by James R Benn
A MORTAL TERROR
ALSO BY THE AUTHOR
Billy Boyle
The First Wave
Blood Alone
Evil for Evil
Rag & Bone
Copyright © 2011 by James R. Benn
All rights reserved.
Published by Soho Press, Inc.
853 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
Maps used with permission of the U.S. Army, Center of Military History.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Benn, James R.
A mortal terror / James R. Benn.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-56947-994-0
eISBN 978-1-56947-995-7
1. Boyle, Billy (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. World War,
1939-1945—Italy—Fiction. 3. Soldiers—Crimes against—Fiction.
4.Americans—Italy—Fiction. 5. Serial murder investigation—Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3602.E6644M67 2011
813’.6—dc22
2011018081
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This book is for—
Camille
Claudia
Emma
Luke
Nathaniel
Noah
Oliver
The future.
swift there came
a mortal terror;
voices that I knew.
The Epic of Hades, Book II, Actaeon
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Part Two
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventen
Chapter Eighteen
Part Three
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Part Four
Chapter Forty-One
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
PART ONE
Switzerland
CHIASSO, SWITZERLAND
SWISS-ITALIAN BORDER
January 1944
CHAPTER ONE
KIM PHILBY OWED me one. I’d helped him out back in London, and he told me to ask if I ever needed a favor. Well, now that I needed one, I didn’t hesitate. I wanted to be there when—not if, when—Diana Seaton returned from her mission.
Philby was the only person who could make that happen, so I was glad he was in my debt. As head of the British Secret Intelligence Service’s Mediterranean operations, he controlled all the spies, saboteurs, and agents operating in neutral nations and behind enemy lines from Portugal to Turkey. That included Diana Seaton of the Special Operations Executive, who had been sent into Rome, disguised as a nun, to establish contact with a pro-Allied circle within the Vatican.
How do I, a lowly lieutenant, know all this? Because Diana Seaton is the love of my life, and I worry about her day and night. A lot of people worry about each other in this war, but unlike them, I can do something about it. I work for General Dwight David Eisenhower, which gives me access to secrets out of the reach of most colonels and many generals. The fact that in private I call him Uncle Ike doesn’t hurt either. It allows me to get involved with men like Kim Philby. When Philby called two days ago to tell me he was good for the favor I’d asked, Uncle Ike gave me a five-day leave and told me to stay out of trouble. I’m going to Switzerland, I told him, how much trouble could there be in a neutral country?
As I stamped my feet on the station platform, trying to keep warm, I thought I might have been off the mark. It was cold, and the sun was casting its last feeble yellow rays sideways from the west. I watched the German and Italian border guards, about fifty yards away, their frosted breath trailing like plumes as they walked. Chiasso is a border town, and the railroad runs right through it. The platform stretches from the station on the Swiss side south to the Italian border, marked by a customs house and crossing gate. Philby and I had been waiting an hour, nervously watching the train halted behind the gate, still on Italian soil. Diana was on board, or so I’d hoped, until a half dozen men in leather trench coats entered the train, and a platoon of German soldiers with submachine guns surrounded it. The black locomotive released a sigh of steam from its boiler, as if straining at the leash for the final stretch.
“Gestapo,” Philby had said. “Not to worry. She has good travel papers, signed by the German general commanding rail transport in Northern Italy.”
“The Gestapo can sniff out phony papers, no matter how good.”
“Oh, they’re the real thing, old boy,” Philby said, clenching his pipe between his teeth. “This general is quite the churchgoer, especially since he arranged for the transport of several thousand Italian Jews.”
“To where?” I knew the Nazis were rounding up Jews everywhere, and shooting a lot of them. But I didn’t know where they kept transporting them to, or why. It didn’t make sense when they needed railroads for troops and supplies, but then nothing in this war made much sense.
“To those camps in the east we keep hearing about. This old general began to feel guilty, more so after we landed in Italy. He let it be known he’d be glad to do a small favor for the Vatican now and then.”
“Isn’t it dangerous to give him Diana’s name? Or whatever name she’s using?”
“Yes, it would be,” Philby said absently, as he knocked the ash from his pipe and jammed it into his coat pocket. “That’s why she’s coming out with a group of twenty nuns. Didn’t want to tell you the details before now, you understand.”
“Sure, security. Lot of that going around.”
“The cover story is that they’re being sent to a convent outside of Zurich, to relieve crowding in the Holy See. Solid on all counts. Look there,” he said, pointing to the train. A rush of black leather exited, accompanied by shouted orders. The troops surrounding the train trotted to their vehicles. The Italian border guards stood back, melting into the shadows, mere spectators on their own soil. Two burly Gestapo men stepped down from a train car, holding a civilian by his elbows, guiding him to the waiting sedan. The civilian looked around, his head swiveling wildly as he sought some way out. He dug in his heels, but the two goons carried him easily. Then he dropped, as if he’d fainted. One of the Germans pulled back his leg to give him a kick, and all of a sudden the prisoner was up, pushing his tormentor and twisting free. He ran along the train, his arms pumping, and leapt from the platform, hitting the ground hard, rolling and coming up at a run, limping as one leg threatened to give out. Pistol shots cracked and gray dust kicked up at his feet. Then an
MP40 submachine gun sounded, the harsh burst slamming into his back. He took another two steps, perhaps not realizing that death had burrowed into muscle and bone. His momentum propelled him forward, almost in a cartwheel, until his body fell limply across the track. The sigh of steam flowed from the locomotive again, a mournful sound that seemed to apologize for the sudden death of a passenger so close to his final destination.
The Germans pushed the Italian border guards forward, ordering them to retrieve the body. As they grabbed the fellow by his feet and pulled, they left a streak of crimson that pointed, like an arrow, to the Swiss side.
“Lucky fellow,” Philby said. “That was at least quick.”
“One of yours?”
“No. Some poor bastard on the run. Deserter, maybe. Probably betrayed by some other chap looking to save his own skin. Here we go,” he said as the gate was raised and the train finally lurched forward, its giant steel wheels rolling over the bloodstains as it left Nazi territory.
The train arrived at the platform, and lights switched on above us as the sun gave up and set below the looming mountains. To the south, a blanket of darkness settled over occupied Italy, where the blackout was complete, not a glimmer allowed to guide Allied bombers. The Swiss side seemed gaudy in comparison, bright lights shining on gray pavement and orange tile roofs. Maybe I’d gotten used to the blackout in London, but the glare of streetlights and lamps was blinding. I shaded my eyes and strained to see into the compartments as they rolled by, the train moving slowly until its caboose was safely on neutral ground.
The compartment doors opened, and the passengers spilled out with a mix of nervous chatter and ashen faces. Some looked like businessmen, others refugees. Wartime travel to a neutral country provided for odd traveling companions. Then I saw them, two cars down: a procession of black habits, led by an older nun. They wore cloaks against the cold and white wimples encased their faces, their black veils prohibiting sideways glances, their eyes focused on the ground at their feet.
“Hold,” Philby said in a low voice, placing his hand on my arm. “Don’t say anything. We don’t know who may be watching the station.”
I saw her. Not her face, but her walk. Nothing could hide that confident swing of her shoulders, the aristocratic posture, the determined steps. It was Diana, her head bowed a fraction less than the others. The nun in the lead said something in Italian, and they turned to enter the open doors of the station. Diana glanced up, looking in all directions. Her eyes met mine and flashed wide for a split second, then disappeared as she assumed the obedient, demure posture of a nun following her abbess.
Philby and I fell in a few steps behind them as I watched for signs of anyone trailing us. I pulled my hat brim low over my eyes, blending in with the crowd, while trying to spot anyone who didn’t. I was in civilian clothes, and if it hadn’t been for the threat of German agents in similar attire, not to mention the blood on the tracks, I might have talked myself into enjoying this Swiss interlude. Instead, I saw everything with suspicious eyes, not trusting that anyone was who he said he was. I wasn’t, Diana certainly wasn’t, so how could we assume we were surrounded by harmless Swiss neutrals?
We trailed the procession of nuns out onto the street. They walked up the Corso San Gottardo, each clutching a small black suitcase, dodging the pedestrians strolling along the thoroughfare. Wind whipped at their cloaks and veils, the black fabric snapping like flags in a parade. Passing restaurants and shops with unaccustomed light spilling out into the street, the nuns made a beeline for the Chiesa di Santa Maria, a bronze-roofed church in a small, parklike setting. Trees surrounded two buildings to the rear, and I guessed this was where they’d be staying. As they entered the church, Philby guided me down a narrow side street, where a gray sedan sat idling. We got in the backseat and the driver took off without a word, circling around to the rear of the church. The car stopped and Philby got out, holding the car door open. A church door opened, the light from inside briefly framing the silhouette of a nun, who dashed to the car and slid into the backseat. Philby slammed the door and got in the front, a split second before the driver accelerated and sped along the gravel drive and out onto the road.
“Billy,” Diana said, glancing toward Philby, her eyes showing a curious mix of surprise, joy, and fear. “Why are you here? Is something wrong?”
“Nothing wrong, my dear,” said Philby. “I simply owed Lieutenant Boyle a favor and brought him along to see the sights.”
“Then you have been busy since I last saw you,” Diana said to me, her face relaxing. We’d last seen each other in Naples, a month ago, before an assignment from Uncle Ike cut our time together short.
“Yes. I asked if I could tag along when your mission was finished. I never thought you’d be brought out so soon.”
“It was … sudden,” she said. Her voice wavered, and I thought tears welled up in her eyes, but she regained her composure in an instant, running the rosary beads she wore through her fingers. “What’s the connection?” Diana asked in a low voice, nodding toward Philby.
“It’s a long story.”
“They all are,” Diana said, as she took my hand in hers and gazed out the window. She rubbed the moisture away and stared at the traffic, the streetlights, the glow from windows—all the signs of normalcy that had become so abnormal in these years of war. She blinked rapidly as the tears returned, and one dropped onto the back of my hand.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Long and sad,” she said. “Every story is so long and so sad.” She gripped my hand until her knuckles turned white. We drove on through the peaceful streets in silence broken only by the sound of muffled sobs.
CHAPTER TWO
THE HOTEL TURCONI was located just north of Chiasso. It sat atop a hill at the start of a wave of foothills and high ridges cresting the Alps themselves. It was a small place, perfect for knowing who your fellow guests were, and for watching the winding road that led up from the border town. When we’d first checked in, the owner nodded to Philby like a long-time customer, the kind who liked to be left alone. He didn’t blink at our passports, both Irish, and reserved a table in an alcove for our meals, set apart from the other diners. Our papers and our names were phony, but the money Philby handed over wasn’t. I hoped he wasn’t stingy with the king’s pound notes, since I didn’t like the idea of German agents paying us a visit while we slept.
The owner himself served us. Wild mushroom soup and roasted duck breast with apples, washed down with a couple of bottles of Merlot Bianco—from his cousin’s vineyard, he was proud to tell us. It beat dining in London, with all the rationing restrictions, even though Diana was still dressed as a nun.
“Why don’t you change?” I asked as our host cleared the dishes and Philby fired up his pipe. “Do you need clothes?”
“Kim,” Diana said. “Didn’t you tell him?”
“Tell me what?” I wanted to know.
“The mission isn’t over,” she said, lowering her voice. “I needed to report something in person, so I asked to come out. I’ll go back as soon as I can.”
“I will be the one to make that decision, my dear,” Philby said in his best professorial tone. “That’s why I didn’t tell Boyle. I’m not sure myself if you should go back. First, I need to hear what was so important, and how you came to learn of it. The Germans are great ones for playing games, and it could be false intelligence designed to draw out an agent, forcing you to take the sort of intemperate action you did.”
“This is not the sort of intelligence they would plant,” Diana said. “And I am not intemperate.” She drank her wine and set the glass down hard, punctuating her statement.
“Very well,” Philby said, shrugging his acceptance. “We can discuss the matter later, in private.”
“No,” Diana said. “This is not something to be hidden away and kept secret. Billy does work for General Eisenhower, after all.” She made it sound like Philby was an idiot, not her spymaster boss.
“And
I am in the business of managing secrets,” Philby said. “Not broadcasting them before their usefulness can be determined.”
“I saw a report from the bishop of Berlin, Konrad von Preysing,” Diana said, ignoring Philby, who refilled his wine glass and eyed her with faint amusement, as if she were a precocious child on the verge of misbehavior. “It was sent directly to the pope, and one of his secretaries typed a copy …”
“If you insist on proceeding, move on to the facts,” Philby said. “There is no need to detail your sources for Lieutenant Boyle.” It was a way for him to assert his authority while allowing her to continue.
Diana waited for a heartbeat, then nodded. “Kurt Gerstein is an Obersturmführer in the SS. A lieutenant. He joined the Nazis in 1933, but quickly became disillusioned and spoke out against their antireligious policies. For his involvement with various Christian youth groups, he was thrown out of the party, severely beaten, and briefly imprisoned for anti-Nazi activities.”
