James Benn - Death

“Just curious, Monsignor. We might get lucky and find that Severino Rossi is still in custody.”

“Well, if he is, he’s in the Regina Coeli. Going in isn’t the problem. Getting out is.”

“Are they holding any priests or nuns there? It might give us an excuse to visit and look for him.”

O’Flaherty looked at me, studying my face. He seemed to be weighing the risk of sharing information with me. Which meant he had information. “Leave that to me, will you?” O’Flaherty said, holding my eye with a steady gaze. “It’s a soup I don’t want too many cooks stirring.”

“Excuse me,” came an urgent whisper from the doorway. “Monsignor, I must speak with you.” A woman stood in the shadowed darkness of the hallway, where all I could see was her face. It was enough. Wide, dark pupils beneath elegantly arched eyebrows. High cheekbones setting off lips as red as a cardinal’s robe. She stepped forward hesitantly. We all stood, but Kaz positively snapped to attention as if a four-star general had walked into the room.

“Gentlemen, this is Princess Nini Pallavicini,” O’Flaherty said, introducing us after she’d whispered an urgent report to him.

“I heard you had arrived,” she said with the slightest Italian accent. “Welcome to our little cabal.” She wore a beret and a raincoat, with water beaded on her slim shoulders. She held out her hand, and I shook it, unsure of the protocol. Kaz wasn’t.

“Baron Piotr Augustus Kazimierz,” he said, taking her hand in his and giving a little bow, his heels snapping, his lips brushing the air above her small, delicate hand. “Currently serving as a lieutenant with the Polish Army in Exile. Charmed, Princess.”

“What sort of secret agent are you, Baron, to give me your real name?” She let go of Kaz’s hand after a few seconds of graceful hesitation.

“Forgive me,” he said. “Father Dalakis will return in a moment. But I could not bring myself to lie to a princess.”

“What interesting visitors you have, Monsignor,” she said, her eyes lingering on Kaz. “But I must take you away from them. We have a problem. Is John about? I need some supplies.”

“Yes,” O’Flaherty said. “Go find him and I’ll be with you in a minute.”

“A princess in the Vatican?” I asked as she left the room.

“Princess Nini Pallavicini comes from one of Rome’s oldest aristocratic families,” O’Flaherty said. “Her husband was a fighter pilot, killed over Sicily. She was involved in the antifascist uprising after Mussolini was deposed. When the Germans took Rome, the Gestapo came to arrest her, and she escaped by jumping out a second-story window and making her way here. I gave her sanctuary, and she has been a great help to our cause.” O’Flaherty rose and donned his cape. “But I must leave you now. An emergency. Please find me tomorrow morning and we’ll sort out your visit to Soletto.”

“One question, Monsignor,” Kaz said. “Does the princess harbor any ill will toward the Allies for her husband’s death?”

“No. She reserves that for the Nazis and the Fascists.”

“Good,” Kaz said.

“Do you think we will see the princess today, Billy?”

“I don’t know, Kaz,” I said. “If I spot her, you’ll be the first to know.”

It was the third time that morning he’d asked the same question. Most guys, head over heels for a dame, walk around with their heads in the clouds and spout the goofiest stuff. I’ve done it myself, but at least I knew I sounded like an idiot. Kaz didn’t have a clue.

“I wish I were not pretending to be a priest,” he said, running his finger around the white collar as if he wanted to rip it off.

“I’d settle for you pretending to be a detective,” I muttered as we walked up a gently sloping path in the gardens behind Saint Peter’s. If Kaz heard me, he was too distracted to pay me any mind. I couldn’t begrudge him a romance, anyway. Not after what he’d been through. Horror, loss, sorrow. A little joy would do him good. I wouldn’t mind some myself.

After last night’s conversation, I was sure Father O’Flaherty knew more than he wanted to tell me about priests and nuns held by the Gestapo. I was also sure he was the careful sort, and wouldn’t spill unless he had a good reason to. A cautious type like Brackett might think him a loose cannon, but to me he seemed a decent guy. If all else failed, I could always try the truth. Might even work.

“I wonder what the trouble was last night?” Kaz said. “When the princess came in, I mean.” As if there was another topic of conversation.

“Let’s ask when we’re done searching Corrigan’s room,” I said. “I need to get more out of him.”

“About Diana?”

“Yes.” Was she still in a Gestapo cell, dead, or on her way to a concentration camp? I didn’t like any of the choices, but at least I’d have a shot if she were still alive and in Rome.

We walked in silence, passing an ancient church, tiny in the looming shadow of Saint Peter’s, sandstone wall the color of rust. Skirting the Governatorato, we passed the gardener’s house. The fellow with the ample mustache wasn’t in sight, but the woman who had peeked from behind the curtains yesterday was. She stood outside with two small children. A cloth sack hung from one shoulder, her arm supporting the weight of it. The kids, a boy and a girl, maybe five and six years old, played on the lawn while the woman kept watch, glancing in every direction, averting her eyes after she spotted us. As she turned away, the sack slipped from her shoulder and the contents spilled to the ground. Tins of food. Cheese and a small salami. She scooped them into the bag and called her children into the house.

“She looks wary,” I said. “Even here.”

“That is probably how she stayed alive,” Kaz said. “And kept her children with her.” There was a chill in the air, but the sun was bright and the grass still green and lush. The boy and the girl looked like children the world over, playing without a care, satisfied with the moment at hand. Their mother stood hawk-like, ready to defend her young with her last ounce of energy.

We circled around the basilica, crossed a small square, and came to the Medieval Palace, where Monsignor Bruzzone was due to meet us. He’d told us exactly where to wait, which was good since the buildings all ran into one another here. The Sistine Chapel, the Pope’s living quarters in the Apostolic Palace, and the Medieval Palace were all connected by passageways and corridors. They didn’t look like palaces, but more like government architecture from the last century jammed together at all the wrong angles.

“Here, Fathers,” Bruzzone called from an archway leading into one of the buildings. We crossed a small piazza as he spoke to a Swiss Guard at the entrance. The guard stood aside to let us pass. “Buongiorno,” Bruzzone said as he patted the shoulder of the guard in his gray field uniform. For the duration of the war, the Swiss Guard had traded in their colorful striped outfits for a more modern look.

“You and Monsignor O’Flaherty both seem on good terms with the Swiss Guard,” I said.

“Yes, with all our activities, it pays to know them by name,” Bruzzone said, pushing back his thick black hair from his forehead. “I also minister to them spiritually. Tell me, did you have an enjoyable dinner last night?”

“Quite,” Kaz said. I wondered if he was going to describe the virtues of Princess Nini Pallavicini for the monsignor, but he held back. “You have an interesting circle of friends, Monsignor.”

“To say the least, Father. Here, this way.” Bruzzone led us down a narrow, arched corridor. Marble columns lined the passageway, lit by ornate brass chandeliers, giving the stone a soft, warm glow at odds with the sudden chill that settled upon us once we were out of the sun. “The next building is the Apostolic Palace, which you may have heard of. It is where His Holiness lives.”