Rønneberg grimly crossed the room again, imagining alarms and sirens and floodlights and dogs. How long could his people stand guard out there and not be spotted? Idland could not possibly be blocking every speck of light; how long before someone noticed that? The glasses were tucked into the logbook like a bookmark. He grabbed them, thrust them at their owner, irritably waved off Johansen’s thanks, and finished his work.
“Go open the basement door so we have an escape route,” Rønneberg told Strømsheim. “Kayser, take Johansen out of here, clear of the blast.”
And then, to his horror, he heard footsteps on the stairs.
Footsteps on the stair could only mean a Nazi guard. Alerted by a pattern of light flecks on the snow, or on a routine patrol? Did it matter? Should Rønneberg light the thi
