James Benn - Billy Boyle

Harding knocked and came in, carrying a bottle of Bushmills Irish whiskey in one hand and his briefcase in the other. He raised the bottle in a salute. “Thought we might celebrate. Couldn’t have gone better today.”

“Well, I might disagree about that, if I were dumb enough to argue with a man carrying Bushmills.”

“Sorry, Boyle, I meant the conference. How’s the head?”

“I’m feeling fine, sir.” It was easy to remember to call Harding “sir” when he was holding my favorite brand. He went up a notch in my estimation as he poured each of us a generous portion. “What happens next?”

Harding took a seat, leaned back, loosened his tie, picked up a glass tumbler, and took a sip. He looked tired, and for the first time I saw him as something more than a hardnosed paper pusher. Worry showed on his face in the dark circles under his eyes and creases in his forehead. It struck me how close I was to the center of everything, the historic first strike back at the Nazis. I felt like I was… important. I tried to sit up a little straighter.

“I just finished a preliminary briefing session with Norwegian Brigade and commando officers in the map room. We went over the basic tactical plan, and we’ll finish up in the morning. Then we head back to London and start coordinating with the U.S. and British divisional commands.”

“Can you tell me what the plan is?” All of a sudden I thought I was a military genius and I didn’t want to be left out.

“I guess so,” said Harding cautiously. “Now that we’ve briefed the Norwegians it should be all right. Remember, this is still TOP SECRET. I just spent the last half hour securing the invasion plans and maps in the map room downstairs. This information can’t leave the building, understood?”

We all nodded eagerly, pledging silence, our lives, our firstborns, whatever it took. I was hooked. Just like I was hooked the first time I worked a homicide. I knew then that I was different from everyone else, set apart from the concerns of everyday life that swept everyone else forward, on a river of errands, work, dates, drinking, eating, and sleeping. I was going in a different direction, toward revelation and retribution, and there were damn few of us headed that way. This was like that. I was going to see behind the curtain, see what lay ahead for thousands of people, tens of thousands-Germans, Yanks, Brits, Norwegians, soldiers, sailors, civilians, old men, pretty girls, knee-scraped kids. They all were living their lives, doing what they were told to do, waiting to find out what was going to happen, if they thought about it at all. I wouldn’t have to wonder. I’d know. Harding had pulled a long folded map of the Norwegian coast out of his briefcase and spread it out over the bed. He tapped it with his pen as he ticked off the main points.

“Primary landings will be just west of Oslo, with the Norwegian Brigade in the first wave along with one U.S. infantry division and a British tank brigade. There’ll be a secondary Anglo-American landing at Stavanger in order to capture an airfield. Also various diversionary commando raids up the coast in order to keep the Germans off balance. We’re also working on a landing in force in the Nordland province, just north of the Arctic Circle. There’s a point near Fauske where Norway narrows to just about forty miles between Sweden and the North Sea. We’ll make a line there to cut off any reinforcements from the Narvik area, secure the airfield at Bodo, and create an area to build up forces to complete the campaign.”

“What about air and naval forces?” asked Kaz.

“We actually hope the Germans will commit their navy. With the Royal Navy and the American naval units that are still arriving, we should decimate them if they intervene. The Luftwaffe is another matter. We’ll have air cover for the invasion, but if we don’t capture those airfields intact and get our fighters in the air over Norway.. ..”

He didn’t have to finish, leaving the image of Stukas dive-bombing Allied troops with impunity clear enough in our minds.

“That’s why you plan to seal off Nordland?” I asked.

Harding looked out the window, avoiding my eyes as if he didn’t want to answer. “There are sound tactical reasons for securing Nordland. One is that it provides a foothold in case the southern campaign goes badly. It also gives us air bases and ample harbors for supply and warships. It’s very important, which is why we’re committing an American ranger battalion and the 509th Parachute Regiment, along with British and Norwegian commandos. Once they secure the airfield at Fauske we’ll fly in more infantry. Heavier stuff will be landed from the sea at Bodo.”

“Major, isn’t it dangerous to release all this information with a spy in our midst?” Daphne asked with a quizzical look on her face.

“Yes, it is. We have to be on our guard. He may try something again.”

With that cheery thought, Harding filled our glasses and we drank another round. And one more, then Daphne excused herself, and then we lost count.

I feel asleep pretty easily, or passed out, I can’t remember which. I woke up in the middle of the night with a dry, parched throat and a throbbing headache. I forced myself out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. My tried-and-true hangover cure was a big glass of cold water and a couple of aspirin. I managed to shake out the aspirin and turned the faucet on, looking forward to letting the water run long enough to get really good and cold. I was rewarded with less than a dribble. Damn these pipes! The warm water came out full force, though, and I managed to fill a glass before it got too hot and force the aspirin down. I knew that without a tall drink of cold water my head would still be pounding in the morning. So far, the worst thing about being in England was hangovers and the plumbing. And almost getting killed, of course.

I didn’t feel so great a few hours later, standing outside Beardsley Hall as the sun thought about coming up over the horizon. But I was still a lot better off than Knut Birkeland, who stared up at me with lifeless eyes, lying on his back and ruining the geraniums he lay on in the garden below his open window, four stories up.

Jens Iversen paced back and forth behind me, questioning the two sentries who had found the body. He had sent for me as soon as the discovery was reported to him, and right now people were spilling out of the hall like it was a beehive that had been hit with a stick. Harding pushed through the growing crowd just as the first rays of the sun hit the granite side of the building and illuminated the scene without casting light on a thing.

“What the hell is going on, Boyle?” he demanded as he stepped toward the body. I put out my arm to stop him.

“Hold on. Sir. Please don’t touch him. We need to move these people back.”

Harding pushed my arm away but didn’t move any closer or threaten me with a court-martial. “What happened?”

“I don’t know yet, Major, but if we let everyone stomp through here we’ll never find out. Jens says the sentries woke him at a few minutes past six thirty when they found the body on their rounds. He got me a few minutes later and here we are. All I really know so far is that’s Birkeland’s room up there.” I pointed to the swinging casement window on the top floor. “I’ve already asked Jens to post a guard outside the door and not let anyone in.”

A breeze blew the window back, and it gave out a rusty grinding noise and the old iron hinges protested the sudden movement. The edge of a curtain flapped out of the window as if it were waving a sad good-bye to Knut Birkeland. Harding looked at the crowd, looked at me, and decided I was his best bet.

“OK, Lieutenant, it looks like you’ve got the situation in hand. You’re in charge of the investigation. Let’s see what kind of detective you really are.” At that moment, Jens came over to us.