by James R Benn
Hours later a knock on the door woke me from a nap. I threw on a bathrobe and shuffled over, bleary eyed but almost clear headed, my automatic held behind my back.
“Who is it?”
“Room service,” answered the singsong voice. Daphne. I opened the door and could smell the soup before I saw it. I settled into bed and let her arrange the tray around me, my .45 on the nightstand. Kaz came in with a bottle of wine, and I didn’t even want to sock him. It was all quite cozy.
“Well?” I asked. “How did it go? Were the Norwegians happy?”
“Billy,” Kaz smiled as if he were explaining the obvious to a child, “it is impossible to tell if a Norwegian is happy. If we were talking about Poles, there would be dancing in the streets at the news that our homeland was going to be liberated. We would kiss the cheeks of our allies who promised invasion! Instead, the king solemnly stood and shook Cosgrove’s and Harding’s hands. Moving in its own way, but not very demonstrative.”
“Darling, shaking hands is demonstrative for those from the cold northern climes. Can you imagine Major Cosgrove’s expression if the king had kissed him?” Daphne laughed and covered her mouth like a schoolgirl. Kaz looked at her with a smile on his face and an expression that said, Is there any guy luckier than I in the whole world?
Harding knocked and came in, carrying a bottle of Bushmills Irish whiskey in one hand and his briefcase in the other. He raised the bottle in a salute. “Thought we might celebrate. Couldn’t have gone better today.”
“Well, I might disagree about that, if I were dumb enough to argue with a man carrying Bushmills.”
“Sorry, Boyle, I meant the conference. How’s the head?”
“I’m feeling fine, sir.” It was easy to remember to call Harding “sir” when he was holding my favorite brand. He went up a notch in my estimation as he poured each of us a generous portion. “What happens next?”
Harding took a seat, leaned back, loosened his tie, picked up a glass tumbler, and took a sip. He looked tired, and for the first time I saw him as something more than a hardnosed paper pusher. Worry showed on his face in the dark circles under his eyes and creases in his forehead. It struck me how close I was to the center of everything, the historic first strike back at the Nazis. I felt like I was . . . important. I tried to sit up a little straighter.
“I just finished a preliminary briefing session with Norwegian Brigade and commando officers in the map room. We went over the basic tactical plan, and we’ll finish up in the morning. Then we head back to London and start coordinating with the U.S. and British divisional commands.”
“Can you tell me what the plan is?” All of a sudden I thought I was a military genius and I didn’t want to be left out.
“I guess so,” said Harding cautiously. “Now that we’ve briefed the Norwegians it should be all right. Remember, this is still TOP SECRET. I just spent the last half hour securing the invasion plans and maps in the map room downstairs. This information can’t leave the building, understood?”
We all nodded eagerly, pledging silence, our lives, our firstborns, whatever it took. I was hooked. Just like I was hooked the first time I worked a homicide. I knew then that I was different from everyone else, set apart from the concerns of everyday life that swept everyone else forward, on a river of errands, work, dates, drinking, eating, and sleeping. I was going in a different direction, toward revelation and retribution, and there were damn few of us headed that way. This was like that. I was going to see behind the curtain, see what lay ahead for thousands of people, tens of thousands—Germans, Yanks, Brits, Norwegians, soldiers, sailors, civilians, old men, pretty girls, knee-scraped kids. They all were living their lives, doing what they were told to do, waiting to find out what was going to happen, if they thought about it at all. I wouldn’t have to wonder. I’d know. Harding had pulled a long folded map of the Norwegian coast out of his briefcase and spread it out over the bed. He tapped it with his pen as he ticked off the main points.
“Primary landings will be just west of Oslo, with the Norwegian Brigade in the first wave along with one U.S. infantry division and a British tank brigade. There’ll be a secondary Anglo-American landing at Stavanger in order to capture an airfield. Also various diversionary commando raids up the coast in order to keep the Germans off balance. We’re also working on a landing in force in the Nordland province, just north of the Arctic Circle. There’s a point near Fauske where Norway narrows to just about forty miles between Sweden and the North Sea. We’ll make a line there to cut off any reinforcements from the Narvik area, secure the airfield at Bodo, and create an area to build up forces to complete the campaign.”
“What about air and naval forces?” asked Kaz.
“We actually hope the Germans will commit their navy. With the Royal Navy and the American naval units that are still arriving, we should decimate them if they intervene. The Luftwaffe is another matter. We’ll have air cover for the invasion, but if we don’t capture those airfields intact and get our fighters in the air over Norway. . . .”
He didn’t have to finish, leaving the image of Stukas dive-bombing Allied troops with impunity clear enough in our minds.
“That’s why you plan to seal off Nordland?” I asked.
Harding looked out the window, avoiding my eyes as if he didn’t want to answer. “There are sound tactical reasons for securing Nordland. One is that it provides a foothold in case the southern campaign goes badly. It also gives us air bases and ample harbors for supply and warships. It’s very important, which is why we’re committing an American ranger battalion and the 509th Parachute Regiment, along with British and Norwegian commandos. Once they secure the airfield at Fauske we’ll fly in more infantry. Heavier stuff will be landed from the sea at Bodo.”
“Major, isn’t it dangerous to release all this information with a spy in our midst?” Daphne asked with a quizzical look on her face.
“Yes, it is. We have to be on our guard. He may try something again.”
With that cheery thought, Harding filled our glasses and we drank another round. And one more, then Daphne excused herself, and then we lost count.
I feel asleep pretty easily, or passed out, I can’t remember which. I woke up in the middle of the night with a dry, parched throat and a throbbing headache. I forced myself out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. My tried-and-true hangover cure was a big glass of cold water and a couple of aspirin. I managed to shake out the aspirin and turned the faucet on, looking forward to letting the water run long enough to get really good and cold. I was rewarded with less than a dribble. Damn these pipes! The warm water came out full force, though, and I managed to fill a glass before it got too hot and force the aspirin down. I knew that without a tall drink of cold water my head would still be pounding in the morning. So far, the worst thing about being in England was hangovers and the plumbing. And almost getting killed, of course.
CHAPTER ▪ NINE
I DIDN’T FEELSO great a few hours later, standing outside Beardsley Hall as the sun thought about coming up over the horizon. But I was still a lot better off than Knut Birkeland, who stared up at me with lifeless eyes, lying on his back and ruining the geraniums he lay on in the garden below his open window, four stories up.
Jens Iversen paced back and forth behind me, questioning the two sentries who had found the body. He had sent for me as soon as the discovery was reported to him, and right now people were spilling out of the hall like it was a beehive that had been hit with a stick. Harding pushed through the growing crowd just as the first rays of the sun hit the granite side of the building and illuminated the scene without casting light on a thing.
“What the hell is going on, Boyle?” he demanded as he stepped toward the body. I put out my arm to stop him.
“Hold on. Sir. Please don’t touch him. We need to move these people back.”
Harding pushed my arm away but didn’t move any closer or threaten me with a court-martial. “What happened?”
“I
don’t know yet, Major, but if we let everyone stomp through here we’ll never find out. Jens says the sentries woke him at a few minutes past six thirty when they found the body on their rounds. He got me a few minutes later and here we are. All I really know so far is that’s Birkeland’s room up there.” I pointed to the swinging casement window on the top floor. “I’ve already asked Jens to post a guard outside the door and not let anyone in.”
A breeze blew the window back, and it gave out a rusty grinding noise and the old iron hinges protested the sudden movement. The edge of a curtain flapped out of the window as if it were waving a sad good-bye to Knut Birkeland. Harding looked at the crowd, looked at me, and decided I was his best bet.
“OK, Lieutenant, it looks like you’ve got the situation in hand. You’re in charge of the investigation. Let’s see what kind of detective you really are.” At that moment, Jens came over to us.
“Excuse me, gentlemen. We will remove the body now.”
“Not until Lieutenant Boyle completes his investigation of the scene,” Harding said, holding his hand up to Jens just as I had to him.
“I am in charge of security here, Major, not the American army.” Jens bristled as his men watched him and waited for their orders, but he didn’t slap the hand away.
“That’s not a very impressive claim to make over the dead body of a senior governmental official,” came the voice of Major Cosgrove as he moved closer to us, stabbing the ground with his cane to help make his point. “And since this facility is owned by His Majesty’s government, I am certain that you will cooperate with us in this joint investigation. You will agree it is better than calling in the local constabulary.”
“We will handle this investigation ourselves,” snapped Jens, all the friendliness of yesterday’s allies in arms gone.
“Do not force the issue, Captain,” said Cosgrove in a low man-to-man tone. “It would not do to rupture relations over a jurisdictional matter, especially one that you cannot win. This is Crown property, provided for your use. It is not Norwegian territory.”
Cosgrove had laid his cards on the table as neatly as if he were showing off a royal flush, which wasn’t far from the mark. Allies or not, the Norwegians were foreigners, dependent upon their hosts, even with all that gold safe in America. Gold. A dead man. Jens’ quick attempt to preempt any investigation. Was he just trying to do his job or did he have another motive?
“As guests in your country, we can do nothing but cooperate,” answered Jens with a sneer, and turned away on his heel, spouting rapid Norwegian to the sentries. Touchy. I saw Kaz coming out the door and told him to head straight up to Birkeland’s room and make sure the guard was there and let no one inside. Now there was nothing left to do but investigate. I glanced at Harding, who had shooed the gathering crowd away and was standing back, arms folded, watching me.
I stood there, trying to remember what my dad and uncles did at a crime scene. They’d always called me in for crowd control when a homicide came up on the board, to show me the ropes. Now I wished I had paid more attention. This is why they did it, so when I made it to the big leagues I’d know what to do. So I’d make the Boyle family proud. It felt like Dad was standing behind me, just shaking his head a little, wondering why he’d wasted all that time teaching me. I had to stop myself from turning to look for him.
Instead, I got down on my hands and knees close to the body, after checking to be sure there were no footprints or drag marks in the dirt around him. Just like Dad used to do. I looked at the flowers just in front of his feet. They weren’t crushed or disturbed. He hadn’t been standing and then been knocked down. This fella had come straight down, for sure.
I felt his jaw and neck for the first signs of rigor mortis. Nothing there, which is where rigor first sets in about four hours after death. His head was turned to the right, and the skin close to the ground was darker in color, where the blood had begun to settle. I pressed my finger firmly against the darkened cheek, and watched the skin whiten under the beard stubble and then return to the same crimson color. As the coroner would say, no evidence of fixed lividity. Around six hours after death, the blood settling in the body becomes clotted, and won’t blanch at a touch. That’s what fixed lividity means. I looked into the dark eyes below the bushy, thick eyebrows and saw they were flattened, as fluid drained out and the eyeball collapsed. That happened thirty minutes after death. I stood up triumphantly.
“He died no less than thirty minutes ago and no more than three hours ago, probably closer to an hour ago.”
“Boyle, it’s almost been thirty minutes since the sentries found him. That doesn’t tell us much.” Harding was unimpressed. I frowned and crouched down again, looking at Birkeland. I remembered seeing my father in this pose so many times. He would squat and stare for a long time, then suddenly get up and start barking orders. I was squatting and staring just fine, but I had not a clue what to do next. A clue. I really needed a clue. Dad, what was it you looked for? What did you see?
I looked Birkeland up and down. I tried not to assume anything, to take in everything that was in front of me, just as it was. He was fully dressed, in a dark blue suit with a matching vest. I picked up one hand and looked for anything he might be holding. The hand was empty. Clean fingernails too, no sign of a struggle there. I opened the other hand, which felt soft even with those calluses, and found the same thing. I could feel the coolness creeping into his skin. I patted down his pockets, looking for a note. There was nothing. No billfold, matches, handkerchief, or anything. I guess he’d dressed for a very short trip.
I signaled for Harding to help me roll him over. I took the shoulders and Harding pushed at the hips. Birkeland was a big guy, and it took both of us. No surprises there, just evidence that the body had come from a height and wasn’t dragged and dumped here. A visible indentation in the garden soil showed where his torso had hit. We rolled him back. His neck hung at an unnatural angle. I was pretty sure it was broken. Nothing jumped out at me, nothing to say there was anything here to be seen but Knut Birkeland, unable to defy gravity.
“So?” Harding said as he looked up to the window on the fourth floor. “Suicide?”
“Looks like it, doesn’t it?”
“You don’t think so?”
“I really don’t know. I just wonder why a guy who was on a mission to stop Vidar Skak from becoming senior adviser would jump out a window.”
Harding was silent for a moment. I could tell what he was thinking but couldn’t say out loud. Could this be the work of our neighborhood Nazi spy?
“There’s a doctor from the Norwegian Brigade heading over here. He’ll act as medical examiner and conduct an autopsy as soon as he gets here. You done with the body?”
I was. Harding ordered a couple of guards to take the body away, and we headed upstairs. Kaz was standing at the door to Birkeland’s room, arguing with Jens Iversen.
“No, Captain, you must not enter . . . Billy!”
The sight of the little guy standing up to the obviously frustrated head of security almost made me forget my hangover.
“Billy, I’ve let no one in!”
“Good job, Kaz.”
“Now that you are here, Lieutenant,” Jens said, stressing my lesser rank, “perhaps we can enter?”
“Listen, Captain, I don’t mean to get in your way, but I’ve got a job to do. It’s nothing personal, I just used to be a cop, so I drew this assignment. OK?”
“All right. Are you ready to go in?” He seemed agreeable, but I wondered why he was in such a hurry to get into Birkeland’s room.
“Not yet. First, tell me, is the room locked?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have the key?”
“I have a key, Lieutenant, a spare from the housekeeper. What exactly do you mean by that question?”
“Nothing, I didn’t mean to imply anything. Just want to know what to look for. Let’s open the door, but I go inside first.”
“As you request,” Jens said with h
eavy sarcasm, stressing the last word. He unlocked the door and stepped aside. I went in. I took two steps and stopped and carefully looked around. The room was large and spacious. Besides the bed, which was unmade and looked slept in, there was a desk and chair by the open window. The lace curtains blew in as a light breeze swept through the room. There were no signs of a struggle. I looked into the bathroom, which was done in marble and much more elegant than mine. Not that it mattered, but I did think about how nice it would be to soak in a tub in such a fancy bathroom. I felt the towels hanging on the rack. They were damp. The bathroom had that steamed, damp smell that you get after a bath. Evidently Birkeland had wanted to meet his maker squeaky clean. I walked back into the bedroom and signaled the others to come in.
Then I saw it. On the desk, on top of a piece of writing paper, sat a single gold coin. A Hungarian gold piece, just like those in the Norwegian gold shipment. Even in the dimly lit room, it gleamed, shining brightly like the devil’s left eye. I almost ran the few steps to the desk, with Harding, Jens, and Kaz following me. I nearly fell over when I read the note beneath the coin.
I know this is a great disappointment. I have always tried to serve Norway and my king as best I could. This final step is unfortunately necessary given the current situation.
The gold coin was carefully placed just below these lines. The paper was small, of a high quality, and there was a stack more of it at the side of the desk. A closed fountain pen was carefully positioned at the top of the blotter. I turned to Jens.
“Is this Birkeland’s handwriting?” He stepped closer and reached for the note.
“Don’t touch it,” I said, “please.”
Jens halted his movement, nodded his head, stood, and studied the note for a few seconds.
