Death's Door

by James R Benn

  “Welcome, Fathers,” a voice boomed out as soon as Kaz swung the door open. The accent was Italian, the pronunciation precise, as if he worried about getting every word right. “I am Monsignor Renato Bruzzone.” Bruzzone tossed off a cape, under which he wore a black cassock with red trim and a purple sash, showing off his rank of monsignor.

  “Monsignor,” I said, unsure of how exactly to address one. “I am Father Boyle, and this is Father Dalakis.”

  “Yes, yes, but I know these are not your real names. No matter, I am glad you are here.”

  Monsignor Bruzzone had a full head of thick, black hair, and a good start on a five o’clock shadow. He was taller than me, with broad shoulders and dark, steady eyes that studied us, watching the confusion on our faces.

  “Real names?” Kaz said, a look of practiced befuddlement worrying his brow.

  “Come now, gentlemen, I am here to help. Sit, please.” He gestured to the table as if we had come to visit him. Rank has its privileges everywhere. “Your arrival has been noted by many. The Vatican is a small place, with many big ears and eyes. As well as tongues!” He chuckled at his little joke, lifting an eyebrow, inviting us to join in the laughter.

  “How did you note our arrival, Monsignor?” Kaz asked.

  “Some of those eyes and tongues work for me. It is helpful to watch the comings and goings here, especially in this building.”

  “Why this building?” I asked.

  “Surely you know?” Our blank stares answered his question. “This is one of the two buildings where escaped Allied prisoners of war live. The other is the barracks of the Swiss Guard. Amusing, isn’t it?”

  “Monsignor, you certainly know more than we do,” I said. “But I do know you were a colleague of Monsignor Edward Corrigan’s. Have you come here to tell us what you know about his death?”

  “Sadly, no,” he said, his lips pursed. He fished in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and lit one up, his silver lighter polished and gleaming. He offered the pack to both of us, and we declined. They were Junos, a German brand. “These are terrible, but in times like these any tobacco will do. No, I cannot tell you much about Edward, except that he was a fine man. It is a shame for him to end that way.”

  “Dead?”

  “Well, yes, but to be attacked by someone he was trying to help, that was terrible.”

  “How do you know he was trying to help the man who stabbed him?” Kaz asked.

  “It stands to reason. He was a Jew with no place to hide. He must have escaped the roundup of Roman Jews last October and been at his wit’s end. You’d be surprised at how many refugees we have hidden here. Not just POWs, but Jews, antifascist Italians, and even German deserters. Somehow, this poor fellow must have heard about Edward and made contact. Perhaps he panicked, perhaps he had gone mad. Who knows? It could as well been myself, or Monsignor O’Flaherty.”

  “Who does know?” I asked. “Where is this alleged murderer?”

  “The Italian authorities took him. As part of the treaty between the Holy See and the Italian government, Saint Peter’s Square, while it is Vatican territory, is under the legal jurisdiction of Rome because of all the visitors who come here.”

  “And what are the chances of a Jew turned over to the Fascist authorities still being alive?” Kaz asked.

  “Next to none, I am sorry to say. The Nazis shipped all the Jews in Rome to those camps months ago. If he was not killed outright, he was sent north. To them, the greater crime is the religion of his birth. They are fiends, but you know that.”

  “There was no thought of that at the time?” I asked.

  “Truly, there could not be. Commissioner Soletto is pro-fascist, to be sure. You must have been warned about him. But even someone with the opposite viewpoint would have had to do the same. The Lateran Treaty, which outlines these territorial responsibilities, is quite precise. It even delineates exactly where the Italian authority ends: at the bottom of the steps leading into Saint Peter’s Basilica. We struggle constantly to maintain our rights within the treaty, which means the Holy See abides by the exact letter of that document. To do otherwise would be to open up the possibility of abrogation.”

  “Which would mean the Germans take over,” Kaz said.

  “Yes. Can you imagine? His Holiness taken to the Third Reich for his own protection, or some such nonsense? No, that must be avoided at all costs.”

  “Yet you hide escapees and refugees here, on neutral ground,” Kaz said.

  “Yes, we do. To do otherwise would be a sin. It is simply a matter of not getting caught! So far, we have not.”

  “Does the Pope know about all this?” I asked.

  “His Holiness has not told us not to proceed in this manner, and we know he has opened his summer residence at Castel Gandolfo to refugees without regard to religion. The estate is territory of the Vatican State, and many Jewish refugees have found sanctuary there.”

  “So you have no direct orders from the Pope, but you think he approves?” Kaz said.

  “Yes. He is a good friend to Monsignor Hugh O’Flaherty, the most visible of us. I have witnessed His Holiness looking down on the square from his palace windows, watching Hugh meet escaped POWs and direct them to safety. So, until Pius tells us to stop, we continue. You Americans have a saying, that something is done between a nod and a wink, yes?”

  “It’s with a wink and a nod,” I said. “But I understand.”

  “A wink and a nod. Yes, that is how we do things. Good.”

  “You and Monsignors Corrigan and O’Flaherty worked together visiting POW camps?” I said.

  “We did, until we were recalled. Our activities were too enthusiastic for some.”

  “I heard you made a bishop look bad?”

  “In part, but the real reason was we became involved in rescue efforts with Jewish refugees from France. You see, Italy occupied part of southern France, and the Italian anti-Jewish laws were not as harsh, or as strongly enforced, as the Vichy French laws. When Mussolini fell and the Italian Army withdrew from southern France, many Jews followed into Italy, hoping to avoid deportation. But they had no identity papers and little money. The archbishop of Genoa set up a network to provide funds, shelter, and papers. His Holiness sent money to the bishop to help.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Your POW camp-inspection trip was a cover for that.”

  “Yes, very good. It was, but the visits to the camps were important too. Many of the POWs who escaped after the fall of Mussolini remembered our names and came here seeking sanctuary.”

  “What happened in Genoa?” Kaz asked.

  “We became too visible. The Gestapo began questioning people we came into contact with. Our Vatican passports protected us, but not the other clergy in Genoa. So we turned over our funds to the Delegation for the Assistance of Jewish Emigrants, an underground group doing good work, especially with children.”

  “Did the Gestapo know about Corrigan?” I asked, wondering if this had been a revenge hit.

  “Yes, they questioned all of us. Politely, of course, given our diplomatic status. They said they were concerned about our safety, given the Jewish and Communist bandits who were running loose. The usual lies, but we understood the meaning.”

  “What about here in Rome?” I asked, fishing for information about Diana. “Has the Gestapo been arresting clergy?”

  “Father Boyle, there are many priests and nuns at the mercy of the Nazis. Little is ever heard of those taken.” Bruzzone lit another cigarette, flicking the lighter shut with a click, blowing smoke to the ceiling.

  “If a member of the clergy is taken into custody, you are not informed? The Vatican, I mean.”

  “If the person holds a Vatican passport, yes. But of the thousands of priests, nuns, and monks in Rome, very few do. Unless it was brought to the attention of Cardinal Maglione—he is the secretary of state for the Holy See—nothing could be done. Even then. …” He ended with an eloquent lift of the shoulders. Who is to know?

  �
�Is there anything else you can tell us about Father Corrigan?” Kaz asked.

  “Nothing other than stories of his goodness. But in the morning, I will show you to his room. Perhaps you will find something there to help.”

  “Didn’t Soletto have it searched?” I asked.

  “No, he thought it not necessary. I had it locked and kept the key. No one has been in since the murder. I will show you tomorrow, but now I will escort you to dinner with Sir D’Arcy. To be sure you do not take a wrong turn and end up in the hands of the Nazis.”

  “You are well informed as to our plans,” Kaz said.

  “It is important to be well informed. It could save your life.” Bruzzone crushed out his cigarette and stood, donning his cloak.

  “We need to speak to Soletto, or at least the officer in charge of the investigation,” I said. “Even if he’s an informer.”

  “One thing you would do well to remember: Trust no one until you know which side they are on, and then keep your own counsel if they are not friendly. The Vatican City State may be neutral, but the great majority who live here are Italians. Many welcomed Mussolini and his Fascist Party and were glad to see them in power instead of the Communists. Some wish he would return, and hope for a German victory. Be very careful.”

  “Would any of them kill for their cause?” I asked.

  “We of the clergy have more experience as martyrs than murderers. But both welcome death, do they not? Follow me.”

  With that cheery thought, we followed the monsignor out into the cold evening air.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “SIR D’ARCY OSBORNE, Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to the Holy See,” May intoned. Gone was the playful smile. Dressed in a dark suit and wearing white gloves, he bowed slightly as he introduced us.

  “Sir D’Arcy,” Kaz said, more comfortable with the ways of the upper class than I was. “Thank you for inviting us.”

  “Ah, Father Dalakis, I assume, from the accent. And Father Boyle. Welcome.” We shook hands all around. May disappeared to do some butlering as D’Arcy led us into the dining room. Bruzzone had delivered us to the Hospice Santa Marta, a short walk from our rooms, but a world away. It was like stepping into an elegant London flat. The furniture was heavy and plush, the curtains thick, and the candelabras gleaming. There was a framed portrait of the king, but I think it was Sir D’Arcy himself who made it feel like a bit of old England. His receding hair was fine and light, his cheekbones high, and his posture perfect. Unlike Brackett’s, D’Arcy’s three-piece suit looked new and well tailored. His shoes were shined and I’d bet there were no holes in his socks.

  “Forgive me if I do not ask about your journey,” D’Arcy said as we sat at a table set for four. “I’m sure it was terrible, and that you can tell me little for security reasons.”

  “Right on both counts,” I said. “Speaking of security, how many people do you think know we’re here?”

  “Quite a few, but let’s discuss all that after dinner. Our other guest should be here soon.”

  May entered and poured wine for us. D’Arcy sniffed it and held it up to the light, as if he knew what he was doing. He tasted it, and nodded his approval to May. I took a slug and realized this wasn’t the sort of vino I’d been drinking in Italy. They must have been hiding all the good stuff in Rome.

  “Brunello di Montalcino,” Kaz said, his eyebrows raised in admiration. “Excellent.”

  “And increasingly rare,” D’Arcy said. “The Germans are taking all the best wines from Tuscany. May works wonders at keeping our cellar stocked.”

  “He has a clever delivery system,” I said, then took a smaller sip of the wine.

  “I don’t know how he does it, and I don’t wish to,” D’Arcy said. “The position of Allied diplomats within the Vatican is precarious. We must not do anything overt to threaten the neutrality of the Holy See. That includes the black market, smuggling food, and hiding those on the run from the Nazis. So, I drink this fine wine in happy ignorance.”

  “Leviticus tells us that if a man sins through ignorance, then he shall pay for his trespass a ram without blemish from his flock,” a voice boomed from the hallway. “But I shall settle for some of that lamb being prepared in your kitchen, Sir D’Arcy.”

  “Monsignor O’Flaherty,” D’Arcy said, introducing us.

  O’Flaherty was dressed in the full monsignor getup, but it didn’t disguise his liveliness. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a thick head of hair that curled down over his forehead. His grin was pleasant, and he shook our hands warmly. His wasn’t what you’d call a handsome face, with a good-sized nose, thin lips, and round glasses giving him an owlish look.

  “Father Dalakis,” O’Flaherty said as he took his seat. “I’ve been around this part of the world long enough to have an ear for accents. You’re certainly not Romanian. Polish-born, I’d guess. And you, Father Boyle, a Yank if I ever heard one. But I’d guess your granddad was from the old sod. You’ve got a trace of the brogue right at the edge of your tongue, boy.”

  “My grandfather came from County Roscommon,” I said. “Last of his family to survive the Potato Blight.”

  “Awful times,” O’Flaherty said, slowly shaking his head, and then flashing a ready smile at D’Arcy. “But out of respect for our English host, we’ll talk of other things. Politics and good food do not mix. My own home is in County Cork, where I’m glad my family is safe from this war.”

  The food was brought in, and it smelled a whole lot better than army chow. For the next hour, we feasted on grilled lamb, thick strands of pasta seasoned with cheese and black pepper, green beans and tomatoes, and more of D’Arcy’s wine. O’Flaherty told stories of his assignments for the Vatican in Egypt and Czechoslovakia before the war. He and D’Arcy talked golf, the Irishman being quite the player.

  “The monsignor is also a pugilist,” D’Arcy said. “Perhaps you’d like to give him the opportunity to fight a new opponent, Father Boyle. He’s worn out most comers by now.”

  “I don’t think I could hit a priest, much less a monsignor,” I said.

  “What makes you think you could lay a glove on me, boy? Anyway, in the ring it’s just one man against another. No white collar, no rank. A bit like life, eh? Sometimes you have to leave certainty behind and come out swinging.” He and D’Arcy exchanged looks, and the Englishman stood.

  “Gentlemen, I must take your leave. I thought it best if you and Monsignor O’Flaherty met and talked, so as to avoid any confusion in your investigation. He has a rather active organization, and you are bound to cross paths. You may trust him in all things. May will join you shortly.”

  “The ambassador keeps things at arm’s length, it seems,” Kaz said after D’Arcy had left.

  “Don’t be fooled,” O’Flaherty said. “When I first came to ask for his help, I thought the same thing. He said he didn’t want to know any details, and then called for his butler. I was about to storm out, but I stayed long enough to meet John May. The most artful scrounger you’ll ever come across. Sir D’Arcy also supplies us with large amounts of cash to buy food and pay those who shelter our people. In public, he can truthfully say he knows nothing of our operation.”

  “Just who are your people?” I said. “Escaped POWs?”

  “There are many of those, mostly British, but a fair number of Americans now, and a scattering of others from the Commonwealth countries. Even a few French colonial troops. This is why we had this little dinner party tonight, so I could brief you about a number of odd things you might stumble across.”

  “Such as?”

  “We’ve placed many escapees in Rome with families or in vacant buildings. But hundreds are within the Vatican. The Pope has a militia, the Palatine Guard, normally drawn from citizens of Rome. Their ranks are swelled by about three hundred Jews who escaped the roundup in October. They’re housed in the Swiss Guard barracks. We have Italian antifascists who escaped the Nazis and the Fascist secret police after Mussolini fell. Italian officer
s who fought the Germans before the king fled, and who now have a price on their heads. Jewish converts who thought they were safe, until the roundups began. Aristocrats and deserters, we have them all.”

  “How do you feed them?” Kaz asked. “The food situation seems desperate.”

  “We are dependent on money from many sources—the church as well as a number of wealthy supporters. We buy on the black market, where John works his magic. Tell me, do you have any idea when the Allies will reach Rome? Liberation is what we really need.”

  “No,” I said. “The line around Monte Cassino is still holding, and the troops at Anzio are boxed in. Months, I’d guess.”

  “Ah, that’s bad news. Well, nothing we can do about that. Now, how can I help you?”

  “Do you have any idea why Monsignor Corrigan was killed?” I asked.

  “If it had happened in Rome, outside these walls, I might suspect it had something to do with his other activities.”

  “What other activities?” I asked.

  “You don’t know? He was in contact with the OSS. His code name was Rudder.”

  “Jesus,” I said, taking this in.

  “Watch it, boy. That better have been a prayer to heaven. I don’t like to hear the Lord’s name spoken in vain.”

  “Sorry. I’ve read reports from Rudder, but had no idea who it was.”

  “It makes sense,” Kaz said. “It is a more logical explanation for why we were sent here.”

  “Do you know who his contacts were? Did he have a radio?” I asked.

  There was a discreet knock and two servants came in to clear away the dishes. One returned with coffee, but O’Flaherty waved him away and poured it himself.

  “I only know that there is a radio team somewhere in the city,” he said. The coffee cups were delicate bone china. The coffee was the real thing, hot and bracing. “He’d be gone for a day whenever he had a message to send. They could be anywhere, close by or outside Rome.”