Blue madonna, p.1
Blue Madonna, page 1
also by the author
Billy Boyle
The First Wave
Blood Alone
Evil for Evil
Rag and Bone
A Mortal Terror
Death’s Door
A Blind Goddess
The Rest Is Silence
The White Ghost
On Desperate Ground
Souvenir
Copyright © 2016 by James R. Benn
All rights reserved.
Published by Soho Press, Inc.
853 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Benn, James R.
Blue Madonna / James R. Benn.
ISBN 978-1-61695-642-4
eISBN 978-1-61695-643-1
1. Boyle, Billy (Fictitious character)—Fiction.
2. World War, 1939–1945—Fiction. 3. Undercover operations—Fiction. 4. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title
PS3602.E6644 B67 2016 813’.6—dc23
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Debbie
Being everything which now thou art,
Be nothing which thou art not.
—Edgar Allan Poe
It is just as sentimental to pretend that war does not have its monstrous ugliness as it is to deny that it has its own strange and fatal beauty.
—Professor Bernard MacGregor Walker Knox,
former Jedburgh (Team Giles)
The Life That I Have
The life that I have
Is all that I have
And the life that I have
Is yours.
The love that I have
Of the life that I have
Is yours and yours and yours.
A sleep I shall have
A rest I shall have
Yet death will be but a pause.
For the peace of my years
In the long green grass
Will be yours and yours and yours.
—Leo Marks,
Special Operations
Executive cryptographer
BLUE MADONNA
Part One
England • May 30, 1944
Chapter One
It was a nice day for a drive. Late May, but warm and sunny, which you couldn’t always count on in England. We sped past fields of ripening grain, sheep grazing on hillsides, and low, rolling hills, each topped with its own sunlit copse of trees. Small villages with quaint names like Lower Slaughter, Bourton-on-the-Water, Notgrove, and Sevenhampton disappeared behind us as we neared Cheltenham.
It would have been nicer without the handcuffs.
And if my companions hadn’t been military police. Big, silent MPs. Both sergeants, both tight-lipped, both armed.
Unlike me. I’m a captain, I like to chew the fat, and I’d been relieved of my pistol. That left us with nothing in common except for our destination, the Services of Supply base on the outskirts of Cheltenham, a little corner of Gloucestershire that controlled all of Uncle Sam’s stockpiles of food, ammunition, fuel, and whatever else American forces needed to fight this war. Which was more than you could imagine. SOS reported to Supreme Headquarters, Allied Expeditionary Force—SHAEF—which was where I worked. Not that my flaming-sword shoulder patch had impressed the MPs, far as I could tell.
In addition to running the supply chain, SOS was responsible for judicial services. The commanding general, John C. H. Lee, had been nicknamed “Court House” in some quarters for his initials and his attitude. Which had me more worried than the handcuffs. The MP in the backseat had the key and would probably want his cuffs back when we got to the base. Court House Lee also ran the stockade, the kind of place where they tossed you in and forgot you.
“Either of you guys cops before the war?” I asked, trying one last time to start a conversation. “I was.”
Silence.
“Boston PD,” I continued, turning to catch the eye of the MP behind me. “Made detective right before Pearl Harbor. My dad’s a homicide detective. It’s kind of a family business.” No response. The jeep crested a hill, the winding road leading into a valley dotted with Quonset huts, tents, and swarming vehicles.
“That’s it,” the MP said, tapping the shoulder of the driver and ignoring me. We pulled up to a gate where more MPs inspected the driver’s paperwork. They gave me the once-over; lots of enlisted men got brought in sporting cuffs, but damn few captains in their Class A uniform did. I was a curiosity.
“What’d he do?” a sentry asked the guy in the backseat, nodding in my direction.
“Open the goddamn gate,” was the only answer he got. I felt a little better knowing that my MP didn’t want to talk to anyone. But not much.
We drove down the main thoroughfare of the huge base. It was like being in a city, except instead of tall buildings, crates of supplies stacked three stories high and covered with camouflage netting cast shadows across the road. There were city blocks of long Quonset huts and wooden barracks painted a uniform pond-scum green. Huge tents with their guy lines stretched taut looked like the dreariest circus imaginable had come to town and forgotten to leave. Trucks weighed down with supplies lurched by, grinding gears and straining to haul their loads of Spam, artillery shells, or scotch destined for the senior ranks.
What the hell was I doing here?
The jeep pulled over in front of a Quonset hut. The walkway was lined with whitewashed stones, a sure sign that officers here didn’t like GIs with time on their hands. Signs were staked in the ground on either side of the walk. One read, office of the provost marshal general, criminal investigation division; the sign was plain, the paint chipped and faded. No nonsense, like most CID agents I’d run into. The other was more ornate, the words us army judge advocate general in bold letters over a gold pen and sword crossed above a laurel wreath. Lawyers liked that kind of thing.
The driver switched off the engine. I waited for them to say something, but they both sat there, as silent as ever. I had no idea what to expect, no reason I could think of to have been rousted out of bed at dawn and driven here. From their expressions, the MPs didn’t know much, either. They had one advantage over me; they didn’t care.
“It’s been great, fellas,” I said. “See you around.” I got one leg out of the jeep before they both grabbed me. I figured it was worth a shot, if only to rile them.
“Try that again, and I’ll handcuff you to the steering wheel,” the driver said.
“He speaks!” I said, turning to the sergeant behind me. He almost cracked a smile. Thought about it, anyway. “So, guys, spill, will ya? What’s the deal? What are we doing here?”
“Hold yer horses,” he said, almost friendly now that the journey was over. For him, at least. “We’re waiting for a guy.”
“Who?”
“Some colonel,” he said, consulting his orders. “Colonel Samuel Harding. Anyone you know?”
“Yeah,” I said. A figure emerged from the Quonset hut. “That’s him.”
I had no trouble spotting Harding. I’d worked for him since I landed in England back in ’42, a shavetail second louie with vomit on his shoes after a trans-Atlantic flight in a B-17. Fortunately his opinion of me had improved some since those early days, and I was sure he’d straighten things out. Maybe he’d had me brought here for that very purpose.
I breathed a sigh of relief as I held up manacled hands and gave my best impression of a nonchalant grin. “What gives, Colonel?” In the circumstances, I thought it best not to call him Sam.
A new MP approached the jeep and took hold of my arm. It was a practiced cop’s clasp, a firm grip that let me know who was in control. A couple of GIs walking by stopped to gawk. A uniformed agent followed Harding out of the hut, the agent’s shoulder brassard, lack of any rank insignia, and stocky build all advertising CID. A couple of other guys in Class As headed in, giving me nervous glances as if I might leap from the jeep and assault them. Their nerves, spectacles, and briefcases said jag.
We were drawing quite a crowd, and I was having trouble keeping up the grin. Harding strode to the jeep, the CID agent one step behind.
“Take the cuffs off,” Harding said to the MP in the jeep, who quickly obliged. The new MP pulled me out of the seat as I was rubbing my wrists to get the circulation going. Harding was giving me a grim stare, but I still felt relieved to be out of handcuffs. I figured it was time to act military, so I gave the colonel a snappy salute.
“Captain William Boyle,” he said, returning the salute as if it irritated him, “you have been brought here to face a general court- martial regarding willful violation of the Articles of War. These men will escort you in to meet with your counsel.”
“You’re joking, aren’t you? Sir?” I felt like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, finding myself in a place where nothing made sense. I looked around for someone to come to my rescue, but there was no one but Harding, his unwavering stare, the strong-arm men, and a gathering crowd.
“This is no joke, Captain. Serious charges have been brought against you, and given the gravity of the situation, it has been decided at the highest level to expedite the proceedings. You have one hour. I suggest you use it wisely.” With that, he about-faced, leaving me with a stone-faced MP who mad
I was going to ask what the hell was happening, but the CID guy looked like he enjoyed hauling in a captain too much to be bothered. Besides, something crazy was going on, and I knew I wouldn’t get a straight answer from anyone if Sam Harding himself was pulling the wool over my eyes. So I zipped it as they dragged me down a narrow hall and let them shove me into a space that was more like a closet with aspirations to be an office. It had a metal table bolted to the floor and two folding chairs. I sat with my hands folded on the table, the feel of cold steel around my wrists still hard to shake.
I was in big trouble. And I had no idea why.
Ten minutes later, a skinny kid entered the room and took the other chair. His uniform jacket was too big for him, or he was too shrimpy for Uncle Sam’s smallest size; it was hard to tell. He wore a second lieutenant’s bars and the JAG gold pen and sword. “So you’re the guy everyone’s talking about.”
“You left something out,” I said.
“What?” He went wide-eyed as he opened his briefcase, glancing inside as if whatever he forgot was in there.
“Three things, actually. Two sirs and the fact you should still be standing at attention. As far as officers go, kid, you’re the lowest of the low. Didn’t they teach you anything in basic?”
“No,” he said, pushing his chair back to stand. His briefcase tumbled to the floor, and a mass of papers spilled out. He knelt to retrieve them, thought better of it, and knocked over the metal chair as he tried to imitate attention. “I mean, I didn’t go to basic training. Sir. We had an accelerated officer’s training course, then a few weeks at JAG school, and here I am. Sir. Sorry.”
“Good. Two sirs, and you’re at a semblance of attention. Now gather your papers and tell my defense counsel I’m tired of waiting.”
“Captain Boyle, sir, I am your defense counsel. Peter Scott. Lieutenant Scott. Sir.”
“Jesus, sit down, Scott, you’re making me nervous. You’re it, really?”
“Yes, sir, I am,” he said, placing the paperwork on the table and organizing the sheets. It looked like it calmed him. “I’ve been reviewing the charges, and I have to say this is serious.”
“Yeah, the handcuffs and the MPs kinda gave me that idea already, Scott. What am I accused of?”
“You don’t know?”
“How the hell would I know?” I was so steamed I forgot to bawl him out for missing a sir again.
“I mean, usually they tell you ahead of time. I think.”
“You think? You’re JAG; you should know. What kind of lawyer are you anyway, Scott?”
“Real estate,” he said in a low voice. “Sir. Or at least that was what I was planning on. Joining my father’s firm, I mean.”
“It was a rhetorical question, Scott. I don’t give a damn about your civilian life. They taught you rhetoric in law school, didn’t they?”
“Yes, they did. I was captain of the debate team.” Obviously the concept of rhetorical questions still eluded him. I studied his face, and he blinked nervously as I leaned forward.
“Hang on. You were planning on joining your father’s firm? So you never actually practiced law?”
“Well, no, not exactly.”
“How long have you been in the army, Scott?”
“Three months, sir.”
“Officer’s training, JAG school, transport over here—that doesn’t leave much time for court-martial experience, does it?”
“Well, no. As a matter of fact, I arrived from the States last week. This is my first case.” He smiled as if I should be honored.
“Scott, be a good kid and go get Colonel Harding, will ya?”
“No, sir. He instructed me not to let anyone see you. He sounded like he meant it. No, sir.” His eyes were like saucers as he shook his head a couple of times more than he needed to. He was scared, which told me the word had in fact come direct from Sam Harding.
“Okay,” I said, glancing at my watch. “We’re wasting time. Tell me about these charges.”
Chapter Two
“There’s four charges against you,” Scott began. “No, five. Make that five.” He shuffled his papers, and I tried to keep my temper. If I needed a lawyer, it might be nice to have one who could count. “Here we go. Five counts of violating the Articles of War.”
The first was Article 83. Willful loss or wrongful disposition of military property. No worries. Lots of guys lost equipment. Slap on the wrist, maybe restitution.
Then Article 84. Unlawful disposition or sale of military property. Slightly worse, since it involved making a profit off the army.
Article 87. Personal interest in the sale of provisions. Uh-oh. That one was usually reserved for senior officers involved in crooked dealings with suppliers. It was bad, but I had no role in what the army bought. I’d wait and see if the kid picked up on that one.
Article 93, Section G. Larceny. Now we were into the serious stuff. Loss of commission, dishonorable discharge, jail time.
Article 96. Disorder to the prejudice of good order and military discipline. The kitchen sink. If all the others fell through, they’d make this one stick.
“So what did I steal?” I asked, figuring to start with the easy stuff.
“I’m sure they’ll tell us,” he said. “The trial judge advocate, that is.”
“Yeah, the prosecutor.”
“Or you could tell me now,” Scott said. “This doesn’t look good, but they’re not charging you with assault or anything like that, so maybe we can get the sentence reduced. What do you think?”
“Where are you from, Scott?”
“Indiana, Captain.”
“Good. If I’m ever stupid enough to move to the state that produced you, I’ll know who not to get for a lawyer. Now the first thing you’re going to do is ask for the Article Eighty-Seven charge to be dismissed. That only applies to commanding officers who take kickbacks. Got it?”
“You’re not a commanding officer?”
“Look, kid,” I said, pointing to my SHAEF shoulder patch with the flaming sword. “This is where I work. Do I look like General Eisenhower to you?”
“Of course not,” Scott said, jotting down a note. “What else?”
“How about I’m innocent?”
“They told us at JAG school everyone says they’re innocent,” he answered. It was the smartest thing out of his mouth yet.
“That’s right, they do. I used to be a cop back in Boston, and I agree. You’ll never hear a guy in his right mind admit his guilt. But you have to remember that doesn’t mean everyone is lying when they say they didn’t do it.”
“You’re right, Captain, sorry. This is just so new to me.”
“When were you brought in on this?” I asked, trying for a gentle tone. I was starting to feel jittery at the thought of what was about to happen, but I didn’t want Scott to pick up on it. If he got any more nervous, he might faint in the courtroom.
“Yesterday morning. They told me to keep myself available for a case. I got these charges about two hours ago.”
“Who told you, exactly?” I asked in a whisper, leaning forward.
“Major Charles Thompson, sir. He’ll be prosecuting. He claimed the evidence was solid and he had a witness. Said it would be over real quick, I’d get some experience, and not to worry about losing.”
“Was Colonel Harding here yesterday?”
“Yes. He and Major Thompson were in conference most of the morning.”
I didn’t know what to say. Harding must have thought I did something horrible to feed me to the lions like this. I was being fitted for a frame, and I needed someone in my corner besides this legal genius from the Midwest.
“Listen, Lieutenant Scott,” I said, drawing my ace in the hole, “I’ve got a relative at SHAEF who might be able to cut through all this. General Eisenhower. He’s my uncle.” Well, a distant cousin on my mother’s side, but I’d always called him Uncle Ike. He was older—and a damn sight wiser—than me.
