Reichsamtsleiter Hans-Wilhelm Scheidt glanced at the new Reichskommissar, then turned to the person sitting next to him. As he did so, he felt mounting contempt. The man was a mess. Tiny globules of sweat had broken out on his forehead, and aware of this - subconsciously or otherwise - the Norwegian was periodically running his hand over it, smoothing the sweep of his sandy hair at the same time. A sweat-laced strand of hair slid loose repeatedly, until another swipe of his hand smoothed it back again. His face, Scheidt reflected, was pudgy, the nose rounded, but the lips were narrow and his eyes darted from side to side as he spoke, rather than steadfastly eyeing the Reichskommissar. The suit he wore was ill-fitting and, Scheidt noticed, there was a stain on the sleeve near the left cuff. Nor was the 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 welclass="underline" 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 Oslo. Once in the Royal Palace and publicly supporting the National Party, Norway will be the friend and partner Germany wants - indeed needs, Herr Reichskommissar. But so long as King Hakon remains at large, his colours tied to the British mast, there will always be Norwegian resistance to Germany. You must - must- find him. Not only that, Herr Reichskommissar, it is imperative you also find the nation's bullion and the Crown Jewels. The King and the former government took them when they fled the capital. So long as the King has money and funds, he will be able to feed resistance. Without them, his task will be that much more difficult.' He took a gulp of whisky, then leant forward and said, 'My dear Terboven, I really cannot stress enough the importance of capturing the King - before it is too late.'
'He and Prince Olaf are reported to be on the coast now,' said Scheidt. 'At Molde.'
'Thank you, I have read the reports,' said Terboven. He turned back to Quisling. 'Yes, well, thank you, Herr Quisling. We will speak again, but now, if you don't mind, I will bid you good night. As you can imagine, there is much to be done, not least a battle to be won.'
He stood up, signalled Scheidt to remain, and led Quisling to the door. Scheidt watched him shake the Norwegian's hand. It had been a masterly performance: Terboven had shown himself to be well informed yet had listened to the Norwegian; he had been cool and authoritative, but gracious too. He was, Scheidt realized, a formidable opponent.
And right now he was an opponent. It was how it worked in the Party as Scheidt had learnt early in his career. Climbing the ladder was about jockeying for position, backing the right horse, and outmanoeuvring potential rivals. So far it had worked: he had patrons high up in Berlin and had been given the backing to groom Quisling - backing that had come with the Fuhrer's personal support for the Norwegian. Two weeks before, on the eve of the German invasion, Scheidt had believed everything was in place, and that nothing could go wrong. Quisling would be the new prime minister in name, but as Scheidt had known all along, the Norwegian was far too indecisive and lacked the charisma to be anything more than a German puppet. Scheidt would pull his strings.
But Ambassador Brauer had lost his nerve and messed everything up. How that fool could have expected the King to roll over, Scheidt still struggled to understand. The days that had followed the invasion had required resolve and cool nerve, but Brauer had panicked, sacking Quisling as prime minister and bringing in the ludicrously ineffective Administrative Council in the false hope that this would satisfy the King. It had achieved no such thing. And in doing so, he had committed the biggest mistake of alclass="underline" he had angered the Fiihrer and been recalled to Berlin, his political career finished.
Scheidt knew that he himself was hanging by a thread, but he had not crawled up the Party hierarchy without learning two other golden rules: to trust no one, and always to keep something up one's sleeve. Terboven was in Norway with far-ranging powers - powers that Scheidt could not hope to undermine. However, in this new regime there was still a part for him to perform - an important one, if he played his hand correctly.