Death's Door (Billy Boyle World War II Mystery Series #7)

Death's Door (Billy Boyle World War II Mystery Series #7)

4.6 17
by James R. Benn

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Lieutenant Billy Boyle could have used a rest after his last case, but when his girlfriend, Diana Seaton, a British spy, goes missing in the Vatican, where she was working undercover, he insists on being assigned to a murder investigation there so he can try to help her.

An American monsignor is found murdered at the foot of Death's Door, one of the five

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Lieutenant Billy Boyle could have used a rest after his last case, but when his girlfriend, Diana Seaton, a British spy, goes missing in the Vatican, where she was working undercover, he insists on being assigned to a murder investigation there so he can try to help her.

An American monsignor is found murdered at the foot of Death's Door, one of the five entrances to Saint Peter's Basilica. Wild Bill Donovan, head of the OSS, wants the killing investigated. The fact that the Vatican is neutral territory in German-occupied Rome is only one of the obstacles Billy must overcome. First is a harrowing journey, smuggled into Rome while avoiding the Gestapo and Allied bombs. Then he must navigate Vatican politics and personalities—some are pro-Allied, others pro-Nazi, and the rest steadfastly neutral—to learn the truth about the murdered monsignor. But that's not his only concern; just a short walk from the Vatican border is the infamous Regina Coeli prison, where Diana is being held. Can he dare a rescue, or will a failed attempt alert the Germans to his mission and risk an open violation of Vatican neutrality?

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
A special mission takes Lt. Billy Boyle to German-occupied Rome disguised as an Irish priest in Benn’s intriguing seventh WWII mystery (after 2011’s A Mortal Terror). Billy must find out who stabbed Fr. Edward Corrigan in neutral Vatican City by the entrance to St. Peter’s Basilica known as Death’s Door. Since the priest’s cousin was a childhood buddy of FDR, solving his murder has the highest priority. Getting through German lines to reach the Vatican is no mean feat, and on arrival, Billy discovers that the authorities have already pinned the killing on a Jewish refugee found with blood on his coat. In addition, Billy has a more personal mission to consider—whether to try to rescue his lover, British spy Diana Seaton, who’s a prisoner of the Gestapo in a Roman prison. Some developments may be a bit coincidental, but Benn’s nuanced portrayal of Vatican politics will keep readers turning the pages. (Sept.)
Library Journal
This seventh mystery in Benn's historical series (after A Mortal Terror) finds Billy Boyle, a Boston police detective turned Allied intelligence agent, awaiting orders in southern Italy early in 1944. He and Kaz, his Polish partner, are ordered to Rome to investigate the death of an American monsignor in the neutral Vatican. Boyle also has an ulterior motive in that the woman he loves has been captured by the Nazis and is being held in Rome. Disguised as priests, the two agents make their way to Rome and soon find that the Vatican is full of escaped POWs and other refugees from the German occupation. Everyone has an agenda, and motives are hidden under layers of piety and diplomacy. VERDICT Benn has obviously done his research; the authentic details of Roman life during wartime add to the tension without overloading the reader. A couple of cameos by real historical figures also are handled well. In addition to series fans, this will appeal to readers who enjoy mysteries and thrillers with a dramatic setting such as the Second World War. [See Prepub Alert, 7/5/12.]—Dan Forrest, Western Kentucky Univ. Libs., Bowling Green
Kirkus Reviews
In the depths of World War II, Lt. Billy Boyle (A Mortal Terror, 2011, etc.) is tasked with solving the murder of an American priest in German-occupied Rome. Who tasks him? His Uncle Ike, of course: Gen. Dwight David Eisenhower. The supreme allied commander apparently has an endless trove of thorny missions set aside for his nephew, all of which turn out to be survival tests. In Vatican City, Monsignor Edward Corrigan has been found stabbed to death, and FDR, whose close friend he was, wants an all-out investigation. So Roosevelt leans on Eisenhower, who leans on Billy. Though a homicide investigation is not exactly foreign territory to an ex–Boston cop, this latest assignment comes Billy's way at a particularly complicated time. British spy Diana Seaton, the love of his life, has been taken by the Gestapo. Given their famously untender mercies, Billy isn't sure that he should hope Diana's alive, but he's learned that she is, jailed somewhere in Rome. Monsignor Corrigan's murderer is also somewhere in Rome. The upside is that now, Billy too has been deployed where the action is. The downside is how quickly he finds himself a pawn in a deadly geopolitical chess game. Still, Billy knows that if a pawn plods straight ahead long enough to reach the last rank, "it can be anything it wants." The gobs of back story have the unfortunate effect of nudging charming Billy off center stage. A shame.
From the Publisher
"Benn's nuanced portrayal of Vatican politics will keep readers turning the pages."Publishers Weekly

"Consistently entertaining."WWII Magazine

"Benn has obviously done his research.... In addition to series fans, this will appeal to readers who enjoy mysteries and thrillers with a dramatic setting such as the Second World War."Library Journal

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Product Details

Soho Press, Incorporated
Publication date:
Billy Boyle World War II Mystery Series, #7
Product dimensions:
6.36(w) x 9.06(h) x 1.12(d)

Read an Excerpt

Brindisi, Italy
February, 1944
They must be in love, I thought, watching the couple as they danced to a scratchy tune on the Victrola. It was late, and the place was empty but for us, the dancers, and a waiter at the front entrance, trolling for customers. He’d gotten bored refilling my wineglass, so I poured the last of the vino myself and listened to the song. Again, since it was the only record in the joint.
“Who’s that singing, Kaz?”
“Carlo Buti. Very popular in Italy. Billy, are you listening to me?”
“Sure. Guy named Carlo Buti. What’s the song about?” I could count on Kaz to know stuff like this. He was smart in seven languages, but he didn’t know everything, like when to mind his own business. He’d been yammering at me for the past hour, and I’d been doing my best not to pay him any mind.
“He is singing to his lover,” Kaz said, leaning back and listening. “Love is beautiful when he is near her. It makes him dream, it makes him tremble. The usual romanticisms.”
Kaz had his reasons to play the cynic, so I let it pass. He was probably right about the song anyway. The couple on the tiny dance floor swayed to the music, ignoring us and the waiter at the door, who called to a group of British officers to come in and try the mussels with fava beans. The dancers ignored the war, too, in a way Kaz and I could not. They were together, their arms interwoven, their passion thick in the night air. They were young, maybe nineteen or twenty, tops. She rested her cheek on his shoulder as his hand caressed the small of her back.
“They must be in love,” I said, out loud this time.
“Indeed,” Kaz said, finishing the wine in his glass. “And moneyed, as well. She is wearing silk stockings, and he has a decent wristwatch. No visible scars or injuries on the young man either, so it is likely he is either very lucky—which comes with money—or he avoided military service with the Fascists. They are drinking a Brindisi Rosso Riserva, so he can afford more than a common table wine. He has been sneaking glances at his watch, so he must need to get her home soon. This is the only time he can be alone with her, and hold her, which is why they are dancing.”
“Not bad,” I said. “How do you know she’s not a prostitute?”
“Her shoes. They are expensive, and new. Also, they are still here, long after the meal is done. The young man would not wish to dance all night if he could take the young lady to bed. Therefore, he cannot. It is only a guess, but her parents must trust him to let her go out unattended. But, it is wartime, and these things may not be so important anymore.”
“You might have a career as a detective, Kaz.”
“You’ve taught me to study a room and the people in it as soon as I enter. We have been at this table for so long, I’ve had ample time. What are we doing here, Billy?”
“Having dinner, enjoying the view.” I gestured to the harbor, across the road from the ristorante. A Royal Navy destroyer was tied up at the dock, and the muted sounds of sailors moving about drifted across the wide street that separated the wharf from the city. A line of palm trees rustled in the breeze. February in Brindisi was not much like February in Boston.
“We finished eating hours ago. The wine was tolerable, more so than your company, I must say. Billy, face it. She is lost. By now, there is no hope. Why won’t you listen to me?”
Love is beautiful when you are near the one you love. When you can’t be, it is terrible. It makes you dream, but the dreams aren’t happy ones. And I tremble, too, along with Carlo Buti.
“I do listen, Kaz. Is it true that the old Roman road ends here, in Brindisi?”
“The Appian Way? Yes. Just around the corner, as a matter of fact. A Roman column marks the end as it comes down to the water. Why?”
            “So we could leave here, start walking, and end up in Rome?”
“Well, yes. But it is almost three hundred miles, and the German Army might have something to say about it.”
“Yeah, that’s a problem.” I watched as a jeep full of American MPs drove slowly by, checking out the clientele. I rested my chin in the palm of my hand, tilting my head against my fingers to hide my face. The music had ended, and the young couple were gathering their things to leave. Almost midnight. The jeep stopped, and the MPs watched the lovebirds depart. There was a blackout in place, but the MPs were easy to spot with their white helmets shining in the moonlight. Light spilled out into the street, but the MPs didn’t say anything, simply rolled on, probably admiring the young lady.
“Are you in trouble with the MPs, Billy?”
“Not that I know of,” I said, my hand going to the table. It was true enough.
“Good, because this late, they may stop to question anyone out near the harbor.”
“Yeah, especially pretty girls. I think we’re safe.” Safe. I trembled.
“Billy,” Kaz said, laying his hand on my arm. I shook it off. “We heard a week ago. The message took two days to get here. You know what that means.”
“Due grappe,” I said, signaling the waiter. Maybe another drink would shut Kaz up, but I doubted it.
“It means that by the time we learned she was taken, the Gestapo had let her sit alone in a cell for two days, listening to the screams of the tortured,” Kaz said. “To soften her up. Standard Nazi practice.”
“Grazie,” I said as the waiter set down the drinks. I raised my glass, but Kaz ignored me.
“The first day might not have been too bad,” he continued. “They apologize for keeping you waiting, offering tea, coffee, cigarettes. A rational discussion, to size the prisoner up. Some might give up information then, in the hopes of staying alive and keeping their fingernails.”
I drank half the glass down, the fiery liquor harsh in my throat. I didn’t look at Kaz.
“But it is all a ruse,” he said. “To raise the prisoner’s hopes and then dash them. Later that day, the actual torture begins. That would have been six and a half days ago. And the Gestapo would have worked fast, knowing that once an agent is captured, the rest of their group will go into hiding as soon as they hear of it.”
“When did you become an expert in Gestapo torture?”
“I was briefed by an SOE colonel.” The Special Operations Executive, Great Britain’s spy and sabotage outfit. Set up in a villa outside of Brindisi, they sent the young and the willing to do the dirty work of winning a war for the old who had too much to lose. They had their own Royal Air Force squadron at their beck and call, plus a small army of forgers, tailors, demolitions experts, commandos, and smugglers. “You don’t want to know the rest. Suffice it to say, six days is more than any mortal can stand.”
I finished the grappa.
“They call their torture chambers kitchens,” Kaz said. “That should give you some idea of what they do. If prisoners don’t talk, they will likely die from the interrogation. If they do talk, they are often shot once the information is verified. Or sent to a concentration camp. Either way, she is dead by now, or beyond all redemption.”
“How does SOE know all this?”
“It is their job to know these things.”    
“But how can they, if all prisoners are killed or sent to concentration camps? There would be no way to learn those details.”
“There have been some escapes. And a very few people have been let go. Even the Gestapo makes mistakes.”
“Interesting,” I said.
“No, it is terrible. And what is worse is that you should cling to any hope.” Now it was Kaz’s turn to drink. He took one gulp, and then finished the rest. His lips curled against his teeth as he swallowed, and the scar on the side of his face seemed to redden. Our eyes met, and I wondered which of us was the worse off. Kaz had been head over heels in love when I first met him. And Daphne Seaton had loved him too, but that all ended in an explosion that killed her and maimed him in body and soul. Daphne was never coming back, and that certainty haunted Kaz.
I was haunted by uncertainty. Was Diana, Daphne’s sister, alive? Diana Seaton worked for the SOE, and had been reported taken by the Gestapo in Rome, where she was operating undercover as a nun. Was she dead? I couldn’t believe it. But I couldn’t do anything about it either, and it was tearing me up inside. Not that I would ever say it to Kaz, but I was jealous of him. He knew, straight out. I wondered, wept, and trembled again.
“Let’s go,” I said. I threw cash down on the table, probably enough for a dozen dinners. “Show me the Appian Way.”
Kaz led the way, passing a bombed-out building, around a corner and up too damn many stone steps. At the top, a single Roman column stood, next to a pedestal where its twin had once been.
“It is more correct to say this is where the Via Appia ends,” Kaz said. “There is no beginning here.”
The wind whipped around us as I gazed out over the harbor, the moon reflected in the low, lapping waves. Warships of all sizes floated in the calm waters, their immense guns immobile. Why weren’t they helping us get to Rome? Why did they sit, useless, in the Mediterranean night?
“How much longer are you here?” I asked.
Kaz—Lieutenant (and Baron) Piotr Augustus Kazimierz, of the Polish Army in Exile—had been detailed to liaison duties with the Polish II Corps, currently making its way to the Italian front from Egypt by way of Taranto, on the heel of Italy. Kaz and I both worked for General Eisenhower, and we often found ourselves loaned out when the General had no pressing matters at hand, investigating murders and other crimes that might impede the war effort.
“I have orders to return to London at the end of the week. Getting the Polish Corps supplied and coordinated with Eighth Army is nearly complete,” Kaz said. “I am sorry I haven’t been around to help you. Too much paperwork and meetings. All terribly boring.”
“Nothing you could have done,” I said. I’d spent every day, every hour, trying to get information about Diana—from the SOE, MI6, even Allied Command at Caserta—but had come up empty all around.
“What about you, Billy? Have you heard from Colonel Harding?” Harding was our immediate boss in General Eisenhower’s headquarters.
“Yes, I have,” I said, pulling a thick wad of documents from my jacket pocket. “Orders to return to London two days after we found out about Diana. Orders to proceed to the airfield at Brindisi for priority transportation to London. Inquiries demanding to know my location. And today, orders for me to return immediately or face court-martial for desertion.”
“Billy, you have to leave. You can’t ignore orders from Supreme Headquarters.”
“Oh yeah?” I held the papers up over my head and let them go. The wind lifted them and carried them out over the harbor, where they fell like tears into the sea.

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