Billy Boyle (19 page)

“But what, Jens?”

“Her husband is missing in action. He is a ghost that haunts her. Now leave me alone.”

CHAPTER
THIRTEEN

I
LEFT HIM ALONE
as soon as I realized I wasn’t going to get another word out of him. I walked down to the main entrance, went outside between the twin grim sentries, and gazed along the road we had driven down just two days ago, unaware of the undercurrents in Beardsley Hall that were stirring, as someone was getting ready to kill Knut Birkeland. I took a deep breath and let it out, hoping the fresh air would clear my mind and let me see a pattern emerging. Nothing. Nothing but the smell of flowers, damp greenery, and the faint pungent smell of gun oil hanging in the still air. The sentries’ Sten guns gleamed, the dark metal glistening with the perfume of death. I stepped off the smooth steps and onto the crushed stone driveway, liking the feel and sound of it underfoot.

I wondered about Jens and his female friend with the missing husband. That would throw a monkey wrench into his plans. It was one thing for a woman to have an affair right under her husband’s nose, at least then he had some chance of finding out. But missing in action? Maybe dead, maybe not? Maybe never to be seen again, maybe about to walk through the door tomorrow? That’s competition.

He was intent on protecting her, whoever she was, and I was lucky to have gotten anything out of him before he clammed up. Now I needed to talk to Major Cosgrove, to ask about his early morning stroll with Skak. He hadn’t been straight with me, but then again, who had? Every time I turned around I found somebody where they shouldn’t have been. I wasn’t any closer to finding a spy, the missing gold, or even figuring out if there really had been a murder. Suicide still didn’t make any sense to me, not for a guy like Knut Birkeland. He might have killed somebody if he got mad enough, but I couldn’t see him taking his own life. It was too introspective an act for a fellow like him.

But even with every Tom, Dick, and Lars wandering around Beardsley Hall before dawn, I couldn’t place anyone in Birkeland’s room, much less figure out how they could’ve killed him. I was tired and I was getting a headache. I was fed up with Norwegians and their holy crusade and healthy early morning walks. Maybe Jens had it right. Let God sort things out. I thought about saying a little prayer for help, but it had been so long since I had been to confession that I figured it would only piss God off. Maybe I should go to Mass this Sunday. I could write Mom and tell her about it, which would definitely make her day. But though it seemed like a good idea now, I knew come early Sunday morning, I might feel differently. I thought about food and drink and Daphne, not in that order. And sleep. Sleep would be good, too. But Cosgrove was bugging me. Why hadn’t he told me he was out with Skak at six o’clock in the morning? He might have seen someone or something, like blood on Vidar Skak’s hands. OK, that was a little overboard, but it would have made things a lot easier. I knew it would bother me all night if I didn’t deal with it now, so like a good little investigator I went back inside to find the major.

Cosgrove and Harding had set up shop in the map room. It was a long room on the first floor, looking out over the gardens, a row of high windows illuminating the room with the gray light that filtered through the thick clouds. It was summer, but damp and cloudy seemed to be what passed for summer weather here. There were large map tables set up on trestles under the windows, and a long conference table along the opposite wall. File cabinets and map cases filled the middle of the room, and Harding and Cosgrove were standing in front of one of the map cases, its wooden front panel open. I was about to make a crack about English weather when I saw the look on their faces. Something was wrong.

“Boyle!” Harding snapped. “Shut that door and get in here.”

I turned and closed the heavy oak door behind me. I walked over to the map case. Harding was peering inside while Cosgrove examined the lock on the open door. They looked like a couple of fancy dress cops on burglary detail.

“Someone steal the Beardsley family silver?”

“Nothing has been stolen, Lieutenant,” Cosgrove said. “But someone has been in this map case. All the Operation Jupiter maps are stored in here.” I looked at the case, but nothing appeared to be disturbed.

“How do you know someone got into the case, sir?” I asked Harding.

“Look in here, Boyle. See these compartments?” The inside of the cabinet was subdivided into sixteen small compartments, four rows of four, each large enough for a rolled map and accompanying documents. Ten of them, starting at the top left, were full.

“These ten maps represent the overall strategic plan for Operation Jupiter. Naval, air and ground forces, plus special operations. They include unit strength, dates, everything. And they’ve been moved. Each map is numbered, one through ten, the first in the upper left-hand corner, then the rest in order.”

“They’re out of order?” I asked.

“No. They’re exactly in order.” Harding allowed himself a sly smile as he looked up at me. “I reversed maps six and seven when I put them away. I figured if anyone unauthorized got in here, they would think it was their mistake and put them back in the right order.”

“This confirms it, young man,” Cosgrove said. “The spy is here among us.”

“Why would a spy need to break in to see these? Aren’t you briefing the Norwegians on all this?”

“Need to know, Lieutenant, it’s all about need to know,” Harding answered. “No one here needs to know all the details. We briefed the king and his top aides on the big picture, without much detail. Then we worked our way through the ranks, by branch of service. The navy people got their briefing, but nothing about parachute drops or Underground activity, for instance. Each group got a detailed briefing, but only on their part of the plan. Whoever broke in here got detailed information about everything.”

“Look here, Harding,” said Cosgrove as he pointed to the lock. There were faint scratches on the inside of the keyhole.

“Yep,” I said, sticking my nose between them, “the lock’s been jimmied. Think he took pictures with a miniature camera or some sorta spy gadget?”

“I doubt it,” Harding said. “It would be too incriminating. It wouldn’t be hard to memorize the key elements. Or write them down later. The advantage we have is that he doesn’t know we’re on to him.”

“It occurs to me, gentleman,” Cosgrove said as he retreated to a comfortable chair and settled his bulk, “that this may have happened while poor Birkeland was meeting his maker.”

Cosgrove puffed out his cheeks, as if the act of sitting had taken all his energy. I looked at Harding, who nodded his head thoughtfully as he gazed into the case. Then I looked at the lock. It was a simple job, nothing an apprentice second-story man couldn’t pop open on the first try.

“You’re right,” he said. “I checked these last night and they were fine. The room was empty all night until 0800 hours. Then people have been in here all day and there wouldn’t have been any opportunity to break into the case. We had a briefing scheduled for this afternoon, and this was the first time I’ve opened the case today.”

“It could have happened during the night, or perhaps it is connected with the Birkeland business,” huffed Cosgrove. “If it was murder, that is. Have you found anything today, Lieutenant?”

My mind was reeling with possibilities, but I tried to focus on what I had originally come in for. I looked at each of them and thought about how much I could say. Or should say, if I cared about my military career. Not caring much had its benefits, I decided.

“I learned that I need to ask you a few questions, sir,” I said to Cosgrove. “Do you mind?”

“What is this, Boyle?” Harding demanded. His eyes narrowed in irritation. Cosgrove appeared amused.

“I need to talk to everyone who was up and around early this morning. Major Cosgrove never told me that he met Vidar Skak for a half-hour walk at six o’clock this morning. I wonder why, sir.”

Cosgrove just laughed and pounded his hand on the arm of the chair. “Very amusing, young man! Very amusing indeed. We have a dead government minister, invasion plans have been read by a spy, and you want to know what
I
was doing this morning! Shall we ring up the prime minister and ask him for his whereabouts while you’re at it?”

Cosgrove stroked his mustache and continued to chuckle as he looked at Harding with a raised eyebrow that said: See what an idiot this boy is.

Harding sighed and shook his head. “Boyle, not everything that goes on here is your business. Some things are beyond your reach, and Major Cosgrove is absolutely beyond suspicion. Got it?”

“Yeah, I get it,” I said, my voice going up a bit, even though I tried to keep it under control. “You guys want me to investigate a death and find a spy, but not if it bothers you and your little plots. Well, it don’t work that way!”

“Lieutenant,” Cosgrove said, “I don’t know if I am more offended by your tone, your atrocious grammar, or the fact that you’ve referred to me as one of ‘you guys.’ I’ve been accused of many things, but never that!”

He kept his look of amusement, but his eyes drilled me. Harding was steamed. I was nowhere. I wondered if the whole war was going to be like this. I tried to speak calmly.

“Look, sirs, in order to find anything out, I need to ask a lot of questions. Most of them lead nowhere. Once in a while, they lead to something that doesn’t add up. Something out of place. Maybe just a little innocent lie, or something left unsaid. That’s the kind of thing I look for. I can’t work on solving a crime when some of the main players are out of bounds. It doesn’t mean that I think Major Cosgrove did it, but maybe something Skak said this morning will help. Or maybe you saw something, something that means nothing to you but could be an important missing piece to me.”

“Young man,” Cosgrove said as he leaned forward earnestly, “I understand and sympathize, actually. But there are certain reasons of security that apply. Need to know and all that. You’ll simply have to make do.”

“Boyle,” Harding added, “we need you on the job, but we can’t tell you everything. There are plenty of generals who don’t know half of what you know already. We have to draw the line here. Do whatever you need to do to find out what happened, but you must trust us on this. Besides, what could the major tell you that would help you find out if Birkeland was murdered or killed himself?”

I sat down, feeling defeated. They were actually making sense. This was war, not the cops. There were different rules here. Cosgrove sat back in his chair, smiling at his own logic. Harding stood next to him, arms folded, watching me, waiting to see if I’d fall in line or cause more problems.

“Well, I don’t know which is my big problem right now. I hate not knowing, having a blank spot in my investigation. But I guess I understand what you’re saying.”

I felt like I was surrendering to some superior logic that had proved me wrong but might let a murderer get away. My head was pounding, and I rubbed my temples to ease the pain building up inside.

“Boyle, you’re bleeding,” Harding said, pulling my hand away from my head. “You must have opened up one of the cuts from the wood splinters.”

Harding held my hand in front of my face so I could see. My fingers were stained sticky red and I felt a stream trickle down the side of my face like a tear. I pulled out my handkerchief and tried to stop it before it hit my collar. It seemed so long ago that Kaz, Knut Birkeland, and I were standing out there playing soldier. Blood on my face, blood on the roses—where would it show up next? I felt dull and stupid, a child in the company of adults, needing a bandage. Something wasn’t adding up. I felt an idea trying to claw its way up from the back of my mind. I looked at the blood on the handkerchief. Where would it show up next?

“Wait a minute!” I said. I held up my hand as if to stop any other thoughts, to clear my mind. I knew the answer had to do with that bullet. Where would it show up next? I tried to visualize that morning. Kaz had been on my right, and Birkeland on my left. There had been smoke and confusion. I closed my eyes and watched it all happen, trying to slow things down. The commandos sneaking up on us… explosions… burning tanks… shots…

“Knut Birkeland
was
murdered,” I said. “On the second try.”

“What? How could you know that for certain?” Cosgrove’s mouth gaped open, as if he had just heard a monkey guess his birthday.

“The bullet that almost got me was not a stray or a mistake in loading. It was an assassination attempt, intended for Knut Birkeland.”

“But the bullet struck just inches from your head,” Cosgrove sputtered.

“Which also put it inches from Birkeland,” Harding said slowly, one step behind me, as the thought took hold and he started to see how it might have worked. Everything fell into place.

“Yes, sir. Whoever fired was low and to the left. I just happened to be there. Maybe it was his rifle or maybe he got jostled. It was a good idea, though. All he had to do was slip one live round in the chamber before the exercise. When he loaded the clip of blanks, it would have been waiting there, ready to go on the first shot. With all that firing, no one would notice that the shooter didn’t work his bolt, since he already had the live round loaded. He could just aim and fire.”