The Unquiet Genius: A Conor Thorn Novel, page 1
THE
UNQUIET
GENIUS
A CONOR THORN NOVEL
ALSO BY THE AUTHOR
The Torch Betrayal
The Ultra Betrayal
THE
UNQUIET
GENIUS
A CONOR THORN NOVEL
GLENN DYER
TMR PRESS, LLC
TMR PRESS, LLC
2057 MAHRE DRIVE
PARK CITY, UTAH 84098
The Unquiet Genius is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, incidents, organizations, or locales are intended to provide a sense of authenticity. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE UNQUIET GENIUS A Conor Thorn Novel (Book 3)
Copyright © 2021 by Glenn Dyer
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form without permission.
First Edition
ISBN
978-0-9991173-7-8 (ebook)
978-0-9991173-9-2 (paperback)
978-0-9991173-8-5 (hardback)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2021949847
Printed in the United States of America
Cover and Interior Design: Jane Dixon-Smith Design
Edited by: Kimberly Hunt of Revision Division and Gretchen Stelter
Author Photo: Terry Moffitt
The OSS logo is a registered trademark of The OSS Society, Inc. and is used with its permission.
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For my parents, Thomas and Eleanor
…only the living who are clever enough can disappear without a trace — or if some trace is unavoidable, can foresee and calculate precisely how wrongly it will be interpreted by others and how clumsily followed up.
—Leonardo Sciascia, The Mystery of Majorana
Despite the vision and the far-seeing wisdom of our wartime heads of state, the physicists felt a peculiarly intimate responsibility for suggesting, for supporting, and in the end, in large measure, for achieving the realization of atomic weapons…In some sort of crude sense which no vulgarity, no humour, no overstatement can quite extinguish, the physicists have known sin; and this is a knowledge which they cannot lose.
—J. Robert Oppenheimer, head of the Los Alamos Lab
Physics is on the wrong road, we’re all on the wrong road.
—Ettore Majorana as quoted by Amaldi Edoardo
Contents
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
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Chapter Eighty-Three
Chapter Eighty-Four
Chapter Eighty-Five
Chapter Eighty-Six
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Epilogue
Did You Enjoy The Unquiet Genius?
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Praise for The Torch Betrayal
Praise for The Ultra Betrayal
Praise for The Unquiet Genius
PROLOGUE
0545 Hours, Sunday, March 27, 1938
Aboard the Steamship Postale, En route to Naples, Italy
The disembarkation announcement startled his cabinmates, ruining what seemed to him a deep sleep, given the raucous snoring the two men had emitted during most of the voyage from Palermo. But for him, sleep did not come. He may have looked like sleep had overcome him, with his shut eyes, lying in his berth, coiled tightly like a child in the womb. That peaceful image clashed with the battle taking place inside his head. His overwhelming desire to end his torment sparred with his previous acceptance of the church’s teachings that to do so, he would be proclaiming sovereignty over God’s creation, himself. His failure to carry out the plan the night before, which he had spent so long devising—the plan to let the Tyrrhenian Sea take him—produced pangs of confusion that were heightened by not knowing what he was supposed to do next. But there had been one moment of clarity—he knew he could not return to his past life.
Before his cabinmates could toss off their blankets, he was already out of his berth and had slipped into his iron-gray overcoat. Then he snatched his suitcase from under his berth and opened the cabin door. He looked back as the door shut and glimpsed the two men looking at one another, one scratching his head, the other wiping the sleep from his eyes.
He waited midship on the port side while four deckhands wrestled the gangway into place. Several other people waited with him, but no one spoke. They focused on the movements of the deckhands, all seemingly eager to find themselves on firm ground. The sun had not yet risen, but the sky, with its growing yellowish tint, hinted that soon the morning sun would arrive and another day in his tormented life would be set upon him.
Some measure of time passed after stepping off the gangway. He didn’t know how long it was, but he found himself standing in the middle of a piazza. The light was much brighter now, though he remembered little of his walk from the ship. Not his surroundings, his thoughts, or if he’d passed by people along the route. His head was in a thick fog that seemed to smother any attempts to focus on the details of his environs. He closed his eyes, a minute later—maybe it was longer—swaying as if he were being buffeted by a stiff wind. He put out his hands to brace his fall, but one still held his suitcase, so his chin hit the cobblestones hard, causing his vision to short circuit. He rubbed his jaw while his vision returned, and then he rose and looked around the expansive piazza. It was devoid of people except for a moonfaced, timeworn man stooped over a broom, sweeping the trash in front of a large baroque-style building—the Church of San Ferdinando. He was standing in the Piazza Trieste e Trento. Nearby was the Royal Palace, as was the Gran Caffè Gambrinus, a place that he and his friend and superior, Professor Carrelli, frequented before the martial prefect decided to close it due to its reputation for attracting antifascists.
He looked at his watch. It was approaching seven. He picked up his suitcase and headed toward the church, kneading his aching jaw along the way. The old man, his sweeping motion slow and weak, watched him as he passed by and climbed five steps. As he grabbed the door’s tarnished brass handle, he could feel the old man’s eyes on him. But before he pulled it open, the old man spoke.
“No, no, no. It is too early. Two more hours. Come back then.” He turned and saw the old man shaking his head and then resume his sweeping, leaving him standing there, not sure what he should do. A drenching disappointment washed over him. Not because of the closed church, but because of his weakness, his failure to carry out his suicide.
He took in the piazza. There were more people now, some on bicycles, a few walking, some with faces raised toward the rising sun. He descended the steps and headed across the square in the direction he thought he’d come from. He moved slowly, head down, thinking about where he should go. He had determined he would never return to teaching, so making his way to the Institute of Physics in Naples was out of the question, and he couldn’t go back to his hotel room at Albergo Bologna. He was just passing the opera house when someone rushed past him. A moment later, he heard his name.
“Ettore?”
He stopped and turned toward the voice. He recognized the woman. She was a nurse who had helped him with his stomach ulcers several months before. She was kind and patient. He liked her. Anna. That was her name.
“It is you,” she said as she moved closer. She was dressed in her nurse’s uniform, but the white outfit was dingy, wrinkled, and spotted. She was most likely headed home. “How are you feeling, young man? Have your ulcers calmed down?”
“I am…well. Thank you for asking, Anna.”
She reached up to touch his chin.
The move startled him, and he backed away.
“I…I just wanted… What happened? Did you fall? Your chin is bruised. You didn’t get into a fight, did you? You don’t seem the type, Ettore.”
Her questions surprised him. He rubbed his chin and felt a bruise. Did I fall, he asked himself. “No, no. Not a fight. I slipped and fell. But I am fine.”
Anna looked at his suitcase. “You are traveling, I see. Where are you headed? To Rome to see your family?”
His family. The letter to his family, in which he’d written:
I have a single wish: that you do not wear black for me. If you want to bow to custom, then bear some sign of mourning, but for no more than three days. After that, remember me, if you can, in your hearts, and forgive me.
Anna tugged on the sleeve of his coat. He flinched at her touch. “Ettore? Are you all right?”
He turned and hurried away, leaving her standing in the piazza, calling out his name.
CHAPTER ONE
1430 Hours, Thursday, November 5, 1942
MI6 Headquarters, No. 54 Broadway, London
Miles Stoker, at first, was surprised, but that surprise slowly turned to anger. As Kim Philby’s deputy, he had grown used to being at the man’s beck and call. Some days, he lamented he was just an errand boy. It shocked him that Philby summoned him by sending a lowlife, pock-faced courier who he didn’t recognize but who had no problem identifying him in his favorite hangout: the Arts and Battledress. Stoker had been keen to keep his sexual activities well out from under the microscope. He knew there were others in MI6 who felt the same as he. Homosexuality was a long way from being accepted as a way of life in the hallways and offices of the Secret Intelligence Service or Scotland Yard.
Stoker finished his gin martini and passed his phone number to the BBC presenter he had just met. The young man, whose startling good looks captured the attention of nearly all the club’s patrons when he entered, was a new face at the Arts and Battledress. Stoker had wasted no time in being the first to introduce himself. Now, he bid the man farewell, grabbed his Burberry trench coat and black fedora, and exited the bar.
On the taxi ride from Orange Street back to No. 54, Stoker mentally prepared himself for his meeting with Philby. He hadn’t seen Philby since Monday, and he had heard that he was in a deeply foul mood ever since his widely reported run-in with Conor Thorn at a party at Ian Fleming’s. Philby had been a no-show at No. 54 since it had taken place. Stoker hopped in the undersized elevator in the lobby, punched the button with the faded B, and headed down to the basement bar. The elevator door screeched as it opened, revealing a spacious, weakly lit room filled with cigarette, pipe, and cigar smoke. At least fifteen men gathered around several tables, hunched over in quiet conversations, sharing state secrets they couldn’t breathe a word of to anyone outside the long-standing spy institution. A bar in a spy agency. A very British touch, thought Stoker as he walked over to a table in the far corner of the room where a lone figure sat. Philby, a cigarette dangling from his lips, held up an empty tumbler, signaling Stoker to not join him empty-handed. Miles Stoker, errand boy.
A minute later, Stoker joined the sour-looking Philby with a tumbler of cognac and a gin martini in his hands. Stoker noticed Philby’s blackened eye and swollen nose. A little annoyed at having to fetch his drink, he decided to poke the slightly flushed spymaster, asking, “So, was it a tripped and fell or was it—”
“Don’t push it, Miles,” Philby said. “You’ll find me in no mood for any probing inspired by mockery.” Philby, slouched in his chair, took a whiff of his glass, then a healthy swallow of the smoky liquid. “So, was it love at first sight or just two men passing in the night?” Obviously, the pockmarked courier had reported back to his master with details.
Stoker decided to disengage from the scrum, knowing too well that the acid in Philby’s tongue was top grade. “What do you need from me, Kim?”
Philby sat up and leaned in. “Conor Thorn. You remember him. From your run-in at Paddington Station?” Philby’s cognac-scented breath sluiced over Stoker. Of course, he remembered. Thorn had almost bagged him at Paddington when he finished briefing Henry Longworth on how to get the stolen invasion plans for Operation Torch into the hands of his Nazi friends. But he was sure Thorn didn’t get a good look at him—well, as sure as he could be.
“What of the man?”
“You may have heard that he and his accomplice, Emily Bright, have foiled another operation that Moscow had a deep interest in. That makes two.”
Stoker was well aware of the first failed mission, but not the second. He also knew that Moscow Center’s reaction to the initial failure had been very harsh regarding what they considered Philby’s mounting shortcomings.
“Two failed operations. A number that will not grow,” Philby added.
Stoker loosened his ascot, took a sip of his martini, and waited for more.
“I want him out of the way. He’s been too much of a nuisance. And I need you—”
“To take care of it.” Stoker took his martini, tipped his head back, and drained it. “Where is he?”
Philby sat back and picked up a pack of Woodbines from the table and shook one free. “That’s the problem. He hasn’t been seen since…” Philby lit the cigarette with the nearly spent one between his fingers.
Since he punched you in the face, Stoker mused.
“Since Tuesday.” Philby blew a cloud of blue-gray smoke toward the maze of pipes and ducts that hung below the ceiling. “I suggest you have someone follow Bright. She’s back at No. 10. Given their relationship, she’s bound to rejoin her friend in due course. When that happens, you take charge. I don’t care how long it takes, how you do it, or where it’s done.”
Stoker nodded and began thinking first of the how. He was very fond of knives. They were quiet and brought death fast, if used properly. As to where, that wouldn’t be in his complete control. Unless he was to lure Thorn into some sort of trap, possibly one that used his friend, Bright, as bait.
“What about Bright? What if she was collateral damage?”
Philby smiled and picked a speck of tobacco from his tongue. “Ah, all the better, Miles. All the better.” He leaned forward and in a soft voice said, “One more thing. Do not underestimate Thorn. That would be a mistake.”
CHAPTER TWO
0230 Hours, Monday, November 16, 1942
Aboard Inflatable Boat on Open Water
“It’s up to you, Conor. You gotta make the call to go or no-go.” Those were the words Jack Taylor was saying to Conor Thorn, Office of Strategic Services operative and former US Navy officer.
Taylor, who headed up the training for the experimental OSS maritime units, and Conor got along fine. Taylor gave Conor all the rope he wanted as the mission leader. Enough to hang himself. Which didn’t bother Conor, he preferred it that way. He was confident in his decisions concerning the missions he was sent on…usually. But this time, Conor was questioning his decision to go on with it, given the lousy weather coupled with the area they were being sent to having a reputation for severe ebb currents. If asked, he would deny that some of his self-doubt sprung from a previous experience as a child with tidal currents that ended in tragedy. But that would have been a lie.
