James Benn: A Mortal Terror

“Kaz,” I said, draping my arm around his shoulder, “I don’t believe I’ve felt this good in quite some time. Let’s ditch Harding and Cosgrove and find ourselves a bar.”

“And toast that grand lady,” he said. We were already walking away when a British Army motorcycle skidded to a halt in front of us. The rider approached Cosgrove, who had helped the ladies into the car. He handed him a note, saluted, and roared off. Cosgrove read the note, then handed it to Harding. They both looked at me.

“What?”

“Message from SOE headquarters here in Brindisi. I’d asked them to keep me posted,” Cosgrove said. I didn’t have to ask about what. Diana worked for the Special Operations Executive, and her mission to Rome had been planned here. She had even adopted an accent from the Brindisi area as part of her cover story.

“Tell me,” I said, balanced on a knife edge between two worlds, one with Diana alive, the other too terrible to imagine.

“Miss Seaton has been taken,” Cosgrove said, his voice quavering. “The Germans have her.”

Pain stabbed at his wrist where the old man had struck. He tucked the useless hand into his shirt, and waited his turn. That bastard had surprised him all right, but not as much as Boyle had. He didn’t think Boyle would shoot him in cold blood, not once he’d let Danny go. But shooting his own brother, that took some steel in the spine. He hadn’t expected that. It was fun giving him a moment’s temptation, and the bonus was watching the shot hit bone, seeing the puff of dust from the hit, sensing Danny’s blood in the air.

He hoped Danny had given his brother the message. He couldn’t find fault with the kid. He’d fought hard, saved his skin, and hadn’t done anything stupid. It pleased him to grant the favor, like a great lord would do for a faithful servant.

Sooner or later, though, they all disappointed him. Rusty Gates, Cole, Landry, they were all the same. Pretending to be pals, then becoming insistent, tedious, demanding, deserving of death. Danny was too young, too new for that. Besides, his plans had to wait. He didn’t get his general or Boyle. He still had the ace of hearts and the joker to play. A man had to plan things carefully, not kill everything in sight. Unless the army wanted you to. Downriver, he knew he’d come across a general somewhere. And if he was lucky, Boyle would follow once again. This time, the joker would not get away. The Ace of Hearts would taunt him, remind him of what he’d lost, and of what Flint knew about him. Draw him in deeper. Cain and Abel, in Italy.

The river was everything to Flint. It flowed to the killing sea, and he drifted in it, taking what he needed. Downriver, there would always be more. Downriver, Boyle waited.

“Kommt!” The guard poked at Flint with his rifle. There were six of them in the room, seated on a bench, guards at either end. There had been seven, but one had gone into the adjacent office and not come out. Flint wasn’t worried. He knew they did it to scare them. He let the guard prod him along into the next room. “Sitzen!”

He sat in the wooden chair facing a German officer seated at a small wooden table, a stack of papers in front of him. His cap lay on the table next to an ashtray full of cigarettes. American cigarettes. He didn’t offer one from the pack of Luckies, but lit one for himself.

“We don’t get many prisoners from among the criminals on the canal,” the German said. He spoke English well, but carefully, drawing out each syllable, pronouncing prisoners as priz-sun-ers. It took Flint a moment to understand he was referring to the First Special Service Force.

“Those guys make me nervous,” Flint said with a smile. “Can’t imagine how you feel.”

“Amusing,” the German said, consulting his paperwork. “Sergeant Peter Miller. You are now a guest of the Third Reich, as will be many others from Anzio. How long have you been there?”

“Listen to me,” Flint said, leaning forward, focusing his gaze on the German’s eyes, getting him to see this was more than another of his endless encounters with grubby Americans. “I can tell you a whole lot more than how long I’ve been dodging artillery shells in the beachhead. But first, I need a doctor for my arm. I think my wrist is broken. One of those Force men did it, the bastard.”

“And why did he do that, Sergeant?”

“We got into an argument. I mentioned my family name had been Mueller, and that they had changed it to Miller during the last war, on account of my dad getting beat up for being German. He said he’d deserved it, and one thing led to another.”

“Commendable that you defended your father’s honor. But foolish that you had your wrist broken.”

“The other guy was more foolish. I broke his damn neck. That’s why I took off across the canal.” Flint knew he needed a story. He’d been captured minutes after he went across, and this officer probably knew that. Still, it could work to his advantage if he didn’t go overboard with the Kraut stuff.

“You killed a comrade?”

“He was no comrade of mine. Those guys think they run everything. I risk my life every day bringing stuff from Nettuno and returning their reports to HQ. You’d think they’d say thanks, but no-”

“Headquarters? What headquarters?”

“General Lucas’s headquarters. In Nettuno. Every day I make the trip, and let me tell you, it ain’t easy with all that firepower you’re throwing at us.”

“Tell me about your work at headquarters, Sergeant Miller.”

“Here’s the deal. I’ll spill plenty, once you take care of my arm, and find some officer’s uniform for me. I don’t want to go to an enlisted man’s POW camp. I want medical attention and a promotion. Then we sit and talk, one good German boy to another. Ja?”

“I have another idea. I will have you taken out and shot.”

“Hey, suit yourself. Go ahead, and lose the services of a sympathetic German-American who’s seen General Lucas every day since he landed.” Flint could see the man’s eyes flicker, as he calculated what he might gain if the story were true. He knew he could spin tales of HQ long into the night, made up from bits and pieces of gossip, scuttlebutt, and even a bit of truth. Like most GIs he knew which units were where along the line in the beachhead. It might not be news to the Krauts, but it would make the rest of what he told them sound real.

“Very well, Herr Mueller. We will attend to your arm, and find a more suitable identity for you. I take it you do not care how we do so?”

“God’s honest truth, I don’t give a damn.”