The Torch Betrayal

by Glenn Dyer

  Both Thorn and Emily fiddled with their disguises; Thorn tugged at the stiff, white collar that was too tight, and Emily was constantly adjusting her habit. Thorn worried that they would not be able to limit his and Emily’s interactions with Vatican officials. A nosy official anxious to preserve the Vatican’s neutrality would not hesitate to expose them as interlopers.

  Thorn and Emily sat in the middle seat, facing Sean and Taylor, who sat in the back. Only four feet separated the seats, making private conversation impossible. Thorn detected the smell of incense, and it brought to mind the queasiness he had always experienced when he served as an altar boy during funeral masses. Sean answered questions from the weary-looking Taylor, who expressed some nervousness over meeting the pope later that day. Thorn and Emily talked in low tones about their contrived mission regarding prisoners of war.

  Thirty minutes into the trip, Thorn pulled back the curtain on his right and could see that they had pulled into a large square, where the limousine parted a sea of pigeons as it sped forward.

  “Father, where are we?” Thorn asked.

  Sean pulled back the curtain. “Ahh, here we are. Saint Peter’s Square. We’ll be at Santa Marta in a matter of minutes.”

  “Well then, this might be the appropriate time to wish you, Father Thorn and Sister Bright, much luck with your assignment.” Myron Taylor slid forward in his seat and reached out for a handshake. “Be sure to give my best to Archbishop Spellman when you report back to him.”

  “We will, Mr. Taylor. And good luck to you with your discussions with the Holy Father. May they be fruitful,” Thorn said, hoping that his forced sincerity wasn’t too over the top.

  “I am sure they will.”

  Their Italian police escort had disengaged as the limousine entered Saint Peter’s Square and approached the Petriano entrance gate. The driver pulled up to the gatehouse and produced a pass, after which the guard entered the information into a logbook and let the car pass. The limousine drove past the German College and a moment later pulled up to the entrance of a six-story building, its exterior a warm, light-yellow stucco. The driver was the first to exit the Cadillac, and he promptly opened the passenger door closest to the entrance. Another attendant came from inside the building and opened the trunk to retrieve Taylor’s bags. They stood outside the entrance in a cool, late-morning breeze that played havoc with Emily’s habit. An anxious-looking Taylor stood close by, hat in hand.

  “Well, good-bye to you, Father Sullivan. Thank you for regaling me with tales of life in the Vatican. They were very enlightening as well as entertaining.”

  “My pleasure, Mr. Taylor.” A moment later, Thorn, Emily, and Sean were left standing in front of the entrance to Santa Marta with no one else in view.

  “Get back in. We’ve got to get to Heinz’s office,” Thorn said as he opened the driver’s door and slipped behind the wheel. Emily climbed into the backseat.

  “But, Conor, I have to get the pouch to the secretary of state’s office now. It can’t wait,” Sean pleaded.

  “It has to. We don’t have the time. Now get in, Sean.”

  “Bloody hell, Conor.” Sean ducked through the open back door and slammed it shut as Thorn put the limousine in gear and executed a hasty U-turn that flung Emily into Sean’s lap, knocking her habit’s veil off. As they pulled away, Thorn noticed the limousine driver exit the building and begin to give chase, his fist extended high into the air in protest.

  #

  Thorn parked the Cadillac in front of the Church of Santa Maria dell’Anima; its width virtually blocked the narrow street that ran past the building. Sean led Thorn and Emily into the church and down the center aisle, to a door to the right of the altar that ran to a back staircase. The three sets of feet clambering up the stairwell produced a ruckus that drew the attention of a nun who stood outside a door in the hallway. As Thorn neared her, he noticed a black smudge on the nun’s left cheek. Sean introduced himself in Italian and began to converse with the suspicious nun, who didn’t take her eyes off Emily and her slightly askew habit. When they finished, the nun opened the door and entered an office, but not without shooting a disapproving glance at Emily.

  “It seems that Bishop Heinz is not here. And he is not alone,” Sean reported.

  “Who is with him?” Thorn asked.

  “A Major Kappler and two other men that Heinz’s assistant did not know.”

  “Did she describe them?” asked Emily.

  “No. Let me press her for that.” Sean entered the office. Thorn looked at his watch and began pacing. Emily leaned against the wall and fumbled with her headpiece, stuffing strands of hair back underneath. Sean exited the office and shut the door behind him.

  “Well, one description fits Longworth. The other she described as a short man, gray-white hair, bushy eyebrows, and frail looking.” Thorn looked at Emily.

  “Bloody hell,” Emily said.

  “What?”

  “Canaris . . . Wilhelm Canaris.”

  “Holy shit,” Thorn whispered. “That’s great—a chance to bag Longworth, Heinz, and Canaris.”

  Emily’s creased brow and pursed lips showed that she didn’t share Thorn’s glee.

  Come on, Emily. Talk about contributing to the war effort. “Where were they headed, Sean?”

  “She had no idea.”

  Thorn grabbed Sean’s upper arm and pulled him toward him. “What’s your best guess? Where would he go?” Thorn pressed.

  “Well . . . first guess—the German College. He’s in charge of the place. That’s where I would bring a couple of Germans.”

  Emily was quiet. The creases in her forehead deepened.

  “All right, that’s the next stop.” They all turned around and went straight back to the street and their limousine. As they were about to exit the church, Thorn saw three security guards walking around the limousine. One peered into the windshield; another pointed to the fender flags and let loose with a rapid stream of words.

  “Don’t say anything. I’ll handle this,” Sean said. Thorn and Emily followed him into the street. Thorn gave the guards a timid bow of the head and slipped in behind the wheel. Emily got in beside him, her headdress hitting the top of the doorframe. Sean engaged the older, more senior guard in a spirited conversation, while the other two continued to examine the Cadillac closely, chatting excitedly among themselves. Thorn saw the senior guard nod, throw his hands skyward, and shrug. Sean shook the guard’s hand and rushed to join Thorn and Emily.

  “Let’s go. Before their curiosity gets the best of them,” Sean said, slamming the back door.

  Thorn fired up the sixteen-cylinder engine and engaged the transmission. “What did you tell them, Sean?”

  “That we were sent to pick up Bishop Heinz for a meeting with the Holy Father, but the bishop was not feeling himself today.”

  Thorn squinted into the rearview mirror. “How quickly lies come to the lips of an Irishman.”

  “If that is your way of thanking me, you’re welcome.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  1030 Hours, Friday, October 16, 1942

  Office of D’Arcy Osborne, The Vatican, Rome

  Excited at the notion of getting his hands on the directives for Operation Torch again, Longworth took the steps two at a time as he led Canaris, Kappler, and Heinz up the staircase to the fifth floor. All the rooms on the top floor of the Santa Marta annex featured fifteen-foot ceilings. The ceiling height coupled with the stone floors made sounds carry.

  Kappler ordered him to stop at each landing, to allow Canaris and Heinz to catch their breath. Once on the fifth floor, Longworth traveled down the hallway at a brisk pace to D’Arcy Osborne’s office. He did not wait for Canaris or Heinz to catch up but instead entered the spacious office and left the door open. When Longworth entered, with Kappler behind him, he noticed one of Osborne’s assistants seated on a plain couch with another woman, a tray with a pot of coffee on the low table in front of them.

  “Sophia, good morning to yo
u,” Longworth said.

  The assistant, given the absence of her superior, seemed startled to see anyone, much less Longworth. She jumped from the couch with a start and spilled some coffee on the oriental rug that covered the marble floor.

  “Mr. Longworth, I . . . I am surprised to see you,” the assistant said as she folded her hands and brought them to her chest. Her English, with not a trace of an Italian accent, was better than Longworth remembered it. “I’m so sorry to say that Mr. Osborne is not here. He is—”

  “I know, Sophia. He is in London, being knighted by the king.”

  Sophia placed her cup on the tray and spoke quickly in Italian to her friend, who then cleared away the tray and disappeared into an adjacent room. Sophia, in a light-blue dress that stretched down to the top of her ankles, strode toward Longworth, now wringing her hands as Canaris and Bishop Heinz walked through the door.

  “Yes, isn’t that marvelous? So deserving, don’t you think? Oh, Bishop Heinz, we have not seen you in some time. I hope you are well?”

  “I am, my dear. Thank you,” Heinz said, forcing out the words between short breaths. Canaris strode toward the windows, separating himself from Longworth and the others by several feet, and turned back toward the group as if he were an audience member watching a passion play.

  “Sophia, I come on official business, a part of which requires me to claim a letter that has been sent to me in care of Mr. Osborne’s office. It should have arrived within the last two days. Have you seen it?” Longworth asked. Despite the heat-starved room, Longworth could feel perspiration run down his sideburns.

  Sophia’s face broke out in a warm smile, and the tension in her shoulders disappeared as if the Holy Ghost had touched her with a bolt of enlightenment. “Oh, yes. I was so surprised to have received it. I was going to have it sent back to Westminster Cathedral in the next diplomatic pouch. Give me a moment.”

  Sophia turned and went behind a small desk in the corner of the room and entered a closet through a door that was cut into the wall paneling. She reappeared with a letter in her hand. She handed it to Longworth, who took it and saw that he had done nothing to disguise his handwriting on the front of the envelope. Sophia gave no indication that she realized the envelope was addressed to Longworth in his own hand, but he glanced at an apprehensive-looking Canaris, who carefully signaled Longworth with his hand to get on with it.

  “Given that Mr. Osborne is in London, may I use his office to review the letter’s contents?”

  “Of course, Mr. Longworth. May I get you and your guests some coffee?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. We won’t be long.”

  #

  Longworth, with Kappler, Canaris, and Heinz in tow, entered Osborne’s office. The room was also spacious with a simple desk, two armchairs, and two couches. Portraits of Pope Pius XII and King George VI hung side by side behind the desk. Like the outer office, the room was cold, per the wishes of the pope, who had banned any heating of Vatican City buildings during the war.

  Longworth stood beside the desk and opened the envelope; Kappler stood behind him, looking over his shoulder. Canaris took a seat in one of the armchairs, as did Heinz. Longworth pulled a thin paper from the envelope, looked it over briefly, nodded, and then walked it over to Canaris. He stood, looming over the admiral, waving the paper in his right hand.

  “This is the communication between the Combined Chiefs and General Eisenhower, signed by Chief of Staff of the US Army General George Marshall. It clearly lays out the directives of the Allies’ next operation—Operation Torch, the invasion of French North Africa.” Longworth handed the page to Canaris.

  Canaris held out his hand. “Operation Torch . . . how clever. And how did you come into possession of this . . . communication?”

  “It is a story too long to tell. Suffice to say that it turned up missing during the microfilming process and made its way to me through people who do not want to see this operation take place.”

  Kappler moved closer to Longworth and Canaris, his hands buried deep into the pockets of his leather long coat. “What people?” he asked.

  “People with ties to the Soviet Union.”

  Kappler’s mouth dropped open. He looked at Canaris, whose expression did not change, then back to Longworth. “Absolutely ridiculous. That makes no sense. None whatsoever. You expect—”

  “Major!” Canaris snapped as he held up his hand to silence Kappler. Canaris began to read the document. He held the paper close to the tip of his nose and moved his head back and forth as he reviewed the document. When he was done, he lowered the paper and leaned forward in the chair, as if to stand, but instead remained perched on the edge of the seat. “It seems authentic. But now you tell me that the Russians were involved in . . . stealing this intelligence. That explains why they intruded in Lisbon. But there’s the issue of trust. I do not know how wise it would be to trust you and your fellow Englishmen, not to mention the Russians, whom we do not trust at all.” Canaris folded the paper, which crinkled like cellophane. “I have no choice but to doubt the veracity of this document. It is the safest conclusion to come to.”

  Longworth’s face flushed, and his breathing quickened. “You incompetent fool . . . such a disappointment.”

  Kappler pulled his gun from his pocket and slammed the butt against the back of Longworth’s head, which sent him plummeting to the floor. Canaris stood and looked down at Longworth, who struggled to get back up. “Listen to me,” Longworth croaked. “You must get this document into the hands of someone who fully understands military matters. Get it to Keitel. Let him and Hitler decide.”

  Canaris smiled. “Mr. Longworth, it’s a shame. You have come a long way only to find out that you, and we, are being played as fools by the Russians,” Canaris said calmly.

  “No. You are wrong,” Longworth protested as he raised himself off the floor. “I too am distrustful of the communists. But even they realize that this operation will do little to draw enough divisions and squadrons from the Eastern Front to make any difference in their fight against Germany. Don’t you see? They want the Americans and British to invade France. If this operation is betrayed to the Germans, the Allies will be forced to cancel it. And that will give Hitler more time to focus on destroying Stalin without worrying about a second front to his rear.”

  Longworth was lightheaded from the blow to his head and grabbed the edge of the desk for support. “They know I have the document. They know, by now, that I am in Rome. But you must finish what I have started. You must get this directive into Keitel’s hands.”

  Canaris stared at Longworth, whose contempt for Canaris rose up like acidic bile from deep in his stomach. The thought that all he had to do was get the document into a high-ranking Nazi official’s hands had rattled around his head ever since it had fallen into his lap. He realized now that would not be enough.

  Canaris handed the page to Kappler. He motioned to Kappler that it was time to leave as he put on his hat.

  “Where are you taking me?” Longworth asked.

  Canaris took his time securing his hat. “To the German Embassy, to have a deeper conversation—one without hysterics, hopefully.” Canaris turned toward the office door.

  “I’m not leaving the Vatican. That was what I asked for—safety in exchange for this intelligence.”

  Canaris waited several beats. “Safety in wartime is a very valuable commodity. Its supply is finite. Your . . . intelligence . . . does not come close to matching the value of the safety that you request.” He turned and left the office.

  Longworth looked at Heinz, who tightened his cape and bolted from the office. “Heinz! You scum!” Longworth shouted

  “Don’t worry, Longworth,” Kappler said as he poked the nose of his pistol into his back. “I am sure the Abwehr can keep you safe from your countrymen—your betrayed countrymen.”

  He had done all he could, and there was nowhere else to turn. Long ago, his life had taken a turn for the worse inside the Vatican, and
it seemed it had again.

  They walked out of Osborne’s office, and Longworth, walking unsteadily, saw Sophia study him as he clutched the back of his head, blood clearly visible seeping through his fingers.

  “Mr. Longworth, are you injured?”

  Longworth turned as he approached the hallway door and looked back at Sophia. Her image moved in and out of focus. He left without uttering a word.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  1130 Hours, Friday, October 16, 1942

  Inside the Papal Limousine, Rome

  For Thorn, every sound and vibration was amplified as if he were back on the flight from Tangier to Lisbon, except now he was in control. Sort of. He eased up on the accelerator as they approached the Petriano entrance gate.

  “Shit, are you ready for this, Sean?” Thorn pounded the steering wheel. “Damn it, we should have discussed how we were going to talk our way back into Vatican City with the pope’s car.”

  “I think I can handle this,” Sean said, peering out the windshield. “I know this guard. He’s a sergeant. Pull up to the gate slowly.”

  As Thorn pulled up, Sean rolled down the rear left window and attracted the guard’s attention before the man could engage Thorn. “Sergeant Graf. A pleasure to see you again.”

  The guard recognized Sean and smiled all too briefly. “Father Sullivan. You have returned.”

  Thorn was taken aback by the guard’s accent. He’d expected an Italian accent but heard something different. Of course, Swiss guards.

  “Yes. Yes. We are—”

  “Father, what are you doing with the Holy Father’s car? The driver reported that someone drove away with it earlier.”