Free Billy Boyle by James R. Benn

double doors and we entered the solarium. I wondered what rank army waiters held. There were three of them stationed around the room, which was long and narrow, jutting out from the side of the main house, surrounded by high glass windows. If there had been any sun, it would have been plenty hot. The little light that made it through the cloud cover did raise the temperature a bit, just enough to take the damp chill out of the air. A long table was set for a luncheon. Six places on each side and one at the head of the table, that chair just a little bigger than all the others. My first throne.
    A heavyset guy who might have been a well-dressed stevedore sat at the table, smoking a cigar and pointedly staring out at the gardens so he wouldn’t have to look at the guy across from him. The other fellow, dressed in an old-fashioned frock coat with a starched collar, was visibly trying to keep himself under control, his eyes burning with obvious dislike, even hatred, of the cigar smoker. His hands were clenched and shaking, his face red, and he looked like he was currently on the loser’s end of the argument.
    As for the third guy—well, I had never seen a king before, but he had it written all over him. Tall and thin, with a thick mustache and a long, aristocratic nose, he looked completely calm, above the fray. He stood ramrod straight, dressed in a naval uniform, and gazed at us with intense interest, as if nothing had passed between the men in the room. It almost made me forget about the gold. Almost.
    “Ah, Majors Cosgrove and Harding,” King Haakon said in excellent English. “My Anglo and American compatriots. Welcome!”
    He stood, smiled warmly, and looked each of us in the eye as Harding introduced us. He had a firm handshake. When he was done, he stepped back just a bit and folded his arms behind his back, as if at parade rest. I could tell there was still some bad blood in the air. Cosgrove jumped in and introduced the two Norwegian civilians.
    Vidar Skak, the frock coat, was deputy minister of the Interior. That must have been an important job a couple of years ago, but since the Germans currently held the note on the Interior I thought he might have some time on his hands. At first I thought he was older, but then I noticed it was mostly how he dressed and acted. He looked like pictures of my grandfather on his wedding day, just not as happy. He was bony and pale, like he never spent a day outdoors, and his handshake was indifferent. But there was a determination behind those pursed lips, and I knew immediately he hadn’t given up on the argument that still hung in the air.
    Knut Birkeland was the king’s economic adviser. He was a dark-haired, beefy fellow, barrel-chested, and with a face that had felt the wind. He gripped my hand like a vise and I could feel the hard calluses on his palms. I didn’t know how much he knew about economics but I was sure he knew about work. He took Daphne’s hand in his big paw and kissed it like a pro. He looked up and caught sight of the latest arrival.
    “One of the Three Musketeers! Anders, come here!” He waved the Norwegian officer over to our group and clapped him on the shoulder as they shook hands.
    “Major Anders Arnesen, may I present the beautiful Second Officer Daphne Seaton and her Allied escort?”
    “ Fortryllet ,” said Arnesen, taking Daphne’s hand and kissing it.
    “ Enchanté , in case you are not familiar with Norwegian,” Kaz said.
    We laughed and introduced ourselves, and Daphne glowed. What fun. Next maybe we could play charades.
    “What makes you a musketeer, Major?” I asked. Anders Arnesen had a confident, easy look about him, the kind of look that well-trained soldiers displayed. Ready for anything—lunch with the king, assault a pillbox, you name it. It made me nervous.
    “Three of us escaped from the Germans and ended up with the king when he left Norway. The king’s party was small and he was glad to have some soldiers about. He…