Cast No Shadow, Peter Sharp [books to get back into reading txt] 📗

“But Tom,” said Kelly, “there are numerous turn-offs along that road. They will be able to disappear into the forest.”

“Yes, let’s hope so,” said Foley. “Frankly, Dan, I haven’t the manpower or the inclination to bother with them. If they make good their escape into the woods it will please me greatly. They will be out of our hair and will certainly make their way to Kirkenes and not into Grense.”

He looked into Kelly’s eyes. “Talking of which, I omitted to inform anyone that intelligence tell us there is a very substantial garrison in Kirkenes, twenty-five miles away. Whilst we stopped communication between Grense and this plant, we had no control over communication between the plant and Kirkenes. My bet is that the garrison was informed as soon as the assault started.”

“Like you said earlier, Tom,” Kelly nodded, “let’s go!”

They climbed into the last vehicle. The only person now remaining was a solitary marine holding a black demolition firing box. He was looking up at Tom Foley, his finger poised over the red button.

Foley nodded. The finger descended and the earth shook. Smoke and flames roared out of the main building as it was consumed in an orange inferno. The marine dropped the box and climbed onto the last vehicle. Someone at the front of the vehicle hammered on the roof of the driver’s cab. Lights flashed. A horn sounded. The convoy moved out.

By the time the convoy reached Grense, the two vehicles containing Germans had made their escape; no real attempt was made to stop them. The vehicles ground to a halt at the quayside and troops started to disembark and head for the rigid raiders. Makeshift stretchers had been improvised by Gareth Owen’s team and were being used to carry the wounded to the assault boats, now all together at the quay. The whole scene was one of busy calmness.

It was now morning and people had started to emerge from houses, cautiously at first but with more confidence as time went on. Kelly approached one man to ask, “Amundsen, Doctor Otto Amundsen, where is he?”

The man understood and nodded, pointing down a side street, attempting to explain in very poor English. Kelly grasped enough to confirm he was on the left near the end. He sped off down the street in search of the surgery.

Kelly found the right door, the brass plaque announcing to the world that this was the surgery of Dr Otto Amundsen. He turned the handle and opened the door onto a flight of stairs. At the top was a door on the right. Kelly tapped. A voice immediately called out, “Come in Dragan! I’ve been expecting you.”

Kelly walked into a room taken directly from a Dickens novel. The floors were wooden and badly stained, and the walls were panelled, almost certainly in pine, but that wood had also discoloured and taken on the look of old oak. The ceiling was whitewashed, with smoke stains over the fireplace and over a workbench set in one corner. The bench was cluttered with miscellaneous pieces of scientific apparatus, vials, burners and test tubes.

Dotted around the walls were various charts and posters, some torn and in poor condition. In the centre of the room was a huge oak desk covered on the top with green leather but showing much wear. In front of the desk was a solitary wooden chair, presumably for the patient, whilst behind the desk, in stark contrast, was a padded leather swivel chair. Sitting in the chair, smoking an old pipe, sat Otto Amundsen.

Amundsen motioned to the empty chair in front of the desk. “Sit down Dan.”

“I’ll stand. I have no time—” He didn’t finish.

“Sit down Dan!” Amundsen repeated. Kelly sat. There was something in Amundsen’s voice.

Before Kelly could ask a question, Amundsen removed the pipe from his mouth and spoke quietly, his tone level and without feeling.

“Gunnar Thorstaadt is dead. Hans Knudsen is dead. Thomas Borg is dead. All executed by the Gestapo.”

Kelly was thunderstruck. He started to say something, but his chest was constricted. He cleared his throat, but then hesitated, afraid to ask the question. After a moment he spoke, his voice strained. “And Sybilla?”

Amundsen paused before answering, puffing on his pipe. “Escaped,” he said, “with Hauptman Meyer.”

“What!” exclaimed Kelly. “She must have been abducted!”

Amundsen lowered his voice even further. The eyes that looked at Kelly were full of sympathy and compassion.

“Perhaps Dan, but I don’t think so.”

“Where have they gone?” asked Kelly. He knew it was a hopeless question even as he asked it. Amundsen shook his head.

“No one knows. Best guess is Sweden. Meyer wouldn’t dare chance Russia. Needless to say, the Gestapo are keen to interview the two of them.”

“But how?” asked Kelly, still incredulous. “The radio?”

“They were betrayed,” said Amundsen. “Most people assume by Sybilla. That would explain her disappearance. What it doesn’t explain is the disappearance of Jürgen Meyer. He could have made capital out of this if Sybilla was the informant. It would have fully justified his collaboration with her. There would have been no need for him to disappear.”

Kelly’s mind was racing. “Inga?” he asked.

“Gone,” said Amundsen. “The resistance in Bjornstad have ‘relocated’ her. She wasn’t implicated in any way, but I imagine they felt that was the safest option. She’s probably in Bergen or Oslo by now, living under a new name.”

Kelly thought for a moment, then asked, “What about Erik Jorgsen? Was he also executed?”

“No,” said Amundsen slowly. “Odd that, isn’t it?”

“Damn odd!” said Kelly with heartfelt bitterness. “Where is he?”

Amundsen sat for a moment in silence as if deciding. Then without a word he reached for his pad and jotted down an address, adding a simple sketch map. He handed it to Kelly. “He’s keeping a low profile at the moment, but you’ll find him there.”

Kelly took the slip of paper, rose, and turned on his heel. At the door he half turned and looked over his shoulder. “Thank you, Otto,” he said. The Norwegian nodded, looked down and started shuffling