by James R Benn
“It’s Cosgrove’s show,” he said, tapping ash into an ashtray balanced on the arm of his chair. “The British have funded and armed this Underground Army the Norwegians have organized. But the Norwegians are hesitant to use it. They want it in place when the country is liberated, some of them say so the Communists won’t take over.”
“But the British want them to start harassing the Germans now, perhaps take over a northern province,” Kaz explained. “They’ve been after the king to approve some level of uprising, but he’s put them off. Today, the British government, in the form of Major Cosgrove, is delivering an ultimatum.”
“Time to go, gentlemen,” Harding interrupted. “You get the gist, Boyle. Now just keep it zipped. Let’s go.” He ground his cigarette out, got up, and we followed him like little ducklings.
“Zipped?” Kaz asked in a low voice as we left the room.
“Yeah, like keep a lid on it. Keep it under your hat. Mum’s the word.”
“Billy,” Kaz said, “I think you have a lot to teach me.”
We entered a large room with a huge wooden table at one end and maps of Great Britain and Norway taped to blackboards on wheels, like in school. The room was paneled in dark walnut, even the ceiling, and it felt heavy and oppressive, as if the weight of centuries hung over our heads. The king, of course, was at the head of the table. Vidar Skak and Knut Birkeland were on either side, and Major Arnesen and Captain Iversen sat next to them. There was another Norwegian officer, a lieutenant, next to Arnesen. The last musketeer? We took seats opposite Cosgrove. Daphne was in a chair against the wall, a notepad balanced demurely on her knee.
“Now that we are all gathered,” King Haakon began, “let us begin. The purpose of this meeting is to hear a request from His Britannic Majesty’s government concerning the disposition of Norwegian forces. Major Cosgrove?”
Nice. A request, he calls it. Something easy to say no to.
“Ahem.” Cosgrove cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. He stroked his mustache and licked his lips before starting. A nervous tell.
“Your Highness. Thank you for receiving me on this matter. As you know, for the past two years we have worked with your government to strengthen the Norwegian forces in Great Britain and within Norway. We have built up the Norwegian Brigade, a Norwegian commando unit, RAF squadrons, and extensive naval forces.”
“We are eager for these forces to enter the fight against Germany and liberate our homeland,” the king intoned. “We are grateful to you for the aid and assistance you have given us, as allies.”
“Yes, well…” Cosgrove seemed a little flustered and worked to get his train of thought back. Nice move, king. “We will get to that topic in due course. Today, we must discuss the potential usefulness of the Underground Army. Through our joint efforts, there are now hundreds of small groups of men in nearly every town and village from Oslo to Narvik. The purpose of forming this army was to strike back at the Germans, to fight the occupiers of your nation. However, if the underground is not used, or is kept for some future purpose, that effort will have been for naught.”
“Major Cosgrove,” Birkeland said, “the Norwegian government and people are grateful. However, we do not propose to order British troops into combat, and do not feel you should order our troops either.” Birkeland looked at Cosgrove directly, his voice casual yet firm.
“We do not plan to issue orders to units under your direct control,” Cosgrove answered stiffly. “However, it is the policy of His Majesty’s government to carry the fight to the enemy with all our power, as soon as possible. To that end, we respectfully request-request, not order-that you bring the Underground Army into action now. If that is not possible, then we will not hesitate to bring the fight against Nazi Germany to Norway via air attacks and increased commando raids along the coast.” He sat back in his chair, evidently relieved at having delivered the message. There was no relief anywhere else in the room.
“What exactly do you mean, Major?” Skak asked. “What kind of attacks?”
“We must hinder the enemy’s ability to fight,” Cosgrove said, gesturing with an open hand, as if astounded that his request was even being questioned. “Whether we do so through actions of the Underground Army or by bomber attacks or commando raids, it must be done! By you or by other Allied forces. It must.” With that, the open hand slammed down on the table.
“Are you aware, Major, of what happened after our previous attempts to activate Underground Army units?” Birkeland asked.
“Civilian losses are regrettable-”
“They are preventable!” Birkeland shouted. “But not if we order the underground to take action. The Germans have promised to continue reprisals against civilians wherever there is an uprising. Every time we blow up a bridge, innocent men, women, and children will be shot!”
“In wartime,” Cosgrove lectured, “we cannot be responsible for the atrocities committed by our enemies. We cannot allow them to dictate the terms of battle. Norway is strategically located, and its economy cannot be allowed to work for the benefit of the Nazis.”
“So the decision before us,” King Haakon stated, “is how to conduct the fight against the Germans. Either use the Underground Army and accept reprisals against civilians or…?”
“Or we will bomb factories and other industrial targets. At night, to minimize civilian casualties. The commando raids we have begun will increase in intensity. We have already hurt the Germans’ ability to produce glycerin for explosives through the destruction of fish-oil-processing plants in Nordland.”
“Your Highness,” Skak broke in, “what will the Norwegian people think when the war is over if we let the British fight our battles for us? We have to use the weapon we have created! The Underground Army is ready to fight. Let them do so.”
“No, no,” Birkeland protested, shaking his head. “You are too concerned with factories, Skak. What about people? No room in that bookeeper’s heart for them?”
Skak pointed a bony finger at Birkeland, his face reddening. “You are the king’s economic adviser, you should be concerned about the destruction of our economy, especially if there is an alternative! We will need to govern Norway when the war is over, and that means taxes. No factories, no taxes.”
“The people will not accept a government that allowed them to be put up against a wall and shot!” Birkeland started to rise from his seat, thought better of it, and settled his bulk back down.
“What of the British people and all their losses from the bombing?” asked Skak, opening his arms to all of us, seeking an answer. “They have not cried to their king to surrender, that it is too much. Do you expect less of the Norwegian people?”
King Haakon held up his hand for silence. In the midst of the enraged men in the room, he was quiet, calm, and dignified. He looked at Skak and Birkeland and stared them into submission. He turned to Harding.
“Major Harding, is this the opinion of the American government as well?”
“Your Highness, I only represent General Eisenhower, and we have no opinion in this matter, other than to wish to work with all parties to defeat Germany in this war.”
I marveled at Harding’s ability to say nothing and make it sound nice. It was definitely a more refined skill than poking folks with a stick.
“I will consult with other members of the government and our military staff. This is a difficult and demanding decision,” the king concluded. “The final recommendation shall be made by my senior adviser. I will announce who will be appointed to that post when our meetings this week are concluded.”
He stood, folded his hands behind his back, and silently, but very effectively, dismissed us. I watched Skak and Birkeland stand and stare at each other. If there hadn’t been a big wooden table between them, they would’ve been at each other’s throats. I’d bet on Birkeland in a hand-to-hand fight. But I’d bet on Skak in a dirty fight, and this was politics, as dirty as it got.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Beardsley Hall was swa
rming with Norwegian officials and all sorts of soldiers, sailors, and probably a few doctors and lawyers. Indian chiefs I wasn’t so sure about. Events were moving kind of fast, and I wanted to slow down and think things through. I went out a rear entrance, crossed a patio, and walked into the gardens. I knew I was no Einstein, but I did know how to think about things. Slowly. Thoroughly. Quietly.
“Billy! Billy!” Kaz jogged to catch up with me, or at least jogged a few steps. He wasn’t the most athletic guy around. He puffed like he had just run a mile, and pushed up the heavy glasses that had slid down his nose. I could tell by the look on his face that quiet was not going to be in the cards.
“Billy, this has been most exhilarating, yes?”
“Did you expect something else?”
“Ah! A question. That is exactly what I mean. You are full of questions, why is that?”
I thought about that for a minute as we walked along a garden path, framed by red roses on both sides. Red petals carpeted the ground, like velvet drops of blood. I did like asking questions. Asking questions meant that there might be an answer, and that gave me hope. When you ran out of questions, the case was hopeless, and you just plain ran out of everything.
“Questions are a dime a dozen, Kaz. Answers are what interest me. What’s so exhilarating for you?”
“You. Your approach to things. Very direct. Even more American than any other American I’ve met. You are unafraid to go to the heart of the matter, no matter how, how… inappropriate it may be. Very un-European. I think it puts people off balance.”
“Good way to get a reaction.”
“If you can tell the difference between shock and guilt, Billy.”
Guilt. I turned down a path in the garden, white roses hanging damp and heavy from thick shoots spiked with sharp thorns. Guilt will out, Dad used to say. Guilt will out, except if you’re dealing with a crazy person. Normal people just couldn’t keep guilt from showing, and all you had to do was know where to look for it. That was the hard part.
“Guilt has its own special look and sound.”
“Sound? What do you mean?”
“A catch in the voice, an uplift in tone. You can hear it all the time if you listen. It doesn’t even have to do with crime. It can be emotional.”
“How so?” Kaz asked, not quite believing me.
I stopped and looked at him. Well, he asked. “I heard it in your voice the other night. About your parents, and the suite at the Dorchester.”
“What? Am I guilty of a crime?” I could hear the defensiveness creep into his voice.
“You’re there, and they’re not. It was their place, and now it’s yours. Any normal person would feel guilty, can’t be helped. I’m sorry, Kaz.”
Sorry for his parents, sorry for telling him. He was silent for a minute, then turned and started walking again, watching the ground.
“No, no, you are right. Sometimes I feel like an impostor there. But it is all I have left.” He shrugged sadly. “I just never thought of it as guilt.”
I put my hand on his shoulder, gave a little squeeze, and let it drop.
“People don’t usually think about these things, Kaz. They feel them, act on them, but hardly ever think about them. There’s no reason to; it’s a part of you. A wife will stab her husband one day and honestly think that he said something that made her mad, so she knifed him. Maybe he’s been screwing around and it finally got to her, but she never admitted it to herself. She never thought through the little clues that she found, but they were there, eating at her. So one day he complains that the roast is burnt, and she puts the carving knife in his back.”
“Are these the things a Boston detective thinks about on a case? Self-deception, guilt, the knife in the back?”
“Cops always look for things that are out of place. Very little things, which sometimes lead to bigger things, like why a knife in the back.”
“So how do you look for these little things?”
It was like asking how you breathed or woke up in the morning. It was what a cop learned to do first thing, at least in my family. To look, really look, at every little thing.
“What do you look for when you walk into a room?” I asked him.
“A beautiful woman,” he smiled. “Books on the shelf, artwork… anything else would not be very interesting. Although a bar would attract my attention.”
“I like your approach, Kaz; it’s better than most. A cop will check the exits, look to see if anyone is carrying a hidden weapon, and sniff out any tension in the air automatically, just like you would scan the bookshelf for a rare book. Without even thinking about it.”
Kaz nodded thoughtfully. I could see him taking this in, comparing it with his experience.
“Sometimes you can feel something under the surface, something wrong. You can’t be sure what it is. Everything looks normal, but you just get a feeling that something is out of place, that all the little things don’t add up.”
“What do you do when you feel that?”
An obvious question. It was easy for me to talk about Kaz’s family, tell him what was going on inside his head. But it wasn’t that easy to even think about the first time I came up against that question, saw just what Dad had always told me about. One night, just after I got home off duty, Basher McGee came by the house, tipped his hat to Mom, and headed upstairs with Dad to the den. They shut the door, just like always, but their talk was loud, angry, and not contained by the thin plasterboard walls. Nothing understandable, except that the undercurrent of brewing trouble that Basher always brought with him had boiled over, and neither man was giving an inch.
Then there was silence. The house seemed empty, waiting for the sound of their anger to fill it again. I could hear Mom turn the faucet off in the kitchen as she stood in front of the sink, worried more by the quiet than the yelling. The upstairs door slammed open, bouncing off the wall and almost smacking Basher on the rebound as he crossed the threshold.
“You take it, you’re one of us, no better!” he yelled as he clomped down the stairs, tipped his cap again to Mom just as nice as you please, and let himself out the back door. I started to walk upstairs, but Mom put her hand on my arm. I shook it off, and didn’t look at her, embarrassed at how Basher had behaved toward Dad in his own house, embarrassed at shaking off the hand of my own mother. I gripped the banister and headed up toward the den.
The door was still open. Dad held a small box in his hand, the lamp-light just behind him lighting one side of his face and leaving the other in shadow. The box was wrapped in plain paper, tied by twine tightly knotted. His hand fell to his side, and he tossed the box into the waste-basket next to his desk. I didn’t move a muscle. He sat down at his desk, didn’t say a thing, just stared at the wall. I tried to move, to walk up to him, to go through that doorway and tell him I’d do anything he needed me to do.
I didn’t. I just stood there. He never looked over at me, and finally I walked to my room, shut the door, flopped down on my bed, picked up the latest issue of True Detective from my nightstand, and lost myself in the fiction, dreaming of blazing away at bad guys and watching them roll down the stairs.
“Billy? What do you do when guilt shows itself?” Kaz asked, reframing the question as if I hadn’t understood it properly.
“Run. Duck. Draw your piece, do something, anything. But don’t just stand there.”
A stray stone had found its way out of the flower beds and onto the soft grass path. I kicked at it, sending it back where it belonged, with a clump of grass and torn roots for company.
“Billy, you must teach me how to see and understand these things, to help you find the spy.”
I could see Kaz was all worked up. He was almost like a kid brother, jumping up and down and begging his older brother to take him wherever he was going. Like Danny always did, and I had hardly ever said no to him.
“Why do you want to know all this? Aren’t you already involved in looking for the spy? You know all about everything at HQ.”
Kaz took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and shook his head. “All I do is read and translate reports and talk to other officers who read and translate other reports. I am sure it is very important work, but it is not getting us any closer to finding this spy. And it is not very exciting,” he added a little sheepishly as he put his glasses back on.
“Asking a lot of dumb questions isn’t very exciting, Kaz. Ask questions, rile people up, watch things, think about things, then go back and ask more questions. That’s it. Not really exciting at all.”
“I do find my work not very stimulating, Billy, but it is not really excitement I am seeking. It is… revenge. If I could fight, I would, but with my heart, this is as close as I can get. If I can help to uncover a spy, that would be enough. I would feel as if I had done the right thing for the memory of my family.”
I didn’t get this little guy. He had bad health, good money, a great hotel room and a beautiful girlfriend. If I had that deal, the last thing I’d be doing would be hunting around for a German needle in a Norwegian haystack. But he was probably going to try on his own anyway, so I fig-ured I might as well take him on and make sure he didn’t mess things up for me.
“OK, Kaz. You’re on. Just watch what I do and keep your eyes open.”
“Excellent! What do we do first?”
I looked at him and wondered how much I could trust him. Was he really an eager beaver? Or was he watching me for somebody else? The thought had even occurred to me that I couldn’t rule out Kaz as a suspect. How did we know he was really who he said he was? Maybe the Nazis were holding his family hostage? Maybe he was the “Prodigal Son?” Maybe I was Sam Spade, but I doubted it. Occupational hazard of being a cop. Everyone’s a suspect.
“Go find out where Knut Birkeland is, then come get me. We’ll have a chat with him. I’ll be out here.”
Kaz threw me a mock salute and went off to find Birkeland. I kept walking through the gardens as the sun tried to break through the steel gray clouds. I was thinking about little things and trying to add them up so they made sense. I decided I was a couple of sums short of an equation and stopped to smell the roses, just like they always said you should. I reached out to pull a flower closer to sniff it. It smelled like raspberries and perfume on a beautiful woman’s neck. I let go and a thorn caught my fingertip, leaving a slit on my right index finger, and spraying tiny flecks of blood on the blooms beneath it.