by James R Benn
“Thanks for your help, Monsignor. And your prayers,” I said.
“We Irish have to stick together, don’t we? Now let’s be off. The sooner the better.”
“I wish I were going with you,” Kaz said, handing me the Beretta.
“Me too,” I said, pocketing the weapon. “Hold tight, okay?”
“We will be waiting,” Kaz said. “For all of you.”
We left through the Porta Angelica, near the barracks of the Swiss Guard, avoiding most of the German guards. O’Flaherty went first, bent over his bag, sorting his mail. I trailed him by a few steps, hands stuffed into my pockets, shoulders bunched against the cold, trying to look like another Italian out on business or coming from Mass. The key was not to look around, not to betray any of the nervousness I felt with one glance too many at the bored Wehrmacht guards or the plainclothes secret police hovering a few yards behind them.
O’Flaherty was a good actor. He was a convincing mailman, with a delivery around every corner. After twisting through a few side streets and confirming we weren’t being followed, we entered a main thoroughfare, the Via Cola di Rienzo. Traffic was light, mostly military. A trolley car rumbled down the road, and I joined a line at the stop, O’Flaherty right behind me. A hand on my shoulder, a wink to the conductor, and we were aboard.
We changed trolleys twice. From what I knew of Rome from the map I had studied, we were taking the long way around, across the Tiber and then up to the Quirinal Palace, where Mussolini and the king of Italy used to run things. Now Il Duce was up north, under the German thumb, and the king was down south, under Allied thumbs. Both were relics of history, pitiful jokes that history played on this poor, beautiful nation.
The trolley barreled downhill on the Via Sistina, picking up speed. The bell rang for a stop and O’Flaherty motioned for me to follow. On the street, a few shops were open, but only halfheartedly. No customers, not much food to sell. There was a line outside a bakery, and one jewelry store had so many watches in the window, I figured hungry shoppers must have sold them for bread. I kept O’Flaherty in view, which, considering the length of his stride, took some doing. As the street opened into a small piazza, he stopped at the base of an obelisk in the center of the square, adjusting the strap on his mailbag. I stopped and craned my neck, admiring the Virgin Mary standing at the top of the column.
“The building to your right,” he said in a low voice. “See the yellow-and-white flag? That’s Propaganda Fide. Where we plan our missionary work, although there is precious little of that these days.”
“Got it,” I whispered.
“Follow the piazza in the other direction. You’ll be at the base of the Spanish Steps. The church is at the top, to your right. Go gcuire Dia an t-adh ort.”
“I’ll wish you the same, Monsignor, but I’d say God’s already put his luck on you.”
He left me looking up to the Virgin Mary, trying to remember a prayer or two. I got my bearings: Propaganda Fide faced the square at the south end, guarded by Mary on her column. Three stories tall, beige stucco. I knew where I was.
Many of the windows along the way were shuttered tight. This winter of German occupation didn’t make for much of a tourist trade. I strolled along the piazza, which widened as I approached a fountain. The Spanish Steps ascended to my right, but I tried not to gawk. I had more than two hours before the meet, and I was here to watch for signs of a setup, not to sightsee.
A gaggle of German soldiers, apparently on leave, given their soft cloth caps and cameras hung around their necks, chatted and smoked cigarettes, tossing their butts into the empty fountain. From the northern end of the square I heard the distant sound of marching boots. The few civilians in the piazza all began to walk in a different direction, and I took the hint. I cut down the Via della Croce, and made a long loop around to arrive back at the square, in time to see the tail end of a formation of ten German soldiers leaving the piazza. I guessed that sergeants were alike in every army, and some Kraut felt the need for useless early-morning exercise.
I was heading in the direction of the Spanish Steps, so I ascended them, stopping midway as if I needed to catch my breath. It wasn’t hard to pretend. There were a helluva lot of steps. Below me I saw a mailman, but it wasn’t O’Flaherty. Above, a couple of workmen in blue coveralls were cleaning the steps, dragging their trashcans and emptying their sweepings into them as they went.
I took a few more slow steps and turned. It was hard not to admire the view. Saint Peter’s rose above the rooftops, the crosses and spires of lesser churches dotting the landscape. The morning clouds were breaking up, and shafts of sunlight fell on the city, reflecting off windows and giving the buildings a soft, golden glow. The wind was strong, so I turned my collar up and pulled down the fedora, glad to have a good reason to hide my features. It’s hard to spot a guy if you only have a photograph or have only seen him once, doubly hard if you can’t see his whole face.
I passed the church without a second glance, trying to look like a Roman late for a morning appointment. Next to the church was the Hotel Hassler, and the German-sounding name drew me on. What better place for Remke to stash his men, and perhaps prisoners, than in a nearby hotel. Of course the same thing went for the Gestapo. The place could be crawling with them.
I pushed open the polished brass door and felt the welcome warmth of the lobby. Marble floors and columns extended the length of the building. On either side, plush red velvet armchairs and couches were situated for those who wanted to see and be seen. I chose a chair in the corner, which gave me a view of the street and the lobby. I picked up a newspaper and leafed through it. The Italian was bewildering, but the pictures of Mussolini and Hitler were plentiful. I pretended to read, sweeping my gaze across the lobby and out the window, looking for anything out of the ordinary.
A line of monks shuffled down the street, probably heading for the church. A German Wehrmacht general made for the elevator with a beautiful dark-haired woman on his arm. Two aides grabbed chairs on the other side of the lobby and lit cigarettes. It didn’t take a detective to figure that one out. Street sweepers worked their way past my window, their brooms pushing litter from the gutters. They looked straight down, not side to side, which meant they were intent on their work. That alone made me suspicious. Sweeping the streets sounded like boring work. Why were these guys so focused? Overacting?
I was about to get up and check out the sweepers more closely when two heavyset thugs in trademark Gestapo black leather trench coats walked in from the street. I brought my newspaper back up to read, not wanting them to think I was leaving because of them. They heaved themselves into two nearby chairs, their Nazi Party badges prominently displayed on their lapels. They didn’t speak, but stared disdainfully at anyone who met their gaze. I studied pictures of Italian troops fighting with the Germans at Anzio, and words such as vittoria gave the impression that the brave Fascists where about to drive the Allies into the sea. Victory at last.
Maybe they were. I’d been out of touch for a while, and the situation in the Anzio beachhead had never been good. It was only thirty or so miles away, and as I snuck a look at the Gestapo men and the other officers idling in the lobby, I wondered if they ever heard the guns when the wind carried toward Rome, and feared for what was in store for them. They were the lords of Rome, but there had been plenty of those over the centuries. The thought gave me courage, so I put the newspaper aside and rose, adjusting my fedora at a jaunty angle, and made for the door.
One of the Gestapo men rose and pointed a finger at me. “Darf ich Ihre Zeitung lesen?”
I stopped, feeling a cold sweat at the small of my back. I didn’t understand him and had no clue what to do. I struggled not to say a word, since anything I said would betray me.
“Giornale,” the other one said, pointing at my newspaper.
“Si,” I said, happy that I could get away with a one-word response. I smiled and nodded my head. “Si,” I said again, figuring one more time couldn’t hurt. I g
ot a polite “Danke” in return.
As I departed, I could sense them following me with their eyes. I put my head down and walked away from the church, in case they were onto me. I took a left to get off the street and found myself not far from the Excelsior Hotel. German headquarters was not a good destination, so I reversed course and watched the road from a corner. No Gestapo. That was either a good sign, or they’d cordoned off the area.
I took my time, gazing in shop windows and watching for the reflection of a tail. There was nothing out of the ordinary beyond what passed for city hustle-bustle in wartime Rome. Lots of uniforms and skinny civilians pretending life was perfect. I followed suit and made my way down to the piazza, ready for another run at the Spanish Steps.
The day had warmed, so I unbuttoned my coat and pushed back my hat. I took the steps more quickly this time, passing the same sweepers I’d seen before, even though the steps didn’t seem to need another cleaning. No one paid me much mind, as far as I could tell. In front of the church, the two sweepers I’d seen from the hotel were returning in the opposite direction, working their brooms and dustpans like there was no tomorrow. Poor choice of words, I thought grimly.
I climbed the steps to the church entrance. That bit of extra height gave me an extraordinary view of the city. Maybe when we took Rome, I thought, Diana and I could come here and enjoy the sights. Have a drink at the Hassler. Be the lords and ladies of Rome.
Inside, the church was long and narrow, with small chapels along either side. Sunlight filtered in through the high stained-glass windows, and the footsteps of worshippers and curious soldiers echoed off the marble floor. Germans took photographs. Old women, hunched over in black dresses, knelt and prayed. Half a dozen monks, probably the same group I’d seen earlier, sat in the front pew, their heads bowed. No Remke, no Gestapo, as far as I could see.
I left and made another circuit, walking down the Via Condotti, looking at the sites, then going back up, giving me a direct view of the steps. I could make out the same blue coveralls among the field-gray and dark overcoats. I hadn’t seen much of the city, but I don’t think I’d seen that many municipal workers that hard at work in my life. Not much like Boston.
If it were a setup, they would have made me already. So why hadn’t I been taken? Because they wanted Remke? Maybe they had no idea about me, but knew Remke would be here, out in the open. Maybe. Maybe I was nervous in the service.
The hell with it, I told myself. I crossed the piazza, stopping to browse the wares of a few sidewalk vendors who had set up tables at the foot of the steps. Secondhand clothes, books, china knickknacks. A few paintings. No food in sight. These were probably families who were selling off their possessions, hoping to trade for bread. But the Germans were the only ones who had money and food, and what did they care for an Italian’s castoffs? They could snatch whatever they wanted.
I retook the steps, ignoring the sweepers, not caring why they were wearing down the steps with their brooms. I checked my inside pocket, the feel of the folded papers reassuring. At least I had a chance. Probably more than the poor souls in the piazza selling off Grandma’s crockery had. Entering the church, I let my vision get used to the dim light and walked the perimeter, admiring the artwork in each chapel and eyeing the other gawkers and worshippers.
The monks were gone; no, two of them were standing near the confessional. Maybe one of their pals was inside confessing his sins. How much trouble could a monk get into, anyway? A couple of nuns walked past, their rosaries clicking as they moved. I took a seat in a rear pew, drawing my coat around me. It was cold in the church, and I shuddered. I had about a half hour to go. I checked the letters for the hundredth time. I checked the Beretta, feeling the grip, remembering the Fascist I’d killed in the rail yard. I glanced at the confessional, and decided against it.
The harsh click of boot heels sounded to my rear. The footsteps were determined, not the casual stroll of a sightseer. I stood, ready for the worst.
“Billy,” came a whisper at my back. “You forgot my uniform. Not to mention the handmade Italian leather boots. Now follow me.”
I stood, waiting for Dieter to get a few steps ahead, marveling at how cool and collected he seemed. Which was probably the point of being cool and collected. The church remained quiet, a few nuns still at prayer, the monks at the confessional. One of the camera-toting soldiers strode ahead of Dieter and opened a door adjacent to the main entrance. He held it for both of us, and I wondered how many of the sightseers were actually Remke’s men.
The light outside was blinding after the dim interior, and I blinked my eyes to adjust. We were on a staircase leading to the side door of the church, with a high balustrade that gave some cover. Remke stood with his back to me, surveying the piazza below.
“What do you have for me?” His tone was sharp, demanding.
“The letter from Montini,” I said, reaching into my coat. Dieter flinched, his hand going to his holster. Force of habit, I figured. I withdrew the envelope slowly, letting him see it. I thought he might give a smile and an apology, but his hand stayed where it was. Only his eyes moved. Remke snatched the envelope and opened it. He read, the breeze fluttering the edge of the pages. It seemed to take forever. I scanned the crowds, wondering where Diana might be.
“I didn’t like the looks of the street sweepers,” I said. “Too many of them.”
“They are ours,” Dieter said. “We’ve been watching you.”
“What about the two Gestapo men in the hotel lobby?”
“They are watching a general who is having an affair with the wife of a Turkish diplomat. Decidedly un-Aryan of him.”
“This,” Remke said, his voice grim and his hand shaking. “This is all you have?”
“It’s diplomatic language,” I said, trying to calm him. “You have to read between the lines.”
“Idiots!” Remke shouted. “What do they expect to come of this watered-down drivel? I give you a valuable document about the crimes of the Nazi regime and your friends at the Vatican cannot even acknowledge that we are risking all to topple them? This is dishwater. Nothing. I could have given that report to a newspaper in Switzerland and gotten more out of it.”
“It was the best Montini could do. Koch’s raids on Vatican properties in Rome have gotten the Pope nervous about an invasion of the Holy See, so he didn’t want to risk bringing it to his attention. He thought half a statement was better than none.”
“Did he now?” Remke stuffed the papers into his pocket. “Well, you shall have the same choice. You delivered half of what I wanted, so you decide on which half of your payment you will take. Miss Seaton, or the Italian and the American? One woman or two men? Read between the lines of that bargain and see how you like it.”
Remke went down the steps, leaving me rooted to the spot. It never occurred to me he’d split the difference, but it made a perverse sense. It was no more than what we’d done. Diana, I told myself. Take Diana. But I couldn’t get the words out. Rino and Abe were my responsibility; I couldn’t leave them behind. And knowing Diana, she’d not want their fate on her conscience. It had taken her long enough to get over the guilt of surviving Dunkirk. I didn’t need to bring up that burden all over again.
So it was on my head. I had to leave her behind or on a train to Germany, wherever Remke had in mind to keep her under wraps. I had to count on him not to turn her over to the Gestapo. I didn’t think he would, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I had nothing but a bluff.
“Give them all to me,” I said, following Remke to the sidewalk. “Or I burn your documents. They’ll never get to London.”
“Then I give you nothing but a bullet,” he said. “You are an American officer out of uniform. I could shoot you now as a spy and be done with it. Make your choice.”
“How do you know I won’t get word to the Gestapo about your plans?” It was weak, I knew, but I needed time to think of something else. Anything that might give me an edge. Remke only laughed.
“
If you were English, I would worry about it. But you Americans are too naive to play that game. You have thirty seconds to decide,” he said. “Then we leave.”
The wind picked up, swirling paper and dust in spite of the phony street sweepers’ hard work. I shielded my eyes and took a look around. He must have had them all close by. My hand closed around the Beretta in my pocket as I wondered what my chances were against Remke with Dieter at my back.
There was none. “The two men,” I said, my words condemning Diana. I couldn’t look Remke in the eye. As I spoke, two monks approached from behind him and the door above us flew open. The monks hurried forward, the rush of air blowing back the first monk’s cowl.
Becher. I recognized him from the Pensione Jaccarino. Koch’s pal.
I pulled my pistol and pushed Remke aside with my left arm. I shot Becher twice, dead center. I waited for a bullet in the back, either from Dieter, if he hadn’t picked up on what was happening, or from Koch’s men bursting through the door. The other monk hesitated as Becher hit the ground, then backed up, raising his pistol to fire. I knelt and shot twice again, sending him to the pavement.
Above me more shots echoed against the stone church. Remke stood with his arm outstretched, squeezing off shots from his Walther. Two monks rolled down the stairs, their pistols clattering uselessly against the stone steps. Dieter struggled to his feet, his arm drenched in blood, likely from one of Remke’s stray rounds.
Pairs of street sweepers in their blue coveralls ran to the scene, brooms exchanged for MP-40 submachine guns they must have had hidden in their trashcans. Civilians ran in every direction and off-duty soldiers dove for the nearest cover. We were knee-deep in dead monks.
“Look,” I said, pointing to a figure in a black trench coat, peering around the side of a statue fifty yards away. There was no mistaking the dark, slicked-back hair and the close-set dark eyes. Pietro Koch, who probably thought he had a ringside seat for the capture of the German who had kidnapped one of his victims. Or me, an American agent.
