by Bonnie Toews
FIRST PRAISE
Gayle Lynds, the New York best-selling author of The Last Spymaster and The Book of Spies, hails The Consummate Traitor as “riveting.”
“Compelling, disturbing and brutally honest with razor-sharp insights into the soul of a spy.”
Vicki Hinze,
award-winning author of Acts of Honor,
Lady Liberty and Deadly Ties.
“Historical fiction at its best. Be prepared to shed several buckets of tears.”
Robert Gandt,
best-selling author of the
Brad Maxwell series of military thrillers.
“A concise, fast-paced twister… must reading for fans of spy fiction.”
Harriet Klausner,
Midwest Books reviewer.
“The reader will discover that there is no greater love than for a man, or woman, to lay his or her life down for a friend.”
Rita Gerlach,
author of the Historical Romance
Surrender the Wind.
“In The Consummate Traitor, Bonnie Toews delivers an edgy, espionage thriller in a beautiful story that haunts the reader long after the book is closed.”
Laurie Foston, author of
The Magi Chronicles and
Just in Time for You.
“In this brilliant novel, Bonnie Toews explores the spy world’s murky twists and cunning treachery. Although there is plenty of intellectual intrigue, Toews doesn’t forget the spiritual nature of her characters.”
J. Carson Black, author of The Shop, Darkness on the Edge of Town and TheDarkHorse.
© 2011 by Bonnie Toews
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
All scripture quotations, unless otherwise specified, are taken from the King James Version.
Other than using historical events and figures to serve the plot, this novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and circumstances are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons living or dead are purely accidental or the result of fertile speculation.
The TRILOGY OF TREASON series is based on the author’s original novel, Treason & Triumph. The Consummate Traitor is a new edition to meet the needs of this series where characters in Book One re-appear in subsequent stories.
Cover designed, conceived and illustrated © 2011 by WHISTLER HOUSE.
Interior design © 2011 by WHISTLER HOUSE.
Edited © 2011 by WHISTLER HOUSE.
Cover photos © Getty Images.
Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
Toews, Bonnie
The Consummate Traitor: a World War II spy story / Bonnie Toews
ISBN-10: 1461015383
ISBN-13: 9781461015383
E-Book ISBN: 978-1-61397-873-3
LCCN: 2011904696
1. Historical Fiction 2. Thriller 3. Espionage 4. Mystery 5. Romantic Suspense One woman spy is betrayed; the other, sacrificed. What happens to these two heroines triggers a chain reaction of double crosses that alters the outcome of World War II.
5.5” x 8.5” (13.97 x 21.59 cm) Black & White on White paper
WHISTLER HOUSE PUBLISHING is an independent publisher specializing in dramatic thrillers and historical fiction that embrace intrigue and romance yet explore spiritual values and those challenges that confront us at the crossroads of humanity. www.WhistlerHousePublishing.com
Printed in the United States of America
With all my love for my dearest Wally —
May you lob tennis balls with the angels
and play patiently with Yogi
until we meet again.
WALLY’S FAVORITE VERSE
JOHN 3:16
For God so loved the world,
that he gave his only begotten Son,
that whosoever believeth in him should not perish,
but have everlasting life.
IN REMEMBRANCE
In Spain, during the Civil War, I witnessed the beginning of what Hitler’s total war ultimately came to mean: whole cities and populations wiped out at the push of a button. The atomic bomb became the weapon of absolute annihilation, and Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the tragic outcomes.
We went to war because we had to. Above all, we had to win against Nazi Germany and Imperial Japan or lose all our fought-for gains to live as free people. That was the crux of the war we’ve just won. But no war is a good war.
At times, we have acted no better than our worst enemy. We are not blameless. We denied the Holocaust, choosing instead not to believe the evidence, which mounted. And we too have committed atrocities. For that part, there is nothing to be proud of in our victory.
What is worse, this war has not stopped the struggle for wealth and control. A secret war still goes on behind the political posturing, each world power seeking intelligence it can use against the other, manipulating events, and in the end, creating more terror and worse horrors for the innocent who never know why they’ve been sacrificed, or for what cause.
I grieve for the millions upon millions who have either died or suffered and been exploited in this war of wars to develop the atomic bomb. To all who suffered as I did, and worse, I wrap my arms around you and say, I am SO sorry. By God, I hope it was worth it!
FROM LEE TALBOT’S PERSONAL JOURNAL
JUNE 22,1946
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT PAGE
PROLOGUE
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
PART TWO
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
PART THREE
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
PART FOUR
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
PART FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
AUTHOR’S NOTES
BOOK CLUBS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
Monday, April 26th, 1937
Distant droning roiled across the mountaintops. The engine’s thrum blended with the faint babbling that echoed skyward from the
small town tucked in the foothills of the valley below her.
Lee Talbot held out her sketch at arm’s length and studied it. Everything around her dissolved as she focused on each line and curve.
Something was missing. She looked up and squinted. Her gaze settled on the highest peak stabbing the sky above the Pyrenees Mountains. Ah. A very important detail. With her charcoal pencil, she outlined puffs of white snow capping the brow of the ancient Mont San Miguel.
There, that’s better.
This morning, Quinn Bergin, another war correspondent like her, had chosen this escarpment for its magnificent view of Guernica. He encouraged her drawing and had left her on the mountainside in northern Spain for a day of respite.
Often, in Madrid, she had pulled out her sketch pad to capture the civil war’s worst moments. But here, the mountains protected the local Basques. They still followed their original customs. Like them, she didn’t believe this valley could be breached. She felt safe and had not rushed her drawing.
Her attention shifted.
Even this far up the mountainside, she could make out the buzz of townspeople bartering over produce and crafts.
When she arose at dawn, she had listened from the window of her hotel room to the clip-clop of horses’ hooves over the cobblestone streets and watched farmers from the surrounding hillsides haul their loaded carts to the market square just in front of her hotel. There, they set up stalls. Now, their far-off natter combined with the nearby bleats of sheep and birds chirping washed over her like healing springs. She relaxed, for the first time in months.
Wafts of smoke drifted windward from the chimneys of cottages dappling the countryside. She sniffed and imagined bread baking inside their brick ovens. Her stomach gurgled. The thought of fresh bread smothered in creamy butter reminded her she had forgotten to eat. Where’s Quinn? He had promised to bring lunch. She glanced at her wristwatch. Four-thirty. Time to return to the hotel.
Again she examined her sketch before she scribbled on the lower right-hand corner: Monday, April 26, 1937. GUERNICA.
A deep-throated roar sprang from behind her. Startled, Lee jumped to her feet and spun around. She knew that sound. A twin-engine aircraft. Cupping both hands over her eyes, she strained to see against the sun’s glare in search of the intruder.
Vibrating air whipped from above, pinning her feet to the ground. She raised and pressed the palms of her hands upward against the slipstream. Her neck arched backward and her gaze froze on the underbelly of a twin-engine bomber. For a split second, the German Dornier Do 17 hung as if suspended overhead, engines whistling in her ears, before it swept screaming down the valley and veered onto a south-to-north track barely above the trees. The plane cast the shadow of an eerie cross rippling over the Rio Mundaca, which wound along the valley floor toward Guernica and the town’s streets rising from the river’s shore.
The bomber banked and then circled back, its nose aimed at her heart in a game of chicken between the pilot and Lee on the outcrop. She stood mesmerized. At the last moment, she ducked as the Dornier rocketed over her head towards the towering peaks behind her. She turned in time to watch it vanish.
Lee gasped, dumbfounded. Had she imagined it? Did she see darts pinned in racks under the bomber’s wings? Only this morning Quinn had told her about an incendiary bomb the Nazis had developed. It could produce massive fires wherever it landed, but he had no idea what the new bomb looked like. Could the cone-shaped canisters the Dornier carried under its wings be test incendiaries?
The thought chilled her. Maybe the pilot was looking for a place to drop them because the Nazis were forbidden to test such weapons on German soil. Though the Treaty of Versailles banned Germany from ever arming again after World War I, Hitler now manufactured the most advanced weapons in the world. Who would care about his testing bombs in a civil war the League of Nations ignored?
But this was Basque country. As yet, the Basques had not joined the Republican government to quell the Fascists even though the Republicans had finally granted them home rule. There was no reason the German Luftwaffe should be flying over Guernica.
Lee had to find a phone and report long distance about her sighting to Collier’s Weekly, a Springfield-based magazine in Ohio that specialized in investigative journalism. This time she would scoop Ernest Hemingway and Martha Gellhorn, whose co-authored features stateside were attracting “freedom” lovers, Marxists and anarchists to join the International Brigade in their support of the Republicans in Spain. But, it was George Orwell who made her life most miserable. He not only filed stories from the front line, he also joined in the fighting against Franco’s Nationalist uprising. How could she beat that kind of real-life writing? Sighting the German bomber now gave her a chance to show the Collier editor that she was as good an investigator as his star war correspondents.
Lee jammed the sketch pad and charcoal pencil into her shoulder bag, flung its straps over her head and looped the bag behind her back. As she scrambled down the steep slope, she tripped and sprawled on all fours. Cursing, she pulled her skirt under herself and slid down the rest of the way to her bicycle waiting by the roadside. No sooner had she yanked the bike upright than she heard the warning rumble again.
She checked the sky behind her. There, the same bomber slipped over the southern ridge further west. Her eyes followed its route. It took the same northern heading above the Mundaca River, but higher. Maybe four thousand feet. Fear knotted her stomach. Something dreadful was about to happen.
Lee ran the bike down the road before mounting it and pedaled off. At the S-turn, she misjudged the sharp angle and almost lost her balance. The bike skidded on the rim of its front wheel before she righted it. For a split second, it wobbled. She regained control and carried on cycling downhill, dangerously careening from side to side at breakneck speed.
Her mind raced in sync with her pedaling. She had met Quinn in Madrid and immediately liked him, because, unlike most newsmen who continually made passes, he didn’t. Instead, he invited her to join him on a trip to Guernica to study the Basques. She would never have gone alone because her Spanish was too awkward, and the Basques didn’t speak English. So Quinn acted as her Spanish translator. According to him, in Spain’s Civil War, if the rebel Fascists under Francesco Franco were to defeat the Madrid government, they had to beat the Basques first. The question for him was: How vulnerable were the Basques to attack?
This morning, anticipating war strategies was her last concern. When Quinn selected the spot where she could enjoy the best view of the valley for her sketching, she thought he might join her for a picnic and suggested he bring back a boxed lunch from the hotel. He agreed but never returned. What held him up? Where was he? She pedaled faster.
POP! Pop-Pop! The sounds echoed up the hillside like fire crackers exploding one after the other, while green fluorescent flares splintered upward from the valley below. Recklessly jamming on her brakes, Lee locked the wheels and nearly flew over the handlebars. Pop! Pop-pop pop! The strange eruptions continued. She jumped off her bike, using her feet like drags to bring it to a standstill.
In horror, she gazed downward from the roadside at the fires smothering Guernica’s heart. The market! Her fingers squeezed the handlebars, while the steeple bells of the Santa Maria church rang like banshees pitching their strident warnings over the pass.
Thud! The ground beneath Lee’s feet shook. Explosive booms rocked the countryside. Their repeated pounding burst inside Lee’s head. How could one bomber drop so many bombs?. Her ears rang with the thunderous noise, and she gagged on the mixed odor of sulfurous eggs and burnt wood rising from the village basin. The inside of her lips burned from the acidic taste of the dreadful stench.
Oh no! The hotel! Quinn!
Lee remounted and resumed her frantic pedaling down the mountain road to the Renteria Bridge. She crossed it and headed toward belching flames rising from the center of the town. After trying to ride through mounds of rubble littering the streets, she gave up, jump
ed off, and pushed the bike ahead on foot.
The town square lay in shambles. The Julian Hotel—its front— sliced away, its four stories as bare as the back of a doll’s house. Quinn’s room was at the rear of the hotel, but that was no comfort. He could have been caught somewhere else at the time of the attack.
Across from it, the flattened Train Station Plaza left a mangled mess of shingles, bricks and mortar. Desperate survivors scrambled over the ruins searching for loved ones, and when they found them dead, their screams split the shrill clamor of emergency-response sirens.
As more parts of buildings crumbled, sheers of red dust settled over the debris, while rivulets of flames broke out everywhere, disrupting rescue efforts. Lee choked on the stench and doubled over fighting an urge to vomit.
The fumes and intense heat from the fires burning in the square finally drove her from further searching for Quinn. Coughing, she pushed her bike onto the undamaged Calle de la Estacion and paused to catch her breath. She peered through the late afternoon shadows shedding desolate darkness over the lane ahead. From above, a sliver of sunlight pierced the gloom, illuminating the plaid shirt of a figure lying on the ground.
Quinn!
It had to be him. This morning she had called him a lumberjack.
Lee dropped her bike and ran to the still form. When she reached it, she found a boy no more than nine or ten-years-old. There was no visible injury to show how he died. Instead, he lay there as if asleep, clutching his fishing rod. Even in death, he refused to let the pole go. The irony stunned her.
Memories churned… little children in Madrid, made homeless by relentless Fascist bombings—hungry ones, bleeding ones, silent ones, hardly more than babies reaching out to her, begging to be fed, held and comforted, to be relieved of their endless nightmare. These were the children she left behind. Unable to wipe away their tears and heartsick with the realization there was nothing she could do except report what was happening, she clung to the hope that somehow, soon, someone would care and do something to stop this ungodly struggle of Spaniards fighting each other.
By some fluke, the side effect of the bomb’s impact left the boy’s body intact yet partly undressed, vaguely tinted in inky browns. His mouth gaped open like the beak of a baby bird starving. A fly landed on the dry dribbles caking his lips and, with frenzied little skips, jumped onto his protruding tongue, never pausing in its quest to probe for his most succulent blood. She shivered.