Chapter 20

Dear Anne,

If only you were here with your perfect combination of eminent good sense and bracing encouragement. I'm sure you would have a few choice words for me on the nature of duty, responsibility, and the burden of leadership and then you would tell me to forget them all where family is concerned. If only it was so easy. If only we were back in those halcyon days of our youth when the world was fresh and the path seemed so easy...

D aisy set aside the letter. There was no rush these days. No one waiting to read it. It made it harder to write, but easier to say what needed to be said. All the thoughts in her head that had no outlet could be put down, made real with pen and ink. Sometimes just the task of writing brought her relief and an answer to her question. A new perspective that suddenly sprang into focus like the brilliant flash of a light bulb.

And even when it didn't, the act of writing to Anne kept her alive. She'd had no updates on her sister-in-law's condition nor had Daisy sought them out. It was unlike her to take the coward's way, but so long as she didn't know for certain, she could hope. And hope was a priceless commodity in times like these.

Rubbing the aching spot between her brows, Daisy pulled the accordion folder front and center, spreading out the clippings and notes, with that damned article and its photograph on the top of the pile.

a family of spies the headline screamed in German, revealing the closely guarded secret that a cousin of the current American minister served as her intelligence agent in Poland and the pair had been instrumental in a bombing that killed over twenty German military along with an unspecified number of Polish nationals. Lies, all of it. Imagined by a so-called journalist and published in a newspaper filled with similar conspiracies, intrigues, and evil gossip. But it was the photograph accompanying the article that Daisy studied inch by grainy, badly lit inch.

It was obviously Cleo. Daisy recognized that big smile and that gaudy costume diamond necklace, even with the photograph out of focus and Cleo standing in the shadows behind a table circled by German officers. One reached back toward her, his face lit with laughter. But it was the man at the edge of the photograph that drew Daisy's eye, the man beside Cleo watching the scene, a cigarette held loosely between his fingers. She could see why her goddaughter had been smitten. Micky Kominski was far too good-looking: deep-set eyes, thick dark hair, and a pair of full lips above a dimpled chin. The caption beneath the photograph read: Czarny Kot a week before its destruction by a foreign agent.

Cleo could no more have bombed the café than flown to the moon, but Kominski? Maybe Daisy's earliest suspicions had been correct. Maybe Kominski's death had been more than bad luck. Seaton had reminded Daisy that while no one took stories like this seriously, tensions with Germany remained high, and any whiff of scandal could be enough to derail ongoing talks with Hitler's government. She waited for him to mention Cleo's mur derous exit from Oslo as a case in point, but it never came. Perhaps she'd been wrong about Whitney's intentions.

The scrape of a key in the door alerted Daisy to Cleo's return. She watched as Cleo let herself into the hotel suite—palming her key, sliding out of her shoes, glancing around like a hunted animal.

"You're late," Daisy said.

Cleo dropped her key and her shoes to the floor with a clatter. "You scared me, Aunt Daisy. I thought you'd be asleep long ago."

Her words came slow and thick, and her face was as gray as her coat. Daisy would have chalked it up to drink, but there was more to it in the shadows that clouded her eyes and the nervous hitch in her breathing. "I'll phone down for a pot of coffee."

Cleo looked as if she would like nothing less, but she nodded and slumped into an armchair while Daisy rang for room service. It took only a few minutes to push a mug into Cleo's hands. "Here. I changed my mind and ordered cocoa instead."

Suspicion bloomed like spots on Cleo's cheeks. "Mother only ever made cocoa when she was trying to soften bad news."

In an almost repeat of Seaton's movements of a few hours ago, Daisy pushed the article and the photograph across the table. "I think you need to read this. It's a sloppy attempt to discredit me by attacking you, but I thought you should be warned in case someone mentions it."

Cleo winced at the burn on her tongue as she hunched over the clipping, her gaze shifting as she seemed to read it, study the photo, and read it again. "Is this a joke? I never spied, and I certainly never murdered anyone." Her gaze remained fixed on the photograph, confusion creasing the corners of her eyes, digging at her chin. "Do people believe this? That I planted a bomb? That I killed all those people? That I killed Micky?"

"No one believes it." As far as she knew. Though Seaton was decidedly somber as he relayed the information and Mr. Whitney, when he was filled in, questioned whether Cleo might not restrict her activities with the Norwegian Refugee Office to less public roles in the future, though he did it without his usual snide contempt, which Daisy appreciated.

She folded the clipping away while Cleo focused on the froth on her cocoa. Silence spun out as if her thoughts drifted. Daisy might have blamed it on a bumpy return to sobriety if not for the tapping of Cleo's fingers against her mug, an assessing expression on her pale features.

"Did something happen this evening, Clementine?"

"I went out for a drink with Lieutenant Bayard and Sofia Kristiansen."

More than one, by the smell of her. "Dr. Kristiansen is a force to be reckoned with. Despite their differences, she reminds me of her sister in so many ways."

Cleo's face shut down, and Daisy cursed herself for stepping wrong. Petra's death had been a blow whose repercussions still radiated outward like a stone in a pond. She waited, letting the air clear, the memories dissipate. It worked. Cleo shifted in her seat and blew on her cocoa, before settling back, a tightness in her jaw.

"It's funny this article coming now," she said quietly. "Tonight, I mean."

"Funny? In what way?" Daisy ached to pry her open like an oyster, but nudging would get her nowhere. Instead, she let the silence grow until it practically buzzed in her ears.

"I thought . . . I mean it was dark so I couldn't be sure . . ."

"Couldn't be sure about what?"

Whatever Cleo might have been about to say was lost when she covered her mouth, her face going a ghastly green as she shoved back from the table, the mug sloshing cocoa all over the table and into her lap as she raced for the door. "Oh God. I'm going to be sick."

Daisy waited, her own cocoa growing a skin as it cooled, but Cleo didn't return. When Daisy went to look, she found her sprawled asleep across her bed, still in her clothes, tendrils of dark hair stuck to her damp forehead, and the clipping with the photo of Micky Kominski crushed in one hand.

T he handsome waterside boulevard of Strandv?gen and the streets surrounding it were a hub of embassies and legations, government offices, and diplomatic agencies. Americans rubbed shoulders with Germans, whose windows looked out over Norwegians who had coffee with the British while the Swedes monitored everyone. Cleo could walk fifty yards in any direction and hear come-ons and catcalls in ten different languages.

She ignored them all, waiting on a bench by the water and only occasionally checking her watch until Bayard emerged from the American legation at number 7, saw her across the street, and waved.

Her heart did a little flip, which she squashed like a bug. That kiss had been a mistake even if she had relived it a hundred times over the last few days. She needed to pull herself together. She gripped her handbag and told herself she'd imagined what she saw. It wouldn't be the first time she'd conjured Micky out of thin air. That's all this was.

And yet . . .

"You sounded weird on the phone. Everything okay?"

A loaded question and one she ignored. She had bigger fish to fry this afternoon. "That journalist friend of yours—is he still in Stockholm?"

Bayard didn't seem put off by her bluntness. If anything, he relaxed, his hands and jaw unclenching. Whatever he thought she'd planned on saying, that wasn't it. Maybe he regretted that kiss as much as she did. "For now, he's rooming with a friend just outside of the city. Housing is impossible without the right documents."

"What's his address? Better yet, can you take me? He's more likely to open up to someone he knows."

"Do I get to know what you want him to open up about?"

"I'll fill you in on the way."

"Oh so this is like a now kind of thing?" he asked. She waited until he gave a small sigh of assent and an indulgent shrug. "Sure. Fine. What else do I have to do with my afternoon?"

The train took them just north of the city, where it was a quick walk to a long block of uninspiring flats in a working class neighborhood. Bayard led the way up the outside stairs to the top floor, continuing their conversation from the train. "You've said your aunt doesn't believe you were involved in the bombing."

"But how did they even know I was there? And the photograph they used? It doesn't make sense unless someone in Zakopane informed them." She showed him the photo. "See that guy in the back? He was at the German legation in Oslo. He's the one who said he'd help me find Micky."

"Who is he?"

"I don't know. That's why we're here. I'm hoping your friend can tell me more."

A bolt slid back and a round-faced man with sunken eyes answered the door. His smile was tired but friendly. "Lieutenant Bayard? This is an unexpected surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Sorry to drop in unannounced, Donald, but—"

Bayard hadn't even finished his sentence when the man noticed Cleo, his gaze sharpening in recognition. "Clementine Jaffray." He opened the door wider. "The spy who took out twenty German officers in a bombing. Come in, and welcome to my humble home."

She turned her gritted teeth into a smile. "Glad my fame precedes me. Saves time."

The flat was small and utilitarian: a couch and chair tucked into a corner across from a kitchenette. Bath and bedroom down a short hall. A window that overlooked a courtyard filled with trash cans and flapping laundry. Donald moved a tidy pile of pillows to the end of the couch to make room. That was when Cleo noticed the stiff, awkward way he moved, as if he'd been broken and put back together again. But his eyes remained bright as agates and there was a terrier inquisitiveness to his features. "I'm going to assume this isn't a social call."

"Bayard says you were stationed in Berlin. I'm hoping you'll be able to identify the people in this photo." She handed him the clipping.

Donald hobbled to the desk, where he switched on a lamp, studying the photo carefully from corner to corner. Out of a drawer, he took a magnifying glass, which he used to retrace his steps. Cleo felt herself holding her breath.

He stood up, stretching and wincing. "Well, there's you..."

"Anyone else?"

"The man in the middle with the cigar is Oberscharführer Kruger and the chap holding the mug looks like a man called Taubert, but I can't be one hundred percent sure." He shook his head. "A shame you didn't get them when you got the rest. Nasty pieces of work."

"And him at the back?" She pointed to Micky.

Donald took a moment before shaking his head. "Nope. Never seen him before. Somebody you know?"

"You could say that."

"You want to tell me what this is about? I'm going to assume that you're not in fact the minister to Norway's private assassin in Poland?"

"If I was, I'd like to think I'd be smarter than to have my photo taken at the scene of the crime." She chewed her lip, trying to decide how much to reveal. "How about this guy? The one in the corner who looks like he's trying not to be seen. Do you recognize him?"

He took up his magnifying glass and stared for a long time, his terrier features seeming to triangle in on the scent. "Oh yeah, I know him. You want nasty? He's your man."

"What's his name?"

"Kriminalinspektor Victor Heimmel. He's Gestapo." He looked at the photo again, his jaw locking. "He sure seems interested in you, Miss Jaffray."

That's what she'd thought too until she looked again. His head was tilted slightly as he tried to avoid the camera so that it looked like his attention was on Cleo, but, in fact, just beyond her and returning Heimmel's gaze was Micky.

If she didn't know better, she'd think they knew one another.

T here was no time over the following days to do anything with this information but chew on it in the few moments she could spare from Mrs. Thorson's constant demands. Work at the Refugee Office increased as Norway's prospects faltered, and Cleo found herself working later and later to try to keep up. Tonight, she'd stayed long past quitting time, if there even was such a thing anymore.

She emerged from the Norwegian legation to a cool summer rain that washed down the pavement and rattled in the gutters of Banérgatan. It was too late for the bus, and there were no taxis to be had on such a soggy evening. Surrendering to the inevitable slog, she hunched deeper into her raincoat, and did her best to ignore the cold water sliding under her collar and chilling her back. It wasn't dark; it didn't get dark this close to the solstice, but the light was gray and flat and a low fog hung between the buildings, thickening shadows and throwing sound into queer, swirling echoes.

She headed south, splashing through puddles, passing equally dismal people in equally drenched raincoats. A car passed, wipers frantic, its headlights barely cutting the gloom. She was crossing Linnégatan and passing the turn for the history museum when she heard someone behind her. Not footsteps exactly. The rain was too heavy for that. But there was a scrape of stone. A presence felt more than heard or seen.

Her heart jumped into a higher gear, and the cold rain wasn't the only thing making her shiver. She picked up the pace and turned onto Strandv?gen, a busy thoroughfare even this late at night. A few people ducked past her, newspapers held over their heads to protect them. A couple raced by sharing an umbrella. Uniforms and mumbled voices in warring accents and of warring nations.

It wasn't the first time Cleo sensed she was being followed. Ever since her visit to Donald's flat in Solna, she'd felt uneasy. Her first thought had been that it was Micky. But when the days passed without a note or a phone call, her certainty faded. If it was Micky, why hadn't he tried to contact her? Maybe it wasn't Micky she'd spotted that night on the quayside. Maybe she'd been seeing ghosts again.

In this instance, ghosts might be the lesser of evils because if it wasn't Micky out there, maybe it was someone looking for him. Someone who suspected that not only was he still alive, but that she might know where he was hiding.

There it was again, a noise barely audible. One that followed her, pausing when she paused, hiding behind the sound of her own footsteps along the cobblestones. She dug into her purse, her hand fisting around her fountain pen, the closest item she had to a weapon. With the other hand, she gripped her necklace as if it was a talisman against evil, her fingers crushing the stone until it cut into the soft skin of her palm.

She kept to the same pace, neither looking left nor right nor glancing behind her, though she felt a tickle at the back of her neck that wasn't the slither of rain down and across her shoulder blades. A hundred yards on, she would have the park on one side, the water on the other. There would be no cover. Her pursuer would be forced to reveal themselves or give up the chase. Of course, she'd be exposed as well, but there was nothing she could do. This was the fastest way to the hotel, and the rain was coming down harder now.

She hurried past the landing stage for one of the tour boats when a body enveloped in a raincoat and hat brushed past her, nearly knocking her down. The voice was low and gravely, uttering what might have been a threat or an apology. No way to tell over the roaring in her ears. She leaned against a building to catch her breath and the figure disappeared into the fog. So too did her stalker. She no longer heard them behind her. She was alone again.

She squelched her way through the hotel's double doors and up the short flight of steps to the lobby then dripped her way into the bar, where she knew Bayard would be, where he almost always was this time of night. She smiled, catching sight of him at his usual spot, a whiskey on the counter before him. "Lieutenant Bayard?"

He looked up, his eyes widening both at her use of his full formal title and the state of her wardrobe, his jaw going loose as if he fought the urge to gape outright.

"It's time for that shooting lesson."