A Mortal Terror bbwim-6

by James R Benn

  Philby sat in silence, haunted perhaps by visions of mass killing, or worried that he hadn’t been privy to reports smuggled out of Nazi Germany. Finally he stirred enough to chastise Diana about overreacting to Vatican gossip and to tell me to keep quiet about what I’d heard, and then left the table.

  “What do you think, Billy?” Diana said, now that we were alone. I knew Diana was counting on me to believe her, to back her up. I squirmed in my seat, trying to find the words she wanted to hear, but I didn’t know what to say. It was all so insane, it was hard to come up with a logical thought. Then I remembered Sammy.

  “I had a friend in high school, Sammy Vartanian. He was Armenian, and his father used to curse the Turks for killing over a million Armenians in 1915. I’d never heard of it, and I figured maybe Sammy’s old man was off his rocker. So I looked it up in the encyclopedia. Sure enough, there is was. The Armenian Genocide. I figure if something like that happened a few decades ago, and I never heard of it, then you could be right. Besides, I believe in you.”

  “I’d heard talk among Jews we have hidden in Vatican City, but I thought it might be nothing more than rumors. Not the deportations and shootings, all that is well known. It’s the sheer scale of it all. Like a giant assembly line of death.”

  “But you believe this report from Gerstein?”

  “Yes. It all checks out. Bishop von Preysing vouches for him, and he’s completely reliable. He’s been anti-Nazi and quite outspoken about it, unlike most other German bishops. And thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For believing in me.” Diana reached her hand toward mine, and her skin held an electrical charge. I pulled away, looking around to see if anyone had seen this Irish civilian hold hands with a nun. Diana blushed, the red flush stark against the white surrounding her face.

  “Let’s go,” she said, and I followed her up the stairs, aware of the movement in her hips beneath the black cloth. My heart was beating fast, and I wondered if I should feel guilty about desiring her so soon after discussing the fate of millions. Then I wondered if I was going to hell for lusting after a nun, even a phony one. That made my heart beat even faster, but I didn’t have time to decide which to worry about, since we were in front of Diana’s door. Guilt and hell were pretty much the same thing in my upbringing, and I knew I could never explain this situation to a priest and ask for absolution.

  “Listen,” I said, as she turned the key in the lock. “I’ll understand if you want to be alone, you know, after your long trip and all.”

  Diana eyed me, then the hallway. It was empty. The only sounds were those drifting up from the restaurant two floors below. She pressed her body against mine, her face warm, her eyes half closed, her lips moist as we kissed. Our arms encircled each other, and I tasted the sweetness of her mouth and the saltiness of the tears that streaked her cheek. I reached for the unlocked door, pushed it open, and we entered like two dancers in tune with the music of longing. I kicked it shut as Diana pulled the white coif from her head, letting her long hair loose. She carefully removed the cross she wore around her neck and the rosary beads from her woolen belt, placing them on a small table by the gable window. Then she removed her scapular- the black apron draped over her shoulders-and covered them with it.

  “I’ve missed you,” she said, kicking off her shoes and wiping a tear away.

  “Is that why you’re crying?” I asked, taking her in my arms, feeling warm flesh beneath the nun’s habit and trying not to think about all the real nuns I’d known. This was not the time for visions of Sister Mary Margaret.

  “I don’t know. It’s everything. The war, the innocent deaths, all the lives ripped apart. It’s too much to bear. I don’t want to think about it anymore, at least not now.”

  We struggled out of our clothes, not wanting to separate for a second, eager to release our bodies from the confines of belts and buttons. I laughed when Diana pulled off her tunic, half expecting all the saints in Switzerland to barge through the door.

  “What’s the matter, haven’t you ever seen a nun undress before?”

  I laughed some more and Diana giggled as the pile of clothes by the side of the bed grew, layers of her undergarments mixing with my civvies, until we were under the duvet, basking in the warmth of our flesh on a cold winter night, safe from the murderous conflict that threatened from all points of the compass. The world had shrunk down to the two of us in this room. The war had burned away all the petty arguments, all the ill will that we’d let come between us. There were no questions about tomorrow or the next day, no expectations of the future, no wondering what would become of us. Fear, blood, and death had washed us clean, leaving only what survived, or what had burrowed deep into our hearts, as far from the danger as it could go and still be remembered. We caressed each other, coaxing those memories out, letting them breathe the air of joy and freedom before we put them away again.

  We laughed, but I can’t say we were happy. We made love, but it was desperate and burning hot, as if we were keeping evil at bay by the very act. We cried, but our woes were so small that I was ashamed of the tears. We held each other, and knew it would not last.

  We slept, but could not rest.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The next morning, he was waiting for us. A young guy, his face smooth and pink. He sat at our alcove table, pulling at his shirtsleeves to best display his gold cuff links. I squeezed Diana’s hand and stopped before he saw us. I watched as he sipped his coffee, resting his hands just so, allowing the gold to sparkle. A leather briefcase was on the chair next to him. His hair was brown and wavy, his expression bored, his fingers manicured. He’d been out in the sun, most likely on a ski slope. He had the healthy, athletic look of a college boy, and the well-tailored look that came from a rich daddy. His eyes weren’t on the other guests or the entrance. He didn’t even notice us a dozen steps away. He sipped his coffee and looked at his copy of the Neue Zurcher Zeitung, the major Swiss daily newspaper. Probably checking his stocks.

  “Let’s go back,” I whispered, pulling Diana by the arm. She wore a silk blouse and tweed skirt from the clothes that had been provided for her and the sensation was appealing.

  “Why? Because that boy is at our table?” She stood closer to me as we edged against the wall. Feeling the smooth silk against her skin, I hated the thought of leaving her so soon.

  “He’s from the embassy. It can only be trouble.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “He’s American. He’s not an agent, unless he’s in disguise as a Harvard twit. He’s too young to have any clout, which makes him a messenger boy. And messages from embassies are like telegrams-always bad news.”

  “All right,” Diana said in a low voice, her face close to mine, close enough to feel the heat of her breath on my cheek. She backed away and I followed as she took the stairs. Two at a time.

  Sunlight streamed in, warming us as we huddled under the white duvet.

  “Do you think he’s still down there?” Diana asked.

  “Yeah. He’s probably knocked on my door a couple of times by now. If he’s got half a brain he’ll start asking questions and figure out I’m in your room.”

  “Perhaps Kim will shoot him. Or have him shot, more likely.” She laughed, and it sounded like wind chimes on a warm spring day. But it was winter, a war winter, and this hidden moment with a bit of sunshine was all we had. It was enough, I decided, and laughed along with her, until we lay exhausted and the sun rose higher in the morning sky, leaving the room in a gloomy chill.

  Dressed again, we went down to the restaurant. It was nearly empty, with no trace of the messenger boy. The waiter brought coffee to our table and said the young man had gone off to look for me. He smiled and Diana blushed.

  “I hope they don’t have microphones in the rooms,” Diana said as the waiter left.

  “Could they?” I asked, and then saw she was trying to hide a laugh. “Make a nice souvenir,” I added, trying to cover up.

  �
��Mr. McCarthy?” It was the embassy kid, looking at a photograph and checking it against my face. It took me a moment to remember that was the name on my Irish passport.

  “In the flesh,” I said, and Diana gave an abrupt laugh, her hand covering her mouth as she looked away. “Please join us.”

  “I’m sorry, but I need to speak to you in private.”

  “Unnecessary, as I’m sure Mr. Gallagher has told you.” That was Philby’s cover name.

  “Very well,” he said, taking a seat and waving off the approaching waiter, probably having had his fill of coffee. “Julian Dwyer, Assistant Commercial Officer, American Embassy.”

  “Sorry we missed you earlier,” I said.

  “How do you know I was here earlier?”

  “Because I saw you and figured you were bad news. So we skipped out.”

  “My time is quite valuable, Lieutenant Boyle,” he said, whispering my name and rank in a hiss.

  “No it isn’t. There’s not much commerce these days between Switzerland and the U.S. And the fact that you couldn’t find me and you stand out like a virgin in a whorehouse means you’re not a spy operating under diplomatic cover. I bet you just graduated from Harvard or one of those snobby schools and daddy got you a posting so you wouldn’t have to associate with the lower classes and dress in khaki.”

  “Yale,” Julian said, sounding offended more by the Harvard remark than anything else.

  “I’m not a college football fan, so it makes no difference to me. It boils down to the fact that you’re the only guy they could do without up in Bern and not insult whoever sent the message to be passed on to me. You dress well, I’ll give you that.”

  “Billy,” Diana said, placing her hand on my arm. I was getting steamed, and poor Julian was the perfect target. It wasn’t his fault, but he was right in front of me, and I never liked his type much anyway.

  “It was my grandfather, not my father,” Julian said. “Six-term congressman. And I have a punctured eardrum, not to mention flat feet, so khaki was never in the cards. But I would look good in it.”

  “Okay, Julian, sorry. But I’m not wrong, am I? About bad news?”

  “I guess you would call it bad news,” he said, eyeing both of us. “Your orders, Lieutenant Boyle, are to proceed immediately to Naples, Italy. I’ve booked you on a flight from Zurich to Lisbon tonight. From there you’ll travel to Gibraltar and then via military transport to Naples.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes. The orders came from London. From a Colonel Samuel Harding.”

  “Thanks, Sam,” Diana said, with an edge of bitterness.

  “I still have three days of leave,” I said, knowing it was futile.

  “Sorry. I have the orders right here, along with a file,” Julian said, popping open his briefcase.

  “I believe you,” I said. “It’s got to be important if Colonel Harding sent it. My leave was approved by General Eisenhower, so if he’s overruling that, he’s got good reason. Have you read the file?”

  “The file is for you,” Julian said.

  “Right. It’s not sealed, so stop making believe you haven’t looked at it. This has got to be the most interesting thing that’s happened since you got here.”

  “Not quite as interesting as some of the Swiss girls I’ve met skiing at Gstaad, but you’ve got me dead to rights. You’re sure?” He nodded to Diana.

  “Spill, Julian. She’s got higher clearance than either of us.”

  “There have been two murders in Naples,” Julian said. I could see the eagerness in his eyes. He was excited, and I was sure this bit of cloak-and-dagger was the high point of his life.

  “Only two? Must’ve been a slow night.”

  “Both U.S. Army officers. First guy was found in the 3rd Division bivouac area at Caserta, outside Naples. Lieutenant Norman Landry. Found behind a supply tent, his neck snapped. The other officer was Captain Max Galante, M.D., of Fifth Army medical staff. He was found the same night, outside headquarters at Caserta, strangled.”

  The waiter came to our table with a tray of warm rolls, butter and jams. Conversation ceased as he laid everything out. As soon as he was gone, I buttered a roll, not knowing when or where my next meal might be.

  “Forgive me for asking, Julian,” Diana said, flashing him a warm smile, “but terrible as these murders are, they don’t seem to warrant your presence here. Why the orders from London? Fifth Army must have plenty of military police to sort this out.”

  “Like the lieutenant said, I’m only the messenger. But there is something here that may explain it. Pictures of the bodies.” He pulled two black and white photos from the file, face down. “They’re a bit gruesome.”

  “Gruesome is par for the course,” Diana said. “Let’s see them.”

  They weren’t pretty. Lieutenant Landry was on his back, head lolled to one side. His field jacket was open, and his. 45 automatic was still in his holster. His hair was curly, and a splash of freckles decorated his cheeks. He looked young-too young to be leading men into combat. A canvas tent was visible in the background. A piece of paper appeared stuck in his shirt pocket. As if in answer to my unspoken question, Julian laid the other photo on top. It was a close up.

  “The ten of hearts,” I said.

  “A brand new card,” Julian said. “No other playing cards were found on him.”

  “You read this pretty carefully,” I said.

  “There wasn’t much else to do, waiting for you.”

  “Okay, okay. What about the other guy?”

  “Meet Captain Max Galante,” Julian said. Captain Galante was older, late thirties maybe. Stocky, dark haired. His throat was heavily bruised, his eyes bulging, the terror of death still on his face. Landry probably died instantly. This guy didn’t. What looked like a playing card stuck out from his shirt pocket as well.

  “Don’t tell me,” I said.

  “The jack of hearts?” Diana asked.

  “Yes,” Julian said, laying down the close up as if he were dealing a poker hand.

  “When did this happen?” I asked.

  “The bodies were found yesterday morning. As soon as Fifth Army put two and two together, they sounded the alarm. German agents, Mafia, Italian Fascists, they’re seeing them all behind every rock.”

  “There must be a lot of nervous majors, not to mention colonels and generals,” I said.

  “From the cables in the file, I think it’s a general who sounded the alarm. But he probably got a major to do the work. Count in the British, and there are probably a thousand majors within five miles of Caserta Palace. And they’re all worried it will be them next.”

  “No one else killed?”

  “Not since we got that report last night in the diplomatic pouch from London.”

  I leafed through the paperwork. Orders to proceed without delay to Naples and report to Major John Kearns at Fifth Army HQ. Maybe he didn’t like the odds. Maybe he knew Harding and called in a favor. There were more photos of Galante. I guessed that once the MPs realized there was a link between the two murders, they paid more attention to the crime scene. Close-ups of the neck, front and back.

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “What?” Julian and Diana said at the same time, leaning in to study the photo.

  “The killer used a lot of force, and the good doctor fought back. These bruises and abrasions go up and down the neck, as if Galante struggled to get away. You can see the thumbprints where the killer squeezed. There’s also a bruise here at the base of the neck, from the excessive pressure.”

  “So the killer was angry? Probably not uncommon,” Julian said.

  “Look at Landry,” I said, placing that photo next to Galante’s. “No signs of a struggle. His pistol still in his holster. This killing was quick, professional. No sign of anger.”

  “Two murderers?” Diana said.

  “Maybe. Or two entirely different reasons. Can’t really tell much, but it’s something to look into. The cards could mean something, or be not
hing at all.”

  One of the photographs was a long shot, taken several steps back from the body. Galante lay against smooth gray boulders bordering a pool of water. It looked familiar, the waterfall and the sculpture of a pack of dogs bringing down some guy with antlers on his head. Not the kind of thing you forget.

  “I’ve been here,” I said. “These are the gardens in back of Caserta Palace. The palace is at the top of a hill, and the gardens, fountains, and waterfalls go on forever, down the hill at the rear.”

  “The Fountain of Diana must be beautiful,” Julian said, looking at the photo.

  “Huh?”

  “Oh, I see,” Diana said. “Diana and Actaeon, right?”

  “Exactly,” Julian said.

  “Is that somewhere in the file?” I asked.

  “No, it’s nothing about the murder. Just a bit of Greek mythology, the kind of thing you pick up at Yale. Or one of the fine English schools, I’m sure,” he added, smiling at Diana.

  “Okay Yalie, explain it to the one of us who didn’t pay attention in public school.”

  “Diana was the virgin goddess of the wild places. One day she and her maidens were bathing in a forest stream. Naked. Actaeon was out hunting with his pals. They’d bagged their share of stag, and he was heading back with his pack of hunting dogs when he saw Diana. He was stunned by her beauty, but she could not allow a mere mortal to tell the world what he had seen. So she turned him into a stag, and his own dogs hunted him down and tore him apart.”

  I studied the picture. Galante, dead in front of the sculpture that told a story of death from thousands of years ago. What had he seen in his last moments? Not the beauty of a goddess.

  “When do we have to leave?”

  “We should go now.”

  “Give us half an hour.”

  Diana and I walked along the road, arms wrapped around each other. I didn’t have to apologize. It could have been Kim Philby sending her off suddenly as easily as Julian Dwyer coming for me. We’d both donned our coats without speaking to spend our last few minutes outside, under blue skies. It was quiet away from the hotel, a farm on each side of the road, cowbells sounding from a hillside pasture.