Read Online The Odin Mission by James Holland - Free Book Online

tie tight
against the collar: Scheidt could see the button peeping out from behind the
knot.
    And the drivel coming from his mouth! Scheidt had heard it over and
over again during the past week: how he, Vidkun Quisling, had long been a true
friend of Germany; that he was the head of the only Norwegian political party
that could govern Norway effectively; that the new Administrative Council
appointed by Ambassador Brauer consisted of vacillating incompetents who could
not be trusted; and that while it was true that his National Party enjoyed only
minority support throughout Norway, that was sure to change. Norway was a
peace-loving nation; the fighting had to stop. He could help deliver peace and
ensure Norway remained a fervent friend and ally of Germany. The Fuhrer himself
had singled him out. As founder and long-standing leader of the National Party,
he could govern Norway now and in the years to come.
    That was the gist, at any rate, not that Quisling was a man to say
something in one sentence when given the opportunity for a long-winded rant. To
make matters worse, as the man spoke, spittle collected at the side of his
mouth. What was the Reichskommissar making of him? Scheidt wondered, and
glanced again at the compact, slimly built man sitting opposite.
    The contrast could not have been greater. Josef Terboven was
immaculate. It was indeed warm in the room, but there was not even the hint of
a sheen on his smooth forehead. The fair hair was combed back perfectly from a
pointed widow's peak. The gold-framed round spectacles sat neatly on his nose,
while his narrow eyes watched the Norwegian with piercing intent. His
double-breasted black suit revealed no insignia of rank, but was beautifully
tailored and fitted its wearer like a second skin. The shoes were polished to
glass, the shirt cuffs starched white cotton. Terboven exuded confidence,
command and control. It was a Party rule that Scheidt had learnt well: look
superior, feel superior. It was why he himself had spent so much at one of
Berlin's finest tailors; it was why he took such trouble over his personal
grooming. For all Quisling's professed admiration of Germany and all things
German, sartorial pride was one lesson he had failed to grasp.
    Scheidt
recrossed his legs, his Louis XIV chair creaking gently. A large lacquered
walnut desk stood by the large window, an art-deco drinks cabinet in the corner
beside it. Even Terboven's choice of the Bristol made an important statement:
it was not necessarily the best hotel in Oslo in which to make his temporary
base, but certainly the most stylish.
    Terboven raised a hand. 'Stop, please, Herr Quisling. For a moment.' He
closed his eyes briefly, as though in deep thought, then opened them again and
said, 'Another drink?' He signalled to an aide as Quisling nodded.
    Another mistake , thought Scheidt, watching the man pour the Norwegian
another whisky as Terboven placed a hand over the top of his own tumbler. 'No,
not for me,' he said. Scheidt also knew to refuse.
    'All you say may be true, Herr Quisling,' said the Reichskommissar,
'but what about the King - who, it must be said, has shown nothing but contempt
for your political ambitions?'
    Scheidt smiled to himself at this flagrant criticism of the man sitting
next to him.
    Quisling shifted in his chair. 'The King fears his position, his
authority,' he said. 'It is why he must be captured and brought back to Oslo.
I'm sure with a little coercion he can be persuaded to co-operate. For the
greater good of Norway.'
    Terboven put his hands together as though in prayer and rubbed his
chin. 'Hm. It probably won't surprise you, Herr Quisling, to know that I'm no
admirer of the King - or any royalty, for that matter. Neither, it should be
said, is the Fuhrer.'
    'The King must be captured,' said Quisling. 'The Norwegians love him.
We voted for him in 1905 when we split from Sweden and since that time he has
proved a diligent and extraordinarily popular monarch. He must return to