Chapter One Naples, Italy Late December 1943   Everyone was happy. The sky was a vibrant, vivid blue, clear in every direction. The breeze out of the north felt crisp and cool at our backs. Sunlight warmed our faces as it cast long, thin shadows across the gray decks of the destroyer. I stood close to Diana, our hands clasped discreetly amid the folds of my flapping trench coat. We were on duty with the boss, but this was light duty, an excursion out of Naples harbor to the island of Capri, twenty miles due south. Nobody was paying us any mind, so we stood together at the rail, close, touching when we could, making believe it was a holiday outing. Diana and I had been through a lot, separately and together, the terrible and the wonderful. For the last two days we'd enjoyed each other's company as never before, as if all the burdens and terrors of the past had decided to take a holiday as well. We were together, neither of us in danger, and we had time alone. Nights, as well as days. I heard Kay Summersby laugh. She and the general were huddled in the lee of the deck gun, sheltered from the wind. He leaned in to speak to her, their heads touching. She laughed again and laid her hand on his arm briefly, before she glanced at the naval officers grouped around them. It was a passel of navy brass, all shiny braid, big grins, and ready with a light whenever Uncle Ike pulled a cigarette from the pack in his coat pocket. They reminded me of doormen at the Copley Plaza the week before Christmas. I could tell Uncle Ike was happy. He looked relaxed, and his smile was natural, not the posed face he used for politicians and photographers. Hell, he had just been told by the president of the United States himself that he'd been picked as Supreme Commander of the Allied Expeditionary Force. Uncle Ike had been expecting to be sent back home, or to watch the big show from the Mediterranean. Instead, he'd beat out his own boss, General Marshall, and gotten the top job, along with a handshake from FDR. Add blue skies and a beautiful woman to the mix and you had all the wartime happiness any man could handle. This was his last day in Italy, and he'd wanted to see the famous Isle of Capri, which he had ordered turned into a rest center for combat troops on leave. He'd made this cruise into a treat for the HQ staff, his family of secretaries and aides who worked long hours, seven days a week, keeping the paperwork, and the war, moving along. Kay was happy, too. She'd just received her orders to accompany the general to London, along with most of his core staff. Not that anyone thought she wouldn't, but she'd been on pins and needles for a while, especially when odds were that he was headed back to the States. Kay, a British citizen, would have been left behind. When he got the Supreme Commander job, I'd almost asked Uncle Ike if Aunt Mamie would move to London, but fortunately thought better of it. He was my relative, of a distant sort, but he was also the highestranking general this side of the Charles River, and I was a dime-adozen lieutenant. And I liked Kay, whatever was going on between them. Maybe nothing, maybe something. Who was I to judge? There was a war on. I sneaked a kiss, tasting the salt from the sea spray on Diana's lips. Kay saw us and raised her eyebrows in mock horror. Diana laughed, and put her arm through mine, as loose strands of her golden hair caressed my face. We were in love, Diana Seaton and I. It had been rocky for a while, but right now we were walking on air. I had a week's leave, and it would be ten days before she departed for wherever the Special Operations Executive was sending her. It seemed like we had forever. "Look," Diana said, pointing to Mount Vesuvius off the port bow. "Smoke." "That's all we need," I said. The night before, a thin trail of lava had snaked down the mountain. The locals said it happened all the time, and there was nothing to worry about, unless the mountain exploded. Then worrying would be of little help, so why bother? I felt the same way about the war, so I understood. "Let's hike up there, Billy," Diana said. "I want to see the crater." I leaned in to whisper to her. "Diana, in ten days you'll be jumping out of an airplane. How about we take it easy until then?" "I never said anything about an airplane, Billy Boyle," she said, jabbing her elbow into my ribs. "You're not afraid of a dormant volcano, are you? Or of being beat to the top by a woman?" "That thing belches molten lava! But you're probably in better shape than I am, I'll admit it. I haven't had much to do since Ireland, while you've been busy with training exercises." "I promise to go slowly. We'll pack some food in the morning, and have a picnic." "On a volcano." "It does sum things up fairly well." I didn't argue the point. I was happy, too. Yesterday Uncle Ike had pinned the silver bars of a first lieutenant on me, along with the Purple Heart for a wounded arm that still ached. It was a step up from a second louie, finally. He'd apologized for taking so long, explaining that he didn't want headquarters staff getting more than their fair share of promotions. I didn't quibble, even though Purple Hearts are pretty rare around typewriters and filing cabinets. Now I was looking forward to celebrating the new year with Diana in Naples, wearing my best Class A uniform, silver bars polished and sparkling in the candlelight of the fanciest restaurant I could get us into. I watched Diana gaze at the smoldering, distant mountain and wished there could be a medal for her. She wore a British uniform without any insignia, and few people would ever learn how she'd served. I knew about her first mission, since we'd stumbled into each other in Algiers. But this time, there wasn't much to go on. Of course, she wouldn't tell me a thing, but I had noticed her practicing her Italian, speaking with any Neapolitan who would spend time with her. Since most were starving, the extra rations she passed around insured a steady stream of chatterboxes. So I figured Italy, somewhere north of the Volturno River, which left a lot of territory--all in German hands--where the British might want to plant a spy. "It's Rome, isn't it?" I asked, keeping up the playful banter. We'd almost called it quits over her working with the Special Operations Executive, until I decided it was crazy to lose her  because  I was worried about losing her. I'd taken a bullet through the arm not too long ago, and that brush with death made me think things over. Maybe we would both survive this war, maybe one of us, perhaps neither. So why not make the best of the time we had together? I'd decided if the choice was to be happy or be miserable, why not go for happy? If either of us ended up dead, at least we'd have had our day in the sun. And today it was as if happiness were contagious. Smiles all around, a beautiful day, nothing to worry about for the moment, if you ignored the fitful plumes of smoke rising from the volcano off the port bow. "You're the detective, you figure it out," she said, jabbing her finger at my chest. "Italian lessons, that's a major clue." "We are  in  Italy, Billy. You know I enjoy languages. What better place?" "Hmm. OK, let me think." I studied her, trying to summon up any hint of an unusual remark or interest. The wind freshened, and she held her collar up, shielding her face. I followed her to the bow. Fine mist blew into our faces as the destroyer cut through the calm, pale blue waters. Diana turned away from the spray, leaning against me, pressing her body against mine. I put my arms around her, thinking of last night and the night before in her room at the Hotel Vesuvio. It was difficult not to caress her, kiss her lips again, envelop her as droplets of water cascaded over us. I resisted, and returned to the guessing game at hand. Church. She'd gone to church with me on Sunday. I had written my mother, telling her I went to Mass whenever I could. Knowing she'd ask about it in her next letter, I made sure to go at least once in Naples. Diana came too, which surprised me. She's not Catholic, not even close. Church of England, minor aristocracy, stiff upper lip. Everything the Boyles are not. We yell, holler, cross ourselves, curse God, and beg the saints for forgiveness. Diana had asked me about confession, communion, being an altar boy, and all the other rituals of the Catholic faith as practiced at the Cathedral of the Holy Cross in Boston. "Turn around," I said. She did, her service cap pulled down tight on her forehead, her stiff wool collar held against her cheeks as protection against the wind. It was a familiar look, her face framed by a uniform. "Who was that nun you were talking with after Mass? When you left me with that gasbag colonel, remember?" "Sister Justina? She's from Brindisi, as it turned out. She knew about the twelfth-century mosaics in the cathedral there. We had a nice chat." "Oh," I said. Diana had been to Brindisi several times. The SOE had a station there. It was a good location, easy access by sea and air to Yugoslavia, Greece, Crete, and Italy north of our lines. It was also the seat of Italian government, at least the one now allied with us. "How was her English?" "Poor. We spoke Italian. Why?" "No reason, just curious. Could you understand her? I thought they spoke some sort of dialect down there." "Salentino, I believe it's called. Yes, it sounded a bit different, probably much like the Sicilian you've heard. But anyone who speaks Italian can understand it, even if the words sound a bit different. Why the sudden interest?" "I'm interested in whatever you're interested in." "I'm interested in climbing Mount Vesuvius with you, and enjoying the whole week ahead of us." "Me, too," I said, keeping my thoughts to myself. I wanted nothing more than to spend the few days ahead with Diana, climbing volcanoes if need be. But another part of me couldn't stop trying to figure out what she was up to, and I wasn't smart enough to listen to that distant, small voice in the back of my mind, telling me to leave well enough alone. I didn't. Brindisi was well south of our lines, a safe place for an SOE agent to claim to be from. It made sense that Diana would want to pick up some local dialect, to solidify her cover. Her Italian was fluent, but it was classroom Italian, and she'd want to sound like a native when she spoke it. It was only when I saw her face framed as it would be in a nun's habit that her trip to church with me made sense. She was going as a nun, a sister from Brindisi. Maybe she'd even taken the name Justina, if they hadn't picked one out for her yet. There were nuns all over Italy, but there was only one place the SOE was likely to send an agent disguised as one. "The Vatican," I whispered to her. "You're going as a nun." Her eyes widened for a moment, and then anger narrowed them. She moved away from me, gripping the rail with both hands. Her knuckles went white. "It isn't a game, Billy. You should know that." "You said I should figure it out, Diana." "Yes, let's see how smart Billy Boyle is. That's what it's all about, isn't it?" With that, she stalked off, heading into a gaggle of naval officers, surrounding herself with them, sealing me off behind a wall of white hats and gold braid. I'd gotten it wrong. Well, I'd gotten it  right , but that was the problem. It wasn't a guessing game, it was life or death. And something beyond that for Diana. It was what she needed to do to prove herself worthy of living. So many people had died around her that she needed to face death all over again to understand why it hadn't taken her. I shouldn't have cheapened that with my guess. But I had to know where she was going, in case she needed me. Knowing might allow me to pretend, at least to myself, that I could protect her. Things got complicated when it came to women; I wasn't good at complicated. I walked back toward the bridge, where the newly promoted Colonel Sam Harding was installed, monitoring radio traffic from headquarters at Caserta, in case a communication needed the general's attention. Harding was another one of the joyous crowd today, having received his promotion along with me yesterday. He was now a lieutenant colonel, and I knew he was happy about it because he hadn't frowned once all day. That was riotous joy for Sam Harding, regular army, West Pointer, and my immediate boss. Before I came to the bridge, I joined Uncle Ike and Kay as the destroyer changed course to starboard and the craggy white cliffs of Capri came into view. The sun sparkled on the dolomite rock formations and the villas dotting the beaches and hills. Kay pointed to one of the largest homes, blinding white with an orange roof, remarking on its stark beauty. "Whose villa is that?" Uncle Ike asked of a naval aide at his side. "Why, that's your villa, General," the aide said. "Captain Butcher assigned it to you." The general lost his smile. He stepped away from Kay and pointed to an even larger villa. "And that one?" "General Spaatz, sir." "Damn it, that's not my villa! And that's not General Spaatz's villa!" Uncle Ike exploded, turning on the naval aide and forcing him back a step. His face was red with anger. "None of those will belong to any general as long as I'm boss around here. This is supposed to be a rest center for combat men, not a playground for the brass." "All the other villas on Capri have been requisitioned by the Army Air Force, sir, orders of General Spaatz. General Clark reserved Sorrento for army officers." "And what does that leave for the GIs coming off the line? The gutters of Naples, goddamn it?" "Yes, sir. I mean no, sir," the navy officer said, backpedaling as fast as he could. He looked like he'd enjoyed spilling the dirt on air force and army brass, but both barrels of Uncle Ike's anger were still pointed at him. "Kay!" Uncle Ike barked sharply. "Get ahold of Captain Butcher. Tell him to contact General Spaatz immediately and clear his officers out of there. His action was contrary to my policy. It must cease at once." "Yes, General," Kay said. "I can call him at Caserta when we get back--" "Now, damn it. Right now!" Kay stood alone, the clutch of officers staring at her, each thankful he'd kept his mouth shut. No one offered the general a light. Kay lifted a hand to her mouth, for a second. Then she was all business again, the general's faithful secretary off to do his bidding. The deck became quiet. Uncle Ike drew on his cigarette as if it might calm him. He exhaled a long plume of blue smoke into the wind and caught my eye. "William, sometimes you'd be surprised how hard it is to get something done, no matter how much authority you have. Jesus Christ on the mountain, you'd think it would be common sense to give the fighting men a decent place to rest up." "Yes, sir," I said, moving to his side. We watched the magnificent coastline drift by. Sometimes my job was to be someone Uncle Ike could blow off steam with. We were actually related to Aunt Mamie through my mother's family. But he was an older guy, and when we were in private, sometimes I'd call him Uncle Ike. Today wasn't one of those days. He flicked his butt into the water and turned up his collar. Colonel Harding climbed down from the bridge and joined us. If he'd taken in any of the drama on deck, he didn't show it. "General," Harding said, handing him a teletype. "Message from London." Uncle Ike read it and glanced at Harding. "Confirmed?" "Yes, sir." "William, we are going to have to send you on to London ahead of schedule. Colonel Harding will give you the details." With that, Uncle Ike went to the bow and stood alone. "Colonel, I have a week's leave--" "Consider it canceled. Sorry, I know you and Miss Seaton had plans, but--" "I know. There's a war on. I've heard." Harding let that pass. "A Soviet officer has been found murdered in London. Red Air Force Captain Gennady Egorov. Except we have reason to believe he was actually a senior lieutenant of state security. With the NKVD." "Is that their secret police?" "They call it the People's Commissariat for Internal Affairs, but the answer is yes." "What was he doing in London?" "Getting a bullet in the back of the head. This may involve the Poles. See Lieutenant Kazimierz as soon as you can and find out what he knows. You leave as soon as we dock in Naples." I hadn't seen Kaz in a couple of months, since he was called back to London from his liaison duties by the Polish Government in Exile. Once I got over missing my leave and saying good-bye to Diana, I'd be glad to see him. A couple of majors were vying to impress her. She'd watched Harding bring the message and observed the expression on my face. Now she brushed by the two majors and embraced me, oblivious to the spit-andpolish brass all around us. Her fingers pulled at the fabric of my coat as she pressed her face against mine. We didn't speak, we didn't have to; neither of us had words to match the touch of warm skin in the cold air. Everyone had been so happy.   Chapter Two "Welcome back to the Dorchester, Lieutenant Boyle." "It's good to be back . . . Walter, isn't it? I'm sorry, but I've been gone more than a year." "Yes, sir. Walter it is. This is yours." He handed me a room key. It was for Kaz's suite. "How did you know I was coming?" "I didn't, sir. Lieutenant Kazimierz left instructions that a key be left for your use. He furnished the staff with a photograph so they would recognize you. I did not find it necessary, since I recall your first visit here." "Thanks. Is he in?" "No, but the lieutenant asked to be informed of your arrival. I will telephone the Rubens Hotel and let him know." "He's at another hotel?" "The Free Polish government is headquartered there. It is a fine hotel, of course, but as you know Lieutenant Kazimierz prefers the Dorchester." I knew that, and I knew the reason why. I thanked Walter and took the elevator up, remembering my first day in London, and my first sight of the Dorchester. I had been nervous, and working hard not to let it show. Walter had thanked me for coming, and it took me a moment to realize he hadn't meant to the hotel. A year ago, things had looked darker than they did now. Back then, Italy was still in the war, and along with the Vichy French, the Axis had held all of North Africa. Now Italy had been knocked out, we'd cleared North Africa, and were slowly working our way to Rome. The sandbags were still stacked in front of the hotel, but they seemed to be from another era. It had been months since a bomb had fallen on London. The Germans weren't exactly on the run, but now neither were we. I unlocked the door and stood for a moment in the hallway. The wood paneling glowed in sunlight streaming through the windows, and sparkling colors refracted from the prisms of the crystal chandelier. It was quite a place for a kid from South Boston to bunk in. It was the only home Kaz had now, and it was filled with ghosts. His parents had visited him in England before the war, when he had been a student. They'd celebrated Christmas 1938 in this very room, the last time they'd all been together. Now everyone but Kaz was dead. When I got here in 1942, Daphne Seaton, Diana's sister, had been living with him. She'd been killed soon after that. Then I moved in, after Kaz gave up caring if he lived or died. We'd stuck together, through North Africa and Sicily, until the Polish Government in Exile called him back to London. His father had been wise enough to deposit his considerable fortune in Swiss banks before the Germans invaded Poland, which allowed Kaz to keep this suite permanently available. His family had been rich, really rich, and he was actually a baron of some sort. Lieutenant Baron Piotr Augustus Kazimierz. It was only his connections that got him a military commission in the first place, since he had a bad heart, poor eyesight, and a physique like the kid who got sand kicked in his face at the beach. Uncle Ike had taken him on as a translator, since he understood most European languages. Turned out, Kaz was as good with a gun as he was with paperwork, and there had been times I was damned glad of it. I'd missed him, and as I emptied my duffel bag, I thought I should head right over to the Rubens Hotel, which wasn't far. It was still early afternoon, and he probably couldn't get away until late. But then I took off my shoes and lay down to rest my eyes for a minute. It had been a long trip, first waiting for a flight out of Naples, then cooling my heels in Casablanca for a day before the roundabout flight to avoid German fighter planes. New Year's Eve had come and gone, toasted with a bottle of bourbon passed hand to hand while we bounced around inside the fuselage of a C-54 transport twenty thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean. A catnap seemed to be in order. I heard a noise, and lifted one eyelid. The room was darker than it had been a minute ago. The noise came again, a muted  thump . I got up quietly and dug out my .45 automatic from the duffel bag, found a magazine, and loaded as I listened to heavy, labored breathing. It sounded like a quiet struggle, or someone searching for something. Occasional grunts and rasping gasps carried in the still, darkened room. I glanced at the clock. I'd been out cold for three hours. I pushed my door open with the muzzle of the automatic. The hinges creaked, and I froze. There was no one in the living room. The glow of sunset lit the park outside, and the sounds of traffic drifted up from the street. I felt my palms go sweaty and my heart slamming against my chest. A crack of light showed at the door to Kaz's bedroom, and I edged around the furniture toward it. Another grunt, this one louder and more anguished. There was no time to lose. I kicked the door and spun sideways, presenting the narrowest target I could, pistol leveled, cupped in my left hand, exactly as Dad had taught me. "Don't give them any advantage, and take even the smallest for yourself. And be ready to pull the trigger." I was. I didn't. Instead I stared into Kaz's wide eyes as he lifted a dumbbell in each hand, then let them down slowly. His teeth were clenched and his neck muscles tightened as he began again. "You . . . looked . . . like . . . you needed . . . to sleep," he said, as he finished a final repetition and set the dumbbells down on the plush carpet. Thump . "Kaz?" It was all I could say. He was in his skivvies, and there were ropy muscles on his arms. Not massive, beefy biceps, but real muscle where before there had been skin and bone. And I swear he actually had a chest that broadened above his rib cage, instead of caving in on it. "Who did you expect, Betty Grable?" He took off his horn-rimmed glasses and wiped sweat out of his eyes. Kaz was a skinny guy, but now he was packing some muscle onto his frame. I could tell he was enjoying this exhibition. "One minute, Billy, and I will be done." He dropped and did twenty push-ups. The last few were pretty shaky, and I figured he had gone beyond his usual quota to impress me. It worked. "What gives, Kaz?" I said as I collapsed into a chair. "You turning yourself into a pug?" Kaz liked American slang, and I was sure I hadn't taught him this one. "A dog?" He toweled himself off and sat on the edge of the bed. "That can't be right." "A boxer, or maybe somebody good with his fists." "Ah, pug. Excellent," he said, savoring the new word. "It is good to see you, Billy." "Same here, Kaz. Are you sure you should be doing this? With your heart condition?" "Billy, after seriously considering the alternatives, I have decided life is to be lived. Fully." He got up and took a drink of water, setting the glass down hard, the noise clear and sharp. It fit the new Kaz before me. In his eyes I saw the first acknowledgment of his penchant for taunting death. He looked in the mirror on the table next to me, his gaze lingering there. He touched his scar absentmindedly, drawing his finger from his eye down his cheek, tracing it as if it were a map to lost fortune. "In this war, one must be strong," he said, moving away from the mirror. "I have decided to strengthen myself. There once was room for a weak, studious man in the world I used to know. That is why my father decided I should come to England to study, that a quiet life with books would be the best for me. But he is gone, and so is that studious boy, who lived for words. I believe that is why I was careless of my own life, because I felt so adrift from everything. Family, country, and finally even the woman I loved." "I think about Daphne all the time," I said. "I half expect her to walk through that door." "Yes, I know," Kaz said. He sat on the bed again, unable to keep his gaze from the entrance to the room. He was sad, but didn't look as hopeless as he once had. "Daphne is gone, my family is gone, all dead, everything ruined by this war. Even my face." We sat for a while in the quiet, the rumble of traffic a faint reminder of the great city around us. The sun was setting, and Kaz stood to draw the curtains. All over London, people were doing the same, shutting in the light, trying to live with the blackout and the threat of death, the reality of it. After a minute of silence I said, "You were never that good-looking in the first place." Kaz laughed. "Billy, that is one reason why I missed you! You remind me not to take things too seriously." "Glad to help, buddy. It's good to see you smile. So you're lifting weights, doing push-ups, what else?" "The army won't let me train, because they know of my heart condition. So I do what I can here. I've started to jump rope, which is very challenging. And I walk in the park at a fast pace, whenever I have time. The only thing I have left--besides you, my good friend--is the hope of a return to my country when the war is over. It will take more than scholars to accomplish that, I believe." I glanced at the pile of books on Kaz's nightstand. He hadn't exactly given up on his studies; there were several tomes in foreign languages among the foot-high stack of books and reports. With whatever the Polish Government in Exile had him doing, and his workout routine, I doubted he'd been having any fun. "Why don't we both get cleaned up and go out? We can catch up over dinner." "We can go down to the dining room or have room service bring something up if you're too tired." "No, I want to stretch my legs and take a look around." "Very well. You'll see London has changed since you were last here. There hasn't been a Luftwaffe raid in months." From the Trade Paperback edition. Excerpted from Rag and Bone: A Billy Boyle World War II Mystery by James R. Benn All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.