The Oslo Affair

by CW Browning

  “Not what, who. I’m told there are a lot of Germans in the city.”

  Else thought for a moment. “Well, you could try the Hotel Bristol. They have a very popular restaurant and dance floor. There is also a cocktail lounge very close to it that is popular. They would be good places to start. The Hotel especially is a favorite of most visitors to Oslo. I can think of one person in particular who might be willing to go with you. She is about your age and works as a secretary for a law firm.”

  “How do I contact her?”

  “You don’t. I will send Josef with a message and he will get it to her.” Else set the knife down and went to the back door. Opening it, she called out and waited for a second until she heard a muffled response. “Josef is her god-father,” she added, coming back to the island. “She will come after work if he asks. She knows the city well and would also be a good guide.”

  “She speaks English?”

  “Yes. Her mother insisted all the children learn, along with the German.” Else shrugged. “She felt it would be useful for them.”

  The door to the garden opened and Josef came into the kitchen.

  “Tørk av de støvlene før du søler til hele gulvet mitt!” Else exclaimed as he stepped into the house.

  Evelyn hid a smile as Josef comically stepped back and proceeded to wipe his feet on the straw mat outside the door.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked in German, re-entering the house and pinning Evelyn with a stare. “I thought you went out.”

  “She’s been and come back, Josef.” Else also switched to German, her knife slicing steadily through the pile of carrots. “She’ll be going out this evening. I thought Anna could accompany her.”

  Josef went to the long counter adjacent to the sink and picked up a glass from the drying board. He filled it with water and turned to look across the kitchen at Evelyn.

  “She would be a good choice,” he agreed, sipping the water. “They’re of a same age. Where are you going?”

  “Else suggested the restaurant at Hotel Bristol,” Evelyn said easily, glancing at the other woman. “And a cocktail lounge nearby.”

  Josef nodded. “I’ll go send a message to her and ask her to come around when she is finished working for the day.”

  “Thank you.”

  He finished his drink and set the glass down, turning to leave the kitchen again. When he reached the door, he glanced over his shoulder.

  “If you’re going to the Hotel Bristol, you’ll want to be careful,” he said. “It’s a popular hotel with travelers, particularly the Germans.”

  Evelyn felt her lips curve in a faint smile.

  “That’s what I’m hoping for.”

  RAF Duxford

  “All right gentlemen, that’s enough.”

  An authoritative voice rose above the din in the pilots briefing room and Miles stubbed out his cigarette, sitting back on the two seater couch in the corner. The briefing room was unlike any other briefing room in England. The pilots of 66 Squadron were known throughout the RAF, somewhat notoriously, as Corinthian Squadron. Most of them, with the exception of the Yank, were reservists from the Auxiliary Air Force, or the weekend fliers as they were called. Chris was the only American in the squadron, having gone to Canada to join the RAF, and the only pilot without a number at the end of his name. By and large, they came from wealthy families and were accustomed to a certain standard of living. When the RAF accommodations fell short of that standard, they took it upon themselves to remedy it. Whispers of champagne with their dinner and oriental rugs in their mess halls ran rampant on other airfields, providing considerable amusement for the pilots in question. While most of the rumors were completely untrue, there was no disputing the fact that Corinthian Squadron had the most lavishly furnished briefing rooms, bedrooms and recreation rooms. There was even an old shed that they had converted into a squash court.

  “Thank you.”

  A stocky man of medium height stood before the twelve pilots dressed in uniform with a heavy leather flight jacket tossed over his shoulders. His name was Boyd Ashmore, and he was their Squadron Leader. As the room fell quiet, he cleared his throat.

  “First of all, it has been brought to my attention that there was something of a ruckus down at the pub again last night. That’s the third time in the past two weeks. I’d appreciate it if you’d not upset the locals. Remember that you are officers in the Royal Air Force, and please act like it. I’m getting tired of having the pub landlord in my office.” He looked around the room sternly. “We are at war, gentlemen, even if it doesn’t seem like it. Let’s try to maintain some semblance of decorum when we’re out and about.”

  Several of the men in the room shifted in their seats uncomfortably and, after sending another glare around the room, Ashmore nodded.

  “Second order of business. Once again, it has been brought to my attention that several complaints have been made about low-level flying over farmers’ fields. It’s disturbing the livestock, or so I’m told.” He glanced up from the sheet in his hand and paused, then lowered his eyes again. “Right. I’ve addressed that, then,” he muttered.

  Miles couldn’t stop the grin that stretched over his face and he looked at Rob beside him to find him shaking his head. This wasn’t the first time they’d heard complaints from the farmers, and it wouldn’t be last. For some reason, they seemed to think they could get through this war without having the inconvenience of planes flying overhead.

  “Third, whoever pinched the tub of propeller grease from the hangars, please return it.” Ashmore looked up again and this time there was a decided twinkle in his eyes. “I can’t imagine what you would want with the wretched stuff, but I’ve a few angry ground-crew sergeants in my office. We can’t get any more until the end of the month, so be considerate and return it from whence it came, please.”

  After some quick scanning and shuffling of the papers in his hands, Ashmore tossed them aside.

  “Right. The rest is rubbish.”

  “And that wasn’t?” Rob muttered loud enough to draw several grins from around the room.

  Ashmore leaned against the desk behind him and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “We have a long day ahead of us,” he said. “Low-level formation flying, away from the farmers’ fields if we can help it.” Groans rose up and he was betrayed into a chuckle. “I know, I know. However, an end is in sight. Tomorrow we’ll be rotating out sections and practicing night-flying. Today, A flight will go up first, then B flight. C flight will go after lunch, then we’ll start over. You know the routine.” Ashmore reached behind him and picked up his notes again. “Oh! Before we go, just one more thing. HQ sent down some papers. They’re Polish phrases you have to memorize.”

  “Polish phrases?” Andrew “Mother” Hampton drawled from the back of the room. “What the bloody hell for?”

  “We’re getting some Polish refugees who were in the air force over there. May be helpful in communications. It would also be helpful if you end up bailing out over Poland,” Ashmore added dryly.

  “If I ditch in Poland, they should bloody well speak English,” Mother muttered and Miles grinned.

  “That’s a bit much, Hampton,” Ashmore said, unperturbed. “It’s their country, after all. But I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that for quite some time. Not unless you plan on transferring over to bombers.”

  “Good Lord, no!”

  “Well then, read these over and you’ll be tested tomorrow morning. And it is classified, so no blabbing at the pub if you don’t mind. I know it’s a nuisance, but do your best.” Ashmore threw the papers back down on the desk and picked up his flying gloves. “Right. Off we go.”

  Miles and Rob got up and ambled out of the briefing room to where a truck waited. They climbed into the back and held on to the sides as it ground into gear and began jostling and bouncing across the field to the dispersal hut that served as the ‘ready’ room, where the pilots spent their time between flights. Taking a deep
breath, Miles inhaled the cool, morning air and gazed out across the expanse of grass. They bumped along, passing the rows of Spitfires lined up along the landing strip. The sight of the fighters never ceased to fill him with an overwhelming excitement and anticipation. This was where he felt alive.

  After about five minutes of bone-jarring bumping, the truck rumbled to a stop outside the wooden hut. Inside were a few chairs and a desk where the adjutant sat with a phone, ready to dispatch fighters to meet enemy threats at a moment’s notice. It was a standard set up that had been proven to work. Except the enemy wasn’t showing any signs of threat, and the only time that phone rang was to inform them that tea was up.

  Miles and Rob climbed down and strolled over to the deck chairs scattered about outside. They were in B flight and they watched as A flight went out to their planes and started their engines.

  “Gorgeous day, isn’t it?” Slippy remarked, flopping onto the grass and squinting up at the sky. “Not a cloud up there.”

  “Could do with a few more degrees on the temperature,” Chris said, burying his hands in his jacket pockets and pulling up the leather and wool collar of his flight jacket.

  Slippy squinted at him. “I thought all you Americans got mountains of snow in the colonies.”

  Chris ignored the reference to the colonies. Everyone mentioned it at least half a dozen times a day. They hadn’t figured out yet that it didn’t bother him to be called a Yank from the Colonies.

  “Only after Christmas where I come from,” he said easily. “Of course, I don’t expect someone from the Mother Country to understand, but America is much bigger than you realize.”

  “Can’t be bothered to realize,” Slippy replied, undisturbed. “I don’t normally associate with rabble rousers and war-makers.”

  “You know, for such a sophisticated and upper-crust society, it’s amazing how you dwell on ancient history,” Chris said with a good-natured laugh.

  Miles settled in a wooden chair next to a small card table and stretched.

  “It’s unlikely Slippy dwells on anything,” he remarked, tapping his forehead significantly. “Runs in the family, y’know.”

  Everyone laughed, including Slippy.

  “Now, now, none of that, if you please.” A new voice said cheerfully. “Don’t you know there’s a war on? We can’t have laughing at the ready, now can we?”

  Miles turned to look at the newcomer carrying a clipboard in his hand. Bertram Rodford, or Bertie as they all called him, was the intelligence officer. His easy sense of humor and brutal honesty had made him a favorite with the pilots. He had been a professor of history at the university before the war broke out, commanding the respect of pilots who were not known for their affinity of the written word, historical or otherwise. His primary duty was de-briefing the pilots after every sortie. If this ‘Phoney War’ ever got off the ground, Bertie would be the one who sorted fact from fiction, using the pilots’ views of the air battles.

  “A flight’s only just gone up,” Rob said, pulling out a pack of playing cards. “What are you doing down here already?”

  “I came to give you your Polish papers, of course,” Bertie replied, flourishing a handful of pamphlets.

  “Well, you can jolly well take them back to wherever you got them,” Slippy muttered.

  Bertie clucked his tongue.

  “That’s no way to treat Top Secret government documents,” he said, handing Rob a pamphlet. “Not that I can take them back to London, although I’d enjoy the trip if I could.”

  “Would you visit your sweetheart, Bertie?” Miles asked, taking his pamphlet with one hand and picking up the cards Rob had dealt with the other.

  “I don’t have a sweetheart,” he replied cheerfully. “I’d visit the university, of course.”

  “Do you mean to tell me that you really miss your stuffy old books?” Slippy demanded, sitting up. Bertie raised an eyebrow.

  “Much can be learned from my stuffy old books,” he murmured. “Manners, for one thing.”

  “Bravo!” Chris caroled, accepting his pamphlet and glancing at cursorily.

  “If anyone needs to learn manners and etiquette, the Lord knows it’s you Yanks,” Slippy retorted. “No sense of tact or subtlety. None a’tall.”

  “It’s bloody Swedish!”

  The exclamation was made with disgust dripping from every word, and they all turned to stare. Miles very rarely was moved to any show of emotion beyond the bare minimum, and the outburst was met with a short, stunned silence.

  “Hmm. So you noticed.” Bertie glanced at him. “I thought you might.”

  “What’s Swedish?” Rob asked, looking up from his cards.

  “The damned pamphlets.” Miles tossed the paper in question on the table disgustedly. “It’s all bloody Swedish. ‘Got morgan.’ ‘Tak’. It’s Swedish, not Polish.” He lit a cigarette and picked up his cards again. “Bloody RAF can’t even get its languages straight.”

  “Is it really Swedish?” Chris examined his pamphlet. “Isn’t that where the women are all tall and blonde?”

  “If it is, learning the language won’t do you any good,” Slippy said.

  “Some of it’s Polish, but very little,” Bertie said with a shrug. “You’re being tested on it tomorrow, whatever it is. I know acquiring additional mental capacity and higher learning is not your forte, but do try.”

  “If it’s not even Polish, I say bugger it,” Slippy announced cheerfully.

  Rob turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow. “And if it was Polish?”

  Slippy shrugged with a grin. “Bugger it.”

  “Eloquent, our friend Slippy, isn’t he?” Miles asked, looking at Rob across the table. “It’s your go.”

  “It is a bit much, though,” Rob said with a grin, turning back to the cards. “Expecting us to learn Polish or Swedish or whatever it is. I was under the impression that our job was to fly the airplanes, not learn a foreign language. That’s my sister’s department, not mine.”

  Miles looked up at that. “Really? What do you mean?”

  “Oh Evie’s been learning foreign languages for as long as I can remember. She speaks several. The last one was Russian, I believe. She’s quite the linguist.”

  “Does she know Polish?” Chris asked, joining them at the table and motioning for Rob to deal him in. “Maybe she can come down and teach us.”

  “If she does, she’d be appalled at what those papers are,” Miles said. “They could have come up with something better than that. The Polish refugees won’t have any idea what we’re saying.”

  “Mother was right,” Slippy said. “Let the sods learn our language if they want to migrate to our country.”

  “In all fairness, I don’t believe they had much of a choice,” Rob pointed out.

  “They should have seen which way the wind was blowing.” Slippy parked himself in the last vacant chair. “Everyone else could.”

  “Sometimes I really believe that your skull was filled with jelly in utero,” Miles said, throwing his cards down with a wide yawn. “Lord I’m tired. I wonder if I have time for a short kip.”

  “Not likely.” Chris glanced at his watch. “They’ll be back soon.”

  Miles stretched out and tilted his head back, tipping his hat across his eyes.

  “Give me a shove when they do arrive,” he muttered.

  Chris sighed in mock despair. “A country at war and the noble pilot sleeps at his post.”

  “Not much of a war,” Slippy said. “It will all be over and done before Christmas. Mark my words.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a lark!” Rob crowed.

  “Won’t be much of a lark for you lot if you don’t be quiet,” Miles growled.

  They all laughed and went back to their card game, the sun shining brightly in a cloudless sky.

  Chapter Nine

  Oslo, Norway

  Evelyn looked around as she followed the host to a table. The crowded restaurant reminded her forcibly of one of her favorite ones in P
aris, glittering with light reflecting between cocktail glasses and mirrored columns. Laughter and the light chatter of patrons out to enjoy themselves surrounded her, and she felt very much at home in the gaiety. As they moved through the restaurant, she noted which tables had diners who appeared to be there for something other than food and dancing. Those were the ones she had to focus on tonight.

  The host stopped at a small table and pulled the chair out for Evelyn with a smile.

  “Thank you,” she murmured automatically. Even if he didn’t understand English, Evelyn supposed the meaning would be obvious.

  She seated herself and watched as he moved to hold the chair for the tall woman with her. Anna Salvesen had hair the color of dark, rich mahogany and large brown eyes that seemed to sparkle constantly with some unshared joke. Evelyn had liked her immediately, drawn to the sense of careless enjoyment that she seemed to exude with every movement.

  “You must try the Gravlax,” Anna said as the host moved away and she settled herself in her seat. “It is exceptional here.”

  “Gravlax?”

  “Smoked salmon. Trust me. You won’t regret it.”

  “And this is why I wanted to have a local guide,” Evelyn said with a smile. “I would never have known what anything was, otherwise.”

  Anna laughed. “I’ll take care of you,” she promised. “How long are you in Oslo?”

  “Only a few days. I’m here to gather information for an article I’m writing. Unless my source gets delayed, it will be a quick trip.” Evelyn stuck to her cover story for her trip to Oslo. “I’m meeting someone in the city who has exclusive information for me.”

  Anna smiled faintly.

  “Then I’ll have to show you as much of Oslo as possible while you are here,” she said decidedly as a waiter approached the table. “We’ll start with a drink. Since this is your first time in Norway, shall I order for you?”

  “Why not?” Evelyn said with a laugh. “I’m always ready for an adventure.”

  Anna grinned and turned to the waiter, ordering their drinks swiftly. Evelyn gave up trying to understand what she was saying after the first few words and instead turned her attention to the other patrons in the restaurant. A single man sat at a table nearby, his head bent over a book while he waited for his dinner. She watched him for a moment, noting the cut of his jacket and the way he squinted at his book. He was a man used to spending more time with books than with people, she thought, and one who either didn’t know or didn’t care that his jacket was two seasons out of date.