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

Rob said, pulling out a pack of playing cards. “What are you doing down here already?”

“I came to give you your Polish papers, of course,” Bertie replied, flourishing a handful of pamphlets.

“Well, you can jolly well take them back to wherever you got them,” Slippy muttered.

Bertie clucked his tongue.

“That’s no way to treat Top Secret government documents,” he said, handing Rob a pamphlet. “Not that I can take them back to London, although I’d enjoy the trip if I could.”

“Would you visit your sweetheart, Bertie?” Miles asked, taking his pamphlet with one hand and picking up the cards Rob had dealt with the other.

“I don’t have a sweetheart,” he replied cheerfully. “I’d visit the university, of course.”

“Do you mean to tell me that you really miss your stuffy old books?” Slippy demanded, sitting up. Bertie raised an eyebrow.

“Much can be learned from my stuffy old books,” he murmured. “Manners, for one thing.”

“Bravo!” Chris caroled, accepting his pamphlet and glancing at cursorily.

“If anyone needs to learn manners and etiquette, the Lord knows it’s you Yanks,” Slippy retorted. “No sense of tact or subtlety. None a’tall.”

“It’s bloody Swedish!”

The exclamation was made with disgust dripping from every word, and they all turned to stare. Miles very rarely was moved to any show of emotion beyond the bare minimum, and the outburst was met with a short, stunned silence.

“Hmm. So you noticed.” Bertie glanced at him. “I thought you might.”

“What’s Swedish?” Rob asked, looking up from his cards.

“The damned pamphlets.” Miles tossed the paper in question on the table disgustedly. “It’s all bloody Swedish. ‘Got morgan.’ ‘Tak’. It’s Swedish, not Polish.” He lit a cigarette and picked up his cards again. “Bloody RAF can’t even get its languages straight.”

“Is it really Swedish?” Chris examined his pamphlet. “Isn’t that where the women are all tall and blonde?”

“If it is, learning the language won’t do you any good,” Slippy said.

“Some of it’s Polish, but very little,” Bertie said with a shrug. “You’re being tested on it tomorrow, whatever it is. I know acquiring additional mental capacity and higher learning is not your forte, but do try.”

“If it’s not even Polish, I say bugger it,” Slippy announced cheerfully.

Rob turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow. “And if it was Polish?”

Slippy shrugged with a grin. “Bugger it.”

“Eloquent, our friend Slippy, isn’t he?” Miles asked, looking at Rob across the table. “It’s your go.”

“It is a bit much, though,” Rob said with a grin, turning back to the cards. “Expecting us to learn Polish or Swedish or whatever it is. I was under the impression that our job was to fly the airplanes, not learn a foreign language. That’s my sister’s department, not mine.”

Miles looked up at that. “Really? What do you mean?”

“Oh Evie’s been learning foreign languages for as long as I can remember. She speaks several. The last one was Russian, I believe. She’s quite the linguist.”

“Does she know Polish?” Chris asked, joining them at the table and motioning for Rob to deal him in. “Maybe she can come down and teach us.”

“If she does, she’d be appalled at what those papers are,” Miles said. “They could have come up with something better than that. The Polish refugees won’t have any idea what we’re saying.”

“Mother was right,” Slippy said. “Let the sods learn our language if they want to migrate to our country.”

“In all fairness, I don’t believe they had much of a choice,” Rob pointed out.

“They should have seen which way the wind was blowing.” Slippy parked himself in the last vacant chair. “Everyone else could.”

“Sometimes I really believe that your skull was filled with jelly in utero,” Miles said, throwing his cards down with a wide yawn. “Lord I’m tired. I wonder if I have time for a short kip.”

“Not likely.” Chris glanced at his watch. “They’ll be back soon.”

Miles stretched out and tilted his head back, tipping his hat across his eyes.

“Give me a shove when they do arrive,” he muttered.

Chris sighed in mock despair. “A country at war and the noble pilot sleeps at his post.”

“Not much of a war,” Slippy said. “It will all be over and done before Christmas. Mark my words.”

“Wouldn’t that be a lark!” Rob crowed.

“Won’t be much of a lark for you lot if you don’t be quiet,” Miles growled.

They all laughed and went back to their card game, the sun shining brightly in a cloudless sky.

Chapter Nine

––––––––

Oslo, Norway

Evelyn looked around as she followed the host to a table. The crowded restaurant reminded her forcibly of one of her favorite ones in Paris, glittering with light reflecting between cocktail glasses and mirrored columns. Laughter and the light chatter of patrons out to enjoy themselves surrounded her, and she felt very much at home in the gaiety. As they moved through the restaurant, she noted which tables had diners who appeared to be there for something other than food and dancing. Those were the ones she had to focus on tonight.

The host stopped at a small table and pulled the chair out for Evelyn with a smile.

“Thank you,” she murmured automatically. Even if he didn’t understand English, Evelyn supposed the meaning would be obvious.

She seated herself and watched as he moved to hold the chair for the tall woman with her. Anna Salvesen had hair the color of dark, rich mahogany and large brown eyes that seemed to sparkle constantly with some unshared joke. Evelyn had liked her immediately, drawn to the sense of careless enjoyment that she seemed to exude with every movement.

“You must try the Gravlax,” Anna said as the host moved away and she settled herself in her seat. “It is exceptional here.”

“Gravlax?”

“Smoked salmon. Trust me. You won’t regret it.”

“And this is why I wanted to have a local guide,” Evelyn said with a smile. “I would never have known what anything was, otherwise.”

Anna laughed. “I’ll take care of you,” she promised. “How long are you in Oslo?”

“Only a few days. I’m here to gather information for an article I’m writing. Unless