Chapter 21

Dear Anne,

Norway is lost. As yet, few have heard the disastrous news, but it won't take long. The boy with his bag of papers standing outside your door in New York City will be hawking the headline by the end of the week at the latest.

T he messenger from Freddie Sterling arrived just as Daisy was finishing up her meeting with Mr. Whitney and Lieutenant Bayard.

Daisy took a moment and read the dispatch again just to be sure. She felt her heart flutter in her chest and cold wash across her shoulders. "The Allies have withdrawn their assistance, forcing the Norwegian military to concede to the Germans."

No one moved. No one spoke. The only sound was the ticking of the clock on the shelf and the horn of an approaching ferry outside. Then Mr. Whitney snapped his pencil in half with a muttered "shit" and Bayard flung himself from his chair to pace the room in choppy, angry strides. "Damn it! We should have seen this coming. We've had reports of heavy bombardments by German aircraft on troop positions in the south and maintaining a free north would have required far more men and aircraft than the Allies have at their disposal. I guess with France lost and the British forces trapped there between the German advance and the sea, it's each to his own."

"It makes sense from a military standpoint, but I guarantee our Norwegian friends won't see it like that." Mr. Whitney scratched a knuckle over his chin.

"No," Daisy agreed. "They'll see the western democracies, who they trusted, as abandoning them. I worry this bitterness could send them into the arms of the Germans."

"Have you received any updates on His Majesty and the crown prince?" Mr. Whitney asked.

Daisy shuffled, then straightened her papers. "They've been evacuated by the British and are on their way to London to set up a government in exile."

"Leaving the crown princess behind."

"Yes. Unfortunately. I've heard through President Hambro and others in the country that there are those in Norway pressing for the king's abdication in favor of a regency for Crown Princess M?rtha. I imagine this originates among those most unhappy with the Allies as well as those most fearful of angering Reichskommissar Terboven and his boss back in Berlin."

"The Germans would love that. What a propaganda coup to have Prince Harald on the throne and under the thumb of the Nazis," Mr. Whitney commented.

"She'd never agree to it," Bayard shot back. "Not after all she undertook to get out of Norway in the first place."

"We hope that's the case, but the pressure on her is extreme and growing by the day," Daisy replied.

"You think her uncle is one of those pressuring her to return?"

"I think he would do whatever he could to secure the safety of his country. And so does Prince Olav, if the latest reports from London are accurate. He's convinced Hitler is actively plotting to get hold of Harald."

Bayard tossed the cigarette away. "So we get her out of Sweden. Out of Europe."

"Just like that?" Mr. Whitney looked up. "Snap our fingers and magic her away?"

"Why not?" Bayard answered. "President Roosevelt took a huge shine to Crown Prince Olav and his wife when they visited Hyde Park last year. I'll bet he'd offer his assistance if he was convinced it was the only way to keep the family out of the hands of the Germans."

"I'll bring it up with Sterling, and we'll put a plan together." Daisy turned the page to their next order of business. "Lieutenant Bayard, you're scheduled to leave for Namsos next week?"

"I should be on the road tomorrow, ma'am. But are you sure I wouldn't be more help to you here?"

"I think we can manage for a short while, and with these new developments it's more important than ever we have eyes on the ground. We'll see you as soon as you get back." Daisy closed her file. "In one piece, Lieutenant. That's an order."

"I'll do my best."

"Forgive me. I didn't mean to interrupt." Cleo pulled up short in the doorway, her gaze circling the room. She'd traded her dress for a sweater and a pair of men's dungarees cinched at the waist with a leather belt and her hair was tied back in a pretty pink scarf that heightened the blush in her cheeks when she caught sight of the lieutenant. "I was looking for the lieutenant." She grinned. "We have a date."

Daisy sought out Bayard, who looked like he'd just swallowed a fly. "Go on." She waved the two of them off. "We're done here."

Lieutenant Bayard cleared his throat as he pushed back his chair. His normally open features slammed closed, not a thought escaping except maybe embarrassment as he and Cleo departed.

Mr. Whitney frowned until the pair were well away. "You suppose there's something going on between those two?" His usual pinched look eased for a moment into something more like sympathy, and he scrubbed a hand through his hair. "It doesn't seem right."

Daisy bent back over her correspondence, trying to keep the cold in her bones at bay. "No. And I'm sure they realize that more than anyone."

"M ake sure it's in line with the forearm. Firm grip on the stock. That's it. Slight upward angle. You can use two hands if it's easier."

Bayard stood just behind Cleo, reaching around to place her hands in the correct position on the pistol. She shivered at his breath tickling her ear, the heat of him against her back. She glanced over her shoulder with a grin. "Did you see Mr. Whitney's face? I thought he might swallow his tongue."

He shook his head, placing his hand over her hand, moving it a quarter inch to the left, refolding her fingers with a squeeze she felt all the way to her toes. Maybe this wasn't the best idea she'd ever had. Or maybe it was genius. "You like tossing a cat among the pigeons, don't you?"

Telling herself this was important and she needed to pay attention to his words and not the way she fit into the curve of his body or the tingling of her skin when they touched, she made herself focus on the pistol and the target twenty-five yards away at the far end of the field. "If the pigeon is Mr. Whitney, then yes. He's just too easy."

"I can't argue with that. But . . ."

"But what?"

His body tensed as if he was preparing to say something im portant. Their eyes locked, his almost pained. Would this be the moment? She held her breath, both wanting and dreading what he might say next.

"Nothing," he mumbled finally, returning to his lesson.

Bayard had brought her to an enormous park at the edge of the city with enough space to accommodate a small firing range run by the Frivilliga Skyttev?sendet, a volunteer shooting club with groups all over the country.

Bayard's was such a good-natured face it was hard to see him as the soldier he was. But when he pulled his service pistol from its holster, she could see him settling into his uniform. His center of gravity lowered into his legs as his shoulders widened, and there was a shuttering to his open gaze like a mask falling over his familiar features. It was both reassuring and frightening, like having a favorite dog suddenly show its teeth.

"Arm straight. Not that way. More like this. Steady your wrist and elbow. Use your shoulder. That's it. Eyes level. Even breaths. Don't think too hard."

He had Cleo go over every step until she could load, reload, and fire the .45 without flinching or closing her eyes when she pulled the trigger.

"You've been keeping an eye on Whitney like I asked?" A topic safe of minefields.

"I've kept both eyes on him and come to the conclusion that he's cynical, pompous, and a bit close-minded, but we knew that already," Bayard answered, back on easy footing after their brief awkwardness.

By the end of the lesson, Cleo's aim was still atrocious and her ears rang as if someone had struck a gong right behind her eyes, but she could shoot a paper target from up to fifty yards away. How she would do if the paper target decided to shoot back was a problem for another day.

"You're no Annie Oakley, but you'll do."

"I don't need to be. I just need to do what I need to do if I need to do it. No hesitation. No fear."

"Fear is your body's way of keeping you alive."

" This is my way."

"I know you think there's some sort of clue to Micky's disappearance in that photograph, but it's hardly proof of anything other than that Heimmel was in Zakopane when you were, and he admitted to that."

"True, but it doesn't add up. The coincidence of him being in that café? The way the two of them are watching each other? Now someone's following me? It all ties together. I just don't know how yet."

"I wish you'd tell your aunt. Or let me tell her."

"Tell her what? That I think I'm being followed but I'm not sure because I've never seen anyone and they've never done anything to me? I'll tell her when there's something to tell."

They stayed until the light grew uncertain. "We should get back," Bayard suggested. "I leave early tomorrow."

"What do you mean leave?" The hairs on the back of Cleo's neck stood up. "Where are you going?"

"I'm headed back into Norway. Communications between Stockholm and Oslo are still unreliable—no guarantee of who might be listening. Best to get our information firsthand."

"Why you?" she asked weakly.

"Why not?" was his eminently reasonable answer. She wanted to smash him over the head for it.

Somewhere along the way, she'd come to rely on Bayard being there, like a piece of the furniture. Not flashy or stylish, but comfortable and broken in. It wasn't a feeling she wanted to investigate too closely. Not while guilt and attraction were such a tangle. "Be careful. I can't lose anyone else."

"I'll be back before you know it. Promise."

Micky had said much the same and the war had taken him. One more parting. One more goodbye. Her life felt like a series of fractures, none of them fatal, but each one causing a little more damage. At what point would she break?

"You'll be fine, Cleo. You're not on your own anymore. Whatever is going on, you have people you can count on."

He assumed she was worried for herself, which was sweet and so Bayard-like. Or maybe he knew her too well—the old her. The ride back into the city was quiet, both of them caught up in their own thoughts. She didn't want to go back to the hotel. Her room was too quiet, left too much space to think. And mostly what she was thinking was that she didn't want this day to end. To watch Bayard walk away with no guarantee he'd come back.

The words swam through her head, a disjointed babble, more emotion than coherent thought. She stared out the window, seeing the city close in around them, streets narrowing, buildings rising up to either side. Pressure grew at the back of her throat and gripped her ribcage. She only sat up when Bayard passed the hotel on his way onto Stallgatan and up around the Ladug?rdslandsviken waterfront. "Where are we going?"

"Trust me," he said with a secretive glance.

"You said that the last time and we ended up in a bar full of angry Norwegians." But she settled back into her seat, the pressure blooming into a warm glow under her skin.

Twenty minutes later, they pushed through the turnstiles at the city's amusement park at Gr?na Lund. Above the tight cluster of buildings towered the rolling track of a coaster, the click of ascending cars loud over the organ music and the bang and clank of carnival games.

"Really? I'm dressed like a stevedore and you bring me for a night out?"

He paused, his smile falling into uncertainty. "Should I take you home?"

She grinned and pulled him forward. "Not on your life."

G r?na Lund Tivoli hugged the Djurg?rden waterfront. Rides, stages, and carnival amusements tucked into a corner of land the size of a postage stamp. Families clustered around the carousel while gangs of rowdy young men with slick hair and dungarees and shiny-faced giggling couples followed the sounds of a jazz band at the waterfront. Bayard and Cleo wandered among the stalls. He dragged her into the fun house. She pulled him onto the coaster. By the time they shared a boat through the Tunnel of Love, her initial surprise broadened like a bubble inflating into happiness.

"There used to be a carnival that would come through town every summer when I was a kid." Bayard handed her a paper bag of popcorn and bought one for himself. "The usual games and sideshows, the fat lady and the sword swallower. You could pay a penny to have your fortune told. My dad would take me every night. He was like a little kid. Couldn't get enough of it."

"Where was your mom?"

"She died when I was twelve—pneumonia. Poor dad was stuck with five kids to raise on his own."

"You have siblings?"

"Two sisters and two brothers. I'm the oldest."

She shook her head. "Why does that not surprise me?"

He gave her a slightly embarrassed smile. "I've been told I'm a bit of a stick-in-the-mud."

"That's harsh. I'd call it an overdeveloped sense of responsibility bordering on mother hen, but it definitely makes sense now."

"Dad did his best, but it was a struggle. He wasn't well when he came back from the war. It was like he was still fighting it in his head. Some days he'd be angry. Some days he couldn't get out of bed." Bayard didn't want her pity. It was obvious in the clipped matter-of-fact way he told his story. It was just the way it was, and he'd made his peace with it long ago. But Cleo took his hand anyway. "Still, every year when that carnival set up, he'd be there with all of us in tow, and it was like a light switched on inside him. For that one week, he was a different person. Then the carnival would pack up and move on and take the magic with it. Dad was back to being Dad."

"Do you suppose my father would have been the same if he'd come home?"

His voice was a shrug. "I don't know."

"Another question I'll never know the answer to. Another experience I never got to have." They had wandered closer to the water. Cleo heard the sweet, high sound of a trumpet and the pounding excitement of a piano. The singer's voice was as thick as honey as he took up the melody. The music made Cleo smile, made her heart beat faster, made the feel of Bayard's hand in hers spark. This time she was the one who tugged him through the milling crowds. "Come on. I want to dance."

His palm pressed against the small of her back and his fingers linked with hers as she led him into the steps. It reminded Cleo of their lesson at the shooting range. He frowned at one point as if he'd lost count in his head. She met his gaze. "Eyes level. Even breaths. Don't think too hard."

His arm slid around her waist, pulling her closer. She could feel the wired tension in his muscles, sense the anticipation like lightning between them. His breath was warm against her cheek. She could smell his shaving soap and the clean, woodsy smell of his cologne. She felt her feet moving, her hips swaying. There was a buzz in her head and a lightness to her body she'd not felt in weeks. Their circle contracted, their movements slowing to a standstill as the dancers parted and joined in an orbit around them. Neither of them heard Goodman give way to Prima until the drummer started his solo, a snazzy Gene Krupa lick of cymbals and snare that made the crowd jump.

It couldn't be.

"That's Emmitt!" Cleo shouted, breaking away to stand on tiptoe to see over the dancers crowding the floor.

It was Bayard's turn to be caught off guard. "Who's Emmitt?"

Cleo pushed through to the edge of the stage to wave him down. His face registered surprise and then delight, and when the set ended he joined her in the wings with a rib-crushing bear hug. "Wow! Never thought to see you again, Park Avenue."

"I thought you and the boys would be heating things up in some club in Chicago by now."

Emmitt rubbed a hand across the back of his head. "I reckon the boys are by now. I decided to stick around here. Save myself a trip back."

"You really think America will enter the war?"

He shared a look with Bayard, the two men seeming to pass some secret message between them. "Maybe not now or even a year from now. But I don't think they can let this fight pass, do you? Us Yanks never have liked a bully." One of the stagehands gave a shout. "I'd best get back, Park Avenue." He started for the stage when he suddenly turned back. "Hold on. I almost forgot. I ran into that guy you were looking for—Kominski."

"Are you sure?" Cleo's mind ticked back over that split-second glimpse on the quayside. So it had been Micky she'd seen that night. She hadn't been imagining things. Still, her mind rebelled. It couldn't be. "He's dead. They told me he was dead."

"Well then they told you wrong."