James Benn - Billy Boyle

Great. My first assignment is to find a needle in a haystack and these two can’t even find the road the haystack’s on. I leaned back and shut my eyes, pretending to sleep so no one would ask me how I planned to discover who the spy was.

I pretended pretty good, and woke up a while later when Harding nudged my shoulder. “Cut the snoring, Boyle, we’re almost there.”

The rain had stopped, but there were still dark clouds rolling in, from the sea, I guessed. We were on the heath, which is British for a damp, cold, treeless swamp.

“What the hell did the Vikings want around here anyway?” I asked. Nobody answered me, and soon my attention was drawn to Beardsley Hall off in the distance, silhouetted against the gray sky. It was massive. Four stories tall, it squatted on green landscaped grounds that stood in stark contrast to the gloomy heath surrounding us. Green ivy-covered granite gray stone nearly up to the top floor. At one end of the building stood a crenellated castle tower. Kaz played tour guide.

“The original foundation and tower were constructed around 900 AD. Rebuilt in the mid-1400s and expanded during the reign of King George, during your American Revolution. The great hall was built during the Victorian era, with the reconstruction of the tower completed at the turn of the century, at great cost to the Beardsley family. No matter, though, since the patriarch made his fortune investing in African diamond mines. The family line ended when all the sons died in the Great War. The government took over the hall and granted it to the Norwegian government in exile in 1940.”

“Will there be a test?”

“Oh yes, indeed!” Kaz laughed. He always seemed to know something I didn’t. We turned onto the wide gravel drive and took it to where it made a circle near the main entrance. Daphne slowed the car and the tires crunched the white crushed stone like a prizefighter cracking his knuckles. The long lawn was manicured and green, enclosed by thick hedges trimmed at a uniform height for a hundred yards on either side. I guess having an unemployed army of Norwegians hanging around made for good lawn care. A Norwegian flag, red with a blue-and-white cross, hung limply in the damp air, not even trying to flap a welcome. On either side of the main door sentries stood, armed with Sten submachine guns, grim looks, and polished boots. Only their eyes moved, like cop eyes, on high alert, checking each new person who moved into their domain. As we got out of the car, the double doors of the entrance opened and an officer almost ran out to greet us, followed by two more enlisted men. He wore the same kind of British Army uniform Kaz did, except his shoulder patch read “Norway.” He was short and thin, and his movements were quick, almost hurried, his eyes darting among our party until he spotted the brass.

“Welcome, Major Harding.” He saluted and then extended his hand. “On behalf of His Majesty King Haakon, I welcome you to our headquarters. Captain Jens Iversen, at your service. I am in charge of security for the king.” His English was precise, clipped, like he was biting off each word as he said it.

“Thank you, Captain,” said Harding. “This is Lieutenant Boyle and Lieutenant Kazimierz. My assistant, Second Officer Daphne Seaton.”

“Pleased to meet you all,” responded Iversen, with a bow to Daphne and the barest trace of an accent twirled around his words, now that his canned speech was over. “My men will show you to your rooms, and then the king requests that you lunch with him at twelve. Baron, the king looks forward to meeting you. Now, you must excuse me. I have to prepare for the exercise tomorrow.” With a nod, he scurried off, evidently a very busy man. Or a very nervous one.

“You’re famous, Kaz. Kings await you.”

“Billy, the aristocracy of Europe is really a very small club. Those of us still free feel the weight of those left behind. It brings us closer together.”

“So tell me, what do I call him?”

“Your Majesty will do nicely,” Daphne chimed in. “Don’t they teach you these things in Boston?”

The enlisted men took Daphne’s and the major’s bags and led us up innumerable stairs, twists and turns and through corridors, until we reached our rooms on the fourth floor. I stashed my bag and we regrouped a few minutes later in Harding’s sitting room. It was a small, pleasant chamber, lace curtains framing the only window, a faint breeze of damp air moving them sluggishly. A couch took up one wall and two upholstered chairs faced it. Doilies and flower vases gave it a grandmotherly air.

“OK, here’s the drill,” Harding lectured, ticking points off on his fin-gers. “This lunch is a social affair. We make our manners with the king and his folks and keep the conversation light. The briefing on the invasion is set for tomorrow afternoon. For security reasons we are not mentioning the word invasion until then. Got it?” We got it.

“Boyle, I don’t think we made one thing clear about the German agent. The Norwegians don’t know about him. And we’re not going to tell them.”

“Yes, sir.” Old reliable.

There was a knock at the door. Daphne opened it and said, “Major Cosgrove! What a pleasant surprise” in such a way that I could tell it was a surprise and not really a pleasant one.

“Pleased to see you, too, Daphne, my dear.” An overweight, balding, frowning, and very dignified British major in full dress uniform entered the room. He walked stiffly, using a cane with his right hand. His large form was hidden behind a uniform that even I could tell was well tailored. His leather Sam Browne belt gleamed and his drooping mustache was waxed to perfection, the ends flipping up into little tips.

“Now look here, Harding, you should have informed me you were arriving a day early. Trying to get the king’s ear, eh? Who’s this young chap?” He spoke this last pointing his cane at me. I didn’t know what to expect next but somehow I had the presence of mind to get up and offer him my seat.

“I’m Lieutenant Boyle, sir. Please, sit down.”

“Hrrmmph.” He sat himself down and looked at me. His way of saying thanks, maybe.

“Major Charles Cosgrove,” Harding said to me, “represents the British Army chief of staff. He will be presenting Operation Jupiter with us to the Norwegians tomorrow.”

“Bloody awful idea, always has been. Too bad you Yanks talked Winnie into it. Now, Harding, what brings you here a day early?”

“Perhaps I should ask you how many days you’ve been here?”

“Just arrived myself, old boy. Some business with the commando chaps. They’re putting on a show tomorrow out on the heath with the Norwegian Brigade. Blowing things up, lots of fireworks, impress the locals, that sort of thing. Number Ten Commando, since it includes a Norwegian troop, will assault some positions with First Battalion from the brigade. They’ll blow up some old Matilda tanks and chase off the local Home Guard chaps who are playing the Germans. Great fun. Then we’ll present this idiotic plan to the king and his men.”

“As you can tell, Billy,” Kaz offered, “Major Cosgrove thinks Operation Jupiter is doomed to fail.”

“Damned right, Baron! I took a Turkish bullet in this leg at Gallipoli during the Great War,” Cosgrove said, slapping his right knee. “That was another one of Churchill’s grand invasion plans. He mucked that one up and he’ll do the same in Norway, and you Americans are encouraging him down that road to disaster!” His voice rose and he punctuated the sentence by rapping the end of his cane on the floor. He sighed and finished in a quiet, resigned voice.

“We are not yet ready to invade any part of the continent.” His voice faded off and he tapped his cane on the floor, staring at it while silence hung around him. I didn’t know much about Gallipoli except that it was a failed invasion and that Cosgrove was lucky he got out of it with just a slug in the leg. Looked like he knew it, too.