by James R Benn
“About twenty minutes.”
“You could have been long gone by now. What if some of Rolf’s men came along?”
“Waiting here is not as dangerous as what you did, Billy.”
“Something had to give. I could see he was getting shaky. We were about to lose control.”
I looked over to Rolf’s body. Things were clearing but still a little out of focus. He was a blurry mass of red. It was almost funny. He had come here to do the right thing, to be a good Norwegian soldier and save his country. Instead he’d gotten killed for doing the wrong thing, to the wrong person. I might have been tempted to let him get away with killing Birkeland, but I had to avenge Daphne.
The weapons had all vanished except for a Sten gun slung over Anders’s shoulder. As he set down the pitcher of water on the bench, he let it hang there, like an afterthought.
“I’d say we’re even. You’re a German spy yet you didn’t gun both of us down. That would have been a simple solution for you.”
“Simple, yes. Right, no.”
“Whose side are you on anyway?” I asked, feeling a pang of guilt at talking so matter-of-factly with the enemy.
“I think, Billy, that is a very difficult question for you and me at the moment.”
We sat there a while. There wasn’t much more to say. He got up. “I have to go, Billy. With all this shooting, someone may come up here.”
“Your side or mine?”
“Perhaps we both need to leave. In opposite directions.” Anders went inside the ruined hut. He came out with a blanket and laid it over Rolf.
“Whatever he was, and whatever I am, we were once comrades.” After a minute he went inside and returned with Rolf’s Sten gun and my pistol. He laid them on a rock, removed the clips, and tossed them down the trail. Far enough that by the time I found them, he’d be long gone in the opposite direction. He walked over to me. He had on an old green wool sweater and was wearing a small pack.
“I’m going over the mountain, Billy. Can you make it down the trail?”
“Yeah, I can make it.”
“You have a plan to get back home?”
“Home? No. England? Maybe. I probably shouldn’t say too much about that.”
He laughed. “We both should probably not say too much about this entire affair.”
“I can’t promise what I’ll say,” I said, thinking about how I’d explain all this if I ever got back to England.
“I understand, Billy.” He smiled weakly and reached into his pocket.
“Please accept this gift from Captain Karl Fredriksen.” He handed me the book of poetry. The Edda, it said on the cover, which displayed three Viking warriors holding their shields proudly.
“Karl. OK, Karl. Take care of yourself.” He walked away, then stopped and turned.
“There’s one thing I’d like you to know, Billy. This whole operation was my own idea, to get my father out of Dachau. He’s an opponent of the regime. Not anybody important, just an old man who complained too often and too loudly to the wrong people. He fought in the last war, and did not wish to see his son fight in another.”
“Yeah, same with my father.”
“The difference, Billy, is that in my country opposition meant imprisonment. The Nazis do not like anyone to speak as their conscience dictates.”
“How are you going to get him out?”
“I have a deal with the Gestapo. If I bring them military secrets, he will be freed. When I saw how fast things were falling apart in Norway, I knew I could blend in and end up in England. My mother was Norwegian, and we had spent summers there. No one ever doubted me.”
“You think the Gestapo will uphold their end of the bargain and let your father go?”
“If he is still alive, perhaps. I have no idea if he has survived, but it is the best chance I have. So you see, Billy, I do understand justice for one person.”
Then he was gone.
CHAPTER ▪ TWENTY-SEVEN
IT WAS A LONG JOURNEY back to England and to ETO headquarters at Grosvenor Square. I’d walked down the mountain and made my underground contact for the trip back home, just as Jens had planned. This time there was a fishing boat right in the fjord, to take me out to a rendezvous with a Free French submarine. They had two other agents with them and picked up a navigator from a Lancaster bomber, the only survivor from his crew. The return trip was slow, lots of it underwater, which was just fine with me. My eyesight cleared up and most everything healed. All the wounds that had bled, anyway. I spent a lot of time reading that volume of poetry, the only book in English on board.
When I got off the sub at Portsmouth, there was a detachment of American MPs waiting for me. Not an honor guard. They hustled me back to London, escorted me to my room at the Dorchester, and ordered me to dress in my Class A uniform. It was very politely done, they called me “sir” at all the right times, but they made it clear I wasn’t the one giving the orders. A new set of clothes had been laid out on the bed and I dressed, wondering if a court-martial had been organized already. Welcome back, you’re guilty, proceed directly to Leavenworth.
The MPs deposited me at headquarters and I was signed over to the sergeant of the guard like a delivery of Spam. A clipboard with orders changed hands and I tried to sneak a peek, but the MPs were too fast for me. They left, and two sentries with Thompsons slung over their shoulders, leather straps gleaming with polish, escorted me down a hall and up two flights of stairs. One in front, one behind.
Minutes later I was sitting on a hardback chair in a hallway, the two GIs guarding me as if I were Hermann Göring. A door opened and Major Harding stepped out. He snapped his fingers at me like I was a tardy waiter and crooked his finger.
“Boyle, in here.”
“Good to see you, too, Major,” I said.
“At ease, boys,” I said to my guards as I stood. No reason for me to start acting polite now.
“Shut up, Boyle, and get inside.” Harding sounded tired and disappointed. He shut the door behind me as I walked into the room. Curtained windows provided the long, narrow room with an atmosphere of gloom, and a cloud of cigarette smoke hung in the light of a lamp over the table. Along the wall on my right was a large map of Norway, covering it from floor to ceiling, marked with red arrows launched from Scotland and points south. The invasion. I imagined right now “Anders,” or whatever his real name was, might be standing in front of a map just like this, briefing some Kraut generals. They probably looked happier than the trio who confronted me. A large rectangular table dominated the center of the room, with Uncle Ike seated opposite the door. The dark wood, probably walnut, shone; it must have been waxed and polished for a hundred years. I could see Uncle Ike’s reflection in it and he didn’t look any happier there than right side up. He held a cigarette in his hand and tapped it on the rim of a glass ashtray full of butts and ashes. Major Cosgrove sat on one side of him. Harding gestured for me to take the seat opposite the general. He sat on the other side. Uncle Ike studied me as I sat down. I felt the color drain from my face and my heart race. I didn’t want to hear what was coming next. I looked down to avoid their eyes and found my own staring back up at me. I put my hand flat on the table, covering my reflection, and, for the first time, realized what my father had tried to brush away from that tabletop at Kirby’s.
“William, first let me say that I’m glad you’re not hurt, and that you are back with us,” Uncle Ike began. I nodded, too nervous to get a word out. It was swell that my own relative was glad I wasn’t dead. I couldn’t really expect more than that. I put both hands on the table to keep them from shaking.
“Having said that, there are some very serious charges leveled at you, and we need to get to the bottom of them. These issues go beyond your personal desire for revenge, or justice, or whatever misguided emotion led you to take these steps in the first place.”
He ground out his cigarette and didn’t say anything: my invitation to explain myself.
“I . . . I’m sorry, General
.” I managed to sputter out the words. “I didn’t think this would involve you. I know I’m going to be punished, sir, but I don’t want any blame to fall on you.”
“That’s very considerate, William, but everything here involves me. Especially when one of my officers, privy to invasion plans, goes off on his own behind enemy lines.”
Uncle Ike sat back, lit another cigarette, and nodded to Major Harding. Harding opened a folder with a red tab and consulted it.
“Lieutenant Boyle, we understand that with the help of Captain Jens Iversen, you doctored legitimate orders signed by me and Major Cosgrove, to provide yourself with transportation to Norway for the purpose of pursuing Rolf Kayser. Correct?”
“Essentially, sir, except that Jens had nothing to do with it. I retyped the orders myself.”
“Don’t bother, young man,” Cosgrove said huffily. “We have a signed statement from that officer.” He pushed a sheet of paper over to me. He was right.
“As you say, sir.”
“And you tracked down Rolf Kayser at a rendezvous he had planned with Major Anders Arnesen?”
“Sort of, sir. I got there first and waited for him at a hut. With Anders.” They looked at each other. Uncle Ike raised an eyebrow, Cosgrove harrumphed, and Harding nodded slowly. What the hell did all that mean?
“Tell us what happened there,” said Harding, as he scribbled a note in the folder. Evidence for the prosecution.
“I told Anders that Rolf was Birkeland’s murderer and Daphne’s, too, and described the photographic evidence Kaz had found. We came up with a plan to capture him. Anders wanted me to take him alive so Rolf could give him some information he needed about the Underground Army. We planned a trap. We switched uniforms so I could get Rolf to follow me into the hut, where we could nab him.”
“So what happened?” Uncle Ike asked.
“First I have to tell you about Anders—” I started.
“Yes, we know he was the spy,” Harding said. “Please continue.”
“You knew? But—”
“Just continue, William,” Uncle Ike said gently, drawing on his cigarette and blowing smoke over the papers in front of him. I was confused. How could they know about Anders? But I had to keep going.
“OK. Sir. Anyway, it turned out Rolf had seen Anders go into the map room the night Knut Birkeland was murdered. He couldn’t say anything at the time because the reason he was in that part of the building was that he was coming downstairs after killing Birkeland. He had no excuse for being there. He had actually tried to pin the murder rap on Anders by planting that key in his room.”
“What does this have to do with what happened in Norway?” asked Cosgrove.
“Well, Rolf admitted to the murder, but said he wasn’t a traitor, and he didn’t want to let Anders escape. The last thing he intended to do before disappearing was kill Anders. He very nearly did, and me, too.”
“Tell us exactly what happened, Billy,” said Harding. “Exactly.”
Harding stared at me and I saw they were all looking at me, waiting for something. Tension seemed to buzz in the air, as if they could barely contain themselves while they waited for me to tell my story.
“I went into the hut to wait for Rolf, disguised as Anders, in his uniform. Instead of coming inside where we could take him, Rolf threw a grenade through a rear window. If I hadn’t stepped outside at that moment. ...”
“Was Anders killed then?” Harding asked.
“No. Nor me either, Major.” Thanks for the concern, buddy.
“What happened next?” said Harding, as if I didn’t matter.
“A lot, sir. But basically I shot him. Dead.”
“Anders, the spy?” Cosgrove asked, grasping the arms of his chair and moving his bulk forward, agitation showing in his raised voice.
“No! Rolf, the murderer. Of Knut Birkeland and Daphne, remember?”
“We remember, William,” Uncle Ike said. “It’s just important that we get this straight. What happened to Anders?”
“Nothing. He helped me after Rolf almost blew my head off, and then he left.”
“You let him go?” asked Cosgrove.
“Yeah. I was unconscious for a while,” I said. “Anders could’ve killed both Rolf and me while we were struggling. He tried to get Rolf to give up, and he didn’t gun me down when he could have.”
I shrugged. There was just no way to explain it that made sense. I’d let an enemy agent with the secret invasion plans go free. Period. Lock me up. I watched three sets of eyes flick back and forth, until Harding and Cosgrove settled on Uncle Ike and each gave him a slight nod of the head.
“Excellent!” said Uncle Ike, slamming his fist on the table. “Excellent, William!”
“Well done, old chap,” Cosgrove said, falling back into his chair, and pounding the arm with his hand. “Well done!”
Harding actually smiled as he closed the folder.
“What the hell is going on . . . sir?”
I looked to Harding, then Uncle Ike. This didn’t make any sense. I had forged orders, caused four undeserved deaths that I knew of, and let an enemy spy go. I expected to be clapped in irons, not clapped on the shoulder.
“Major Harding, please explain to William. He deserves the truth now.”
Harding raised an eyebrow and paused for a second, his hand on the red-tabbed folder. “The whole truth, General?”
“The whole truth. It’s good to keep in practice. We’ll need to remember what it’s like when the war’s over,” Uncle Ike said, his easy grin lighting up his face.
“We knew all along that Anders Arnesen was an enemy agent,” Harding began. “Major Cosgrove had captured and turned Anders’s contact early in the war. We knew he was coming, his code name, the works. We steered him to the Norwegian Brigade and allowed him to gain influence with the king’s government to provide him with the opportunity to learn about the invasion.”
“So it was all a fake?” I asked, the entirety of their deception slowly dawning on me. The sloppy security at Southwold, the winter gear being distributed so openly, the map case that anyone with a jackknife could jimmy open. . . .
“Yes, a rather elaborate ruse actually,” Cosgrove said. “But we were worried that Arnesen would find it all too easy and convenient. So we decided to conduct an investigation, but one that would have little chance of succeeding. We wanted him to feel the heat and leave the country as soon as possible. That’s why King Haakon gave his permission for him to go back to Norway.”
All of a sudden the lightbulb went off, the final piece that I hadn’t understood.
“That’s how you knew in advance about me, being from Boston and all. I was the investigation that couldn’t succeed! You were counting on me to screw up!” Now I started to get steamed.
“Calm down, Boyle,” Harding interjected. “Yes, Major Cosgrove was not fully briefed and made some untimely remarks.” I could see looks passing between them and knew Harding was finessing some sore points.
“With the murder of Birkeland,” he continued, “things became complicated. I had to keep your search for the killer from uncovering our spy before he got out of the country. You were pretty hard to keep on a short leash.”
“Can you just explain a few things about the murder of Knut Birkeland?” Cosgrove asked. “We understand the motive now, and we’ve surmised that the note Birkeland left was really part of another note.”
“Yes. He was offering his resignation. That was the final act he referred to.”
“To force the king’s hand,” Harding suggested. “To induce the king to appoint him rather than Skak as senior adviser.” I nodded.
“But what about the timing of the murder?” asked Cosgrove, a confused look still on his face. “Wasn’t Rolf Kayser off hunting with the king when the murder took place?”
“Based on the condition of the body, I thought so at first. But there were several small clues that finally came together. I found out that Rolf was big on medical training for himself an
d for his men, so they could treat their wounded in the field. He knew enough basic first aid to be pretty familiar with how the body works. I also remembered that when I examined Birkeland’s body he was very clean, as if he had just bathed. But there was stubble on his face. I wondered then why a guy would bother to clean himself up and not shave.”
“What does that mean, the stubble?” Uncle Ike asked.
“A lot of people don’t know it, but hair continues to grow after death. Remember, Birkeland had a heavy, thick beard. I realized he hadn’t been killed when we’d thought, but several hours earlier. Unfortunately, I didn’t think of that until I went for a swim in the cold waters off the coast of Norway.” I decided not to tell them how or when it had really come to me.
“Cold water?” Cosgrove was really confused now.
“Yes. Cold water and old plumbing. The night of the murder, I had a little too much to drink. I wanted a nice big glass of cold water and some aspirin. Well after midnight there was hardly any cold water in the pipes. That was because Rolf had Knut Birkeland’s body in the bathtub, running cold water over it continuously, and turning it regularly for hours. Slowing down the onset of rigor mortis. And overtaxing the ancient plumbing. Turning the body kept the blood from pooling and delayed lividity. The cold water slowed down the natural process of decay. Kayser probably shaved Birkeland in the bathtub, not knowing his whiskers would begin to grow back, enough to be noticeable to the touch in the morning.”
“Then he dressed him, tossed him out the window, left the last page of the note with his gold coin, and went off to meet the king, certain that the condition of the body would suggest a time of death that would clear him as a suspect,” said Harding, ticking the points off on his fingers.
“Yes. And then coming down from Birkeland’s room, he saw Anders breaking into the map room. He hotfooted it back upstairs to stash the key in Anders’s room, where he hoped we’d find it. And here we are.”
“William,” Uncle Ike said, “your investigation was remarkable. We sorely underestimated you. You were resourceful and courageous in finding the perpetrator of these crimes. Not only did you apprehend a murderer; you saved the life of Anders Arnesen. If Rolf Kayser had killed him, he never would have made it back to Germany with the invasion plans. In no small part we owe the success of this operation to you.”