James Benn - Death

“Truly, there could not be. Commissioner Soletto is pro-fascist, to be sure. You must have been warned about him. But even someone with the opposite viewpoint would have had to do the same. The Lateran Treaty, which outlines these territorial responsibilities, is quite precise. It even delineates exactly where the Italian authority ends: at the bottom of the steps leading into Saint Peter’s Basilica. We struggle constantly to maintain our rights within the treaty, which means the Holy See abides by the exact letter of that document. To do otherwise would be to open up the possibility of abrogation.”

“Which would mean the Germans take over,” Kaz said.

“Yes. Can you imagine? His Holiness taken to the Third Reich for his own protection, or some such nonsense? No, that must be avoided at all costs.”

“Yet you hide escapees and refugees here, on neutral ground,” Kaz said.

“Yes, we do. To do otherwise would be a sin. It is simply a matter of not getting caught! So far, we have not.”

“Does the Pope know about all this?” I asked.

“His Holiness has not told us not to proceed in this manner, and we know he has opened his summer residence at Castel Gandolfo to refugees without regard to religion. The estate is territory of the Vatican State, and many Jewish refugees have found sanctuary there.”

“So you have no direct orders from the Pope, but you think he approves?” Kaz said.

“Yes. He is a good friend to Monsignor Hugh O’Flaherty, the most visible of us. I have witnessed His Holiness looking down on the square from his palace windows, watching Hugh meet escaped POWs and direct them to safety. So, until Pius tells us to stop, we continue. You Americans have a saying, that something is done between a nod and a wink, yes?”

“It’s with a wink and a nod,” I said. “But I understand.”

“A wink and a nod. Yes, that is how we do things. Good.”

“You and Monsignors Corrigan and O’Flaherty worked together visiting POW camps?” I said.

“We did, until we were recalled. Our activities were too enthusiastic for some.”

“I heard you made a bishop look bad?”

“In part, but the real reason was we became involved in rescue efforts with Jewish refugees from France. You see, Italy occupied part of southern France, and the Italian anti-Jewish laws were not as harsh, or as strongly enforced, as the Vichy French laws. When Mussolini fell and the Italian Army withdrew from southern France, many Jews followed into Italy, hoping to avoid deportation. But they had no identity papers and little money. The archbishop of Genoa set up a network to provide funds, shelter, and papers. His Holiness sent money to the bishop to help.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Your POW camp-inspection trip was a cover for that.”

“Yes, very good. It was, but the visits to the camps were important too. Many of the POWs who escaped after the fall of Mussolini remembered our names and came here seeking sanctuary.”

“What happened in Genoa?” Kaz asked.

“We became too visible. The Gestapo began questioning people we came into contact with. Our Vatican passports protected us, but not the other clergy in Genoa. So we turned over our funds to the Delegation for the Assistance of Jewish Emigrants, an underground group doing good work, especially with children.”

“Did the Gestapo know about Corrigan?” I asked, wondering if this had been a revenge hit.

“Yes, they questioned all of us. Politely, of course, given our diplomatic status. They said they were concerned about our safety, given the Jewish and Communist bandits who were running loose. The usual lies, but we understood the meaning.”

“What about here in Rome?” I asked, fishing for information about Diana. “Has the Gestapo been arresting clergy?”

“Father Boyle, there are many priests and nuns at the mercy of the Nazis. Little is ever heard of those taken.” Bruzzone lit another cigarette, flicking the lighter shut with a click, blowing smoke to the ceiling.

“If a member of the clergy is taken into custody, you are not informed? The Vatican, I mean.”

“If the person holds a Vatican passport, yes. But of the thousands of priests, nuns, and monks in Rome, very few do. Unless it was brought to the attention of Cardinal Maglione-he is the secretary of state for the Holy See-nothing could be done. Even then…” He ended with an eloquent lift of the shoulders. Who is to know?

“Is there anything else you can tell us about Father Corrigan?” Kaz asked.

“Nothing other than stories of his goodness. But in the morning, I will show you to his room. Perhaps you will find something there to help.”

“Didn’t Soletto have it searched?” I asked.

“No, he thought it not necessary. I had it locked and kept the key. No one has been in since the murder. I will show you tomorrow, but now I will escort you to dinner with Sir D’Arcy. To be sure you do not take a wrong turn and end up in the hands of the Nazis.”

“You are well informed as to our plans,” Kaz said.

“It is important to be well informed. It could save your life.” Bruzzone crushed out his cigarette and stood, donning his cloak.

“We need to speak to Soletto, or at least the officer in charge of the investigation,” I said. “Even if he’s an informer.”

“One thing you would do well to remember: Trust no one until you know which side they are on, and then keep your own counsel if they are not friendly. The Vatican City State may be neutral, but the great majority who live here are Italians. Many welcomed Mussolini and his Fascist Party and were glad to see them in power instead of the Communists. Some wish he would return, and hope for a German victory. Be very careful.”

“Would any of them kill for their cause?” I asked.

“We of the clergy have more experience as martyrs than murderers. But both welcome death, do they not? Follow me.”

With that cheery thought, we followed the monsignor out into the cold evening air.

“Sir d’Arcy Osborne, Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to the Holy See,” May intoned. Gone was the playful smile. Dressed in a dark suit and wearing white gloves, he bowed slightly as he introduced us.

“Sir D’Arcy,” Kaz said, more comfortable with the ways of the upper class than I was. “Thank you for inviting us.”

“Ah, Father Dalakis, I assume, from the accent. And Father Boyle. Welcome.” We shook hands all around. May disappeared to do some butlering as D’Arcy led us into the dining room. Bruzzone had delivered us to the Hospice Santa Marta, a short walk from our rooms, but a world away. It was like stepping into an elegant London flat. The furniture was heavy and plush, the curtains thick, and the candelabras gleaming. There was a framed portrait of the king, but I think it was Sir D’Arcy himself who made it feel like a bit of old England. His receding hair was fine and light, his cheekbones high, and his posture perfect. Unlike Brackett’s, D’Arcy’s three-piece suit looked new and well tailored. His shoes were shined and I’d bet there were no holes in his socks.

“Forgive me if I do not ask about your journey,” D’Arcy said as we sat at a table set for four. “I’m sure it was terrible, and that you can tell me little for security reasons.”

“Right on both counts,” I said. “Speaking of security, how many people do you think know we’re here?”

“Quite a few, but let’s discuss all that after dinner. Our other guest should be here soon.”

May entered and poured wine for us. D’Arcy sniffed it and held it up to the light, as if he knew what he was doing. He tasted it, and nodded his approval to May. I took a slug and realized this wasn’t the sort of vino I’d been drinking in Italy. They must have been hiding all the good stuff in Rome.