the first-class hold. The old musician clutched his instrument case.

  “Guten morgen, as well, Captain,” his granddaughter replied politely. “I see you are making the trip as well?”

  “Yes, we have a distinguished cargo on board, as you can see.” He pointed to the tethered rail cars with thirty German troops standing guard. “In addition to yourselves, of course. It would be my privilege to escort you to your lounge.”

  “Actually, Captain, it is such a pleasant day, I think we will sit in the stern,” Fraulein Ritter said coolly.

  “The stern … but Fraulein, I believe your ticket is for first class.”

  “Yes, but it is all arranged. I am told it is best for the views there, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind at all, Fraulein Ritter. I was merely thinking of your comfort.” Lund nodded formally and let them pass. No, he was no longer so fond of this impertinent girl. She had made him feel the way his own townspeople always had—small, insignificant, to be shooed away and swatted at like a fly. Still, it made him happy and he felt his chest expand that she could see him so clearly in charge.

  “May I take your case, sir?” he said to the old man.

  “No, no, thank you,” he replied. “It’s been with me for forty years. It never leaves my side.”

  “Then have a nice journey.” Lund bowed. The matter was out of his hands.

  Five minutes of ten. The cargo ramp was raised and the shipment now secure. Only a few last-minute arrivals were running toward the gangway. The ship’s horn sounded. Three blaring blasts. People came out on deck to wave to those on the shore. The tie ropes to the dock were disengaged. Yes, everything seemed in perfect order. The crossing would be routine.

  “Keep an eye on any late arrivals,” Lund instructed his lieutenant, whose eye was peeled on the crowd.

  In Tinnoset, his job would finally be done.

  His job perhaps, but not his future.

  Yes, Trudi would indeed be pleased.

  75

  Nordstrum skied down to the outskirts of Mae
l, leaving his skis aloft in the snow, and ran the rest of the way. As he reached the tiny lakeside town, he headed to the main square adjacent to the wharf and onto the pier.

  9:55 A.M. Five minutes to departure. He heard the horn sound. He had to hurry. But not so much that he would stand out, for there were surely security agents watching everywhere. His antennae for such things were on full alert, just being around them. The ferry would be off in just minutes.

  The switch engine that loaded the rail cars was still in front of the ferry, but the vessel’s cargo ramp was raised and the rail cars of heavy water safely on board, German soldiers stationed on it. On the dock, a Gestapo officer was with a ticket clerk at the gangway, checking IDs.

  Nordstrum hurried to the ticket counter. He heard a blast from a horn. It was literally three minutes of. “Tinnoset. One way,” he said to the ticket master. “Quick, please. I know I’m late.” He pushed across some coins.

  “Yes, of course, everyone’s always in a rush,” the old ticket master grumbled. “Next time, leave a little more time. One way, you said?”

  “Yes. Please, hurry.”

  “Here you go. Two kroner. I hope they hold it for you.”

  Nordstrum took the ticket and rushed off.

  “Hold it,” the ticket master called after him, “that’s way too much. Your change!”

  Nordstrum sprinted onto the pier. The ferry’s ties were being disengaged. It was about forty meters to the boat, farther than it had seemed last night. He spied the place at the fence where they had crossed. Where Ox had been apprehended. A mother and her young daughter had just been let on board and the gangway was about to be reined in. He made it, just as the German officer made a signal that that was that.

  “One more, please. Sorry.”

  “It’s after ten.” The Gestapo man looked at his watch. “The ferry is preparing to leave.”

  “It’s ten precisely. And the streets are blocked up by all the military vehicles,” Nordstrum protested. “Please, it’s the only ferry today. I have to be in Oslo.…”

  The German looked at him with annoyance and put out his hand, his fingers beckoning. “ID.”

  Nordstrum pulled out his papers, the ones he had carried for the past year, which showed his name as Knut Holgersen, and that he was a construction laborer from Tromso.

  “Tromso, that’s a long ways north of here.” The German looked up, checking his face.

  “Yes. I’m heading back to work. In Oslo. I was just seeing family here.” Nordstrum’s heart started to patter. All it would take was for the man to notice his gun bulging under his sweater and it would be over for him.

  “Traveling light, I see?” the German commented, eyeing his rucksack. “From all the way in Tromso.”

  “Well, I was only gone for the weekend.” It was now five minutes after ten. “Check.” He held out the rucksack to him. “You can see.”

  “All right, get on, then. Quick!” The officer handed him back his papers. “But that’s it! Pull the gangway,” he ordered the crew.

  “Danke, Major,” Nordstrum said, and leaped aboard.

  On the main deck, a considerable crowd had gathered. It was the only trip across that Sunday, and was now awaiting the cast-off. Nordstrum quickly melded in, avoiding direct eye contact with any of the soldiers standing guard, who seemed to be everywhere, as well as several gray-uniformed Hirden too. To anyone, Nordstrum looked like any other workman heading back after a weekend in the country. His eyes went to the two open railcars in the bow, some thirty SS standing rigidly on guard, their legs spread, their rifles at rest, their faces implacably staring ahead, almost daring anyone to make trouble, and the thirty-nine drums of heavy water they were guarding stamped POTASH LYE, situated precisely where Nordstrum hoped they would be.

  The horn sounded again—three sharp blasts—and the ferry slowly disengaged from the dock. People on the shore waved. The boat drifted a short ways into the water, its engines kicking in, and then the bow came around. In the sky, the sun was bright. The lake, clear and calm. A blessing, Nordstrum noted, thinking of the narrow space between the clock’s hammer and the contact circuit. Only a third of an inch. Even a choppy sea could connect them. All on board were merely expecting a peaceful hour and a half’s crossing. Whatever faces he fixed on—the grandfather in a cloth coat and floppy hat waving to his family back on the dock; the young boy tugging at his mother’s coat asking for hot chocolate; the two young lovers excitedly pointing to the snowcapped peaks, who looked like they were commencing their journey in life—Nordstrum knew in barely forty minutes their lives were about to be torn apart. Any of them might die. The luckiest of them would be scarred by terror.

  Maybe if there was a way to reverse time he would have rethought it all and looked for another way. Each unsuspecting face reminded him of the choice he had made. The choice that was about to engulf them. But then he looked again at the steel drums in the bow on the railway cars and remembered why. Their contents were capable of tilting the balance of the war to Germany. Who would understand, one day, the significance of what had to be done here? Deep in his soul, Nordstrum felt certain once again he had done the right thing.

  10:12 A.M. The charges were set to go off in just over thirty minutes.

  His eyes ranged to the top deck, ready to search out Natalie and her grandfather, when he felt like something kicked him in the ribs. He saw the Hird, the one he had seen at the police station, looking down. The one who had imprisoned his father.

  His throat went dry. Somehow in all the crowd their eyes seemed to find each other’s.

  It was Dieter Lund.

  76

  Lund fixed on Nordstrum too.

  One second he was breathing easily, proudly, totally in command; the next, his breath seemed to wrap around his heart and squeeze like a clenched fist.

  Nordstrum.

  He was sure of it as he stared down at the man who had just boarded. He could not clearly see his face, as a workman’s cap was pulled low on his forehead, but his size, his manner. Take away the stubbly beard and glasses. It was him! The face was as clear in Lund’s mind as his own. But how? What was he doing here? There was no way, not one in a hundred, a thousand, that it could simply be a coincidence. That today of all days, with the most valuable cargo in the Reich on the deck, he would be making this crossing.

  A jolt of both nerves and anticipation rushed through Lund’s blood.

  Whatever Nordstrum might be planning, he had him.

  Lund looked away for a moment, his fingers tightly wrapped around the railing. There was sweat on his palms. He could stop him right here, of course. He had the men. All it would take was a snap of his fingers, one command. He could put an end to this game of cat and mouse for good.

  But if he was here, Lund began to think, something had to be happening. There would be others involved. Nordstrum had already commandeered a boat once and made his way to England. Why not again? Maybe that was his plan now. But commandeer it to where…? If so, he would need men and arms. He seemed to be alone and carrying nothing. To attack the rail cars directly would be suicide. No matter how many others he had snuck onboard. Lund scanned around. Could they be coming from the shore? Was that his plan, hijack the ferry somehow and steer it to others in waiting? Lund looked away, but kept a watch on him out of the corner of his eye. If he arrested him too soon, whatever was afoot might still go on without him. For one resistance fighter, Lund would get barely more than a commendation and a pat on the back. Even one as highly sought as this one. But if he kept his eyes peeled and his men on alert, if he disrupted a raid, all the while making sure the ship was totally secure … If he saw who Nordstrum made contact with, a whole pack of them, rebels trying to sabotage the most valuable shipment in the Reich, well, that would earn him a whole lot more than praise. Lund could always arrest him. There was nowhere for him to go. He had the whole voyage. He had the men.

  “Lieutenant, Sergeant…” Lund snapped his fingers for two of his men.

&n
bsp; They appeared at his side. “Captain?”

  “You see that man? The one with the beard. Who just came aboard?”

  “In the ski cap, Captain…?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. Lieutenant, take three men and make your way to the wheelhouse. Wait there. Keep your weapons ready. If you see that man, or any who come up there who look at all threatening, sound the alarm. And don’t be afraid to use your weapons.”

  “Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said, saluting.

  “Sergeant, you take the bow, I’ll drift aft. Together, we’ll keep an eye on him. Take note of anyone he talks to. But don’t arrest him just yet. Wait for my move.”

  “Yes, Captain.” The officer snapped his heels.

  Lund stepped away from the railing. His blood was soaring. He finally had him. The man he’d been sniffing after for a year.

  And his senses told him that something big had to be happening.

  77

  It was Lund.

  Nordstrum was certain of it. His throat grew dry and his blood came to a stop, though his heart continued to pound riotously.

  And he felt equally certain Lund had spotted him too.

  He let his gaze brush by the Hird as nonchalantly as he could, but inside, everything sped up. Had Lund recognized him? He couldn’t be sure. No doubt the Hirden captain was here because of the shipment the ferry was carrying. But he was also the man who had thrown his father in a prison cell, and then sent him off to the Grini concentration camp, which the Quisling knew the old man could never survive.

  Nordstrum turned his back to the top deck. If he’d been recognized it was already too late. There were dozens of Germans and Hirden onboard. He couldn’t avoid them all if Lund had already signaled the alarm. Any second he expected to hear whistles sounded and the bustle of soldiers pushing through the crowd with their guns drawn, shouting, “On your knees!” What would he do? Shoot them? That would only signal to everyone that something was up. Break free and dive into the lake? When nothing else would follow they might well continue the journey. He reached into his pocket.