“I’m interested in whatever you’re interested in.”
“I’m interested in climbing Mount Vesuvius with you, and enjoying the whole week ahead of us.”
“Me, too,” I said, keeping my thoughts to myself. I wanted nothing more than to spend the few days ahead with Diana, climbing volcanoes if need be. But another part of me couldn’t stop trying to figure out what she was up to, and I wasn’t smart enough to listen to that distant, small voice in the back of my mind, telling me to leave well enough alone.
I didn’t. Brindisi was well south of our lines, a safe place for an SOE agent to claim to be from. It made sense that Diana would want to pick up some local dialect, to solidify her cover. Her Italian was fluent, but it was classroom Italian, and she’d want to sound like a native when she spoke it. It was only when I saw her face framed as it would be in a nun’s habit that her trip to church with me made sense. She was going as a nun, a sister from Brindisi. Maybe she’d even taken the name Justina, if they hadn’t picked one out for her yet. There were nuns all over Italy, but there was only one place the SOE was likely to send an agent disguised as one.
“The Vatican,” I whispered to her. “You’re going as a nun.”
Her eyes widened for a moment, and then anger narrowed them. She moved away from me, gripping the rail with both hands. Her knuckles went white.
“It isn’t a game, Billy. You should know that.”
“You said I should figure it out, Diana.”
“Yes, let’s see how smart Billy Boyle is. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?” With that, she stalked off, heading into a gaggle
of naval officers, surrounding herself with them, sealing me off behind a wall of white hats and gold braid.
I’d gotten it wrong. Well, I’d gotten it
right
, but that was the problem. It wasn’t a guessing game, it was life or death. And something beyond that for Diana. It was what she needed to do to prove herself worthy of living. So many people had died around her that she needed to face death all over again to understand why it hadn’t taken her. I shouldn’t have cheapened that with my guess. But I had to know where she was going, in case she needed me. Knowing might allow me to pretend, at least to myself, that I could protect her. Things got complicated when it came to women; I wasn’t good at complicated.
I walked back toward the bridge, where the newly promoted Colonel Sam Harding was installed, monitoring radio traffic from headquarters at Caserta, in case a communication needed the general’s attention. Harding was another one of the joyous crowd today, having received his promotion along with me yesterday. He was now a lieutenant colonel, and I knew he was happy about it because he hadn’t frowned once all day. That was riotous joy for Sam Harding, regular army, West Pointer, and my immediate boss.
Before I came to the bridge, I joined Uncle Ike and Kay as the destroyer changed course to starboard and the craggy white cliffs of Capri came into view. The sun sparkled on the dolomite rock formations and the villas dotting the beaches and hills. Kay pointed to one of the largest homes, blinding white with an orange roof, remarking on its stark beauty.
“Whose villa is that?” Uncle Ike asked of a naval aide at his side.
“Why, that’s your villa, General,” the aide said. “Captain Butcher assigned it to you.”
The general lost his smile. He stepped away from Kay and pointed to an even larger villa. “And that one?”
“General Spaatz, sir.”
“Damn it, that’s not my villa! And that’s not General Spaatz’s villa!” Uncle Ike exploded, turning on the naval aide and forcing
him back a step. His face was red with anger. “None of those will belong to any general as long as I’m boss around here. This is supposed to be a rest center for combat men, not a playground for the brass.”
“All the other villas on Capri have been requisitioned by the Army Air Force, sir, orders of General Spaatz. General Clark reserved Sorrento for army officers.”
“And what does that leave for the GIs coming off the line? The gutters of Naples, goddamn it?”
“Yes, sir. I mean no, sir,” the navy officer said, backpedaling as fast as he could. He looked like he’d enjoyed spilling the dirt on air force and army brass, but both barrels of Uncle Ike’s anger were still pointed at him.
“Kay!” Uncle Ike barked sharply. “Get ahold of Captain Butcher. Tell him to contact General Spaatz immediately and clear his officers out of there. His action was contrary to my policy. It must cease at once.”
“Yes, General,” Kay said. “I can call him at Caserta when we get back—”
“Now, damn it. Right now!” Kay stood alone, the clutch of officers staring at her, each thankful he’d kept his mouth shut. No one offered the general a light. Kay lifted a hand to her mouth, for a second. Then she was all business again, the general’s faithful secretary off to do his bidding.
The deck became quiet. Uncle Ike drew on his cigarette as if it might calm him. He exhaled a long plume of blue smoke into the wind and caught my eye. “William, sometimes you’d be surprised how hard it is to get something done, no matter how much authority you have. Jesus Christ on the mountain, you’d think it would be common sense to give the fighting men a decent place to rest up.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, moving to his side. We watched the magnificent coastline drift by. Sometimes my job was to be someone Uncle Ike could blow off steam with. We were actually related
to Aunt Mamie through my mother’s family. But he was an older guy, and when we were in private, sometimes I’d call him Uncle Ike. Today wasn’t one of those days. He flicked his butt into the water and turned up his collar. Colonel Harding climbed down from the bridge and joined us. If he’d taken in any of the drama on deck, he didn’t show it.
“General,” Harding said, handing him a teletype. “Message from London.”
Uncle Ike read it and glanced at Harding. “Confirmed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“William, we are going to have to send you on to London ahead of schedule. Colonel Harding will give you the details.” With that, Uncle Ike went to the bow and stood alone.
“Colonel, I have a week’s leave—”
“Consider it canceled. Sorry, I know you and Miss Seaton had plans, but—”
“I know. There’s a war on. I’ve heard.” Harding let that pass.
“A Soviet officer has been found murdered in London. Red Air Force Captain Gennady Egorov. Except we have reason to believe he was actually a senior lieutenant of state security. With the NKVD.”
“Is that their secret police?”
“They call it the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs, but the answer is yes.”
“What was he doing in London?”
“Getting a bullet in the back of the head. This may involve the Poles. See Lieutenant Kazimierz as soon as you can and find out what he knows. You leave as soon as we dock in Naples.”
I hadn’t seen Kaz in a couple of months, since he was called back to London from his liaison duties by the Polish Government in Exile. Once I got over missing my leave and saying good-bye to Diana, I’d be glad to see him. A couple of majors were vying to impress her. She’d watched Harding bring the message and observed the expression on my face. Now she brushed by the
two majors and embraced me, oblivious to the spit-and-polish brass all around us. Her fingers pulled at the fabric of my coat as she pressed her face against mine. We didn’t speak, we didn’t have to; neither of us had words to match the touch of warm skin in the cold air.
Everyone had been so happy.
CHAPTER • TWO
“W
ELCOME BACK TO
the Dorchester, Lieutenant Boyle.”
“It’s good to be back … Walter, isn’t it? I’m sorry, but I’ve been gone more than a year.”
“Yes, sir. Walter it is. This is yours.” He handed me a room key. It was for Kaz’s suite.
“How did you know I was coming?”
“I didn’t, sir. Lieutenant Kazimierz left instructions that a key be left for your use. He furnished the staff with a photograph so they would recognize you. I did not find it necessary, since I recall your first visit here.”
“Thanks. Is he in?”
“No, but the lieutenant asked to be informed of your arrival. I will telephone the Rubens Hotel and let him know.”
“He’s at another hotel?”
“The Free Polish government is headquartered there. It is a fine hotel, of course, but as you know Lieutenant Kazimierz prefers the Dorchester.”
I knew that, and I knew the reason why. I thanked Walter and took the elevator up, remembering my first day in London, and my first sight of the Dorchester. I had been nervous, and working hard not to let it show. Walter had thanked me for coming, and it took me a moment to realize he hadn’t meant to the hotel. A year ago, things had looked darker than they did now. Back then, Italy was still in the war, and along with the Vichy French, the Axis had held all of North Africa. Now Italy had been knocked out, we’d cleared North Africa, and were slowly working our way to Rome. The sandbags were still
stacked in front of the hotel, but they seemed to be from another era. It had been months since a bomb had fallen on London. The Germans weren’t exactly on the run, but now neither were we.
I unlocked the door and stood for a moment in the hallway. The wood paneling glowed in sunlight streaming through the windows, and sparkling colors refracted from the prisms of the crystal chandelier. It was quite a place for a kid from South Boston to bunk in. It was the only home Kaz had now, and it was filled with ghosts. His parents had visited him in England before the war, when he had been a student. They’d celebrated Christmas 1938 in this very room, the last time they’d all been together. Now everyone but Kaz was dead. When I got here in 1942, Daphne Seaton, Diana’s sister, had been living with him. She’d been killed soon after that. Then I moved in, after Kaz gave up caring if he lived or died. We’d stuck together, through North Africa and Sicily, until the Polish Government in Exile called him back to London.
His father had been wise enough to deposit his considerable fortune in Swiss banks before the Germans invaded Poland, which allowed Kaz to keep this suite permanently available. His family had been rich, really rich, and he was actually a baron of some sort. Lieutenant Baron Piotr Augustus Kazimierz. It was only his connections that got him a military commission in the first place, since he had a bad heart, poor eyesight, and a physique like the kid who got sand kicked in his face at the beach. Uncle Ike had taken him on as a translator, since he understood most European languages. Turned out, Kaz was as good with a gun as he was with paperwork, and there had been times I was damned glad of it.
I’d missed him, and as I emptied my duffel bag, I thought I should head right over to the Rubens Hotel, which wasn’t far. It was still early afternoon, and he probably couldn’t get away until late. But then I took off my shoes and lay down to rest my eyes for a minute. It had been a long trip, first waiting for a
flight out of Naples, then cooling my heels in Casablanca for a day before the roundabout flight to avoid German fighter planes. New Year’s Eve had come and gone, toasted with a bottle of bourbon passed hand to hand while we bounced around inside the fuselage of a C-54 transport twenty thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean. A catnap seemed to be in order.
I heard a noise, and lifted one eyelid. The room was darker than it had been a minute ago. The noise came again, a muted
thump
. I got up quietly and dug out my .45 automatic from the duffel bag, found a magazine, and loaded as I listened to heavy, labored breathing. It sounded like a quiet struggle, or someone searching for something. Occasional grunts and rasping gasps carried in the still, darkened room. I glanced at the clock. I’d been out cold for three hours.
I pushed my door open with the muzzle of the automatic. The hinges creaked, and I froze. There was no one in the living room. The glow of sunset lit the park outside, and the sounds of traffic drifted up from the street. I felt my palms go sweaty and my heart slamming against my chest. A crack of light showed at the door to Kaz’s bedroom, and I edged around the furniture toward it. Another grunt, this one louder and more anguished. There was no time to lose. I kicked the door and spun sideways, presenting the narrowest target I could, pistol leveled, cupped in my left hand, exactly as Dad had taught me. “Don’t give them any advantage, and take even the smallest for yourself. And be ready to pull the trigger.” I was.
I didn’t. Instead I stared into Kaz’s wide eyes as he lifted a dumbbell in each hand, then let them down slowly. His teeth were clenched and his neck muscles tightened as he began again.
“You … looked … like … you needed … to sleep,” he said, as he finished a final repetition and set the dumbbells down on the plush carpet.
Thump
.
“Kaz?” It was all I could say. He was in his skivvies, and there were ropy muscles on his arms. Not massive, beefy biceps, but real muscle where before there had been skin and bone. And I
swear he actually had a chest that broadened above his rib cage, instead of caving in on it.
“Who did you expect, Betty Grable?” He took off his horn-rimmed glasses and wiped sweat out of his eyes. Kaz was a skinny guy, but now he was packing some muscle onto his frame. I could tell he was enjoying this exhibition. “One minute, Billy, and I will be done.”
He dropped and did twenty push-ups. The last few were pretty shaky, and I figured he had gone beyond his usual quota to impress me. It worked.
“What gives, Kaz?” I said as I collapsed into a chair. “You turning yourself into a pug?” Kaz liked American slang, and I was sure I hadn’t taught him this one.
“A dog?” He toweled himself off and sat on the edge of the bed. “That can’t be right.”
“A boxer, or maybe somebody good with his fists.”
“Ah, pug. Excellent,” he said, savoring the new word. “It is good to see you, Billy.”
“Same here, Kaz. Are you sure you should be doing this? With your heart condition?”
“Billy, after seriously considering the alternatives, I have decided life is to be lived. Fully.” He got up and took a drink of water, setting the glass down hard, the noise clear and sharp. It fit the new Kaz before me. In his eyes I saw the first acknowledgment of his penchant for taunting death. He looked in the mirror on the table next to me, his gaze lingering there. He touched his scar absentmindedly, drawing his finger from his eye down his cheek, tracing it as if it were a map to lost fortune.