Death's Door (30 page)

“Gentlemen, I have no time to chat. I have a radio address in five minutes.” He walked faster, and we matched his pace.

“Colonel Remke sends his greetings,” I said. Zlatko kept his head
down, but the tip of his shoe caught on the gravel and he almost lost his balance.

“I do not know of anyone by that name,” he said. He seemed short of breath. Lying is hard work.

“I’m sorry, I meant to say Rudder. You know, the German agent you’ve been feeding information to. In violation of the Holy See’s neutral status.”

“How dare you!” Zlatko stopped and faced us.

“Interesting that you want to get rid of me as an Allied agent, when all along you’re working for the Nazis. Gives neutrality a bad name.”

“Where did you come up with this fairy tale?” Zlatko said, his chin held high. He must’ve been practicing the Mussolini look.

“Colonel Erich Remke. Today, while we were lunching at the Excelsior Hotel. You should try it. Or maybe you have? It’s the German military headquarters; you’d feel right at home.”

That got to him. His eyes widened and he didn’t deny it. I could see him calculating the value of the truth versus a lie. “Yes, I have been in contact with the colonel,” he said, giving up the charade. “I will do whatever it takes to protect the church against the godless Bolsheviks.”

“But the struggle against Communism didn’t preclude you from hedging your bets with Brackett, did it? You tried to tell him you were a double agent, to be on the winning side when the Fifth Army rolls into Rome. Did you threaten him? Tell him you’d reveal his connection to Rudder, and have him expelled from the Holy See?”

“What could that weakling do for me?”

“He could put in writing that you were working for the Allies,” Kaz said, his eyes latched onto Zlatko’s. “Then you could murder him, perhaps as you murdered the others.”

Zlatko flinched. “I am not a murderer,” he said. It came out slowly, as if he wished he’d thought of killing Brackett and was kicking himself for it.

“But you did get a letter from him,” I said.

“I do possess evidence that I provided information to the Allies,” Zlatko said, working the Mussolini chin move again.

“I’m sure that will come in handy when the Pope sends you back to Croatia. You can show it to the Soviets. You’ll need to at your trial for war crimes.”

“Where did you hear that?” Zlatko asked, apparently not in a hurry to get closer to the Russian front.

“I have connections,” I said. “Tell you what, you do me a favor and I’ll do one for you. Get me a list of informers within the Vatican. Anyone feeding the Germans or the Italian secret police information. By first thing tomorrow. Then I’ll put in a good word for you.”

“That is impossible,” Zlatko said. “There are informers everywhere. How am I expected to know them all? This is Rome, for God’s sake!”

“Then it should be easy. Start with the Germans. That may be enough. Come up with the goods and I’ll fix it so you stay in Rome.”

“But how can I—”

“Aren’t you late for your broadcast, Bishop?” Kaz said. We walked away, leaving him to return to his calculations. This time it was the value of cooperation versus confrontation. The way I had Zlatko figured, if cooperation would save his hide, I’d have names by sunset.

“Good play,” I said to Kaz. “How’d you come up with that bit about the letter?”

“It occurred to me that such a document would be very useful, especially if the person who wrote it could not retract it at a later date. I had been thinking how your Colonel Remke was quite smart to only request a letter acknowledging receipt of his peace offering. It requires little commitment while at the same time attaching importance to the document.”

“Let’s talk to Brackett and see what he has to say.”

“That should make Zlatko call off the proceedings to have us removed from the Holy See,” Kaz said as we crossed the gardens and descended to the Governatorato. “Was that why you wanted to question him?”

“Partly. If word gets around he’s naming names, we may stir things up a bit.”

“So Zlatko is the scapegoat, staked out for the killer?”

“Wouldn’t sacrificial lamb be a better description, since he’s a man of the cloth?”

“Either way,” Kaz said, “he is an excellent choice.”

We found Brackett in his office. His desk was a mass of papers and he had a drink in his hand, getting a head start on the cocktail hour. He offered us a drink but we declined. I wouldn’t have minded a belt, but I didn’t like drinking with a guy who did it to pass the time. That sort of thing ended in a fistfight, blubbery tears, or worse yet, both. I wasn’t in the mood.

“We came to warn you,” I said. I remembered what Monsignor O’Flaherty had said about letting Brackett down easy, so I decided a white lie would do. “The Rudder network has been turned.”

“Why tell me?” Brackett said, pouring himself another brandy.

“Because we know you’re one of Rudder’s agents. It’s something we stumbled onto during the course of the investigation. I thought you’d want to know.”

Brackett went for his pipe, fiddled with it for a moment, then tossed it down on the desk. “All right,” he said. “How long has it been compromised?”

“It happened two days ago. When’s the last time you made contact?”

“Four days ago. Whenever I have something to report, I walk along the border at nine o’clock in the morning, circling the Bernini colonnades. Enrico—that’s my contact’s code name—comes into the piazza.”

“Enrico may not know,” I said. “Stay away from him, all right?”

“Sure,” Brackett said. “You certain about this?”

“It has been confirmed,” Kaz said. “You have been of great service. You are to be commended.”

“It saved my life, I’ll tell you that,” Brackett said, a regretful sigh escaping his lips. “This place is a prison at best, a lunatic asylum at worst. It has broken some people, you know. The Peruvian minister
disappeared one day, vanished. The Honduran drank himself to death—in my opinion, mainly from being cooped up with his wife.”

“What was the last thing you reported to Enrico?” I asked.

“The status of your investigation. He said Rudder wanted to be informed. I figured we’re all on the same side, so it wouldn’t matter. Right?”

“Well, it’s hardly top-secret stuff. What else?”

“Oh, Soletto and Bishop Zlatko, that sort of thing.”

“What do you mean?” Kaz asked.

“Listen, I didn’t mean to do anything wrong,” Brackett said, finishing off his drink and topping off the glass from a brandy bottle.

“The letter,” Kaz prompted him.

“Right, the letter. How did you find out? Oh, never mind. Anyway, I didn’t want to chance it that Zlatko would really blow my cover. So I gave him the letter. I said he was a valued Allied agent, that sort of thing. Only, Soletto found out.”

“What?” Kaz and I both said at the same time. This was news.

“Yeah,” Brackett said, slurping his brandy and smacking his lips. “He sent for me, and waved the carbon copy under my nose.”

“You kept a copy on file?”

“That’s what we do here. Type things in triplicate. I never thought—well, let’s just leave it at that.”

“What did Soletto want?”

“Information. The usual. He also hinted that by not turning me in for violating Vatican neutrality, he was helping the Allied cause. Sort of like Zlatko, who thought it was amusing when I told him. Blackmail and patriotism all rolled up in a nice, neat package. But the joke was on Soletto. Can’t say I was sorry to see him go.” Brackett raised his glass, drank, and then studied the remaining amber swirl. It required all his attention.

“Well, you’re certainly a brave man,” I said.

“Oh, it wasn’t so dangerous,” Brackett said. “Wait a minute, what do you mean?”

“Now that Soletto is dead, you’re the only one who knows the letter is a fake. Sure, you had to write it to protect your cover, but it
puts you in a tough spot. Zlatko could get in a lot of trouble if you rescinded it.”

“You don’t mean Bishop Zlatko would harm me?”

“Not harm,” Kaz said. “Murder.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Brackett said, swallowing a slug of brandy and slamming down the glass. “He’s not a bad guy, really.” He poured another, determined to talk himself into believing that one.

We left the Governatorato, feeling a lot less sympathetic toward Brackett than when we arrived. Now we knew Zlatko had a motive for shutting up Soletto. Maybe Brackett did too, but he’d probably been halfway through a brandy bottle when Soletto took a knife to his heart.

“An odd man,” Kaz said. “Tragic, the way he took to being sealed in here. Even in a POW camp, you at least have your comrades. He is the only American here.”

“And not a Catholic, either,” I said. “FDR was sensitive about the anti-Catholic vote, so he made sure the diplomats posted here were Protestant. He was alone in many ways. Not surprising he leapt at the chance for excitement and a break from the bottle.”

“Are you sure he didn’t take up other hobbies, such as murder?”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t seem the type.”

“You told me once that there was no type when it came to murder, that anyone could be a killer,” Kaz said. We stopped in front of a small church tucked under the shadow of Saint Peter’s grand dome. The façade was plain, a muted rusty color that needed attention. It looked like it could barely accommodate a small-scale South Boston wedding.

“Yeah, but it depends on the state they’re in. I’m sure Brackett could be pushed to murder, but it would have to be over something he cares about. The only thing that’s going to get him excited is a break from monotony or an unopened case of brandy. So right now, he’s not the type, he’s too morose and self-involved. Just like this little church could never be a basilica, Brackett may dance around the edges of spying and a bit of danger, but it’s not his world. He’s simply not a dangerous man.”

“Still,” Kaz said, “it is a pretty church. Ninth century, if I recall. Back when a man would kill at the slightest provocation.”

“Yeah, well maybe Corrigan insulted his alma mater. Let’s pay Inspector Cipriano a visit.”

The Gendarmerie Office was only a few steps away, and we found Cipriano in his office, holding a telephone and nodding. He occasionally opened his mouth as if to speak, but that was as far as it went. He gestured vaguely at chairs in front of his desk, then held the telephone away from his mouth as he struck a match and lit a cigarette. Fortunately, I’d never risen high enough in the ranks at the Boston PD to endure a call like that, but I’d seen plenty. Someone high up was shoveling a mountain of trouble down Cipriano’s way.

“Please, do not ask if I have found the missing rochet,” Cipriano said, hanging up the telephone with more emphasis than was necessary. “I have done nothing but listen to clergymen complain about being questioned.”

“No luck at all?” I asked.

“
Sfortuna
. But I did find this,” he said, tossing a sheet of paper across his desk. The carbon copy of Brackett’s letter to Zlatko.

“We know about it,” Kaz said. “Brackett felt pressured by Bishop Zlatko.”

“The good bishop is practiced at pressure,” Cipriano said. “It was he who complained the loudest about my search. Keep the letter. Better yet, burn it. Signore Brackett does not deserve to get in trouble with his government because of a man like Zlatko.”

“That’s decent of you, Inspector.”

“Any chance to act decently these days should be grasped with
vigore
,” Cipriano said. “I was a Rome policeman before I joined the Vatican force. I left behind the hard choices that my colleagues had to make during the past years: serve the Fascists or suffer the consequences. I sat out the war, much like Signore Brackett, within these walls, tending to small matters. So I am glad to do one decent thing for him.”

“Nothing new on the knife?”

“All I have are more questions and a headache,” Cipriano said,
rubbing his temples with his fingers. “For instance, I found something odd in the
commissario
’s report about Severino Rossi, the refugee charged with Monsignor Corrigan’s murder.”

“What?”

“Correspondence with Regina Coeli, requesting that the prisoner not be turned over to the
Tedeschi
for transport. You know what transport means for Jews, yes?”

“Death camps,” Kaz said. “But why is that surprising? It is a case of murder. Wouldn’t Soletto and the Rome police want the suspect kept here?”

“The only police left serving in Rome are the worst of the Fascists,” Cipriano said. “Commissario Soletto himself said they would do us a favor by putting a bullet in Rossi’s head. They would be glad to oblige, too. Especially Pietro Koch and his gang. But the odd thing is that this request was made the day after the murder.”

“As if Soletto had thought things over and changed his mind,” I said.

“Yes,
esattamente
,” Cipriano said. “Why would he do that? He was not sympathetic to Jews. Or anyone.”

“Because Rossi had some value to him,” I said.

“Rossi knew who the real killer was?” Kaz suggested.

“He did not name anyone,” Cipriano said.

“You saw him yourself, that night?”

“Yes. It was early morning by the time I arrived. They were just taking him away. He seemed disoriented, perhaps in shock. One often sees this after a violent crime.”

“Did he say anything to the Swiss Guard who found him? He must have shaken Rossi awake, right?”

“He was not coherent. And it was not a Swiss Guard who found him,” Cipriano said.

“That’s what was in the report,” I said.

“Ah, the official report, from this office,” Cipriano said. “The one kept under lock and key.” He was enjoying himself.

“Well, we know how much good keys do around here,” I said. “Who found him, then?”

“Your American friend, Robert Brackett. His name was kept out of the written report.”

“Why?”

“Because Signore Brackett was returning from the bedroom of a lady. A married lady, at that. Her husband, one of the South American diplomats housed here, was elsewhere, likely sharing a different bedroom with another man’s wife. These diplomats, they have nothing to do all day, so they find much to do in darkness.”