A Traitor's Loyalty: A Novel Read Free Page B

pocket. He went to close the drawer but paused, his hand hovering inmid-motion, then picked through the other items in it. There were two passports—one British, one Sicilian—and, at the bottom, a pair of small, rectangular leather cases. The first was embossed with the tiny letters MM, the second, VC.
    Quinn removed the second case, sat down on the bed, and opened it. He looked at the medal inside, the deep maroon ribbon and the small, shiny gold cross with the inscribed legend “For Valour.” The Military Medal in the drawer was his own, but the Victoria Cross he held in his hand was his brother’s. Tenderly, he flipped the medal over and read the date inscribed on the back: 12 July 1944. Almost twenty-seven years ago now.
    Quinn replaced the medal and snapped the case shut, then, on impulse, slid it into his pocket instead of replacing it in the drawer. He stood, opened his cabin door, and climbed up on deck.
    The day was bright and sunny, the air filled with the sound of cawing seagulls and the bustle of men at work on the docks. He squinted in the sunlight and covered his eyes. He had a pair of sunglasses in his jacket breast pocket. He took them out and put them on.
    A squat, thickset figure sat with his back to Quinn and his legs dangling over the edge of the railing, fishing rod in hand. He had long, curly, black hair, and the sunburnt skin of his bare back was red and flaky.
    “Morning, Giglio,” Quinn called.
    The large man turned towards him. A pale yellow scar ran down the left side of his face—a memento from when his ship had been dive-bombed by a Spitfire during the battle of Malta. He grinned.
    “Buon giorno, Signore!
A fine day, no?” His English carried a thick Sicilian accent.
    “A fine day,” Quinn agreed. “The others in town?”
    “Si, Signore
. We’ll be leaving this afternoon?”
    “I’m supposed to meet Kanellopoulos at eleven. He’ll give us the location where we’ll rendezvous. We should get underway right after that.”
    Giglio nodded.
“Si, Signore
.”
    “Have you had breakfast, Giglio?”
    The Sicilian shook his head. He nodded to his fishing rod and grinned ruefully. “Breakfast, I had planned to catch myself. But—” he shrugged, “—the fish do not seem to like my plan.”
    Quinn grinned. “I’m going ashore. I’ll be back soon.”
    “Right,
Signore.”
Giglio turned back to his fishing.
    Quinn climbed over the railing at the edge of the cabin cruiser’s deck and jumped the five feet onto the jetty to which it was tethered.
    The docks were still fairly quiet this early in the morning, but soon they would be bustling. Already there were signs of activity, as workers loaded and unloaded cargo at a few ships and a boy stood on a street corner selling newspapers. A pair of coast guard speedboats patrolled out in the bay. Quinn started walking along the waterfront, away from where the cabin cruiser was docked.
    A low rumble from the sky made him look up. Three fighter jets, American, were flying overhead. They were headed out to sea, no doubt returning to their aircraft carrier after an early morning patrol. One had an ominous trail of black smoke pouring from one of its engines; no doubt these three had tangled with the Luftwaffe this morning.
    Quinn crossed the road and headed down a street running perpendicular to the docks, leading into the city. Three blocks later, he bought some hot baklava from a street vendor and sat on a nearby bench to eat it. He gripped the piping-hot pastry lightly between his fingers and took only small nibbles until it had cooled down a little. While he sat, he gazed up at the vapor trails of the three fighters, the one mixed with a trail of smoke.
    It was a silly little war, this war in Greece. Technically, most of its combatants were not even
at
war. The British and American forces were merely aiding their ally, Greece, against Croatia, while the German and Italian troops that they fought were doing the same for Croatia against the