Getting up, Evelyn crossed the room swiftly and went out, heading for the stairs. There was one way to contact Bill, and it involved getting changed and meeting Anna for coffee in an hour.
6th April, 1940
Dear Evelyn,
How’s the training in Wales? I know you won’t get this until you get back, so I hope it went well. We’re flying patrols more frequently now. Every third day we fly to the advance station on the coast and spend the day there, flying constantly over the channel and France. The other day we flew a reconnaissance flight over the North Sea. It’s all very dull, to be honest. We’re all rather keen to sight some Jerries, but so far we haven’t had even a wingtip to shoot at.
The Yank had a spot of excitement today. He was flying back from a patrol when one of his propellers snapped clean off! He had to land at Hornchurch with only one prop. Turns out dry rot set in, so now they’re replacing all the propellers in the squadron to make sure it doesn’t happen to anyone else. The CO says we were due for the new propeller kit anyway. Chris swears that termites attacked his Spit! He really does seem to have the worst luck. Thank God he’s a good flier!
I read in the newspaper this morning that the Dutch troops have been put on full alert along the border. It won’t be long now. Do you think Hitler will move soon? Rob thinks he will try something up in Sweden or Norway first, then turn his attention to France. I think he’ll just go straight for France. We have a small pool riding on it. Care to join? It’s a ten quid buy in, and I’ll put in for you if you tell me your choice! The pot is already over a hundred pounds.
I hope you’re well. I had a dream last night that we were in London and the air raid sirens went off. When I turned to grab you, you were gone and I couldn’t find you to get you to the shelter. You’d simply disappeared. Strange things, dreams. I can never make head or tail of them. They’re supposed to mean something, but I’ve no idea what the meaning could possibly be behind that one.
I’m off to sleep now. We’re back to the advance base in the morning. Take care of yourself.
Yours,
FO Miles Lacey
RAF Duxford
Hotel Bristol, Oslo
The lobby of the hotel was nearly deserted in the early afternoon. Aside from the tall man checking in at the desk, the only other occupants were two porters and a couple crossing the tiled floor from the direction of the attached restaurant. It was unusually slow for a Saturday, but the lack of traffic suited the newcomer signing the registration card just fine. Less people meant less exposure, and that was something he preferred whenever possible. He finished filling in the card and handed it to the manager.
“And how long will you be staying with us, Herr Gruber?” the manager asked.
“I am not sure. Perhaps a week. Perhaps longer. It depends upon my business.” The man smiled apologetically and the concierge nodded.
“Yes, of course.” He turned to get a key from a slot on the wall behind him. “I understand. Have you stayed with us before?”
“Yes, indeed. I was here last summer.”
“We thank you for returning.” He handed him the key to his room. “Shall I summon a porter for your bags?”
“No, I’ll take them. Thank you.”
“Very well. Enjoy your stay, Herr Gruber. If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“I won’t.”
He inclined his head politely and turned from the desk to walk across the lobby to the lift. As he walked, his dark eyes scanned the faces of the few occupants in the lobby out of habit. He carried a suitcase in each hand and his brown overcoat was unremarkable. He looked like any other businessman checking into another hotel in a line of cities. And that was exactly how he wanted to appear. He had made a successful career out of disappearing into crowds. Despite his height, no one ever looked twice at the weary businessman. They never noticed his eyes with their exceptionally keen gaze, or the way he moved with purpose that bespoke a confidence rarely seen in mid-level sales and businessmen.
And they certainly never realized that he heard and saw much more than most.
The man going by the alias Herr Gruber stepped into the lift, nodding to the attendant.
“The third floor,” he told him.
The attendant nodded and closed the gate, pulling the handle. As the lift jerked into motion and moved upwards, Herr Gruber set down his suitcases and looked at his watch. The ride from the airport had taken less than half an hour and he was well ahead of schedule. He wasn’t due to check in with Hamburg for another hour. Perhaps he would have time to grab something to eat before his scheduled transmission.
“Is the restaurant still open for lunch?” he asked the attendant.
The man looked at his watch and nodded. “For another hour, sir.”
Herr Gruber nodded and bent to pick up his suitcases again as the lift came to a stop and the attendant opened the
