Billy Boyle: A World War II Mystery, Vol. 1 Page 6

  “Welcome, Major Harding.” He saluted and then extended his hand. “On behalf of His Majesty King Haakon, I welcome you to our headquarters. Captain Jens Iversen, at your service. I am in charge of security for the king.” His English was precise, clipped, like he was biting off each word as he said it.

  “Thank you, Captain,” said Harding. “This is Lieutenant Boyle and Lieutenant Kazimierz. My assistant, Second Officer Daphne Seaton.”

  “Pleased to meet you all,” responded Iversen, with a bow to Daphne and the barest trace of an accent twirled around his words, now that his canned speech was over. “My men will show you to your rooms, and then the king requests that you lunch with him at twelve. Baron, the king looks forward to meeting you. Now, you must excuse me. I have to prepare for the exercise tomorrow.” With a nod, he scurried off, evidently a very busy man. Or a very nervous one.

  “You’re famous, Kaz. Kings await you.”

  “Billy, the aristocracy of Europe is really a very small club. Those of us still free feel the weight of those left behind. It brings us closer together.”

  “So tell me, what do I call him?”

  “Your Majesty will do nicely,” Daphne chimed in. “Don’t they teach you these things in Boston?”

  The enlisted men took Daphne’s and the major’s bags and led us up innumerable stairs, twists and turns and through corridors, until we reached our rooms on the fourth floor. I stashed my bag and we regrouped a few minutes later in Harding’s sitting room. It was a small, pleasant chamber, lace curtains framing the only window, a faint breeze of damp air moving them sluggishly. A couch took up one wall and two upholstered chairs faced it. Doilies and flower vases gave it a grandmotherly air.

  “OK, here’s the drill,” Harding lectured, ticking points off on his fin-gers. “This lunch is a social affair. We make our manners with the king and his folks and keep the conversation light. The briefing on the invasion is set for tomorrow afternoon. For security reasons we are not mentioning the word invasion until then. Got it?” We got it.

  “Boyle, I don’t think we made one thing clear about the German agent. The Norwegians don’t know about him. And we’re not going to tell them.”

  “Yes, sir.” Old reliable.

  There was a knock at the door. Daphne opened it and said, “Major Cosgrove! What a pleasant surprise” in such a way that I could tell it was a surprise and not really a pleasant one.

  “Pleased to see you, too, Daphne, my dear.” An overweight, balding, frowning, and very dignified British major in full dress uniform entered the room. He walked stiffly, using a cane with his right hand. His large form was hidden behind a uniform that even I could tell was well tailored. His leather Sam Browne belt gleamed and his drooping mustache was waxed to perfection, the ends flipping up into little tips.

  “Now look here, Harding, you should have informed me you were arriving a day early. Trying to get the king’s ear, eh? Who’s this young chap?” He spoke this last pointing his cane at me. I didn’t know what to expect next but somehow I had the presence of mind to get up and offer him my seat.

  “I’m Lieutenant Boyle, sir. Please, sit down.”

  “Hrrmmph.” He sat himself down and looked at me. His way of saying thanks, maybe.

  “Major Charles Cosgrove,” Harding said to me, “represents the British Army chief of staff. He will be presenting Operation Jupiter with us to the Norwegians tomorrow.”

  “Bloody awful idea, always has been. Too bad you Yanks talked Winnie into it. Now, Harding, what brings you here a day early?”

  “Perhaps I should ask you how many days you’ve been here?”

  “Just arrived myself, old boy. Some business with the commando chaps. They’re putting on a show tomorrow out on the heath with the Norwegian Brigade. Blowing things up, lots of fireworks, impress the locals, that sort of thing. Number Ten Commando, since it includes a Norwegian troop, will assault some positions with First Battalion from the brigade. They’ll blow up some old Matilda tanks and chase off the local Home Guard chaps who are playing the Germans. Great fun. Then we’ll present this idiotic plan to the king and his men.”

  “As you can tell, Billy,” Kaz offered, “Major Cosgrove thinks Operation Jupiter is doomed to fail.”

  “Damned right, Baron! I took a Turkish bullet in this leg at Gallipoli during the Great War,” Cosgrove said, slapping his right knee. “That was another one of Churchill’s grand invasion plans. He mucked that one up and he’ll do the same in Norway, and you Americans are encouraging him down that road to disaster!” His voice rose and he punctuated the sentence by rapping the end of his cane on the floor. He sighed and finished in a quiet, resigned voice.

  “We are not yet ready to invade any part of the continent.” His voice faded off and he tapped his cane on the floor, staring at it while silence hung around him. I didn’t know much about Gallipoli except that it was a failed invasion and that Cosgrove was lucky he got out of it with just a slug in the leg. Looked like he knew it, too.

  “Well, Charles, that’s all been decided above our level,” said Harding. “‘Ours not to reason why’—isn’t that what the poem says?”

  “Quite so, Samuel. Now tell me, what’s this young pup doing here?” That was me.

  “Ike thinks he can help us with our Norwegian problem. He was a detective back in the States.” Harding shrugged to show Cosgrove it wasn’t his idea. At least he didn’t mention Ike was my uncle.

  “He thinks a rosy-cheeked youth fresh from America can succeed where MI-5 have failed! You must be quite the detective, young man.”

  “I am. As a matter of fact, I’ve already discovered something.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “We’re late for lunch.”

  Cosgrove got up pretty quick for an old guy with a bum leg. It looked like he hadn’t missed many lunches lately and didn’t want to start now. We all filed out and tried to keep up with him as he propelled himself down the hallway, launching his bulk on each step with his cane. Must have been pretty sturdy wood.

  “Don’t mind Charles,” Daphne half whispered to me. “He’s terribly gruff but he doesn’t mean to be rude.”

  “Gruff I can handle. It’s the pickled herring I’m worried about.”

  Daphne giggled and made a face at Kaz, who smiled back. I marveled at their nonchalance. They acted as if we were in a play and were moving on to the next scene. Maybe it was their way of coping with the fact that they were playing with the fates of nations and the probable deaths of thousands. Maybe it was the way of the titled upper classes. What did I know?

  Damned little, and as we descended the staircase something about that thought began to bother me. I didn’t know why or what, but I felt like I did that time in Chinatown when I knew the guy coming out of the store in front of me was going to pull a gun. Not scared, but stunned at the sudden knowledge of what lay beneath the surface.

  CHAPTER ▪ FIVE

  I HAD NEVER HEARD Norwegian before, but I heard it loud and clear down the long hallway heading to the solarium. The sounds flowed out of the double doors and bounced off the paneled walls, doubling in volume as we approached. The words seemed hard and sing-songy at the same time. I had no idea what the voices were saying, but they were saying it at the top of their lungs.

  “Don’t tell me they’re at it again?” Harding asked Cosgrove.

  “Have been all morning. Skak is after the king to make up his mind about the senior adviser post. He keeps bringing up the gold.” Cosgrove puffed his cheeks and blew out air, in exasperation over the arguing or in exhaustion from hustling to lunch. Or both, but I was concentrating on something else.

  Gold. The eight tons of gold I had read about, I supposed. Gold would complicate everything.

  Before I could blurt out a question, an enlisted man dressed in a white jacket opened the glass double doors and we entered the solarium. I wondered what rank army waiters held. There were three of them stationed around the room, which was long and narrow, jutting o
ut from the side of the main house, surrounded by high glass windows. If there had been any sun, it would have been plenty hot. The little light that made it through the cloud cover did raise the temperature a bit, just enough to take the damp chill out of the air. A long table was set for a luncheon. Six places on each side and one at the head of the table, that chair just a little bigger than all the others. My first throne.

  A heavyset guy who might have been a well-dressed stevedore sat at the table, smoking a cigar and pointedly staring out at the gardens so he wouldn’t have to look at the guy across from him. The other fellow, dressed in an old-fashioned frock coat with a starched collar, was visibly trying to keep himself under control, his eyes burning with obvious dislike, even hatred, of the cigar smoker. His hands were clenched and shaking, his face red, and he looked like he was currently on the loser’s end of the argument.

  As for the third guy—well, I had never seen a king before, but he had it written all over him. Tall and thin, with a thick mustache and a long, aristocratic nose, he looked completely calm, above the fray. He stood ramrod straight, dressed in a naval uniform, and gazed at us with intense interest, as if nothing had passed between the men in the room. It almost made me forget about the gold. Almost.

  “Ah, Majors Cosgrove and Harding,” King Haakon said in excellent English. “My Anglo and American compatriots. Welcome!”

  He stood, smiled warmly, and looked each of us in the eye as Harding introduced us. He had a firm handshake. When he was done, he stepped back just a bit and folded his arms behind his back, as if at parade rest. I could tell there was still some bad blood in the air. Cosgrove jumped in and introduced the two Norwegian civilians.

  Vidar Skak, the frock coat, was deputy minister of the Interior. That must have been an important job a couple of years ago, but since the Germans currently held the note on the Interior I thought he might have some time on his hands. At first I thought he was older, but then I noticed it was mostly how he dressed and acted. He looked like pictures of my grandfather on his wedding day, just not as happy. He was bony and pale, like he never spent a day outdoors, and his handshake was indifferent. But there was a determination behind those pursed lips, and I knew immediately he hadn’t given up on the argument that still hung in the air.

  Knut Birkeland was the king’s economic adviser. He was a dark-haired, beefy fellow, barrel-chested, and with a face that had felt the wind.

  He gripped my hand like a vise and I could feel the hard calluses on his palms. I didn’t know how much he knew about economics but I was sure he knew about work. He took Daphne’s hand in his big paw and kissed it like a pro. He looked up and caught sight of the latest arrival.

  “One of the Three Musketeers! Anders, come here!” He waved the Norwegian officer over to our group and clapped him on the shoulder as they shook hands.

  “Major Anders Arnesen, may I present the beautiful Second Officer Daphne Seaton and her Allied escort?”

  “Fortryllet,” said Arnesen, taking Daphne’s hand and kissing it.

  “Enchanté, in case you are not familiar with Norwegian,” Kaz said.

  We laughed and introduced ourselves, and Daphne glowed. What fun. Next maybe we could play charades.

  “What makes you a musketeer, Major?” I asked. Anders Arnesen had a confident, easy look about him, the kind of look that well-trained soldiers displayed. Ready for anything—lunch with the king, assault a pill-box, you name it. It made me nervous.

  “Three of us escaped from the Germans and ended up with the king when he left Norway. The king’s party was small and he was glad to have some soldiers about. He . . . adopted us, I guess you could say. Someone named us the Three Musketeers, but we haven’t seen much of each other lately.”

  King Haakon joined our group and put a fatherly hand on Arnesen’s shoulder, much more gently than Birkeland had. For a major, this guy had friends in high places.

  “Is Major Arnesen being overly modest again? He and his men were a godsend when we departed Norway. They helped us to load a large amount of our gold reserve aboard ship, in the middle of a German bombing raid, no less! Now one of them is in charge of security here . . . you’ve met Captain Iversen, yes? And Lieutenant Rolf Kayser is a decorated commando. The Three Musketeers have done well!”

  “And we’ll all be together tomorrow. Rolf is participating in the exercise with my battalion,” Arnesen said. “He commands Fifth Troop with Number Ten Commando, an all-Norwegian unit.”

  “You’re with the Norwegian Brigade, Major?” Kaz asked.

  “Yes. We’ve been training for two years now, and we’re eager to get back into the fight. Do you have any news for us?”

  “Unnskyld meg,” came a voice from behind us, as an enlisted man in a white server’s jacket held a tray of covered plates. “Excuse me,” he said again in English. I moved, thankful for the interruption. The eager beaver would have to wait for his news.

  “Take your seats please, gentlemen,” the king said as he offered his arm to Daphne and led her to the place on his right. I noticed Birkeland and Skak make a beeline for the open seat on his left. Skak was faster. I ended up next to Birkeland and across from Cosgrove, with Kaz on my left. Harding sat across from some Norwegian officers I hadn’t met. Waiters served us fish with a yellow sauce, boiled potatoes, and cauliflower. It was quite the white meal. The knives and forks were heavy, real silverware, the kind of stuff you counted after your guests left.

  “Ah, Pouilly-Fumé, just my choice for turbot with hollandaise sauce!” Kaz raised his glass to the king. “To your health, Your Highness!” The toast was repeated by all and glasses raised. The wine was all right and the potatoes fine, but I was more interested in a different color.

  “So what’s all this about gold?” I asked. I noticed several forkfuls of fish suspended in midair, just below pairs of widening eyeballs. Only the king continued eating, royally ignoring my question and me.

  “Don’t they report the war news in Boston, young man?” Cosgrove snorted at me. “The Norwegians smuggled their entire treasury of gold bullion out of the country in 1940, practically under the noses of the Germans. Hundreds of cases of gold bars and coins. A logistical feat, under any circumstances!”

  “So it’s all here, in England?” I watched for a reaction from Skak or Birkeland, but Harding cut in.

  “No, Lieutenant, the gold was taken to the United States on several different vessels, and deposited in banks to be at the disposal of His Majesty’s government.” He spoke quickly, as if to close the conversation.

  “That’s great. I must’ve missed it in the papers.” I turned to Skak and Birkeland with a gee-golly look that came disturbingly easy. “Were you fellows involved with this gold transport?”

  Skak looked straight ahead and drummed his fingers on the table. Birkeland spoke very deliberately. “We each were given different duties by the king. I was responsible for transferring the gold from ground transport to fishing boats and British warships, when they were available. We didn’t want the gold to be all in one place, in case a ship was sunk or captured.”

  “How did you manage it—all those fishing boats, I mean?” Daphne asked. I wondered if she was really curious or just trying to steer the conversation in a different direction.

  “Many of them were actually mine,” Birkeland said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I own a small fishing fleet in those waters, and it was relatively easy to coordinate the loading. Most of the boats met up with British destroyers and other vessels. A few came directly to England.” He took a drink of wine and set his glass down, adding, “Vidar was responsible for the bookkeeping.”

  He speared a potato and popped it in his mouth. He smiled at Daphne as he chewed, satisfied that the questions were over. Hold your horses, buddy.

  “So you got it all to England?” There, that got a reaction. Birkeland’s face flushed and Skak looked tense. The king patted his lips with a napkin and stopped eating, which was the biggest reaction I had gotten out of him. It mu
st have been the colonial in me that got a kick out of needling royalty.

  “Yes, essentially,” Birkeland said. “There were a few gold coins lost when a crate broke in Molde, and a few discrepancies in paperwork when everything got to England. But nothing that affects the balance of our national treasure.”

  At this, Skak finally turned and spoke. “The leavings of a national treasure may be minor, Lieutenant, but only to nations. To a single person, it is a great fortune.”

  There was a second of interminable silence. Skak had a good point, but nobody agreed with him. Finally the king spoke.

  “Tell me, Lieutenant Boyle. Are there many Norwegians where you come from?”

  I said something polite, and then took the obvious hint to drop the questions. I didn’t know what the gold had to do with a spy, but sometimes you just had to kick over a few garbage cans to see what was hidden behind them. There would be plenty of time to poke a stick in it later.

  Then it came to me. That thing beneath the surface bubbled up and came to the top. It was only a small thing, and it didn’t even make sense or have anything to do with the gold. But there it was.

  CHAPTER ▪ SIX

  I WAS MORE USED to a ham and cheese on rye washed down with a Coke for lunch. I really wanted to take a nap after drinking two glasses of wine and eating that big meal, but it would have been tough the way Harding was yelling at me.

  We were in the library, sitting in cozy leather chairs, but I wasn’t enjoying it. Not like Kaz was. I could see him lifting one edge of his mouth and suppressing a smile every time Harding looked away. Kaz sat back in a reddish brown leather chair, the brass buttons on his uniform matching the shiny nail heads decorating the leather. His legs were crossed and one arm was lazily draped over the arm of the chair; the other held a cigarette. His eyes darted back and forth between me and Harding, like we were swatting tennis balls at each other.

  “I told you, Boyle, that this was supposed to be a nice social conversation. Not an interrogation! We’re not here about the missing gold, damn it!”