Reenergized, they all followed in line with yelps of excitement, Pedersen and Gutterson dragging the sled behind, the herringbone pattern of their skis up the first climb a beautiful mosaic in the sunlit snow.
But it was exhausting work. Each ridge left them gasping for air, their thighs burning from exertion. In normal snow, a trek like this would take a good half day, but now they were loaded down with packs and with more snow to push through than any of them had ever seen. They kept their eyes peeled for strangers along the route—but for the first few hours they didn’t even see a deer or fox, much less a human. And their gazes were trained toward the sky as well, for German planes—though in their camouflage suits, their packs and weapons painted white as well, they would be difficult to make out from up there.
“So, tell us, what’s it like back in Colorado?” Pedersen asked Gutterson, as he skied up from behind.
“The mountains are rockier and taller,” said the Yank, “and the valleys wide. But it’s all green in the summer. Greener than anything you’ve ever seen.”
“I didn’t ask for a postcard,” the Norwegian said. “How are the girls? Are they pretty?”
“They are,” the American said.
“As pretty as here?”
“So far the only Norwegians I’ve seen here are all of you. So yes, far prettier, in my view. But when I do see a girl or two I’ll let you know.”
“Not to worry,” Nordstrum said from behind him, “if you meet one they won’t understand you anyway, with that accent.” He skied on ahead.
About two hours in, Jens, who had taken the lead at that stage, stopped suddenly and pointed ahead. “Hold up! Look!”
In the distance, something was moving through the sea of white. A black speck, below them in the valley. Not yet in binocular range. Whoever it was was heading directly toward them. In their white suits, there was no way he could have noticed them yet, so far away.
They decided to take cover on the slope, hoping the traveler would veer off and avoid them, but he didn’t change his route. Nordstrum skied down a bit closer and focused his binoculars. “It’s one man. Heading directly toward us, I’m afraid.”
They stopped on the slope of a hill nestled between two peaks. There were large ice boulders, but truly nowhere to completely hide. Anyway, when the man got to them he would surely come upon their tracks. He appeared to be dragging a sled behind him.
Ronneberg took the glasses. “You think he’s from Grouse?”
Nordstrum shrugged. “A hunter, more likely. We’re still too far away. And he’s alone.”
They watched him come closer and closer, headed straight for them, until it became clear there was no avoiding the man.
“All right, Jens, Olf, go down and bring him here,” Ronneberg finally decided.
Colonel Wilson and Tronstad had been clear: They were under the strictest orders to liquidate anyone they might run into, friend or foe. The stakes were simply too high. In England, each swore to a man that he was capable of carrying it out. But as the traveler came into view, in a deerskin coat, climbing at a good pace, a rifle slung over his shoulder—clearly a man used to the mountains, like themselves—they had to ask themselves again if they could.
Lugging a toboggan, the man stopped in his tracks when Olf and Jens skied down into his path, their weapons drawn.
“I’ve got a little money in my jacket,” the man said. He put up his hands. “You’re welcome to it. As you can see, I’ve caught no prey.” He pointed toward his sled.
“What’s your name?” Ronneberg said, coming down from his cover. “And what are you doing up here?”
“My name’s Kristian Kristiansen.” The man removed his hat. “And I do a little hunting.” He was large, balding, and broad shouldered with a thick reddish beard, and his eyes went curiously but methodically from man to man, trying to figure out just who he had stumbled upon in the wild, watchfully taking note of their drawn machine guns.
“Anyway I’ve just set out. From Uvdal. It’s a town on the edge of the vidda. About thirty kilometers from here. I spent the night in my brother-in-law’s cabin a few kilometers down—”
“We know where Uvdal is,” Nordstrum said.
“You do? Then you also know food there is pretty slim these days. Which should answer the question of why I’m out here.”
“Weapons are strictly forbidden by the German authorities, are they not?” Ronneberg went up and indicated for him to remove his rifle. Like radios, being caught with them was punishable by death.
“They are.” The hunter nodded, still unsure whether he was talking to friend or foe. He likely assumed only Germans or Quislings could possibly be up here with weapons of their own. “I beg you, it’s only for shooting deer. I have no politics.”
“Black market?” Nordstrum questioned. The trade for deer meat above what their ration cards allowed would make such a trip with two or three trophies worthwhile.
“War or no war, people still have to eat,” the hunter said. “So who are all of you?” He looked around warily.
“No matter to that. Are you NS…?” Ronneberg grilled him. The Nasjonal Samling party. Quisling.
The hunter eyed them with circumspection, factoring in the sight of their camouflaged weapons and military uniforms peeking out from under their snowsuits. The idea that they could be free Norwegians in military uniforms carrying heavy weaponry surely never occurred to him. “Sure. NS. I’ve been known to be in favor of them.” The man nodded with a bit of an obsequious grin.
“And if we asked around down in Uvdal,” Ronneberg said, “would people there bear that out?”
“Back there…? I have so many enemies in town, they’d probably say I hate the Nazis just to cause me some trouble.” The hunter laughed and looked at each of them. “But I don’t.”
“And why so many enemies?” Nordstrum pressed him.
“Because in times like these you do what you have to do; I’m sure men like you understand. The deer, they don’t just come up and bite you on the ass. You don’t expect me to just give them away.”
“A profiteer, then?” Nordstrum said. He probably sold what he caught for five times what it was worth.
“And what of the king?” Ronneberg continued to question him.
He pulled open his ski suit and divulged his British uniform underneath, not German or NS. “No sympathies for him then?”
“King Haikon!” The man’s eyes doubled in size. “Good God, you’re all true Norwegians then?” he said with a laugh. “How the hell was I to know?” A grin cracked through his heavy beard. “Norwegians bearing arms, on the vidda, blessed God! Yes, I’m a devoted supporter of the king. Ask anyone there, they’ll tell you where my sympathies lie. I had no idea who you were.”
“You seem to be supporting anyone. Let’s see what’s in your pockets then,” Ronneberg said.
They searched him. They found an identity card verifying his name, about three thousand kroner in cash, and a black notebook with a lot of scribbled names. “You keep lists on people?”
“My customers,” the hunter said. “You can check them. Everyone knows me. Kristian Kristiansen. Ask anyone, they’ll tell you I’m a man of my word.”