Death's Door (25 page)

“Thank you for your concern,” Bruzzone said. “It was simply a shock to find anyone in my room. I assure you, I am fine.” He brushed grime from his pants and pushed back his hair, pulling himself together.

“Where were you, Monsignor?”

“In Rome. It is not a crime, is it?”

“Not at all,” I said, playing the helpful but confused pal. “Monsignor O’Flaherty was worried when you didn’t show up this morning. He was expecting you for breakfast.”

“I completely forgot. I will apologize to Hugh. And I must apologize to you as well, for being so rude. I thank you for your concern, but I simply could not sleep and went out. I often wake before dawn.” He sighed and slapped his hands on his thighs. All done, time to move on, or so he hoped.

“It must have been something quite important,” I said, “to cause you to leave the Holy See. I’m told you haven’t crossed the border into Rome in quite some time.”

“That is true, not since my last trip to Genoa, working with Cardinal Boetto. We had some close calls, and I thought the Gestapo was following me. I felt it prudent to not take any chances here. What is the American expression? To lie low?”

“Yes,” I said. “What was so important that you left after the murder of Soletto?”

“Why do you say that?” Bruzzone asked. I wasn’t entirely sure, except that he had the look of a guy who’d slept in his clothes, if he’d slept at all.

“Because you look like you’ve had a rough time of it. My guess would be that you were out after curfew and had to hide out somewhere.”

“That would have been difficult. The Germans enforce a curfew, and are guarding the perimeter. They would have picked up anyone crossing over.”

“But you got in okay?” I asked.

“Certainly. As a citizen of the Vatican State, I have no problem during the day.”

“So where were you? Whenever it was you were there?”

“I am sorry, Father Boyle. That must remain confidential. Even you are not privy to everything here. Or in Rome.”

He sounded remarkably like Brackett had, when I’d hinted to
him about Rudder. Or Zlatko, for that matter. There was a certainty in his voice, as if he were backed up by some higher power. Not
that
higher power, but one backed up with hardware.

“Abe, wait outside for me, okay?” I wanted to try something, and it would be better if Abe didn’t hear. He didn’t need coaxing to leave the scene of a crime, and I heard the door shut behind him. I let the silence settle around us, and watched Bruzzone’s eyes. He was nervous. But anyone would be, lying to a cop as he was.

“What is it now? I have matters to attend to,” he said, shifting in his seat. He couldn’t wait to get rid of me.

“Tell me this, Monsignor. Are you Rudder?” He stopped fidgeting. His eyes widened for a split second, showing a flash of white that faded as he sat back, sighing as if I’d knocked the air out of him.

“We all have our burdens in this war, my son. That is the last thing I will say about it.”

It was all I needed to hear. I collected Abe and we headed back to the German College.

“You need to break in anywhere else?” Abe asked as we walked behind Saint Peter’s. “I hear they got a ton of jewels and stuff stored over there in the Sacristy. That church they got hangin’ off the basilica.”

“Yeah, you and me could clean up, Abe.” I knew Abe wasn’t serious, at least not too serious. But it was his line of work, and I understood that he couldn’t help but case out the joint, even if the joint was the Vatican. “But how would we ever get it out of here?”

“Cut in a Kraut or two, and we’re all set. Gotta be a coupla those bastards who’d take a bribe, know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I do,” I said. Abe had triggered something buried deep within my mind, but not so deep that it didn’t wake up to the notion of a German as a way out of here. I was already busy juggling what I knew about Brackett, Corrigan, Zlatko, and Bruzzone, so I hadn’t had time to think it through, but it had taken root anyway.

“Abe, we all set for the morning?” I asked as we entered the German College.

“Yeah. I get you at O’Flaherty’s room at 0830. If you ain’t there, I go with Rino the barber. We meet at the safe house in Trastevere.”

I told him to get some chow and a good night’s sleep. There weren’t a lot of alternatives, but for a guy who had a way with locks and a new civilian suit, there might be temptations.

Kaz had left a note in our room saying he was over at Santa Marta, and to meet him for dinner there. Not surprising, since that’s where Nini hung her hat. I strolled over, enjoying the fresh, cool air. The rain had passed and everything felt clean and new. Be nice if only it cleansed people, too. But perhaps there would never be enough rain to wash away the sins of this war.

“Where’s Nini?” I asked when I found Kaz in the refectory, sitting alone.

“Helping to prepare dinner,” he said. “We had time for tea. It was quite civilized. I do wish I weren’t wearing this priestly clothing though. It inhibits me.”

“Maybe we’ll get you a new suit like Abe’s. How did it go with Cipriano?”

“The inspector will canvass all clerics above the rank of bishop to see if anyone is missing a rochet. I assume that does not include Pope Pius himself. There is a store that sells clerical clothing, near the printing office, and he will check to see if anyone recalls one being sold recently. He thought there was a fair chance of finding out if one had been stolen, since they are expensive, with all that lace handwork.”

“All that will tell us is more about the lousy Vatican locks.”

“Well then, I hope you found something more useful in Bruzzone’s room,” Kaz said, a bit offended.

“I did. Bruzzone.”

“Alive?” Kaz asked. A reasonable question.

“Yes, and looking like he’d spent the night somewhere else. He walked in on us, but I sold him on the story that we were worried about where he’d gone.”

“Which was where?”

“He wouldn’t say. He was nervous until we got to that question, then he grew a backbone. Sound familiar?”

Kaz took a moment to think it through. “Brackett,” he said. “At the radio tower. When you asked him about Rudder.”

“Right. And I asked Bruzzone point-blank if he was Rudder. He stonewalled me. As did Zlatko when I put it to him, although he’d stonewall me for the hell of it.”

“Are all three involved with Rudder?” Kaz said, furrowing his brow. “No, wait. O’Flaherty said Corrigan was Rudder. What’s going on here?”

“Correction. O’Flaherty said that Corrigan was Rudder. Big difference.”

“I don’t understand,” Kaz said.

Now Kaz is the smartest guy I know, when it comes to stuff they teach in college. But sometimes the simplest things elude him. Like this. “If everyone is Rudder, then no one is.”

Kaz went silent, and I could see the wheels turning. He put all that brainpower into high gear, and it took him about thirty seconds. “You mean, no one is the
real
Rudder,” he said. “The Germans have captured or killed him, whoever he was, and are feeding us false reports.”

“You got it,” I said, imagining how it might have gone. “The OSS team sets up in Rome, where the Germans nab them and their radio. They turn them, or replace them after they wring out all their secrets. Then they recruit agents and begin harvesting information. That way, they know what’s going on behind the Vatican walls, and control what gets communicated back to headquarters. So we get the real dope on Soletto, for instance. That was in the OSS report we read.”

“So Brackett and Bruzzone think they are helping out the OSS, and their contact tells them under no circumstances to reveal their role to us.”

“Yes,” I said, suddenly taking in the implication. “Which means the false Rudder knew about us.”

“Both Brackett and Bruzzone knew we were coming, so it is not surprising,” Kaz said. “But what about Zlatko? He hardly seems the type to spy for the Allies.”

“I don’t know. Maybe he stumbled onto it somehow and was threatening Brackett.”

“Or,” Kaz said, “he was a plant. To watch the other two. Or three, I should say, counting Corrigan.”

“Could be,” I said. “It would be a good story. He tells them he’s really pro-Allies, but has to hide the fact in Croatia because it would be too dangerous. He could say he’s feeding the OSS dope about the Ustashi. It would sell.”

“Billy,” Kaz said, “perhaps it is too dangerous to enter the Regina Coeli tomorrow. You might not leave.”

“I can’t stay away, Kaz. I don’t think I could live with myself if I did.”

“You may not live if you do.”

“It’s a helluva spot to be in, isn’t it?” I took in a deep breath, as if a little extra oxygen might help things make sense. “I could stay safe tomorrow and regret it for the rest of my life. Or take the risk and live with the consequences.”

“Perhaps you need some spiritual guidance,” Kaz said. “There is no shortage of that here.”

Kaz was right, but the problem was the guidance went in twenty different directions. Seeing the Vatican up close wasn’t what I’d thought it would be. Instead of a spiritual sanctuary, it seemed more like city hall at election time. Politics and deception, all in the name of the greater good. Monsignor O’Flaherty was a brave and decent guy, but I wondered why there weren’t more like him, and no Bishop Zlatkos at all.

Nini came to sit with us, but I made my excuses and left them to themselves. Or to be alone myself, I guess. I wandered through the gardens, trying to think through everything that might happen tomorrow. That drove me crazy, so I gave it up pretty quickly. I found myself in Saint Peter’s Square, and decided to go into the basilica, uncertain if there’d be another chance.

As before, I was overwhelmed by the sheer size of it. I felt small and insignificant under the grand, high ceilings, and immediately wished I hadn’t entered. I needed to be bucked up, not humbled. I
turned to leave, not finding what I wanted in the holiest of holies. To my left, I saw a sculpture. I recognized it from pictures I’d seen in
Life
magazine. The
Pietà
. Its title meant pity in Italian.

I was drawn to it, even as I tried to make for the door. The white marble gleamed even in the faint interior light. The dead body of Jesus draped across his mother Mary’s lap, her hand raised as if questioning,
Why?

There were no answers here, only sadness and sorrow.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

R
IND
M
ESSINA WAS
right on time, Abe looked good in his new suit, and the gendarmes had not taken me away during the night. I figured we were off to a good start.

“Carry this, me boy,” O’Flaherty said as he placed a Bible in my hands. “You’ll look more the part. And don’t worry about looking a wee bit nervous. No man in his right mind would whistle while he works in that hellhole.”

“Yes,” Rino said. “I am there so often it is easy. But even for the guards, their first time is hard. Strange, yes?”

“Yes, strange,” said Monsignor O’Flaherty, leading Rino out the door before he could tell us more about how the place gives even the guards the willies.

“You sure about this?” Abe asked.

“Sure enough,” I said, trying for a jaunty tone. “We’ll be fine.”

“Good luck, Billy,” Kaz said, shaking my hand. We’d agreed that there was no reason for Kaz to come along, and some danger if he did. Koch had his photograph, and there was no sense in risking his neck on the streets of Rome. “If all goes well, we will dine here with Diana tonight.”

“That sounds grand,” I said, trying for a confidence that didn’t come as easily as I’d wished. Kaz clasped his other hand over mine, and then let go, turning away to stand at the window.

“Now, Billy,” O’Flaherty said as we stood outside in the small
piazza by the German College. “You should prepare yourself. Sister Justina has been held for quite a while. She may have been interrogated. Harshly. There’s simply no way to know what her condition is.”

“I know,” I said. It was all I could say. I knew about Gestapo kitchens. I knew about degradation.

“That’s not what I mean, son,” he said in a whisper. “She may not be able to move under her own power. You will have to judge if it’s safe for all of you to go out if you have to carry her. It may attract too much attention.”

“Judge?” I said. “I can’t judge anything. All I can do is try my damnedest to get her out. I’ll send Rino and Abe out ahead of me if I have to. If there’s any risk.”

“Life is a risk, Billy. God be with you. I will pray to Saint Michael the Archangel for you.”

“Send one up to Saint Jude as well, Monsignor.” Saint Michael, the patron saint of police officers, was the defender of heaven, having chased Satan and the fallen angels into Hell. He was a righteous holy warrior, but I felt closer to Saint Jude, the patron saint of hopeless causes. Michael had strength, but Jude had faith, and there was so much strength deployed against me that faith was all I could count on.

“I will pray to them both,” O’Flaherty said. “I’ll not walk you to the border line. It will be better if you’re not seen with me. Farewell, Billy.”

With that, he was gone. Abe, Rino, and I walked out of the piazza, crossing the white line, not giving the German guards a second look. I clutched the Bible to my chest as we took a hard right onto the Via delle Mura Aurelie, putting distance between us and the cordon of guards. Abe carried Rino’s leather satchel, holding the tools of the barber’s trade.

“It is longer this way,” Rino whispered, glancing around at the few people out on the street. “But fewer
Tedeschi
. Now, no more talk. You pray.”

Fewer Germans and a prayer or two sounded like a fine idea.
Abe walked with his gaze riveted to the sidewalk, as he’d been instructed. We meandered through side streets, the mustard-colored walls leaning toward each other above our heads. Laundry hung damp and motionless from windows, the occasional sound of a baby crying or a child laughing breaking the silence. It was as if the city was holding its breath—for me, for Diana, for all the hidden souls. For liberation. I prayed, but not coherently. It was a begging, the big
all in
, the wager of my soul if only this worked and Diana came out safely.