“Let’s go back,” I whispered, pulling Diana by the arm. She wore a silk blouse and tweed skirt from the clothes that had been provided for her and the sensation was appealing.
“Why? Because that boy is at our table?” She stood closer to me as we edged against the wall. Feeling the smooth silk against her skin, I hated the thought of leaving her so soon.
“He’s from the embassy. It can only be trouble.”
“How can you be sure?”
“He’s American. He’s not an agent, unless he’s in disguise as a Harvard twit. He’s too young to have any clout, which makes him a messenger boy. And messages from embassies are like telegrams—always bad news.”
“All right,” Diana said in a low voice, her face close to mine, close enough to feel the heat of her breath on my cheek. She backed away and I followed as she took the stairs. Two at a time.
S
UNLIGHT STREAMED IN
, warming us as we huddled under the white duvet.
“Do you think he’s still down there?” Diana asked.
“Yeah. He’s probably knocked on my door a couple of times by now. If he’s got half a brain he’ll start asking questions and figure out I’m in your room.”
“Perhaps Kim will shoot him. Or have him shot, more likely.” She laughed, and it sounded like wind chimes on a warm spring day. But it was winter, a war winter, and this hidden moment with a bit of sunshine was all we had. It was enough, I decided, and laughed along with her, until we lay exhausted and the sun rose higher in the morning sky, leaving the room in a gloomy chill.
Dressed again, we went down to the restaurant. It was nearly empty, with no trace of the messenger boy. The waiter brought coffee to our table and said the young man had gone off to look for me. He smiled and Diana blushed.
“I hope they don’t have microphones in the rooms,” Diana said as the waiter left.
“Could they?” I asked, and then saw she was trying to hide a laugh. “Make a nice souvenir,” I added, trying to cover up.
“Mr. McCarthy?” It was the embassy kid, looking at a photograph and checking it against my face. It took me a moment to remember that was the name on my Irish passport.
“In the flesh,” I said, and Diana gave an abrupt laugh, her hand covering her mouth as she looked away. “Please join us.”
“I’m sorry, but I need to speak to you in private.”
“Unnecessary, as I’m sure Mr. Gallagher has told you.” That was Philby’s cover name.
“Very well,” he said, taking a seat and waving off the approaching waiter, probably having had his fill of coffee. “Julian Dwyer, Assistant Commercial Officer, American Embassy.”
“Sorry we missed you earlier,” I said.
“How do you know I was here earlier?”
“Because I saw you and figured you were bad news. So we skipped out.”
“My time is quite valuable, Lieutenant Boyle,” he said, whispering my name and rank in a hiss.
“No it isn’t. There’s not much commerce these days between Switzerland and the U.S. And the fact that you couldn’t find me and you stand out like a virgin in a whorehouse means you’re not a spy operating under diplomatic cover. I bet you just graduated from Harvard or one of those snobby schools and daddy got you a posting so you wouldn’t have to associate with the lower classes and dress in khaki.”
“Yale,” Julian said, sounding offended more by the Harvard remark than anything else.
“I’m not a college football fan, so it makes no difference to me. It boils down to the fact that you’re the only guy they could do without up in Bern and not insult whoever sent the message to be passed on to me. You dress well, I’ll give you that.”
“Billy,” Diana said, placing her hand on my arm. I was getting steamed, and poor Julian was the perfect target. It wasn’t his fault, but he was right in front of me, and I never liked his type much anyway.
“It was my grandfather, not my father,” Julian said. “Six-term congressman. And I have a punctured eardrum, not to mention flat feet, so khaki was never in the cards. But I would look good in it.”
“Okay, Julian, sorry. But I’m not wrong, am I? About bad news?”
“I guess you would call it bad news,” he said, eyeing both of us. “Your orders, Lieutenant Boyle, are to proceed immediately to Naples, Italy. I’ve booked you on a flight from Zurich to Lisbon tonight. From there you’ll travel to Gibraltar and then via military transport to Naples.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes. The orders came from London. From a Colonel Samuel Harding.”
“Thanks, Sam,” Diana said, with an edge of bitterness.
“I still have three days of leave,” I said, knowing it was futile.
“Sorry. I have the orders right here, along with a file,” Julian said, popping open his briefcase.
“I believe you,” I said. “It’s got to be important if Colonel Harding sent it. My leave was approved by General Eisenhower, so if he’s overruling that, he’s got good reason. Have you read the file?”
“The file is for you,” Julian said.
“Right. It’s not sealed, so stop making believe you haven’t looked at it. This has got to be the most interesting thing that’s happened since you got here.”
“Not quite as interesting as some of the Swiss girls I’ve met skiing at Gstaad, but you’ve got me dead to rights. You’re sure?” He nodded to Diana.
“Spill, Julian. She’s got higher clearance than either of us.”
“There have been two murders in Naples,” Julian said. I could see the eagerness in his eyes. He was excited, and I was sure this bit of cloak-and-dagger was the high point of his life.
“Only two? Must’ve been a slow night.”
“Both U.S. Army officers. First guy was found in the 3rd Division bivouac area at Caserta, outside Naples. Lieutenant Norman Landry. Found behind a supply tent, his neck snapped. The other officer was Captain Max Galante, M.D., of Fifth Army medical staff. He was found the same night, outside headquarters at Caserta, strangled.”
The waiter came to our table with a tray of warm rolls, butter and jams. Conversation ceased as he laid everything out. As soon as he was gone, I buttered a roll, not knowing when or where my next meal might be.
“Forgive me for asking, Julian,” Diana said, flashing him a warm smile, “but terrible as these murders are, they don’t seem to warrant your presence here. Why the orders from London? Fifth Army must have plenty of military police to sort this out.”
“Like the lieutenant said, I’m only the messenger. But there is something here that may explain it. Pictures of the bodies.” He pulled two black and white photos from the file, face down. “They’re a bit gruesome.”
“Gruesome is par for the course,” Diana said. “Let’s see them.”
They weren’t pretty. Lieutenant Landry was on his back, head lolled to one side. His field jacket was open, and his .45 automatic was still in his holster. His hair was curly, and a splash of freckles decorated his cheeks. He looked young—too young to be leading men into combat. A canvas tent was visible in the background. A piece of paper appeared stuck in his shirt pocket. As if in answer to my unspoken question, Julian laid the other photo on top. It was a close up.
“The ten of hearts,” I said.
“A brand new card,” Julian said. “No other playing cards were found on him.”
“You read this pretty carefully,” I said.
“There wasn’t much else to do, waiting for you.”
“Okay, okay. What about the other guy?”
“Meet Captain Max Galante,” Julian said. Captain Galante was older, late thirties maybe. Stocky, dark haired. His throat was heavily bruised, his eyes bulging, the terror of death still on his face. Landry probably died instantly. This guy didn’t. What looked like a playing card stuck out from his shirt pocket as well.
“Don’t tell me,” I said.
“The jack of hearts?” Diana asked.
“Yes,” Julian said, laying down the close up as if he were dealing a poker hand.
“When did this happen?” I asked.
“The bodies were found yesterday morning. As soon as Fifth Army put two and two together, they sounded the alarm. German agents, Mafia, Italian Fascists, they’re seeing them all behind every rock.”
“There must be a lot of nervous majors, not to mention colonels and generals,” I said.
“From the cables in the file, I think it’s a general who sounded the alarm. But he probably got a major to do the work. Count in the British, and there are probably a thousand majors within five miles of Caserta Palace. And they’re all worried it will be them next.”
“No one else killed?”
“Not since we got that report last night in the diplomatic pouch from London.”
I leafed through the paperwork. Orders to proceed without delay to Naples and report to Major John Kearns at Fifth Army HQ. Maybe he didn’t like the odds. Maybe he knew Harding and called in a favor. There were more photos of Galante. I guessed that once the MPs realized there was a link between the two murders, they paid more attention to the crime scene. Close-ups of the neck, front and back.
“Interesting,” I said.
“What?” Julian and Diana said at the same time, leaning in to study the photo.
“The killer used a lot of force, and the good doctor fought back. These bruises and abrasions go up and down the neck, as if Galante struggled to get away. You can see the thumbprints where the killer squeezed. There’s also a bruise here at the base of the neck, from the excessive pressure.”
“So the killer was angry? Probably not uncommon,” Julian said.
“Look at Landry,” I said, placing that photo next to Galante’s. “No signs of a struggle. His pistol still in his holster. This killing was quick, professional. No sign of anger.”
“Two murderers?” Diana said.
“Maybe. Or two entirely different reasons. Can’t really tell much, but it’s something to look into. The cards could mean something, or be nothing at all.”
One of the photographs was a long shot, taken several steps back from the body. Galante lay against smooth gray boulders bordering a pool of water. It looked familiar, the waterfall and the sculpture of a pack of dogs bringing down some guy with antlers on his head. Not the kind of thing you forget.
“I’ve been here,” I said. “These are the gardens in back of Caserta Palace. The palace is at the top of a hill, and the gardens, fountains, and waterfalls go on forever, down the hill at the rear.”
“The Fountain of Diana must be beautiful,” Julian said, looking at the photo.
“Huh?”
“Oh, I see,” Diana said. “Diana and Actaeon, right?”
“Exactly,” Julian said.
“Is that somewhere in the file?” I asked.
“No, it’s nothing about the murder. Just a bit of Greek mythology, the kind of thing you pick up at Yale. Or one of the fine English schools, I’m sure,” he added, smiling at Diana.
“Okay Yalie, explain it to the one of us who didn’t pay attention in public school.”
“Diana was the virgin goddess of the wild places. One day she and her maidens were bathing in a forest stream. Naked. Actaeon was out hunting with his pals. They’d bagged their share of stag, and he was heading back with his pack of hunting dogs when he saw Diana. He was stunned by her beauty, but she could not allow a mere mortal to tell the world what he had seen. So she turned him into a stag, and his own dogs hunted him down and tore him apart.”
I studied the picture. Galante, dead in front of the sculpture that told a story of death from thousands of years ago. What had he seen in his last moments? Not the beauty of a goddess.
“When do we have to leave?”
“We should go now.”
“Give us half an hour.”
Diana and I walked along the road, arms wrapped around each other. I didn’t have to apologize. It could have been Kim Philby sending her off suddenly as easily as Julian Dwyer coming for me. We’d both donned our coats without speaking to spend our last few minutes outside, under blue skies. It was quiet away from the hotel, a farm on each side of the road, cowbells sounding from a hillside pasture.
“I thought you might want to tell Julian about Kurt Gerstein and the camps,” I said.
“I’d rather be with you. He’s not a bad sort, really, but it would be beyond his grasp.”
“What do you think Kim will do?”
“About Gerstein’s information? I don’t know. He seemed at a loss, which is unusual. I want him to send me back, but I think he’s upset about me coming out for this. He’d rather have hard information about troop movements, that sort of thing.”
“Be careful,” I said. “Of him and the Germans.”
“Good advice. It’s not bad, you know, inside the Vatican. We’re safe there.”
“Okay,” I said, knowing that anything else would only get Diana angry and me worried.
“You be careful, too. This seems like an odd business, with the playing cards. What do you suppose the killer is up to?”
“Sowing confusion? Or maybe it all makes sense to him. Or them. I’ll be careful, I promise.”
“Okay,” she said, echoing my own words, and probably my thoughts, as we leaned into each other. “I’ll only ask one thing.”
“What’s that?”
She stopped and turned to face me. “That whatever happens, to either of us, you keep a place in your heart for me. Always. Don’t ever forget I love you.”
I couldn’t speak. I held her close. I stared into the blue sky, drinking in the distant and near beauty, filling that space in my heart that was already feeling the claim of the war on it, the draw of the dead waiting for me, their stories, their desires, their final moments. I felt Diana’s cheek, her skin cold in the mountain air, like the sheen of ice on a pond in December.
I
SHED MY
civilian clothes in Gibraltar, and transformed from an Irish businessman into a piece of military cargo. I was tossed in the back of a B-24 Liberator making an early morning run to Naples, carrying mail, a couple of war correspondents, a congressman, and me. A supply sergeant had met me at the airfield with a duffle bag full of government-issue duds and a .45 automatic. The congressman had come on board with a fifth of bourbon, and shared it with the reporters in hopes they’d mention his name. I didn’t work for anyone who bought ink by the gallon, and he wasn’t from Massachusetts, so the bottle didn’t come my way often. I settled in on some mail sacks. B-24s weren’t built for passengers, and there was damn little room in the narrow fuselage.