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In his sixth investigation, Lieutenant Billy Boyle finds himself in pursuit of a serial killer with a particularly frightening agenda.
1943: US Army Lieutenant Billy Boyle, an ex-cop who serves as detective for General Ike, is sent to Caserta, Italy, to investigate the murders of two American officers stationed there. The MOs are completely different, and it seems like the officers had no connection to each other, but one frightening fact links the murders. Each body was discovered with a single playing card: the lieutenant’s with the ten of hearts; the captain’s, the jack of hearts. The message seems clear—if the murderer isn’t apprehended, the higher ranks will be next. As the invasion at Anzio begins, Billy needs to keep a cool head amidst fear and terror as the killer calculates his next moves.
About the Author
James R. Benn is the author of the Billy Boyle World War II mysteries. The debut, Billy Boyle, was named one of five top mysteries of 2006 by Book Sense and was a Dilys Award nominee. A Blind Goddess was longlisted for the IMPAC Dublin Literary Award, and The Rest Is Silence was a Barry Award nominee. A librarian for many years, Benn lives in Connecticut with his wife, Deborah Mandel.
Read an Excerpt
Kim Philby owed me one. I’d helped him out back in London,
and he told me to ask if I ever needed a favor. Well, now that I
needed one, I didn’t hesitate. I wanted to be there when—not if,
when—Diana Seaton returned from her mission.
Philby was the only person who could make that happen, so I
was glad he was in my debt. As head of the British Secret Intelligence
Service’s Mediterranean operations, he controlled all the spies,
saboteurs, and agents operating in neutral nations and behind enemy lines from Portugal to Turkey. That included Diana Seaton of the
Special Operations Executive, who had been sent into Rome, disguised as a nun, to establish contact with a pro-Allied circle within the Vatican.
How do I, a lowly lieutenant, know all this? Because Diana
Seaton is the love of my life, and I worry about her day and night.
A lot of people worry about each other in this war, but unlike them,
I can do something about it. I work for General Dwight David
Eisenhower, which gives me access to secrets out of the reach of most colonels and many generals. The fact that in private I call him Uncle
Ike doesn’t hurt either. It allows me to get involved with men like
Kim Philby. When Philby called two days ago to tell me he was good for the favor I’d asked, Uncle Ike gave me a five-day leave and told me to stay out of trouble. I’m going to Switzerland, I told him, how much trouble could there be in a neutral country?
As I stamped my feet on the station platform, trying to keep warm, I thought I might have been off the mark. It was cold, and the sun was casting its last feeble yellow rays sideways from the west.
I watched the German and Italian border guards, about fifty yards away, their frosted breath trailing like plumes as they walked. Chiasso is a border town, and the railroad runs right through it. The platform stretches from the station on the Swiss side south to the Italian border, marked by a customs house and crossing gate. Philby and I
had been waiting an hour, nervously watching the train halted behind the gate, still on Italian soil. Diana was on board, or so I’d hoped, until a half dozen men in leather trench coats entered the train, and a platoon of German soldiers with submachine guns surrounded it. The black locomotive released a sigh of steam from its boiler, as if straining at the leash for the final stretch.
“Gestapo,” Philby had said. “Not to worry. She has good travel papers, signed by the German general commanding rail transport in
“The Gestapo can sniff out phony papers, no matter how good.”
“Oh, they’re the real thing, old boy,” Philby said, clenching his pipe between his teeth. “This general is quite the churchgoer, especially since he arranged for the transport of several thousand Italian Jews.”
“To where?” I knew the Nazis were rounding up Jews everywhere,
and shooting a lot of them. But I didn’t know where they kept transporting them to, or why. It didn’t make sense when they needed railroads for troops and supplies, but then nothing in this war made much sense.
“To those camps in the east we keep hearing about. This old general began to feel guilty, more so after we landed in Italy. He let it be known he’d be glad to do a small favor for the Vatican now and then.”
“Isn’t it dangerous to give him Diana’s name? Or whatever name she’s using?”
“Yes, it would be,” Philby said absently, as he knocked the ash from his pipe and jammed it into his coat pocket. “That’s why she’s coming out with a group of twenty nuns. Didn’t want to tell you the details before now, you understand.”
“Sure, security. Lot of that going around.”
“The cover story is that they’re being sent to a convent outside of Zurich, to relieve crowding in the Holy See. Solid on all counts.
Look there,” he said, pointing to the train. A rush of black leather exited, accompanied by shouted orders. The troops surrounding the train trotted to their vehicles. The Italian border guards stood back,
melting into the shadows, mere spectators on their own soil. Two burly Gestapo men stepped down from a train car, holding a civilian by his elbows, guiding him to the waiting sedan. The civilian looked around, his head swiveling wildly as he sought some way out. He dug in his heels, but the two goons carried him easily. Then he dropped, as if he’d fainted. One of the Germans pulled back his leg to give him a kick, and all of a sudden the prisoner was up, pushing his tormentor and twisting free. He ran along the train, his arms pumping, and leapt from the platform, hitting the ground hard,
rolling and coming up at a run, limping as one leg threatened to give out. Pistol shots cracked and gray dust kicked up at his feet. Then an MP40 submachine gun sounded, the harsh burst slamming into his back. He took another two steps, perhaps not realizing that death had burrowed into muscle and bone. His momentum propelled him forward, almost in a cartwheel, until his body fell limply across the track. The sigh of steam flowed from the locomotive again, a mournful sound that seemed to apologize for the sudden death of a passenger so close to his final destination.
The Germans pushed the Italian border guards forward, ordering them to retrieve the body. As they grabbed the fellow by his feet and pulled, they left a streak of crimson that pointed, like an arrow, to the Swiss side.
“Lucky fellow,” Philby said. “That was at least quick.”
“One of yours?”
“No. Some poor bastard on the run. Deserter, maybe. Probably betrayed by some other chap looking to save his own skin. Here we go,” he said as the gate was raised and the train finally lurched forward,
its giant steel wheels rolling over the bloodstains as it left Nazi territory.
The train arrived at the platform, and lights switched on above us as the sun gave up and set below the looming mountains. To the south, a blanket of darkness settled over occupied Italy, where the blackout was complete, not a glimmer allowed to guide Allied bombers. The Swiss side seemed gaudy in comparison, bright lights shining on gray pavement and orange tile roofs. Maybe I’d gotten used to the blackout in London, but the glare of streetlights and lamps was blinding. I shaded my eyes and strained to see into the compartments as they rolled by, the train moving slowly until its caboose was safely on neutral ground.
The compartment doors opened, and the passengers spilled out with a mix of nervous chatter and ashen faces. Some looked like businessmen, others refugees. Wartime travel to a neutral country provided for odd traveling companions. Then I saw them, two cars down: a procession of black habits, led by an older nun. They wore cloaks against the cold and white wimples encased their faces, their black veils prohibiting sideways glances, their eyes focused on the ground at their feet.
“Hold,” Philby said in a low voice, placing his hand on my arm.
“Don’t say anything. We don’t know who may be watching the station.”
I saw her. Not her face, but her walk. Nothing could hide that confident swing of her shoulders, the aristocratic posture, the determined steps. It was Diana, her head bowed a fraction less than the others. The nun in the lead said something in Italian, and they turned to enter the open doors of the station. Diana glanced up, looking in all directions. Her eyes met mine and flashed wide for a split second,
then disappeared as she assumed the obedient, demure posture of a nun following her abbess.
Philby and I fell in a few steps behind them as I watched for signs of anyone trailing us. I pulled my hat brim low over my eyes, blending in with the crowd, while trying to spot anyone who didn’t. I was in civilian clothes, and if it hadn’t been for the threat of German agents in similar attire, not to mention the blood on the tracks, I might have talked myself into enjoying this Swiss interlude. Instead, I saw every-
thing with suspicious eyes, not trusting that anyone was who he said he was. I wasn’t, Diana certainly wasn’t, so how could we assume we were surrounded by harmless Swiss neutrals?
We trailed the procession of nuns out onto the street. They walked up the Corso San Gottardo, each clutching a small black suitcase, dodging the pedestrians strolling along the thoroughfare.
Wind whipped at their cloaks and veils, the black fabric snapping like flags in a parade. Passing restaurants and shops with unaccustomed light spilling out into the street, the nuns made a beeline for the Chiesa di Santa Maria, a bronze-roofed church in a small, parklike setting. Trees surrounded two buildings to the rear, and I guessed this was where they’d be staying. As they entered the church, Philby guided me down a narrow side street, where a gray sedan sat idling.
We got in the backseat and the driver took off without a word, circling around to the rear of the church. The car stopped and Philby got out, holding the car door open. A church door opened, the light from inside briefly framing the silhouette of a nun, who dashed to the car and slid into the backseat. Philby slammed the door and got in the front, a split second before the driver accelerated and sped along the gravel drive and out onto the road.
“Billy,” Diana said, glancing toward Philby, her eyes showing a curious mix of surprise, joy, and fear. “Why are you here? Is something wrong?”
“Nothing wrong, my dear,” said Philby. “I simply owed Lieutenant
Boyle a favor and brought him along to see the sights.”
“Then you have been busy since I last saw you,” Diana said to me, her face relaxing. We’d last seen each other in Naples, a month ago, before an assignment from Uncle Ike cut our time together short.
“Yes. I asked if I could tag along when your mission was finished.
I never thought you’d be brought out so soon.”
“It was . . . sudden,” she said. Her voice wavered, and I thought tears welled up in her eyes, but she regained her composure in an instant, running the rosary beads she wore through her fingers.
“What’s the connection?” Diana asked in a low voice, nodding toward Philby.
“It’s a long story.”
“They all are,” Diana said, as she took my hand in hers and gazed out the window. She rubbed the moisture away and stared at the traffic, the streetlights, the glow from windows—all the signs of normalcy that had become so abnormal in these years of war. She blinked rapidly as the tears returned, and one dropped onto the back of my hand.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Long and sad,” she said. “Every story is so long and so sad.” She gripped my hand until her knuckles turned white. We drove on through the peaceful streets in silence broken only by the sound of muffled sobs.
The Hotel Turconi was located just north of Chiasso. It sat atop a hill at the start of a wave of foothills and high ridges cresting the Alps themselves. It was a small place, perfect for knowing who your fellow guests were, and for watching the winding road that led up from the border town. When we’d first checked in,
the owner nodded to Philby like a long-time customer, the kind who liked to be left alone. He didn’t blink at our passports, both
Irish, and reserved a table in an alcove for our meals, set apart from the other diners. Our papers and our names were phony, but the money Philby handed over wasn’t. I hoped he wasn’t stingy with the king’s pound notes, since I didn’t like the idea of German agents paying us a visit while we slept.
The owner himself served us. Wild mushroom soup and roasted duck breast with apples, washed down with a couple of bottles of
Merlot Bianco—from his cousin’s vineyard, he was proud to tell us.
It beat dining in London, with all the rationing restrictions, even though Diana was still dressed as a nun.
“Why don’t you change?” I asked as our host cleared the dishes and Philby fired up his pipe. “Do you need clothes?”
“Kim,” Diana said. “Didn’t you tell him?”
“Tell me what?” I wanted to know.
“The mission isn’t over,” she said, lowering her voice. “I needed to report something in person, so I asked to come out. I’ll go back as soon as I can.”
“I will be the one to make that decision, my dear,” Philby said in his best professorial tone. “That’s why I didn’t tell Boyle. I’m not sure myself if you should go back. First, I need to hear what was so important,
and how you came to learn of it. The Germans are great ones for playing games, and it could be false intelligence designed to draw out an agent, forcing you to take the sort of intemperate action you did.”
“This is not the sort of intelligence they would plant,” Diana said. “And I am not intemperate.” She drank her wine and set the glass down hard, punctuating her statement.
“Very well,” Philby said, shrugging his acceptance. “We can discuss the matter later, in private.”
“No,” Diana said. “This is not something to be hidden away and kept secret. Billy does work for General Eisenhower, after all.” She made it sound like Philby was an idiot, not her spymaster boss.
“And I am in the business of managing secrets,” Philby said. “Not broadcasting them before their usefulness can be determined.”
“I saw a report from the bishop of Berlin, Konrad von Preysing,”
Diana said, ignoring Philby, who refilled his wine glass and eyed her with faint amusement, as if she were a precocious child on the verge of misbehavior. “It was sent directly to the pope, and one of his secretaries typed a copy . . .”
“If you insist on proceeding, move on to the facts,” Philby said.
“There is no need to detail your sources for Lieutenant Boyle.” It was a way for him to assert his authority while allowing her to continue.
Diana waited for a heartbeat, then nodded. “Kurt Gerstein is an
Obersturmführer in the SS. A lieutenant. He joined the Nazis in 1933,
but quickly became disillusioned and spoke out against their antireligious policies. For his involvement with various Christian youth groups, he was thrown out of the party, severely beaten, and briefly imprisoned for anti-Nazi activities.”
“So how did he end up in the SS?” Philby asked, an eyebrow raised in disbelief.
“In early 1941, his sister-in-law died in a mental institution.”
“Nazi euthanasia?” Philby asked.
“Yes. At that point, Gerstein became committed to acting against the regime. He apparently decided the best way to do that was from within. A few months after her death, he joined the SS. Either they didn’t check his records, or his technical skills made them willing to overlook them. He had an engineering degree, and had completed his first year of medical school. So they brought him into the
Technical Disinfection Department of the SS.”
“What, do they clean garbage cans?” I asked, wondering where all this was leading.
“No. They are in charge of disinfecting the clothes of all the Jews they kill. Jews, Gypsies, Communists, opponents of the regime,
anyone who is sent to the extermination camps.”
I’d read about the concentration camps, where enemies of the
Nazis were sent, and I knew the SS and the Gestapo had no qualms about shooting whomever they wanted. But this felt different. A whole structure dedicated to extermination? It was bigger than wanton slaughter, beyond evil, beyond believing. Everything I’d read or seen in newsreels about the Nazis made me angry. This made me sick.
“We know the Nazis have treated the Jews terribly,” Philby said.
“As they have many others. We know many die in the camps in the east, but extermination? Surely they use them for labor, and many die, but you can’t mean wholesale slaughter?” Philby’s normally suave demeanor faltered for a moment as he took in what Diana was describing.
“The Technical Disinfection Department also provides a gas called Zyklon B. It is used in gas chambers, in large quantities,” Diana said, her lips compressed, as if the words were too terrible to let loose into the world. “Kurt Gerstein is in charge of the delivery of Zyklon
B. He delivered large quantities to a number of camps in Poland,
including a huge complex of camps at a place called Auschwitz.”
“Unbelievable,” Philby said, and I couldn’t tell if he simply did not credit Diana, or was stunned at the enormity of what she was telling us.
“In 1942, he visited several concentration camps, including
Belzec, in Poland. While he was there, he witnessed the gassing of three thousand Jews. This was what he had joined the SS for. To gather evidence of outright extermination. He described what he had seen to the Swedish diplomat Baron von Otter, and the papal nuncio in Berlin, Father Cesare Orsenigo, as well as to the bishop. All promised to send word to London, and each did. When nothing but silence came of that, Bishop von Preysing wrote directly to the pope.”
“Diana,” Philby said, leaning forward to whisper to her. “Are you sure this chap isn’t mad? Surely I would have heard of such a report coming from Berlin. Perhaps he had an attack of conscience and fabricated the worst he could imagine.”
“You don’t understand,” Diana said. “What do you think is happening in these camps? Gerstein witnessed it all, the trains coming in, the few able-bodied separated to be worked to death, all the rest ushered into the gas chambers. They have them marked as showers,
to disinfect for typhus. Jewish trustees tell them to fold their clothes and leave them on benches, to remember where they left them. Then they enter the chamber and the doors are locked behind them. The
Zyklon B is dropped through vents in the ceiling. In twenty minutes they open the doors and pull out the dead. They pry the gold from their teeth and incinerate the bodies.”
“The very Zyklon B that Herr Gerstein so thoughtfully provided?”
“Yes. So that he could witness what was being done. So he could tell the world. But so far, the world hasn’t listened.” She slammed the table with the flat of her hand and her glass fell, staining the tablecloth with wine before it rolled off the table and shattered.
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 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.
An essay from the author
A MORTAL TERROR came about because I wanted to write a story set within the confines of a contained battlefield. The Anzio Beachhead was the perfect setting, both in terms of the timeline of Billy Boyle's world, and the restrictive nature of that Italian terrain. As I went through the research process, references to combat fatigue kept coming up. The units that spearheaded that invasion were not fresh, well-rested troops. They were G.I.s who had fought in North Africa, and up the peninsula of Italy. They were exhausted veterans supplemented with inexperienced replacements, and I was surprised at how much of what was learned in earlier wars was forgotten.
We call it Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome today. It was Combat Fatigue in World War II, Shell Shock in World War I. Back in the Civil War, they called it Soldier's Heart. I'm sure Roman legionnaires had a name for it too. But in 1944, there wasn't even unanimous agreement that such a thing existed. U.S. Infantry divisions in Italy did not have a single psychiatrist as part of their medical detachment.
I came across a post-war study on the effects of prolonged exposure to combat violence. A U.S. Army doctor stated that the question was not, 'Why did they break?', but 'Why did they continue to endure?' The study calculated that if left in combat for prolonged periods, 98% of soldiers would suffer from symptoms of combat fatigue. The remaining 2% would be sociopaths. They were the only ones immune from Combat Fatigue. No emotions and the lack of human empathy would protect them.
That gave me the idea for the plot. A sociopathic killer, on the loose, in the midst of battle. This requires the murderer not only to hide evidence of his crimes, but to disguise his true nature. As soldiers all around him are ground down by prolonged combat, he has to take care to not appear callous or indifferent to their suffering.
The plot took off from that premise. But as I wrote, the parallels between lessons learned and unlearned by the government and military about Combat Fatigue in all its incarnations became painfully current.
Troops in Afghanistan and Iraq face many challenges, among them injuries from roadside bombs. In addition to grievous physical injuries, proximity to such explosions also inflicts invisible injuries. Mild Traumatic Brain Injury (MTBI) or concussion is what happens to the brain when exposed to the force of an explosion. It is estimated that between 150,000-400,000 cases of MTBI have occurred in those two countries over the course of the wars. Of those, 5-15% suffer serious long term effects.
While the military has paid attention to treatment for PTSD and provides programs for returning veterans, it has been slow to acknowledge the reality of MTBI and what it means for those who suffer the effects. Once again, as it was in previous generations, the lack of a visible wound makes it hard for some in the military bureaucracy to accept the need for treatment. At Fort Bliss, Texas, a planned center for treatment of MTBI has not even opened its doors. It stands empty as senior officers argue about the treatment and definition of MTBI and the lower ranks suffer.
Soldiers have a name for those who suffer from severe effects of MTBI. With a healthy dose of gallows humor, they call them Walkie-Talkies. They can walk and they can talk, but otherwise they're useless.
Aren't we better than that? Don't they deserve more?
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
Benn captures your attentions and embroils you in a mind wrenching murder wrapped in a historically accurate war setting. The combat scenes are so realistic you'll be looking for your helmet and a foxhole. Boyle has to fight the brass,non-coms,Germans and Italians while trying to prevent a straight flush of dead officers. I dare you to try and solve this mystery even with all the clues. Five stars.
Another cliff hanger as Billy grows up under combat while solving another crime. Like every good melodrama, there will have to be another installment.
Well done WW II tale. Fast paced, a well hidden villan. A real fine read.
Best one in the series to date. If your thinking of getting this book or any other of the Billy Boyle books, get them you will not be disappointed.
The story was good, highly entertaining and suspenseful. Always glad to hear what Billy is up to and remember the sacrifices the men and women made for our country. Can't wait for the next one!
Good story! Also, left this reader anticipating the next installment.
James R. Benn has written a more serious novel this time out. The complicated plot devices are still part of the book, but setting most of the story in a battle zone adds immediacy and power to the story. Billy Boyle pursues a psychopathic killer who is also a GI across the bleak Anzio landscape, but by the end of the story he takes an action only slightly less insane than those of the murderer. This is the best Benn book so far.
Got through Part One (38 pages) and put it aside. Just couldn't get interested.