“No, he wanted me to tell you that’s he’s gone again, and if you could transfer . . .”
“How much?”
“Five thousand dollars.”
“My bankers in New York are going to start asking questions, but I’ll take care of it.” Slim had money to burn, but still, at this rate, her trustees were not going to be happy.
“So when do you come back?” Françoise asked, sounding weary.
“I’m going to Rome. Do you need me there for the funeral?”
“No, it’s just going to be me, her neighbor, and her fellow SOE agents. Her family disowned her. Why are you going to Rome?”
Slim was about to tell her but then thought better of it. Her friend had enough to think about with her ex-lover’s suicide. “I just want to look into something. Listen, about Amelie’s funeral costs . . .”
“I’ve already taken care of it.”
Slim knew from Françoise’s tone that the matter was settled. They spoke for a bit more, and then Slim hung up, feeling tired and depressed. She knew Amelie had been troubled, but she was far more than Slim had realized, and this bothered her. She thought of herself as a good judge of character, but how had she been so very wrong about Amelie’s mental state? She should have insisted that Amelie stay with Françoise once they got back from Natzweiler. Slim had been so determined to report to Miss Chapman what she had uncovered that she hadn’t thought about how the details of Marie Claire’s final hours would affect someone as fragile as Amelie. It wasn’t the first time she’d had a suicide on her hands. In fact, it was a byproduct of her job for the Red Cross. While most of those who sought her out to find their lost relatives had accepted that both their immediate and extended families were not coming back, some chose not to and ended their lives. With each suicide, Slim added another soul to those millions who had perished under the Nazis. With Amelie, she added one more. For some reason, she held off on adding Marie Claire.
Slim ordered tea to be brought up and asked the front desk to put another call through. She was munching on a scone piled high with clotted cream when the phone rang.
“Fräulein Moran? Can you hear me?” the German-accented voice shouted over the bad connection.
“Yes, Herr Wiesenthal, I can. Are you well?”
“Quite well. Thank you for asking. How may I help you?”
“Herr Wiesenthal, what do you know about the Vatican helping ex-Nazis escape to South America?”
“Ah, the ratline. That is the bane of my existence. How the Catholic Church can knowingly help those criminals is beyond my comprehension, but after all, Pope Pius did nothing when he was told of our wholesale slaughter.”
It pained Slim that she could not defend the one thing that had brought her so much solace as a child. Like most Catholics of her generation, she had been brought up to revere, not criticize, the hierarchy of the church.
“Herr Wiesenthal, is there a particular priest or agency within the Holy See issuing passports to ex-Nazis?”
“The International Red Cross is the organization issuing them ‘humanitarian passports,’” Wiesenthal said with a hint of sarcasm.
“The Red Cross? I thought the Vatican was issuing the passports,” Slim said, repeating the information Daniel had told her.
“No, the Red Cross, and after they have their passports, they are sent to a German bishop by the name of Alois Hudal. He’s issuing identity cards called carta di riconoscimento so they can immigrate to South America.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
“Bishop Hudal is the rector of a seminary for German priests called the Pontificio Istituto Teutonico Santa Maria dell’Anima. It’s near Piazza Navona. Fräulein Moran, why are you asking me this?”
“I need to find a doctor from the Natzweiler concentration camp who escaped from a British prison after the war. I’m wondering if he used the ratline to go to South America.”
“Be careful. The Vatican is untouchable.”
“But Herr Wiesenthal, I’m Catholic.”
“Fräulein Moran, the Church can be very dangerous when it feels threatened. I’ve known about the ratline for two years, but I have yet to find anyone who has escaped using it. Promise me that you’ll be careful.”
“I promise.” Slim knew that Wiesenthal’s warning was not to be taken lightly.
“Hudal is dangerous,” he continued. “Anyone he is helping is a wanted war criminal. If you stand between them and their freedom, they will kill you and add you to the list of the millions they killed without missing a step. Watch yourself in Rome, Fräulein Moran. Just because a man wears a collar doesn’t mean he is working for God.”
After she had hung up, Slim called the front desk and arranged for a ticket on Linee Aeree Italiane to Rome. Then she climbed into bed and passed out. Two hours later, she was awakened by persistent knocking. She opened the door to find Pasha bringing in a cart piled with life’s little extravagances, none of which could be procured with ration cards in postwar London.
“Room service, Miss Moran,” he said as he pushed the cart in with a wink.
“Pasha!” Slim rubbed her eyes, trying to wake up from her deep slumber.
“Did I wake you?”
“I was about to get up, but I am so tired.” Then Slim remembered Amelie and put her head in her hands. Pasha sat down beside her and took her in his arms.
“What is it, darling?”
Slim told him about the troubled young woman’s suicide. Pasha shook his head sadly. “People say suicide is a selfish act, but I think it’s just a temporary fit of despair so strong that it overrides all reason. I’m sorry, darling.” He kissed her on the forehead.
“Forgive me, Pasha, but I don’t feel like having champagne and oysters.”
“Don’t you hate when life gets in the way of love?” he said, smiling ruefully as he popped open the champagne and poured two glasses.
“Pasha, I just said . . .”
“This is to be a working dinner. I have information about your Madame Vyrubova.”
“Is she alive?”
“Yes, she is alive, but barely.”
“Does your mother know her?”
“A little bit. Madame Vyrubova’s husband was a rather prominent law professor at the University of Saint Petersburg. He was very progressive politically and anti-Tsarist, so Mama, being a royalist, wasn’t a fan. I found out he was shot to death in Berlin by a far-right activist who blamed him for the Revolution. Apparently, your agent witnessed his assassination.”
“But she could not have been more than a child.”
“She was barely six. My mother said Madame Vyrubova fell apart afterward, and they were supported by relatives in Paris until your agent was old enough to get a secretarial job. They moved to London when Hitler came to power, and Marie Claire was recruited by the SOE because she spoke German, French, and English fluently.”
“Why do you think she said yes to them? After all, she must’ve known how dangerous the job would be.”
“From what Mama says, Madame Vyrubova was a bit of a demanding nightmare, so your agent probably wanted to get out and have some adventure, perhaps even romance.”
“Thanks for getting me that information. Anything about Colonel Graham’s twin sons?”
“I haven’t had time to go down to the war office yet, but as soon as I do, I promise I’ll ring you. How long are you staying in London?”
“Just tonight. I’m leaving tomorrow for Rome.”
“Roma?” Pasha asked, clearly disappointed.
Slim told him and then said, “Thank you for finding out about Madame Vyrubova. How can I repay you?”
“Oh, I know how you can repay me,” Pasha replied, loosening the tie on her robe, revealing her breasts. He bent down to kiss a nipple but was interrupted when the phone began to ring.
“I should get that,” Slim said, reaching for the receiver.
“Let it ring,” he said, pulling her on top of him.
“I thought this was
going to be a working dinner.”
“You can work for your dinner.” Pasha laughed.
“You’re awful.” Slim bent down and kissed him.
Afterward, wrapped in tangled sheets, Pasha fed Slim caviar on a blini. “Pasha, I wasn’t exactly truthful. I am involved with someone.”
“Slim, darling, a gorgeous thing like you would have someone, but we’re adults. We can see each other when we want,” Pasha said as he playfully bit her on the shoulder.
“I suppose. I don’t know how often I’ll get to London.”
“My work takes me everywhere. Just say when and where, and I can come on a day’s notice.”
“You can, can you?”
“Yes.”
“Can you come right now?”
“Again?”
“Yes.”
This time Slim pulled Pasha on top of her and bit his neck.
The next morning, Slim woke up alone. On the bedside table, she found Pasha’s phone number on hotel stationery with a note saying, Call me. P. The phone rang. Slim picked it up, fully expecting to hear the imperious tone of her grandmother, Lady Johnson, commanding her to luncheon, but instead it was Daniel who barked, “I called you last night.”
“I was out.”
“The front desk said you were in.”
“Oh.” Slim was caught.
“Which is it?”
“Françoise said you need me to transfer more money.”
“That’s not why I’m calling.”
“I already know about Amelie. So why are you calling?”
“You left so suddenly.”
“Daniel, I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”
“I see.”
“I still want to have the agency with you.”
“Who were you with last night?” There was an edge to his voice. Could it possibly be true that Daniel might be jealous?
“I met someone, but he’s married.”
“Then why are we having this conversation?”
“You wanted to know.”
“When are you coming back?”
“In a week or so.” Slim wasn’t in the mood to be harangued.
“Where are you going?”
“Rome. On a flight this afternoon,” she answered.
“Where are you staying?”
“Why, are you going to meet me?”
“What hotel?”
“The Excelsior. It’s right next to the American Embassy. Rumor has it there’s a tunnel running between the two.” Slim remembered overhearing her father’s good friend, the American Ambassador to London, Joseph P. Kennedy, saying this in the bar of the hotel.
“I will meet you at the hotel bar tomorrow night at eight.”
“Fine.”
“A bientôt.” There was a click.
Slim half wished she hadn’t told Daniel where she was going. She looked at the tangled sheets on the bed and smiled ruefully. Had she traded in one damaged man for another, Pasha with his broken marriage and Daniel with his inability to trust her? If only she could combine them into the perfect man. She thought of Patrick again. He was kind, handsome, without baggage, and also most likely dead. Maybe all that was left after the war were damaged men. Her thoughts circled back to Amelie. Most likely, she had gone with Slim so that she could make sure Marie Claire was dead. Why did she say she was going to turn herself in if she was going to kill herself? Slim thought of the handkerchief again and wondered for the thousandth time if Marie Claire was dead, after all.
As Slim boarded a late-afternoon flight on Linee Aeree Italiane, the stewardess handed her a postcard. With commercial airlines still in their infancy, people were expected to record every exciting moment. Slim took the postcard and placed it in her purse, silently wishing the airline had supplied earplugs instead. The plane vibrated throughout its five-hour flight with a tremendous roar. By the time the plane landed at Rome Ciampino Airport, Slim felt nearly deaf.
She may have been bone-tired when she entered the marble lobby of the Hotel Excelsior, but Rome was still awake. Across the street, poor Italians with titles and wealthy Americans seeking them populated the cafés that lined the famous Via Veneto. Both partied without care, and the noise from the street was so loud that Slim asked for a room in the back, away from the crowd.
The next morning she eschewed room service and walked down the Via Veneto toward the Capuchin Crypt, located beneath the Santa Maria Della Concezione Dei Cappuccini near the Piazza Barberini. She remembered the day her father had pulled her inside the crypt and how after her eyes had adjusted to the light, she’d seen bejeweled, child-size skeletons standing upright in miniature monk robes.
“Da! Get me out! I want to leave!” she remembered screaming while her father had grabbed her, laughing, trying to force her to stay in the cavelike room.
When Slim’s screams had become too loud, her father had taken her outside and tried to soothe her.
“Ah, c’mon now, Slim, you canna be scared of a bunch of dead princes,” he’d said.
“Princes?” Slim had asked curiously.
“They all died in the black plague. I didn’t mean to scare the living daylights out of you. I thought you might find it funny.” He’d picked up his shaking daughter and marched back up Via Veneto to the zoo in the Borghese Gardens, where the paparazzi had swamped them.
She had been only six or maybe seven at the time, and she had had nightmares for weeks afterward. However, it was one of the few times she could recall her father picking her up and taking her somewhere that wasn’t a restaurant or a bar.
At the Trevi Fountain, she fished out a couple of coins to throw in for good luck. Then she walked on past closed shops with windows full of bed linens and baby clothes and felt a pang of longing.
Craving her morning caffeine, she ducked into a café and ordered a caffè con zucchero from the bar and then hailed a taxi at the stand in Piazza di Spagna. The driver looked Slim up and down appreciatively, but before he could start harassing her, she gave him the address and climbed in. She had no time for Italian machismo this morning.
Twenty minutes later, the driver left her outside the gates of the Generalte and Motherhouse of the Sisters of Notre Dame in Rome, the order of nuns who had taught her at Trinity College. The motherhouse was only two years old, and Slim had contributed to the building fund. She was pleased with what she saw; the beige-brick buildings were bright and inviting. At the front desk, she asked the novitiate to let Sister Margaret Dunham know she was there. The young woman asked in English for Slim’s name with a distinct German accent and then picked up the phone.
It was always a surprise for Slim to see Margaret in a habit, as she remembered her freshman roommate being as vain and boy-crazy as she had been. But then the war came, and Margaret had lost not one but three of her five brothers, and the carefree young woman who had ducked out of Mass early and studied only enough to get by disappeared. No longer was Margaret scheming to get the cutest guy at Georgetown University as her date; instead, she was up every morning by 6:30 for 7:00 a.m. Mass.
Frustrated by the loss of her best friend to sudden religiosity, Slim had confronted her one night in the dining hall. It was then that Margaret had confessed that she was considering becoming a Sister of Notre Dame de Namur. At first, Slim had been upset by the loss of her best friend to the nuns, but gradually, she’d grown used to it and sometimes even accompanied her pious friend to early morning Mass. In addition to receiving a calling from God, Margaret also began to apply herself to school and stunned everyone by becoming a first-rate scholar. Her parents, however, were less than thrilled. They had lost three boys to the other world and were not about to lose their only daughter to Christ. Although it was a mark of status among the Catholic elite to have a son in the priesthood, not everyone wanted an eligible and strikingly beautiful daughter to take a vow of poverty let alone chastity when a brilliant match could be made.
After they had realized they could not prevent Margaret from taking her final vows
, they were mollified when she was sent to Rome to finish her education. After all, the Holy See sounded a lot better than some backwater when chatting up friends at the Maidstone Club in Easthampton.
Slim tried to hug Margaret, but her friend kept her at arms’ length by her and gave her a cursory peck on the cheek instead.
“Let’s go for a walk. I want to show you what your money helped to build and, of course, the building you had named for your father. We’re going to do the dedication next month. I want you to come.”
Slim thought it only fitting that such a notorious womanizer as the great Tyrone Moran should have a building in a convent named after him. Once outside, and free from the prying eyes of the convent, Margaret hugged her old friend and then linked her arm through hers.
“S.S.S.,” Margaret said with a conspiratorial smile.
Slim smiled back. The three S’s meant, “So, Slim, spill.”
“Do you know the Pontificio Istituto Teutonico Santa Maria dell’Anima?”
“Yes, it’s off Piazza Navona. It’s the German church. Why do you ask?”
“I need to find out whether an SS doctor named Gerhard Brandt escaped through the ratline to South America.”
Margaret stopped walking and withdrew her arm.
“The ratline? What the dickens is that?”
Slim told her about Bishop Alois Hudal helping ex-Gestapo members escape to South America. Margaret was dumbstruck.
“What you’re accusing the Church of is horrific,” Margaret said. “Are you sure Mr. Wiesenthal is right?”
“The Americans are using ex-Gestapo for counterintelligence against the Russians. When they’re done with them or their war crimes catch up to them, and the trail becomes too hot, they get funneled to Hudal, and he gets them to South America.”
“If that’s indeed true, Bishop Hudal will never tell you whether he issued a passport to that SS doctor.”
“What do you suggest I do, then? Should I dress up as a nun and break into his office?”
Margaret grinned. “Like when we broke into the swimming pool under the science building?”
Margaret had come up with the idea of taking a dip with their dates after the Holly Hop Ball their sophomore year. She had been dating a redhead named Eddie from the Naval Academy, and Slim was, of course, with Patrick. Hearing a ruckus, the security guard found the couples skinny-dipping and necking in opposite ends of the pool. Like most of the men employed at Trinity during the war, he was a man too old to be drafted, and in this guard’s case, too old to be effective. Unable to use his flashlight due to wartime-blackout rules, he’d assumed it was just the two girls splashing each other. Margaret and Slim had been dragged before a student court for breaking into the pool after hours and given a slap on the wrist.
The Lost Spy (Slim Moran Mysteries) Page 17
