the hands of Chevannes still preyed on his mind. How dare that bastard talk about him and Anna in front of his men? He hated people knowing his business and the thought of the others looking knowingly at him and Anna infuriated him. He had avoided her since. After all, what were they going to do? Walk through the mountains hand in hand? He could not deny that he found her attractive, or that he liked her, but now was not the time to be distracted. They had a mission to complete.
The valley climbed gently and, with the rain, the snow was receding almost before their eyes. Tanner pushed back his helmet and turned up the collar of his battle blouse, but still water dripped down his back, while the rain pattered noisily on his helmet. And while his jerkin was resisting the rain, his battle dress, so warm in cold, dry weather, was now heavy and sodden. His trousers clung to his legs. He stopped and, under the shelter of a pine tree, wrapped his remaining three packets of Nobel's and sticks of dynamite tightly in the German wind jacket and stuffed them back into his pack. The heavy canvas of their webbing protected the remaining rounds of ammunition, but the possibility of losing it to the wet was another thing to worry about.
So too was professor Sandvold's condition. As Tanner rejoined the column, he saw Anna and Larsen speaking with him, and Larsen put a hand on his shoulder. Alarm bells rang in Tanner's mind. After the professor's unexpected outburst at the farmhouse, Tanner had seen him put a hand to the wall to steady himself. He had pushed aside the first stab of concern as he had watched Sandvold set off from the farmhouse with a steady step.
Now Tanner hurried along the wet track, splattering his boots and legs with mud. 'What's the matter?' he said, as he reached them.
'Nothing - really,' said Sandvold.
'He's got a temperature,' said Anna. 'Feel his brow.'
'A slight one, perhaps,' said Sandvold, but his teeth were chattering.
Tanner closed his eyes briefly. What next? he thought. 'Are you wet through yet?' he asked.
Sandvold shook his head. 'No. The Norwegian Army's greatcoats are first class.' He smiled thinly.
'How much have you drunk?' asked Anna.
'Enough, I think. I don't feel thirsty.'
'Water helps to bring a temperature down,' she said. ‘I’ll get some from the stream.' The others had gathered round them.
'What's going on?' demanded Chevannes.
'Nothing - please, I'll be all right,' said Sandvold. 'Let's keep walking.'
'He needs rest,' said Anna. 'We should look out for a seter or other shelter.'
Chevannes glared at Tanner, his implication clear: I told you we needed more rest. 'Very well,' he said. 'We'll keep going for now, but let's hope we find somewhere to rest soon.'
Luck was with them. They pushed on, more slowly now, but soon the western side of the valley folded away to reveal a mountain lake and an isolated farmhouse on a thin plateau of pasture between it and the stream.
Thank God, thought Tanner, then prayed they might find refuge there. Chevannes halted them and sent Larsen, with Anna, towards the farm. As they waited, Tanner walked away from the others and signalled to Sykes to join him. 'If one of them is a spy,' he said, hushed, 'this will give them another opportunity to make contact. We need to keep a close watch, Stan.'
'Why not talk to the others?'
'I don't want to frighten them.'
'Better that than Jerry turns up.'
Tanner thought for a moment. 'No, Stan. You know what they'll be like. They'll chatter among themselves. Mac or Hepworth will say something. I don't want to arouse suspicion. If there is a spy - and, let's face it, we don't have enough evidence yet to come out and accuse anyone - we want to catch them, not put them on their guard.' He patted Sykes's shoulder. 'No - you and I are going to have to take responsibility here.'
'All right, Sarge. You're the boss.'
Larsen returned. 'The farmer has gone to fight, but his wife is there with two small children and her father-in- law. He's out and about on the farm, but she says we can come in. Astrid Madsen is her name. Her father-in-law is called Claus Madsen.' He smiled wistfully. 'Two girls, they have. Beautiful children.'
Tanner and Nielssen helped the professor to his feet, but he staggered, so Nielssen took his arm and placed it round his shoulders. Tanner caught a glance from Anna: there was fear in her eyes, but what could he say? The professor was ill, and for the moment they could go no further.
Hurrying back to the Gudbrandsdal valley in Kurz's black Citroen, Reichsamtsleiter Hans-Wilhelm Scheidt had instructions to report to Generalmajor Engelbrecht's headquarters at Vinstra. The general, Terboven had assured him, would be far more compliant this time; the Reichskommissar had made it clear that he was to give every assistance to Scheidt and the SD in their quest to capture Odin. 'You will have the men and equipment you need,' Terboven had told him. 'Odin will not escape for lack of resources.' The Reichskommissar had spoken with General Geisler, the commander of the Luftwaffe in Norway, too. 'If you have any problems, Scheidt,' Terboven had told him, 'any problems at all, let me know. Understand?'
Now he looked out at the passing countryside through the rain-streaked window. The snow was melting in the valley, leaving ever more drab fields, grey-yellow from lack of sun. His gamble, he supposed, had paid off, but although he now had the support he had gone to Oslo to ask for, he felt no sense of elation. Rather, he could not stop thinking about what would become of him once the hunt for Odin was over. It was as though he had reached the endgame, not only for Odin but for himself.
In Lillehammer, he stopped at SD Headquarters, picked up Kurz and together they drove on to Vinstra. The signs of battle were obvious. Shell-holes littered the route. In places, the road had been only roughly repaired. Tretten was a pitiful sight: a collection of burnt and collapsed buildings, with rows of fresh graves dug in the fields leading away from the road. The scenes of destruction were similar in Favang and Ringebu, villages unfortunate enough to have played host to bitter fighting. Burnt-out vehicles and dead horses could be seen at every mile. In places, wide swathes of forest had been in flames. The smell of scorched timber hung in the valley, in places mingling with the stench of decomposing flesh, invading even the car as they swept through.
They found the commander of the 163rd Infantry Division in a large, ornate building a few hundred yards south of the railway station. He was in conference with several of his commanders, including Major von Poncets, and insisted they be ushered into his planning room, where a large map of the Gudbrandsdal valley had been hung on one wall.
He cut an impressive figure, Scheidt thought, immaculate in his field grey and glistening black cavalry boots, with a strong, square, youthful face and shaved head. He spoke clearly and crisply. Reconnaissance reports earlier that morning had suggested the British would be making a stand in battalion strength only. The first attack had been made a few hours earlier, but repulsed with heavy casualties.
