Billy Boyle by James R. Benn Page B

much. Do you expect less of the Norwegian people?”
    King Haakon held up his hand for silence. In the midst of the enraged men in the room, he was quiet, calm, and dignified. He looked at Skak and Birkeland and stared them into submission. He turned to Harding.
    “Major Harding, is this the opinion of the American government as well?”
    “Your Highness, I only represent General Eisenhower, and we have no opinion in this matter, other than to wish to work with all parties to defeat Germany in this war.”
    I marveled at Harding’s ability to say nothing and make it sound nice. It was definitely a more refined skill than poking folks with a stick.
    “I will consult with other members of the government and our military staff. This is a difficult and demanding decision,” the king concluded. “The final recommendation shall be made by my senior adviser. I will announce who will be appointed to that post when our meetings this week are concluded.”
    He stood, folded his hands behind his back, and silently, but very effectively, dismissed us. I watched Skak and Birkeland stand and stare at each other. If there hadn’t been a big wooden table between them, they would’ve been at each other’s throats. I’d bet on Birkeland in a hand-to-hand fight. But I’d bet on Skak in a dirty fight, and this was politics, as dirty as it got.

CHAPTERSEVEN
    B EARDSLEY H ALL WAS SWARMING with Norwegian officials and all sorts of soldiers, sailors, and probably a few doctors and lawyers. Indian chiefs I wasn’t so sure about. Events were moving kind of fast, and I wanted to slow down and think things through. I went out a rear entrance, crossed a patio, and walked into the gardens. I knew I was no Einstein, but I did know how to think about things. Slowly. Thoroughly. Quietly.
    “Billy! Billy!” Kaz jogged to catch up with me, or at least jogged a few steps. He wasn’t the most athletic guy around. He puffed like he had just run a mile, and pushed up the heavy glasses that had slid down his nose. I could tell by the look on his face that quiet was not going to be in the cards.
    “Billy, this has been most exhilarating, yes?”
    “Did you expect something else?”
    “Ah! A question. That is exactly what I mean. You are full of questions, why is that?”
    I thought about that for a minute as we walked along a garden path, framed by red roses on both sides. Red petals carpeted the ground, like velvet drops of blood. I did like asking questions. Asking questions meant that there might be an answer, and that gave me hope. When you ran out of questions, the case was hopeless, and you just plain ran out of everything.
    “Questions are a dime a dozen, Kaz. Answers are what interest me. What’s so exhilarating for you?”
    “You. Your approach to things. Very direct. Even more American than any other American I’ve met. You are unafraid to go to the heart of the matter, no matter how, how… inappropriate it may be. Very un-European. I think it puts people off balance.”
    “Good way to get a reaction.”
    “If you can tell the difference between shock and guilt, Billy.”
    Guilt. I turned down a path in the garden, white roses hanging damp and heavy from thick shoots spiked with sharp thorns. Guilt will out, Dad used to say. Guilt will out, except if you’re dealing with a crazy person. Normal people just couldn’t keep guilt from showing, and all you had to do was know where to look for it. That was the hard part.
    “Guilt has its own special look and sound.”
    “Sound? What do you mean?”
    “A catch in the voice, an uplift in tone. You can hear it all the time if you listen. It doesn’t even have to do with crime. It can be emotional.”
    “How so?” Kaz asked, not quite believing me.
    I stopped and looked at him. Well, he asked. “I heard it in your voice the other night. About your parents, and the suite at the Dorchester.”
    “What? Am I guilty of a crime?” I could hear the defensiveness creep into his