guess.”
“Could have,” I agreed. “But I doubt he could have guessed I was from Boston.”
“What do you mean?” Kaz asked.
“Later, at lunch, when I said I hadn’t heard about the gold being smuggled out of Norway, he got snotty and asked if they didn’t report the war news in Boston. It didn’t strike me until later, but then I asked myself-how did he know those two things-that I was new here and from Boston?”
“You do have a distinctive accent, Billy,” Kaz said, thinking it through. “You tend to drop your r’s at the end of a word. It’s noticeable, but then I’m a student of language. Is that a purely Boston accent?”
“Yeah, I guess so. But would an Englishman know what a Boston accent sounded like? Not a Beacon Hill accent, but a real Irish South Boston delivery?”
“No,” said Daphne. “You do sound terribly American, but I wouldn’t know a New York accent from a Boston one unless you pointed out the difference. I doubt Major Cosgrove would either. He’s not very fond of Americans, you know, thinks them brash and arrogant. He’d think it beneath him to discern any difference.”
“What do you think,” I asked her, “about Americans?”
“You are brash and arrogant, or at least more so than we English. We could use more brashness and you a bit less. But, back to Cosgrove. What do you think it means, if he knows more about you than he lets on?”
“I think it means he can’t be trusted.”
“Here you are, my dears!” Mildred’s singsong voice interrupted us as she laid down three steaming plates of fish and chips. “You tuck into that now!”
I inhaled the delicious aroma of the fried fish. I glanced up at Daphne and Kaz, who were looking at each other in stunned silence, taking in what it might mean not to be able to trust a representative of the General Staff, if that was what he really was. Kaz’s glasses steamed up, and I thought, Right, that’s just how I feel. Can’t see a damned thing and no clue as to what the hell is going on.
“Not trust him? What does that mean?” asked Daphne, as she absorbed the implications. “Why would the major hide the fact that he knows something about you? There must be a reasonable explanation.”
“Yes, what purpose would it serve?” Kaz asked as he wiped his glasses.
“Excellent questions. I mean to pursue them tomorrow, among other things. Right now I intend to demolish this plate of food.”
I tried to sound confident and upbeat. In charge. Three pints later I almost believed it myself.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“No, Boyle, you cannot question the king!”
I was sitting across from Major Harding, who was at his desk in the map room. He was sitting upright in his chair, not a wrinkle showing on his uniform, his clear brown eyes drilling me dead center. I was trying not to slouch, my uniform jacket smelled faintly of ale and smoke, and last time I looked in the mirror my eyes were more red than their usual blue. I was trying to ignore the jackhammer going off in my head and concentrate on being told off. I vaguely remembered buying some more pints the night before, someone, maybe me, singing; and Daphne driving us home. Wait, make that an angry Daphne driving us back, and it was me and Kaz singing.
By the number of pound notes left in my wallet, we must’ve had a really good night. I know Robert, the innkeeper, did. Harding wasn’t too happy about us having taken the car without permission, but he was more interested in learning how the investigation was going. He must’ve been in a fairly good mood, though, since there was coffee for two. On the other hand, it was six thirty in the morning, or rather 0630 hours, as the orderly who knocked on my door a while ago had informed me. But that was pure Harding. He must’ve been up early playing another round of switch the maps.
After the first cup of joe had cleared the fur off my tongue, I told Harding I needed to speak to the king. Rolf had gone up to the base at Southwold, and I needed to know if he and the king had run across anything suspicious. They were the first ones up and about the house, I explained to Harding, as if that was enough reason to question royalty.
“King Haakon is off limits to you, soldier, and that’s an order. Understand?”
“What I understand is that I’ve got one hand tied behind my back. I’ve got nothing new to report because you won’t let me do what I need to do.”
“You’ve got nothing because you’re sitting on your ass around here whining to me. Get out of here and question Rolf if you want. Do something useful, but keep out of my way. And away from the king.”
“That settles that. Sir.” I reached for the silver coffee pot and poured myself another cup. No reason to try another frontal assault. I added a sugar cube and thought maybe I should ease off a bit. After all, here I was, pouring coffee from a silver service and stirring in real sugar, not that saccharin stuff they were using since sugar got rationed. Why rock the boat? I could end up living in a tent somewhere, standing in line for chow slopped into a tin mess kit.
“I didn’t expect you to give up so easily, Boyle, but I’m glad you’re wising up to how we do things around here. You may end up being useful after all.”
Damn! I had just about talked myself into going along. It would’ve been fine because I was ready to believe it was my own idea. Now I had to respond, even though it was to a know-it-all superior officer spouting off at me. I always hated being told what I had to do. Probably why I never did well in school. Looked like I wasn’t going to do any better in the army. I took a gulp and let the hot, sweet black coffee kick in.
“Yeah, I’m beginning to get the picture. But there’s one thing I don’t quite understand, Major.”
Harding set down his coffee cup with a little clink as the cup hit the saucer. A delicate sound, and it made me think of coffee cooked in the field, served in a tin cup in the rain. No clink, just the pitter-patter of rain on your helmet, rain in your coffee, water squishing in your boots. Harding looked pleased, like his slowest pupil had finally come around. I set my cup down, the coffee swishing around and spilling over the edge, hot on my fingers and overflowing the saucer. A real mess.
“What’s that, Lieutenant?”
“What are you and Major Cosgrove setting me up for?”
There it was. The slightest blink registered and his pupils widened. In just a second everything was back to normal. Hard-ass Harding with the frozen face.
“We’ve been over this, Boyle. Just because we can’t tell you everything-”
“That’s not what I’m talking about, Major, and you know it. Or is Cosgrove running this little game all by himself?”
Harding half stood and slammed his right hand, palm down, on the desk. His coffee cup rattled and now he had coffee spilling into his saucer.
“Listen, you insubordinate son of a bitch-”
“No, you just listen, Major, sir!” We were both up on our feet now, spilt coffee forgotten. “When we first got here, Cosgrove and I were perfect strangers. So how did he know right away that I was just in from the States and that I came from Boston?”
“I don’t know, Boyle, and what the hell would that mean anyway?”
“It means that Cosgrove knew about me, and then pretended not to.
He lied. Why would he do that? More important, why would a lowly American lieutenant be involved with the schemes of cloak-and-dagger officers like you and Cosgrove?”
“What schemes? Maybe Cosgrove saw your file somewhere. He’s very well informed.”
“Why would MI-5 have my file?”
“Major Cosgrove works for the British General Staff, as special liaison to various governments in exile, not MI-5.”
“Or at least that’s the party line for those without need to know.”
“Have it your way, Boyle: you’re the center of a conspiracy by the British secret service, the proof of which is that Major Cosgrove knows you’re from Boston.”
Harding sat down again, gave out a little sharp laugh, and reached for a pack of Luckies. Lucky Strike Green, “Lucky Strike Green has gone to war.” Just like me. Shake one out whenever you need it, use it up, grind it under
