Chapter 22

Dear Anne,

I made a promise and, while it has taken me months to fulfill it, I am finally in a position to do so. Word has come from Washington, and I've been tasked with approaching the crown princess with Roosevelt's proposal. All well and good, but if I hear the term "woman to woman" one more time, I'm likely to do a violence...

I t took Daisy a week to arrange a meeting with the crown princess. Her Royal Highness had been staying at her family's country house at Villa Fridhem for most of the spring and summer, kept out of public view as if Sweden hoped the world would forget they were harboring the remnants of Norway's royal family. And by the world she meant Germany. But living quietly and keeping every finger crossed wouldn't be enough if Berlin pushed. That was where Daisy came in.

She was advised to appeal to the crown princess's maternal instinct as if they might trade casserole recipes and child-rearing techniques. Discounted were Daisy's years of public service and the princess's canny understanding of politics. And yet, Daisy had conceded to this tack by bringing Cleo along to this picnic at the villa outside Stockholm. Had her entertain the children with tag and hide-and-seek and put on a show of what their life might be in America if Crown Princess M?rtha agreed to President Roosevelt's invitation. It wasn't exactly casseroles and laundry, but it would have to do.

The two women sat across from each other in the villa's garden, a wrought iron table bearing the remnants of lunch between them. The princess dusted crumbs from her lap, smoothing her napkin nervously along its edge once then twice more. In the silence, there was only the squeak of hedge clippers coming from the front lawn and the putter of a distant tractor. A blackbird's call from the trees was answered by another in the hedge. Daisy felt the weight of every sound in the princess's silence. She counted the seconds in her head until the princess sat up, her features composed, a new stillness in her limbs as if she'd come to a decision. "We have eaten the cake and drunk the tea. You have complimented my dress, and I have remarked on the weather. Now, I think, we can get down to the real reason you've come today."

Daisy should have known Crown Princess M?rtha would see the clumsy gambit for what it was. She was both relieved she no longer had to hide behind a critique of last season's fashions and annoyed with herself for being so obvious. She set her cup in its saucer and turned to business with a fresh energy. "The President of the United States is planning to send a transport for the evacuation of American citizens and others stranded in Scandinavia due to the fighting. He's extended that invitation to you, Your Highness. And your children."

Crown Princess M?rtha didn't respond immediately. Instead, she selected an iced petit four from the tray with great deliberation. The only indication she'd heard Daisy was the rapid rise and fall of her chest and the new pink to her cheeks. She chewed over her words with the same care she used to nibble the edge of her cake before speaking. "That is a most generous invitation. You must send President Roosevelt my thanks."

"I'd rather send him your acceptance."

Crown Princess M?rtha didn't respond right away, which Daisy took as a small success. She had almost certainly been informed of the German Reichskommissar's demands to depose the King and His Royal Highness and begin proceedings to replace the current Norwegian parliament with one more amenable to Berlin. What was less clear was whether she'd been told of the Norwegians' continued resistance to such a move against their royal family. Or the growing pressures put on the Swedish government and her uncle's increasing concessions to Hitler and his bullies. She put an end to that speculation over a fresh cup of tea.

"I might be hidden away out here, Madam Minister, but I'm neither deaf nor stupid. Though people talk around me as if they believe I am one or the other or both. I realize Hitler is determined to set up a pretender government in Oslo that gives the appearance of being supported by the people."

"Yes. It's the lengths to which they might go that's concerning. If the Norwegian people refuse to give up their royal family, Hitler would be smart to give them what they want but wrap it in a package that suits him best."

"You mean my son." She cast another look toward the children, who were giggling as Cleo settled a daisy chain onto Astrid's head like a crown and Ragnhild begged for one of her own. The young prince nibbled the edge of a shortbread biscuit, his round babyish cheeks puffed out as he giggled and ate. "Your goddaughter is good with the children, isn't she? She makes them laugh. She lets them forget for a little while."

Cleo laid back in the grass, pointing out shapes in the clouds to the delighted children.

"A sailing ship!" one of them shouted .

"A horse!" called another.

"I see a face!"

Her Royal Highness's eyes drifted skyward as if she might join the game. Shadows flickered over her cheekbones and along her pale blue dress. "Would my husband be joining us in America?"

"That's a discussion for others. My only task is to see to your safety as best I can. It's what His Royal Highness Prince Olav has asked of me. And it's what I want to do if I can."

"He is worried about us."

"He is right to be." Daisy thought back to those men in the churchyard. They might only have numbered three, but she was certain there were others less obvious in their interest and more determined in their plans.

The crown princess's smile was weary, the expression of one who was born into power and had long since learned the tangled ways of politics. "I will consider your invitation, Mrs. Harriman."

"If I could give a piece of advice woman to woman," Daisy responded dryly, "don't wait too long."

"P romise me, Cleo. You won't do anything rash while I'm gone. Got it?"

"This is Micky we're talking about. He wouldn't hurt me."

"Maybe not." Bayard clearly remained skeptical. "But wait for me anyway. Please?"

For some reason, those words twisted tight around her heart, and she reluctantly agreed.

But the questions banged away at her brain with answers that made sense one moment and were punched full of holes the next. It had been Micky she'd glimpsed that night outside the hotel. She hadn't been mistaken. He was alive. He was here in Stockholm. She'd been right not to give up. Right to push for answers even when everyone told her she was crazy. So why did she feel as if she wasn't going to like those answers? Or that the answers he'd offer might complicate her already complicated feelings?

Mrs. Thorson, who believed work cured all ills, chose Cleo to accompany her on a trip to the village of ?reryd with a group from the Refugee Office to discuss the creation of a possible transit center. She was still unpacking from that when Aunt Daisy popped her head around the door and told her to grab her hat and coat for an afternoon in the country, which turned out to be a visit to Norway's crown princess. Even Mr. Whitney seemed to understand Cleo's need to keep busy and asked her to review all the foreign papers that arrived at the hotel and flag any news articles that mentioned the US minister to Norway.

Monday slid into the following Monday, and Cleo's nerves frayed like old rope. Aunt Daisy assumed it was worry over Bayard, and Cleo let her go on thinking that. It was easier than trying to explain, though Mr. Whitney almost surprised the truth out of her when he patted her shoulder in a kindly uncle sort of way and reassured her that most of the heavy fighting was over now that Norway had surrendered. Somehow the old blowhard's comfort was worse than his bark, and only made her nerves twist tighter.

What if she waited too long and Micky was gone before she could track him down? Promise or no promise, she couldn't wait any longer.

The bus dropped her off across from a small park a few streets over from Br?nnkyrkagatan. This neighborhood was more industrial. Blocks of apartments interspersed with office buildings and mom-and-pop shops. Storage yards and warehouses hid behind high metal fences. She headed down a narrow alley of locked gates and steep stairs to where a bulb buzzed in its socket over a cellar doorway, which a man with arms like hams guarded with bulldog ferocity. Another hired heavy propped up the wall just inside the club, where a woman stood spotlighted on a tiny stage barely bigger than an orange crate. She had a voice like an angel, but her face was sallow and lined with too many years and too much booze, and she sang with all the emotion of someone reading their grocery list. The musicians backing her up weren't much better, though what they lacked in finesse, they made up for in volume. Cleo scanned their bored faces, but Micky wasn't among them.

Maybe Emmitt had got it wrong. She couldn't imagine Micky playing in a dive like this, no matter how hard up he might be. The space smelled of stale beer, cheap cigarettes, hair oil, and sweat. Workmen and hustlers mingled with dull-eyed girls in heavy makeup and skimpy dresses. A man at a corner table set off warning bells in Cleo's brain, maybe because he was the only one without a drink in front of him and, in the minute she stood there, he glanced at his watch twice as if he was waiting for someone.

"You take a wrong turn, love?" A weedy bartender in a stained red silk vest and an accent straight out of East London pulled drafts into a pair of mugs.

"I'm looking for Michal Kominski. I heard I might find him here."

Suspicion creased the edges of his eyes and bit into the sides of his mouth. "Never heard of him."

Cleo carried on watching him for a moment, but he refused to meet her gaze, his eyes firmly set on the rag in his hand and an ancient water stain on the counter. "He plays the trumpet," she clarified.

The brute propping up the wall sidled up behind her, his hot sour breath against her ear. "You heard Ted. Nobody by that name's been around here. Best move along."

"And if I don't?" Her voice came high and reedy from a throat that was suddenly hard to breathe through.

She never found out the answer. The door slammed open, letting in a damp draft along with two men who shoved their way to the bar. "Roughing up the customers again, Elia?"

That voice. Cleo's heart thrashed against her ribs. She drew a sick, shuddering breath as she turned to face her rescuer. "Fancy meeting you here, Micky."

T he room Micky showed her to had been kitted out as a small office with the requisite desk, swivel chair, and file cabinet. An old-fashioned safe squatted at the back, a hot plate on the top beside two stained coffee mugs and a small cardboard box labeled für Nagant-revolver , which didn't take a linguist to translate. Every inch of floor space not taken up by furniture held more boxes and crates, these stacked carefully and protected with dust sheets. A gold-edged frame peeked from beneath one of them. An intricately carved mahogany chest from another. Wherever these treasures had begun their journey, they'd all ended in the same squalid place.

"Cleo?" His voice startled her back to the present and this seedy club that stank of desperation and gin. He took her hand. His fingers slid into hers like a key into a lock, only something wasn't right. There was an awkwardness in the way they fit together, like tumblers that don't quite mesh.

"Nice digs," she commented, trying to keep her voice light, untouched by the dread turning her stomach.

"Teddy's an old friend." He gave a sheepish smile and spread his hands. "We're safe here."

"Is there a reason we need to be?" Cleo wasn't ready to give an inch. Not yet. But she couldn't stop staring at him as if he'd materialized in a swirl of paranormal ectoplasm in front of her. Then he gave one of those little boy smiles usually guaranteed to make her heart flip, and for some reason she felt herself slide free of his grip. Felt herself take a reluctant step back.

He folded his arms over his chest, staring at her as if drinking her in. "Wow. I can't believe you're here standing in front of me. You look..." He lifted a hand to touch her hair but paused before dropping his arm back to his side. "You look different, Cleo. Good. But different."

She held on to her resentment as if it would protect her, but protect her from what? She'd loved him once. She still did. But now that love was clouded by questions. She hated feeling uncertain, foolish. The naive little rich girl who falls for the first handsome stranger who shows her affection.

His eyes widened then narrowed. Maybe in surprise. Maybe in something else. "You're still wearing the necklace I gave you."

She resisted the unconscious urge to touch the stone at her throat, but she couldn't completely hide the shiver that raced up her spine. "Don't change the subject. I want answers, Micky. I deserve answers. I waited for you in Kassa like you asked. You never showed."

He had the grace to look sheepish. "I meant to. I really did. But I was being followed. It wasn't safe."

"What wasn't safe? When you didn't come home that night, I thought you died in the bombing. That's what they said."

"Who said?"

"The Germans. Then that letter came, and I didn't know what to think. I still don't know."

"Yes, well the bombing was a complete coincidence. I couldn't believe my luck."

"Funny way to describe the deaths of over twenty people, some of them people we knew, our friends."

"Twenty people or two hundred—what's the difference? It's a drop in the bucket in the middle of a much greater atrocity, Cleo. Besides, most of them were Germans. They didn't belong there to begin with. Serves them right."

There was a coldhearted logic in that statement. Maybe Aunt Daisy's speculation was closer to the mark than Cleo imagined. Maybe that was why Heimmel was watching Micky. Because he suspected Micky of being more than a musician.

"So if you weren't at the café, where were you?"

"I was sneaking over the border into Slovakia."

She found herself using Daisy's trick of silence. Letting it spin out until he squirmed.

"I know it was a coward's way, but it was run or die. Simple as that." He paused. "You knew about the things that went on in the basement of the Palace Hotel after the Germans took it over?"

"I'd heard whispers. I didn't... I couldn't believe it. Not then."

"And now?"

She swallowed back her disgust and pushed the nightmares to the edges of her mind. "What does that have to do with you?"

He blinked, pressing his lips together as if he hesitated to speak, but something in her eyes must have warned him she wasn't going to be put off. "I was stupid and got involved in some things I shouldn't have. When the bombing happened, I figured it was the perfect time to get out. The Germans knew I played in the band there. If I went missing, they'd assume I was killed."

"As would I."

"Yeah, well that wasn't the best part of the plan, but I wrote you. I told you to meet me." His voice broke. Sincere or a cunning fake job?

"And then didn't turn up."

"I thought they were onto me. I couldn't risk it. I figured when I didn't show up, you'd find your way home to New York."

God, she hated this suspicion. She wanted to throw herself in his arms, and here she was questioning him as if he was a criminal. "So what are you doing here in Stockholm?"

"Trying to scrape enough money together to make it the rest of the way home." He rose from his chair, taking her in his arms, pulling her close. He was thinner than he used to be, his muscles like rope. She could feel the strength just beneath the surface of his skin. "I missed you, baby."

It felt good to lean into his chest, smell his scent of peppermint, cigarettes, and cologne, letting the worry that had propelled her for so long seep out of her like poison from a wound. She could breathe easy again without the sting of his absence.

"I'm glad you're with your aunt. She can protect you."

"How did you know I was here with my aunt?" She slid free of his arms, smiling in hopes of easing the question in his gaze. "And why do I need protecting?"

Micky tossed off one his patented smiles, but this time she saw the mask slip, the fear in his eyes. "Hadn't you noticed? It's a dangerous world out there."

Something in his words felt familiar. Someone else had said that very thing or close to it.

It wasn't until she was in bed that night that the answer popped into her head—Heimmel of the Gestapo.