James Benn - Death

“Brunello di Montalcino,” Kaz said, his eyebrows raised in admiration. “Excellent.”

“And increasingly rare,” D’Arcy said. “The Germans are taking all the best wines from Tuscany. May works wonders at keeping our cellar stocked.”

“He has a clever delivery system,” I said, then took a smaller sip of the wine.

“I don’t know how he does it, and I don’t wish to,” D’Arcy said. “The position of Allied diplomats within the Vatican is precarious. We must not do anything overt to threaten the neutrality of the Holy See. That includes the black market, smuggling food, and hiding those on the run from the Nazis. So, I drink this fine wine in happy ignorance.”

“Leviticus tells us that if a man sins through ignorance, then he shall pay for his trespass a ram without blemish from his flock,” a voice boomed from the hallway. “But I shall settle for some of that lamb being prepared in your kitchen, Sir D’Arcy.”

“Monsignor O’Flaherty,” D’Arcy said, introducing us.

O’Flaherty was dressed in the full monsignor getup, but it didn’t disguise his liveliness. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a thick head of hair that curled down over his forehead. His grin was pleasant, and he shook our hands warmly. His wasn’t what you’d call a handsome face, with a good-sized nose, thin lips, and round glasses giving him an owlish look.

“Father Dalakis,” O’Flaherty said as he took his seat. “I’ve been around this part of the world long enough to have an ear for accents. You’re certainly not Romanian. Polish-born, I’d guess. And you, Father Boyle, a Yank if I ever heard one. But I’d guess your granddad was from the old sod. You’ve got a trace of the brogue right at the edge of your tongue, boy.”

“My grandfather came from County Roscommon,” I said. “Last of his family to survive the Potato Blight.”

“Awful times,” O’Flaherty said, slowly shaking his head, and then flashing a ready smile at D’Arcy. “But out of respect for our English host, we’ll talk of other things. Politics and good food do not mix. My own home is in County Cork, where I’m glad my family is safe from this war.”

The food was brought in, and it smelled a whole lot better than army chow. For the next hour, we feasted on grilled lamb, thick strands of pasta seasoned with cheese and black pepper, green beans and tomatoes, and more of D’Arcy’s wine. O’Flaherty told stories of his assignments for the Vatican in Egypt and Czechoslovakia before the war. He and D’Arcy talked golf, the Irishman being quite the player.

“The monsignor is also a pugilist,” D’Arcy said. “Perhaps you’d like to give him the opportunity to fight a new opponent, Father Boyle. He’s worn out most comers by now.”

“I don’t think I could hit a priest, much less a monsignor,” I said.

“What makes you think you could lay a glove on me, boy? Anyway, in the ring it’s just one man against another. No white collar, no rank. A bit like life, eh? Sometimes you have to leave certainty behind and come out swinging.” He and D’Arcy exchanged looks, and the Englishman stood.

“Gentlemen, I must take your leave. I thought it best if you and Monsignor O’Flaherty met and talked, so as to avoid any confusion in your investigation. He has a rather active organization, and you are bound to cross paths. You may trust him in all things. May will join you shortly.”

“The ambassador keeps things at arm’s length, it seems,” Kaz said after D’Arcy had left.

“Don’t be fooled,” O’Flaherty said. “When I first came to ask for his help, I thought the same thing. He said he didn’t want to know any details, and then called for his butler. I was about to storm out, but I stayed long enough to meet John May. The most artful scrounger you’ll ever come across. Sir D’Arcy also supplies us with large amounts of cash to buy food and pay those who shelter our people. In public, he can truthfully say he knows nothing of our operation.”

“Just who are your people?” I said. “Escaped POWs?”

“There are many of those, mostly British, but a fair number of Americans now, and a scattering of others from the Commonwealth countries. Even a few French colonial troops. This is why we had this little dinner party tonight, so I could brief you about a number of odd things you might stumble across.”

“Such as?”

“We’ve placed many escapees in Rome with families or in vacant buildings. But hundreds are within the Vatican. The Pope has a militia, the Palatine Guard, normally drawn from citizens of Rome. Their ranks are swelled by about three hundred Jews who escaped the roundup in October. They’re housed in the Swiss Guard barracks. We have Italian antifascists who escaped the Nazis and the Fascist secret police after Mussolini fell. Italian officers who fought the Germans before the king fled, and who now have a price on their heads. Jewish converts who thought they were safe, until the roundups began. Aristocrats and deserters, we have them all.”

“How do you feed them?” Kaz asked. “The food situation seems desperate.”

“We are dependent on money from many sources-the church as well as a number of wealthy supporters. We buy on the black market, where John works his magic. Tell me, do you have any idea when the Allies will reach Rome? Liberation is what we really need.”

“No,” I said. “The line around Monte Cassino is still holding, and the troops at Anzio are boxed in. Months, I’d guess.”

“Ah, that’s bad news. Well, nothing we can do about that. Now, how can I help you?”

“Do you have any idea why Monsignor Corrigan was killed?” I asked.

“If it had happened in Rome, outside these walls, I might suspect it had something to do with his other activities.”

“What other activities?” I asked.

“You don’t know? He was in contact with the OSS. His code name was Rudder.”

“Jesus,” I said, taking this in.

“Watch it, boy. That better have been a prayer to heaven. I don’t like to hear the Lord’s name spoken in vain.”

“Sorry. I’ve read reports from Rudder, but had no idea who it was.”

“It makes sense,” Kaz said. “It is a more logical explanation for why we were sent here.”

“Do you know who his contacts were? Did he have a radio?” I asked.

There was a discreet knock and two servants came in to clear away the dishes. One returned with coffee, but O’Flaherty waved him away and poured it himself.

“I only know that there is a radio team somewhere in the city,” he said. The coffee cups were delicate bone china. The coffee was the real thing, hot and bracing. “He’d be gone for a day whenever he had a message to send. They could be anywhere, close by or outside Rome.”

“But he confided in you,” I said. “Did he tell you anything else?”

“No. Two months ago he said he needed to limit his activities with the escapees. He said his other work made it too dangerous, and if the Gestapo got onto him, it could compromise us all. He told me about the code name in case he ever needed to get a message to me, but he never used it.”

“So for the past two months, he hasn’t been active with your organization?”

“No,” O’Flaherty said. “But we’d see each other almost every day, in the normal course of our work. We were friends. I miss his company terribly.”

“Monsignor Bruzzone as well? Is he part of your group?” Kaz asked.

“Yes, has been from the beginning. The three of us were on the first inspection tour of POW camps in the north, mostly around Genoa. We helped the bishop there with Jewish refugees flowing in from Vichy France. Bruzzone and Corrigan worked mainly with them, while I focused on the POWs.”

“That was when you were recalled,” I said.