The Redbreast(168)

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