Chapter 28

Dear Anne,

My father has been much in my thoughts lately. Not the man I knew, but the gallant sea captain of his thrilling nursery tales. The blockade runner piloting his beloved Banshee through storm-tossed waves, barely escaping the guns of a Union squadron with a dangerous running of the bar. I fear I am infected by this same presence of mind in the face of danger for, like an old warhorse smelling powder, I find myself oddly undisturbed by the growing threats. In this company, I am the captain, and it's my turn to outsmart my enemies...

D aisy joined her most trusted advisers in the hotel manager's office, which Lieutenant Bayard had conscripted with a high-handed bark of an order, practically shutting the door in the man's face as he huffed and argued about delays and inconvenience. Ten minutes later, he was still pacing and grumbling in the outer office, requiring Daisy to raise her voice to be heard.

"...and that's where we stand, gentlemen." She folded her arms on the desk to signal she was finished. "Thoughts?"

Daisy gave the men time to digest the information. She wasn't surprised by their stunned silence. Even keeping most of Cleo's confession under wraps, what she'd outlined was as far-fetched as a bad Dashiell Hammett novel. As she waited for them to react, she noticed when the hotel manager gave up and went away with one last grouse about inconsiderate Americans. And was very aware of the creak of a floorboard and a sudden draft of cool air that followed a few minutes later when someone new entered the outer office.

Cleo? No. The tread was too heavy. The pungent aroma of bay rum cologne too... masculine. This was someone else. Someone far more predictable.

Mr. Whitney spoke up first. Not surprising. The vice consul had grown increasingly red-faced as Daisy explained the issues. "How are we only now hearing about this connection between Mr. Kominski and the Gestapo?"

"Better late than never is how I'm looking at it." Daisy threaded her hands together into a tight knot on the desk, her rings cutting into the soft skin around her knuckles. Only Bayard, watching her out of the corner of his eye, might suspect the tight rein she was keeping on her emotions.

"Of course it is," Mr. Whitney argued. "Miss Jaffray's your goddaughter. It's only through your personal involvement that she's been allowed such liberties. This mess can be traced directly back to her." And you was left unspoken but definitely implied.

"Now's not the time to be pointing fingers." The lieutenant jumped to her defense—or maybe he was defending Cleo. At this point, it was one and the same thing.

"Oh please," Whitney snapped back. "We all know you're head over heels for the girl."

Daisy wasn't sure whether the vice consul was brave or stupid. Bayard was twenty years younger and four inches taller.

"And we all know you've had it in for the minister since Oslo," Bayard returned, his voice strained .

"If you mean I've offered her the wisdom of my many years in public service, then, yes, I have."

"You know damn well what I mean, you pretentious ass."

The pressure, pent up over months, burst in a torrent of recrimination and accusation. The two men traded barbs and insults with increasing volume. Daisy started to intercede before closing her mouth and stepping back, letting the storm rage.

"Are they always like this?" Captain Waddell leaned close to murmur in her ear, his bracing gaze bemused rather than shocked.

"It's been a long few months," Daisy replied. "Best let them get it out of their system now. We'll need them at the top of their game if we're going to get through the next few days."

She gave the two men a moment to let tempers cool and hoped Captain Waddell wasn't one to carry gossip back to Freddie Sterling at the Swedish legation. It would be difficult to explain her messy little family—Whitney's hair-trigger temper, Lieutenant Bayard's overdeveloped chivalry, the fact that the only thing predictable about Cleo was her unpredictability.

Like a ship's captain, Daisy saw them as in her charge and under her protection. Her trusted crew who might battle each other bloody but wouldn't hesitate to stand together when faced with a threat. A romantic notion perhaps, but she'd walked enough battlefields and known enough soldiers to see the truth behind the romance. When it came down to it, one didn't fight for one's country. One fought for one's friends.

After it seemed like the worst was over, she stepped in with a lift of her hand. "Gentlemen, I'd rather we direct our hostility toward the actual enemy. Miss Jaffray's actions have been extremely rash, but I think we can agree that they've also been crucial in identifying and thus countering any possible attack."

"How do you figure that?" Mr. Whitney grumbled, not quite ready to concede.

"Simple." Daisy steepled her fingers under her chin and smiled pleasantly. "If she hadn't added Mr. Kominski to our manifest, he'd not be here identifying a potential German agent, and we'd be left quite in the dark."

Mr. Whitney huffed his grudging agreement while Bayard grinned at the way she'd deftly parried the attack, and just like that, peace was restored.

Out of the corner of her eye, Daisy caught a glimpse of a shadow moving in the outer office. Could it be this easy? The odious man was either that confident or that stupid. She had a notion which it might be.

"We need to proceed with caution." Captain Waddell leaned against the far wall, seemingly untroubled by this new information, as if preventing an abduction was just another day on the job. "If word gets out, there could be panic among the passengers."

"Agreed. This conversation doesn't leave this room." Daisy skewered Mr. Whitney as she said this.

His face folded into a deeper frown, but he kept silent.

"As I see it, if Heimmel is here for the crown princess and her children, he'll want to keep it as quiet as possible," Bayard offered. "It won't be a full-on, guns-blazing assault that would force the Finnish government to react or cause the Swedes to reconsider their concessions to the Germans."

"So how do you think it will be carried out?" Daisy asked. Now that the first hurdle had been crossed successfully, she sat back in her chair.

"It'll need to be done so that no one's the wiser—at least until they're over the border into Norway, where Terboven and his crew can put out whatever official explanation they want. That it was voluntary. That the crown princess chose to return to Norway and act as regent for her son. That the Germans were merely assisting her in that return."

"In the same way that they weren't really invading the country, merely defending it against British aggression," Whitney muttered.

"I want extra protections for the royal family until we've boarded the ship. Nothing obvious, but eyes should be on her and the children at all times."

"I'll see to it, ma'am," Captain Waddell replied.

Daisy glanced once more at the door, noting the way the latch didn't shut properly, leaving a sliver of light to spear the scarred wooden floor. Cleo had been on to something with her mad plan of swapping cars. Crude and obvious, perhaps, but it made sense under the circumstances. Daisy only hoped everyone else agreed.

She leaned over the desk with urgency, pitching her voice clear and carrying to all corners so no one would mistake her intentions. "I propose an additional precaution in case the attempted abduction is planned for the road between here and Petsamo—the royal family and I will exchange automobiles for the last leg of the trip."

Bayard stood up straight, face grim, playing his part in the drama. "That puts you in the line of fire, ma'am."

"This operation is all about subtlety. It's doubtful, if such an attack is actually carried out, that I'd be in any danger once they realized the mix-up. The ambush of a US minister shepherding women and children to safety—let the Nazis try to turn that to their advantage in the newspapers if they can. No, I'll be safe as houses. And the distraction might be just enough to get the royal family away safely."

"If you're sure, ma'am?"

"I am, Mr. Whitney."

He seemed to chew on his words rather than spit them out as he might once have done. She counted that as progress.

"That's settled then," she said. "Now as for the rumors of a Russian incursion..."

The meeting broke up soon after, and the group dispersed to put their plan into motion. Daisy glanced down the corridor, seeing a shrouded figure turning a corner on his way back to the guest rooms.

"Bait taken," she murmured with a quirk of her lips. "A better day's fishing than I expected."

C leo lay in bed, watching the curtains drift in the breeze. Outside, she could hear the sound of the river purring its way downstream, where it would end in the wide, arctic Lake Inari. A few shouts as drivers prepared their buses ahead of tomorrow morning's dawn departure. The slam of a door and laughter in the passage outside her room.

The hotel was quiet tonight. Some of the group had already left, urged on their way after closed-door meetings that had Mr. Whitney scuttling from the lounge to the office telephone and back again with increasing agitation. His brows wobbled like furry caterpillars and his face shone with perspiration.

Was Heimmel out there waiting? The idea made sleep impossible. Buzzing with nerves, she rummaged through her suitcase for her novel. Pushing aside her sweaters, her hand passed over cold metal—Sofia's revolver. Cleo had packed it away after Haparanda, hoping she'd never have to use it. Now, she pulled it out, curving her fingers around the grip, letting its weight settle into her forearm. Thumbing the stirrup catch, she saw the chamber held four bullets. Not enough to stop an army, but more than adequate for one cold-blooded Nazi.

A soft tap at the door startled her. She quickly slid the revolver into her coat hanging over a chair, just in case. "Who's there?"

"Cleo? Are you awake?"

She wouldn't look too closely at why it was disappointment she felt when she saw Micky, stubbled and unkempt, standing there. Twitching, he glanced over his shoulder before diving through the doorway, closing the door and throwing the chain as soon as he was inside.

"Why don't you come on in?" Her sarcasm was lost on him. He was too busy checking every corner of the room, including under the bed and behind the wardrobe doors. "You think Heimmel's hiding among my blouses?"

"You try having a bull's-eye on your back and see how it feels." He sank onto her bed, head in hands.

"You're not the only one in the crosshairs, you know. Aunt Daisy's not likely to ever speak to me again after this." His blank face convinced her he'd never once considered where she fit into his problems other than as the one who could sort them. Her disappointment gave way to shame. Hadn't she leaned on Aunt Daisy in the same way? No wonder Cleo had found Micky so attractive all those months ago. They were both happy to glide through life uncaring of who they hurt along the way—selfish grasshoppers.

"What are you doing here, Micky? It's the middle of the night."

"I couldn't sleep." His clothes seemed to hang looser. His face was ashen, his cocky grin gone, his snappy gaze dulled. This wasn't the Micky who could bring an audience to its feet or send a dance floor into a jitterbugging frenzy. This was a man who had dug himself a hole that he had no idea how to escape. "Look. I'm sorry I dragged you into this, Cleo. I really am." The most unapologetic apology in history, but it was clear she shouldn't expect more. This was all he could give. It wasn't much to hang her life on, not anymore.

"I'd say this isn't your fault, Micky, but it totally is. All of it. From the moment we were warned to leave Poland last summer to this second—right here, right now—is down to you."

Anger pressed his features into a stranger's hard, ugly angles. "Easy for you to look down your nose when you've had everything handed to you on a silver platter. Some of us have had to scrape and claw and fight for every advantage. When you're born on the wrong side of the tracks, you can't eat high ideals or pay the rent with principles."

"Maybe you're right. Maybe I never had to fight. Maybe it made me soft. And maybe that's changing."

He scrubbed his hands over his face, exhaustion slumping his shoulders as the fight drained away, leaving him empty and gray. A shifty-eyed, nail-biting shell of himself. She pitied him as one might pity a stray dog. "If anything happens," he stammered. "I mean if things go south tomorrow and... Well, I'm sorry. That's all."

"You stay here. Get some sleep."

"What about you?" he asked. "Where will you go?"

"Don't worry about me. I'll find a cozy little corner somewhere. You'd be surprised at the places I've been able to catch forty winks over the last few months."

"That soldier of yours?" The sneer in his voice was unmistakable.

Just a few hours ago, she'd have been furious, but Micky no longer had that power over her. Her feelings for him had faded. The ache in her heart dulled. Still, she couldn't help but touch the sore spot, testing it for strength, even when she knew it would hurt.

"Was our love a lie from the beginning?" she asked. "Did you mean any of it, or was it all part of your fighting and clawing to convince the silly rich girl that you loved her?"

His silence answered her question.

"Thanks for finally being honest." She started to leave, her hand on the door. "As for that soldier, he's far too good for the likes of me. Just like I'm far too good for the likes of you."

She left him, bent elbows resting on his knees, head lowered. He might even have fallen asleep sitting up. He might not have heard any of it.

She didn't care.

The dining room was quiet and set for breakfast. Long shadows shifted and shimmered where a thin moon rose above the water. A figure watched from a long, built-in bench, his silhouette silvered by the light. If this was Hollywood, he'd be the boy-next-door or the best friend. Loyal. Kind. Unremarkable. The one the heroine looked straight past on her way to her happily ever after.

She was no heroine, and she sure as hell didn't think she'd get anything near to a fairy-tale ending. But she didn't need to look any farther to see him for what he was.

He felt her regard and turned. His expression fell into darkness, but she could see the strong slope of his shoulder, his patience in overlapping shades of gray and silver. "Cleo?"

"Do you hate me too?"

"Not even close." She sensed his smile as he spoke, and the weight pressing on her chest lifted away.

She hesitated for only a moment before she joined him.

"I t's not the Ritz, but you should be comfortable enough. I'll bunk out in the lounge."

"You needn't go on my account. I mean... there's room for both of us." Cleo lied. The lieutenant's hotel room was far smaller than hers, barely space for a narrow cot and a side table with a lamp. There were no windows, meaning it was like being shut in a closet. In fact, Cleo was beginning to think it might be a closet, a storeroom pressed into service at the last minute. "You can stay." After a moment, she added, "I want you to stay."

Bayard hesitated.

"Only if that's what you want," she rushed into the awkwardness.

He took her hand in his own, linked their fingers, palm to palm, regarding their joined hands with nervous surprise. "You know I do."

"Then what's stopping you?" Cleo knew the answer, but for some reason she needed to hear him say it. As if that would make it easier for her to argue her case.

He gave not quite a sigh, but he didn't drop her hand. "You know that too."

It reminded Cleo of the night at the Petersons' farm: the thick, enveloping shadows that made confidences easier, the way both of them danced around each other like new skaters on ice, the way her body buzzed having him close enough that she could hear the steady in and out of his breath, smell his scent of tobacco and shaving soap and sweat, feel the drum of her heart in her chest.

Petra had been mere yards away that night. She felt just as close now. But there was another feeling accompanying her presence, one that made Cleo lighter, happier, oddly settled in a way she hadn't been since Petra's death. A memory surprised a smile out of her. "Remember the club in Oslo? I still can't believe you invited me to join you on your date. Petra was positively livid."

Her change in tone seemed to startle him. He didn't answer right away, as if he was wrestling with his own ghosts. For a moment Cleo thought she'd stepped a foot wrong, the familiar guilt pulling them apart as it had for months. Instead, he drew her closer, his hand cupping the soft skin along her ribcage, his head bowed to hers, nearly cheek to cheek. "She wasn't angry at you. Not that time." She could hear the smile in his voice. "It was me she was furious with. She'd thought I was taking her to hear a string quartet performing Bartók. But I went to buy the concert tickets, and they were sold out. Who knew Bartók was that big a draw? Not me."

Cleo imagined poor Petra expecting an elegant evening of canapés and concertos and getting Emmitt and his crew in a downtrodden nightclub. "So you figured drag me in and she'd be so busy being angry at me she wouldn't have time to be angry at you? Very clever, Lieutenant. I'd no idea you could be so underhanded."

"Not sure if clever is the word. Desperate might be more accurate. I nearly bankrupted myself trying to make it up to her. Flowers. Chocolates. I took her to that expensive restaurant on Bygd?y allé. You know what finally did it?"

Cleo smiled. "Let me guess—cloudberries."

His eyes widened in surprise. "How did you know? I had a hell of a time finding any. People around here hoard them like gold." He laughed, but the sting was gone. His body relaxed. "Honestly, I don't know what she ever saw in me. We were complete opposites."

"Maybe that's what she liked." Tears burned the corners of Cleo's eyes and washed her vision in silver. "Or maybe she saw something in you that you didn't even know was there." She felt the question catch in her throat, but knew it had to be asked. "Did you love her?"

Bayard paused as if seeking the right words, and Cleo found it hard to breathe as she awaited his answer.

"Love?" he said finally. "Maybe it would have happened in time, but that ran out for us, didn't it? I admired her and, yeah, maybe I was infatuated at having someone so glamorous choose me when she could have had any man in Oslo. But it wasn't love. I know how that feels, and what I had with Petra wasn't it." His stare made Cleo's insides quiver. He let go of her hand, but only to cup her face. His kiss, when it came, pushed through any last hesitations. Neither timid nor unsure, he backed her against the edge of the cot. She gripped his shoulders to steady herself and then because she didn't want to let him go.

Her hands dropped to his waist then slid beneath his shirt to run along the length of his ribs and around his back, where his muscles bunched as he dragged duvet and pillow down onto the floor.

They fell in a tangle of body parts, laughter turning to something more serious and then silence when there was no room left for words. They took their time. Wanting to make the night last. Finding joy and then comfort. Afterward, she lay cradled in his arms, the slippery uncertainty ripened into something stronger, far more solid. Pieces shifting and rearranging to make something new.

"What will you do when you get back to America?" Bayard asked, shaking a cigarette from his pack, lighting it, and passing it to Cleo.

"First, I need to mend fences with my mother. That won't be easy."

"After all this, she still won't forgive you?" He accepted the lit cigarette back from her, their fingers touching, their heads close together. It was easy, comfortable. Ghosts laid to rest at last.

"I don't need her to forgive me. I just want her to understand me. That might be easier now that I'm starting to understand myself."

"And after that?"

Cleo tried to imagine New York—the house on East Fifty-Seventh, the whispers, the glances, the endless round of a life that went nowhere. Where did she fit in that world? Did she want to fit or had the last year reshaped her in ways that wouldn't allow her to resume her old life? Maybe she'd find a job and an apartment of her own.

"I don't know. What about you?"

"That's easy. A transfer back to active duty."

"You don't like your work?"

"I can be of more use elsewhere. And as things stand right now . . . well . . ."

Cleo thought of Emmitt's premonition of the US entry—maybe late, but, in the end, inevitable. Like the last war when Aunt Daisy, her sister Elise, her daughter Ethel, Anne Vanderbilt, Anne Morgan, and hundreds more women just like them had stepped up to fight. They'd seen the horrors and, instead of running back to their privileged lives, they'd chosen to roll up their sleeves.

Cleo had seen her own horrors. Would she run or would she roll up her sleeves?