Chapter 3

Dear Anne,

I don't know how much has been reported in the American papers about the Altmark , a German ship attacked in Norwegian waters by the British in a brazen violation of Norwegian neutrality. It's become the stuff of fairy tales here—heroic boarding parties swinging cutlasses, maltreated prisoners of war held deep in the ship's hold. Add Errol Flynn and you'd have a Hollywood blockbuster. But it's left the Germans furious, the British defensive, and the Norwegians caught smack in the middle. I've done what I can to smooth a path for both parties, but tensions remain high. It's moments like these when I wish you were here. I could use a good healthy dose of your common sense and some of that Harriman charm.

"H e's here now?" Daisy stood from her desk, where she'd been reading over the notes from her morning meeting with Vice Consul Whitney. A diplomatic pouch had arrived from Washington in the early hours, necessitating a frenzy of activity as reports were studied and responses drafted. Of course, it had also brought a pile of newspapers and magazines from back home, treats that had grown rare since the start of hostilities. Daisy had set them aside to be savored later with tea and sandwiches in her sitting room. A treat that would have to be deferred if this unexpected visit lasted too long. "For heaven's sake, send him in."

Miss Kristiansen disappeared only to return in the company of a somber gentleman in a dark suit, his hair cut close against his skull, his broad features and prominent ears giving him the look of a pugilist rather than a diplomat. Crow's-feet gathered at the corners of eyes colored with the weight of his position. "Herr Brauer, I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. Is there a problem?"

Silly question. Of course there was. The last few months had been nothing but problems, and there seemed no end in sight. Daisy tried not to forecast too far ahead, but it was clear it would be a case of delicate needle-threading for both Norway and the United States when it came to remaining on the sidelines in this conflict. A good thing she enjoyed embroidery.

She hid her concerns behind a bland smile of welcome as she motioned the German minister to a chair. His answering smile was equally opaque. "Not at all, Mrs. Harriman. I am here merely to extend an invitation to a small reception I'm hosting on the evening of April the fifth. I would be very much honored if you would come."

"You came all the way here for that?"

His features remained unreadable, but there was resignation in his gaze, a decision in the set of his shoulders that concerned her. "An honored guest deserves a personal invitation. Besides, my wife wanted to make sure nothing was lost in the post."

"How is Frau Brauer? Settling in with the new baby?" A pretty woman with delicate features and a chic sense of style, the German minister's wife had recently given birth to their first child, a daughter who was, by all accounts, already the apple of her father's eye.

"She is well. And the baby is thriving. Frau Brauer would welcome your attendance. It would give you both a chance to chat about feedings and nappies and such."

The dig wasn't subtle nor was it a surprise, but she'd found early on that pretending a complete lack of understanding was usually her best defense. If they continued to press, she would ask them to explain the joke, which usually had them sheepishly swallowing their tongues. She'd no need this afternoon. Brauer seemed to realize his error. A wash of pink colored his cheeks, though his eyes remained hard, and he made no attempt to backtrack.

"I have a previous engagement with the Norwegian foreign minister and his wife that evening, but tell Frau Brauer I shall do my best to get there if only to ease her mind—mother to mother."

It was Brauer's turn to ignore the dig. Or perhaps it had passed him by, distracted as he seemed to be at her mention of Norway's Dr. Halvdan Koht. His somber face paled, and there was a bone-tired weariness about him that she didn't believe could be completely blamed on a new baby in the house. "If you have Dr. Koht's ear, I would ask that you press him to speak to his parliament about Britain's continued mining of Norwegian waters. My country can't let such blatant provocation stand. Norway must be made to see this."

Hitler was furious over what he saw as Norway's bending toward British interests. Tensions had only increased with Russia's invasion of Finland and King Haakon's renewed calls for neutrality alongside his push for defensive preparations. Britain's mining of the waters around Norway pushed Hitler into a corner where he must respond or back down, and it was clear he wasn't one for backing down.

"I'll speak to the foreign minister." Daisy tried one last time to offer an olive branch as she escorted him out. "The Norwegian parliament is doing all it can to remain correct in the letter of the law in all ways. It wants only peace for its country and an end to this war, as do we all."

"The king's late wife was a daughter of England, was she not?" Herr Brauer countered. "Sooner or later, the British will twist him round to their way of thinking."

"The United States doesn't want Norway drawn into the war any more than you do."

They paused at the door. He crushed the brim of his hat in his hand, exhaustion replaced by a grim glitter that sent a shiver up her spine. "Your country has interfered before, Mrs. Harriman. Forgive me if I find your guarantees somewhat lacking."

She watched him cross the courtyard to his car, his driver holding the door for him. Just as he ducked his head to enter, he was intercepted by a woman rushing over the wet macadam, hands tucked into the sleeves of her overlarge coat, a riot of dark curls escaping her headscarf.

Dear God, what was Cleo doing now?

Daisy couldn't hear what was said, but she knew that look. Before her goddaughter could cause an international incident, Daisy hurried out to mitigate any looming disaster. She arrived just as Herr Brauer bowed over Cleo's hand with a show of continental gallantry. "I will do what I can, Miss Jaffray." He glanced back at Daisy, once again the diplomat, a smile touching his thin lips. "I see where she gets her persuasiveness, Mrs. Harriman."

"Believe me, Herr Brauer, if I was half so glib, we'd not find ourselves in this predicament."

"Until the fifth, then."

Cleo waved him out of the drive before immediately turning to Daisy. "I know I shouldn't have, but it seemed too perfect an opportunity to pass up, and it worked. He said he'd make inquiries."

"He's an honorable man. If there's anything to be learned, he'll let you know."

Daisy was less sure that evening after she hung up the phone. If her information was correct, it began to make sense why the Germans might not be forthcoming. Zakopane wasn't just a resort town catering to the influx of German officers looking for a week or two of relaxation. It was the location of a new SS-Junker School, a secret police training center for SS and Gestapo officers.

Had that been why Kominski was so reluctant to leave? Because he saw a chance to land a blow for the Polish resistance? Or was it sheer coincidence that he'd disappeared after a bombing had taken out twenty German officers? Daisy didn't believe in coincidences. And then there was that damned letter. Was the man dead? In hiding? Could Daisy risk finding out with so much riding on the diplomatic knife edge she walked? She picked up the phone once more.

"Get me the Bergen ticket office of NAL. I need to book a single passage on their next ship to New York."

S now fell over the narrow streets of Zakopane, feathering Cleo's hair and dusting her lashes. She had to find Micky, but every street she took led her back to the ruins of the Czarny Kot . The Black Cat was gone; nothing left of the café but blackened beams, melted glass, burnt bodies. She could hear voices in the wind, of those who'd been killed and those who'd simply disappeared as if they'd never existed. She clamped her hands over her ears, but Micky's voice seeped between her fingers. He called for her. He needed her. He begged her to help him.

"Cleo!" His voice was insistent.

"I'm coming," she cried. "I can't find you. Where are you?"

"Cleo, dear! Wake up!"

Her eyes flew open to find Aunt Daisy standing over her, the table lamp her godmother had switched on shining in Cleo's eyes. She must have fallen asleep, the magazine she'd been leaf ing through on the floor at her feet. Her heart raced, her hands clenched shaking in her lap, but she fought the panic back. Her hands uncurled. Her breathing slowed.

Aunt Daisy regarded Cleo thoughtfully as she held something out. "I've booked passage for you on the SS Bergensfjord , scheduled to sail for New York. Lieutenant Bayard will escort you as far as the Bergen quayside. I've cabled your mother to expect you."

"You're sending me away?"

"No. I'm sending you home." Aunt Daisy's stare pinned Cleo to her chair. "Where you should have gone to begin with."

"What about Micky? I can't leave."

"I'll do what I can to find out what happened to him." As Aunt Daisy said this, her gaze slid away, unable to meet Cleo's eyes. It was just for a moment, but Cleo knew that look. It was the look of someone who would say what needed to be said to make her go away.

"What about Herr Brauer? He said he'd help."

Aunt Daisy wouldn't be drawn into an argument. "Be packed and ready to go in one week."

Over the next few days, Cleo continued to try to change her mind, but whenever she sought her out to plead her case, Petra Kristiansen put her off. Madam Minister was in a meeting. She was leaving on a trip to the airfield at Kjeller or just arriving back from a fact-finding visit to Trondheim. She was preparing to host a dinner or on her way to attend a dinner elsewhere. The night before she was due to leave for Bergen, Cleo watched the taillights of the car heading out the drive, Aunt Daisy's feathered hat bobbing from the back seat.

"Damn!" Cleo said, shocking two chancery typists getting off work. They tutted their way past her on their way to catching the bus.

She turned to go back inside where it was warm and dry, but the idea of one more evening spent leafing through magazines, listening to the radio, or staring out at the lights of the city was too dismal to contemplate. She was tired of the waiting, the wondering, the constant stress of feeling helpless. A walk, even without a destination, felt like forward momentum.

A few streets south of the residence, the glare of neon lights and the soulful strains of "In a Sentimental Mood" drew her into a crowded nightclub. Tables surrounded a small stage where a five-piece jazz band played over the clink of silverware and the hum of conversation. Cleo's eyes instinctively sought out the trumpeter. Too tall. Too blond. Not Micky.

"Har du en reservasjon?" A man in a starched penguin suit blocked her way. The way he waggled the menu in his hand, it was obvious what he asked.

She waved him away, satisfied to stand at the back and listen. It had been months since she'd heard Ellington. Upon their arrival in Zakopane, the Germans had immediately and officially outlawed jazz and forbidden anyone from either performing it or listening to it. That hadn't stopped them from breaking their own laws and hiring Micky to play at their private parties, his talent making him a favorite among the officers. He would come home early in the morning, still humming Goodman and Miller, his mood valiantly lifting her own.

"Miss Jaffray? I thought that was you." It was Lieutenant Bayard, with Miss Kristiansen, very obviously on a date, if his freshly pressed uniform and her silk charmeuse was any indication. "Care to join us?"

Petra's face blanched even whiter than her normal milky perfection. Yes. Definitely a date. So much for "just friends."

"I really shouldn't." The last thing Cleo wanted was to be a third wheel with Petra shooting daggers at her across the table. She should go. Back out in the snow. Back to her quiet room with its noisy ghosts. And tomorrow, back to New York to face her mother and the judgment of New York society.

As if reading her mind, Bayard pulled out a chair. "You can't celebrate your last night in Oslo sitting alone in your room." He looked to Petra. "You tell her. She has to stay for a drink."

Cleo had to hand it to her. Petra didn't even bat an eye at being cornered. "Of course. Please stay."

"Just one drink then I really have to go." She accepted the wineglass the lieutenant filled from the bottle of red on the table between them.

Petra toyed with the brooch decorating her collar, the same gold-and-cobalt-blue butterfly Cleo had often seen her wearing. Was it a recent gift? A family heirloom? "Are you happy to be leaving Norway, Miss Jaffray?" she asked politely, if pointedly.

"No, but it doesn't seem like I have a choice." Cleo tossed back her wine as if she'd bellied up to the bar and returned Petra's cool stare with one equally dismissive. "And so long as Aunt Daisy avoids me, there's not much I can do to change her mind."

Bayard, clearly sensing a standoff, stepped in. "Mrs. Harriman went to a lot of trouble to secure that ticket," the lieutenant explained. "Passage out of Norway is tough these days and getting tougher."

"I get it. I do." Maybe it was the glass of wine hitting her empty stomach or maybe the band on the stage reminded Cleo of similar dinners where friendship and conversations had come easy, unlike here where she could feel Petra's suspicion in every chilly glance. "But I can't leave. Not yet. I know it's crazy, but I can't move on until I know for certain what happened to Micky."

"And if you never find out?" the lieutenant replied bluntly. "What then?"

Cleo thought about her mother, frozen at the very moment she'd received word of her husband's death. Unable to move on from that tragedy. Existing but no longer living. Would that be Cleo's fate? She shook off the idea along with her doubts. She touched the necklace at her throat as if reassuring herself it was still there. As Micky wasn't. "I'll find him. I know it."

"An admirable sentiment and one that does you credit, but what makes you think you can do what Mrs. Harriman can't?" Petra challenged. "If I were you, I'd take the gift that's been given and be grateful. Others would kill for the privilege you're tossing away like trash."

"Others like you, I take it?" Days of frustration welled hot until Cleo's cheeks burned with it, and her words spilled forth in an untampered rush. "You know what? I'm tired of being your punching bag. If you want to help your grandmother as much as you claim, maybe stop whining and wringing your hands and do something about it instead of blaming everyone else for your failures."

Petra's voice turned as cold as the sleet falling outside. "Even if I did ask your aunt for assistance, do you think she could just wave her magic wand and conjure another ticket? She spent what coin she had already, Miss Jaffray. On you."

Spoiled. Easy. Brat. Tramp.

Petra's low opinion had just reached rock bottom. Cleo lurched to her feet. "I'm sorry for intruding. Enjoy the rest of your evening."

She didn't hear Bayard until he caught up with her outside the club. He'd left his coat behind to chase her down and now he stood rubbing his arms, stamping his feet, his breath coming in quick puffs of steam. "Petra doesn't mean it. She's scared and, honestly, a little jealous."

"You think Petra Kristiansen is the first girl to take against me for no reason? Hardly."

"She's not that bad once you get to know her."

"You could say the same to her about me, and maybe you should." Cleo shoved him back the way he'd come. "Go inside, Lieutenant, before you freeze to death."

His shoulders hitched as if he wanted to say more, but she shooed him on with one mittened hand. "Go. Get back to your date before she accuses me of stealing you away on top of all my other crimes."

"Right. Good night, then, Miss Jaffray."

"Good night, Lieutenant Bayard." Alone, Cleo retraced her steps back to the legation, turning the conversation over in her head. She understood fear in all its forms from the walking on eggshells variety to the blind, blood-draining panic. She'd experienced all of them, sometimes in the same five minutes. She understood Petra's fear as the worst kind: the helpless boulder-in-the-stomach dread for someone you love.

She climbed the stairs back to her attic room, pondered the traveling outfit laid out for tomorrow, the precious ticket propped against her dressing table mirror. Had Aunt Daisy called in favors to get Cleo this ticket? If someone found out, could that favoritism be used against her?

Before she could change her mind, Cleo scrawled a quick note, signing her godmother's name at the bottom. Hardly a forgery, but who was to know? Placing it along with the ticket in an envelope, she sealed the flap, addressing it to Fr?ken Kristiansen c/o Solstrand Guesthouse, Bergen. The chancery office was thirty yards away. Surely there was someone there who could tell her how to get an important letter delivered overnight priority.

She didn't want to go home yet, but she knew someone who did .

Dear Anne,

One would think after a lifetime of social functions and more than two years serving in Norway, I would be immune to the pomp and glamour of an evening at the royal palace. You would be wrong. It's always both thrilling and terrifying in equal measure. I suppose if I were a normal guest—my husband being the official US representative and me his smiling wife—it would make things simpler, but this is so much more interesting. There are times when I have to stifle my amusement at the way in which my very confusing presence causes consternation in courtiers' breasts.

T he palace dining room was ablaze with lights that shone down on men in black tie, some studded with medals, while the women glittered like peacocks on parade as guests worked their way through seven courses and speech after speech. A small string ensemble offered a quiet background to the buzz of grim conversation. King Haakon VII presided over the company, his trim athletic body and direct, uncompromising gaze so typical of the Norwegians Daisy had met in her time here. It was a country comfortable with itself and its traditions. Welcoming of the strangers in its midst, but never gregarious, pandering, or what one would call overly friendly. These qualities only made her love them all the more.

Tonight's reception was more uncomfortable than usual, though perhaps Daisy's perception was skewed seated as she was between the head of the British and German missions, which was somewhat akin to being the buffer between two belligerent schoolboys.

"If you think we're going to believe you were there to survey for a new commercial airline between Norway and Germany, you're mistaken."

"My good friend, you can surmise all you like. The Norwegian authorities understood our aims were benign. I can't help your suspicious nature."

"My suspicious nature... it's not my country invading its neighbors."

"Didn't the Norwegians lose two more ships off the northern coast last week? I believe those were British mines they hit, not German."

At one point during the fish course, Daisy's hand curled around her butter knife. She only refrained from stabbing it into an offending thigh when someone stood to offer one more toast.

Just then, Crown Princess M?rtha caught her eye. Prince Olav's wife didn't smile, but there was in her expression that of a secret shared. Daisy released her grip on the knife and renewed her efforts to parry the barbs being flung back and forth through the remaining courses and the king's gracious speech.

After dinner, they moved into the great hall, where the string quartet from dinner had expanded to become a chamber orchestra, and music filled the high-ceilinged room. A few took this as an opportunity to dance, and soon Daisy was whirling through a waltz with the minister from Portugal. She felt the stares from a few of the older crowd who believed a woman of nearly seventy should maintain a certain dignity, but she'd long since grown hardened to the itch between her shoulder blades and the thin-lipped frowns as she sailed past in the arms of her dance partner. It was only after a particularly energetic Lambeth Walk that left her breathless with laughter that she slid free of the crowds to find a quiet corner where she might recover.

"I envy you your stamina, Madam Minister. These functions never fail to exhaust me." Crown Princess M?rtha had detached herself from her husband and now shared Daisy's corner, shimmering in a gown of pale blue, diamonds winking at her throat.

Daisy had always found the princess charming; intelligence glowed in her wide eyes and strength honed her finely boned features. Since Queen Maud's death two years prior, the crown princess ruled the ladies of the royal court, and it was obvious King Haakon thought the world of his Swedish-born daughter-in-law. He wasn't the only man to be bowled over by her quiet kindness. Daisy had heard from more than one source how smitten President Roosevelt had been by his royal guest during her recent visit to America.

"I'll probably pay for it in the morning with aching joints, Your Highness, but I love a good knees-up." She sipped at her champagne, wishing instead for a cold glass of water. "Luckily for me, parties are in my job description."

"The late queen loved to dance as well."

"Who do you think taught me to defy convention without a backward glance?"

A noise from across the room drew their attention. The British minister roaring over some disagreement, others smoothing the troubled waters. Her Royal Highness gave a small shake of her head. "You showed admirable restraint this evening. If the gentleman from Berlin had not changed the subject, I wasn't certain you wouldn't have used that knife on him."

"Was it that obvious?"

"To all these men? No," she replied. Her voice was low, barely audible over the music, and she leaned close as if this was a conversation meant for Daisy's ears alone. "But I'm a mother, and I've worn that very same look when my daughters are bickering over a doll they both desire. How much greater the animosity when it's the world in contention."

"So long as the countries involved adhere to the international rules of law that Norway follows so strictly, then all will be well," Daisy said just as quietly, falling back on a familiar theme she'd used to good effect with visiting journalists and anxious businessmen.

Her Royal Highness was not so easily swayed. "And if they do not?"

Daisy could lie. Pretend she hadn't seen the contents of diplomatic pouches that told of growing concern among neighboring mission heads and their army of intelligence officers. But it was obvious the princess would know it was a lie as soon as the words left her lips. "If, God forbid, it comes to war, seek me out, Your Highness, and I'll do what I can."

"You or your country?" the younger woman asked.

It was a rash, unthinking offer, and Daisy had no idea what Washington would say should it come to pass that she had to make good on it. No, that wasn't quite true. She knew what the career diplomats would say, the politicians and bureaucrats who weighed every action like misers with their scales. But she couldn't rescind it now. Not with the princess considering her carefully with features showing both determination and an intuition lost to the rest of her nation. Daisy would worry about her superiors when she had to and not a moment before.

The irony not lost on her, she held out a hand as if sealing a gentleman's contract. "Consider it the offer of one mother to another."

The princess paused for a moment before clasping Daisy's hand, her face seeming to smooth in relief. "Thank you."

She drifted away at that point, her public smile once again in place as she joined a group nearby, the sound of laughter dissipating the solemnity that clung to Daisy. She felt that familiar tickle at the back of her neck, the sense of someone watching her with disapproval. But it was no grand dame with an overinflated sense of self-worth this time. It was the king.