A Bodyguard of Lies Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for Donna Del Oro

  A Bodyguard of Lies

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  “Hurry now, schnell,” Horst whispered, switching to German as he undressed the Irish girl’s body. No blood stained her clothes, the towel having absorbed it all.

  Already in her slip, Clare pulled on Mary’s wool skirt, sweater, and coat. She grabbed the scarf hanging on the side of the bunk and wrapped it around her neck. Then came the long strap of Mary’s satchel. Mustn’t lose that. The passport, Mary’s papers, letters with her signature, the book of poetry that she’d been seen poring over at the ferry terminal—all were vital. During their short time together, Clare had studied the Irish girl’s mannerisms, her soft voice, the slight burr in her English. Still, Clare wished there’d been more time.

  “Leave your fake documents on the table in case the ferry doesn’t sink,” barked Horst. Clearly rattled by what he had to do next and its greater risk, he added, “They must think Katy O’Donnell died in the explosion. Give me ten minutes. And don’t forget. The first explosion, you go outside. Find the lifeboats and the crew members in charge of them. Stay with them.”

  As though they hadn’t rehearsed this a hundred times, Clare nodded dutifully. Their gazes locked together for a moment but they didn’t kiss. No time. Horst squeezed her arm.

  “You shall be fine, Clare. You’re a born mimic. A superb actress. That’s why we recruited you. You have my name and address in Rosslare. Write to me once you’re settled in London. If I move before then, I shall contact you.”

  She nodded, her mouth trembling a little. “Until we meet again, mein schatz,” she said in German.

  Then he was gone.

  Praise for Donna Del Oro

  “The past and the present collide in this intriguing romantic thriller that captures the angst and pain a lifetime of lies can cause. The complex plot combines politics, romance and history. This story positively captivates!”

  ~NYTimes bestselling author Brenda Novak

  ~*~

  “Exploring the intricacies of human emotion and passion for a cause, A BODYGUARD OF LIES is a must read…that tells the horrifying story of how much devastation and loss there is in a war and how love perseveres… There is just the right amount of steamy sex that does not overtake the story… I highly recommend this book…and the entire series with unforgettable hero, FBI agent Jake Bernstein.”

  ~CelticLady’sReviews

  A Bodyguard

  of Lies

  by

  Donna Del Oro

  The Jake Bernstein FBI Series, Volume 1

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  A Bodyguard of Lies

  COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Donna Del Oro

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Kristian Norris

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Crimson Rose Edition, 2016

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-0849-4

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0850-0

  The Jake Bernstein FBI Series, Volume 1

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For the millions of British, Scottish, and Irish people whose courage inspired a nation of Americans.

  I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

  And to all those selfless Americans

  of the Greatest Generation.

  Words cannot express the debt we owe you.

  Prologue

  June, 1940

  The four-decker ferry tossed about in the Irish Sea. Clare Eberhard, using her sea legs, stood and peeked through the curtains of stateroom number five. It was dark and the rain lashed the window with unleashed fury. She glanced at her watch. It was time.

  Her stomach tightened into a hard ball. Beads of sweat covered her brow. An attack of nausea threatened but she schooled it down. The extensive training had hardened her mind and heart against any sentimentality. This was wartime, a time for drastic measures and sacrifice. Every loyal German was a soldier. Clare was both loyal and a soldier.

  There was a pounding at the door.

  “I’ll get it,” Clare said to the girl sitting on the bunk.

  The pretty, blonde, Irish girl looked up from her book of poetry and smiled. She tucked a needlepointed bookmarker into her book, swung her legs around and planted her feet on the floor. “’Tis probably the cabin steward with the tea I ordered. Please join me, Miss O’Donnell. It’s bound to be an unsettling crossing. The tea will be soothing.”

  Clare smiled, then frowned almost reflexively. The young Irish woman was sweet and charming. They had met each other an hour before boarding—although Clare already knew the other girl’s entire personal history—and had teased each other about their similar looks: height and figure, hair and skin color, facial features. All except for the eyes. The Irish woman’s were a striking hue of blue, almost turquoise. Physically, they could have been fraternal twins, or at the very least, sisters.

  The Irish girl, Mary McCoy, had wondered aloud why they’d never met, considering they were both about the same age and educated in Dublin. They’d discussed their plans for jobs in London, hit it off famously and decided to share the cost of a stateroom. After all, it seemed prudent for two single women traveling alone to do so. They’d become friends in a matter of minutes.

  Bile rose and burned Clare’s throat. She quelled her weakness and beamed back at the girl. Clare was, after all, a trained actress. “Yes, I’d like that. Thank you, you’re very kind.” Clare put up her hand, making Mary hesitate. “I’m closest. I’ll get that.”

>   She paused for a long moment as she gazed at the young woman’s countenance. The resemblance was so remarkable, the main reason why Horst had scouted the country and finally chosen her. She was just right. Now, there was no stopping the chain of events that their superiors had set in motion two years before. They had their orders.

  Such was war.

  The Irish girl glanced at the door, then back at Clare. As if wondering why her new friend, Katy O’Donnell, was hesitating. A flare of the girl’s turquoise eyes alarmed Clare, prompting her to act. Forcing down any residual regret, she went to the door.

  She opened the door a crack, recognized her lover—now disguised as a common Irish machinist—and hurriedly stepped back so he could burst into the small room. Pushing the door shut against the squalling wind, Clare whipped around to watch the terrible thing that had to happen.

  The Irish girl opened her mouth to scream but Horst was quick. He clamped a big hand over her mouth, choking off her scream. With his right hand, he hit the side of her head with the butt of his pistol. Blood splattered onto the young woman’s bedspread as he forced her down on the bunk, his knee pinning her legs to the bed.

  Clare watched, transfixed, her hands covering her mouth. Horst growled an order. She rushed to hand him a towel, which he used to cover the girl’s head. As an unconscious Mary sprawled on the bunk, he crouched over her and hit her again and again, smashing her skull. Mesmerized by the brutal attack, Clare flinched every time she heard the crunch of bone. By the time Horst was finished, the white towel had turned completely red. For seconds, she stared at the blood-soaked towel. Horrible…so much blood.

  With a lurch, she ran to the sink and vomited. Horst stood erect and flung the bloody towel on the floor. Not looking at Clare, he panted as he washed his hands in the stateroom basin and dried them with another towel. He took a deep breath, then exhaled. Time and again, he breathed and exhaled until he appeared to regain his composure. Clare studied his face, looking for signs of disapproval. There were none, which relieved her.

  “If her body’s found, it will appear that her head was crushed in the explosion,” he said in fluent English, his Irish accent still in place. Horst looked satisfied with himself. It was a clean kill and the girl hadn’t suffered, underscoring that he was a skilled assassin. “The sea will be her grave.”

  Clare marveled at his skills and how well he maintained his deep-cover persona. Could she do the same and make him proud?

  “Don’t forget her things.” He pointed at the personal items strewn around.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Clare turned aside, ignoring her raw throat and aching stomach, and began gathering into Mary’s satchel various items the girl had laid on the bedside table: a small pocketbook with lipstick and comb, passport, letters, Irish driver’s license and ferry ticket. She picked the book of Irish poetry up from the floor. Since it would be part of her cover, Clare stuffed it into the satchel. She rummaged around. Other items, such as personal letters, university transcripts, and a typed CV and offer of employment, were already tucked into various pockets of the satchel.

  “Here it is,” Clare murmured, “the War Office letter.” Her gaze drifted from Horst’s face to the cabin floor. She picked up a large barrette that had flown from the girl’s hair during the attack. That and the book of poetry were covered with her blood. Silently, she wiped them both with her skirt before stuffing the book into the satchel and fastening the barrette to her hair, matching the Irish girl’s simple hairstyle. Silently, Clare slipped out of her wool skirt and sweater.

  “Hurry now, schnell,” Horst whispered, switching to German as he undressed the Irish girl’s body. No blood stained her clothes, the towel having absorbed it all.

  Already in her slip, Clare pulled on Mary’s wool skirt, sweater, and coat. She grabbed the scarf hanging on the side of the bunk and wrapped it around her neck. Then came the long strap of Mary’s satchel. Mustn’t lose that. The passport, Mary’s papers, letters with her signature, the book of poetry that she’d been seen poring over at the ferry terminal—all were vital. During their short time together, Clare had studied the Irish girl’s mannerisms, her soft voice, the slight burr in her English. Still, Clare wished there’d been more time.

  “Leave your fake documents on the table in case the ferry doesn’t sink,” barked Horst. Clearly rattled by what he had to do next and its greater risk, he added, “They must think Katy O’Donnell died in the explosion. Give me ten minutes. And don’t forget. The first explosion, you go outside. Find the lifeboats and the crew members in charge of them. Stay with them.”

  As though they hadn’t rehearsed this a hundred times, Clare nodded dutifully. Their gazes locked together for a moment but they didn’t kiss. No time. Horst squeezed her arm.

  “You shall be fine, Clare. You’re a born mimic. A superb actress. That’s why we recruited you. You have my name and address in Rosslare. Write to me once you’re settled in London. If I move before then, I shall contact you.”

  She nodded, her mouth trembling a little. “Until we meet again, mein schatz,” she said in German.

  Then he was gone. Gone into the bowels of the ferry.

  Clare stared at the closed door for minutes, refusing to glance at Mary’s body. What was one life compared to many? It had to be this way. After tonight’s horrors, Clare would go to the War Office in London and save lives. German lives.

  The satchel’s strap bit into her shoulder. For a moment, she stood there, absorbing the alien scent and texture of the girl’s wool clothes. She wondered if she’d ever think or feel like Mary. Could this impersonation actually succeed or would she find herself hanging from the end of a rope in a month’s time?

  Reality stabbed her. This wasn’t theater. This was life…or death.

  Open-mouthed, she inhaled deeply and slowly counted to five. Exhaled slowly and counted again. She repeated this routine several times until her pulse returned to normal. Until her hands stopped shaking.

  She was no longer Clare Eberhard. No longer the Wehrmacht trainee, code name, Hummingbird. No longer Katy O’Donnell with her fake documents and fake accent.

  She was now Mary McCoy of Killarney, Ireland.

  Ten minutes later—right on schedule—the first explosion rumbled through. The four-decker ferry pitched violently to the side. She slammed into the cabin door but recovered herself.

  Now!

  Chapter One

  “In wartime, truth is so precious that she should always be attended by a bodyguard of lies.”

  ~Winston Churchill

  FBI Headquarters, the Hoover Building, Washington, D.C. 2005

  Jake Bernstein plopped down at his desk, having wolfed down his lunch in ten minutes. The tuna sandwich and soda bunched like a hard knot in the pit of his stomach. With his fist, he pounded his sternum and gulped down the last of the soda.

  Well, too friggin’ bad. Anger simmered just beneath his calm exterior. Every night he fought an urge to run through the dark streets until he dropped. Usually his limit was five miles, but lately it wasn’t enough. His life was out of balance again and he felt caged. It was the old stirrings of cabin fever. But his ol’ damned work ethic kept him at the damned grindstone.

  All work and no play made for a repressed libido. That was his pal Eric’s mantra.

  Shit—when was the last time he’d gotten laid? Weeks—no, months. A quick mental check—ah yes, two months and three Saturdays ago! A woman he met at a party Eric dragged him to. Jake hadn’t called her back. After a couple of calls, the woman—what was her name—had given up on him. A mild pang of guilt added to his queasy stomach. One date or hookup was not a relationship. The truth was, he was getting tired of loveless sexual encounters. Leading a woman on just for sex always came back to bite you in the ass. He just didn’t have it in him anymore.

  But damn—

  His inter-office phone rang. He flushed his mind of thoughts of women and sex. “Yeah, Terry?” Jake sat up in surprise as he listened to
his supervisor. His boss, Terry Thompson, was old-school and preferred to use the phone over office email. The Assistant Deputy Director of Investigations was giving him a heads-up, telling him MI5 would be contacting Jake today.

  Terry had already given British Intelligence the okay to join an ongoing FBI investigation. A naturalized American woman was the target. She was suspected of World War II espionage and possibly a truckload of other war crimes.

  “This is yours, Jake. You’ve got the qualifications for this job. It’s undercover fieldwork. You need a break from the papermill. Clear the cobwebs, see the world. It shouldn’t take more than a week or two. Check your email. They’re sending over encrypted files for you to read.”

  Jake digested this and surmised that the case must be top priority. As Terry rang off, Jake turned to his computer. While it was typical to receive communications from other intelligence services, domestic and foreign, it was rare to get an urgent request directly from MI5. The legate at the American Embassy in London was their usual liaison with British Intelligence and he’d forwarded the urgent request. The encrypted message was directed to him personally: Special Agent Jacob Bernstein, Intelligence Division, FBI Headquarters, followed by a name and phone number in London. Steeping with curiosity, his heart pounding, Jake punched in the number on an outside secure line. Several clicks later a deep baritone voice answered.

  “MI5, History section. Major Phillip Temple, Case officer.”

  The stilted British accent made Jake smile. He introduced himself and added, “How can I help you, Agent Temple?”

  “Call me Major, Agent Bernstein. I’m retired army but I confess the moniker has stuck.” The man then spoke for over five continuous minutes while Jake took copious notes on a legal yellow pad.

  At the first prolonged lull in Temple’s narrative, Jake jumped in. “Major Temple, let’s see if I’m getting this. An old Irish guy, a veteran WWII sailor, repeatedly wrote and called your office over the past ten years, claiming his cousin,” Jake consulted his notes, “Mary McCoy, vanished around 1940, and he suspected foul play. He thought someone killed her and assumed her identity in order to gain access to Churchill’s War Department. That whoever did this might’ve been an old Third Reich spy. Is this correct?” At Temple’s affirmative, he added, “Did this WWII sailor have any concrete evidence? Other than conjecture?”