“You should take this,” Kaz said, sliding the Beretta across the table.
“I will,” I said, pushing it back to him. “But you keep it tonight and stay here. Block the door and shoot anyone who tries to force their way in.”
As Kaz reached to take the pistol, the door to Nini’s room opened and a stooped figure in a threadbare coat stared down at us. He was covered in dust from boots to beard, and he wore a blue workman’s coverall over his clothes. Kaz snatched the Beretta up and leveled it at the stranger’s belly.
“Chi è?”
he demanded, asking the man’s identity.
“Would you shoot a harmless priest, Baron?” The Irish accent was unmistakable.
“Hugh!” Nini exclaimed. “You know better than to sneak up and frighten people with your disguises. One day you
will
get yourself shot.”
“Excuse me,
Principessa
. I thought I’d receive a warm welcome, but I never dreamed it would involve a small cannon. I’ll go wash up and return a changed man while the Baron puts away that
pistola
.” As he spoke he straightened himself, gaining six inches in height. Nini shook her head, as if exasperated at the antics of a young boy, and I thought that for all the danger to himself and others, Hugh O’Flaherty did manage to squeeze a sense of enjoyment out the situation. Ten minutes later he was at the table with us, the fake whiskers gone and the rest of him fairly well dusted off. I gave him a quick summary of the day’s events.
“Can you keep things quiet about Rossi? His presence here puts Nini in danger, you know,” he said, taking a sip of wine.
“Kaz will stay here tonight to guard them both,” I said. “We got in without too many people seeing us, so I hope that will buy some time.”
“Are you satisfied with the letter from Montini?”
“No, but it’s the best he could do. We’ll keep our fingers crossed.”
“Do you know,” O’Flaherty said, pausing to take in a mouthful of pasta, “that crossed fingers were a sign the early Christians used to secretly identify each other? Making the cross, you see? It’s a good sign to make, but I’ll add a prayer or two tonight for your success.”
“What were you doing today, Monsignor, to need such a disguise?” Kaz asked.
“Trouble in some of the houses where we have people hidden. I had to travel across the city. Workmen are part of the background scenery in Rome. It helps me blend in, and the stoop does away with some of my height.”
“What kind of trouble this time?” Nini asked.
“All personal problems, nothing worse. It’s hard for a man to be hidden away in a home and not able to speak the same language. There was a British officer who was sure the family he was with hated him, since they dined separately. Served him his meals in a hidden attic room. He became afraid that they were going to betray him. It turned out that they were giving him the lion’s share of their food. If they got one egg, it went to him, to keep his strength up.”
“And they didn’t want him to see what little they were left with,” Nini said.
“Aye. I explained it to him and then there were tears and the shaking of hands all around. I promised to get more food sent to them. Then onto another family, where a young South African sergeant was paying too much attention to the wife of the house. I have to say, I’ll be glad when the Allies get here and take these fellows off our hands.”
“How do you get around? You must wear out a lot of shoe leather,” I said.
“With the help of the unsung heroes of the occupation of Rome,” he said. “The trolley conductors. Good fellows, each one. See, I used to conduct the early Mass in Saint Peter’s. Before dawn it was, and I’d finish up just before the first shift started for the trolleys. So I got to know them, and they me. Now I can go anywhere on a Rome trolley car. I give the driver a wink and he sees through my disguise,
lets me ride for free. Plus they know where all the roadblocks and identity checks are.”
“I bet they can spot a tail as well,” I said.
“They have a nose for policemen, sure. Do you want to take the trolley to Piazza Navona tomorrow?”
“The rendezvous has been changed to the Spanish Steps. It would be good to know if anyone’s following me from here. Zlatko must have told Koch all about us by now. It would be a feather in his cap to pick me up, and he’s sure to have a blood feud going with Remke.”
“Still at noon?” O’Flaherty asked in a low voice.
“Yes. But I’d like to get there early and scout around. Koch could be following Remke as well as me.”
“Smart. Let’s hope Colonel Remke is as wary and takes precautions himself. You can wait in the Trinità dei Monti church at the top of the steps, which will give you a good view all around. I’ll fetch you at seven o’clock for breakfast.”
“In disguise, of course,” Nini said.
“To be sure. Only, which one shall it be? I don’t make a very handsome nun, but it’s been done.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I asked.
“I don’t make a habit of it,” O’Flaherty said with a wink, finishing off his wine in one gulp.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
K
AZ HAD A
gun and a girl. I had neither.
Instead I was alone in a darkened room, wishing for sleep, hoping that tomorrow I’d be here to say the same. I’d left Kaz and Nini with Severino, who still hadn’t moved as much as a finger. I’d waited until I heard them drag a bureau against door, then prowled around inside the building, watching for intruders and drawing irritated glances from the nuns who were still up and about. From there, I went outside, turning up my collar against the cold night air. I crossed to the Sacristy and kept to the shadows, eyeing the entrance to Santa Marta. Nobody else was out; no killer was casing the joint.
I gave up on the stakeout and went back to the German College. The bells tolled midnight as I lay alone, thinking of what might happen tomorrow on the Spanish Steps. Or not happen. What if I came back empty-handed? What if, what if, what if? I heard the bells again, once, then twice.
A sharp rap at the door jolted me awake. It was daylight, and Hugh O’Flaherty greeted me in an unlikely getup. If he hadn’t spoken, I might not have known it was him.
“Get dressed, Billy,” he said, barely keeping down a grin. “I’ve letters to deliver.” He was dressed in a postman’s blue uniform and cap, complete with a leather bag bulging with mail. A thick mustache completed the disguise. He tossed me a hat, a gray snap-brim fedora. It was a good fit, and helped shadow my face.
I followed him to the refectory. His bag seemed to curve his body into a slouch, hiding a few inches of his height. We were served coffee and bread fresh from the oven by nuns unsurprised by the outfit.
“One advantage to rising early,” O’Flaherty said, stuffing a piece of warm bread into his mouth. “I’ve been to Mass as well. It feels good to get a head start on the day, don’t you think?”
“It’s better than the day getting a head start on me,” I agreed, as we left for the Santa Marta. “You must have raised a few eyebrows at Mass in that outfit.”
“No one begrudges a letter carrier his worship,” he said. “And folks here have grown used to seeing me in all manner of garb, as you could tell. Monsignor Bruzzone himself joked with me about the nun’s outfit just this morning. That was no tall tale, Billy, but I’ll tell you all about it tonight when I trust we’ll be having a celebration.”
“A celebration. Yes,” I said, trying not to think about it, since that meant thinking about the alternative. When I first heard that Diana had been taken, hundreds of miles and an enemy army had separated us. I never imagined I’d get this close to her, and be able to free her. I couldn’t bear the thought of failure now. What would Diana think of me, I thought, if I left her in chains to be brought to Nazi Germany? What would I think of myself, I wondered, as we made our way to Nini’s room. We announced ourselves, and Kaz pulled the furniture away for us to enter.
“A regular fortress you have here,” O’Flaherty said. “Any change in your guest?”
“I was able to give him some sips of broth earlier,” Nini said. “Sister Cecilia went to the kitchen and said I wasn’t feeling well, and brought the food up. No one suspects Severino is here, I am sure.”
“That’s right,” Kaz said. “It was quiet all night.”
“Good, good,” O’Flaherty said. “Well, collect your armament, Billy, and let’s be off. I’ve sent up my prayer to Saint Gabriel this morning, so I’ve done all I can.”
“Why Saint Gabriel?”
“He’s the patron saint of letter carriers, he is! Come on, have a cheer, my boy. Things will go well, you’ll see. But if things go awry, I’ll be nearby. The offices of Propaganda Fide are in the Piazza di Spagna, which is the square at the bottom of the steps. It’s Vatican territory, so if you need refuge, go there. Follow me when I get off the trolley and I’ll point it out.”
“Thanks for your help, Monsignor. And your prayers,” I said.
“We Irish have to stick together, don’t we? Now let’s be off. The sooner the better.”
“I wish I were going with you,” Kaz said, handing me the Beretta.
“Me too,” I said, pocketing the weapon. “Hold tight, okay?”
“We will be waiting,” Kaz said. “For all of you.”
We left through the Porta Angelica, near the barracks of the Swiss Guard, avoiding most of the German guards. O’Flaherty went first, bent over his bag, sorting his mail. I trailed him by a few steps, hands stuffed into my pockets, shoulders bunched against the cold, trying to look like another Italian out on business or coming from Mass. The key was not to look around, not to betray any of the nervousness I felt with one glance too many at the bored Wehrmacht guards or the plainclothes secret police hovering a few yards behind them.
O’Flaherty was a good actor. He was a convincing mailman, with a delivery around every corner. After twisting through a few side streets and confirming we weren’t being followed, we entered a main thoroughfare, the Via Cola di Rienzo. Traffic was light, mostly military. A trolley car rumbled down the road, and I joined a line at the stop, O’Flaherty right behind me. A hand on my shoulder, a wink to the conductor, and we were aboard.
We changed trolleys twice. From what I knew of Rome from the map I had studied, we were taking the long way around, across the Tiber and then up to the Quirinal Palace, where Mussolini and the king of Italy used to run things. Now
Il Duce
was up north, under the German thumb, and the king was down south, under Allied thumbs. Both were relics of history, pitiful jokes that history played on this poor, beautiful nation.
The trolley barreled downhill on the Via Sistina, picking up speed. The bell rang for a stop and O’Flaherty motioned for me to follow. On the street, a few shops were open, but only halfheartedly. No customers, not much food to sell. There was a line outside a bakery, and one jewelry store had so many watches in the window, I figured hungry shoppers must have sold them for bread. I kept O’Flaherty in view, which, considering the length of his stride, took some doing. As the street opened into a small piazza, he stopped at the base of an obelisk in the center of the square, adjusting the strap on his mailbag. I stopped and craned my neck, admiring the Virgin Mary standing at the top of the column.
“The building to your right,” he said in a low voice. “See the yellow-and-white flag? That’s Propaganda Fide. Where we plan our missionary work, although there is precious little of that these days.”
“Got it,” I whispered.
“Follow the piazza in the other direction. You’ll be at the base of the Spanish Steps. The church is at the top, to your right.
Go gcuire Dia an t-ádh ort
.”
“I’ll wish you the same, Monsignor, but I’d say God’s already put his luck on you.”
He left me looking up to the Virgin Mary, trying to remember a prayer or two. I got my bearings: Propaganda Fide faced the square at the south end, guarded by Mary on her column. Three stories tall, beige stucco. I knew where I was.
Many of the windows along the way were shuttered tight. This winter of German occupation didn’t make for much of a tourist trade. I strolled along the piazza, which widened as I approached a fountain. The Spanish Steps ascended to my right, but I tried not to gawk. I had more than two hours before the meet, and I was here to watch for signs of a setup, not to sightsee.
A gaggle of German soldiers, apparently on leave, given their soft cloth caps and cameras hung around their necks, chatted and smoked cigarettes, tossing their butts into the empty fountain. From the northern end of the square I heard the distant sound of marching boots. The few civilians in the piazza all began to walk in a different
direction, and I took the hint. I cut down the Via della Croce, and made a long loop around to arrive back at the square, in time to see the tail end of a formation of ten German soldiers leaving the piazza. I guessed that sergeants were alike in every army, and some Kraut felt the need for useless early-morning exercise.
I was heading in the direction of the Spanish Steps, so I ascended them, stopping midway as if I needed to catch my breath. It wasn’t hard to pretend. There were a helluva lot of steps. Below me I saw a mailman, but it wasn’t O’Flaherty. Above, a couple of workmen in blue coveralls were cleaning the steps, dragging their trashcans and emptying their sweepings into them as they went.
I took a few more slow steps and turned. It was hard not to admire the view. Saint Peter’s rose above the rooftops, the crosses and spires of lesser churches dotting the landscape. The morning clouds were breaking up, and shafts of sunlight fell on the city, reflecting off windows and giving the buildings a soft, golden glow. The wind was strong, so I turned my collar up and pulled down the fedora, glad to have a good reason to hide my features. It’s hard to spot a guy if you only have a photograph or have only seen him once, doubly hard if you can’t see his whole face.
I passed the church without a second glance, trying to look like a Roman late for a morning appointment. Next to the church was the Hotel Hassler, and the German-sounding name drew me on. What better place for Remke to stash his men, and perhaps prisoners, than in a nearby hotel. Of course the same thing went for the Gestapo. The place could be crawling with them.