by Glenn Dyer
Careful, Conor. You don’t want to throw too much mud at your friends in MI6. “Just that someone is not making our jobs any easier.”
Burton flinched. “Who’s the someone?”
“Not quite sure.” He cocked his head at Burton briefly. “Ah, I’m probably way off base on this. Thanks for the ride. Oh, wait a minute. Is that mess back there going to get tied to us?”
Burton turned around and slouched in his seat. “No. They’ll collect their own assets, as we would. That and a modest amount of money from both sides in the right hands should do it. That’s how the game is played in Lisbon.”
Thorn nodded and shut the door, thinking that Burton needed to be pulled from the game.
“Oh, by the way,” Burton said through the open window, “your old friend Heugle is expecting you. Third floor.”
“Thanks.”
Burton jammed the sedan’s gearshift forward, the transmission loudly protesting its displeasure as he drove off.
Thorn caught up to Emily and Sean, and they marched up to the front entrance of the building, which overlooked the Tagus River. The early-morning river traffic was sparse, and the surface of the water was the color of dark coffee and smooth like glass.
Inside the entrance, an elevator was nowhere in sight, so they took the stairs. As they neared the third-floor landing, Thorn spotted Bobby Heugle.
“Robert L. Heugle, you are a sight.”
Heugle smiled broadly and leaned on a brass railing, looking down at his guests. His dark hair looked glossy in the light, and there was a glimmer in his eyes that betrayed his spirited personality.
“Mr. Thorn, the Tangier Terror.” Heugle spread his arms wide as they joined him. “Welcome to Lisbon, also known as the White City, but better known these days as the Spy City. Hello, Miss Bright. And this must be Father Sullivan,” Heugle said, approaching them and shaking each of their hands with an exaggerated pump of his arm. “Welcome, all. Let’s head down to the office, so we can talk some spy stuff.”
On the way down the long, dimly lit hallway, Heugle was talking up Sean in his usual animated style. “So what do you have in that there bag, Father? Wouldn’t be anything important, would it?”
“Actually, Mr. Heugle, I don’t know exactly what’s in the pouch. They never tell the courier.”
“Well, let’s hope it’s not my eighth-grade report card from Saint Philomena’s. Trust me, the pope would not be happy.” Heugle led them through a door to a suite of three offices connected by a spacious waiting area that accommodated two long, leather couches and a desk that looked as if it had been kicking around since the days of the Moors. Thorn and Emily took opposite couches, and Sean collapsed onto the far end of the one Emily’s sat on.
“Bobby, we need to get to Rome. Fast. Has Wild Bill been in touch?”
Heugle sat on the corner of the desk. “Damn sure has. And he’s pulled a doozy out of his hat this time.”
“What do you mean?” Thorn asked.
“The colonel’s made arrangements for all of you to fly to Rome with Myron Taylor.” Heugle turned his right hand over and looked at his watch. “In about an hour from now.”
“Who’s Myron Taylor?”
“He’s FDR’s new representative to the pope. He flew in from the States last night. And here’s where it gets crazy.” Heugle paused long enough to arch an eyebrow and produce a shit-eating grin. “You and Emily get to dress up as a . . . priest and a nun. Do you believe that?”
“Bobby, we know. It was my idea. But what about our cover story?” Thorn asked, taking some of the wind out of Heugle’s sails that his announcement wasn’t as dramatic as he’d hoped it would be.
“Oh, OK. Well, your cover is that you’re meeting with Vatican higher-ups about servicing the religious needs of German and Italian prisoners in the UK, Canada, and the States,” Heugle looked wide-eyed at Thorn and Emily. “Pretty good, huh?”
Thorn, Emily, and Sean all exchanged glances, but Sean was the only one who laughed.
“Does Taylor know the real story?” Thorn asked.
“No. No way. The colonel had to go through Archbishop Spellman in New York, a friend of his. Spellman reached out to the State Department. A lot of string-pulling.” Heugle slid off the desk, pulled out a sheaf of papers from a drawer, and passed two letter-sized folios stamped with the papal insignia to Thorn and Emily. “Of course, your papers are all in order, thanks to some quick work by some local friends of ours. Forging documents is a growth industry in the Spy City, if you didn’t know.”
Thorn looked over the papers, which featured a headshot of Thorn in a priest’s collar. He looked up and saw Emily showing her identity papers to Sean, who looked impressed.
Heugle then ducked into a side office and came out with the garb of a nun and a priest displayed on hangers. “Here are your getups.”
Sean’s look changed to one of bemusement. “Wouldn’t your mom be proud, Conor?” he said.
“You better jump into these. I have to get you back to Portella. Oh, shit—sorry, Father.”
Sean shrugged. “I’ve heard worse, Mr. Heugle.”
“Emily, I forgot to tell you that someone from MI6 dropped this off for you last night.” Heugle pulled an envelope from his breast pocket and handed it to her. Emily slid her index finger under the flap and opened the note. The color drained from her face. She looked at Thorn and then reread the note, this time taking longer. Thorn expected her to report on the note’s contents, but nothing was forthcoming. She looked lost in her thoughts.
“Mr. Heugle, is there a lavatory I could use?” Sean asked.
“Sure there is, Father. Follow me. Are you going to be able to . . . handle things with that baggage chained to your wrist?”
“You’d be surprised, Mr. Heugle.” Sean and Heugle disappeared back into the hallway.
Emily rose from the couch and went to the desk, where she found a box of matches in an ashtray. She lit a corner of the note and let the flame dance upward for a moment. Black smoke drifted up to the ceiling, and then she dropped the paper in a wastebasket.
“Anything I should know?” Thorn asked.
“I have orders from C,” Emily said.
“What does he want you to do?”
“Eliminate Heinz.”
“Hmmm. No big deal. I was going to do that anyway, priest or no priest.”
“Right . . . right, no big deal, as you say,” Emily said. Thorn heard a proud stiff upper lip tone in her voice, like she wasn’t going to tell him that she was in deep pain.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
0730 Hours, Friday, October 16, 1942
German Embassy, Rome
Wilhelm Canaris slumped in a chair in front of Kappler’s desk. He held yet another message from Himmler excoriating him for his and the Abwehr’s blundering and ineffectiveness. But this time, Himmler went the added distance to accuse him of abandoning his duties, given his excessive travel. Canaris snorted at the accusation. But Himmler was right; Canaris did travel. It allowed him to avoid seeing exactly what Hitler and men like Himmler had done to his country—a country that Canaris was struggling to save.
The knock on the massive office door startled Canaris as it echoed off the marble floor of the office. He folded the message from Himmler and placed it in his breast pocket.
“Come in, Bishop Heinz. And please have a seat.” Canaris did not get up, nor did he turn to greet Heinz. He’d never liked the Austrian cleric. It wasn’t only his pinched face and shifty demeanor, but also Heinz’s perpetual sickness that he detested. Particularly, he found Heinz’s germ-spreading propensity for sneezing disgusting.
Canaris remained seated and continued to gaze out the massive office window behind his desk. The sky was becoming brighter. The sycamore trees outside the window hosted a noisy flock of jackdaws. It appeared to Canaris that the flock of cackling blackbirds were looking directly at him.
Heinz angled the chair to face Canaris, sat, and promptly sneezed. Canaris leaned away from the bi
shop and muttered under his breath. He got up and dropped into his chair behind the desk, glad to put distance between him and the germ farm of a priest. Canaris was also pleased to put his back to the mocking jackdaws. The bishop finished wiping his nose and tucked a lace cloth up the left sleeve of the dark-purple cape he wore.
“Admiral Canaris, it is a great and unexpected honor to see you again.”
Canaris smiled weakly, showing no joy. “Is it, Bishop? Some days, given the tasks that are asked of me, I am not so sure that I would want to meet someone like me.”
“Admiral, if you do not mind me saying, that is an odd thing to say about yourself, an Iron Cross recipient no less, who has served his country well for so many years.”
“My country? There are days when I don’t recognize my country.”
“Ah, a beleaguered country must do what it has to do to survive. Don’t you agree?”
“A view I share, but a view that extends to individuals. Its citizens must also do what is necessary and expedient for the country’s survival.”
“Yes, Admiral. No disagreement there,” Heinz said, his elbows resting on the armrests and his hands joined together as if in prayer.
“So, I am told that Major Kappler is meeting Henry Longworth. Is that accurate?” Canaris asked.
Heinz pulled a lace handkerchief from his sleeve. “That is correct. He should be arriving at the embassy soon. I pray that the intelligence he carries with him is as valuable as he says it is.” He forcefully blew his nose, the toot echoing as loudly as his earlier knock.
Canaris pushed his chair away from the desk, stood, and walked to the window, his hands folded behind his back. He realized that if the intelligence wasn’t top grade, it would become enormously difficult to fend off the attacks from Himmler.
“Yes, Bishop. You continue to pray. While Longworth’s escape from England and his desire to live out his life in the Vatican certainly places a high value on the intelligence he brings, I, on the other hand, will continue to be highly doubtful, which leads me to the concerns I wish to discuss.”
“Concerns? Such as?” Heinz asked, dropping his hands into his lap.
“I have received a report that Soviet NKVD agents interfered with British agents that were at Lisbon’s airport to apprehend Longworth.” Canaris turned to Heinz. “Why would that be, Bishop?”
Heinz didn’t hold Canaris’s gaze and instead dropped his head. “That is puzzling, Admiral. I have no explanation.”
Canaris continued to stare at Heinz. “I do not put it past the British to orchestrate an elaborate show to convince us that Longworth, indeed, possesses valuable intelligence, only to have that intelligence lead us into wrongly deploying the Wehrmacht and Luftwaffe. But the involvement of the NKVD confuses me greatly.”
Canaris’s voice trailed off as he lowered his eyes to the floor. For several moments, he studied the veins in the marble under his black cap-toe shoes; the path they traveled appeared to lead directly to his feet. “I can’t help but feel that trusting Longworth would be a mistake,” he said. He fixed his eyes back on Heinz and took two steps to the desk, closing the distance between him and the apprehensive bishop. “This may not end well for him,” Canaris said, tapping the desktop with his finger on each word.
Heinz’s eyes dropped to the tapping finger and then back to Canaris’s face. “He does risk much. I find it challenging to fully understand the motives of risk-takers.”
“Well, Bishop, I do have a more thorough understanding of his motives. And they are not—how shall I say?—pure. He’s a desperate man, and desperate men are dangerous men.”
“I see,” Heinz said, nodding.
Canaris pondered if Longworth ever got around to confessing to Heinz any of his carnal sins. “One other matter. My agents in Lisbon have informed me that MI6 and the American OSS are following Longworth’s trail. While this too could be part of their ruse, my question is, how will they get into the Vatican—or Rome, for that matter—undetected?”
Heinz’s eyes widened. “Well, under normal wartime circumstances, the same way that Jewish refugees and British and American airmen make it out of Rome and back to England.”
“And that is by what means?”
“They seek out the assistance of the British ambassador to the Holy See, D’Arcy Osborne.”
“Are these normal circumstances?”
Heinz reached for his handkerchief that sat in his lap. “No, Admiral. Mr. Osborne has been in England for several weeks. Absent his help, it escapes me how they could manage travel into and out of the Vatican.”
Canaris nodded thoughtfully, and Heinz sneezed, overwhelming his small handkerchief and shooting spittle across to the seat vacated earlier by Canaris. The sight made Canaris shudder.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
0745 Hours, Friday, October 16, 1942
On Board Lockheed Model 10 to Rome
Thorn and Emily sat in the last row of the ten-seat Lockheed Model 10 Electra as they sought to put as much distance as possible between them and Myron Taylor, who was seated in the first row of the aircraft. The least amount of interaction was called for until they were more comfortable in their roles as priest and nun. Sean walked down the middle aisle, his large frame hunched over, and took the seat in front of Emily.
“So, Sean, how did we do? Convincing enough?” Thorn asked.
Sean twisted in his seat and looked over his shoulder. “It appears so. But he’s not too happy. My impression is that Mr. Taylor is a man who doesn’t appreciate last-minute changes.”
“Hmph, he wouldn’t make it in this business.”
“Well, I am sure I wouldn’t make it either,” Sean said as he reached into his black suit coat and pulled an envelope from his breast pocket. “Bu, to increase the chances that you make it in my business, I want you both to read and memorize this.” From the envelope, Sean pulled two note cards covered with a compact scrawl on both sides and handed them to Thorn and Emily.
“What’s this?” Emily asked, giving hers a cursory glance.
“In case we get separated inside the Vatican, you must at least know how to tell a bishop from a cardinal, from a priest, as well as how to address them. So while we were at your friend Heugle’s office, I finished my notes regarding descriptions of their attire and how to refer to them.”
Thorn looked over the note card. At the top of the list was a vivid description of the pope’s day-to-day attire. “There’s a chance we could run into the pope? Really?”
“No. But thoroughness is a virtue.”
“Sean, this is very helpful, thank you,” Emily said.
“You’re welcome. But, Emily, I suggest that you don’t make eye contact. You are a quiet, shy sister doing God’s work. You don’t want to spook a cardinal with those big, blue eyes.”
“Good thinking,” Thorn said.
Emily blushed and shook her head, followed by a slight smile. Thorn returned it.
Sean nodded slowly. “And one more thing—there’s not enough time to familiarize you with the layout of Vatican City or even Saint Peter’s, so if someone stops you, just tell them you have just arrived from overseas, and you are too overwhelmed to remember anything about where to go and how to get there.”
“So, play the dumb-tourist card,” Thorn said.
“Yes, that should work,” Sean said as he turned in his seat to face forward and tilted his head back, the diplomatic pouch wedged tightly between his thigh and the armrest. The chain that secured the pouch to Sean’s wrist was as thick and, like the lock that secured the pouch’s front flap, the metal cuffs that were attached to the pouch and Sean’s wrist were robust. Whatever was inside was secure. Safe and secure. Very secure.
Thorn leaned across the narrow aisle and grabbed the armrest of Emily’s seat. The habit she wore hid her auburn hair, which would force an onlooker to focus on her striking facial features—he had to admit that his attraction to her was knocked off balance; visions of every Dominican nun he ever tormented in grade schoo
l flooded his mind.
“I think I’ve figured out some of what Longworth’s up to,” he said in a somewhat normal volume, banking on the plane’s twin engines to drown him out for someone sitting several rows away as Taylor was. “Not all of it, but some.”
“Wouldn’t be the whereabouts of the document, would it?” Emily asked, an anxious look on her face.
“Yeah, that part,” he answered. He leaned into the aisle and looked up toward the front of the cabin. He saw the back of Taylor’s head; his graying hair was thinning, and a cloud of smoke haloed it. “So the search of him and his luggage produces nothing, no diary page. Yet he’s on his way to Rome anyway. Why go to Rome and meet with his buddy Heinz without it? The Abwehr wouldn’t let him rest comfortably in the Vatican without getting something in return, right?”
“Right. But even without the diary page, he has much to offer, being a cabinet member,” Emily said.
“Yeah, but for Longworth, it’s all about stopping Torch. And the diary page with Torch directives in the hands of the Abwehr accomplishes that. So I’m back to where the document is. That’s what I couldn’t figure out, but the answer was right in front of me.”
“What do you mean?”
He pointed to the diplomatic pouch chained to Sean’s wrist.
“The diplomatic pouch?” Emily asked.
Thorn nodded. “Longworth didn’t want to risk being searched for the document. It was too dangerous. So rather than be caught with it, he sent it to the Vatican in their own diplomatic pouch, the same way he has been communicating with Heinz.”
“He sent it to Heinz?” Emily asked.
“I don’t think so. No, I’m sure he wants to hand it off personally. He sent it to someone else. Someone he trusted to hold it for him. Maybe they don’t even know what they’re holding for him.”
“He knows a lot of people inside the Vatican, including the pope,” Sean said, leaning into the aisle.
“Well, I think we can rule out the pope,” Thorn said. “Longworth’s—” he stopped. He heard the portside engine of the Electra misfire for several seconds. He stretched to look out the window; he needed to see that the engine was not on fire or leaking oil or aviation fuel. When the firing of the engine returned to normal, Thorn leaned back into his seat, staring straight ahead. He began nervously opening and closing the metal lid to the ashtray embedded in the armrest.
