Billy Boyle (35 page)

I turned my attention to the debris piled up in a corner of the lot. Bits of metal and glass, pieces of the staff cars that had been damaged, and what looked like the charred remains of luggage were heaped together. There were a couple of bicycles that had also been caught in the explosion, and other unidentifiable pieces of who knows what. Shovels and rakes were stacked up against the side of the building, left by the crew that had started the cleanup before the rains came. I grabbed a rake and started to pull the pile apart. The rain couldn’t keep the stink of wet ash and burned rubber down. I tried not to breathe too deeply as I looked through the soggy mess I raked out from the pile.

I pawed through the stuff, trying to ignore how raw and cold my hands were, and found some bits of clothing and a pile of burned papers that turned out to be a manual for a Ford sedan. I tossed the bike frames aside and dug deeper. I was soaked to the skin now, and the rain was getting worse, starting to come down sideways. There was a helluva storm brewing up. I was just about to give up the search when I saw a leather grip sticking out from under a partially charred seat cushion. I thought of Kaz’s hand holding the handle of a briefcase, and pulled it out from under the cushion. It was a cheap government issue briefcase, more of an attaché case, with hard sides and two spring locks. It hadn’t stood up well to the blast. It hung open on a busted hinge. One side was ripped and blistered, as if it had caught fire and smoldered for a bit. There was nothing inside. I looked at the warped case and wondered out loud. “Geez, Kaz, how did you manage to live through that?”

I went back to methodically pulling the pile apart again, looking for the papers or whatever else might have been inside the briefcase. It kept raining. Now lightning was striking the heath all around me. I wasn’t having fun. The only good thing was that the rain was washing the mud and ash off me as fast as I became covered in it. After half an hour all I had to show for my efforts was a disintegrating pile of charred papers that could have been the
London Times
for all I knew. It just didn’t figure. Could whatever was in the case have been totally destroyed? It must’ve fallen out of the broken briefcase when the tire bomb went off. Could it have been burned to ashes?

OK, I thought to myself, time to make like a cop and recreate the crime scene. I walked over to the door enterance to the parking lot. Four stone steps led up to large wooden double doors beneath a small arch. I stood there for a minute, looking at the position of the cars and trying to put myself in Kaz’s place.

If I’m Kaz just coming through the doors, the Imp would still be in its original parked position. I went down the steps. Kaz was excited, and would’ve been hurrying. I took quick steps. Daphne’s seen me by now, and she’s in a hurry, too. She puts the Imp in reverse, lets up on the clutch, and backs up, probably looking at Kaz. Was there a smile on her face? Boom! I stopped in my tracks. I looked all around. So many people had tramped through here and then cleaned up that nothing remained to show where Kaz had hit the ground. OK, the explosion would’ve knocked him back, and he would have dropped the briefcase. The briefcase. I should be carrying the briefcase. I marked the spot where I was standing and got the briefcase out of the pile. I tried to force it shut, but it wouldn’t close properly. I held it closed and then returned to my spot. The briefcase was slightly blistered on one side. How would Kaz have been carrying it? If he’d held it by the handle, how did one side get burned? I tried to picture Kaz in a hurry.

Two-handed. He would have been running and carrying it in front of him in both hands. He wasn’t the most athletic guy, and that would have been easier than having it bang against his leg. I held the briefcase up in front of me, the damaged side toward the car.

Boom, again. I slammed the briefcase into my chest and sprawled backward, let go of it, and hit the gravel with a thud. The briefcase bounced to my left and fell open. I got up, wondering if the briefcase had saved his life. Not really, I guess. And the contents, whatever they had been, had led to Daphne’s death.

I looked at the briefcase now on the ground. OK, it’s open. Kaz is probably nearly unconscious. But he sees the car and knows Daphne is dead. What happens next?

Another boom. This time it’s the fuel tank. What would that have been like? I shut my eyes and imagined being this close. Close enough for Kaz’s clothing to catch fire. Whoosh. A fireball. A fireball pushes out the air around it. Wind. Anything loose in its path would be scattered. The fire reaches out to Kaz, lying there, and just licks him. Heat rises. I imagined a whirlwind lifting papers out of the briefcase, setting them on fire at the edge of the fireball. Where would they go?

I did a 180 standing over the briefcase. If they had gone toward the fire, they would have been consumed. Anywhere else near it, they would have been cleaned up and I would’ve found them in that pile. Well, maybe I did, and that charred mess of paper was it. Or…

I looked toward the hall. The parking lot was on the side of the near wing, the corner of the lot adjacent to the end of the wing. A line of neatly trimmed hedges, about five feet high, ran along the edge of the lawn. They turned the corner and continued along the front of the building. I walked to the edge of the hedge that screened off the parking lot. Nothing. There was a space of about two feet between the hedges and the building itself, probably kept clear so the gardener could get in there and trim. It was starting to get dark, and it was hard to see inside the dank space. I forced my way in, the rain pelting me and the snipped ends of branches tearing at me. I saw some gray-and white shapes ahead and plunged in farther. I bent down and felt glossy paper.

Photographs. They were photographs, some of them charred at the corners, all of them wet and muddy. The blast and the wind must have scattered them, and these had been caught up within the hedge. Maybe there were more out on the lawn. It was too dark to make out what the photos showed. I gathered them up, stuck them under my coat, and backed out of the small space. I went right into the kitchen, leaving a trail of black mud and dripping rainwater behind me. The kitchen staff was preparing dinner. I pushed aside a pile of turnips and laid the photographs out on the wooden table.

“Hva helvetet er De som gjøre?”
demanded a cook, a mean look on his face as he advanced toward me with a meat cleaver.

“Excuse me, sir,” another guy said in pretty good English. “What are you doing?”

He had a dish towel draped over his shoulder and I grabbed it and wiped away the water that was dripping in my eyes.

“Hold on,” I said, using the towel to wipe off the worst of the mud on the photos. They were all black and whites, printed on eight-by-ten glossy sheets. On the back of each was stamped “Ministry of Defence—cleared by censor.” At first glance, they were pictures of British soldiers. As I laid them out, I realized they were all commandos. There were a few grinning thumbs-up photos that clearly showed the commando shoulder patch. There were commandos running, firing weapons, but it all looked… staged. Publicity photos. That’s what they were cleared for. Photos for the papers about the brilliant exploits of the commando chaps. What was the big deal?

As I went through them, I noticed several showed commandos on small boats along a rocky coast. In one, there were several boats at a dock, burning, with a group of commandos smiling at the camera. This one had a caption on the back:

The Nazis won’t be making nitroglycerin from

fish caught by these boats, thanks to a recent

raid on the Norwegian coast by a joint British

and Norwegian commando unit!

I went back and looked through the photos again. I realized these were all probably taken on raids into Norway. In a few, there were signs in Norwegian. I didn’t know what they meant, but I had seen enough Norwegian to recognize it.

By now, the kitchen crew was all gathered around and looking at the photos with me. They saw the Norwegian, too, and started chattering. The cook with the meat cleaver put it down and joined the crowd. I tried to tune them out and see if I could find what was special about these pictures. What had been worth two lives? What would incriminate Rolf Kayser? I flipped through them again. Then I saw it, as clear as day. A photo of a commando standing back from a burning wooden building, a can of gasoline in his hand. It was a two-story structure on a dock; a small town was visible in the background. Flames were licking the side of the building, just below the name of the business painted up on the second story, between two windows. Kayser Fiskeri.

I didn’t need to ask, but I did anyway.

“What’s
fiskeri
?” I asked the group.

“Fishery,” said the English-speaking guy. “A fish-processing plant.”

Money. It had just been about money all along. God-damn! Had Birkeland and Daphne died because of Rolf Kayser’s family
business
? I wanted to cry, but like I said, a Boston cop doesn’t cry. I gathered up the photos slowly and wiped my face one more time. Seemed like there was still rainwater in my eyes.

I decided Harding could damn well wait and went up to my room to clean up. I ran a hot bath, dumped my muddy clothes, and soaked for a while. I was trying to figure out a way to get close to Rolf before they took him into custody. I didn’t have any bright ideas, but I knew I didn’t want him sitting out the war safely in a cell as the Allied wheels of justice slowly turned and better men and women than he died by the score. I put on fresh fatigues and boots, strapped on my .45, looked at the pictures again, and thought it all through.

Twenty minutes later I was in the map room, where I found Harding and Jens, sitting across from each other at the long table, drinking coffee. They weren’t working, or talking. I tossed the incriminating photograph down between them.

“I learned a new Norwegian word today,” I said. “
Fiskeri
.”

“What’s this?” Harding asked, picking up the photo with his good hand.

“A picture taken less than two months ago on a commando raid on the Norwegian coast. There are other pictures of them burning fishing boats, part of the campaign to cut off the German supply of fish oil, for making nitroglycerin. In this one they’re burning a fish-processing facility, evidently owned by the Kayser family. Kayser Fiskeri.”

“But Rolf himself went on some of these raids,” protested Jens.

“What else could he do? If he refused, somebody else would do the honors. He’s not stupid. He probably knew that the issue would be decided when the king appointed the senior adviser and tried to move things in his favor by getting rid of Birkeland.”

“Didn’t anyone here know about his family’s business?” asked Harding with a hard glance at Jens.

“Only what he told us, that his family was well off, and wanted him to go to law school. It would be difficult to check, and we had no reason to do so. Rolf was with us from the beginning. Kayser is not an uncommon name in Norway, you know.” Jens shrugged.

“I’ll bet his family owns a whole string of these plants,” I said, “maybe fishing boats, too, and he was determined to protect their investments. Kaz may have found some other proof, but this photo clinches it for me. It’s the missing motive.”

“I follow what you’re saying, Boyle,” Harding said. “But what about the note that Daphne and Kaz received? And how could Kayser have killed Birkeland when he had gone hunting with the king?”

“No one ever saw the note; Rolf delivered the message personally. As for the time of death, I have a few questions to ask Rolf before I can explain that. I think I have it straight, but I want to talk to him first.” Talk to him alone, I thought. “Do we have him in custody yet?”

“There’s a little problem, Boyle. He’s already left.”

“What? Where the hell did he go?”

“Norway,” answered Jens. “On a mission to the Nordland province.”

“What’s going on here? How could you let him go?”

“Simmer down, Boyle,” Harding said. “By the time Jens got through to Southwold, Kayser was long gone. He must have driven straight there this morning. Then he hopped a Sunderland flying boat that dropped him at a base up north in the Shetland Islands. The SOE runs a sort of ferry service between there and Norway.”

“How did he just happen to hop on this aircraft and then conveniently catch a boat to Norway?” I asked.

Jens answered, “We wanted to dispatch a team to train Underground Army units in the use of explosives, so they could go into action in coordination with the invasion. Rolf organized the transport, landing areas, contacts, everything. We have been waiting for the right weather for them to take the Shetland Bus.”

“The what?” This was getting stranger all the time. I sat down hard, the energy I had received from finding the photographs and learning Rolf Kayser’s motive, drained by the distance Rolf had put between us.

“That’s what we call the boats that go back and forth to Norway. Most are Norwegian fishing boats that have fled to England. They carry agents and supplies over, mingle with the regular fishing fleet, make their drops, and then bring back recruits. It works quite well.”

“Kayser wasn’t scheduled to go over,” Harding explained. “He added his name to the list at the last minute. Since he had been in on the plan from the beginning, no one questioned it.”

“Seems like a pretty loose operation,” I said.

“No, not at all,” Jens protested. “As a member of the planning staff, it was appropriate for Rolf to fly up to Shetland to check on weather conditions. And once the boat was ready to leave, he could easily join the others. No one else involved in the planning of the mission was there to contradict him.”

“This Shetland operation,” Harding explained, “the Shetland Bus, is a bit unorthodox in its methods. It’s nominally run by the Royal Navy, but the sailors are all volunteer Norwegian fishermen. Very effective, but Kayser could easily take advantage of their informality.”

“Can’t you radio them? They can’t leave until this storm clears, can they?”

“Sorry, Billy, but this is perfect weather,” Jens said. “We usually don’t make runs in the summer, because of the long daylight. Too much chance of being spotted by German air or naval patrols. But in this weather, they don’t go out. There’s rain and fog up north. Fishermen are used to it, but the Luftwaffe won’t fly and even if they send out patrol boats they won’t be able to see two meters in front of them.”