{"product_id":"a-mortal-terror-isbn-9781616951627","title":"A Mortal Terror","description":"\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eIn his sixth investigation, Lieutenant Billy Boyle finds himself in pursuit of a serial killer with a particularly frightening agenda\u003c\/b\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e1943: 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eA Mortal Terror\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e“A fast-paced saga set in a period when the fate of civilization still hangs in the balance.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Wall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Captivating . . . Benn does a superb job of simultaneously capturing the personal anguish of war and creating a splendid adventure novel.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e, Starred Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Solid wartime adventure, well grounded in historical detail, and boasting a challenging mystery to boot.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A thrilling, fast-paced book, a great yarn wonderfully told. The mystery ploy is top notch with the ‘who,’ ‘why,’ and ‘how’ aspects of the murders as puzzling and suspenseful as anyone could wish . . . Author Benn skillfully blends the mystery of the murders and the violence of the war into one fantastic, satisfying whole. If you haven't already been hooked by this series, this book will do it and have you reaching back for the previous five.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eMystery Scene\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for the Billy Boyle series\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Spirited wartime storytelling.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"An instant classic.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Lee Child\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What a great read, full of action, humor and heart.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Louise Penny\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Terrific . . . Razor sharp.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Joseph Finder\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The series as a whole is the best set of wartime novels since those of the legendary Nevil Shute.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBookPage\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“A smart, fast-paced, action-packed historical mystery series replete with liberal dashes of humor and romance providing broad appeal to readers of military history, thrillers and mysteries. He deftly combines a mélange of edge-of-your seat suspenseful situations with historical accuracy and engaging literary references.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—BookTrib\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eJames R. Benn is the author of the Billy Boyle World War II mysteries. The debut,\u003ci\u003e Billy Boyle\u003c\/i\u003e, was named one of five top mysteries of 2006 by Book Sense and was a Dilys Award nominee.\u003ci\u003e A Blind Goddess \u003c\/i\u003ewas longlisted for the IMPAC Dublin Literary Award, and\u003ci\u003e The Rest Is Silence\u003c\/i\u003e was a Barry Award nominee. A librarian for many years, Benn lives in Connecticut with his wife, Deborah Mandel.Chapter One\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Kim Philby owed me one. I’d helped him out back in London,\u003cbr\u003e and he told me to ask if I ever needed a favor. Well, now that I\u003cbr\u003e needed one, I didn’t hesitate. I wanted to be there when—not if,\u003cbr\u003e when—Diana Seaton returned from her mission.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Philby was the only person who could make that happen, so I\u003cbr\u003e was glad he was in my debt. As head of the British Secret Intelligence\u003cbr\u003e Service’s Mediterranean operations, he controlled all the spies,\u003cbr\u003e saboteurs, and agents operating in neutral nations and behind enemy\u003cbr\u003e lines from Portugal to Turkey. That included Diana Seaton of the\u003cbr\u003e Special Operations Executive, who had been sent into Rome, disguised\u003cbr\u003e as a nun, to establish contact with a pro-Allied circle within\u003cbr\u003e the Vatican.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e How do I, a lowly lieutenant, know all this? Because Diana\u003cbr\u003e Seaton is the love of my life, and I worry about her day and night.\u003cbr\u003e A lot of people worry about each other in this war, but unlike them,\u003cbr\u003e I can do something about it. I work for General Dwight David\u003cbr\u003e Eisenhower, which gives me access to secrets out of the reach of most\u003cbr\u003e colonels and many generals. The fact that in private I call him Uncle\u003cbr\u003e Ike doesn’t hurt either. It allows me to get involved with men like\u003cbr\u003e Kim Philby. When Philby called two days ago to tell me he was good\u003cbr\u003e for the favor I’d asked, Uncle Ike gave me a five-day leave and told\u003cbr\u003e me to stay out of trouble. I’m going to Switzerland, I told him, how\u003cbr\u003e much trouble could there be in a neutral country?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As I stamped my feet on the station platform, trying to keep\u003cbr\u003e warm, I thought I might have been off the mark. It was cold, and\u003cbr\u003e the sun was casting its last feeble yellow rays sideways from the west.\u003cbr\u003e I watched the German and Italian border guards, about fifty yards\u003cbr\u003e away, their frosted breath trailing like plumes as they walked. Chiasso\u003cbr\u003e is a border town, and the railroad runs right through it. The platform\u003cbr\u003e stretches from the station on the Swiss side south to the Italian\u003cbr\u003e border, marked by a customs house and crossing gate. Philby and I\u003cbr\u003e had been waiting an hour, nervously watching the train halted\u003cbr\u003e behind the gate, still on Italian soil. Diana was on board, or so I’d\u003cbr\u003e hoped, until a half dozen men in leather trench coats entered the\u003cbr\u003e train, and a platoon of German soldiers with submachine guns surrounded\u003cbr\u003e it. The black locomotive released a sigh of steam from its\u003cbr\u003e boiler, as if straining at the leash for the final stretch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Gestapo,” Philby had said. “Not to worry. She has good travel\u003cbr\u003e papers, signed by the German general commanding rail transport in\u003cbr\u003e Northern Italy.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “The Gestapo can sniff out phony papers, no matter how good.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Oh, they’re the real thing, old boy,” Philby said, clenching his pipe\u003cbr\u003e between his teeth. “This general is quite the churchgoer, especially\u003cbr\u003e since he arranged for the transport of several thousand Italian Jews.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “To where?” I knew the Nazis were rounding up Jews everywhere,\u003cbr\u003e and shooting a lot of them. But I didn’t know where they\u003cbr\u003e kept transporting them to, or why. It didn’t make sense when they\u003cbr\u003e needed railroads for troops and supplies, but then nothing in this\u003cbr\u003e war made much sense.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “To those camps in the east we keep hearing about. This old general\u003cbr\u003e began to feel guilty, more so after we landed in Italy. He let it be\u003cbr\u003e known he’d be glad to do a small favor for the Vatican now and then.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Isn’t it dangerous to give him Diana’s name? Or whatever name\u003cbr\u003e she’s using?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Yes, it would be,” Philby said absently, as he knocked the ash\u003cbr\u003e from his pipe and jammed it into his coat pocket. “That’s why she’s\u003cbr\u003e coming out with a group of twenty nuns. Didn’t want to tell you the\u003cbr\u003e details before now, you understand.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Sure, security. Lot of that going around.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “The cover story is that they’re being sent to a convent outside\u003cbr\u003e of Zurich, to relieve crowding in the Holy See. Solid on all counts.\u003cbr\u003e Look there,” he said, pointing to the train. A rush of black leather\u003cbr\u003e exited, accompanied by shouted orders. The troops surrounding the\u003cbr\u003e train trotted to their vehicles. The Italian border guards stood back,\u003cbr\u003e melting into the shadows, mere spectators on their own soil. Two\u003cbr\u003e burly Gestapo men stepped down from a train car, holding a civilian\u003cbr\u003e by his elbows, guiding him to the waiting sedan. The civilian looked\u003cbr\u003e around, his head swiveling wildly as he sought some way out. He\u003cbr\u003e dug in his heels, but the two goons carried him easily. Then he\u003cbr\u003e dropped, as if he’d fainted. One of the Germans pulled back his leg\u003cbr\u003e to give him a kick, and all of a sudden the prisoner was up, pushing\u003cbr\u003e his tormentor and twisting free. He ran along the train, his arms\u003cbr\u003e pumping, and leapt from the platform, hitting the ground hard,\u003cbr\u003e rolling and coming up at a run, limping as one leg threatened to give\u003cbr\u003e out. Pistol shots cracked and gray dust kicked up at his feet. Then\u003cbr\u003e an MP40 submachine gun sounded, the harsh burst slamming into\u003cbr\u003e his back. He took another two steps, perhaps not realizing that death\u003cbr\u003e had burrowed into muscle and bone. His momentum propelled him\u003cbr\u003e forward, almost in a cartwheel, until his body fell limply across the\u003cbr\u003e track. The sigh of steam flowed from the locomotive again, a\u003cbr\u003e mournful sound that seemed to apologize for the sudden death of a\u003cbr\u003e passenger so close to his final destination.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The Germans pushed the Italian border guards forward, ordering\u003cbr\u003e them to retrieve the body. As they grabbed the fellow by his feet and\u003cbr\u003e pulled, they left a streak of crimson that pointed, like an arrow, to\u003cbr\u003e the Swiss side.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Lucky fellow,” Philby said. “That was at least quick.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “One of yours?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “No. Some poor bastard on the run. Deserter, maybe. Probably\u003cbr\u003e betrayed by some other chap looking to save his own skin. Here we\u003cbr\u003e go,” he said as the gate was raised and the train finally lurched forward,\u003cbr\u003e its giant steel wheels rolling over the bloodstains as it left Nazi\u003cbr\u003e territory.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The train arrived at the platform, and lights switched on above\u003cbr\u003e us as the sun gave up and set below the looming mountains. To the\u003cbr\u003e south, a blanket of darkness settled over occupied Italy, where the\u003cbr\u003e blackout was complete, not a glimmer allowed to guide Allied\u003cbr\u003e bombers. The Swiss side seemed gaudy in comparison, bright lights\u003cbr\u003e shining on gray pavement and orange tile roofs. Maybe I’d gotten\u003cbr\u003e used to the blackout in London, but the glare of streetlights and\u003cbr\u003e lamps was blinding. I shaded my eyes and strained to see into the\u003cbr\u003e compartments as they rolled by, the train moving slowly until its\u003cbr\u003e caboose was safely on neutral ground.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The compartment doors opened, and the passengers spilled out\u003cbr\u003e with a mix of nervous chatter and ashen faces. Some looked like\u003cbr\u003e businessmen, others refugees. Wartime travel to a neutral country\u003cbr\u003e provided for odd traveling companions. Then I saw them, two cars\u003cbr\u003e down: a procession of black habits, led by an older nun. They wore\u003cbr\u003e cloaks against the cold and white wimples encased their faces, their\u003cbr\u003e black veils prohibiting sideways glances, their eyes focused on the\u003cbr\u003e ground at their feet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Hold,” Philby said in a low voice, placing his hand on my arm.\u003cbr\u003e “Don’t say anything. We don’t know who may be watching the\u003cbr\u003e station.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I saw her. Not her face, but her walk. Nothing could hide that\u003cbr\u003e confident swing of her shoulders, the aristocratic posture, the determined\u003cbr\u003e steps. It was Diana, her head bowed a fraction less than the\u003cbr\u003e others. The nun in the lead said something in Italian, and they turned\u003cbr\u003e to enter the open doors of the station. Diana glanced up, looking in\u003cbr\u003e all directions. Her eyes met mine and flashed wide for a split second,\u003cbr\u003e then disappeared as she assumed the obedient, demure posture of a\u003cbr\u003e nun following her abbess.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Philby and I fell in a few steps behind them as I watched for signs\u003cbr\u003e of anyone trailing us. I pulled my hat brim low over my eyes, blending\u003cbr\u003e in with the crowd, while trying to spot anyone who didn’t. I was in\u003cbr\u003e civilian clothes, and if it hadn’t been for the threat of German agents\u003cbr\u003e in similar attire, not to mention the blood on the tracks, I might have\u003cbr\u003e talked myself into enjoying this Swiss interlude. Instead, I saw every-\u003cbr\u003e thing with suspicious eyes, not trusting that anyone was who he said\u003cbr\u003e he was. I wasn’t, Diana certainly wasn’t, so how could we assume we\u003cbr\u003e were surrounded by harmless Swiss neutrals?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We trailed the procession of nuns out onto the street. They\u003cbr\u003e walked up the Corso San Gottardo, each clutching a small black\u003cbr\u003e suitcase, dodging the pedestrians strolling along the thoroughfare.\u003cbr\u003e Wind whipped at their cloaks and veils, the black fabric snapping\u003cbr\u003e like flags in a parade. Passing restaurants and shops with unaccustomed\u003cbr\u003e light spilling out into the street, the nuns made a beeline for\u003cbr\u003e the Chiesa di Santa Maria, a bronze-roofed church in a small, parklike\u003cbr\u003e setting. Trees surrounded two buildings to the rear, and I guessed\u003cbr\u003e this was where they’d be staying. As they entered the church, Philby\u003cbr\u003e guided me down a narrow side street, where a gray sedan sat idling.\u003cbr\u003e We got in the backseat and the driver took off without a word, circling\u003cbr\u003e around to the rear of the church. The car stopped and Philby\u003cbr\u003e got out, holding the car door open. A church door opened, the light\u003cbr\u003e from inside briefly framing the silhouette of a nun, who dashed to\u003cbr\u003e the car and slid into the backseat. Philby slammed the door and got\u003cbr\u003e in the front, a split second before the driver accelerated and sped\u003cbr\u003e along the gravel drive and out onto the road.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Billy,” Diana said, glancing toward Philby, her eyes showing a\u003cbr\u003e curious mix of surprise, joy, and fear. “Why are you here? Is something\u003cbr\u003e wrong?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Nothing wrong, my dear,” said Philby. “I simply owed Lieutenant\u003cbr\u003e Boyle a favor and brought him along to see the sights.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Then you \u003ci\u003ehave \u003c\/i\u003ebeen busy since I last saw you,” Diana said to\u003cbr\u003e me, her face relaxing. We’d last seen each other in Naples, a month\u003cbr\u003e ago, before an assignment from Uncle Ike cut our time together short.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Yes. I asked if I could tag along when your mission was finished.\u003cbr\u003e I never thought you’d be brought out so soon.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “It was . . . sudden,” she said. Her voice wavered, and I thought\u003cbr\u003e tears welled up in her eyes, but she regained her composure in an\u003cbr\u003e instant, running the rosary beads she wore through her fingers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “What’s the connection?” Diana asked in a low voice, nodding\u003cbr\u003e toward Philby.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “It’s a long story.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “They all are,” Diana said, as she took my hand in hers and gazed\u003cbr\u003e out the window. She rubbed the moisture away and stared at the\u003cbr\u003e traffic, the streetlights, the glow from windows—all the signs of\u003cbr\u003e normalcy that had become so abnormal in these years of war. She\u003cbr\u003e blinked rapidly as the tears returned, and one dropped onto the back\u003cbr\u003e of my hand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Are you okay?” I asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Long and sad,” she said. “Every story is so long and so sad.” She\u003cbr\u003e gripped my hand until her knuckles turned white. We drove on\u003cbr\u003e through the peaceful streets in silence broken only by the sound of\u003cbr\u003e muffled sobs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Chapter Two\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The Hotel Turconi was located just north of Chiasso. It\u003cbr\u003e sat atop a hill at the start of a wave of foothills and high ridges\u003cbr\u003e cresting the Alps themselves. It was a small place, perfect for\u003cbr\u003e knowing who your fellow guests were, and for watching the winding\u003cbr\u003e road that led up from the border town. When we’d first checked in,\u003cbr\u003e the owner nodded to Philby like a long-time customer, the kind\u003cbr\u003e who liked to be left alone. He didn’t blink at our passports, both\u003cbr\u003e Irish, and reserved a table in an alcove for our meals, set apart from\u003cbr\u003e the other diners. Our papers and our names were phony, but the\u003cbr\u003e money Philby handed over wasn’t. I hoped he wasn’t stingy with\u003cbr\u003e the king’s pound notes, since I didn’t like the idea of German agents\u003cbr\u003e paying us a visit while we slept.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The owner himself served us. Wild mushroom soup and roasted\u003cbr\u003e duck breast with apples, washed down with a couple of bottles of\u003cbr\u003e Merlot Bianco—from his cousin’s vineyard, he was proud to tell us.\u003cbr\u003e It beat dining in London, with all the rationing restrictions, even\u003cbr\u003e though Diana was still dressed as a nun.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Why don’t you change?” I asked as our host cleared the dishes\u003cbr\u003e and Philby fired up his pipe. “Do you need clothes?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Kim,” Diana said. “Didn’t you tell him?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Tell me what?” I wanted to know.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “The mission isn’t over,” she said, lowering her voice. “I needed\u003cbr\u003e to report something in person, so I asked to come out. I’ll go back\u003cbr\u003e as soon as I can.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I will be the one to make that decision, my dear,” Philby said in\u003cbr\u003e his best professorial tone. “That’s why I didn’t tell Boyle. I’m not sure\u003cbr\u003e myself if you should go back. First, I need to hear what was so important,\u003cbr\u003e and how you came to learn of it. The Germans are great ones for\u003cbr\u003e playing games, and it could be false intelligence designed to draw out\u003cbr\u003e an agent, forcing you to take the sort of intemperate action you did.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “This is not the sort of intelligence they would plant,” Diana\u003cbr\u003e said. “And I am not intemperate.” She drank her wine and set the\u003cbr\u003e glass down hard, punctuating her statement.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Very well,” Philby said, shrugging his acceptance. “We can\u003cbr\u003e discuss the matter later, in private.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “No,” Diana said. “This is not something to be hidden away and\u003cbr\u003e kept secret. Billy does work for General Eisenhower, after all.” She\u003cbr\u003e made it sound like Philby was an idiot, not her spymaster boss.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “And I am in the business of managing secrets,” Philby said. “Not\u003cbr\u003e broadcasting them before their usefulness can be determined.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I saw a report from the bishop of Berlin, Konrad von Preysing,”\u003cbr\u003e Diana said, ignoring Philby, who refilled his wine glass and eyed her\u003cbr\u003e with faint amusement, as if she were a precocious child on the verge\u003cbr\u003e of misbehavior. “It was sent directly to the pope, and one of his\u003cbr\u003e secretaries typed a copy . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “If you insist on proceeding, move on to the facts,” Philby said.\u003cbr\u003e “There is no need to detail your sources for Lieutenant Boyle.” It\u003cbr\u003e was a way for him to assert his authority while allowing her to\u003cbr\u003e continue.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Diana waited for a heartbeat, then nodded. “Kurt Gerstein is an\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eObersturmführer \u003c\/i\u003ein the SS. A lieutenant. He joined the Nazis in 1933,\u003cbr\u003e but quickly became disillusioned and spoke out against their antireligious\u003cbr\u003e policies. For his involvement with various Christian youth\u003cbr\u003e groups, he was thrown out of the party, severely beaten, and briefly\u003cbr\u003e imprisoned for anti-Nazi activities.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “So how did he end up in the SS?” Philby asked, an eyebrow\u003cbr\u003e raised in disbelief.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “In early 1941, his sister-in-law died in a mental institution.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Nazi euthanasia?” Philby asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Yes. At that point, Gerstein became committed to acting against\u003cbr\u003e the regime. He apparently decided the best way to do that was from\u003cbr\u003e within. A few months after her death, he joined the SS. Either they\u003cbr\u003e didn’t check his records, or his technical skills made them willing to\u003cbr\u003e overlook them. He had an engineering degree, and had completed\u003cbr\u003e his first year of medical school. So they brought him into the\u003cbr\u003e Technical Disinfection Department of the SS.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “What, do they clean garbage cans?” I asked, wondering where\u003cbr\u003e all this was leading.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “No. They are in charge of disinfecting the clothes of all the Jews\u003cbr\u003e they kill. Jews, Gypsies, Communists, opponents of the regime,\u003cbr\u003e anyone who is sent to the extermination camps.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I’d read about the concentration camps, where enemies of the\u003cbr\u003e Nazis were sent, and I knew the SS and the Gestapo had no qualms\u003cbr\u003e about shooting whomever they wanted. But this felt different. A whole\u003cbr\u003e structure dedicated to extermination? It was bigger than wanton\u003cbr\u003e slaughter, beyond evil, beyond believing. Everything I’d read or seen\u003cbr\u003e in newsreels about the Nazis made me angry. This made me sick.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “We know the Nazis have treated the Jews terribly,” Philby said.\u003cbr\u003e “As they have many others. We know many die in the camps in the\u003cbr\u003e east, but extermination? Surely they use them for labor, and many\u003cbr\u003e die, but you can’t mean wholesale slaughter?” Philby’s normally suave\u003cbr\u003e demeanor faltered for a moment as he took in what Diana was\u003cbr\u003e describing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “The Technical Disinfection Department also provides a gas\u003cbr\u003e called Zyklon B. It is used in gas chambers, in large quantities,” Diana\u003cbr\u003e said, her lips compressed, as if the words were too terrible to let loose\u003cbr\u003e into the world. “Kurt Gerstein is in charge of the delivery of Zyklon\u003cbr\u003e B. He delivered large quantities to a number of camps in Poland,\u003cbr\u003e including a huge complex of camps at a place called Auschwitz.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Unbelievable,” Philby said, and I couldn’t tell if he simply did\u003cbr\u003e not credit Diana, or was stunned at the enormity of what she was\u003cbr\u003e telling us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “In 1942, he visited several concentration camps, including\u003cbr\u003e Belzec, in Poland. While he was there, he witnessed the gassing of\u003cbr\u003e three thousand Jews. This was what he had joined the SS for. To\u003cbr\u003e gather evidence of outright extermination. He described what he had\u003cbr\u003e seen to the Swedish diplomat Baron von Otter, and the papal nuncio\u003cbr\u003e in Berlin, Father Cesare Orsenigo, as well as to the bishop. All promised\u003cbr\u003e to send word to London, and each did. When nothing but silence\u003cbr\u003e came of that, Bishop von Preysing wrote directly to the pope.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Diana,” Philby said, leaning forward to whisper to her. “Are you\u003cbr\u003e sure this chap isn’t mad? Surely I would have heard of such a report\u003cbr\u003e coming from Berlin. Perhaps he had an attack of conscience and\u003cbr\u003e fabricated the worst he could imagine.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You don’t understand,” Diana said. “What do you think is happening\u003cbr\u003e in these camps? Gerstein witnessed it all, the trains coming\u003cbr\u003e in, the few able-bodied separated to be worked to death, all the rest\u003cbr\u003e ushered into the gas chambers. They have them marked as showers,\u003cbr\u003e to disinfect for typhus. Jewish trustees tell them to fold their clothes\u003cbr\u003e and leave them on benches, to remember where they left them. Then\u003cbr\u003e they enter the chamber and the doors are locked behind them. The\u003cbr\u003e Zyklon B is dropped through vents in the ceiling. In twenty minutes\u003cbr\u003e they open the doors and pull out the dead. They pry the gold from\u003cbr\u003e their teeth and incinerate the bodies.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “The very Zyklon B that Herr Gerstein so thoughtfully provided?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Yes. So that he could witness what was being done. So he could\u003cbr\u003e tell the world. But so far, the world hasn’t listened.” She slammed\u003cbr\u003e the table with the flat of her hand and her glass fell, staining the\u003cbr\u003e tablecloth with wine before it rolled off the table and shattered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Philby sat in silence, haunted perhaps by visions of mass killing,\u003cbr\u003e or worried that he hadn’t been privy to reports smuggled out of Nazi\u003cbr\u003e Germany. Finally he stirred enough to chastise Diana about overreacting\u003cbr\u003e to Vatican gossip and to tell me to keep quiet about what\u003cbr\u003e I’d heard, and then left the table.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “What do you think, Billy?” Diana said, now that we were alone.\u003cbr\u003e I knew Diana was counting on me to believe her, to back her up. I\u003cbr\u003e squirmed in my seat, trying to find the words she wanted to hear,\u003cbr\u003e but I didn’t know what to say. It was all so insane, it was hard to\u003cbr\u003e come up with a logical thought. Then I remembered Sammy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I had a friend in high school, Sammy Vartanian. He was\u003cbr\u003e Armenian, and his father used to curse the Turks for killing over a\u003cbr\u003e million Armenians in 1915. I’d never heard of it, and I figured maybe\u003cbr\u003e Sammy’s old man was off his rocker. So I looked it up in the encyclopedia.\u003cbr\u003e Sure enough, there is was. The Armenian Genocide. I\u003cbr\u003e figure if something like that happened a few decades ago, and I never\u003cbr\u003e heard of it, then you could be right. Besides, I believe in you.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I’d heard talk among Jews we have hidden in Vatican City, but\u003cbr\u003e I thought it might be nothing more than rumors. Not the deportations\u003cbr\u003e and shootings, all that is well known. It’s the sheer scale of it\u003cbr\u003e all. Like a giant assembly line of death.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “But you believe this report from Gerstein?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Yes. It all checks out. Bishop von Preysing vouches for him, and\u003cbr\u003e he’s completely reliable. He’s been anti-Nazi and quite outspoken\u003cbr\u003e about it, unlike most other German bishops. And thank you.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “For what?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “For believing in me.” Diana reached her hand toward mine, and\u003cbr\u003e her skin held an electrical charge. I pulled away, looking around to see\u003cbr\u003e if anyone had seen this Irish civilian hold hands with a nun. Diana\u003cbr\u003e blushed, the red flush stark against the white surrounding her face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Let’s go,” she said, and I followed her up the stairs, aware of the\u003cbr\u003e movement in her hips beneath the black cloth. My heart was beating\u003cbr\u003e fast, and I wondered if I should feel guilty about desiring her so soon\u003cbr\u003e after discussing the fate of millions. Then I wondered if I was going\u003cbr\u003e to hell for lusting after a nun, even a phony one. That made my heart\u003cbr\u003e beat even faster, but I didn’t have time to decide which to worry\u003cbr\u003e about, since we were in front of Diana’s door. Guilt and hell were\u003cbr\u003e pretty much the same thing in my upbringing, and I knew I could\u003cbr\u003e never explain this situation to a priest and ask for absolution.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Listen,” I said, as she turned the key in the lock. “I’ll understand\u003cbr\u003e if you want to be alone, you know, after your long trip and all.”\u003cbr\u003e Diana eyed me, then the hallway. It was empty. The only sounds\u003cbr\u003e were those drifting up from the restaurant two floors below. She\u003cbr\u003e pressed her body against mine, her face warm, her eyes half closed,\u003cbr\u003e her lips moist as we kissed. Our arms encircled each other, and I\u003cbr\u003e tasted the sweetness of her mouth and the saltiness of the tears that\u003cbr\u003e streaked her cheek. I reached for the unlocked door, pushed it open,\u003cbr\u003e and we entered like two dancers in tune with the music of longing.\u003cbr\u003e I kicked it shut as Diana pulled the white coif from her head, letting\u003cbr\u003e her long hair loose. She carefully removed the cross she wore around\u003cbr\u003e her neck and the rosary beads from her woolen belt, placing them\u003cbr\u003e on a small table by the gable window. Then she removed her scapular—\u003cbr\u003e the black apron draped over her shoulders—and covered them\u003cbr\u003e with it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I’ve missed you,” she said, kicking off her shoes and wiping a\u003cbr\u003e tear away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Is that why you’re crying?” I asked, taking her in my arms,\u003cbr\u003e feeling warm flesh beneath the nun’s habit and trying not to think\u003cbr\u003e about all the real nuns I’d known. This was not the time for visions\u003cbr\u003e of Sister Mary Margaret.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I don’t know. It’s everything. The war, the innocent deaths, all\u003cbr\u003e the lives ripped apart. It’s too much to bear. I don’t want to think\u003cbr\u003e about it anymore, at least not now.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We struggled out of our clothes, not wanting to separate for a\u003cbr\u003e second, eager to release our bodies from the confines of belts and\u003cbr\u003e buttons. I laughed when Diana pulled off her tunic, half expecting\u003cbr\u003e all the saints in Switzerland to barge through the door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “What’s the matter, haven’t you ever seen a nun undress before?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I laughed some more and Diana giggled as the pile of clothes\u003cbr\u003e by the side of the bed grew, layers of her undergarments mixing with\u003cbr\u003e my civvies, until we were under the duvet, basking in the warmth of\u003cbr\u003e our flesh on a cold winter night, safe from the murderous conflict\u003cbr\u003e that threatened from all points of the compass. The world had\u003cbr\u003e shrunk down to the two of us in this room. The war had burned\u003cbr\u003e away all the petty arguments, all the ill will that we’d let come\u003cbr\u003e between us. There were no questions about tomorrow or the next\u003cbr\u003e day, no expectations of the future, no wondering what would become\u003cbr\u003e of us. Fear, blood, and death had washed us clean, leaving only what\u003cbr\u003e survived, or what had burrowed deep into our hearts, as far from the\u003cbr\u003e danger as it could go and still be remembered. We caressed each\u003cbr\u003e other, coaxing those memories out, letting them breathe the air of\u003cbr\u003e joy and freedom before we put them away again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We laughed, but I can’t say we were happy. We made love, but it\u003cbr\u003e was desperate and burning hot, as if we were keeping evil at bay by\u003cbr\u003e the very act. We cried, but our woes were so small that I was ashamed\u003cbr\u003e of the tears. We held each other, and knew it would not last.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We slept, but could not rest.","brand":"Soho Crime","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300358344933,"sku":"NP9781616951627","price":16.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781616951627.jpg?v=1767720656","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/a-mortal-terror-isbn-9781616951627","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}