The Lifeline Read online

  THE LIFELINE

  Deborah Swift

  For Phil,

  artist, boat builder, theatre designer and all-round good dad

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  HEAR MORE FROM DEBORAH

  A NOTE TO THE READER

  HISTORICAL NOTES

  ALSO BY DEBORAH SWIFT

  ‘We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned,

  so as to have the life that is waiting for us.’

  E. M. Forster

  CHAPTER 1

  Nazi-occupied Norway

  January, 1942

  Astrid skied rapidly downhill, heart pumping. It was a risk coming all this way alone, where there was always the possibility she might meet up with some Germans. If she was perfectly honest, it terrified her. A woman on her own was asking for trouble. But Jørgen had been kingpin in the ski club and she’d plucked up enough courage to pretend to be the kind of intrepid girl she thought he’d like, even though it made her stomach crease with nerves.

  She brought her watch up to her eyes and squinted at it. Saturday at four o’clock, he’d said. No earlier, as he’d still be at work, and Jørgen was always very precise with things like being on time. Astrid knew her way to the mountain hut though, and she was going to get there first. She’d surprise him, and get the place ready; the fire lit, and a hot dinner bubbling on the stove. She hitched her rucksack further on her shoulders, glancing nervously behind. Carrying a rucksack was forbidden; they were all supposed to have been handed in to the Germans. Pointless Nazi rules; everyone kept their rucksacks anyway.

  Still spooked that someone else might be out there watching, she slowed her slalom and scanned the horizon. Nothing. Just crisp white snow flowing into the few patches of Norwegian spruce. Relieved, she wheeled to a stop, admiring the view now she was away from the oppressive streets of Oslo. The snow gave off plenty of reflected light though the sky was already dimming, at only three. That was winter in Norway for you, long and dark.

  Almost there. She was looking forward to Jørgen’s expression when he found her there, and everything ready. She sped onward with only the few early stars dotted above, and the chill wind making her cheeks ache with cold. At the next fold in the hills, the familiar roof of the hut made a sharp angle against the white.

  A sting of disappointment. Damn, he was there before her after all.

  A trickle of grey smoke was spiralling from the chimney, and a rectangle of light bled from the window, where the blackout blind was too short.

  She looked to the other ridge, to where a single pair of ski-tracks led down.

  His, probably. He must have finished work early.

  She let out a sigh of frustration. So much for surprising him. But then she pushed off with her poles, whooshing silently downhill, stomach tight with both nerves and the new thrill and anticipation of seeing him again.

  Maybe she could still sneak up on him though. She slipped off her skis and waded through the drift to the window, bending down until she could see him through the crack beneath the blackout blind.

  Astrid paused, breath steaming the glass. What was he doing? An oil lamp lit the room, and as she squinted in, she could see he was sitting at the table, wearing earphones. A box with a bunch of wires coming out of it was attached to a battery in an open suitcase. She cupped a hand over the glass and stared as he tapped a forefinger onto a black button. Open by the side of him was a notebook. He glanced at it, and continued to tap. He was sending a message by morse code.

  Should she interrupt him? She knocked. A quiet rap.

  He didn’t hear. She knocked louder and he leapt up, startled. The earphones were yanked off his head by his movement, his hand shot to his pocket, and before she could make a sound, a gun was pointing directly at the window.

  Astrid threw herself flat on the ground into the soft pile of snow. A moment later and the hut door banged back against the wall. A torch beam skewed wildly side to side.

  ‘Jørgen, no!’ she cried, holding up her hands. ‘Don’t shoot! It’s me. Astrid.’

  ‘What the hell…?’

  She sat up, brushing snow from her jacket. Her voice came out more tearful than she expected. ‘I wanted to surprise you.’

  ‘You idiot. We said four o’clock.’ He was shoving the gun back in his pocket. ‘I could have killed you.’

  ‘How was I to know? Who gave you that gun?’

  ‘Come inside, I can explain there.’

  Astrid was wary; fear had made her jittery.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Jørgen said. ‘It’s just I wasn’t expecting you. You made me jump. I can explain. But I need to finish sending my message first, or they’ll think something bad’s happened to me.’

  ‘Who? What are you doing?’

  ‘I didn’t want you to know. It’s too much of a risk.’ He sighed heavily. ‘But … oh, just sit quietly a moment, and let me finish, then I’ll explain. It’s important. Norwegian lives depend on it, and this time slot’s critical.’

  Astrid perched on the hard wooden bench on the opposite side of the table. In her canvas rucksack she had some pork belly that she’d queued for hours to get, and a small flask of brandy she’d been saving for tonight. She unscrewed the bottle and took a large swig. She needed it. Her legs were trembling, whether from cold or shock, she was uncertain. Only Nazis had guns.

  Jørgen put the earphones back on over his thick fair hair, and tuned in the box in front of him with a few twists of a dial. After a few moments his face lit up, and he made a few taps in morse, and then a few more, faster. In this light, the white scar on his eyebrow where he’d slalomed into a tree, stood out like a slash, but his eyes were fixed only on the notebook in front of him, his shoulders hunched and tight. She might as well not have existed.

  It lasted less than thirty seconds before he turned everything off and packed it all back into the suitcase in a business-like way. He stood on the table, heaved the case up, and slid open a panel in the ceiling. Once it was stowed away, he pulled the panel back, and vaulted easily to the ground. The notebook went into his trouser pocket.

  ‘Oh Lord, Astrid. I’m sorry.’

  He tried to take her hand, but she wanted answers. ‘What’s going on? You could have killed me with that thing.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Jørgen shook his head as if to shake the whole situation away. ‘You didn’t see any of that,’ he said. A look at his face showed he was deadly serious.

  ‘Okay,’ Astrid said. ‘But before I tell you I saw nothing, I have to know. I saw you transmitting something, but who are you doing this for?’

  Jørgen’s eyes widened. ‘You really have ask?’ He sat down opposite her and leaned his elbows on the table. ‘The Milorg. The Resistance.’

  Relief flooded through Astrid. Of course. He’d been a bit of a communist sympathizer at their university �
�� always protesting about something, always arranging marches and handing out flyers, whereas she’d always been inclined to run a mile at the first sign of trouble.

  ‘I know it’s a lot to swallow, but I can’t tell you exactly what I’m doing,’ Jørgen continued. ‘If I get caught, and they find out we’ve been seeing each other, the Gestapo will interrogate you.’

  Astrid blinked, trying to take it in. Even the word, Gestapo, turned her mouth dry. Now, so much made sense. Why he was always so evasive; why they had to always meet where no-one else could see. ‘I thought we had to meet out here because you had someone else. I thought you might be married or something.’

  ‘Married?’ Jørgen let out a bark of a laugh. ‘I’m married all right. To the SOE.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘You remember after university I went to England in a hurry? When the Nazis came?’

  ‘Vaguely. What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘The Special Operations Executive. The English organization that’s helping Norway hit back against the Nazis. I went to get training. They help us with intelligence gathering, arms supply — you name it, we couldn’t do anything without them. The Germans have a stranglehold on every factory, every communications hub. For any resistance to happen at all, there have to be men like me.’

  ‘It’s dangerous, then.’ Astrid was trying to make sense of the gun, and there was still a tension in the air.

  Jørgen leaned towards her and took her hand. His grip was firm and warm. ‘Remember when we first met, when we both skied to this hut by mistake?’

  ‘And we decided to share it for a few hours, and the hours turned into days, you mean?’

  Jørgen smiled, but then his smile faded. ‘I was looking for a place to transmit from. I wasn’t just skiing, and the university’s hut seemed ideal. They’ve hardly ever used it since the Nazis came. But then there you were, and I’d always liked you, right from when we met.’

  Astrid remembered. She’d joined the ski club at university, like she’d joined every other club she could join. Trying to find a place she’d fit in. Jørgen stoked her thumb with his, and a frisson of excitement made her catch her breath.

  ‘I’d always thought you attractive,’ he said, ‘and besides —’ he grinned — ‘you ski well.’

  ‘Thanks to my father. He loved the great outdoors.’

  ‘Astrid?’ Jørgen let go of her hand, leaned towards her. ‘This is serious. I shouldn’t be getting involved. That’s why I left so abruptly that first morning after we got together.’

  ‘And here was I, thinking you’d had second thoughts, and then when you didn’t contact me —’

  ‘I wanted to. But it was hard to find a place to meet where the Germans wouldn’t see us, and I couldn’t risk anyone else being involved.’ He let out a groan. ‘Why was I so stupid? I should never have used this place for my Resistance work.’

  ‘I won’t tell anyone.’ Astrid had the impression the words just slid off him, like they meant nothing.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s not that.’

  ‘I’d no idea. I thought it must be another woman, and that’s why you blew so hot and cold, why you could never commit to dates or times, why you’d never tell me any personal stuff about yourself.’

  ‘There’s not much to know.’ Jørgen paused and gave a slight shake of his head. ‘But a wireless operator’s life is often short. Months, sometimes, at best. I’ve had a fair run, so it worries me that the odds are getting shorter. If they catch up with me, they’ll look for all my contacts and interrogate them. If you know what’s good for you, you should turn around now and ski away.’

  There was a moment’s silence whist he held her gaze. His eyes were hard, uncompromising.

  Astrid got up and walked around the table to squeeze his tense shoulders through his plaid shirt, before wrapping her arms around him. ‘Fool. I’m not going to do that. I’m staying right here. Whatever you’re doing, if it helps get rid of the Nazis from Norway, then I’m right behind you all the way.’

  Jørgen turned and swung his long legs over the bench, pulling her onto his knee, and into an embrace. ‘You don’t get it,’ he said. His eyes were troubled as they looked into hers. ‘I need to know you’ve really understood the risk.’

  ‘I’ve understood. But I also understand that for Norway to survive, to remain as the place I know from the old sagas, for us to honour our culture of fjords and fish, mountains and glaciers, someone has to fight for it. I’m glad it’s you. And actually, I’m rather glad it’s not me.’ She laughed. ‘I could never be that brave.’

  ‘You don’t need to be,’ he said. ‘I’ll do it for both of us.’ He ran his forefinger down her cheek before he lowered his lips gently to hers. ‘You taste of brandy,’ he said.

  ‘There’s only one way to remedy that,’ she said, and passed him the bottle.

  The next kiss was much longer.

  CHAPTER 2

  After returning from the mountains on Sunday evening, Jørgen was keen to get back to his house, and to get a good night’s sleep before he had to go to work at the engineering office at the State Gas Company the next day. All the way home he’d thought of Astrid, and his blood had run cold at the thought of what could have happened.

  How was he to know she’d turn up early? And how stupid he was to go for the gun. But he’d been jumpy lately — kept thinking someone was following him. And he had some Class 1 information to get to the British about German submarines in the U-boat bunker in Bergen, which he’d discovered was codenamed Bruno. Last night he hadn’t had time to send it.

  There was still snow on the streets of his suburb, so Jørgen skied down the middle of the road in the darkening light, listening for traffic, or patrols, and ready to jump sideways if anything came. The whole journey he’d worried about the risk he was putting people under by his work for Milorg.

  When he was in England, they’d trained them thoroughly to calculate risk. He hadn’t seen his family in months, not since he got back from training. Not that they’d want to see him anyway. But Astrid had just been too tempting.

  Jørgen’s street was in darkness; most of his sensible neighbours had pulled the blackout blinds down so only the odd slit of light remained. He pulled off his skis by the front door, leaving them propped there in his ski-sack with his poles. As he opened the door he caught a glint of something. He hesitated.

  Puddles of snow-melt gleamed on the stairs in the darkness.

  He was instantly alert. He never went upstairs in his boots. No home-owner ever did. So instead of going inside, he carefully pushed the door shut again, just short of the latch. He was fairly sure whoever was upstairs would have heard him approach; heard him stamp his boots on the doorstep, heard his key in the door.

  He might gain precious seconds to run, if the door was shut.

  Quietly, he picked up his ski-sack, careful that the skis didn’t clank, and slung it over his shoulder, then sauntered back towards the pavement, patting his pockets as if he’d forgotten something, and walked hurriedly down his neighbour’s drive as if he might go inside. He’d already spotted the car parked just off the main street, its engine idling. His heart had begun to race. Only Germans had cars these days.

  At the last minute, he dodged down the side of the house and across an expanse of thick snow which in summer passed as a lawn, and towards a snow-laden hedge. A shot whipped the snow in a powder trail just in front of him.

  Shit. They’d seen him. Heart thudding, Jørgen pushed himself through the hedge’s springy branches and into the alley beyond. Immediately, he heard shouts, and the noise of an engine roaring into life.

  He ran, pelting down the dark streets, grateful for his strong boots and water-resistant oiled trousers. Behind him he heard the blundering steps of men running. He was fit from skiing in the mountains, so he went where no cars could go; dodging down through gardens, skittering down the back of a fish-paste factory, towards the harbour. Another shot whistled past him and emb
edded itself in the wall, but he kept on going. He paused an instant to catch his breath, before ploughing on, the ski-sack bumping against his back.

  The harbour below was full of Nazi warships and troops, a bad choice of direction. He’d need to change tack.

  Thinking quickly, Jørgen doubled back, making for the steep hill towards the city. Behind him he heard men shout again. Panting, he forced himself into a run up the hill.

  A third shot, too close for comfort. No pain. He risked a glance back. Only one man, the other had given up.

  Jørgen pushed himself upwards, legs pumping, glad of his mountain training. He gambled that the German would be hampered by his bulky clothes and his rifle, which added more weight than his lightweight skis. The Wehrmacht here had a soft city life; they wouldn’t be as fit as him. Another shot, and a woman who was passing by screeched and cowered against the wall, hugging her basket to her chest. Jørgen hurtled past her.

  At the top of the hill he dived into a side street and then twisted and turned his way into Lakkegata. It had been cleared of snow and there were many boot prints in the slush. Thank God. Into another side street. In the shadows was a float of the sort used by milk delivery men; one with a charcoal-burner to fire the engine. He crouched down, thrust his ski-sack under it and crawled into its shadows on his belly. He wriggled the pistol out from the pocket of his trousers and waited. With luck, he could pick this German off and give himself more time.

  A few moments later, ears straining, he heard the German pause at the crossroads; a silence as the footsteps stopped and he wondered which way to go. A few tentative steps down his street. From this position Jørgen could clearly see his shiny boots, the dark serge of his flapping coat. The German took a few steps down the alley, breathing hard.

  Jørgen levelled his pistol quietly at his kneecap. But the man didn’t see him and turned away. A minute later he went back the way he’d come, his thudding boots moving quicker now he was going downhill.

  Jørgen exhaled. He didn’t have to shoot. It would only’ve made things worse. Then it really would be a manhunt.