After a minute or so, no one had come out. Thank God. The building seemed to have a lot of clanking, grating sounds—compressors, water pipes, currents rushing through turbines. The sound of the gun hitting the floor was only one more. Still, at some point a night watchman would come by.
Holding still until they were sure it was safe to continue on, they finally pushed ahead. After another twenty feet, Nordstrum came upon a wider opening in the duct. This one had to be inside the high-concentration room for sure. Putting a hand to his lips for his partner to remain silent, he stuck his head through the hole and peered inside.
What he saw was a large room. To his right was a man, sitting behind a table, making notes in some kind of notebook. He was older, with white hair under a flat wool cap, dressed in civilian clothes. Not a guard; likely Norwegian. Maybe a watchman in the room to take a reading.
And beyond him, to Nordstrum’s elation, identical to the models they had practiced on in Britain, were the eighteen high-concentration compressors, hissing steam and emitting the slow, steady drip of heavy water into the very same cylindrical steel canisters they had come to destroy. He looked back at Stromsheim with a triumphant nod.
They were here.
40
Hugging the shadows, Ronneberg and Jens hurried around to the north side of the building. They found the closed steel door that led to the first floor.
No one was around.
Ronneberg twisted the handle and tried to push the door in with his shoulder.
It was locked as well.
That left only the duct as their last possibility. And Nordstrum and Stromsheim were somewhere on the other side of the building.
“Quick, let’s head back around and find them,” Jens said, checking his watch. Seven minutes had elapsed since they’d first come through the gate—an eternity to those who were keeping watch on the Germans and didn’t know their progress—and they were no farther along than when they arrived.
“All right.” Ronneberg nodded and started to head back. Then suddenly he grabbed Jens’s arm. “Hold it!”
There were windows at their feet, all blackened out with dark paint of some kind. The electrolysis compressors were in the basement. These windows had to lead somewhere.
Ronneberg said, “I’m going to take a look.” He got down on a knee, making his way along the base of the building, trying to locate some section of a window he could get a view through. Finally he came upon a corner where a narrow ray of light shone through. He reached into his pocket for a small knife and scratched at it. A residue of black paint chipped off into his hand. He leaned in closer and put his eye to the tiny opening.
As if in a dream, the eighteen electrolysis chambers were visible at the far end of a large room. Nearer to him, he saw the back of a man jotting in a notebook at a table. The man was older, with white hair under a flat wool cap.
Not a German in sight.
“Anything in there?” Jens leaned over and asked under his breath.
“Yes.” Ronneberg turned around with a broad smile. “Our target.”
41
Taking his weapon, Nordstrum slipped silently through the hole in the duct and down into the large room. The compressors were hissing, clanking, synthesizing their precious by-product, drip by dreaded drip.
Stromsheim followed close behind with the rucksack of explosives.
The watchman made notations in his notebook, seemingly humming a few bars of a tune while he jotted, completely oblivious to them.
Nordstrum pulled back the bolt of his gun.
With a jolt, the watchman looked up, blinking twice at the sight of a man in a non-German military uniform holding a gun on him, and another right behind.
He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
“I assure you we’re quite real.” Nordstrum advanced toward him. “And if you want to continue to live through the next few minutes, you’ll do precisely what we say. Now put your hands up.”
“Don’t shoot,” the man said, doing as Nordstrum instructed. “Who the hell are you? And how did you possibly get in here? The door’s locked.”
“Never mind that,” Nordstrum said. “Haven’t you ever seen a British soldier before? Now get up and away from there, and keep your hands in the air.”
“Brits? This is truly amazing.” The watchman stood up and followed Nordstrum’s instructions. “What do you want in here?”
“First, where’s the key to the door to the outer yard?” Getting out that door was their only means of a quick escape.
His palms still wide, the watchman slowly reached to his vest pocket and came out with a ring of keys. “May I?”
“Put it on the table.” Nordstrum directed him with the gun.
The man wound clumsily through the keys until he found the one he was looking for. He put the entire ring, with one key sticking out, next to his notebook. “You know if the Germans find you in here, we’ll all be shot.”
“Then you better do your best to keep that from happening.” He turned to Stromsheim. Go check outside the door and retrieve your gun,” Nordstrum said in English.
Stromsheim headed to the basement door, opened it slowly, and stuck out his head.
“Tell me your name?” Nordstrum said to the watchman.
“It’s Gustav. Fredrickson.”
“So, Gustav Fredrickson, do what we say and you’ve nothing to worry about. Don’t, and all bets are off. How often do the guards come around?”
The watchman glanced at the clock on the wall. “Once an hour, usually at ten minutes past. Punctual to a T.” It was 12:48 now. That gave them twenty minutes. “They check the water levels, make a lot of notes. The bastards can’t afford to lose a precious drop. But there’s others in the building … My foreman. He comes around. I’m not sure you can count on him.”
“And we can count on you…?” Nordstrum questioned.
“Me, yes. British commandos? With a grasp of Norwegian. Look, I know what you’re here to do.”
“You do, do you?” Nordstrum opened the rucksack of explosives and placed it on the table. “Then we best get started, don’t you think?”
*
Near the German guard hut, Poulsson and Gutterson hid behind the storage drums, barely ten meters from it. It had been almost twenty minutes since Ronneberg and the demolition team had gone inside. Amazingly, not a single guard or watchman had wandered by.
They waved to Arne Kjelstrup, who was crouched in a clump of bushes, watching over the sentries on the bridge. From inside the hut, they could hear the chatter of voices, some laughter at intervals. Who knew how they were passing the time in there? Drinking coffee. Playing cards. Sharing photos of some Nazi film star. It took all the restraint Gutterson and Poulsson had not to just riddle the hut with bullets and put an end to them.
12:46.
Separately, each of their minds drummed with worry. What could be taking so long? Had any of the teams reached the target? Did they encounter any opposition? Were the two of them crouched here, the minutes ticking achingly slowly, and their countrymen were trapped inside?