Will Billy risk everything to save his girlfriend, a British spy, even possibly getting the Vatican involved in the war? When an American monsignor with high-level political contacts is found murdered at the foot of Death's Door, one of the five entrances to Saint Peter's Basilica, Lieutenant Billy Boyle is put on the case. To solve this murder, Boyle first has to be smuggled into Rome, while avoiding the Gestapo and Allied bombs. Then he must navigate Vatican politics and personalities—some are pro-Allied, others pro-Nazi, and the rest steadfastly neutral—further complicated by the Vatican's tenuous status as neutral territory in German-occupied Rome. But Boyle's ready to risk it all because of one simple fact: Diane Seaton, his lover and a British spy, has gone missing while undercover in the Vatican. After he discovers that she's being held in the infamous Regina Coeli prison, just a short walk from the Vatican border, Boyle must decide whether he dares attempt a rescue, even though a failed effort would alert the Germans to his mission and risk an open violation of Vatican neutrality. "Benn's nuanced portrayal of Vatican politics will keep readers turning the pages." — Publishers Weekly "Consistently entertaining." — WWII Magazine "Benn has obviously done his research.... In addition to series fans, this will appeal to readers who enjoy mysteries and thrillers with a dramatic setting such as the Second World War." — Library Journal James R. Benn is the author of the Billy Boyle World War II mysteries. The debut, Billy Boyle , was named one of the top five mysteries of 2006 by Book Sense and was a Dilys Award nominee. Subsequent books have received starred reviews in Publishers Weekly and Library Journal , and been listed as the Bookpage Mystery of the Month. Two have been tagged as a "Killer Book" by the Independent Mystery Booksellers Association. A librarian for many years, Benn lives in Hadlyme, Connecticut, with his wife, Deborah Mandel. CHAPTER ONE Brindisi, Italy February, 1944   They must be in love, I thought, watching the couple as they danced to a scratchy tune on the Victrola. It was late, and the place was empty but for us, the dancers, and a waiter at the front entrance, trolling for customers. He’d gotten bored refilling my wineglass, so I poured the last of the vino myself and listened to the song. Again, since it was the only record in the joint. “Who’s that singing, Kaz?” “Carlo Buti. Very popular in Italy. Billy, are you listening to me?” “Sure. Guy named Carlo Buti. What’s the song about?” I could count on Kaz to know stuff like this. He was smart in seven languages, but he didn’t know everything, like when to mind his own business. He’d been yammering at me for the past hour, and I’d been doing my best not to pay him any mind. “He is singing to his lover,” Kaz said, leaning back and listening. “Love is beautiful when he is near her. It makes him dream, it makes him tremble. The usual romanticisms.” Kaz had his reasons to play the cynic, so I let it pass. He was probably right about the song anyway. The couple on the tiny dance floor swayed to the music, ignoring us and the waiter at the door, who called to a group of British officers to come in and try the mussels with fava beans. The dancers ignored the war, too, in a way Kaz and I could not. They were together, their arms interwoven, their passion thick in the night air. They were young, maybe nineteen or twenty, tops. She rested her cheek on his shoulder as his hand caressed the small of her back. “They must be in love,” I said, out loud this time. “Indeed,” Kaz said, finishing the wine in his glass. “And moneyed, as well. She is wearing silk stockings, and he has a decent wristwatch. No visible scars or injuries on the young man either, so it is likely he is either very lucky—which comes with money—or he avoided military service with the Fascists. They are drinking a Brindisi Rosso Riserva, so he can afford more than a common table wine. He has been sneaking glances at his watch, so he must need to get her home soon. This is the only time he can be alone with her, and hold her, which is why they are dancing.” “Not bad,” I said. “How do you know she’s not a prostitute?” “Her shoes. They are expensive, and new. Also, they are still here, long after the meal is done. The young man would not wish to dance all night if he could take the young lady to bed. Therefore, he cannot. It is only a guess, but her parents must trust him to let her go out unattended. But, it is wartime, and these things may not be so important anymore.” “You might have a career as a detective, Kaz.” “You’ve taught me to study a room and the people in it as soon as I enter. We have been at this table for so long, I’ve had ample time. What are we doing here, Billy?” “Having dinner, enjoying the view.” I gestured to the harbor, across the road from the ristorante . A Royal Navy destroyer was tied up at the dock, and the muted