The Oslo Affair (Shadows of War, #2) by CW Browning (read after .txt) 📗

“No. Your directions were perfect. It was very simple.” Evelyn hesitated, then took a deep breath. “I wonder if I could bother you for more assistance?”

“If I can help, I’m happy to.”

“I was told you know of someone who would be able to translate for me?”

Else nodded. “Yes, there are a few different people we can contact for you. What did you have in mind?”

“I have to go out and about this evening,” Evelyn said slowly. “I may need to go to a few different restaurants and would feel more comfortable if I had someone with me who spoke the language.”

Else shot her a look under her eyebrows.

“Restaurants? What are you looking for?”

“Not what, who. I’m told there are a lot of Germans in the city.”

Else thought for a moment. “Well, you could try the Hotel Bristol. They have a very popular restaurant and dance floor. There is also a cocktail lounge very close to it that is popular. They would be good places to start. The Hotel especially is a favorite of most visitors to Oslo. I can think of one person in particular who might be willing to go with you. She is about your age and works as a secretary for a law firm.”

“How do I contact her?”

“You don’t. I will send Josef with a message and he will get it to her.” Else set the knife down and went to the back door. Opening it, she called out and waited for a second until she heard a muffled response. “Josef is her god-father,” she added, coming back to the island. “She will come after work if he asks. She knows the city well and would also be a good guide.”

“She speaks English?”

“Yes. Her mother insisted all the children learn, along with the German.” Else shrugged. “She felt it would be useful for them.”

The door to the garden opened and Josef came into the kitchen.

“Tørk av de støvlene før du søler til hele gulvet mitt!” Else exclaimed as he stepped into the house.

Evelyn hid a smile as Josef comically stepped back and proceeded to wipe his feet on the straw mat outside the door.

“What are you doing here?” he asked in German, re-entering the house and pinning Evelyn with a stare. “I thought you went out.”

“She’s been and come back, Josef.” Else also switched to German, her knife slicing steadily through the pile of carrots. “She’ll be going out this evening. I thought Anna could accompany her.”

Josef went to the long counter adjacent to the sink and picked up a glass from the drying board. He filled it with water and turned to look across the kitchen at Evelyn.

“She would be a good choice,” he agreed, sipping the water. “They’re of a same age. Where are you going?”

“Else suggested the restaurant at Hotel Bristol,” Evelyn said easily, glancing at the other woman. “And a cocktail lounge nearby.”

Josef nodded. “I’ll go send a message to her and ask her to come around when she is finished working for the day.”

“Thank you.”

He finished his drink and set the glass down, turning to leave the kitchen again. When he reached the door, he glanced over his shoulder.

“If you’re going to the Hotel Bristol, you’ll want to be careful,” he said. “It’s a popular hotel with travelers, particularly the Germans.”

Evelyn felt her lips curve in a faint smile.

“That’s what I’m hoping for.”

RAF Duxford

“All right gentlemen, that’s enough.”

An authoritative voice rose above the din in the pilots briefing room and Miles stubbed out his cigarette, sitting back on the two seater couch in the corner. The briefing room was unlike any other briefing room in England. The pilots of 66 Squadron were known throughout the RAF, somewhat notoriously, as Corinthian Squadron. Most of them, with the exception of the Yank, were reservists from the Auxiliary Air Force, or the weekend fliers as they were called. Chris was the only American in the squadron, having gone to Canada to join the RAF, and the only pilot without a number at the end of his name.  By and large, they came from wealthy families and were accustomed to a certain standard of living. When the RAF accommodations fell short of that standard, they took it upon themselves to remedy it. Whispers of champagne with their dinner and oriental rugs in their mess halls ran rampant on other airfields, providing considerable amusement for the pilots in question. While most of the rumors were completely untrue, there was no disputing the fact that Corinthian Squadron had the most lavishly furnished briefing rooms, bedrooms and recreation rooms. There was even an old shed that they had converted into a squash court.

“Thank you.”

A stocky man of medium height stood before the twelve pilots dressed in uniform with a heavy leather flight jacket tossed over his shoulders. His name was Boyd Ashmore, and he was their Squadron Leader. As the room fell quiet, he cleared his throat.

“First of all, it has been brought to my attention that there was something of a ruckus down at the pub again last night. That’s the third time in the past two weeks. I’d appreciate it if you’d not upset the locals. Remember that you are officers in the Royal Air Force, and please act like it. I’m getting tired of having the pub landlord in my office.” He looked around the room sternly. “We are at war, gentlemen, even if it doesn’t seem like it. Let’s try to maintain some semblance of decorum when we’re out and about.”

Several of the men in the room shifted in their seats uncomfortably and, after sending another glare around the room, Ashmore nodded.

“Second order of business. Once again, it has been brought to my attention that several complaints have been made about low-level flying over farmers’ fields. It’s disturbing the livestock, or so I’m told.” He glanced up from the sheet in his hand and paused, then lowered his eyes again. “Right. I’ve addressed that, then,” he muttered.

Miles couldn’t stop the grin