these pretend-soldiers thought that fratricide was
going a bit far, unaccustomed as they are here in
these safe forests to the brutality of war. But I
have decided to take them at their word before
they change their minds. As soon as it is dark I
will go down to the town and pick up my gun,
which is hidden with my uniform in the left-
luggage locker at the station, and take the same
night train as I arrived on. I know the name of
the closest village to the Faukes’ farm, so I have
only to ask . . .
Oslo. 13 May 1945.
Another strange day. The country is still high on
liberation fever, and today Crown Prince Olav
arrived in Oslo with a government delegation. I
could not be bothered to go to the harbour to see,
but I heard that ‘half’ Oslo was gathered there. I
walked up Karl Johans gate in civilian clothes
today even though my ‘soldier friends’ cannot
understand why I do not want to strut around in
the Resistance uniform and be given the hero’s
welcome. It’s supposed to be a huge turn-on for
young women at the moment. Women and
uniforms – if I’m not mistaken they used to love
running after the green uniforms in 1940 just the
same.
I went up to the Palace to see if the Crown
Prince would show himself on the balcony and
say a few words. Many more had gathered there
too. The guards were changing when I appeared.
A pathetic display by German standards, but
people were cheering.
I have hopes that the Crown Prince will pour
cold water on these so-called good Norwegians
who have been sitting like passive spectators for
five years without lifting a finger for either side
and are now screaming for revenge on the
traitors. In fact, I think Crown Prince Olav can
understand us as, if the rumours are true, he was
the only one out of the King and government who,
by offering to remain with Norwegians and share
their fate, showed a bit of spine during the
capitulation. But the government advised against
it. They knew very well that it would put them and
the King in a very peculiar light, leaving him in
Norway while they themselves made a run for it.
Yes, I have hopes that the young Crown Prince
(who unlike the ‘latter-day saints’ knows how to
wear a uniform) can explain to the nation what
the soldiers on the Eastern Front achieved,
especially since he has seen for himself the
danger the Bolsheviks in the east posed (and still
do) for our nation. Back in early 1942, as we
were preparing to be posted to the Eastern Front,
the Crown Prince is said to have had talks with
President Roosevelt and expressed concern about
the Russians’ plans for Norway.
There was some flag-waving, a few songs, and I
have never seen the trees greener. But the Crown
Prince did not come out on the balcony today. So
I will just have to arm myself with patience.
‘They’ve just rung from Vienna. The prints are
identical.’
Weber stood in the doorway to the sitting room.
‘Fine,’ Harry said with an absent nod, immersed
in his reading. ‘Someone has thrown up in the bin,’
Weber said.
‘Someone who is very sick. There’s more blood
than vomit.’
Harry licked his thumb and turned over the next
page. ‘Right.’
Silence.
‘If there’s anything else I can help with . . .’
‘Thanks very much, Weber, but that was it.’
Weber inclined his head, but didn’t move.
‘Shouldn’t you radio an alert?’ he asked finally.
Harry raised his head and gave Weber an absent-
minded look.
‘Why?’
‘Damned if I know,’ Weber said. ‘On a don’t-
need-to-know basis.’
Harry smiled, perhaps because of the older
policeman’s comment. ‘No. That’s precisely why.’
Weber waited for more, but it didn’t come.
‘As you wish, Hole. I brought a Smith & Wesson
with me. It’s loaded and there’s an extra clip there.
Catch!’
Harry looked up just in time to catch the black
holster Weber had thrown to him. He took out the
revolver. It was oiled and there was a matt shine
on the newly polished steel. Of course. It was
Weber’s own gun.
‘Thanks for your help, Weber,’ Harry said.
‘Take care.’
‘I’ll try. Have a good . . . day.’
Weber snorted at the reminder. As he trudged out
of the flat Harry was already deeply engrossed in
the papers again.
Oslo. 27 August 1945.
Betrayal – betrayal – betrayal! Stunned, I sat
there, well concealed in the last row as my
woman was led in and sat down in the dock. She
gave him, Even Juul, this fleeting but
unambiguous smile. And this tiny smile was