The Oslo Affair

by CW Browning

  Evelyn didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her heart was pounding too hard in her chest. No one knew they were here, except the man who had crossed the lobby as they came up from dinner.

  She walked across the living room towards the door apprehensively, wondering if she should open it. Then her step checked as her eyes fell on a white envelope on the floor. It hadn’t been there a moment ago.

  “What’s that?” Anna asked behind her, pointing to the envelope.

  “I don’t know.” Evelyn bent to pick it up. “It must have been shoved under the door.”

  She turned it over to see two initials scrawled across the front: M.R.

  “Well, it’s for you, whatever it is,” Anna said, looking over her shoulder. “How strange. Why didn’t they leave it at the front desk?”

  Evelyn turned to carry the envelope over to the love seat, sinking down with it in her hands. Her heard was still beating fast and she wasn’t sure she wanted to open it, but she resolutely turned it over to slide her finger under the sealed flap.

  “Wait!” Anna went over to the desk and returned a moment later with a long letter opener. “You’ll cut yourself.”

  Evelyn took the opener with an amused glance at her friend. “I tend not to worry about paper cuts, to be honest.”

  She used the letter opener anyway, sliding the blade under the flap and slicing the envelope open in one smooth motion. She handed the blade back to Anna and pulled out a single sheet of paper.

  Den Gyldene Freden. Österlånggatan, Gamla Stan. 11:00 am.

  Evelyn’s brows came together as she stared at the message.

  “Well?” Anna asked impatiently, perching on the arm of the love seat. “What does it say?”

  “I think it might be a location, but I’m not sure. I don’t understand it,” Evelyn said, looking up at her. “Can you read it?”

  Anna all but snatched the paper out of her hand, her excitement palpable.

  “Den Gyldene Freden. Well, that translates into...golden peace. Can that be right?” she frowned, staring at the message. “It looks like an address, but I don’t understand the bit about golden peace. What does that mean?”

  Evelyn shrugged. “I have no idea!”

  Anna studied the sheet for a long moment. “I really do think it’s an address,” she finally said.

  “Could golden peace be the name of a tavern? Like a pub?” Evelyn asked. “Strange name, but I’ve heard even stranger.”

  “I suppose it could be,” Anna said, passing the sheet back. “The one thing we can be sure of is the time. There’s no doubt about that.”

  Evelyn nodded and slipped the paper back into the envelope, standing up.

  “I’ll ask at the desk in the morning. If it’s an address, they should be able to point me in the right direction. Do you have a lighter?”

  “On the table. Why?”

  Evelyn walked over to the table and picked up the lighter. She lit the corner of the envelope and watched as flames licked along the edge hungrily before making their way along the paper, turning the envelope and its contents into charred ash. After tilting it to ensure that the flames were well and truly destroying the note, she dropped it into the ash tray and watched as what remained of the envelope curled and sizzled, devoured by the fire.

  “Are you sure you should have done that?” Anna asked, breaking the silence once the envelope had disappeared completely. “What if you don’t remember the name?”

  “I’ll remember.”

  Anna stood and came over to stand beside her, staring down at the ash tray.

  “This is all terribly exciting, isn’t it?” she asked. “Secret messages pushed under doors, strange addresses, and destroying the evidence. How thrilling!”

  Evelyn looked at her, a slow grin curving her lips. “You’re not afraid?”

  “Not in the least! I wish I could go with you! I suppose there’s no possibility of that, is there?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Evelyn said, shaking her head. “It’s far too dangerous. I have no idea what I’ll be walking into.”

  Anna sighed. “Very well. I’ll want to know absolutely everything when you get back!”

  Evelyn laughed and turned to go to her room.

  “I doubt it will make as exciting listening as you think,” she said over her shoulder. “I’ll be surprised if they even show up. Good night!”

  She went into her room and closed the door, leaning on it for a moment. Contrary to what she’d just said, Evelyn had no doubt that Risto would be there at eleven in the morning. The question was why? And would her Soviet comrade from Oslo also be in attendance?

  Evelyn moved away from the door and began to get ready for bed, trying to calm her jittery nerves. This was what she had been trained to do. There was no point in lamenting the fact now. She had to go tomorrow and meet this soviet agent and find out what he knew about Stalin’s intentions towards Finland. It didn’t matter that another agent had followed her to Stockholm, just as it didn’t matter that she had absolutely no idea where Lyakhov was or whether or not he had been the one to slip the note under the door. All that mattered was that she get as much information as she could and get back to England, uncompromised. If she could do it without sacrificing Anna’s safety, all the better, but her first priority was the meeting at eleven o’clock.

  And the second was avoiding her old Soviet friend.

  A tall man dressed in a dark suit and darker coat walked into the lobby of The Strand Hotel and looked around. It was late and the only guest traffic was on the side where the entrance to the restaurant was located. He glanced at his watch and turned to walk across the tiled floor towards the concierge desk. A single suitcase was the only luggage he carried, clasped in a leather-gloved hand. The concierge looked up as he approached and smiled politely.

  “Good evening, sir,” he greeted him.

  “Good evening,” the man said, setting his case down and removing his hat. “Pratar du tyska?” he asked in heavily accented Swedish.

  “Of course,” the concierge replied in German. “How may I assist you?”

  “I’d like a room, please.”

  “Of course. Will it be only you?”

  “Yes.” The man pulled a long passport case out of the inside pocket of his coat and extracted his passport. “If you have something overlooking the harbor, that would be preferred.”

  The concierge took the offered identification and opened the registry book, turning it around to face the man.

  “I think I have something that will fit your needs,” he said, opening the passport and glancing down at it. “And how long will you be with us, Herr Renner?”

  “I’m not sure yet. Perhaps a few nights.” Renner signed the registry and set the pen down. “I’m meeting a colleague. Could you tell me if she’s arrived?”

  The concierge finished copying the details from his passport onto his registry card and passed the identification back to him.

  “Certainly. What’s the name?”

  “Richardson,” Renner said, tucking the passport back into his holder and sliding it into his coat pocket again. “Margaret Richardson. She’s a journalist for The Daily Mail in London.”

  The concierge nodded and turned to go to a drawer on the back wall. While he was looking, Renner turned to survey the lobby. He was tired and hungry and his patience was running thin.

  When he arrived this afternoon, he’d been met at the station by one of their men from the embassy. In the car on the way to the embassy, he’d been informed that new orders had come in from Berlin. He was no longer simply to observe Fraulein Richardson. He was instructed to detain her for questioning. Someone in the Abwehr, the Wehrmacht’s intelligence service, wanted to know everything she knew. They already had a location, he was told. Or at least, they believed they did. One of their plants in the British embassy reported that a message was hand delivered to Mr. Horace Manchester, a man known to be British Intelligence. The message had been delivered this afternoon from this hotel.
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  “Yes indeed, Herr Renner.” The concierge was back and Renner turned back to the counter with a smile. “Miss Richardson arrived this afternoon. Would you like to leave a message for her?”

  “No, that’s quite all right. I’ll undoubtedly see her tomorrow. I just wanted to know if I was the first one here.”

  “Very good, sir. Here is your room key. You’re in room 305, on the third floor. I think you’ll enjoy it. It has a beautiful view of the harbor and the palace.”

  “Thank you. Is the restaurant still open?” Renner accepted the key and picked up his hat.

  “Yes.” The concierge checked his watch. “We will be serving for another hour yet.”

  Renner nodded and picked up his case, turning away from the desk and walking towards the lift. He would go to his room and leave his case and his coat, then come back down for something to eat. He hadn’t eaten since noon and he knew food would go a long way to improving his temper.

  Then he could determine the best way to find and detain Fraulein Richardson.

  When Evelyn emerged from the lift the following morning, there was no sign of her friend from Oslo. The lobby was busy with guests checking out and both managers behind the front desk were occupied. Instead of going over to wait, she looked around the lobby for a porter or other employee. Everyone appeared to engaged.

  Biting her lip, she gave an internal shrug and crossed the lobby to leave through the front doors. If she couldn’t find anyone in the hotel who could point her in the right direction for her meeting with Risto Niva, she would simply ask a vendor or shop keeper in the city. Someone would be able to assist her.

  Stepping into the brisk morning air, Evelyn shivered and turned to go towards the news vendor where Anna had purchased her paper yesterday. The morning had dawned overcast, but the clouds were dispersing now, sliced apart by the sunlight. If the sun had its way, it would turn into a beautiful day.

  She approached the news vendor, catching him without any customers, and smiled. He nodded respectfully and said something in Swedish. With an inward sigh, she shook her head and spoke in German. She wasn’t sure how prevalent English would be in the streets, but German seemed to be more common as a second language. At least, she’d found that to be the case in Norway.

  “Sprichen sie Deutsch?” she asked.

  “Ja.” He nodded and smiled widely.

  “Oh good! I’m wondering if you can help me. I’m looking for something called Den Gyldene Freden? I believe it’s located in Gamla Stan, is that right?”

  He nodded and stroked his chin, staring at her consideringly.

  “It is. It’s a tavern in the old city. On Österlånggatan.” He lowered his hand and shook his head. “Not a good neighborhood, Fraulein. Are you meeting someone there?”

  “Yes.” Evelyn frowned and bit her lip. “Is it very bad?”

  “It’s not terrible, but it’s not for the likes of you,” he said, scratching his wiry gray hair. “You’ll attract a fair bit of notice, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  She glanced down at her clothes and nodded in sudden understanding. “Would it help if I wore something different?”

  “That might do it,” he agreed. “And if you’re meeting someone, you won’t be completely alone. You’ll want to be careful, though. As I said, it’s not terrible, but it’s not what you’re used to, I’m sure.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be very careful.”

  “Well then, you want to go along here,” he said, turning and pointing in the direction she had been walking. “When you get up to that road there, you’ll go straight and follow this until you reach the bridge. It crosses over the water. When you get to the other side, follow the road around to the left and take it down to Slottsbacken.” Here he paused and frowned, then shook his head. “It will be easier with a map,” he decided, bending down and rummaging behind the table of his booth. He straightened up with a folded map in his hands. “I’ll mark it out for you on this.”

  “Thank you so much,” Evelyn said, watching as he pulled out a pencil and opened the map of the city. “I’ll pay for the map, of course.”

  He nodded and proceeded to draw a heavy line on the map, marking out exactly where she had to go.

  “It’s not far. Only about a fifteen-minute walk,” he said, looking up from his task. “Quite pleasant, actually, until you reach the inner roads in Gamla Stan.”

  He finished and handed her the map. “Do be careful, miss.”

  “I will. I’ll change my clothes so I’m not quite so obvious,” she promised him with a smile. “Can I have a newspaper as well, please?”

  He nodded and she paid him for the map and the daily paper.

  “Good luck,” he said as she turned away.

  Evelyn tucked the map inside the newspaper and carried it in one gloved hand as she went back the way she’d come. However, instead of going back into the hotel, she continued on to the next block and turned down the street, looking for clothing shops. It was a few blocks before she found what she was looking for and she went inside quickly, glancing at her watch. She didn’t have very much time, but it had to be done. The last thing she wanted was to draw attention to herself.

  She supposed she should be worried about going into an apparently seedy neighborhood, but she knew something the kindly gentleman at the newsstand didn’t: it took a lot to bring her down. Many very skilled fighters had tried, and failed. It was an extremely useful thing to be trained in the martial art of Wing Chun.

  After looking around for a moment, Evelyn headed to the back of the store where the heavily discounted and damaged items were located. With just a bit of luck and acting, she would blend in with the locals, minimizing the likelihood of any problems before they even began.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Comrade Grigori walked across the lobby towards the entrance of the hotel, his brows knit together in thought. The Englishwoman must have left her room already, but he hadn’t seen it. A telegram had been delivered to her door personally by one of the hotel staff and the woman staying with her had accepted it. Listening from around the corner, he heard her tell the boy that the Englishwoman wasn’t in but he could leave it with her and she’d make sure she got it. When had the woman left? He’d been watching the room all morning.

  The concierge had been of no help. He didn’t remember seeing the woman leave either. After checking the restaurant and determining that she wasn’t there, Grigori was annoyed with himself. How did he manage to lose her in a hotel? He’d followed her all the way from Oslo easily enough!

  He looked up as he approached the entrance to the hotel and his eyes widened as the object of his frustration strode by the door on the sidewalk outside.

  She had slipped past him and out of the hotel! His pace increased and he exited the hotel just in time to see her disappear around the corner at the end of the block. At least now he had her again. He turned the collar of his coat up as a gust of wind blew off the water and went after her.

  Last night he’d summoned Comrade Yakov to his room for a full report. There wasn’t much. Vladimir Lyakhov had arrived in Stockholm early the day before and checked into a hotel halfway across the city. From there, Yakov had nothing but complaints about the amount of walking the man had done. It seemed Comrade Lyakhov had been sightseeing most of the day, ending up at the Royal Palace across from this very hotel. He did go into The Strand, but only to go to the restaurant where he had dinner, alone. He then returned to his room midway across the city. Yakov hadn’t observed any contact with anyone.

  Grigori exhaled and turned the corner, spotting his quarry a block ahead. He slowed his pace, content to keep distance between them. He didn’t want her to see him. It was bad enough that she’d caught sight of him last night when he was checking into the hotel. He’d managed to avoid being seen in the restaurant while she was eating, although there was one moment when he was convinced he’d been spotted. He’d purposefully waited until they were in the lift before crossing the lobby, but the lif
t had been much slower than he was expecting and so now she knew he was here. There was nothing to be done it now. It made things more difficult, but not impossible.

  Between the Englishwoman and Comrade Lyakhov, he felt like he was on a wild goose chase. He was growing more and more convinced with each passing hour that there was nothing here. Lyakhov hadn’t been anywhere near her since she arrived, and she hadn’t made any attempt to contact him that they could tell. Yakov had assured him that absolutely no messages had been delivered to Lyakhov’s hotel the previous day, and Grigori himself had bribed one of the employees of the hotel to alert him to any messages the Englishwoman sent out. In an effort to make a good impression, his new friend had discovered that she had sent two messages out yesterday: one to her editor in London and one to the British embassy here in Stockholm. Neither of them could have made their way into Lyakhov’s hands. No. Comrade Grigori was confident that there had been no contact initiated between them.

  He crossed an intersection and continued to trail the elegant blonde woman ahead. Unless Yakov turned up something today, or he himself observed something irrefutable, Grigori was going to call this whole thing off. It was a waste of time and resources when he could be tracking down the real traitor.

  He watched as the Englishwoman paused on the sidewalk and looked into a shop window before she continued on. This one may be slippery and may possibly even be a British agent, although he had his doubts, but she’d shown no interest at all in the Soviet comrades in Oslo. In fact, she seemed far more interested in the German scientists. That made perfect sense if she was indeed an agent, but Grigori would be impressed if that was the case. She was clearly from aristocratic breeding. She held herself in a manner that bespoke privilege, and her clothes looked as if they had been tailored just for her. He would place her more firmly in a category with rich, bored socialites than with intelligence agents.

  He was still mulling over this two blocks later when she paused once again on the sidewalk before going into a shop. Glancing at the oncoming traffic, Grigori jogged across the wide road to the other side and moved along until he was parallel with the store. It was a woman’s clothing store. He looked at his watch, then looked at the little bakery behind him. After one last glance at the store across the street, he turned and went into the bakery. It would be easier to watch from inside than out, and as he stepped into the shop the sweet, warm smell of freshly baked breads and pastry assaulted him.