Taylor Smith - Deadly Grace

“A former international diplomat and intelligence analyst, Smith uses her experience to good effect in her latest thriller.”

—Library Journal on Deadly Grace

“Taylor Smith combines the best of Grisham and Le Carré into a fabulous suspense thriller that is uniquely her own style.”

—Midwest Book Review on The Innocents Club

“Fifteen rounds of sturdy international espionage-cum-detection…”

—Kirkus Reviews on The Innocents Club

“Taylor Smith…John Grisham. It’s a perfectly plausible comparison—though Smith’s a better prose stylist.”

—Publishers Weekly on Random Acts

“The mix of suspense, forensic science, romance and mystery make this a real page-turner.”

—Orange Coast on Random Acts

“The story line is fast-paced and filled with numerous twists…. Taylor Smith…continues her amazing rapid climb to the top rung….”

—Painted Rock Reviews on Random Acts

“Sharp characterization and a tightly focused time frame…give this intrigue a spellbinding tone of immediacy.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Best of Enemies

“The pace is swift and the action is concentrated…making it a perfect summer read.”

—Orange Coast on The Best of Enemies

“In this absorbing tale…characters are engaging….”

—Publishers Weekly on Common Passions

THE INNOCENTS CLUB

RANDOM ACTS

THE BEST OF ENEMIES

COMMON PASSIONS

GUILT BY SILENCE

www.mirabooks.co.uk

A work of historical fiction like this owes much to many people, especially to the Allied veterans of World War II, to whom I offer profound thanks for their sacrifices. Among those, in addition to my father and my father-in-law, I owe a particular debt of gratitude to three people who were kind enough to share their personal memoirs with me: Ben Ward, U.S. Army glider pilot; and Jean Grant and Pam Orford, British nurses.

My dear friend, Holocaust survivor Louis Posner, was unfailingly generous with his extensive research library, as well as his memories of the events of that tragic period. Sadly, he died suddenly during the writing of this novel and never got to see the finished product, but for a spellbinding true-life story of his gripping experiences, I highly recommend Louis’s published memoir, Through a Boy’s Eyes: The Turbulent Years 1926-45 (Seven Locks Press, 2000).

The character of Miss Vivian Atwater is loosely based on real-life British spymaster Vera Atkins. After extraordinary wartime service with Britain’s Special Operations Executive, Miss Atkins (unlike her fictional counterpart, happily) lived to the ripe old age of ninety-two in a cottage overlooking the English Channel where, on a clear day, it is said, she could see the coast of France.

Special thanks to Special Agent Gary L. Price, U.S. Army Criminal Investigation Command, who graciously answered all my questions on his discipline and his branch of the Service. Thanks also to my writing buddy, Doug Lyle, M.D., for his medical advice, as well as former FBI Special Agent Jack Trimarco, who gives all G-men a good name. Deepest thanks also to my agent, Philip Spitzer, and to my editors Dianne Moggy, Amy Moore-Benson and Valerie Gray, who’ve been incredibly understanding through this past tough year. I’m very grateful.

It may be noted that the town of Havenwood bears a certain similarity to another prairie town I frequent and love, and that some of Havenwood’s colorful characters seem to possess the same spunk as my Lac du Bonnet aunties, who never fail to inspire me and lift my spirits. Thanks to them all (and the uncles and cousins, too) for so many years of love and laughter. And last but never least, love and thanks to Anna, Kate and Richard, who agonize with me through every page and rewrite, poor souls. Lucky me, to have you guys in my corner.

This is dedicated to my Auntie Olly Campbell, who wrote the book on love and loyalty—with thanks from the heart for all you do and all you are.

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

Havenwood, Minnesota

Tuesday, January 9, 1979

She had no memory of her own death. No idea when it might have happened, or how, or how long she’d lain insensible in the netherworld between life and death. But when Jillian Meade awoke, she had no doubt she was in hell.

It was exactly as Reverend Owens had described in the fire-and-brimstone Sunday sermons that had terrified her as a child: acrid smoke that singed the nostrils and choked the lungs. A dry, searing wind that burned the skin like acid. Flying soot that stung the eyes so that she had to blink back tears to see. She was in a place of utter desolation, the darkness relieved only by the flickering of red and orange shadows writhing in the roiling smoke. A low vibration echoed around her, like the menacing growl of some great beast ready to spring for the kill.

And her bones ached, she realized. She was lying on a hard surface, and something was digging into her hip. Jillian shifted position painfully, and like a dreamer slowly awaking, she began to make out shapes in the murky shadows around her. She puzzled at what she saw. Furniture. She was on the floor, wedged into a corner, a tipped-over chair beneath her. She rolled to one side and pushed it away, the hellish light tracing the familiar spindles of its ladder back.

How many times had she sat on the hard, unforgiving seat of one of those chairs as a child, hands stubbornly behind her, fingers clenched around those spindles rather than around a spoon containing pale, woody lima beans or slimy Cream of Wheat? Stifling a cough, Jillian lifted her head. How was it that hell looked so much like her mother’s kitchen? The simple explanation was, of course, that she wasn’t dead, but back at her mother’s house in Minnesota. But why was she lying on the floor? Why was the house in darkness, except for that odd, menacing red flicker coming from down the hall? And why—

Oh, God! Fire!

“Mother!” Coughing and choking, Jillian tried to rise, but when she placed her hands on the ceramic tile floor, her palms, wet and slick, skidded out from under her. She propped herself on her elbows, instead, and screamed again. “Mother! Where are you?”

Blinking through tears, she could just make out the shapes of the other three kitchen chairs, still upright around the oval oak table. A thick, gray brume was circling the room, wafting across the face of the cabinets, undulating under the ceiling like toxic silk.

Avoiding her slippery palms, Jillian used her wrists and elbows to brace herself as she struggled to her knees. Through the archway leading to the front hall and the rest of the house beyond, the subtle pattern of the flowered Victorian wallpaper had taken on a gaudy orange glow. The fire seemed to be coming from down the hall, toward the living room.