“I’m going over the mountain, Billy. Can you make it down the trail?”
“Yeah, I can make it.”
“You have a plan to get back home?”
“Home? No. England? Maybe. I probably shouldn’t say too much about that.”
He laughed. “We both should probably not say too much about this entire affair.”
“I can’t promise what I’ll say,” I said, thinking about how I’d explain all this if I ever got back to England.
“I understand, Billy.” He smiled weakly and reached into his pocket.
“Please accept this gift from Captain Karl Fredriksen.” He handed me the book of poetry. The Edda, it said on the cover, which displayed three Viking warriors holding their shields proudly.
“Karl. OK, Karl. Take care of yourself.” He walked away, then stopped and turned.
“There’s one thing I’d like you to know, Billy. This whole operation was my own idea, to get my father out of Dachau. He’s an opponent of the regime. Not anybody important, just an old man who complained too often and too loudly to the wrong people. He fought in the last war, and did not wish to see his son fight in another.”
“Yeah, same with my father.”
“The difference, Billy, is that in my country opposition meant imprisonment. The Nazis do not like anyone to speak as their conscience dictates.”
“How are you going to get him out?”
“I have a deal with the Gestapo. If I bring them military secrets, he will be freed. When I saw how fast things were falling apart in Norway, I knew I could blend in and end up in England. My mother was Norwegian, and we had spent summers there. No one ever doubted me.”
“You think the Gestapo will uphold their end of the bargain and let your father go?”
“If he is still alive, perhaps. I have no idea if he has survived, but it is the best chance I have. So you see, Billy, I do understand justice for one person.”
Then he was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
It was a long journey back to England and to ETO headquarters at Grosvenor Square. I’d walked down the mountain and made my underground contact for the trip back home, just as Jens had planned. This time there was a fishing boat right in the fjord, to take me out to a rendezvous with a Free French submarine. They had two other agents with them and picked up a navigator from a Lancaster bomber, the only survivor from his crew. The return trip was slow, lots of it underwater, which was just fine with me. My eyesight cleared up and most everything healed. All the wounds that had bled, anyway. I spent a lot of time reading that volume of poetry, the only book in English on board.
When I got off the sub at Portsmouth, there was a detachment of American MPs waiting for me. Not an honor guard. They hustled me back to London, escorted me to my room at the Dorchester, and ordered me to dress in my Class A uniform. It was very politely done, they called me “sir” at all the right times, but they made it clear I wasn’t the one giving the orders. A new set of clothes had been laid out on the bed and I dressed, wondering if a court- martial had been organized already. Welcome back, you’re guilty, proceed directly to Leavenworth.
The MPs deposited me at headquarters and I was signed over to the sergeant of the guard like a delivery of Spam. A clipboard with orders changed hands and I tried to sneak a peek, but the MPs were too fast for me. They left, and two sentries with Thompsons slung over their shoulders, leather straps gleaming with polish, escorted me down a hall and up two flights of stairs. One in front, one behind.
Minutes later I was sitting on a hardback chair in a hallway, the two GIs guarding me as if I were Hermann Goring. A door opened and Major Harding stepped out. He snapped his fingers at me like I was a tardy waiter and crooked his finger.
“Boyle, in here.”
“Good to see you, too, Major,” I said.
“At ease, boys,” I said to my guards as I stood. No reason for me to start acting polite now.
“Shut up, Boyle, and get inside.” Harding sounded tired and disappointed. He shut the door behind me as I walked into the room. Curtained windows provided the long, narrow room with an atmosphere of gloom, and a cloud of cigarette smoke hung in the light of a lamp over the table. Along the wall on my right was a large map of Norway, covering it from floor to ceiling, marked with red arrows launched from Scotland and points south. The invasion. I imagined right now “Anders,” or whatever his real name was, might be standing in front of a map just like this, briefing some Kraut generals. They probably looked happier than the trio who confronted me. A large rectangular table dominated the center of the room, with Uncle Ike seated opposite the door. The dark wood, probably walnut, shone; it must have been waxed and polished for a hundred years. I could see Uncle Ike’s reflection in it and he didn’t look any happier there than right side up. He held a cigarette in his hand and tapped it on the rim of a glass ashtray full of butts and ashes. Major Cosgrove sat on one side of him. Harding gestured for me to take the seat opposite the general. He sat on the other side. Uncle Ike studied me as I sat down. I felt the color drain from my face and my heart race. I didn’t want to hear what was coming next. I looked down to avoid their eyes and found my own staring back up at me. I put my hand flat on the table, covering my reflection, and, for the first time, realized what my father had tried to brush away from that tabletop at Kirby’s.
“William, first let me say that I’m glad you’re not hurt, and that you are back with us,” Uncle Ike began. I nodded, too nervous to get a word out. It was swell that my own relative was glad I wasn’t dead. I couldn’t really expect more than that. I put both hands on the table to keep them from shaking.
“Having said that, there are some very serious charges leveled at you, and we need to get to the bottom of them. These issues go beyond your personal desire for revenge, or justice, or whatever misguided emotion led you to take these steps in the first place.”
He ground out his cigarette and didn’t say anything: my invitation to explain myself.
“I… I’m sorry, General.” I managed to sputter out the words. “I didn’t think this would involve you. I know I’m going to be punished, sir, but I don’t want any blame to fall on you.”
“That’s very considerate, William, but everything here involves me. Especially when one of my officers, privy to invasion plans, goes off on his own behind enemy lines.”
Uncle Ike sat back, lit another cigarette, and nodded to Major Harding. Harding opened a folder with a red tab and consulted it.
“Lieutenant Boyle, we understand that with the help of Captain Jens Iversen, you doctored legitimate orders signed by me and Major Cosgrove, to provide yourself with transportation to Norway for the purpose of pursuing Rolf Kayser. Correct?”
“Essentially, sir, except that Jens had nothing to do with it. I retyped the orders myself.”
“Don’t bother, young man,” Cosgrove said huffily. “We have a signed statement from that officer.” He pushed a sheet of paper over to me. He was right.
“As you say, sir.”
“And you tracked down Rolf Kayser at a rendezvous he had planned with Major Anders Arnesen?”
“Sort of, sir. I got there first and waited for him at a hut. With Anders.” They looked at each other. Uncle Ike raised an eyebrow, Cosgrove harrumphed, and Harding nodded slowly. What the hell did all that mean?
“Tell us what happened there,” said Harding, as he scribbled a note in the folder. Evidence for the prosecution.
“I told Anders that Rolf was Birkeland’s murderer and Daphne’s, too, and described the photographic evidence Kaz had found. We came up with a plan to capture him. Anders wanted me to take him alive so Rolf could give him some information he needed about the Underground Army. We planned a trap. We switched uniforms so I could get Rolf to follow me into the hut, where we could nab him.”
“So what happened?” Uncle Ike asked.
“First I have to tell you about Anders-” I started.
“Yes, we know he was the spy,” Harding said. “Please continue.”
“You knew? But-”
