Mac wingate 6, p.10
Mac Wingate 6, page 10
There was really only one logical explanation for such opulence in such a cold, small, unassuming town. Adding that opulence to the fact that Kirsten could come and go as she pleased, there was no doubt in Wingate’s mind as to where they were hiding.
“You acted well at the pagoda,” she said, not looking at him as she pulled off the peasant pants. She was wearing dark, warm, wooly tights underneath. They covered her lower body, but sharply delineated her muscular, shapely legs. “You moved quickly and shot straight. I can trust you.”
She seemed to be testing his trustworthiness again, because as he watched, she unselfconsciously took off her shirt, exposing the top half of the wooly underwear. Her breasts were covered, but easily discernable. She seemed totally unconcerned by it. Wingate watched, but at no time did she even so much as glance at him for a reaction.
It was too bad in a way, he thought. He’d be happy to give her one. The only things that were bare were her head, hands, feet, and just a thin sliver of flesh that appeared between the bottom of the shirt and the top of the tights. In the light and warmth of the fire, the effect was enormously sexy.
“Thank you,” he said, acknowledging her compliment. “Where are the other girls?”
She stood up straight, holding a multicolored wool skirt in her hands. She decided to answer directly, without any digressing banter. “They are not here yet,” she said, stepping into the skirt. “They come this evening. After their farm work.”
Mac raised his eyebrows. This time he was surprised. “Do their parents know they come here?”
“They have no parents,” Kirsten said, pulling on a white shirt with puffy sleeves. “They are war orphans like me. Some were killed in the first attack, some ...” She paused, paying close attention to the tiny, delicate buttons she was attaching. “Some later,” she finished. “By others.”
She turned back to the American as she pulled on a green vest which she tied over the white shirt. “I came here after my parents were murdered by the Germans. It was the only way I could avoid going to the breeding camps. The ranking officers promised to keep me safe if I gave them personal pleasure. They said it was a shame to waste me on strangers.”
Wingate was a trifle incredulous. “And still they trust you?”
She walked right up to him, looking directly in his eyes. “Once they come in here, they forget about trust. They are so blinded by lust, they really don’t care what I do. As long as I am here for them at night.” She looked down at herself, knowing, but not really understanding, why. She had lived inside her body all her life. She found it incredible that her skin, her shape, her features, could make such fools of them, but she took full advantage of it.
“Traditional Valkyrie dress,” she commented on her outfit. “It excites my captors even more.”
“Captors?” Wingate responded. “Is there someone keeping you here? A madam?”
“There used to be,” Kirsten said, moving over to the fireplace. “No more. She was reluctant to join the underground forces.”
“Where did she go?”
“She finally did go underground,” Kirsten explained, looking into the fire. “I killed her.”
She waited for another reaction. Wingate gave her one. He sighed.
“You seem intent on shocking me,” he said.
Kirsten looked at him, smiled suddenly, and shrugged. “Force of habit. I feel I must always prove that I am not just a woman.”
“Not just a woman.” Wingate was hit not by the oddness of the phrase, but by the aptness of the sentiment. When did he ever have to prove he was “not just a man”? He supposed that if he were locked in a room and used like meat night after night, he’d have the same inferiority complex no matter how good a fighter he was.
“You’ve proved it,” he assured her, not feeling right about his reply, but finding nothing else to say. “Now let’s see if we can aid each other’s cause. Why the cowls? Why the code names? Why all the mystery? We’re allies.”
“It is as Captain Sørum says. He is an officer of the Militoer. If he were seen by the enemy, he would be shot. Such a man needs no secret identity. I am an important double agent. My identity must be a closely guarded secret. Hence the ‘Snow Queen.’ Many of the other men don’t even know my identity.”
“What do you know of my mission?”
“Just what Einar says. That you must wait for word from him.”
For the third time, Mac was back where he started from. All his attempts to discover his reason for arriving in Norway had been for naught. Either they didn’t know or weren’t talking. The mystery was made deeper by the various petty intrigues and the sudden violent dangers. He couldn’t understand why such a blithering fool as Walters and such a well-meaning but inexperienced officer as Tyler were included on such a supposedly vital operation.
He didn’t know what was going on, and that disturbed him deeply. It also set his suspicion on a fine edge. Something had been passed between Harald and Sørum on the trawler. Something had passed between Sørum and Kirsten. Something was definitely happening above and beyond the confines of conventional warfare, but no one was willing to let Mac in on it.
He looked again at the beautiful woman in the dress straight out of Norse folklore. She appeared to be a combination of innocence and experience, attractiveness and guile. And so far it looked like she was plopped down right in front of him. The question was, did she want to or was she ordered to? He was sure it was all an act, but to what purpose? To occupy him? To keep him unaware? To, pardon the expression, keep him off his feet?
Wingate decided it made no difference in the long run. She had gained his sympathy and impressed him with her looks, but neither emotion blinded him to rationality. It didn’t look like she was a triple agent—the Varsø and its Nazi crew were about to leave when Walters showed, so the Germans weren’t sicced on them. And the pagoda snipers, the Nasjonal Samling officers, certainly weren’t too particular who they shot at. The violent dangers came with the territory, Wingate concluded, just as the curtains behind Kirsten’s bed flew apart and the MILORG aide stumbled in breathlessly.
“Reprisal!” he cried. “They are going to attack the Harald farm!”
Chapter Five
“It is as I feared,” Kirsten said, striding quickly up the tree-covered hillside. “They will take every opportunity to kill us.”
“You have brought this on our heads!” the aide said stridently to Wingate.
“Quiet, Karl,” Kirsten instructed.
“No, it is true,” the aide panted, his shorter legs having a harder time of the hill. “If he had not killed the Germans, this would not have happened. They should not have come.”
“They had to come,” Kirsten said purposefully, “and it was not their fault. Now, be quiet!”
Karl clamped his mouth shut and slowed. He drifted behind, to where Baker was bringing up the rear. Both colonels were back at the whorehouse. “For reasons of security,” Walters had proclaimed.
“Karl is anxious,” Kirsten explained quietly to Mac, neither of them lessening their pace up the mountain. “There is a girl at the farm ...”
“I understand,” Wingate told her. He looked back at the commandos. They were, as usual, handling themselves professionally. All were still wearing their peasant outfits, keeping their weapons close to their chests. Some had extra magazines in their waistbands. Others had them strapped to their thighs. All their faces looked ready and almost eager for action.
“Are we near the farm?” Wingate asked, wanting to give his men plenty of warning.
“We are not going to the farm,” Kirsten informed him. She did not elaborate, so Wingate did not press further. Wherever she was going, she was leading them with purpose and speed. He trusted her to be a good soldier, especially after the pagoda attack.
Soon Wingate recognized their destination. Essentially they were retracing their steps to the hillside village. The one where they had found the carts and the change of clothes. Although she was circumventing the winding road, the rest of the environment was the same. Mac heard the same rushing of water and saw the same majestic, almost empty countryside, devoid of anything but nature’s bounty.
As they neared the town, he saw smoke. As they came upon the stabbur, he saw the smoke coming from its chimney. He let Kirsten run right up to the barn door and swing it open. It slammed against the wooden wall, surprising all the MILORG men collected inside.
“Kirs ... Snow Queen!” Captain Sørum shouted. “What are you doing here?”
“No more!” she shouted back, striding right up to the Norse leader. “It is the time for action!”
“Go back to town,” Sørum shouted in return. “Immediately!”
Breaker Biggins leaned over to whisper in Wingate’s ear. “What are they talking about, Captain?”
“I’m not sure, Breaker,” Wingate whispered back. “And I understand the language!”
“You can’t let them all just die,” Kirsten pleaded. “You can’t!”
“If they do not die,” Sørum said solemnly, “then many more will. You know what will happen. This reprisal will be followed by another, and then another, until no Norwegian is left standing. The Quislings and the Nazis will kill us on the slightest provocation, real or imagined.”
Wingate listened closely. It was the second time he heard a MILORG refer to Quislings. Every occupied country had its secret police, its fascists, it traitors sucking up to the Germans. And everywhere they had their own names. In Norway, it seemed, it was the Quislings.
“We will not die if we fight!” Kirsten raged. “We know this country. They do not. There are more of us than them.”
“But more of them can come,” the Norse captain intoned. “And they will continue to come. More and more every day if we do not stop inciting them.” The MILORG officer began to move around the bonfire in the circular pit, talking to the other men and Wingate as much as answering Kirsten. “Do you not remember Grini? Forty thousand of our people languish there.”
“We could save them!” Kirsten pleaded.
“Do you not remember Bodø?” Sørum retorted with renewed strength. He walked right past the woman to approach Wingate himself. “The Wehrmacht went into the town and left only scorched earth.” The Norwegian whirled around to assail the others. “Namsos! Steinkjer! All the others! Bombed! Burned! Destroyed utterly! We cannot let it continue.”
There were grumbles of agreement from all but the English-speaking commandos and the desperate woman.
“No, we cannot!” she agreed. “The entire Harald commune will be killed if we don’t stop it.”
“It is too late,” Sørum said sadly. “They cannot escape their fate. The Occupation heads have decreed they die because of the loss of the Varsø. Their deaths were certain from the moment Captain Wingate destroyed his ship.”
“Do they have any proof their men were killed?” Wingate asked in Norwegian. “Did anyone on shore see the explosion? Their men could have been lost in an accident. You said so yourself.”
“That was for your benefit,” Sørum admitted. “They do not need evidence. They will use the least excuse for a reprisal.” He walked over to face Wingate again. “We launched two raids in Lofoten, above the Arctic Circle, in 1941. Two days later, dozens of the local fishermen were slaughtered. Seven months ago we destroyed a heavy water plant in Rjukan, near Oslo, only because the SOE demanded it as an absolute necessity. The next day every captured patriot in the city’s Møllergata 19 prison was tortured and executed.”
Wingate felt good and bad. He wasn’t happy about all the Norse corpses and he didn’t like the thought of being responsible for Harald’s family being killed. But he felt sure of one thing. His mission here was of vital importance. Contrary to what Walters told him, it was not a minor diversion. Sørum had just told him so. If the Norse were willing to risk reprisal to pick them up and hide them, their job had to be at least as important as blowing up a heavy water plant.
Although Mac was now assured of his importance, it only deepened the mystery as to why no one was telling him what he should be doing. He was certainly the man for the job. He spoke both German and Norwegian. He was a trustworthy, dedicated demolitions expert. To top it all off, he had led multinational groups before. What was there about him that kept everybody’s lips sealed? Was it his breath?
“So if some kraut trips and hits his head, your farmers and fishermen are going to be killed?” Mac answered him. “And you’re going to stand by and watch the slaughter because you don’t want to make anyone angry?”
“Captain Wingate,” Sørum said, unflustered. “There are ten thousand Quislings. There are twenty thousand of us. But there is one important difference. We are not sadists. We are not torturers. We are not rapists.”
“And what are you,” Mac said solemnly, “if you just watch it happen? What are you called then? Voyeurs? Witnesses? Or accomplices?”
That did the trick. Sørum’s flat feathers definitely got ruffled. He reacted a bit like Walters might in the same situation. His mouth worked, his fists clenched, and then he turned abruptly away. “We are patriots!” he yelled at the ceiling. “How dare you ...! How dare you!”
“Yes, patriots!” Kirsten almost spat, her eyes almost as bright as the fire. “And while you declare your patriotism, innocent women and children are being murdered!”
“Captain Sørum,” Wingate said steadily, “I don’t doubt your honor. I just want to make up for any problem I’ve caused.”
“All right!” Sørum exploded. “Very well! Go! Do what you can to save the Harald commune.”
Kirsten turned in radiant triumph, almost hopping back to Wingate. She stopped, putting her hands on the American’s chest when the Norwegian spoke again.
“But you shall see,” Sørum warned. “I have warned you. There will be a terrible price for others because of your action.”
The Norse man and woman locked gazes. Both their faces were expressionless. Wingate took the time to prepare his men. “Hit and run, boys,” he said. “Move in fast, salvage what you can, and get out. No heroics.” He gripped one of Kirsten’s elbows. “Lead them out,” he told her. She dropped her gaze from Sørum, looked at Wingate, nodded, and did as he said. Wingate approached the motionless Norse captain.
“It isn’t meaningless,” the American told him, “no matter how much it seems that way. It’s war. Those who die do so for a purpose. Those who are captured have no meaning unless they are rescued. If you want to face yourself after this is all over, get used to that. You won’t regret what you’ve done. Only what you did not do.”
He turned to follow Kirsten and the commandos. Sørum interrupted his exit. “Captain Wingate.” Mac turned. “Our national motto is ‘Yes, we love our country with fond devotion.’ Everyone in this country feels that. Even Quisling has said it. We do what we have to for our country.”
Wingate nodded. “I’ll do what I have to for yours, too.”
“Take care of her,” Sørum called after him.
Mac turned at the door. “She has an identity to protect,” he reminded the Norwegian. “You don’t. Would you care to join us?” Mac’s meaning was clear. He wanted Sørum to take Kirsten’s place at the Harald commune.
“No,” the man said, looking at the dirt between his feet. “I cannot.”
“Remember what I said about regret,” Wingate said and left.
The others were halfway out of town. Kirsten had communicated enough to start the men on their way. Wingate ran to catch up and then slowed to match pace with the girl. “When are they coming?” Mac asked, getting the important information first.
“Soon, though I think not yet,” Kirsten said. She motioned toward the young Karl, who trotted on the other side of her. “My information only said that a group of soldiers would attack the farm in retribution sometime today. The Quislings usually respond very quickly to a decree like that.”
“Now just who the hell are the Quislings?”
“The head of the Nasjonal Samlings is a man named Vidkun Quisling. He made a deal with Hitler even before the war started. Then, when the Reich was set to attack, he and his men did much to weaken our resistance. Finally when our king, Haakon the Seventh, was forced to flee, the Nazis made Quisling premier. Quisling has come to mean traitor. And the Quislings are his band of traitors.”
“Pretty story,” Wingate commented. “Any idea how many will move on the town?”
“They move in packs,” Karl answered. “Like dogs. Anywhere from twelve to twenty-five.”
“Can we expect any Nazis with them?”
“One or two at the most,” Karl said.
“It depends,” Kirsten disagreed. “If enough Germans are bored and sadistic enough, they may come along if they hear there is sport to be had.”
“Usually, they let the Quislings do their dirty work for them,” Karl apologized.
In other words, Wingate thought, it was a toss-up. Their best chance, however, lay in the fact that the enemy was so sure the Norse wouldn’t fight back that they’d be surprised to find a team of well-armed, well-trained commandos in their midst. Mac hoped it was enough.
“You cannot come with us,” he suddenly told Kirsten. “Karl can show us the way. Go back to your house.” He kept up his quick pace, so if she stopped, she’d be standing alone.
Kirsten didn’t stop. She kept moving, acting as if it were a joke. “What do you mean? Of course I’m coming. You are doing this for me, are you not?”
“I’m doing it because I see some immediate good coming out of it,” Wingate said with no trace of humor. “And that good would be countermanded if your cover was blown.”
Kirsten realized he was serious and it made her angry. “You are doing this because I am a beautiful woman!” she flared with no modesty. “You think I am soft.”
