Broken Honor
Patricia Potter

Excerpt

Chapter One

Colorado, 2OOO

Irish Flaherty nearly knocked his coffee cup over as he scanned the morning headlines.

His hands stilled and his heart beat louder. He read the article swiftly, then closed his eyes against the words.

Commission Investigates Possible U.S. Theft of Nazi War Loot.

The headline had captured his attention, but it was the body of the story that made his blood run cold. His grandfather's name. General Sam Flaherty. The general had been more than his grandfather. He had been Irish's salvation. His mentor.

Honor. Duty. Country. Those three words had been drilled into him since he'd been a tyke. They'd meant everything to his grandfather, his father, and to Irish. They had dominated all three lives. His father, in fact, had given his life for them.

He himself had spent the last twenty-two years in the army, including four years at West Point, and had just made lieutenant colonel. He'd completed a long and ugly tour in Bosnia and then Kosovo where he supervised the collection and destruction of illegal weapons, and his promotion put him in line for a battalion commander, something he didn't particularly want. He preferred field command of intricate investigations.

Still, he was glad to be out of Kosovo. He was sick of the hatred and violence that continued to sweep that tragic, torn angry country and, upon returning to the states, he'd taken accumulated leave. He'd headed for the Colorado ranch left to him by the General.

He came here this time to think. He had his twenty years. He could retire and rebuild the ranch which was now merely maintained by a friend. But the army had been his life so long he knew he would be lost without it.

And now his grandfather's name was being besmirched, his reputation destroyed.

Irish tried to control his anger. His fingers thrummed on the table, spreading the coffee stains across its surface. Why now? It was fifty-five years since the close of World War II, fifty since his grandfather went into retirement and started Flaherty's Folly, a ranch that reflected its originator's wry humor.

Irish saw his grandfather in his mind's eyes. A man bigger than life. Sam Flaherty's bulk was much like John Wayne's. Even his weathered face had reflected that same kind of rough integrity.

Irish read a paragraph again. A Presidential Advisory Commission looking into holocaust assets in the United States had determined that items from a Nazi gold train captured by U.S. Forces toward the end of the World War II had vanished. American armed forces at the highest level had been implicated in their disappearance. Among them were two generals, including Samuel Flaherty, and a colonel, Edward Eachan, who later became a general.

For the first time, Irish was glad the general was dead. Otherwise, the story — and its implications — might well have killed him.

The one thing Irish did know was that the general had nothing to do with a theft, particularly of items looted by the Nazis.

And if it were the last thing he did, Irish would prove it.

###

Memphis, 2000

Amy Mallory barely caught the story on page three of the newspaper. She probably would have left it until later if she didn't teach advanced American history at Braemore, a prestigious private liberal arts college. Her students were bright and eager and she knew some of them would have read the story and might well have questions.

The one thing she did not want was to appear unaware. Her tenure hearing was imminent and she wanted no complaints from students. Once she had tenure she could relax. Her future would be assured.

Three more weeks.

"Damn," she muttered to herself as she went back and read the entire story.

G.I.s Called Looters of Jewish Riches...

Bojangles, her mongrel dog whom everyone else called the ugliest dog in the world, huddled next to her legs, knowing her departure was looming. He was a ridiculously needy dog who made her feel guilty every time she left the house.

She leaned down and petted him even as her eyes scanned the article.

They stopped at the name of General David Mallory. Her hand left the dog and she clutched the paper. David Mallory. Her grandfather.

He, along with two other generals, were named in the article as possibly being involved, at the very least negligent in the loss of treasures from a captured train. Missing had been two trunks of gold dust along with paintings and other goods.

"Not grandfather," she whispered, remembering the battle of wills they'd engaged in. Her mother had died when she was entering her teens and she'd been sent to her grandfather. They'd detested each other on sight. She was the bastard daughter of a flower child who had run away from home. He was a martinet who tried to run his family as he'd run a regiment.

It had taken them years to come to an accommodation. She'd ended up loving him, and perhaps more so for his flaws. He'd died at eighty three of a bullet he'd put in his own head and it had broken her heart.

He had flaws. Many of them. But dishonesty was not among them.

"No," she said, hearing her own outraged whisper in the kitchen. "No, I don't believe it."

Bo whined, evidently feeling a tension in the room. He didn't like tension. He didn't like a break in the routine. He didn't like strangers. He was afraid of everything, including a leaf blowing in the wind. After finding the sad sack dog in the animal shelter, she had named him Bojangles for the dog in her favorite song, and she'd hoped it would give him a bit of self respect. It hadn't.

But she loved him for that, for all the insecurities that resided inside him.

"It's okay," she whispered to him and he collapsed in relief at her feet. When she left, he would, no doubt, go and wrap himself around the commode, his place of safety when he was alone. Like the ostrich who hid his head, he thought himself invisible there. He'd be deeply distressed to know both his tale and nose were readily visible.

She tore out the article. She would research it later. If nothing else, she owed it to the man who had half raised her.

She made sure that Bo had his sock which, like Linus's blanket, was his security, locked the back door, then grabbed the papers she'd graded the night before. She paused at the front door. Bo had already started for the bathroom, the sock hanging forlornly from his mouth, his tail drooping.

"Ah Bo," she said. He turned and looked hopeful.

"I'll play ball with you tonight," she promised, absolutely positive that he understood her. He did like to chase balls. It was the one thing in which he excelled, and he knew it.

His tail lifted and wagged. Amy felt better.

Now if only she could solve her other problems that easily. She turned the lock on her front door, the thrust of the article nagging at her. She had never liked the military. In truth, she despised it. Its rigidity, she'd always believed, drove her mother away from home and had made her grandfather a humorless, stiff man who thought he must always be obeyed.

But he would never betray his trust. She knew that as much as she knew how to breathe. "I won't let them do this to you," she promised, only barely aware that she uttered the words out loud.

###

Washington D.C.

Assistant to the Deputy Secretary of State Dustin Eachan had known the story was coming.

He'd been warned days earlier by a friend who had attended Harvard with him. He had hoped against hope that it would be lost, ignored. After all, the incident took place more than fifty years ago.

But the recent flurry of news about Swiss banks and dubious sales of art masterpieces known to be stolen by the Nazis had made this a good story. The fact that American servicemen, including high ranking officers, might have looted Jewish possessions would be just too juicy for the newspapers to ignore.

He'd been waiting for the ax to fall. It fell today.

He knew that some, if not all, of his fast track success in the State Department came from his family connections. His grandfather had been a two star general and then a Washington lobbyist for defense contractors. He'd known everyone worth knowing and word about the talented Dustin Eachan had sped his progress.

He'd worked damn hard for it, too. He wanted to be the first career department official to become Secretary of State. He had the political, family and professional credentials to do it. He was close now to selecting the perfect wife.

He was perfectly positioned. If nothing went wrong.

And now the goddamn story implied his late grandfather might have committed grand theft.

And Sally. God, Sally would be devastated. He remembered the painting that she treasured as she cared for no other possession. Could it have been one of the stolen items?

He picked up the phone. He would cancel an engagement and take her to dinner tonight. She would need him. Hell, she always needed him.

He hesitated for a moment. He had tried to keep a distance. He cared far too much for her, and he had to be careful. She was his cousin; they shared the same grandfather. He had been madly in love with her as a young man until it had been made plain that he could not marry a cousin.

His feelings for her had been one reason he hadn't married. He hadn't found anyone else he wanted to marry. But now a wife was essential to his career and he liked, if not loved, Patsy Sandiford, the daughter of an administration official. He had been thinking about asking her to marry him in the past few weeks.

He looked at the receiver in his hand, then dialed Sally's number as his other hand slowly crumpled the New York Times story.