James Benn - Death

“Kaz, snoop around and find out who’s in charge of keys around here. There’s got to be somebody who hands them out and keeps track of them.”

“Do you think someone planted the diamond?”

The wind whipped our cassocks against our legs and sent the spray from a nearby fountain across our path as we made our way back to the German College.

“Could be,” I said. “But first I’d like to know if there are other keys floating around out there. If there are, then the field is wide open. If not, it’s more likely Corrigan had the diamond, which would establish a relationship between him and Severino Rossi.”

“But the diamond could be for anything,” Kaz said. “A gift, or to buy food for other refugees. It does not mean Monsignor Corrigan was corrupt.”

“You’re right. Gems make for great portable currency. Easily hidden, always valuable. Nothing wrong in Corrigan having them, but it does link him to Rossi, which is something we didn’t have before.”

“Right. I will go back to the palace and see if there is a porter who may know about the keys. Where will you be?”

“Wherever Monsignor O’Flaherty is,” I said.

I found him right where the nuns at the German College said he’d be-at the top step leading up to Saint Peter’s Basilica, not far from Death’s Door. He wasn’t hard to spot, with his red-and-black monsignor’s outfit and wide-brimmed hat, not to mention his tall, athletic frame. He held an open Bible in his hands, his head bowed, but as I approached I could see his eyes traveling across the square, scanning the thin crowd.

“Good morning, Father Boyle,” O’Flaherty said. “What can I do for you?” His eyes flickered in my direction, then shifted to the people wandering through the square, glancing occasionally at the German paratroopers patrolling the white demarcation line.

“Waiting for someone, Monsignor?” I asked, avoiding his question for now.

“In a manner of speaking, yes. I wait here for two hours every day, in case some weary traveler needs my help. The time and place are known to those in Rome who help us, and they send the poor souls my way.”

“How many have come your way?”

“Hundreds. More, most likely, if I gave in to the sin of pride and kept count.”

“Are they all hidden within the Vatican?” I asked, as a cold breeze snapped at our cassocks.

“Oh no, they’d be hanging out the windows, Father Boyle. We bring them in, feed and clothe them, and then take them to safe houses in the city. As safe as can be, at least.”

“How do you feed them all? It must be tough.”

“That it is. We have couriers who bring money to the families who are hiding prisoners and to the religious houses that have taken in refugees and escapees. It’s a dangerous business, to be sure.”

“Monsignor, I have to ask you something, and I can’t explain much about it.” I hoped O’Flaherty wouldn’t ask too many questions. I trusted him, but it was dangerous for too many people to be in on this secret.

“Go ahead, son. No reason you shouldn’t add to the mysteries of the world.”

“Is there a Sister Justina among those who help you?” That was the name Diana used, taken from a nun she’d met from Brindisi who had taught her the local dialect.

“Ah, so that is why you are so curious about any nuns who have been arrested, is it?”

“Yes, Monsignor.” I didn’t know what else to say. I needed O’Flaherty’s help, but I couldn’t explain why. It wouldn’t make sense anyway, and he might think it too dangerous to take a chance on a phony priest he’d just met.

“You are a spy, Billy.” He said it softly and simply. Not an accusation, merely a statement.

“I am not who I say I am, yes. But within these walls, I don’t think of myself as a spy.”

“Outside, the Germans would. And they would shoot you for it.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Of course. Any spy would be aware of the consequences.” He let the words hang there, his gaze fixed on mine. He knew. Maybe not the details, but he knew. Which I didn’t mind, since there was no pity in his eyes, which meant Diana was not dead. Yet.

“I love her,” I said, whispering as if in the confessional. “Tell me how I can help her.”

“Do you now, lad? Really love her? In this time of killing and desecration, you hold love in your heart? Or is it guilt, or lust, or any of those other terrible sins that drive men?”

“Monsignor, I was brought up to respect the Church and those who serve her,” I said, barely containing the fury building within me. “But even given your faith and your good works, who are you to question me like that?”

“A poor sinner who wonders at his own motivations, late at night, when sleep won’t come, when I wonder if my actions have caused others to suffer and die.” O’Flaherty rubbed his eyes, as he must have done in those small hours of the morning, awake with his thoughts. “Do you ever have such thoughts, Billy?”

“No,” I said. “What keeps me awake is the thought that I might not do enough, or worse yet, nothing at all. Maybe it is guilt.”

“Not at all, lad. Guilt is for what you’ve done in the past. Fear is what you suffer from now. Fear of what may come, regardless of your efforts.”

“What I fear most may have already happened.”

“No, it hasn’t,” O’Flaherty said in a low voice that the wind nearly carried off. “Look there, do you see that fellow in the brown coat and cap?”

I was dumbstruck, wanting to ask more, but his voice held an urgency that I couldn’t resist. I followed his gaze and spotted the man amidst a crowd of older women.

“Yes,” I said. “Are you sure, about Sister Justina?”

“Later,” he said.

We watched as the man in the brown coat detached himself from the group and wandered close to one of the Swiss Guard at his post near the bronze doors. The guard looked up toward Monsignor O’Flaherty, and the man headed our way.

“Another guest,” O’Flaherty said. “The Swiss Guard are under orders to turn away anyone seeking asylum. Which they do, following their orders to the letter. They also mention that they may wish to return during the times I stand here, to gather them in.”

“You know how to walk a fine line, Monsignor.”

“It’s all about having friends in high places who can adjust the line when needed.” He raised his eyes and looked at the Papal Palace, rising above the north side of the colonnade. I caught a glance of a figure in white, standing at an open window. Then he was gone.

“Was that the Pope?” I asked.

“His Holiness himself,” O’Flaherty said. “He watches me most days. We both act the part of the careful shepherd. You need a haircut. Come to my room tonight. Rino will give you a trim.”

“What? Wait-”

O’Flaherty flashed a grin as he descended the steps to greet the guy in the brown coat, steering him through the Arch of the Bells to a safe haven. I wondered if I could bring Diana to safety as well, get her to neutral territory. Anywhere but in the Regina Coeli. It seemed possible, now that O’Flaherty confirmed she was alive, and I was so close. I needed to find the right way in. As for the haircut, I had no idea what O’Flaherty’s game was. But I’d play it, that I knew for sure.

Thoughts of Diana preyed on my mind as I stood looking out over the square and down the long avenue that led to the Tiber River. All I had to do was head that way, take a right, and in a few minutes I could knock on the prison door. Or walk under the windows, calling for Sister Justina. Foolish thoughts, but they were all I had.

A prayer wouldn’t hurt, I thought, as I walked into Saint Peter’s Basilica. Saint Jude, the patron saint of lost causes and long shots, might give a listen if I sent up a prayer from here. Inside, it was another world. Hushed. Magnificent. Huge. Marble floors that reflected like glass, statues and paintings adorned with gold. I walked along the nave, watching two German officers, cameras around their necks, consulting a guidebook and speaking in whispers as they stood at the Chapel of the Pieta. The sculpture of Mary, with the body of Jesus draped across her lap, silenced even the conquerors. I had to pull myself away from that terrible beauty of a woman mourning her son and move on, not liking to be so close to my enemies, even here, in the safest of sanctuaries. Or was it death that drew my eye?