The Blue Ice (8 page)

I pushed open the saloon door. Curtis was pulling on his jersey. Jill was in the galley sweeping up broken crockery. ‘How's the shoulder?' I asked Curtis.

‘All right,' he said. ‘Bit stiff, that's all.'

‘Dahler in his cabin?'

‘Yes. He's come round. Cut lip and bruised cheekbone, that's all. What did Jorgensen want to go and hit him for? There's something funny about those two. They hate each other's guts.'

I went into Dahler's cabin. The light was on and he was sitting propped up in his bunk, dabbing at his lip, which was still bleeding. I shut the door. He turned at the sound, holding his handkerchief to his face. ‘Well?' he asked. ‘How much damage have I done?'

‘Quite enough,' I said. ‘Why did you take the wheel if you didn't know how to sail?'

‘I was right beside Wright when you told him to give a hand for'ard,' he replied. ‘I couldn't help. Jill Somers could. So I took Wright's place at the helm. And I do know how to sail, Mr Gansert. Unfortunately I haven't done any sailing since – since this happened.' He waved his withered arm at me. ‘The ship heeled to a gust of wind and the wheel was torn out of my hand.'

‘Jorgensen thinks you did it purposely,' I told him.

‘I had gathered that.' He dabbed at his lip. ‘Is that what you think?' His dark eyes were watching me. The cabin lights were reflected in the over-large pupils.

‘I'm prepared to take your word for it,' I told him.

‘I asked you, Mr Gansert, whether you thought I had done it purposely.'

I hesitated. ‘I don't know,' I answered. ‘He had just threatened to have you arrested. And you don't exactly conceal your hatred of him.'

‘Why should I?' he answered. ‘I do hate him.'

‘But why?' I asked.

‘Why?' His voice rose suddenly. ‘Because of what he's done to me. Look at this.' He thrust the withered claw of his arm at me again. ‘Jorgensen,' he snarled. ‘Look at my face. Jorgensen. Before the war I was fit and happy. I had a wife and a business. I was on top of the world.' He sighed and sank back against his pillow. ‘That was before the war. It seems a long time ago now. My interests were shipping. I had a fleet of coasters and four tankers that supplied Det Norske Staalselskab. Then Norway was invaded. The tankers I ordered to British ports. Some of the coasters were sunk and a few got away, but the bulk of the fleet continued to operate. And whilst Jorgensen was entertaining the German commanders in Oslo I worked for the liberation of my country. My house at Alverstrummen was a refuge for British agents. My offices in Bergen became a clearing house for boys slipping out of the country. Then suddenly my house was raided. A British agent was captured. I was arrested and imprisoned in Bergen. That was not so bad. My wife could come and see me and I passed the time binding books. But then the Germans drafted us for forced labour. I was sent to Finse. The Germans planned to build an aerodrome on top of the Jökulen. Did you ever hear of that monumental piece of German folly?'

‘Jorgensen mentioned it to me—' I began.

‘Jorgensen!' he exclaimed. ‘What does Jorgensen know about it? He was much too clever.'

He leaned out of his bunk and got a cigarette from his jacket pocket. I lit it for him. He took several quick puffs. His fingers shook. The man was wrought up. He was talking to steady himself. And I listened because this was the first time I'd got him talking and up there at Finse he had met George Farnell.

‘So you didn't know about the Jökulen project? Nobody in England seems to have heard about it. So many strange things happen in a war and only a few people outside the countries where they happen ever hear about them. In Norway everybody knows about the Germans and the Jökulen. It is a big joke.' He paused and then added, ‘But it was not a joke for those who had to work on it.' He leaned over towards me and grabbed at my arm. ‘Do you know the height of the Jökulen?'

I shook my head.

‘It is the highest point on the Hardangervidda. It is 1,876 metres high – a glacier, perpetually covered by snow. They were crazy. They thought they could make an airfield up there. The snow was blown into waves by the wind. They drove tractors with heavy iron rollers up to the top. And when they found circular rollers packed the snow up in front of them, they made octagonal rollers. There were crevasses. They tried filling them with sawdust. Oh, it is a hell of a fine joke. But we had to work up there and in the winter on the Jökulen there is sometimes as much as fifty degrees of frost.' He had been talking fast. Now he suddenly leaned back against the pillow and shut his eyes. ‘Do you know how old I am, Mr Gansert?'

It was impossible to put an age on him. ‘No,' I said.

‘Just over sixty,' he said. ‘I was fifty-four then. And I'd never have come down from Finse but for Bernt Olsen. He got six of us away. Packed us into aero engine crates – the Germans were testing engines under ice conditions up by Finse Lake. From Bergen the resistance people got us away to the island of Fedje by boat. And a few days later we were taken off by a British M.T.B.'

It was an incredible story. I suppose he noticed my surprise, for he said, ‘This came later.' He indicated the withered arm. ‘After I got to England. Delayed reaction. Paralysis. My wife died that year I was at Finse.' He struggled on to his elbow. ‘All that, Mr Gansert, because Jorgensen wanted my shipping fleet. It was a family business started by my father. After my arrest the Germans confiscated it. Jorgensen formed a company and bought it from them. And you ask why do I hate the man.' He lay back as though exhausted, drawing on the cigarette. ‘Remember what I told you? The only dangerous Norwegian is a Norwegian business man.'

‘What about Farnell?' I asked. ‘What was he doing up at Finse?'

His eyelids flickered open and he stared at me. ‘Farnell?' He suddenly laughed. ‘You English – you are like bulldogs. You never let go. You can ignore anything and concentrate on the one thing that matters to you. You don't care about what I have been telling you. It doesn't mean anything to you, eh?' His voice had risen to sudden passion. ‘I tell you a story of injustice, of the destruction of one man by another. And all you think about is—' His voice dropped again. ‘All right,' he said. ‘I'll tell you. Farnell worked on the Bergen railway. He worked at the railway yards at Finse under the name of Bernt Olsen. He was working for the resistance. He risked his life to get us out. Now I would like to help him – if I can.'

‘How can you help him when he's dead?' I asked.

‘If he's dead – then that's that. But if he's not … My life's finished. I have no future – nothing. When you have reached that stage, Mr Gansert, you can afford to take a little risk here and there.'

‘Such as – trying to kill somebody,' I suggested.

He smiled. ‘You are still wondering whether that gybe was an accident or not – eh? Jorgensen thinks I did it on purpose, does he?' He chuckled. ‘All his life now, until I'm dead, he'll he wondering – wondering what the noise at the window is, wondering whether he'll die a sudden death.' He began plucking nervously at the blankets. ‘Farnell knew a lot about Jorgensen. If only I could find Farnell. Is Jorgensen sure Farnell is dead?' He closed his eyes.

The door opened then and Jill came in with a cup of beef tea. ‘How is he?' she asked me.

Dahler sat up in his bunk. ‘I'm quite well, thank you,' he said sharply.

She handed him the cup. ‘Drink that,' she said. ‘And then try to get some sleep.'

I followed her out and shut the door. ‘We must always see that somebody else is with him when Jorgensen is about,' I said.

She nodded.

‘Was it an accident or not?' I asked her.

‘I don't know.' She turned quickly towards the galley.

I caught her arm. ‘You saw what happened. Or Jorgensen thought you did. What was it – accident or – attempted murder?'

She winced at the ugliness of the word. ‘I don't know,' she said again.

I let her go then. ‘He seems to have reason enough for his hatred,' I said. ‘Anyway, from now on I'm taking no chances.'

She went into the galley. I turned and climbed the companionway to the deck. The weight of the wind hit me as soon as I hauled myself through the hatch. I staggered to the weather rail and looked out into the darkness. Broken wavetops hissed hungrily each time the ship lifted. The sea was a roaring waste of heaving water. Each wave was a tussle between ship and sea and sometimes the sea won, breaking inboard with a crash and seething out through the lee scuppers. Jorgensen was still at the wheel. Dick was huddled beside Curtis in the shelter of the cockpit. ‘What are we making by the log?' I asked him.

‘About seven,' he answered.

‘Have you seen Dahler?' Jorgensen asked.

‘Yes,' I said.

‘What does he say?'

‘He says it was an accident,' I replied. ‘The wheel was too heavy for him.'

‘He's lying.'

‘Possibly,' I said. ‘But you wouldn't convince a jury of it. The fact remains that the man's a cripple and only has one hand.' I turned to Dick. ‘Time for my watch to take over,' I said.

Jorgensen handed over the wheel to me without a word. I watched him cross the green glow of the starb'd navigation light and disappear down the main hatch. ‘Keep your eye on him, Dick,' I said. ‘If we don't watch out we'll have one of them overboard.'

‘They don't love each other, do they?' he said.

‘Not so as you'd notice,' I answered. ‘Would you mind bunking in the saloon for a couple of nights?'

‘Watchdog, eh? Okay. But I warn you, Bill, when I close my eyes a regiment of killers could trample over me and I wouldn't bat an eyelid.'

He went below then and I was alone in the thundering, pitching night. Seated there at the wheel I could feel
Diviner
tearing forward through the water at the surge of each wave. Then she'd slip back, stern foremost, into the trough and wallow till the next wave lifted her and the wind drove her on into the darkness. It was a weird scene. The red and green navigation lights illuminated the canvas of the sails with an unearthly glow, a sort of demon phosphorescence. The music of
The Damnation of Faust
drifted through my mind. The weird descent into Hell … If Berlioz had included a scene with Charon crossing the Styx, then this was the lighting he'd have used. What a setting for something horrible! I thought of those two men – Jorgensen and Dahler – hating each other and fearing each other at the same time. I laughed out loud. And I'd been so damned pleased with myself when I'd bluffed Jorgensen into sailing down the Thames with us. And right now I'd have given a lot to be able to set him ashore at Greenwich.

The macabre turn my thoughts had taken was interrupted by the arrival of Jill. ‘How's Dahler?' I asked her as she seated herself in the cockpit.

‘Sleeping,' she said. ‘He's quite exhausted.'

‘And Jorgensen?' I asked.

‘Gone to his cabin. And Dick has settled himself in the saloon.' She sighed and settled her back against the chartroom. I could just see the pale oval of her face in the light of the binnacle. The rest of her was a dark bundle of sweaters and oilskins. Every now and then a burst of spray swept across us, stinging my eyes with salt.

‘Tired?' I asked.

‘A bit,' she answered drowsily.

‘Why not go below?' I suggested. ‘There'll be no more sail changing to do this watch.'

‘I'd rather stay up here,' she answered, ‘in the fresh air.'

Wilson came up shortly after that with mugs of scalding coffee. After we'd drunk it the remaining three hours of the watch dragged. Once we sighted the navigation lights of a drifter. The rest of the time the boat was plunging through a void of utter darkness. Sleep weighed on our eyes. It was a constant fight to keep awake. At four in the morning we called the starboard watch. A faint grey light percolating the low cloud and the tumbled outline of the waves marching up behind us was just visible.

That was to be our last full day at sea. The wind lessened and the sea dropped. Daylight revealed no real damage aloft and we piled on sail again. By midday a watery sun came out and I was able to obtain a fix. This confirmed our position – about thirty miles due west of the Norwegian port of Stavanger. I altered course to north eleven east.

All that day Dahler kept to his cabin. Jill reported that he was in a state of nervous exhaustion and suffering from sea-sickness and lack of food. I went to see him just after the midday meal. The cabin smelt stale and airless. Dahler was lying with his eyes closed. His face looked grey under the dirty stubble except for a livid bruise on his cheek and the red line of his cut lip. I thought he was asleep, but as I turned to go he opened his eyes. ‘When will we be in – Norway?' he asked.

‘Dawn tomorrow,' I replied.

‘Dawn tomorrow,' he repeated slowly. The way he said it made me realise what it meant to him. He hadn't seen his country for a long time. And when he had last been there it had been as a prisoner, a slave labourer working for the Germans over 5,000 feet up in the mountains. And he had left it as a fugitive. I thought of the awful trip he must have had down the railway to Bergen hidden in a crate that was supposed to contain German aero engines. Then the trip out to the island and then the final journey by M.T.B. And now he was going back for the first time. And he was threatened with arrest. I suddenly felt sorry for him.

‘There's a chance we may sight a steamer off Bergen, bound for Britain.' I said. ‘If so, shall we signal it to take you on board?'

He sat up suddenly. ‘No,' he said violently. ‘No. I'm not afraid. I'm a Norwegian. Neither Jorgensen – nor anyone else – will stop me from going back to my country.' His eyes had a wild look. ‘Where are you making for?' he asked.