Chapter Text
Norway, 1941
It was a bright July morning as the black German-made Mercedes purred through the shattered streets of Oslo. Swathed in grey scarf and greatcoat on the back seat, STAPO Kommandor Even Bech Naesheim watched the grim cityscape of bombed-out buildings and rubble-strewn roads pass by his window with an expressionless face, puffing on his ersatz cigarette with distaste. Tobacco had all but run out in Norway since the Nazi occupation, and the local hash of acorns, tea leaves and cheap paper was not, in his opinion, to be recommended.
People with starved and pinched faces scattered from the path of the Mercedes as they rummaged in heaps of trash for something – anything – to eat. After the invasion, the Norwegian economy had collapsed, and what little food there was came largely from the black market, or hunting and fishing. Even the parks had been dug up to plant crops, and where once there had been beds of daffodils and crocuses, small sprouts of carrots and cabbages had started to flourish.
Even had not been in Oslo since it had fallen, and though he did not show it, the scale of the disaster shook him to the core. The small gilded coffee houses and shops that he remembered from his youth were boarded up or gutted by fire, and hardly a car was to be seen on the streets.
Hitler had crushed Norway with an iron fist.
The Mercedes slowed, and drew up outside the newly-established STAPO headquarters, where large red swastikas hung at every window and Nazi-uniformed guards stood outside. Even took a deep breath, stubbed out his disgusting cigarette and peered up at the large, imposing building of the secret police.
“Kommandor Willhelm will see you inside,” said the driver, opening the door and saluting. “Heil Hitler.”
“Heil Hitler,” returned Even calmly, and strode up the steps.
***
Police Kommandor Willhelm Magnusson turned away from the map he was studying and held out a hand in greeting.
“Even! You haven’t changed one bit! It feels like it’s been years!”
“It’s been five years and four months exactly,” returned Even casually, raising an eyebrow and clasping the proffered hand. “And you’ve certainly changed.”
Willhelm’s dark hair was clipped, pomaded and brushed to the side, his characteristic long forelock now cut back from his square forehead. His lips twitched slightly in his version of a smile beneath his small toothbrush moustache, very obviously grown in fond imitation of the Fuhrer.
“Yes, I’ve done pretty well for myself since UiO. Cigarette?”
Even was about to refuse, when he saw that Willhelm was offering him a Lucky Strike from a silver cigarette case. He stared in surprise. “You have American cigarettes here?”
Willhelm snorted. “Of course. Oslo's STAPO have been able to escape the worst of the rationing so at least we get decent cigarettes and brandy. I’m surprised that you lot up in Tromso are still smoking that awful pigweed.”
Even bent his head and accepted the light that Willhelm gave him, his mind churning over the possible reasons for the meeting. He hadn’t been particularly delighted to be dragged all the way down to Oslo from Tromso, but they had sent a private charter plane and express orders to attend without delay, so he assumed that it was something important that could not be talked about on the secret police telephone network.
“Right, well I’ll get straight down to business.” Willhelm motioned Even to sit down in a large chair opposite his oak desk which was strewn with pieces of paper. “The Hjemmefronten – that damned group of Norwegian rebels – have been causing trouble on our supply lines again. They’ve blown up most of our railway lines at least twice a week and they’ve set off other bombs in arms and chemical factories, causing us millions in damage and severely hindering the war effort.”
“Rats,” said Even automatically, sucking in the smoke from the Lucky Strike. “Have they always been so bold around here?”
“Well, they started off pretty amateur - putting home-made molotovs underneath cars and so forth -but word is that there’s a new agent who’s recently joined them, some chemistry graduate from University of Oslo who’s a whizz at concocting high-level explosives using low-grade materials. Just as well the Luftwaffe bombed UiO to pieces this year, hey?”
Willhelm laughed his psychopath’s laugh, and Even’s lips twitched obediently. Willhelm stopped abruptly. “Oh sorry, I know you had a good time at university. But you have to admit, it was riddled with Jews, fags and communists. Once the war is over, we’ll be raising a Reich Academy there, for pure-bloods, and a pure world.”
Even didn’t blink. “Yeah, Jews, fags and commies. That’s what I remember from UiO. But what’s all this got to do with me?”
“Their new agent is called Valtersen. Isak Valtersen. We call him the Dark Angel. Chemistry graduate, class of 1940, only son of a mentally ill mother and a liberal doctor father. Won practically all the prizes every year in some new field called supermolecular chemistry, whatever that is. Word is that he was tipped for great things in the world of science, but the war got in the way.”
Willhelm casually tossed a photograph over to Even. “That’s him at his university graduation, we don’t have a more recent picture for him, but he can’t have changed much.”
Even’s stomach flipped suddenly as he looked at the picture. A serious young man in university gown stared up at him, chin upraised, lips slightly parted as if he had been surprised in the act of talking. He fair hair bobbed in longish unruly curls underneath his graduate cap and a slight smile played at the corner of his mouth as if he shared a private joke with the photographer. Valtersen wasn’t just brainy, he was beautiful, thought Even, entranced, he could have been some kind of film star with his sharp jawline, large eyes and long lashes. He had a sudden urge to reach and trace the line of the boy’s cheekbones with his finger, but the next moment he felt Willhelm’s eyes on him and pulled his hand back.
“Rumour has it in true UiO tradition that Valtersen’s both a fag and a commie – at least his best mate Jonas Noah Vasquez is a commie, though not, as far as we know, a fag.” Willhelm pushed over another photo, this time of a supercilious young man with bushy eyebrows, a bandana bearing the Russian hammer and sickle casually knotted around his neck. “Vasquez thinks he’s the new Karl Marx. Spanish ancestry, studied political science at university, started demonstrations when war broke out, and once the invasion started he became one of the key figures of the Home Front resistance. He's got quite a following with the public - they call him the Ghost of Oslo - and offer him help and hideouts when he needs. It’s because of the Ghost that Valtersen joined the rebels.”
“So, find Vasquez, and we stop the bombing?” queried Even.
“Or more precisely, find his Dark Angel, and you’ll find the Ghost too. That will cut the entire head off the resistance movement.”
"And how do you propose I do that?" asked Even lightly.
"Infiltrate the Hjemmefronten. Capture Valtersen and turn him over to us. Kill the others." Willhelm poured himself a tumbler of brandy and turned to Even. “Ice?”
“Er, no,” said Even automatically. Willhelm raised his eyebrows approvingly. “Straight? That’s my man.”
Even tried not to keep looking at the picture of Valtersen on the desk. “One question though? Why me? You must have any amount of STAPO agents who could do this for you.”
Willhelm downed his brandy in one gulp. “One, we trust you. Myself and Christoffer have known you since university, and there’s more spies in our ranks nowadays than you can shake a stick at, which is why we’re having this meeting face to face. Secondly, you haven’t been in Oslo for years so nobody will recognise you. Vasquez is pretty thorough, he’s taped out every agent we have so all our leads have led nowhere. Thirdly,” and Willhelm coughed to hide his embarrassment, “you’re pretty easy on the eye which probably won’t hurt, at least where Valtersen is concerned.”
Even sipped at his drink to hide his sudden breathlessness. “So where am I to start?”
“We’ve been looking at Valtersen’s old friends – he was pretty tight with a small crew, and we’re keeping tabs on all of them. There’s Noora Saetre – she’s a jazz singer at the Luftwaffe Social Club down at the plaza, pretty girl, real looker, if that’s your type of thing. Then there’s Magnus Fossbakken, used to run a godawful music hall with the worst comedy in town, but now he’s one of the main men in Oslo’s black market. We tend to leave him alone otherwise our meat and wine would dry up pretty quickly!”
Willhelm refilled Even’s glass. “There’s also Vilde Lien Hellerud, she’s a hostess and burlesque dancer at a brothel, and then finally, there’s Vasquez’s girl, Eva Mohn. Graduated in business studies, same year as Valtersen.”
“You know Vasquez’s girl?” asked Even curiously. “Why don’t you just bring her in and use her as leverage to get Vasquez?”
“Vasquez is no fool,” said Willhelm curtly. “We know they see each other, but we’ve never caught him. We don't call him the Ghost for nothing – he can literally fade into thin air. The girl doesn’t know where he is, the contact is all from his side. But still, she won’t be around much longer so we don’t need to follow that lead particularly.”
“Why not?” asked Even curiously.
“Oh, she’s Jewish,” said Willhelm casually. “She's registered in the ghetto with the other undesirables which means she can't leave. And now the occupation’s under control, we’ve got to get our house in order, right? And that means – getting rid of the rats.”