Death's Door

by James R Benn

  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 naïve 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.

  “Koch,” Remke said, pointing him out to his men. But he was already gone, vanishing into the panicked crowd. “Sind Sie schlecht verletzt?” he said, turning his attention to Dieter, who held a hand over his right arm, blood dripping between his fingers.

  “Nicht schlecht,” Dieter said. I think he was saying he was all right, but his face was white and he was losing blood. “I saw Becher, but his men knocked me over when they burst out of the church.”

  “It seems I owe you my freedom, if not my life,” Remke said to me, supporting Dieter. “But know this; someone betrayed you and it was not my people. Only three of us knew of the change to this location. Someone you told must have informed Koch.”

  “Bishop Zlatko?” Dieter suggested.

  “No, he hasn’t been seen at the Vatican,” I said. “Are you certain it couldn’t have been someone at your end?”

  Sirens began to echo in the distance, and the more curious of the onlookers were gathering to stare at the blood-drenched corpses in monks’ robes.

  “I stake my life on it,” Remke said. “And now we must leave before too many questions are asked.”

  “What about—?”

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “Your actions have relieved me of the need to detain anyone. Consider all debts paid.”

  He snapped his fingers, and two sedans left the curb and stopped in front of us. The driver’s door opened and Bernard stepped out, pistol at the ready. Remke gave a curt nod, and he held the door for me. Diana sat up front, Abe and Rino in the back, their eyes wide, confusion etched in their faces.

  “Back to being enemies, then?” I said, my hand on the door. I should have hated Remke. If things hadn’t worked out, he would have left Diana to rot in prison, I was certain of it. But in that moment I hated myself more, because I understood. Remke did exactly what had needed to be done. He was gambling with the lives of thousands, and one life more or less wasn’t going to stop him. I should have hated him, but all I felt was awe at his focused intent, and pity for what it must have done to his soul.

  “Yes. Until we set things right in Berlin,” Remke said.

  “Now I must insist on the return of my uniform,” Dieter said, trying for nonchalance but coming up short as he wavered unsteadily, blood seeping through his fingers.

  “And the handmade boots,” I said. “If you can get to the Vatican tomorrow, head for the Arch of the Bells at noon.”

  “Until then,” Dieter said, as Bernard helped him into the other vehicle. I extended my hand to Remke. He hesitated, then shook it.

  “Good luck,” I said, then jumped into the car and floored it, putting as much distance between us and the damned Spanish Steps as I could.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  “WHAT’S HAPPENING?” DIANA demanded, her hand pulling my sleeve. “What was the shooting about?”

  “We were betrayed. Those were Koch’s men disguised as monks. They had set a trap,” I said, heading away from the church. “Rino, where’s the nearest bridge?”

  “Take this right, the Via del Corso,” he said. We passed ambulances heading in the other direction, and a squad of Germans double-timing it on foot. In the rearview mirror I saw the Germans stop traffic and seal off the road. Diana noticed it too.

  “They’ll set up identity checks at the bridges,” she said. “It will be a while before they realize it wasn’t a partisan attack.”

  “So step on it,” Abe said from the backseat. “I ain’t plannin’ on a stretch in a POW camp. Or worse. We’re in civvies, for Chrissakes.”

  I looked at Diana. She nodded, and gripped the seat with both hands. “Okay,” I said. I leaned on the horn and watched pedestrians and a few bicyclists scatter. I dug into my pocket and gave Diana the Beretta. “Three or four rounds, that’s it.”

  “This left!” Rino shouted, and I took it hard, tires squealing. Diana rolled down her window and held on, the Beretta at the ready. A block ahead of us, the Ponte Cavour spanned the Tiber River. A lone German military policeman stood at the intersection, a red-and-white sign in his hand. Halt. Behind him, on the bridge, we could see other Germans moving a barbed-wire barricade on a wood frame into place. They were Kettenhunde, or “chain dogs,” as the common German soldier called them, for the metal gorgets they wore around their necks. They were cops, of a sort, but hardly brothers in blue.

  “Go!” Diana said, and leaned out the window, firing a shot at the German. I swear she hit the sign, which spun out of his hand as he dove out of the way of the speeding car. Soldiers were stopping traffic on the road that ran along the Tiber, allowing us to pass right through the intersection. Nice of them.

  The road dipped as it met the bridge, and the car shuddered with the impact as it lurched forward at high speed. It swerved, and I fought to keep control as we sped toward the line of Germans. If we crashed we were dead, one way or the other. One officer drew his pistol and held up his hand. Diana fired two, three more times, and the soldiers dropped the barricade and threw themselves on the pavement, rolling to the side of the bridge. We flew through the opening, sending shattered wood flying as the car struck the ends of the frames. Barbed wire stuck to the front bumper and headlights, and one of the barricades trailed u
s, still hanging by a strand, spinning out of control, cartwheeling on the roadway and insuring no one tried to be a hero.

  All that was left was one officer, standing at the far end of the bridge. No barricade, no backup, just one Kraut in his peaked cap, wearing the chain dog gorget. And holding a submachine gun.

  “Get down!” I screamed, and pressed the accelerator hard, hoping that a few thousand pounds of metal at high speed might give him something to think about.

  It didn’t. He raised the MP-40 and fired a burst at the windshield. It hit high, probably from the recoil, shredding the roof. I was closer now. Rino was swearing or praying, I couldn’t tell. Bullets stitched the hood, leaving jagged holes that spewed steam from the radiator. The German didn’t move; he kept firing, the spent shell casings arcing brightly in the sunlight. The last few yards seemed to take forever, as if I could count the casings as they flew from his weapon and bounced on the pavement. Abe cursed, Diana screamed, and I prayed the bumper could take it.

  A heavy thud. His body slammed against the windshield, cracking the already pockmarked glass. His face, the dullness of death already upon it, was pressed against the glass for a second before his body slid off the hood, his arm trailing in a dead-handed farewell. Dumb bastard. He’d be alive if he had simply stepped aside and let us go.

  Smoke poured from under the hood as the windshield finally gave in and fell like ice off the eaves right into our laps. I glanced at Diana, who looked wild-eyed but unhurt, her mouth still open in the scream I had heard before impact. There was a helluva racket behind us, part of the barbed-wire barricade still along for the ride. I took a quick turn, and the wire finally snapped, leaving the barricade blocking the street behind us.

  “You ain’t a half-bad getaway man,” Abe said, twisting around in his seat to check our six. “Now let’s ditch the car before she lights up.”

  “Good idea,” I said. We were a bit conspicuous. I pulled into a piazza behind the Palace of Justice, which seemed like the perfect spot to leave a shot-up sedan. Diana tossed the empty Beretta on the seat and we walked in the direction of the Castel Sant’Angelo, trying to look casual as we turned a corner, putting the smoldering car behind us. My heart was pounding and sweat dripped down my temples as a muted whump signaled the combination of leaking gasoline and creeping flames.

  “Follow me,” Rino said. “I know the back ways.” He and Abe went ahead a few paces and disappeared into a palazzo. We followed through the large oak doors, pulling them shut behind us. Rino led us through the building and onto the next street. We’d walk a block, then duck into another building, wait until the coast was clear, and repeat the process.

  “We are close,” Rino said as we huddled in a passageway. “This is the Via di Porta Angelica. See, the Gate of Sant’Anna, there.” He pointed down the street. “I am friends with many of the Swiss Guard, we will have no difficulty.”

  “All we need is a distraction to get past the German sentries,” Diana said. German paratroopers, in their distinctive helmets and smocks, strolled along the white line, rifles slung idly over their shoulders.

  “It looks quiet,” Abe said. “Maybe they ain’t sounded the alarm on this side of the river yet.”

  We pulled back, out of sight of the street.

  “Rino, do you have your identity papers?”

  “No, sono spiacente, they took everything. I know some of the Germans by sight; they are used to seeing me and may let me pass. But that would do you no good, my friends.”

  We withdrew into the shadows, waiting for an edge to get us the last fifty yards to the safety of neutral ground.

  “Billy,” Diana whispered as we leaned against the wall. “You did it. You got us out.” She clasped her hands over mine and drew them close. I leaned into her and we kissed. It was hungry, a kiss born of life and death and the precious seconds in between. We could have been in front of a firing squad or in bed alone; it wouldn’t have made one bit of difference. Our cheeks brushed and I felt warm tears as we leaned against a cold stone wall. I should have told her right then, but I couldn’t find the words to speak the truth. How could I tell her I’d been about to leave her behind? She buried her face against my shoulder, and we held onto each other, not quite believing we were together, afraid we might not make the last few yards.

  “Was it hard to get Montini to write the letter?” she finally said.

  I was happy to talk about that instead of my near abandonment. “Yes. It wasn’t everything Remke wanted, but I guess it was enough. Montini mentioned the Auschwitz Protocol specifically, but the reference to the coup was vague.”

  “Well, you must have convinced Remke. He’d been apologetic to us, but said he intended to keep his word if you didn’t come through. He was going to take me to an Abwehr prison in Germany. I’ve had enough of jails. Enough for a lifetime, thank you very much.”

  “Well, we’re not home free yet. If Koch figures we’re headed this way and moves fast, he could seal off the Vatican.”

  Several vehicles passed by and we pressed ourselves more tightly against the wall. Rino stuck his nose around the corner and came back shaking his head. “Perhaps we should try walking into Saint Peter’s Square,” he said. “They may not be checking papers.”

  “If they aren’t now, they could start any minute,” I said. “We don’t know if Koch was after Remke or me. Or you.”

  “What’s so special about you anyways?” Abe asked.

  “I’m the guy who’s going to finger the killer, and I think he knows it,” I said. “Other than that, I’m just your average Joe.”

  “So this bastard drops a nickel on you? Gets Koch to do his dirty work?”

  “Either that, or Koch had it in for Remke. Probably Koch was happy to pitch a doubleheader. Regardless, we’re stuck here until we can figure out how to get by those sentries.”

  “Doubleheader?” Rino asked.

  “Baseball, pal,” Abe said. “Remember I was telling you about the Brooklyn Dodgers?”

  “Dem Bums,” Rino said, delivering the Brooklyn accent perfectly.

  “Go Roma,” Abe said in return. “Italian football. Roma won the scudetto back in ’42. We didn’t have much else to talk about the last coupla days.”

  We settled into the shadows, listening to the sounds of the street, wondering about our chances. Maybe we could simply walk in. Maybe we’d be nabbed and end up guests at Pensione Jaccarino.

  “Listen,” Abe said.

  “What?” Diana said, tilting her head to catch the sound.

  Abe closed his eyes and lifted one finger, signaling us to wait. “B-24s,” he said. “Not as pretty a sound as B-17s, but they’re coming.”

  I caught the heavy drone a second later. A noise like no other, four-engine bombers headed in our direction. Once you’ve heard it, you don’t soon forget it.

  “Come on,” I said, edging closer to the street. “How soon will they be overhead, Abe?”

  “Any minute,” he said. “They’re a little to the south.” He edged around the corner and checked the street and the sky. “The Krauts are all looking up.”

  We walked out into the street. Everyone was looking up, Germans, Swiss Guard, nuns, priests, passersby. The droning grew louder as we watched the planes passing far above the city rooftops—scores, maybe hundreds of them—flying across Rome, heading toward some target to the west. A few puffs of antiaircraft fire added to the show, but the bombers flew on unscathed. Abe nodded and we stepped out into the street, our heads craned skyward like everyone else, hands shielding eyes from the sun. We walked slowly, moving through the crowd like ghosts, unseen. Every soul around us was united in curiosity and relief that such a devastating force was going elsewhere, passing over with their bomb bay doors closed, the gods of war having decreed one more day of life and sunshine.

  Such was the joy that no one noticed us as we stepped over the line, into the safety of the Holy See.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  “COME, QUICKLY, YOU must not be seen,
” O’Flaherty said, beckoning us with an impatient wave of the hand, as if we were dawdling schoolchildren. Rino had asked one of the Swiss Guard to telephone the monsignor, who’d left a message for us to stay put. He arrived in two minutes, out of breath and with a worried look on his face. We were well within the Vatican walls, so I didn’t understand whom we were hiding from. “Here, inside.”

  He held open the door of the Church of San Pellegrino and ushered us into a small chapel not far from the Swiss Guard barracks. Set between two larger buildings, it looked like an afterthought of the Vatican bureaucracy.

  “You are all in one piece,” he said. “Thank the Lord. We heard reports of gunfire; you’re none of you hurt, are you?”

  “No, Monsignor,” Diana said, laying her hand on his arm. “It was close, but we got away. Koch was waiting for us. Or for Colonel Remke.”

  “The only good thing about Koch is that he provides proof of the very devil in our midst. And you, my dear, I’d almost not recognize you. Quite a change, quite a change,” O’Flaherty said, letting a smile creep over the concern on his face. I hadn’t had the time to notice, but Diana was nicely turned out. She wore a dark-blue dress and a fitted jacket under a stylish tan raincoat. She looked like she’d been shopping, not kept under house arrest.

  “What’s the problem, Monsignor?” I asked, saving my questions about Roman fashions for later. “We’re safe now, aren’t we?”

  “For the moment, yes. I take it you have not heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “The Americans have bombed Monte Cassino. This morning, over two hundred bombers attacked the abbey. It is completely destroyed and many civilian refugees have been killed. Trouble is brewing over this, and the Germans are making the most of it.”