Death's Door

by James R Benn

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE TRAIN FINALLY came to rest hours later, the brakes taking so long that I thought we had stopped until that final little jolt pushed me forward against the rough wood wall. I must have slept, because bits of light were filtering in between the slats, barely enough to let me make out Kaz slumped opposite me.

  “Tell the porter to bring coffee,” Kaz said, grunting as he tried to sit up.

  “I will, as long as he isn’t wearing a German uniform,” I said. Muffled voices sounded outside as the door to the railcar slid open. Footsteps thumped closer, followed by a sharp rap on the false wall. It opened, and a workman in a blue coverall held his finger to his lips. I followed him out, clutching my suitcase and blinking my eyes against the morning light. Waiting outside the boxcar was a well-dressed gent in a black topcoat and shined shoes. He was at odds with the workers who stood at a distance, ready to unload the train, but they seemed to wait patiently for him. He touched his snap-brim fedora and inclined his head as we jumped down, giving us a little salute.

  “Fathers Boyle and Dalakis, I take it,” he said, his English accent sounding polished, but with a hint of Cockney underneath. “Welcome to the Vatican. My name is John May.”

  “I’m Boyle,” I said, shaking his hand. He had lively eyes that watched us and everything else at the same time. His bushy eyebrows stood above high cheekbones, and he reminded me of some smart hoodlums I’d known back in Boston, the confident way he oversaw this smuggling operation. “We’re in Vatican City? Neutral ground?”

  “Indeed. Since you came through that wall.” He pointed to the iron door that was shut tight in the wall behind us. We were between the train and the railway station, and as I looked up, the dome of Saint Peter’s loomed high beyond the station. “You’re both a bit worse for wear, aren’t you?”

  We were. Soot and dried blood covered our black cassocks, probably not the usual attire within these walls. May had a hurried conversation with the workmen as he took off his topcoat. He gave it to me, and another coat, considerably more worn, appeared for Kaz.

  “Put these on and leave the suitcases. They will be delivered later. Follow me, but at a distance, about twelve paces. Try to look contemplative.”

  “Why the secrecy?” I asked. “Aren’t we safe here?”

  “Safety is relative,” May said. “We have to pass by the Gendarmerie headquarters, and I don’t want to attract attention. Trust me, we’ll be safe and sound in no time.”

  “I thought we were,” Kaz said. May ignored him and walked off. We followed, leaving our suitcases behind, trailing our mysterious guide.

  Contemplative was tough. We were in Rome, behind enemy lines, smuggled inside a neutral enclave. Saint Peter’s dominated the skyline, and even though it was winter, the gardens and pathways were green and well tended, cypresses and cedars forming a backdrop that softened the hard reality of the wall and encircled this tiny domain. I tried not to gawk like a country bumpkin, and stayed behind May, glancing around for anyone taking notice of us.

  May turned his head and looked at a building on our right. It was five stories of soft, beige limestone, with the yellow-and-white Vatican flag flying over the main door. Men in blue uniforms came and went, Vatican gendarmes. I didn’t know if we had to worry about all of them or just their boss, Soletto, but May seemed to be steering clear of the whole crowd. So I bowed my head and folded my hands, sending up a quick prayer to Saint Michael, patron saint of policemen, asking him to keep the local cops occupied while we got on with things.

  We made our way through a formal garden and ended up in front of a long, narrow building, much fancier than the police headquarters. Marble steps led up to the main entrance, with two wings extending on either side. But May didn’t head for the front door, which was flanked by two gendarmes standing at attention. He took a garden path that led to the back of the building, and headed for a side door, which he unlocked after consulting a heavy ring of keys.

  “Where are we going?” I asked when we were alone in a staircase with May.

  “To see Robert Brackett, of the American delegation to the Vatican. This building is the Governatorato, where most of the major delegations are housed. Mr. Brackett has been waiting for you.”

  “Do you work for him?” Kaz asked.

  “Goodness, no. I am employed by the British ambassador, Sir D’Arcy. Here we are,” he said, stopping at a door and giving a discreet knock before opening it. “I will be back to collect you shortly.”

  “Where are you—?” But the door shut before I could finish, and we were left alone in a well-furnished sitting room. It was small, but its tall windows overlooked the graceful gardens below. The rug was plush and soft underfoot. I felt out of place in my filthy clothes.

  An inner door opened and a maid entered carrying a silver tray, the aroma of coffee dispelling any worries about my attire. She set the tray down and asked in very good English if she could take our coats. It took her only a second to hide the look of surprise as she saw the condition of our clothes, and then act as if disheveled, bloodstained priests came to visit every morning.

  “Ah, there you are. Robert Brackett, at your service.” Brackett was graying at the temples, tall, and a bit stooped over, as if his height had begun to work against him in middle age. He needed a haircut, and his three-piece suit was worn, shiny at the knees and with threads sticking out at the seams. We introduced ourselves, and he nodded absently, as if names were bothersome.

  “Are you the American ambassador?” Kaz asked as Brackett poured coffee.

  “There is no American ambassador to the Vatican,” Brackett said, motioning us to sit. “FDR had to settle for a personal envoy to the Pope when Congress got into a snit about an official representative. They said it was about the separation of church and state, but it was really anti-Catholic bias. So the president sent a personal envoy, who didn’t stick around when war was declared and the rest of the staff was sentenced to the duration in this gilded cage.”

  “You don’t sound too happy about that,” I said, savoring the hot coffee.

  “That’s a beautiful view out the window,” Brackett said. “But try looking at it for over eight hundred days.” He frowned, gazing at the view despite himself.

  “There are worse places to spend a war,” I said.

  “Absolutely. But that doesn’t change things; it only makes one feel vaguely guilty for the resentment. Tell me, how was your trip?”

  “Eventful, long, and uncomfortable,” I said. “So, are you in charge here?”

  “Father Boyle,” Brackett said, stressing the title sarcastically, “you are going to have to learn the ways of the Vatican. Lots of formal small talk. It’s a long journey to the truth here, whether you’re asking the time of day or for an opinion on a point of diplomacy.”

  “Point taken. I’m usually big on chatter, but for right now let’s get to the point. Who are you, and do you know why we’re here?”

  “I know why you’re here, although you probably don’t know the whole story. As for me, I’m only the deputy chargé d ’affaires. My job is to keep an eye on you and ensure you don’t do anything to endanger Vatican neutrality and American interests.”

  “See, you can skip the small talk just fine,” I said. “What part of the story don’t we know?”

  “Why do you think you’re here?”

  “We’ve been told that Monsignor Corrigan was a cousin of Bishop Finch of New York, who is pals with President Roosevelt. The bishop called in some favors to find out who knifed his kin, and that was enough horsepower to get us where we are.”

  “That’s a fine story,” Brackett said, pulling out his pipe and fussing with it, the way pipe smokers do. “Parts might even be true. What’s missing is one key fact.” He tamped down the tobacco and lit a match, puffing his cheeks like a pair of bellows.

  “Yes?” Kaz said, as Brackett finally tossed the match in an ashtray.

  “It was Donovan who sent you here. William Donovan, head
of the Office of Strategic Services himself. I don’t know about Corrigan and Finch, but I do know that Donovan and Corrigan attended Columbia Law School together. They were fast friends, then and now.”

  “Are you certain of this?” Kaz asked.

  “Damn certain. I was one year ahead of them. The monsignor and I talked about old times quite often.”

  “Did he talk about Donovan?” I said. Brackett’s news made sense, given what Hamilton had told us about Wild Bill’s involvement.

  “Never,” Brackett said, frowning at the pipe, which had gone dead. “His silence told me that he was still in contact with him, one way or the other. So forget about FDR and the good bishop. You’re here because Wild Bill Donovan wanted you here. And that can be quite dangerous.”

  “Dangerous for whom?” Kaz asked.

  “The Pope, directly, and the war effort, indirectly. The last thing we need is the OSS running loose in the Vatican. If the Nazis catch on, they’d have the perfect excuse to invade, which would take about two minutes. They’d claim they were protecting the Pope, or were forced into it by the presence of enemy agents.”

  “We are not the OSS,” I said.

  “Tell that to the Nazis when they march in here. You’re doing Donovan’s bidding. So keep a low profile, a damned low profile.”

  “What does your boss say about all this? Does he feel the same way?”

  “He’s instructed me to keep both of you at arm’s length from him. He doesn’t want to meet you or have anything to do with you, in case he needs to deny your presence here.”

  “Wonderful. Who exactly sent for us anyway?”

  “No idea,” Brackett said, pulling at a thread on the sleeve of his coat. “But I’d wager half of Vatican City knows you’re here.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The Vatican is like a small town, filled with people attuned to nuance. They notice everything. Plus, you’ve got scores of diplomats and their families crammed in these hundred damn acres. All the countries that declared war on Italy and Germany, from France to the smallest South American tin-pot dictatorship. Secretaries, wives, children, servants. People who were used to Roman cafés and fine restaurants, the opera, the wine country. All cooped up in a city not exactly known for its nightlife. What do you think they do? They walk in the gardens, watch each other, and gossip.”

  “Does anyone ever leave?”

  “The Germans guard the border along the entrance to Saint Paul’s. There’s a white line that they patrol. Worshippers can come and go, and sometimes people blend in with the crowd. But if they’re found out, it means internment, in surroundings less pleasant.”

  “What about over the wall?” Kaz asked.

  “It’s been done, I’m sure, but I think most have turned inward. We get decent food, and money can buy good liquor on the black market. As time passes, the allure of the outside world, the risk of it all, lessens. And with the food shortages, café society is not what it used to be. People have adapted. Changed.” Brackett went silent, his gaze wandering to the gardens, and I wondered what changes he’d endured.

  “Who do you think killed Father Corrigan?” I asked, to bring him out of his daydream.

  “It’s Monsignor Corrigan,” he said, sitting up straight, his face flushed red. What sort of thoughts had conjured up embarrassment? “You don’t call a monsignor the same thing you’d call a common priest.”

  “You and the monsignor were friends?” Kaz asked.

  “Of course we were. There aren’t that many Americans among the Roman Curia, and we both enjoyed a change of pace from our respective vocations.”

  “I was an altar boy, Mr. Brackett, but my knowledge of church structure ends there. What exactly is the Curia?”

  “The administrative apparatus of the Church in Rome,” Kaz said, “it includes foreign relations and all the congregations, yes?”

  “Correct,” Brackett said, sounding more comfortable talking to Kaz. Most people did, which is why we’re such a good team. “The Holy See—that’s basically the same thing as the Vatican—has its own secretary of state, who governs for the Pope. There is a separate structure for the Vatican City State. Police and military functions, that sort of thing.”

  “Did Monsignor Corrigan have any run-ins with Filberto Soletto, head of the police?” I asked.

  “Soletto? No, why would he?”

  “Don’t know,” I said. “It’s why I asked. How about you? Do you know Soletto?”

  “This place is one hundred and eight acres. It takes up less than one-fifth of a square mile. His office is a stone’s throw away. Of course I know Soletto. How could I not?” Brackett crossed his legs, fidgeting with the crease of his trousers. The sole of his shoe was worn down, and I could see where his socks had been darned. It was evidently a life of genteel deprivation.

  “How is his investigation going?”

  “He’s decided that a Jew on the run killed Corrigan. Don’t ask me why, but he’s stuck on that idea.”

  “Maybe because someone powerful told him to be?”

  “That would have to be a cardinal, at least. I doubt it.”

  “Oh yeah, those guys got where they are by being sweet and gentle, I forgot.”

  “Listen, Boyle, that kind of talk won’t go well here, no matter how true,” Brackett said, sucking at his pipe. The tobacco smelled bad, harsh with the faint odor of burning leaves.

  “Back in Boston, you know what Archbishop O’Connell’s nickname is?” I asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Politicians call him Number One, last I heard. You’re right, politics here can be bare-knuckle, but everything is done quietly, covered up with flowery language and lace robes. Don’t suggest involvement in murder without proof, and think it through even if you have proof. You’ll stay out of trouble that way.” The voice of experience?

  “Did Soletto have a specific suspect, or was it any Jew on the run?” I asked.

  “Oh, he caught the fellow,” Brackett said. “Found him hiding somewhere in the Bernini colonnades. Had blood on his coat, I think.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Handed over to the Italian police. Likely dead by now.”

  “I had no idea the Vatican was a dangerous place,” Kaz said, encouraging Brackett to say more.

  “It was for Monsignor Corrigan,” Brackett said. “He wasn’t the type to shy away from things.”

  The maid came in with a tray of bread, butter, marmalade, and cheeses, setting it down next to the coffee. As she arranged the dishes, Brackett stared silently out his window, relighting his pipe. Not a man of danger himself. He gestured for us to help ourselves, and I didn’t hesitate.

  “What sort of things?” I asked, grabbing a plate.

  “Some priests do their job, others have a calling. Corrigan had a calling. I guess you could say he didn’t let common sense get in the way of helping people, even if it wasn’t his business. I always thought he would be more at home working in a soup kitchen, rubbing elbows with tramps.”

  “He was a lawyer in the Holy Office,” Kaz said. “How did he get into trouble helping people?”

  “You’ve had experience with lawyers, no doubt,” Brackett said, permitting himself the slightest of smiles. “He volunteered for a mission to prisoner-of-war camps last year. Italian and German camps, up north. Mostly British prisoners. They collected letters for relatives, worked with the Red Cross, delivered blankets, that sort of thing.”

  “Seems like he did what he was supposed to do,” I said.

  “Perhaps, but he and another priest were recalled. Apparently they were working too hard at it. The bishop in charge of the visits liked to stay in fine hotels, maybe visit one camp a day, then have a nice meal with a good local wine. Corrigan went to two or three camps a day, then came back to Rome to read out the names of POWs on the Vatican Radio.”

  “Was he sending out messages?”

  “No, only names, so families would know where their loved ones were. Maybe he made the b
ishop look bad, or maybe the Nazis didn’t like news bulletins about prisoners. Someone put the pressure on, Corrigan got his hand slapped and went back to his legal work.”

  “Who could tell us more about that?”

  “Another monsignor, name of Renato Bruzzone, also in the Holy Office. He and Corrigan worked together and got in the same hot water. Might have been something to it, since after Italy surrendered, and the POW camps were left unguarded, a lot of British prisoners came here, making a beeline for neutral territory,” Brackett said, frowning as if he disapproved. More mouths to feed. “Also Monsignor O’Flaherty in the Holy Office. A loose cannon, that one. I’d stay away from him if I were you.”

  I resisted the urge to tell him I was damn glad he wasn’t me. “The escaped prisoners were given sanctuary?”

  “Yes, but very quickly the Swiss Guard was given orders to bar their entry. Again, a question of not antagonizing the Germans. Now they turn them away quietly.” He made it sound as if they were granting a favor to his allies and countrymen seeking refuge. Beggars on the street to him.

  “How many made it in?”

  “Dozens, perhaps. It’s one of those well-known secrets no one talks about.”

  “For fear of offending our enemy,” Kaz said.

  “You would do well to remember our enemy is not the enemy of our host. Antagonize Vatican officials and you could find yourselves tossed out on the streets of Rome.”

  “Yes,” Kaz said, with a glance out the window, and back to Brackett, who blew a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. “A terrible fate, indeed.”

  “Have the Germans arrested any priests recently?” I asked. “Or nuns?”

  “Not on Vatican territory, no. In Rome they arrest whomever they please. Or shoot them. Hardly the thing we can keep track of from within these walls.”

  “No rumors? Gossip about priests or nuns gone missing?”

  He frowned. “Missing? As in murdered?”

  “No, as in taken by the Gestapo.”

  “You’d have to inquire at the Regina Coeli,” Brackett said. “For your sake, I hope the opportunity does not arise.”