Dark Full of Enemies(36)

The Norwegian did not slam the door back, but he used more force than necessary. He crossed the room in two strides, threw his back against the bulkhead, and crossed his arms. McKay watched him a moment, then holstered the Browning and eased himself into a lean.

Petersen said nothing, and McKay could glean nothing from his face but anger.

After a time, McKay said, “I’m going to check on my men.”

Petersen nodded. McKay let himself out.

He climbed down to the deck where the crew had returned to their nets and turned to go into the cabin. He wished he could listen to the two Petersens—if they talked. He would not have been surprised, after the last few hours, to learn that they never spoke in more than grunts.

All three men still had their pistols out when McKay entered the cabin.

“Bloody hell,” Graves said after McKay had closed the door. He put his pistol away, and Ollila did as well. Only Stallings, McKay noticed, did not put his weapon away.

“Y’all all right?” McKay said.

Graves and Ollila said yes. Stallings said nothing. McKay watched him. Stallings stared at the tabletop and thumbed absently at the safety catch on his Colt. Had they been in any other place at any other time, McKay would have assumed he was bored. It had not taken much to bore him at Clemson. Graves and Ollila looked at Stallings, too. Before McKay spoke, Ollila caught his eye, the way he had on the plane. He looked away almost immediately, but he had looked—worried? McKay spoke.

“Grove.”

Stallings took a little too long to look up. “Yeah?”

“You all right?”

“Bout shit myself.” McKay watched him. Stallings said, “Those Krauts?”

“Yeah.”

Stallings nodded. “How’d they know we were here?”

“Patrol boat. Just happened on us, I guess.”

Stallings said nothing more, but finally seemed to realize he still held his pistol and slowly put it away. Graves looked at McKay. The man seemed worried for the first time.

McKay looked at the floor a moment and said, “We’re still several hours out of Narvik. The Germans want this boat to report as soon as we arrive. We’ll take care of that. Until then, y’all rest up. Graves.”

“Sir?”

“Come with me just a second.”

They stepped out onto the deck and McKay closed the door behind them.

“Just how hard did he hit his head?”

“You’ve seen it, sir. May I?” He held up a cigarette.

“Sure. We’re fishermen.”

“Bloody good.” He lit the smoke and inhaled. “Damned good. Right, well, I was aboard by then, so I didn’t see the accident—not well, anyway. But he hit hard enough to knock him out straightaway, and hard enough for us to have to wake him up. You’ve known him some time?”

“Since college.”

“And he’s behaving strangely?”

“At first he was acting drunk. He, uh—drank a lot.” McKay thought of the last time he had seen Stallings, in the office of the college president. “But now… I seen plenty of head injuries, and this is starting to look like one of the worse ones.”

Graves inhaled, tilted his head back, and savored it. “Hm.”

“You and Ollila make sure he don’t do anything stupid, or hurt himself. And what I said about liquor will definitely be in effect once we reach our destination.”

In McKay’s experience, local resistance liked to show its appreciation with booze, food—the quality stuff scarce but lavished on foreign friends—and women. His thoughts ran ahead of him. He was about to speak again, to give Graves some kind of order and send him back inside, when he noticed Graves staring over his head, far into the distance. A dull light had begun to play across his features, across the boat as a whole.

“Sir…” Graves said.

For a moment, McKay felt sick. The E-boat had gone off several miles, turned back, and was punching back toward them through the dark on the beam of its light. He turned on his heel, hand to his pistol belt, and stopped. The sea lay quiet and empty around them. Graves pointed, and he looked up.

Overhead in the black, long soft lines of green had found cracks in the sky and ridden through them. McKay watched, and thought of the Australian’s blood tracing the tilework of the pub floor. The green light flowed like syrup, slow, taking its time, thickening and spilling its banks and fogging upward and outward into twisting ribbons a hundred miles high. There rose layers of them, curtains of light, moving high over boat and fjord and ocean. The lights moved slowly, with the unhurry of millennia, and the two men stood and watched, staring up at the sky while the boat’s crew worked away.





7





Petersen said nothing after that. McKay tired of waiting for talk and went down to the cabin, where he slept soundly for three hours before waking. He had been dreaming—something about Guadalcanal, maybe digging in. The sounds of the engine suggested it. He listened to the engine and marked the speed. Petersen had quickened the pace. The tinny, even noises of the Hardr?de came in faster tempo. McKay imagined Snow White’s dwarfs hustling to make quota.

He stretched and stood, took his copy of Thucydides—untouched on the table where he had left it for Stallings—and stepped outside. By then the lights had almost gone—only a faint green glimmer along the mountaintops far to the north remained—and the sky was black and flecked with stars. He put the book into his pocket. He had half expected brightening morning light, to be able to read in the cold of the deck. He checked his watch. 0800. He would have to set it ahead an hour, now that they had arrived in Norway, but even in London the winter dawn was near enough to feel at this time. Here, nothing but midnight darkness.