Red White and Black Read online

  There’s no doubt about it.

  It’s going to be an adventure...

  Published by

  Strident Publishing Ltd

  22 Strathwhillan Drive

  The Orchard, Hairmyres

  East Kilbride G75 8GT

  Tel: +44 (0)1355 220588

  [email protected]

  www.stridentpublishing.co.uk

  © Matt Cartney 2012

  The author has asserted his moral right under the Design, Patents and Copyright Act, 1988 to be identified as the Author of this Work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-905537-34-1

  eISBN 978-1-905537-83-9

  The publisher acknowledges subsidy from Creative Scotland towards the publication of this volume.

  Typeset in Bembo by LawrenceMann.co.uk

  Cover image © LawrenceMann.co.uk 2012

  Printed by Cox & Wyman

  FOR THE AGENTS,

  THE COMMANDOS, THE PILOTS.

  FOR ALL THOSE WHO DID NOT,

  AND DO NOT, STAND IDLY BY.

  MATT CARTNEY

  When he’s not working and writing, Matt Cartney is an intrepid traveller, mountaineer and snow-boarder. His love of adventure is infectious; presenting in schools, bookshops and libraries he includes photographs and stories of his exploits from around the world. He is always willing to try new things, whether it is cycle touring in Australia, skiing across a Norwegian mountain range or attempting to ride his motorcycle to Nepal (an attempt cut short by terrorists in Baluchistan).

  Matt lives in Edinburgh. Red, White and Black is the second novel in the Danny Lansing series, following on from the success of The Sons of Rissouli. If you would like him to present at your school, you can email him on [email protected]

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  HARDANGER PLATEAU, NORWAY.

  FEBRUARY 1945.

  Torn fragments of moonlit cloud formed a broken ceiling at about six thousand feet. Beyond, the sky was clear and full of glittering stars. They would be coming tonight, the conditions were perfect.

  Knut wriggled his toes in his boots and stamped his skis down into the snow one more time. Even for someone used to Norwegian winters it was bitterly cold and the young agent was troubled by the lack of feeling in his hands and feet. Hopefully the British would be on time — he didn’t want to have to wait out here for long.

  There were three of them standing there; leaving long, grey shadows in the moonlight. Around them, as far as the eye could see, stretched the rolling undulations and broken crags of the Hardangervidda. The whole mountain plateau was white with snow; even its lakes, frozen solid for the winter, lay under the frigid blanket. Indeed, the lakes up here carried such a thickness of ice you could land an aeroplane on them.

  It was this fact, coupled with the spectacular isolation, that had led them to ski through the night to this particular location. Somewhere above, making his lonely way through the darkness, an RAF pilot would be steering his aircraft to the same spot in the endless wilderness.

  The German had arrived in Rjukan two weeks before. No-one would have guessed that the grey-haired man who had stepped off the bus from Oslo was a Generalleutnant in the German Air Force. Dressed in a worn blue suit and moving with the hunched shuffle of the tired and defeated, he appeared every bit the French electrical engineer his identity papers said he was. When Knut and Arne had met him by the church, he had looked strangely forlorn — a soldier shorn of his uniform and exiled from his country. The men he’d spent five and a half years fighting were now his only friends.

  That same night they had taken the German to Arne’s house, where they had equipped him with warm clothing, skis and a white camouflage ski-suit. By midnight they were climbing out of Rjukan, on a steep trail through the trees, to the barren isolation and tenuous freedom of the plateau.

  They had spent much of the next fourteen days stormbound in a tiny hut in the south of the Hardangervidda. The weather had closed in, bringing savage winds that had howled around the hut both night and day. So much snow had built up against the windward side that it had blocked out the window. They had gone outside only to go to the toilet and to collect more snow to melt for cooking and drinking. These trips were made as brief as possible; the cold was so intense that hypothermia would set in very quickly and exposed skin would freeze in a few minutes.

  During those long days, huddled round the old wood-burning stove and trying to eke out their meagre rations, the Norwegians had started to get to know their German charge. He spoke little of the war or of his role in it. He rarely mentioned the Nazis and he spoke only briefly of what had made him defect to the allies. Not once did he allude to the contents of the heavy briefcase that never left his side. And because the Norwegians did not need to know, they did not ask.

  He did talk about the town in Bavaria where he’d grown up, however. There had been a cavernous beer-hall in the main square, an ancient church and a beautiful girl who worked at the library. A concerted campaign of wooing had made that girl his wife. He had not seen her for nearly two years. Now he wondered if he would ever see her again.

  Knut, despite himself, had begun to like the German. He was a tough, gruff old soldier; with the ramrod posture and measured mannerisms of German aristocracy. Yet below the martial exterior was a human being. A glimmer of humanity remained, despite his years serving the Nazi regime.

  The breaking point had come when he had been posted to the camp at Nordhausen. What he had seen there had revolted him. His hatred of the Nazis had finally overcome his love of Germany and he had fled — taking with him all the information he could gather that would be useful to the allies. His rank and position meant that information was worth a great deal. That was why the allies were sending a plane: he was a valuable asset.

  There was no wind — not the slightest whisper to mask the sound of an approaching aircraft. The silence was so complete that Knut could hear his breath as it rushed from his lungs to hang in white clouds in the freezing air. At least they should be able to hear the British coming. Suddenly, there it was: a wavering hum that came and went, right on the edge of earshot. The sound became gradually deeper, building to a reverberating drone that seemed outrageously loud in the stillness of the night.

  Knut and Arne sprang into action. Skiing out across the frozen lake they distributed three lights in a triangle, pointing out the direction in which the plane should land.

  The first they saw of the aeroplane was a tiny shadow flitting between the clouds — like a nervous sparrow hiding from hawks. Shortly, the shadow turned in their direction; the landing lights had been spotted.

  There was nothing they could do but watch. It was a tense moment: a dangerous landing on a frozen lake in enemy-occupied territory. The slightest mishap could spell disaster. The hunched silhouette of the RAF Lysander approached in a long, flat turn, bringing it in line with the makeshift runway. It sank to the snow in a graceful flop, bouncing lightly on its skis before sliding gradually to a halt; the airscrew ripping up a cloud of powder snow in its wake. Wasting no time, the pilot turned the aircraft around and taxied over to where the three men stood.

  The German had taken off his skis and was already striding towards the aircraft by the time it reached them. The pilot did
not try to shout over the noise of his engine and merely pointed him in the direction of the rear cockpit. The German threw his briefcase in first then clambered up after it. Before closing the cockpit he turned and looked over at the two Norwegians. He shouted something, but the battering slipstream of the airscrew flung his words into oblivion. Knut held his hand to his ear to signal that they had not heard, but it was pointless. The German smiled and shrugged, then saluted them and banged the cockpit closed.

  Opening the Lysander’s throttle, the pilot swung the aircraft round and it was soon racing tail-up across the frozen lake. Knut and Arne grinned at each other as it lifted off and turned to the south-west. They were still congratulating each other on a job well done, when a snarling roar ripped through the night and a black shadow flashed over their heads. Knut grabbed Arne’s shoulder in alarm and pointed:

  “A Junkers! The Germans...”

  He was interrupted by the heavy thumping of the twin-engined night fighter’s cannon as it opened fire on the Lysander; yellow streaks of tracer drawing bright lines in the darkness. The Lysander stood little chance, it was outpaced, outgunned and taken completely by surprise. Knut and Arne watched in horror as a spark of flame flared in the sky, then fell, disappearing into the snows.

  They started immediately, skiing as quickly as they could over the moonlit snow. It was nearly two kilometres to the crash site but they reached it eventually, breathing hard from the fastest skiing either of them had ever done. The Lysander seemed to have survived the crash quite well; the undercarriage had collapsed and there were many large holes torn in its fuselage by the canon fire, but it had not lost its wings and it lay in an upright position. It looked as though the pilot had managed to pull off some kind of landing. Knut held his breath as he approached the cockpit, daring to hope that they might find the occupants alive.

  The German sat strapped tightly into his seat, his hands still gripping the handle of the briefcase that lay on his lap. His head, however, had been hit by a cannon round and had disintegrated, leaving just a stump of neck sticking out of his camouflage ski suit.

  The pilot appeared to have fared little better. As Knut and Arne forced open the cockpit, they saw a lifeless form in a sheepskin flying jacket, lying with his head flung back and his mouth open. An ugly wound ran across the left side of his forehead. As Knut reached down to feel for a pulse in the pilot’s neck, however, a low groan escaped the ashen lips.

  “Are you all right?” said Knut.

  The pilot groaned again and his eyes flickered open for the briefest of moments.

  “What? Who the devil...” he whispered before losing consciousness again; his head rolling backwards as limp as a rag doll’s.

  “Hey! Stay awake, you! Stay alive!” Knut shouted, willing the pilot to cling on to life.

  A sudden thought came to him and he pushed a hand down the man’s collar, pulling out his dog-tags. He looked down and read the fibre disc lying on his glove: ‘Lansing, D.’ There was a number and then ‘RAF’.

  “Hey! Lansing! Wake up! Do not die here!” The pilot stirred, his eyes opening again. He peered at Knut dully, as though trying to work out who he was.

  “That’s better!” said Knut. “You have been shot down, but do not worry. My friend and I will get you to safety!”

  CHAPTER ONE

  DUNKELD, SCOTLAND.

  THE PRESENT DAY

  Danny looked about furtively to see if he was being watched. He couldn’t see any sign of the law on the deserted, riot-torn streets, but then, that didn’t mean they weren’t hiding somewhere nearby. He checked out the car again; a 1971 Ford Torino Cobra. Pretty cool. Not too hard to break into either. That was the great thing about 1970s security; effectively it didn’t exist. Hotwiring should be a breeze too.

  He flexed his outrageously muscular arms, causing his elaborate prison tattoos to ripple and distort, and laughed. It was a sneering, phlegmy laugh of triumph that echoed eerily from the concrete walls of the underpass. Oh yeah, he was going to boost himself a real sweet ride. Once he’d done that, he was going to stick up the orphanage round the corner...

  His concentration was broken by a knock at his bedroom door.

  “Come in.”

  “Hey Danny... Jings are you still playing that flippin’ computer game? You realise the sun is shining on the other side of those curtains? I am this close...” Angus held his thumb and forefinger a few millimetres apart, “...to giving you a box of matches, the log-splitting axe and the keys to my motorbike, just to get you to go outside.”

  Danny laughed. “It was raining the last time I looked!”

  “That was three hours ago!” said Angus. “Anyway, that’s not why I came up. There is someone here who wants to meet you.”

  “Oh, okay.” Danny threw his games console joy-pad aside and followed Angus downstairs. He was intrigued; Angus hadn’t said who was waiting in their living-room, but something about his manner suggested it was someone interesting.

  In fact, there were two people waiting to see him. A robust, friendly-looking lady in middle age and a much older man whose once considerable height was now compromised by a pronounced stoop. As Angus disappeared into the kitchen, the lady stepped forward to shake Danny’s hand.

  “Hello Daniel. It’s lovely to meet you. My father and I are in Scotland on holiday. He trained here during the war and wanted to come back for a little nostalgia trip. We thought, while we were here, we would pay you a visit. I hope you don’t mind, my father was very keen to meet you.” She spoke perfect English, but her accent had the soft, resonant tone of a Northern European. Danny guessed she might be German or Dutch.

  “Um... no, I don’t mind. It’s nice to meet you.” He thought frantically, trying to work out who these people might be, but he drew a blank. “Sorry, I’m not sure...”

  “I knew your great-grandfather,” the old man said, realising some explanation was called for. His accent had the same gentle timbre and his English was equally perfect. “I believe you are named after him?”

  “Yes, I was named after my great-granddad, Daniel Lansing.”

  The old man gazed at him from under wildly bushy, snow-white eyebrows. His eyes were the blue of glacial ice and seemed to Danny to be reading him like a book. Not just seeing the mop-headed youth in scruffy jeans and snack-damaged t-shirt, but assessing his very character, determining his strengths and gauging his intelligence.

  “Yes. I see your great-grandfather in you. I think you share the same qualities.” He smiled. “And I don’t just mean the colour of your hair!”

  Danny was pleased; his great-granddad had won the DSO in the Second World War.

  “Thanks. My dad told me he was a hero.”

  “He was indeed.” The old man smiled again, his eyes unfocused now, as he recalled some ancient memory. “However, I am forgetting myself...” He held out a hand in introduction. “My name is Knut Jorgensen and I am from Bergen, in Norway. Your great-grandfather and I were good friends.”

  Shaking the proffered hand, Danny suddenly remembered his manners.

  “Sorry, Mr Jorgensen. Please have a seat.” He indicated the scruffy leather couch lurking under a painting of a mountain. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “Way ahead of you, Danny!” said Angus, returning through the kitchen door, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. Once they had all settled down, poured themselves a cuppa and balanced custard creams on their knees, Danny asked the obvious question:

  “How did you know my great-granddad?”

  And so Knut told them how he had been a secret agent during the war and how he and his friend Arne had been given the job of taking the German and his secrets into the mountains, so that he could be picked up by a British aeroplane. He told them how Danny’s great-grandfather had been the pilot of the Lysander that had been sent for the German. How it had been shot down, just after take-off, and how he and Arne had carried the wounded pilot to safety and hidden him in a remote hut until he had recovered. He also told them
how Flight Lieutenant Daniel Lansing DSO had then joined the Norwegian resistance and spent the rest of the war fighting alongside them.

  “We became great friends in those final months of the war,” Knut concluded. “After it was all over we kept in touch. A few months before he died, he wrote to tell me how his grandson had named his new-born son after him. He was very proud.”

  Danny was amazed. He had known his great-grandfather had been a bit of a character, but this was incredible. It turned out he was not only a decorated pilot, but a resistance fighter as well!

  They talked for over two hours, a host of fascinating stories coming to light; some heroic, some funny, some terribly tragic. Knut seemed happy to tell the tales and Danny and Angus were a willing audience. It was one thing to read about these things in books, quite another to hear it from the lips of someone involved. Eventually Knut’s daughter interrupted the storytelling.

  “We must go, father,” she said, glancing at her watch. “We must catch dinner at the hotel.”

  “Ah! Yes, you are right, my dear. Well, it has been nice to meet you, Daniel. I feel you are a chip off the old block!”

  “It’s been very interesting to meet you, Mr Jorgensen. I hope you enjoy the rest of your holiday.”

  “I’m sure I will!”

  As the old man rose to put on his coat, Danny stood up and, a little red in the face, asked the question that he had been burning to ask for several minutes.

  “Mr Jorgensen... I was wondering, the secrets the German was carrying, what happened to them? Did you ever get them back to Britain?”

  “What? Oh... no. We could not carry a wounded man and the briefcase; it was too heavy and Daniel was our priority. We buried it on the plateau. German mountain troops searched the area around the crashed Lysander for weeks, looking for Daniel, meaning it was too risky to go back and get it. After that,” he shrugged, “we were too concerned with the liberation of Norway to worry about some briefcase full of papers. It is probably still there!”