Chapter 6

Dear Anne,

I'm writing this to you from the back seat of my Ford so pardon the chicken scrawl. Every bump, I'm jostled by my secretary, her lap filled with accordion folders. My feet are resting on a typewriter case. Mr. Whitney, my driver, is sharing the front with all the luggage that couldn't fit in the trunk. The roads out of Oslo are choked with traffic as anyone who can is leaving. It's taken us two hours to travel what under normal circumstances would take twenty minutes. Tell poor Letitia that Cleo is safe with the rest of the chancery's families in the north away from the fighting...

A head and behind them as far as the eye could see was a line of cars and trucks, crowded buses, taxis, delivery vans, even a few horse-drawn wagons, wives and children bundled in coats and hats amid all the possessions they could carry, husbands walking alongside muscled draft horses, their ears twitching in agitation, shod hooves scraping sparks from the roadway. Everyone was stunned, faces stricken white, voices muted as they questioned what had happened, how it had come to this in such a short time. Miss Kristiansen's gaze was long, her face set in stone, as she gripped the boxes of folders.

"Is it safe?" Asked more as a distraction than because Daisy was concerned she'd left the codebook behind.

Petra didn't need to ask what Daisy meant by "it." She nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

"Right." Daisy paused then added, "Good. Very good."

Two hours into their journey, they descended toward the low-lying Nitelva River that bordered the village of Lillestr?m. On the left, train tracks paralleled the roadway while low scrubby hills sprinkled with birch, pine, and small stands of ash rose to the right.

"Stop for a bite to eat, ma'am?" Mr. Whitney asked hopefully.

By now, Daisy's hips ached from the cramped car and hunger pinched at her stomach, but she checked her watch and sighed. "No time. We're already hours late."

Mr. Whitney hunched back over the wheel, taking the next turn with an unnecessary sweep of gravel that tossed them against their piled cases.

The hungry silence was interrupted by the growl of an airplane, its German markings all too identifiable. A bold Norwegian pilot rose to meet the enemy, machine gun fire snapping like pebbles thrown against glass. The snaking line of automobiles ground to a stop. Drivers peered through the morning sun to catch a glimpse of the dogfight.

"They must be targeting Kjeller airfield," Daisy commented as more bombers approached, driving the little plane off.

The attack sent men and women tumbling from cars and trucks. Others streamed from nearby shops and houses.

"We're sitting ducks out here." Sweat shone on Mr. Whitney's face as he gripped the steering wheel.

"The train station here has a tunnel that runs between the platforms," Miss Kristiansen offered. "Maybe there is room for us to shelter there."

"Right," Daisy said. "Gather the essentials. Leave the rest. We make for the station."

Whitney pulled onto the sidewalk, cutting the engine. The three of them grabbed what they could carry.

"Let me help you, ma'am." He tried to take Daisy's elbow.

She brushed him off. "I'm capable of walking on my own, thank you." Pins and needles tingled her legs, but she gripped her handbag and lifted her chin. She'd be damned if she was treated like a doddering grandmother.

In the gloom of the tunnel, a group of uniformed men surrounded a striking woman in a blue feathered hat. The two little princesses, Astrid and Ragnhild, hung close to their mother's skirts while she cradled three-year-old Prince Harald in her arms. Daisy greeted the crown princess with a small bow. "I'm glad to see you safe, Your Royal Highness."

"War has come to us, just as you predicted." She might have been commenting on the weather, but Daisy understood all too well the effort it took to appear unconcerned and the reason for it in the children huddled at her side like chicks.

"I'd hoped to be proven wrong."

"What will you do now?" Her Royal Highness asked.

A stray bomb fell nearby, shrapnel tearing into a building, sending a spray of glass over the street.

"Me or my country?" Daisy responded carefully.

The crown princess noted the response and answered with a cool smile. "Is there a difference?"

"I expect it will depend upon what His Majesty decides to do."

Dust sifted from the ceiling as another bomb exploded. Daisy flinched. Someone cried out. Ragnhild and Astrid stood wide-eyed but unafraid in the company of their mother. Harald buried his face in her shoulder.

"He will not run, if that's what you're asking," Crown Princess M?rtha replied steadily. "The king and Prince Olav will stay and rally our people against this invasion." There was a small tremor in her shoulders, her hold on the little prince tightening until he squirmed. "As will I."

T his was the second time in twenty-four hours Cleo found herself standing across the street from a chancery watching the comings and goings. Only this time, the man at the gate was one of Aunt Daisy's staff. He was in a heated conversation with a German soldier, a rifle slung over his shoulder. She couldn't hear what they were saying, but she had a sick feeling that crawled cold up her spine until she shivered.

Don't be smart. Don't break any laws. And, last but not least, don't draw attention to yourself.

She'd broken all three of Micky's rules for survival in the space of five minutes.

"Bor du her?" The boy again. He must have followed her. And if he'd followed her, who else might she have attracted in her headlong escape? She glanced around as if expecting to see armies of Wehrmacht spilling from every building. " Bor du her? " he repeated, pointing at her then at the gate where the soldier's voice was growing louder. "You live here?"

"I used to."

Was it coincidence there was a German soldier parked between her and the residence? Was he looking for her? Should she brazen her way past and hope for the best? Slink away and come back after dark? What if the soldier came back too? Was she safe as long as she was within the legation grounds or did accessory to murder negate any diplomatic protocols? Aunt Daisy couldn't have left town at a more inconvenient time.

"This is your fault," she hissed. "You killed him."

"Because he would kill us ," the boy replied logically.

"Try telling him that." She pointed to the soldier.

Movement caught her eye. A brown and brindle body slinking low to the ground, sliding in and out of the shadows along the sidewalk. It crossed the street, shimmying its way toward the men at the gate, tongue lolling in a wide toothy smile.

The German unshouldered his rifle, but the clerk stopped him as he grabbed hold of Kim's collar, dragging the shepherd into the courtyard and closing the gate with a clang. At least Aunt Daisy's beloved dog was safe. If only Cleo could be so lucky.

"Vi kan ikke bli her." The boy grabbed her arm as if to pull her away. "Soldatene vil finne oss."

Cleo shrugged her incomprehension. "I don't speak Norwegian. You don't happen to have a dictionary, do you?" She racked her brain. "Ordbok?" She pretended to flip pages.

He took a breath, his frustration visible. "We cannot stay here," he replied slowly, pointing to the soldier. "We must go."

"Where?"

He grinned and opened his coat to reveal the revolver shoved into his waistband, making the universal gesture for shooting, ending with a cold-blooded smile. " Jeg kan ikke bli i Oslo . I leave the city. Join army."

"Hvor?" She searched her brain for the right word. "Hvor... h?ren?"

"North. We go north." He motioned again. "Come."

She gave one last look at 28 Nobels Gate, kicking herself for a fool. "Right. Let's go."

They joined the growing crowds observing the Germans' arrival. Trucks rolled through the streets interspersed with additional infantry troops, weapons conspicuous as they smiled and chatted and pretended to be invited guests when, in fact, they were prison guards, the Norwegians only now beginning to realize it.

Cleo tugged at the boy's sleeve. "This way. I have an idea."

The nightclub was closed. Shades drawn and a sign posted at the door. Cleo led them down a narrow alley at the side of the building cluttered with trash bins to a scuffed door that was—she turned the knob—unlocked.

"Presto chango," she whispered as she opened the door.

The back passage off the kitchen smelled like cigarettes, stale beer, and old cooking grease. She followed the sound of voices coming from one of the dressing rooms.

"... regjeringen har flyktet... Nasjonal Samling-bevegelsens rett til ? overta myndighetene... Vidkun Quisling som hodet..." A deep commanding voice boomed from a scratchy radio. Not Herr Brauer this time, but someone equally vocal.

"What's this clown Quisling saying? And what the hell kinda name is that anyway?"

"I don't know, Dud. Take it up with the fucking Norwegians."

"We should head to Stockholm. It's getting too hot in these parts."

"Can't. We haven't been paid yet. Besides, it's crazy out there. We'd never get through."

"We should try. I don't want to be stuck in the middle of a goddamned war."

"What do you think, Emmitt? Fish or cut bait?"

Cleo glanced over her shoulder to make sure the boy was still behind her and put a finger to her lips.

"... motstand er ikke bare ubrukelig, men direkte synonymt med kriminell ?deleggelse av liv ... ," the man on the radio shouted.

"What did he say?"

"I. Don't. Know," someone repeated more emphatically. "How many times I gotta tell you, Paulie?"

Now that Cleo was here, she began second-guessing her idea, but options were thin to none. It was these guys or walk to Hamar.

Confidence was all in the attitude. Cleo banged through the door as if she belonged there, eyes snapping. She took up position, a hand on her hip, her chin raised as she surveyed the group like a general his troops. "Hi, fellas. Remember me? I need your help."

As if they were under attack, the horn section jumped up from the couch where they'd been lounging, the drummer assumed a swordsman's stance with his sticks, while the singer merely looked annoyed at having the radio broadcast drowned out and shushed her loudly. It was the bass player who finally spoke over their surprise. "Hey. You're that American broad."

"That's right. And this is..." She turned back to the boy, who was nervously reaching for his ancient revolver. She placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder while giving him a steely-eyed shake of her head. He dropped his arm back to his side. "This is... What's your name?" All this time and she didn't even know her partner in crime's name.

He pointed to his chest. "Einar."

"This is Einar," Cleo repeated. "The two of us need to get out of the city."

"Good luck with that," the singer harumphed. "The Germans have thrown up blockades all over the place. Nobody's going anywhere."

Einar seemed to understand. He stepped forward, chest puffed out. "But I must join army. Fight for Norway."

"More power to ya, kid," Drummer said, sliding his sticks into his jacket pocket. "What has that got to do with us?"

It was obvious the drummer was in charge. Cleo focused all her persuasive talents his direction, offering him a winsome smile, a flirtatious flash of her wide eyes. Betty Boop, the lieutenant called her. If you got it, flaunt it. And pray like hell it worked. "We need your help getting him there. Getting both of us there, actually."

"And how do you figure we're gonna do that?"

"Athena." She pointed to Sam, the bass player, whose mouth thinned to a suspicious line under her scrutiny. "Your van. You can drive us to Hamar in it."

"Hello? Roads? Barricades? Men with guns?" He fought back, but he did it with a shifting, uncertain gaze, as if he knew how easily he could be outvoted.

She pressed her advantage. "The Germans won't stop a bunch of American musicians. You can get through the barricades."

"Then what?"

"Take us to Hamar, and you can name your price."

"What the hell's in Hamar?"

"My godmother, Daisy Harriman, who also happens to be the US minister to Norway."

"Says you!" Sam argued, clearly trying to finagle his way out. "Roosevelt wouldn't put any broad in charge."

"Don't be a sap." Drummer rolled his eyes. "Mrs. Harriman is in charge. I've seen her name on some of our work visas."

"Fine. But how do we know she's her kin? She could be feeding us a line."

Drummer cocked her a look. "Hate to say it, but he's got a point."

"Maybe, but think about it. The nightclub gig is a dead-end now the Germans are here. You'll be lucky to get the money you're owed much less anything more. My godmother will pay handsomely to see me safe. What have you got to lose?"

She had them. She could feel it.

"What do you say?" She scanned the room, but it was Drummer she focused on. It was his answer that counted. "Trust me. A few hours on the road, and you get whatever the manager here owes you plus"—she paused for only a moment—"twenty percent."

Drummer sighed as if aware he'd been outmaneuvered but was still unable to resist. He played an up-tempo riff on a tabletop. "Load 'em up, boys. We're taking this show on tour."

C leo was stuffed in the back of the van, wedged between instruments and luggage to the point she could barely breathe—not that she wanted to among the competing odors of pomade, cologne, cigarette smoke, and dirty socks. The windows steamed with their breath. What she wouldn't give for a good blast of Norwegian winter air right now to clear her lungs and cool the sweat damping her clothes to her back in a clammy funk built of heat and nerves.

"This way." Einar, sitting in the middle of the front seat, directed them in a circuitous route through the city. She held her breath every time the van slowed, her muscles tightening until they grumbled forward again in a painfully slow trek north and then east. At last, Oslo fell behind them as the landscape widened out into empty vistas of pine forests, dirty slushy piles of snow pushed onto the verges. Now and again, they passed red-roofed farmhouses surrounded by snug barns and sheds nestled into the wrinkle of snowy hills. A man on skis stopped to wave. A cart being pulled by a shaggy yellow pony waited at a train crossing. But there were no roadblocks and no soldiers, neither German nor Norwegian.

Drummer cranked down his window, and Cleo gratefully leaned forward over the driver's seat, gulping in fresh air. "Now that we're traveling companions, I should probably know your name, doll."

"It's Cleo."

"Nice to make your acquaintance, Cleo." Drummer alternated between scanning a road map and staring out the windshield as if scouting for tanks or incoming bombs. "Dud back there is on trombone. Paulie beside him is our trumpeter. That handsome devil there is Norman; he's our singer." He pointed each member of the band out with a nod of his head. "And you know our bass player, Sam." He jerked his head toward the whippet-thin driver, who was hunched over the steering wheel, muttering about potholes. "I'm Emmitt, drummer extraordinaire. I'd offer you my calling card, but it's in my other tuxedo. Maybe I'll have my butler send it to you."

"Is it that obvious?"

"Oh yeah, sweetheart, you reek of old money, which makes me have to ask what a flash girl like you is doing here anyway? Shouldn't you be hanging with the boys at the country club or taking tea with your governess or something?"

"After a year away, I'd have thought it wouldn't show."

"You can't hide class, doll. It wears you like a stink. What's the saying? You can take the girl out of the penthouse, but you can't take the penthouse out of the girl."

"You made that up."

"True, though." Sam slapped the steering wheel and laughed his agreement while Einar swiveled between them as he struggled to keep up with the conversation.

"Care to fill us in on why you had to leave Oslo in such a hurry?" Emmitt pressed. "You and the kid here aren't..."

This got Einar's attention. He grinned.

"What? No!" Cleo replied. "Nothing like that. He told you. He wants to join the army."

"And you're helping him out of the kindness of your heart, Park Avenue? Girls like you don't generally put yourself out for anybody unless there's something in it for you."

She should be offended, but he wasn't wrong. Not totally, and not in this instance. "There was a small misunderstanding with a German soldier."

"Sorry I asked. Don't say another word. I don't want to know." He turned back to his map for a moment before leaning over the seat again. "So if the Germans catch up to us and find you..."

She'd spent the past few hours hoping he wouldn't ask and now that he had, she still only had one answer. "It won't come to that." She held up three fingers. "Scout's honor."

"You better hope so." Gone was his good-humored teasing. "And this payday better be something special."

On that, they could agree.

She peered over her shoulder through the steamy rear window at the road behind them, empty of pursuers—for now. But if that soldier had been at the legation because she'd been recognized, would they keep looking now that they knew she'd left Oslo? Was she being hunted, or was one soldier's death amid a war not exactly at the top of the army's to-do list? She rubbed her arms to ease the nervous goose bumps and counted the miles, but dread swirled in the pit of her stomach.

Norman dozed while Paulie and Dud argued over who was a better second baseman—Joe Gordon or Lonny Frey.

"You're crazy," Dud argued. "Gordon was better in almost every category—RBIs, home runs..."

"But look at Frey's on-base percentage and his batting average for the year," Paulie shouted his rival down. "Plus the man could lay down a bunt like an angel. I guarantee Cincinnati doesn't make the World Series without Frey."

"How long have you all played together?" Cleo asked Emmitt to distract herself and drown out the stream of competing baseball statistics.

At first he didn't answer, and she wondered if he was going to give her the cold shoulder all the way to Hamar. He'd been awfully interested in that map for the past half hour.

"Too long," he replied finally. "But the way things are heating up over here, we'll be headed back to the States soon. One last booking in Stockholm then we're homeward bound. I expect we'll split up once that happens. Paulie has a gal in San Francisco and Sam's dad wants him to settle down and help him in his hardware store."

"And you?"

"Not sure what I'll do. Europe's been good to me. A far sight better than any juke joint or roadhouse in the States. Besides, you watch. We'll all be back over here before too long, trading in our zoot suits for military green."

"You think the US will join the war?"

"We did the last time."

"And fat lot of good that did us," she snapped. "We're right back where we started."

"True." His wide face was grave. "We had to try, though, didn't we?"