Dennis Wheatley - The Black Baroness

A few days after Gregory's arrival in Oslo the R.A.F. had bombed Sylt; that being the first attack on a land-target. The British Press loudly proclaimed that the operation had been a huge success while the Germans declared with equal force that no damage of any consequence had been done and that a number of the raiders had been shot down. As Gregory was in a situation to hear neutral reports of the affair he knew the truth, and it made him almost sick with rage.

Sylt was probably the best-defended military zone in all Germany, and instead of being directed to attack any of the innumerable vulnerable points in the German economic system, which were comparatively lightly defended, our wretched pilots had been ordered to go for this base which positively bristled with anti-aircraft guns. In consequence, twelve British bombers had been shot down, with hardly a thing to show for it.

Dissatisfaction in France had led to the fall of the Daladier Government, and Monsieur Reynaud had been chosen as the new Premier; so it seemed that public opinion there was at last pressing for a more vigorous prosecution of the war. In Britain, too, there was evident discontent. Churchill was the only outstanding figure who really possessed the confidence of the public, and the broadcast that he made on March the 30th, in which he warned neutrals that it was quite time they took their ostrich beads out of the sand and, facing facts, united against Hitler before they were gobbled up piecemeal, was a joy to listen to. But he seemed to be carrying the whole burden while the remainder of the War Cabinet concerned themselves with fostering Britain's trade prospects after the war before they had even started to think about how they were going to win it.

By April the 2nd, even with the knowledge that he had conducted himself as warily as possible, Gregory was becoming intensely anxious. They had now been in Norway for a fortnight. At any moment some little cog in the vast German system might turn over and Herr Gruppenfuhrer Grauber learn that the pseudo Oberst-Baron von Lutz and the beautiful Erika von Epp, his two most inveterate enemies, were hobnobbing with all his best agents in Oslo and informing themselves of exactly what was going on.

After that it needed only one brief radiogram to blow the whole party sky-high. The people at the German Legation would warn Paula and her friends to make no apparent difference in their attitude to these enemies who had crept into their midst, but to report their every movement; the Gestapo murder-squad in Oslo would be instructed and, like a bolt from the blue, the blow would fall. The steering-gear of the car that Gregory had hired would suddenly go wrong when he was driving along one of the mountain roads around the city, so that they crashed over a precipice; or one night at a party poison would be put into some sandwiches specially prepared for them, then a doctor who was in the Nazis' pay would make it his business to see that they did not recover.

There were so many things which he had no means of guarding against, and he knew that they were running a frightful risk every day that they now remained in Oslo. Although they had not secured even a hint of the invasion date the material he was getting through was of considerable value, so he was determined to stay on himself, but the work could be continued without Erika's assistance and he became desperately anxious to have her safely out of it.

At first when he tackled her on the subject she flatly refused to go, but he managed to bring her to a more reasonable frame of mind by pointing out that if trouble broke he would be in a much better situation to cope with it if he had not her to look after; and over breakfast in bed on the morning of Wednesday, April the 3rd, they reopened the project of Erika's flitting into Sweden, with the proviso that in the event of an emergency he should join her there.

An hour or so later when Gregory was dressing in his own room, Kuporovitch came in looking extremely glum and, on Gregory's asking him what was wrong, he said:

'Paula has been ordered to leave Norway; she received fresh instructions last night from La Baronne Noire.'

'The Black Baroness,' Gregory murmured with a puzzled look. 'And who may she be?'

The Russian shrugged. 'I have no idea. It is just a nom-de-guerre by which they sometimes refer to one of their key agents. Anyway, Paula is being sent to Holland.'

He then went on to say that it seemed as if Hitler's secret weapon had done its work in Norway and Himmler did not want the pick of his young women murdered by the infuriated Norwegian populace when they realised that their leaders had sold them out to the Nazis. In consequence, Paula and her friends were methodically receiving instructions to tell their Norwegian chers amis that they were returning home for a short holiday or that they had to leave Norway for a week or so on urgent business affairs but that they would return as soon as they could to continue the gay life, and in the meantime the Norwegians were to be good boys and carry out all the things that they had promised.

Erika joined them at that moment and, on discussing that matter further, they then recalled that several of Paula's friends had disappeared in the last few days and that others had talked vaguely of ailing relatives or of husbands who were coming on leave to their homes in Germany, which would necessitate their leaving the delightful Norwegian capital for a brief spell.

'How does Paula take the idea of going to Holland?' Gregory asked.

Kuporovitch grimaced. 'Not at all well. She says that the Dutch are even duller than the Norwegians and that she will be broken-hearted unless I agree to go with her.'

'But you have no passport.'

'That, apparently, can be arranged. Major Quisling could fix it with the Norwegian Foreign Office.'

'What, that conceited little poop?' exclaimed Erika.

Kuporovitch half-closed his eyes. 'It is a mistake to underrate that Quisling man because he appears to be only an empty-headed swaggerer. He has a finger in every pie.'

'Yes,' Gregory added. 'He's a nasty piece of work if ever there was one, but he's up to the neck in this thing. I can hardly recall a party at which he hasn't been present and I'm quite convinced that he's the fellow who produces some new Norwegian general or statesman every time another blonde arrives from Germany. What have you decided to do?'

'I should like to go to Holland, as it is no great distance from France, and once I am in possession of a Norwegian passport I could easily get to Paris; but I would not say anything definite without consulting you, so I told Paula that I would think matters over and let her know.'

'That's fine. Now, d'you think that you could get Erika a passport in another name and take her with you?'

'That sounds an extremely tricky proposition. How d'you suggest that I should set about it?'

Gregory lit a Turkish cigarette and replied quietly: 'The story that you will tell is this: Erika has also been ordered to Holland, but she's afraid to go there in her own name because a young Dutchman fell in love with her when she was there about eighteen months ago and as she refused to have anything to do with him he practically went off his rocker and threatened to kill her. Even if he doesn't attempt to do that, he may make an appalling nuisance of himself and seriously interfere with her duties should he learn that she has returned to the country. In consequence, it would make things ever so much easier if she could go there as a Norwegian. The Gestapo people here could, of course, fake a passport for her, but it would be much simpler and sounder if the Norwegian Foreign Office could be persuaded to grant her one instead. Naturally, she's in no position to apply for this officially, but if Major Quisling can get you a passport I see no reason why he shouldn't wangle one for Erika at the same time.'