“When did they let you out?” I asked, ignoring the salute and giving him a slap on the back. No mean feat when you took into account Big Mike’s shoulders. He looked like a cross between a linebacker and a lumberjack, stuffed into the largest olive-drab getup Uncle Sam had in stock.
“Couple of days ago,” Big Mike said, puffing out his cheeks as if he’d run up a dozen flights. He sat down heavily, beads of sweat on his forehead. The last time I’d seen him was more than a week ago, in a military hospital in Naples, his head swathed in bandages, coming out of a deep sleep after a nasty blow to the head.
“Do you need help, Sergeant?” Croft said, a look of confusion on his face.
“Naw, I’m fine, thanks.” Big Mike had a way with officers. Most guys couldn’t pull it off, but he had the knack. Unless he sized up one of the brass as a real twit, he treated him like one of the guys. He knew when an actual salute was called for, and he could toss off a nice one when he had to. Otherwise, it was like old pals chewing the fat. And who didn’t mind a likable strongman as a pal?
“You don’t look fine,” I said. I wanted to find out what was going on, but I was more concerned at that moment about Big Mike. He was pale, and his face looked thin and drawn—and thin was a word I’d never applied to him before. “Are you sure you shouldn’t still be in the hospital? Or on your way back home?”
“I’m okay, Billy, only a bit winded,” Big Mike said. “I was in bed for a week, that was enough hospital for me.”
“Were you wounded?” Croft asked, giving Big Mike the once-over, looking for telltale signs. Big Mike took off his garrison cap, revealing a crescent-shaped incision on his skull, above the right ear. His hair was shaved down to a crew cut, and the red, angry scar still showed where the stitches had recently been removed.
“Subdural hematoma?” Croft said, peering closely at the scar. Big Mike nodded, his eyes closing as he did, trying to shut out the pain. “Acute?”
“No,” Big Mike said. “The doctors called it subacute, or something like that. Are you a medical man, Captain?”
“Not exactly, but everyone in Force 226 is trained in emergency medicine to one degree or another. It helps to assess the effectiveness of men in the field. I’d guess you should still be on bed rest at least. Discharged from the service at worst, although perhaps you wouldn’t think of that as the worst outcome.”
“No need to discharge me yet, I’m fine,” Big Mike said. I watched him take a deep breath, like an old man in a rocking chair. Then I understood.
“Big Mike is a career policeman,” I said to Croft. “I’ll bet he talked his way out of a medical discharge because the Detroit Police wouldn’t hire him back with a certified head injury. Am I right, Big Mike?”
“Can’t say I’d mind going home,” Big Mike admitted, shaking his head wistfully. “But I can’t risk losing my spot on the Force, or my pension. So I told Sam to keep me in Naples as long as it took to rest up and get back in shape.”
“Sam?” Croft said.
“Colonel Samuel Harding,” I explained. “He works for General
Eisenhower, and we work for him in the Office of Special Investigations.”
“Exalted circles, indeed,” Croft said, raising an eyebrow. “The air you breathe is positively rarified. Sergeant, we are both restraining our curiosity about what comes next. If you are able, please get on with it.”
“Sure, sure,” Big Mike said, resting his hand on a manila envelope marked Confidential and sealed with red tape. “I’ve got a pile of paperwork here, orders, briefing information, memos from MI6 to SHAEF with copies to Captain Croft. But maybe you want the long story short?”
“Paperwork gives me a headache,” Croft said. “Please, in your own words.” I was beginning to think this guy was okay.
“There’s been a murder,” Big Mike said. So far, no surprise. Murders that get in the way of the war effort are our stock and trade. “A priest named Edward Corrigan took a shiv between the ribs. A monsignor, actually.”
“Corrigan? Was he Irish?” I wondered if this were leading to another trip back to the old country.
“Nope. American. Now comes the tricky part. He was murdered in Rome. At the Vatican.”
“Rome,” I whispered. Diana. I felt my heart race, and hoped God would forgive me for how glad I was that someone knifed Monsignor Corrigan. In Rome.
“A pity, to be sure,” Croft said. “But what does it have to do with SOE, or Lieutenant Boyle, for that matter? Vatican City is neutral territory. Surrounded by German-occupied Rome, another problem altogether.”
“I’ll answer the one about Billy first,” Big Mike said. He spoke slowly, each word a struggle, and I worried about the toll this trip had taken on him. But I wanted to know more about Rome and getting closer to Diana, and I willed him to get on with it. “Monsignor Corrigan is, or was, an American. But he held Vatican citizenship, and had lived and worked there for years.”
“Corrigan worked for the Pope,” Croft said.
“For the Holy Office, to be precise,” Big Mike said. “He was a lawyer, and drafted statements on church doctrine for the cardinals to review, that kind of thing.”
“What does this have to do with me?” I asked, impatient for the other shoe to drop. The death of a priest in a city of priests was hardly earthshaking news.
“What it’s got to do with you is that Monsignor Corrigan is a cousin of Bishop John Murphy Finch, of New York. Him and FDR are childhood buddies. From what I hear, when Bishop Finch got the news that cousin Edward was murdered, he gave FDR an earful. FDR passed it on to General Marshall, who passed it onto Ike, who handed it over to Sam. Sam got the news before he left Naples for London, and told me to bring the details to you once plans were in place. It helped keep me from getting sent home, since I was under orders from Ike himself.”
“Forgive me, Sergeant,” Croft said, “but in the British Army, noncommissioned officers are not usually privy to the thoughts of the general staff.”
“I got a few pals at SHAEF,” Big Mike said. Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force in London was where we were based, and where Big Mike rubbed elbows with General Eisenhower, not to mention his chief of staff at SHAEF, General “Beetle” Smith, who knew everything about everybody. Nobody got along with Beetle on a regular basis, except Big Mike. “We stay in touch.”
“So President Roosevelt wants me to find out who murdered Monsignor Edward Corrigan, so he can tell Bishop Finch justice has been served,” I said, getting the conversation back on track, and trying to understand what was being said—and what wasn’t.
“You got it. I hear the bishop and all the other Catholic voters in New York state will be very happy to receive the news,” Big Mike said, giving Croft a sidelong glance and a shrug. “But then I’m just a noncom, what do I know?”
“Forgive me, Sergeant, I am obviously in the presence of a born politician. And let me guess, my role in all this is to find a way to bring Lieutenant Boyle into Vatican City.”
“Exactly. Billy and Kaz, that is.”
“Lieutenant Kazimierz will be dining with us tonight,” Croft said. “Orders from on high, received last night. Now I see why.”
“Sam wants you and Kaz here until you leave,” Big Mike said, handing me the file. “Top secret on this one. Why don’t you read through this stuff and we’ll talk some more later.”
“I’ll organize a place for you to rest, Sergeant,” Croft said.
“Thanks, Captain. Feel free to call me Big Mike.”
Croft smiled, as if he’d been asked to join the most exclusive club in London.
“Whatever you say, Big Mike.”
Croft left us alone on the veranda, the sun warming the tiles at our feet. I was enticed by the possibility of getting closer to Diana, but I had to calm down and focus. We sat in silence, and I let the wheels turn. I thought about all the deaths in Rome, in Italy, and all throughout Europe. I thought about what I knew of politics and the Roman Catholic Church, and revenge. The wheels turned some more and I didn’t like where they ended up.
“Tell me why you’re really here,” I finally said.
“To give you a direct order from Sam,” Big Mike said. “He didn’t want to give you this assignment, but Ike insisted, I guess because he had no choice.” I could tell he was stalling.
“What’s the order?”
“Stay away from Diana Seaton,” Big Mike said, sitting up and looking straight at me. “You are not to attempt to contact her or free her from prison. You are to take no action which would jeopardize the successful conclusion to this assignment, and make no contact with any other agents.”
“Why?”
“Sam said that would be the first thing you’d say, so here goes.” He cleared his throat, and closed his eyes, reciting from memory. “Any interference in the affairs of Vatican City, as a neutral state, would have a detrimental effect on our relations with the Italian government and the Papal State, and endanger the neutrality of the Vatican. Your assignment is to assist in the apprehension of a murderer
within the Vatican, while avoiding any clandestine operations or situations that would imperil the neutral status of the Vatican.” He opened his eyes. “Got it?”
“Got it,” I said.
“No, Billy, I mean do you really get it? This isn’t like all the other orders you’ve ignored, like not returning to London. Sam said he can’t protect you if you disobey. There’s a lot of pressure on this one, and it goes all the way back to Washington. That’s one heavy load of bricks ready to come down on your head if you go off the reservation.”
“What else is going on here?” I asked, my teeth on edge. “What’s the real deal? There’s got to be dozens of operations going on in Rome and Vatican City. SOE, OSS, or half a dozen other secret outfits.”
“Exactly,” Big Mike said. “That’s why you’re ordered to steer clear of anything except this murder investigation. You could get agents killed by charging into their operations. You know that.”
“Maybe so,” I said, grudgingly. “It still stinks. Diana gets thrown to the wolves, and I’m dancing like a puppet while someone in the Archdiocese of New York pulls the strings.”
“Hey, Billy, you know as well as the next guy how things work in the army.”
“I get it, Big Mike. It’s political. General Eisenhower wants to keep General Marshall happy, who needs to keep the president happy. Corrigan’s already dead, so he doesn’t care about being happy. Diana’s probably dead, or will be soon. And me? I’ll know I did nothing while the woman I loved died. Hell, what’s the difference? Two, three hundred miles or two miles away?” I stood up, kicking the chair away, angry at the world but taking it out on Big Mike because the rest of the world wasn’t here. “I could be two hundred yards away and all she’ll know is that I left her there to die.”
“Billy,” Big Mike said, getting up and resting his arms on my shoulders. “So far it’s all been bad news. Here’s a little good news. Sam said to tell you we know Diana is still alive. As of two days ago, anyway. In the Regina Coeli prison.”
“How do you know? Are you sure?”
“Sam’s sure,” Big Mike said, his voice trailing off. I watched his face go pale and felt his arms slip from my shoulders. His eyes rolled up and he swayed like a tree about to be toppled, until he fell, right on me.
CHAPTER FOUR
I
’D TAKEN THE
weight of Big Mike’s fall and gotten more banged up than he had. The hardest part was getting him back on his feet and half carrying him to a bed. Croft had summoned a doctor from the RAF hospital on base, who examined Big Mike and then asked who the devil had discharged him from medical care so soon after surgery. Big Mike was silent on the subject, but agreed to stay prone for the rest of the day. I took the file he’d brought and settled into an easy chair in the library. Croft was right, SOE knew how to live. Not to mention die.
It quickly became clear that Monsignor Edward Corrigan was connected, and not only to FDR via his cousin the bishop. He worked for the Supreme Sacred Congregation of the Holy Office, the outfit that until the start of the century had been called the Inquisition. I was pretty sure they weren’t burning heretics at the stake anymore, but it made me wonder if there was any religious connection to the killing. I’d been an altar boy back in Boston, and I heard enough gossip about bishops and archbishops to know that church politics was a game of hardball.
But murder? Revenge, maybe. He’d been killed up close, face to face, with a knife thrust between the ribs, and that could mean it had been personal, the murderer wanting Corrigan to see who was ending his life. Or the killer simply knew how to use a knife.
An orderly brought me tea. I’d hoped for more coffee, and had
been surprised when Croft had had it served this morning. This was an English outfit after all, and tea was in their blood, even though I noticed more Brits picking up the java habit whenever they could get ahold of American supplies. I read through the file, focusing on what little information there was, trying to read between the lines to tease out any thread of substance that would give me something to go on.
I spread out the documents on the floor, and soon was sitting cross-legged among them, as I’d seen my dad do dozens of times, when a case was going nowhere. A Boston PD homicide detective, he’d often come home with a leather briefcase stuffed with documents, and after dinner he’d be in his den, on his knees, staring at the papers all around him. It was a good long time before he’d let me look, the crime scene photos not being meant for kids in short pants.
So I played out that scene here, far from my home in Southie, leaning into the motions of my father, hoping by some mysterious means to fall into his routine and absorb his experience—moving files and papers around, tapping key phrases with my finger as if casting a spell and drawing out the truth from a mass of tangled details and the occasional well-placed lie. I found myself doing this more and more, copying the rhythms of my old man, fooling my mind into thinking I had half his smarts, until I failed all on my own—or something clicked and the movements became my own, the memory of then mingling with the here and now, and I saw what had been hidden in plain sight. But not today.
I was lost in thought when Kaz came in and flopped down in a chair opposite mine, hitching his trousers up as he crossed his legs.