Chapter 29

Dear Anne,

I am reminded of a conversation I had with Lady Harcourt in London in 1917 after a day spent at one of the hospitals there. "All of my generation of men are dead and now their sons are going too." Perhaps it's because I'm at the killing edge of a new war, but these words feel more prescient than ever. A new generation of men—and women—will be asked to bear the brunt for our failings at negotiating a lasting peace when we had the chance...

D isguised beneath the brim of a large, veiled hat suitable for a princess, Daisy surveyed the crowded car park. The weather had cooperated with a cold drizzle. Perfect for camouflaging identities under wide umbrellas and shapeless raincoats as tired passengers were herded aboard the buses for the final leg of the journey.

They had used the excuse of the rain to park both cars at the back of the building, where they could draw right up to the hotel's kitchen entrance. When the crown princess and her children emerged, they were guided quickly into their usual car along with Captain Waddell as an added escort. When he shot Daisy a questioning look, she merely smiled. Perhaps he was used to dealing with the vagaries of superior officers, as that seemed to be enough for him. Daisy's own Ford was standing by, her driver already behind the wheel.

Mr. Whitney had been distracted with last-minute details before joining the rest on the lead bus. By the time he realized Daisy's subterfuge, it would be too late for him to give the game away. Lieutenant Bayard was more difficult to mislead. She drew him aside as he issued final instructions to the last of the buses. "Change in plans. You ride in the Ford."

Like Waddell, he was ever the good soldier and didn't question, merely nodded.

Other than checking the time, Daisy was detached from the chaos swirling around her along with the early morning fog. Her bout of nerves had struck in the small hours as she second-guessed her plan, reviewing possible pitfalls and potential advantages, telling herself this crude shell game was a fool's idea, that it would never work. It was only upon seeing the mad shouting crush of people outside the hotel that she'd hardened her shaky resolve. It was all about the magician's sleight of hand—the skillful distraction that drew the eye one way while the switch was made somewhere else.

Daisy tugged on her gloves like a boxer about to enter the ring and prepared to take up her position at the rear of the convoy in the Ford. Her composure was shattered by the unexpected sound of Cleo in loud conversation with the lieutenant as she blew out of the hotel in a rush. "I can't find him anywhere."

She was supposed to be aboard a bus. The one Daisy was watching grumble into first gear on its way out of the lot. And yet here she was—exactly where she shouldn't be. At this point, Daisy should have expected nothing less.

She dragged the pair into the shelter of the building and out of sight. "Care to explain?" she asked .

"It's Mr. Kominski, ma'am," Lieutenant Bayard replied. "No one's seen him since last night."

The squared-off grip of the lieutenant's .45 dragged against his right hip. Daisy hadn't seen him wearing his pistol during all their months in Stockholm. But now, he kept it close. Somehow, it cemented the reality of the situation in a way her middle of the night nerves hadn't. The weapon wasn't the only change in the lieutenant. Despite being out of the weather, there was a new protectiveness in the way he shielded Cleo, turning his broad back to the rain. The two didn't touch. They didn't have to. Daisy could practically see the lightning that danced between them.

There was something different about Cleo today too, something more than the bruised circles under her eyes or the wary downturn to her mouth. It was in the way she held her shoulders—not boldly but with a certain determination. Daisy couldn't put her finger on where she'd seen it before until she noticed the lieutenant beside her. Of course. It was a soldier's stance. An indefinable way of marking one's space and making others take note.

Cleo stepped in front of the lieutenant in her own show of protection. "Micky came to my room. He was sure Heimmel was looking for him. I let him stay there to keep him safe."

Daisy noticed the turn of phrase. "In your room, but not with you?"

"I was elsewhere."

It didn't take a mind reader to know where Cleo had stayed or that she expected to be raked over the coals for it. Daisy left her response to a mere lifting of an eyebrow. She had larger problems to sort out than her goddaughter's long-lost virtue.

"Someone said they saw him later in the lobby, but that can't be right." Worry roughened Cleo's voice. "Micky wouldn't just leave without telling me."

He abandoned you—again was Daisy's thought, but she kept it to herself. "We can discuss it on the way. Get in. You'll have to ride with us."

Kominski's potential for betrayal had been a hunch. The man was a desperate chancer. Daisy had simply given him something to bargain with. It had been his decision whether to risk offering it up. She only wished she could have spared Cleo a fresh pain, one final cut from a man who had caused her so much grief already.

Guilt tried to settle itself around her shoulders, but Daisy shook it off as unhelpful. She'd known she was playing a dangerous game. That there could be victims. So long as none of them were the crown princess or her children, she could say she'd fulfilled her promise.

She'd not anticipated Cleo's presence. She was a piece that wasn't meant to be on the board.

C leo tried to scan the road for any hint of suspicious activity, but her mind barely registered the blur of arctic pine beyond the Ford's window or the murmur of conversation between Bayard and Aunt Daisy. Micky was gone, and this time she was certain he wouldn't turn up, sheepish and apologetic and begging for another chance.

She curled deeper into her coat, poking at her feelings like pressing an old bruise to test if it still hurt. She'd given more to Micky than she'd thought she was capable of giving. Her love. Her time. Nearly her life. And he'd cheerfully taken them all as his due without offering her anything in return. She should hate him, and yet a part of her still hoped he was all right. If it hadn't been for him, she would have taken the first ship for home last summer. She would have remained the woman she'd been, looking inward and scarred rather than strengthened by her experiences. She sent a prayer out to speed him along on whatever path he'd chosen and smiled seeing her own path unfurling like the gray ribbon of highway they traveled.

"The poor Finns are still struggling to recover from the Russian war. The manager at the hotel said it had only just finished repairing the east guest rooms and the dining room had been destroyed by artillery." Aunt Daisy's stern profile was like granite, but with a touch of humor in her eyes. "I don't know about you, but my room reeked of floor lacquer and paint. The odor was worse than Mr. Whitney's aftershave."

Cleo appreciated her godmother's attempts to lighten the mood. Perhaps there was something to be salvaged after all. Perhaps she hadn't burned every bridge.

Up ahead, the bus's brake lights flashed red. Cleo's nerves stretched tight until she saw it was only a herd of deer crossing the roadway.

"This reminds me of my trip to the North Cape back in the summer of thirty-eight," Aunt Daisy commented. "No snowcapped glaciers, but with the same awe-inspiring majesty, the colors and the way the light moves, and everywhere you look, you see a sight more perfect than the last until you're dizzy with it."

"You're going to miss it." Cleo had been so wrapped up in her own problems, she'd not seen Aunt Daisy's loss.

"Of course, my dear, but over the last days, the call of my home at Uplands is beginning to sound louder in my ear than the siren song of Norway."

The deer having fled into the scrub on the far side of the road, the convoy moved out once more. They drove through acres of forest flattened but for the stumps of splintered trees, and now and then they came across a stretch of military encampment the Russians had used during the war. A group of rough-dressed men picked through the ruins, rifles slung over their shoulders. Cleo found herself searching for any sign they might be poised to attack, but they barely looked up as the convoy passed.

"Veterans of the Finnish war, I expect," Aunt Daisy surmised.

They had left the soldiers behind when the quiet was shattered by a crack, and the windshield spidered out from side to side. A second shot quickly followed, and the car tugged to the right. The driver gave a shout and wrenched the wheel to keep them from going into one of the deep ditches edging the road. Cleo tumbled hard against the door handle, while Aunt Daisy smashed her forehead against the seatback in front of her. The Ford sputtered then died.

"Everyone present and accounted for?" Bayard asked, his tone strained, sweat damping his hairline as he scanned their surroundings.

"A bit rumpled, but in one piece, which is more than I can say for our driver," Aunt Daisy replied. "He's been knocked out cold."

Cleo's elbow was all pins and needles. She flexed and curled her fingers, trying to get feeling back, then shoved her hand into her coat pocket, gripping Sofia's revolver until the metal grew hot under her fingers.

"Look!" Bayard pointed through the windshield to where a black sedan pulled out of a lay-by and swept into place at the end of the convoy just as if nothing had happened. Anyone watching from the buses would never notice Aunt Daisy's Ford was missing—singled out from the protection of the herd like one of the deer they'd just seen.

The convoy disappeared around a bend, leaving them alone in the middle of nowhere. It was eerily quiet—not a breath of wind or call of an animal to break the stillness.

Aunt Daisy straightened her hat and adjusted the lapels of her coat. "I suppose I should give myself marks for success, but it does feel like a hollow victory at the moment."

"You meant for this to happen?" Cleo heard the rise in her voice and took a deep breath to steady herself.

"You were the one who suggested we trade cars with Her Royal Highness."

"A suggestion you clearly ignored."

"Yes, but the Germans didn't know that, did they?" Aunt Daisy was far too pleased with herself. She glanced out at the empty road with an odd eagerness. "One would think the Gestapo would be less gullible, but I suppose desperate times..."

"So now what?" Cleo's heart banged against her ribs when Bayard unsnapped his holster and slid his pistol free. "We just sit here and wait?"

"Exactly." Aunt Daisy scanned the empty landscape. "It's his move."

T en minutes passed in which Cleo's panic settled back into a manageable sick turning of her stomach and a heart that roared in her ears. If Aunt Daisy and Bayard were equally terrified, they didn't show it.

Aunt Daisy calmly poured cold water from a thermos onto a handkerchief from her purse. "Here. Press this on that knot of his." She handed Bayard the wet compress after he settled the stunned driver more comfortably.

Ten more minutes passed in which Bayard and Aunt Daisy conferred through a series of meaningful looks while Cleo chewed her fingernails to nubs.

"Right. This is getting us nowhere." Bayard reached under the dashboard for a lever to open the trunk. "Hope for a spare or we're walking to Petsamo."

"You can't go out there. What if Heimmel's waiting?" Cleo despised the waver in her voice.

"Here." He reached back, holding out the pistol grip first. "Take this and cover me while I change the tire."

"Are you crazy? I can't."

"It's you or nobody."

"Fine, but I don't need—"

He didn't wait for her to explain or protest. Shoving the pistol into her hand, he let himself out of the car, circling back to the trunk.

Cleo followed, trying to make herself as small a target as possible. The clouds flattened the light. The world was washed in overlapping shades of gray, the pines lining the road still tangled in the lifting fog, making it impossible to see more than a few yards in any direction.

With a mechanic's skill, Bayard went immediately for the trunk and the spare, jacking the car up off the ground and beginning the process of changing out the wheel. Cleo stood guard, the pistol up and aimed, her finger hovering cautiously near the trigger, as she scanned the forest that marched unbroken to the road, the ground rusty with dry needles.

Off to her left, the snap of a twig. She spun, squeezing off a shot, the force jerking at her shoulder.

Bayard poked his head around the corner of the fender. "Don't waste my ammunition on rabbits."

"Why doesn't he show himself?" Cleo gritted her teeth. "What's he waiting for?"

"Between you and me, I'm just as happy if he turns around and heads back—" Bayard's words ended on a pained grunt and the heavy thud of a body hitting the ground.

Cleo sucked in a breath. Sweat swam on clammy skin. Her blouse felt damp with it. Dread made her want to throw up. "You okay?"

Heimmel stepped out from behind the car. "Throw the gun over there please, Miss Jaffray," he instructed in his impeccable British accent. When she hesitated, his words came harsher and more dangerous. "Or do you want to end up like your lover"—she strangled on a breath—"Mr. Kominski?"

Horror mingled with relief then guilt. Her knees wobbled as she fought to keep them from buckling. "Where's Micky?"

Heimmel's mouth twisted in mock sorrow. "In a lonely country ravaged by war, what's one more body?"

Her vision shimmered with tears, her heart blasted open. Poor, stupid Micky. He'd warned her to avoid the bland men in their nondescript suits. If only he'd taken his own advice.

"Miss Jaffray? Your gun? I won't ask again." Cleo felt the snick of Heimmel's cocked Luger like a thud to her breastbone.

She tossed Bayard's .45 away, her hands slick, a buzzing in her ears.

"Good morning, Herr Heimmel. We haven't been introduced but my name's Florence Harriman. I'm the US minister to Norway." Cleo hadn't heard the car door open, but there was Aunt Daisy staring down her long nose with a look that could freeze blood as she shouted to make herself heard. "If it's the royal family you're looking for, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you've been thoroughly scuppered."

Heimmel's confidence faltered as he glanced at Aunt Daisy's enormous hat then into the back seat of the car. "What the hell game are you playing?"

"Three-card monte—choose the cup with the pea under it and you win a prize. You chose incorrectly, I'm afraid."

His posh facade melted away. The manufactured sympathy, the easy smile, the gentle honey gaze. His eyes narrowed, his jaw working in increasing agitation.

"You trusted where you shouldn't have, and now you're stuck with us . Hardly the game you were hunting."

Cleo admired Aunt Daisy's courage, but maybe a little less flippancy while the man had a gun trained on them.

"Why shouldn't I just shoot you now? All of you?" he growled.

"I expect you already know the answer to that question, which is why we're still talking." Aunt Daisy remained unruffled while Cleo could practically hear her bones rattling.

"You feckless old cow. You don't know what you've done."

Aunt Daisy didn't smile, but her face softened into humor. "Nor will anyone else. You go back to Berlin. I carry on to America. It remains our little secret."

That idea didn't sit well with Heimmel, who lifted his weapon. Cleo felt herself freeze with that familiar sense of helplessness. She couldn't move. She couldn't run. She could only watch in horror, a roar in her ears, her heart banging its way out of her chest.

Eyes level. Even breaths. Don't think too hard.

She could hear Bayard in her head, steadying her, setting her on the right course. She found a still point within the panic like the quiet eye within a hurricane. She didn't hesitate. She didn't think. She simply slid her hand into her coat pocket, her fingers curving around the revolver's grip. The still point grew, and time slowed with her breathing. No hesitation. No fear. She pulled the gun free, cocked the hammer, and squeezed off a shot. The bullet struck the tree above Heimmel, sending a rain shower of splintered twigs down around him.

He cursed. Her second shot sent him stumbling backward, clutching his shoulder.

"Hei!" A voice from behind them.

"Mit? on tekeill??" Another voice, this one deeper, rougher. Carrying a hint of violence.

"Is problem?" Rifles now at the ready, the Finnish veterans they'd seen earlier approached from between the trees just as a truck horn sounded. An engine gunned loud from the north as a hauler carrying lumber passed, bending the trees in its wake, tossing gravel like pepper. Another truck approached from the south with a trailer bed of rail supplies.

Cleo ducked off the road to avoid the traffic, and when she looked again, Heimmel was gone.