Dark Full of Enemies(47)

His face hardened. He would have to plan carefully. He knew convincing Petersen would be difficult, but he thought he might need a second reconnaissance. If they could establish when the less disciplined guards had the watch, and when the E-boat was on patrol elsewhere…

McKay tapped Petersen and Ollila on the shoulder and nodded. Time to go. They crawled into the lightless lee of the ridge and followed their path back down the mountains, past the footpath, the rail line, the brightly lit headquarters camp, and finally to the cove. They found their tracks in the snow by the shore and followed them to where the J?rgen had dropped them off. They waited. They sat in the darkness, in the silent snow, for an hour before the boat returned.





McKay and Ollila went to the cabin below the wheelhouse and shed their coats and the heavy sweaters beneath. McKay’s long underwear and uniform blouse were soaked through. He stank. He had barely slept since leaving the Viking, and had barely slept even during that voyage. He sat at the table to dry out but, despite his exhaustion, could not relax. Ollila sat in a corner with his rifle and closed his eyes. McKay wanted his opinion—other than himself, Ollila had the most experience of any man on the team—but before he could ask, Ollila spoke.

“We will need a lot of help.”

“Yeah.”

“Petersen, he does not want to help, but will. Trust me.”

“What makes you say that?”

Ollila opened his eyes a moment, shrugged, and closed them again. McKay turned from him in his chair and rubbed his temples. After a few minutes, Ollila spoke again.

“I wondered, too, about the man. I even noticed his German pistol like you did. And when you mentioned the cars which came by the house—I wondered, just like you. But there is something he does not tell you.”

“What do you think?”

Ollila thought. “He hates the Nazis, I can tell. But he holds back. I don’t know why.”

McKay thought about Petersen, about the things he had refused to explain. He would not let his men participate in the scouting mission. McKay had not cared—he wanted a speedy group of scouts, not a combat patrol—but there were other things. Petersen’s late arrival off Lofoten, his hesitance about everything, his invitation to the Germans on the E-boat to board, and—

McKay felt the blood drain from his face. The other Americans. Like the other commando teams Treat had bitched about aboard the Viking.

McKay felt ill, and then his face burned, his head hurt. He was tired—when had he last slept? really slept?—and angry. He had to see Petersen, and would find him this time if he had to destroy the boat and strip the tonk-tonk-tonking engine apart and pry him out of a cylinder. He stood, still damp with sweat, and left the cabin. Before the door swung shut behind him, he heard Ollila say, “Good luck.”

The air chilled him but he did not care. He climbed into the wheelhouse and nearly shouted at J?rgen.

“Where’s—”

Petersen stood there, leaned back against the opposite bulkhead, arms folded. He looked at McKay, then resigned himself to a talk and raised himself to his full height.

“Yes?”

McKay stepped inside and pulled the door shut. J?rgen, like a child maintaining neutrality during a fight between his parents, stood statue-still, frozen. McKay imagined him lowering his own body temperature to blend into the ice outside and become invisible. He did not care.

“What did you mean by your comment about ‘other Americans’ the other night? When you picked us up?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Can it. I remember.”

“Yes, yes.” Petersen waved feebly.

“That garrison has been beefed up, ain’t it? Hasn’t it?” Petersen shook his head as McKay spoke. His voice quailed as he held himself back from a yell. “I need you to tell me what’s going on. We have a job to do—”

“Yes—”

“—and I will not be able to complete it without your cooperation. If you don’t wanna help, fine, but give me men who will.” Petersen said nothing for a time. McKay, with a moment to think, realized another possibility. “Or do you not want this job to succeed?”

Petersen looked him in the eye. “No, I do not.”

The big Norwegian crossed his arms again and looked away, sank back against the wall. He slackened like a wind-abandoned sail. McKay waited for more, but none came.

McKay said, “You a Quisling?”

Petersen jerked and spat something in Norwegian, pounded a fist backward into the bulkhead and slackened again. McKay raised a hand.

“Sorry. Had to ask. I feel like I owe it to myself to find out if I’m about to be shot by the Gestapo.”

“Damned rubbish,” Petersen said.

“Why, then?”

Petersen muttered. McKay waited.

“Why? Who were the other Americans?”

Still, Petersen said nothing.

“That dam has been sabotaged before, hasn’t it?”

Petersen nodded.

“When?”

“A month ago.”

“Who were they?” McKay said. “Who were the other Americans?”

“There were six of them. A bigger team than yours.”

McKay imagined Commander Treat’s hospitality toward an even larger group, but did not feel like laughing. “And?”