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PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF PATRICIA POTTER
“Patricia Potter is a master storyteller, a powerful weaver of romantic tales.” —Mary Jo Putney, New York Times–bestselling author
“One of the romance genre’s finest talents.” —Romantic Times
“Patricia Potter will thrill lovers of the suspense genre as well as those who enjoy a good romance.” —Booklist
“Potter proves herself a gifted writer as artisan, creating a rich fabric of strong characters whose wit and intellect will enthrall even as their adventures entertain.” —BookPage
“When a historical romance [gets] the Potter treatment, the story line is pure action and excitement, and the characters are wonderful.” —BookBrowse
“Potter has an expert ability to invest in fully realized characters and a strong sense of place without losing momentum in the details, making this novel a pure pleasure.” —Publishers Weekly, starred review of Beloved Warrior
“[Potter] proves that she’s adept at penning both enthralling historicals and captivating contemporary novels.” —Booklist, starred review of Dancing with a Rogue
Broken Honor
Patricia Potter
author’s note
Although the seed of Broken Honor was suggested by an actual event during World War II—the capture of two Nazi treasure trains—the characters and events in the book are completely fictional, the result of the author’s “What if?” mechanism.
prologue
NEAR SALZBURG, AUSTRIA
MAY 1945
Sam Flaherty sickened as he finished his walk through the first boxcar and entered the second.
He barely heard the sound of crackling gunfire outside as he looked around at the contents of the car. Silver gleamed despite the dim light: silver candlesticks, silver serving dishes, silver tableware.
“Look here, General,” a sergeant said.
Sam stopped just inside the entrance of the next car. Trunks lined its interior. Sergeant Major Hawkins Jordan had opened one. Thousands of rings with myriad stones sparkled up at him. Wedding rings, engagement rings, dinner rings. Silent testimonies to love and hope and life.
He leaned against the edge of the door for a moment, the sickness in his stomach worsening. God knew he’d seen enough death these last four years, but there was something especially obscene about the trunk.
“I want an accounting of every item,” he said. “And I want it quick. I don’t want us delayed here longer than necessary.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Send someone for General Mallory. He’ll be responsible for finding a place to store these things and try to get them back to their owners.”
Jordan looked skeptical. “They’re probably all dead, sir.”
Sam’s eyes roamed the contents of the boxcar again. Other cars held paintings, ornate silver pieces, clocks, jewelry, furs, carpets, and even trunks full of gold dust. All probably looted from Jewish families in Hungary and bound for Nazi officials in Berlin. Sam’s regiment had received word of the train from headquarters, and it had been tracked by U.S. planes. His men had blocked the tracks with tanks.
The SS put up little fight. Many were being held prisoner down the tracks. The few who did fight, were dead.
The train contained a treasure but, to him, it was a nuisance. Sam’s regiment had been pulled back from the front lines for a short rest. He wanted to be back in the midst of the fighting as the British and U.S. forces headed toward the heart of Germany but then they had been ordered to take the train. His superiors had witnessed the devastation of the occupied countries and wanted to deprive the German hierarchy of as much of their ill-gotten treasures as possible. Thus his regiment had been diverted into a relatively quiet sector of Austria while others were racing across Germany.
He would secure these … goods, then get back in the fight.
He finished his walk through the train. His chief of staff, Colonel Edward Eachan, would work with Mallory to inventory the goods and safeguard them. Then perhaps he could get on with the real work of war.
Still, he paused at the back of the last car. One particular painting caught his eye. A portrait of a young girl with a wistful expression. It was a stunning painting, the colors so vibrant and real she could almost step out of the frame. But what really captured his attention was her likeness to the daughter he and his wife had lost years ago.
He hesitated. It would do no harm to borrow the painting for his quarters. He would be here no longer than a week or two, and then he would return it.
“Sergeant,” he said to the man still trailing him. “Send that painting to my quarters, but make sure it is included in the inventory.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?”
Sam swallowed. It was the damned trunks. The wedding rings. How could anyone look at them and not despair for humanity? “No,” he said after a too-long pause.
Sam’s gaze took one last journey around the boxcar. So many hopes, he thought again. So many broken dreams.
one
COLORADO, 2000
Irish Flaherty nearly knocked his coffee cup over as he scanned the morning headlines.
His hands stilled, and his heart beat louder. He read the article swiftly, then closed his eyes against the words.
COMMISSION INVESTIGATES POSSIBLE U.S. THEFT OF NAZI WAR LOOT.
The headline had captured his attention, but it was the body of the story that made his blood run cold. His grandfather’s name. General Sam Flaherty. The general had been more than his grandfather. He had been Irish’s salvation. His mentor.
Honor. Duty. Country. Those three words had been drilled into him since he’d been a tyke. They’d meant everything to his grandfather, to his father, and to Irish. They had dominated all three men’s lives. His father, in fact, had given his life for them.
He himself had spent the last twenty-two years in the army, including four years at West Point, and had just made lieutenant colonel. He’d completed a long and ugly tour in Bosnia and then Kosovo, where he supervised the collection and destruction of illegal weapons, and his promotion put him in line for battalion commander, something he didn’t particularly want. He preferred field command of intricate investigations rather than desk duties.
Still, he was glad to be out of Kosovo. He was sick of the hatred and violence that continued to sweep that tragic, torn country, and upon returning to the States, he’d taken accumulated leave. He’d headed for the Colorado ranch left to him by the General.
He came here this time to think. He had his twenty years. He could retire, and rebuild the ranch, which was now merely maintained by a friend. But the army had been his life for so long, he knew he’d be lost without it.
And now his grandfather’s name was being besmirched, his reputation destroyed.
Irish tried to control his anger. His fingers thrummed on the table. Why now? It was fifty-seven years since the end of World War II, fifty since his grandfather went into retirement and started Flaherty’s Folly, a ranch that reflected his wry humor.
Irish saw his grandfather in his mind’s eye. A man bigger than life, Sam Flaherty’s bulk had been much like John Wayne’s. And his weathered face had reflected that same kind of rough integrity.
Irish read a paragraph again. A Presidential Advisory Commission looking into Holocaust assets in the United States had determined that items from a Nazi gold train captured by U.S. forces toward the end of World War II had vanished. Members of the American armed forces at the highest levels had been implicated in their disappearance. Among them were three gene
rals, including Samuel Flaherty.
For the first time, Irish was glad his grandfather was dead. Otherwise, the story—and its implications—might well have killed him.
The one thing Irish did know was that the General had nothing to do with a theft, particularly of items looted by the Nazis.
And if it were the last thing he did, Irish would prove it.
MEMPHIS, 2000
Amy Mallory barely caught the story on page three of the newspaper. She probably would have left it until later if she didn’t teach advanced American history at Braemore, a prestigious private liberal arts college. Her students were bright and eager, and she knew some of them would have read the story and might well have questions.
The one thing she did not want was to appear unaware. Her tenure hearing was imminent, and she wanted no complaints from students. Once she had tenure, she could relax. Her future would be assured.
Three more weeks.
“Damn,” she muttered to herself as she went back to the newspaper to read the entire story.
G.I.S CALLED LOOTERS OF JEWISH RICHES.…
Bojangles, her mongrel dog, whom everyone else called the ugliest dog in the world, huddled next to her legs, knowing her departure was looming. He was a ridiculously needy dog who made her feel guilty every time she left the house.
She leaned down and petted him while her eyes scanned the article. They stopped at the name of General David Mallory. Her hand left the dog and she clutched the paper. David Mallory. Her grandfather.
He and two other generals were named in the article as possibly being involved, at the very least negligent, in the loss of treasures from a captured train. Missing were two trunks of gold dust, paintings, and other goods.
“Not Grandfather,” she whispered, remembering the battle of wills they’d engaged in. Her mother had died when she was entering her teens, and she’d been sent to her grandfather. They’d detested each other on sight. She was the bastard daughter of a flower child who had run away from home. He was a martinet who tried to run his family as he’d run a regiment.
It had taken them years to come to an accommodation. She’d ended up loving him—perhaps more for his flaws than for his virtues. He’d died at eighty-three of a bullet he’d put in his own head, and it had broken her heart.
He had flaws. Many of them. But dishonesty was not among them.
“No,” she said, hearing her own outraged whisper. “No, I don’t believe it.”
Bo whined, feeling tension in the room. He didn’t like tension. He didn’t like a break in the routine. He didn’t like strangers. He was afraid of everything, including a leaf blowing in the wind. After finding the sad-sack dog in the animal shelter, she had named him Bojangles for the dog in her favorite song, hoping it would give him a bit of self-esteem. It hadn’t.
But she loved him for that, for all the insecurities that resided inside him.
“It’s okay,” she whispered to him, and he collapsed in relief at her feet. When she left, he would, no doubt, go and wrap himself around the toilet, his place of safety when he was alone. Like the ostrich who hid his head, he thought himself invisible there. He’d be deeply distressed to know that both his tail and his nose were visible.
She tore out the article. She would research it later. If nothing else, she owed it to the man who had half-raised her.
She made sure that Bo had his sock, which, like Linus’s blanket, was his security, locked the back door, then grabbed the papers she’d graded the night before. She paused at the front door. Bo had already left for the bathroom, the sock hanging forlornly from his mouth, his tail drooping.
“Ah, Bo,” she said. He turned, a hopeful look on his face.
“I’ll play ball with you tonight,” she promised, absolutely positive that he understood her. He did like to chase balls. It was the one thing in which he excelled, and he knew it.
His tail lifted and wagged. Amy felt better.
Now if only she could solve her other problems that easily. She turned the lock on the front door, the tone of the article nagging at her. She had never liked the military. In truth, she despised it. Its rigidity, she’d always believed, had driven her mother away from home and had made her grandfather a humorless, stiff man who thought he must always be obeyed.
But he would never betray his trust. She knew that as well as she knew how to breathe. “I won’t let them do this to you,” she promised, only barely aware that she uttered the words out loud.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Assistant to the Deputy Secretary of State Dustin Eachan had known the story was coming.
He’d been warned days earlier by a friend who had attended Harvard with him. He had hoped against hope that it would be lost, ignored. After all, the incident had taken place more than fifty years ago.
But the recent flurry of news about Swiss banks and sales of art masterpieces known to be stolen by the Nazis had made this a good story. The fact that American servicemen, including high-ranking officers, might have looted Jewish possessions would be just too juicy for the newspapers to ignore.
He’d been waiting for the ax to fall. It fell today.
He knew that some, if not all, of his fast-track success in the State Department came from his family connections. His grandfather had been a two-star general and then a Washington lobbyist for defense contractors. He’d known everyone worth knowing, and the fact that the talented Dustin Eachan was Edward Eachan’s grandson had sped his progress.
He’d worked damn hard for it, too. He wanted to be the first career State Department official to become Secretary of State. He had the political, family, and professional credentials to do it. He was close now to selecting the perfect wife.
He was perfectly positioned. If nothing went wrong.
And now the goddamn story implied his late grandfather might have committed grand theft.
And Sally. God, Sally would be devastated. He remembered the painting that she treasured as she cared for no other possession. Could it have been one of the stolen items?
He picked up the phone. He would cancel an engagement and take her to dinner tonight. She would need him. Hell, she always needed him.
He hesitated for a moment. He had tried to keep a distance. He cared far too much for her, and he had to be careful. She was his cousin; they had the same grandfather. He had been madly in love with her as a young man until it had been made plain that he could not marry a cousin.
His feelings for her had been one reason he hadn’t married yet. He hadn’t found anyone else he wanted to marry. But now a wife was essential to his career, and he liked, if not loved, Patsy Sandiford, the daughter of an administration official. For the past few weeks, he had been thinking about asking her to marry him.
He looked at the receiver in his hand, then dialed Sally’s number.
two
COLORADO
Irish rode his favorite horse up into the hills, relishing the exercise and the time to think. He also needed to dissipate the frustration that knotted his stomach. He’d spent the last two days in a fruitless search for clues. He’d crawled through the attic of the ranch house and peered like a peeping Tom through decades of old papers.
He couldn’t help but feel guilty. He was an investigator, used to digging into the dark recesses of people’s lives. He hadn’t wanted to do it to the person he’d loved and respected above all others. It made him feel dirty. Even treacherous.
It didn’t matter that he was doing it to save his grandfather’s reputation, not to destroy it. The simple fact was, he might be intruding into places best left alone. But if he didn’t, others might. And those others might not have his care in doing so.
He’d hoped to find a diary, papers, journal. Anything.
But there had been nothing, and that was far more suspicious than documents would be.
Could there be any place other than the ranch house where the General might have left papers? Or had someone been there before him?
He wished now he
had taken the time after his grandfather’s death to go through his files. It hadn’t seemed necessary at the time. A meticulous man in all things, his grandfather had put all his important papers—the deed to the ranch, a few minor investments, and insurance policies—in a safe deposit box and had left exact instructions with his attorney as to their disposition.
At the time of the General’s death, Irish had been in Special Services, on an overseas assignment. He had flown in for the funeral but then had to leave immediately. His subsequent visits to the ranch had usually been working vacations, trying to keep the ranch viable. He hadn’t had time to go through piles of paper. Or maybe he’d avoided it to avoid the reality of his grandfather’s death. Sam Flaherty had been the only person who’d ever accepted him for who he was.
There had always been dozens of details to go over with Joe Mendoza, the ranch foreman. Irish had planned to retire here, once he got his twenty years. Now he was a few years past that mark. A steady string of promotions had kept him in the army, along with a hesitancy to give up the only life he’d ever known. He’d wondered whether he could ever relinquish the adrenaline that coursed through him when he neared the end of a hunt.
After reading the article about the commission report and making several phone calls, to little avail, Irish was determined to prove his grandfather innocent. There had to be something. His grandfather was known for his attention to detail. He’d even dictated every part of his memorial service. Irish had found journals written through most of World War II. They had stopped, however, in June 1944, the date of the European invasion.
Nothing after that. Not so much as a letter. It was as if every piece of paper relating to the final campaign had been eliminated. Had his grandfather expunged everything from those years? He couldn’t quite believe that. But there had been no evidence of a break-in over the years.
Oh, he’d realized his grandfather had never wanted to talk about World War II. He’d wondered about it, then credited it to modesty, although modesty was not usually a virtue of general officers. Perhaps the events had been too painful. Irish did know something about that. He’d lost his best friend in an investigation. He couldn’t imagine losing hundreds, even thousands of men. In truth, he’d never wanted that kind of responsibility. He’d liked the lone wolf role he’d perfected over the last few years.
Broken Honor Page 1