“Who keeps track of keys around here? It seems pretty loose.”
“You have to understand that much of the security here is tradition and custom. The community, beyond the public areas in and outside the basilica, is very small, and obviously religious. There is almost no crime, outside of pickpockets in the square.”
“So doors are locked, as they always have been, but with locks that haven’t been replaced in centuries.”
“Yes, and keys have been lost over the years, copies made, lost, then found again. It wasn’t until the influx of refugees that we began to notice what a problem it was.”
“What you’re saying is that anyone who wanted to could get in to steal that knife,” I said.
“True enough. We’re a trusting lot, and it would be child’s play to lay your hands on anything you put a mind to. Whom do you suspect?”
“I don’t know, Monsignor. If I had to name someone, it would probably be the guy trying to get rid of me, if only for that.”
“Bishop Zlatko is not someone I’d often agree with. He has one foot firmly in Caesar’s world and the other ready to kick anyone who does not agree with him on matters of faith. But he is straightforward, I will give him that.”
“Meaning you don’t see him as a furtive murderer?”
“No. To be honest, I see him more as a proud mass murderer. Not that he would get his own hands dirty, mind you. But he is one of the more fanatic Croats. Some of the priests in his diocese even work directly with the Ustashi. The chief of the secret police in Sarajevo is a priest, if you can believe it.”
“Why doesn’t the Pope do something about it?”
“A good question. He has put pressure on the archbishop of Zagreb to restrain the Ustashi regime. The archbishop did recently denounce the murder of Croatian Jews and Serbs, but by the time he did, most were already dead. The Vatican, even before Pope Pius, strongly supported Croatian nationalism, as a bulwark against the Communists to the east. Once the Ustashi took power, they moved faster and more violently than anyone expected,” O’Flaherty said, a frown creasing his face. “But the Catholic Church moves slowly, my friend. That leaves room for activities such as mine, but unfortunately Zlatko’s as well. But, his time here may be up as well.”
“Why?”
“Come, I will explain on the way,” O’Flaherty said. “I need to get to my post on the steps of the basilica.”
“Are there still escaped POWs coming in?” I asked as he led the way out of the German College.
“Not as many now that the Germans have taken over the Italian camps. But some make it here, along with refugees, downed airmen, and a few German deserters. Some who have been hiding in Rome are afraid that there will be a battle for the city, and gamble that it may be safer on neutral ground.” We came to the Piazza del
Sant’Uffizio, where we had to cross that small stretch of Italian territory to get into Saint Peter’s Square. O’Flaherty came to a dead stop, then backed up until we stood in the shadow of the basilica. “Trouble,” he said.
Trucks rumbled past us, turning at the Bernini colonnades, three proceeding while the last pulled over and halted, the squeal of brakes echoing off the stone buildings lining the narrow street. The German paratroopers on duty along the white border line looked at each other, then at us, with surprise on their faces. The cargo gate dropped with a thud and German soldiers cascaded out, taking up position along the border. Most were regular Wehrmacht troops in their gray-green uniforms, who filled in between the paratroopers. Behind them were the sinister black-leather-coated Gestapo, and a few SS in their gray uniforms and shiny black boots. A regular rogue’s gallery.
“Something’s happened,” O’Flaherty said. “They are sealing off the square completely.”
“Are they invading the Vatican?” I asked, suddenly wishing I were packing something with more firepower than rosary beads.
“No, too few of them for that. Come, we’ll go around the long way and see what is happening in the square.”
“If they closed the border, how will we get out tomorrow?” I asked, not thinking he’d actually have an answer.
“It’s more likely they sealed it to prevent anyone from coming in. And that can only mean one thing.”
“What’s that?” I gasped, struggling to keep up with O’Flaherty’s long stride.
“They may have raided some of our buildings. We have people hidden in seminaries, convents, and other properties of the Holy See. They legally have extraterritorial protection, so they are treated as neutral ground. But all that means is a brass plaque by the door.”
“Anyone who escaped would make a beeline here,” I said.
“Aye. Refugees and clerics alike.” He took us through the Sacristy, an ornate building attached to the basilica, which housed the treasures of the Vatican. Swiss Guards opened doors for the monsignor as if he were a general. A marbled corridor took us into
Saint Peter’s, but I didn’t have a second to play the tourist as O’Flaherty sped to the door amid the worried murmurs of visitors and priests. I followed him down the steps, across the grand piazza, right up to the white line painted in a wide arc at the entrance. A clutch of monks, their brown robes whipped by the wind, stood gaping at the Germans on the other side of the border. Unarmed German soldiers, peaceful tourists a moment ago, filed out of the square between the ranks of their brethren, looking almost sheepish at the display of weaponry.
“Billy.” Kaz waved to us. Not surprisingly, he was with Nina.
“What do you know?” O’Flaherty asked of them, his gaze darting across the leather-coated men at the center of things.
“It is the monastery at the
Basilica di San Paolo fuori le Mura
,” Nina said.
“Saint Paul’s Basilica Outside the Walls,” Kaz said, unable to not play the tour guide. “A short distance south, along the Tiber. The burial place of Saint Paul.”
“And home to over a hundred hidden Jews,” O’Flaherty said grimly. “They should have been safe there; it’s Vatican territory. Did any make it out?”
“No. I made what calls I could until the telephone lines went dead,” the princess said. “There was no answer at the Istituto Pio.”
“Dear God,” O’Flaherty said, panic flashing across his face. “That is a Catholic boarding school for boys. When the war began, it was nearly empty. We have dozens of young Jewish boys there, those who escaped the Rome roundup last October.”
“How did they know?” Kaz asked.
“Someone could have talked. Torture, or money. Or perhaps they raided a number of locations and got lucky,” Nini said.
“There he is,” O’Flaherty said, his long arm pointing at a man on the other side of the white line. “Koch.”
He walked up to the line, shaking off Nini’s hand as she tried to restrain him from the foolhardy gesture. He planted his toes less than an inch from the border, and stood eye to eye with Pietro Koch. Although he had to stare down at him to do so.
Koch was not what I expected. I hadn’t had any image of the man in mind, but if I had, it wouldn’t have been this. He had an almost gentle look on his face. Serene, even in the middle of all the shouts and clomping boots. His eyes were a bit close together, but they were penetrating, his eyebrows slightly raised as if asking a question. He had a strong jaw, and dark hair slicked back, but there was also something feminine about him. As he flipped through a notebook of photographs, I noticed his hands were delicate, the fingernails manicured. He looked composed, which I thought might be hard to pull off with a giant monsignor, hands on his hips, staring you down.
“
L’è
,” he said, pointing to a picture.
“
Sì
,” another officer said. “It is he. Monsignor Hugh O’Flaherty. Would you please step this way, Monsignor?”
“Not on your life,” O’Flaherty growled. “But tell your boss I will pray for his soul, and likely will be the only one to do so.”
Koch flipped the pages again, smiling at Nini as he did so. He stopped, tapped his finger again, and whispered,
“Principessa,”
then blew her a kiss. Kaz stepped forward but had the sense to stop. A camera flashed, and Kaz’s mug would soon find its way into Koch’s book.
“My
capo
says he looks forward to meeting you, in Rome,” the other officer said, tugging on the belt of his coat. “You and the princess.”
I could feel the tension and anger all around me. I felt like reaching over the line and belting the guy, but instead I drew back, not wanting to draw attention to myself and get my photograph snapped. I figured there was a fair chance these guys might have business at the Regina Coeli, and I didn’t want to be fingered as a pal of the monsignor and his gang. That reminded me of old Saint Peter himself, when he was a disciple. At the Last Supper, Jesus predicted that before the dawn, Peter would deny him three times. Of course Peter said he’d lay down his life for his
capo
. Then, when the Romans arrested Jesus, Peter went right ahead and denied he knew him. Three times.
Today, Roman police still inspired fear and silence. Not a lot of progress to show for two thousand years of civilization.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
N
INI AND
O’F
LAHERTY
went into a huddle with some of their co-conspirators. Back at the German College, John May was waiting for them, along with a nun and some British escapees in well-worn uniforms. No one had seen Monsignor Bruzzone, and there was a general fear he’d been picked up.
“Odd though,” John May had said. “He hasn’t been outside these walls for months, not since the trip to Genoa. Said he heard the Gestapo had targeted him, and that it wasn’t safe. He must’ve had an important reason for leaving.”
“If he did leave,” I said to Kaz as we talked it over, on our way to see Brackett. “Or maybe we have another corpse hidden somewhere. Or he killed Soletto and went on the lam.” We passed the Gendarmerie headquarters and made for the Governatorato.
“That does not make sense,” Kaz said. “If the Gestapo were after him, why leave the safety of the Vatican? Especially when there is no evidence against him?”
“Yeah, I see what you mean. Maybe he had a good reason to head into Rome, and got picked up by chance. Or he’s lying low until the roundup is over.” As I thought about it, that seemed the most likely situation. The simplest answers are usually the truest ones, my dad always said.
When we went up the main steps, there were no guards in sight. Everyone must have been called up to counter the German threat
at the border. Brackett was in his office, staring out the window, the same view he had been so interested in the first time we met.
“Brackett,” I said. He didn’t look up. “Did you hear about the Germans?”
“If they come in, do you think they’ll send us someplace else? A different view, maybe?” He spoke without moving his gaze from the window.
“Yeah, maybe under six feet of dirt. How’s that for a view? I need you to show me the radio tower and where everybody was last night.”
“Do you have a cigarette?” Brackett asked. “Lucky Strike, maybe?”
“No, I told you, I don’t smoke.”
Kaz pulled a half-full pack of Italian Nazionali cigarettes from his pocket and tossed them on the desk.
“The best I could find,” Kaz said.
“Filthy things,” Brackett said, sighing. He still hadn’t moved his head, and I angled myself to get a view of the window. He wasn’t staring at the gardens. It was his own reflection, along with enough of the desk to see the pack.
“Enough with the goddamn cigarettes,” I said, slamming the palm of my hand on his desk. I waited for surprise to show on his face, or maybe shame. “Wake up and do your job.”
“My job?” He picked up the pack of Nazionalis and looked at it as if he’d never seen one before. I wanted to break the window, sweep everything off his desk, and slap him around a bit, all in the name of snapping him out of his daydream, but I knew that would get us nowhere. I stepped around the desk and leaned against the window, blocking his view. I took a deep breath and tried to sound calm.
“Listen,” I said. “We need your help. This is the kind of thing that will mean a promotion once Rome is liberated. They’ll probably make you an ambassador somewhere. But you’ve got to pull yourself together. I know it’s tough, but we don’t have much time.”
“Zlatko,” he said.
“Yeah, he’s trying to get us tossed out, and who knows what will happen with the Krauts lined up outside. Just in case, we need to
find out everything we can about what happened inside the radio tower. Can you do that with us?”
“Okay,” Brackett said. “I can do that.”
It had started to rain. As we crossed the gardens, Brackett hunched up his shoulders and drove his hands deep into his pockets. Kaz and I had decided that we’d wait and ask Brackett about his Rudder conversation with Zlatko after he’d shown us everything we needed. I had the feeling he might go off the deep end soon, and I didn’t want to push him to the edge until we’d gotten what we came for. We hustled along the four-story building until we got to the tower, which housed the giant radio masts. Inside, we shook off the rain like mutts and hung our coats. My cassock was soaked where the raincoat hadn’t covered it, and the white collar dug into my neck. This was one disguise I couldn’t wait to ditch.
Radio Vaticana was a major operation, but this place wasn’t all marble and statues like the rest of the Holy See. A long corridor led to a waiting room, with a control room and several studios beyond, all with glass windows and soundproofing. Two were in use. Kaz spoke in a low voice with a sound engineer, who nodded his approval.
“This is the studio we used,” Brackett said, pointing to a slightly larger room. Microphones were set up around a table with three chairs. Nothing else.
“You were inside the studio, I think you said, correct?”
“Yes, myself and the announcer. It was an English-language broadcast.”
“But Monsignor Bruzzone was there as well?”
“Yes, of course. He brought the list of POWs. It came through the Refugee Commission, which is part of his job. He gave it to the announcer, who turned it over to me after the broadcast.”