Dark Full of Enemies(41)

He moved close along the dark wooden walls of the house to reduce the chance that, with snow between him and the house, he could be picked out by the casual observer. He reached the front of the house. The wharf stood empty, reaching out a hundred feet into the water, and where it met the land there stood two small toolsheds. Probably all for fishing equipment, he thought. He realized then that they had crossed not a yard to get from the wharf to the house, but a snow-covered road. He looked left and right—the road ran along the edge of the fjord as far into the darkness as he could see. He squinted at the distant houses, saw a few dim, flickering lights in windows—candles—and continued.

He crossed the front of the house and looked around. Two larger outbuildings stood on the other side of some open space, a sloping yard between them and the house. He briefly imagined the two Petersens playing on this slope as boys, and moved up the side of the house again. He reached a point at which he was sure the house and outbuilding shielded him from view on the road, both coming and going, and dashed across.

The buildings had no locks on the doors, and he carefully opened them—wary of squealing hinges—and peered into the gloom. He could make out nothing, but both buildings stank of cold fish, wet rope, and rust. More fishing gear.

He had just closed the door of the second building when he heard cars on the road.

They came from the direction of the larger fjord, from Narvik, a pair of long dark cars with blackout headlights. They came slowly, slowly enough for McKay to hear the crunch of snow below their humming Mercedes engines. As soon as he heard them, he moved carefully to the building farther uphill from the road and squatted in its lee. He drew the Welrod, worked the bolt, and waited.

The cars were within one hundred yards of him when he heard snow crunch behind him. He spun, dropped his finger to the trigger, and stopped. Stallings.

“I had to take a—”

McKay grabbed him by the front of his coat and threw him bodily into the snow behind the nearest outbuilding.

“What the—”

McKay tried to whisper Shut up, but all that came out was hiss and spit. Stallings understood.

The cars neared and slowed. McKay lowered himself to the snow and inched his face—one eye—around the corner. He watched.

The cars rolled to a stop near the house. Their paint, the flat German Army grey, showed a lightless black. They sat there, engines running, for what seemed minutes but may have been ten seconds. At last, a door opened—front passenger side of the lead car. A German in wool cap and overcoat got out without closing the door and trotted to the front of the house. McKay waited for him to reappear. When he did, it was around the corner of the house, moving uphill toward the outbuildings. McKay’s grip tightened on the Welrod.

The German stopped after a few steps and looked up at the dark windows in the side of the house. He glanced around, and McKay looked at his own footprints in the snow. He swallowed. The German looked up at the house again, turned, and walked back to the car. He shrugged at the driver as he walked through the headlights and said, just loud enough for McKay to hear, “Petersen. Not here.” He climbed in and the cars moved on.

McKay exhaled and realized he had been holding his breath. He listened as the cars moved away, listened for a sudden downshift or stop, and was only satisfied that they had moved on when he could see their headlights play against the snow along the road far beyond the house.

He turned on Stallings, grabbed him by the coat and shook.

“Grove, what the holy hell—”

“I had to—”

“Get back in the fucking basement. What the—”

Stallings slapped at his arms. His eyes were wide. “I hear something else.”

McKay stopped and listened—the Germans had turned around, or troops approached now on foot, or a tank battalion groaned toward them. But instead he heard, faintly at first across the water, the tonk-tonk-tonk of the Hardr?de.





He stood cross-armed in Petersen’s kitchen, a cold wood-paneled room with a sink and wood-burning stove. It should have reminded him of home.

Petersen sat at a table by himself, eating cold sausage, half a potato, and drinking whiskey from the bottle. Their only light came from a few candles on the table and countertops, and a dull red glow from the rim of the stove door.

They had kept silent for some time. McKay had sent Stallings back to the basement—giving him just enough time to piss beside the woodpile—and waited for the boat to arrive. Then he had confronted Petersen on the wharf. Petersen had stood silent, inscrutable, and finally led McKay into the darkened house where he and his crew prepared food, took the first shares to the cellar, and devoured the rest. Now they slept comfortably belowdecks, in the ground floor, sharing a wall with McKay’s men but nothing more.

“We need to talk.”

Petersen chewed. “I have time now.”

“Good.” McKay waited, but Petersen continued eating. “What were those Germans doing here?”

“Fascism creates the police state,” Petersen said. “You know this.”

McKay said nothing.

Petersen looked at him, then looked at the plate again and forked a bite of sausage into his mouth. “They patrol occasionally, I mean. Had you remained in the cellar you would never have known.”

McKay focused on remaining calm. He had lost his temper with Stallings again and felt guilty. Now he spoke with their contact in Norway, and despite his misgivings about everything so far, he could not risk a shouting match.