James Benn - Death

I came closer to the tomb of Saint Peter, if I remembered my Sunday school lessons right. It was in front of the massive Papal Altar, with four black-and-gold curved columns reaching to the ceiling under the great dome. At that moment, sunlight streamed in from the windows at the base of the dome, lighting the people standing underneath, bathing them in luminous brilliance. I spotted Kaz, shoulder to shoulder with Princess Nini, their necks craned as they studied the altar.

I wasn’t as close as I’d thought. The scale of the basilica threw me off as the vastness and grandeur of the building overwhelmed my senses. Kaz and the princess were tiny, as if they were miles away, or was it a trick of the light? I looked up to the ceiling and the room swirled around me, the colors thick and heavy, the weight of centuries pressing on me. I covered my eyes and looked again, and Kaz was still distant, mingling and disappearing into a crowd as clouds killed the sunlight, turning the interior into a cold, gray murkiness.

I left the holy place as if it spit me out.

I sat on the cold steps, my head in my hands. Something terrible had happened to Diana, I was sure of it. It wasn’t the Pieta, or the Germans, or the dazzling light. It was a scream in my brain, and I was certain where it was coming from.

The Regina Coeli.

I wandered through the gardens, making my way back to the German College. My brain was in high gear trying to figure some angle that would get Diana out of that damned prison. But this wasn’t my town and I had less pull here than a hooker in a monastery.

“Father Boyle,” said a voice from behind. I nearly jumped out of my skin. It was Robert Brackett, the American deputy charge d’affaires. I didn’t like being surprised, especially by a heavy-footed civilian. Stay focused, I told myself. Diana worried me, a lot. But I needed to worry about a murder as well. Not to mention the murderer.

“Out for a walk, Mr. Brackett?”

“I was looking for you, actually. You asked about seeing Soletto.”

“Right,” I said. I’d forgotten we’d asked Brackett to arrange that, since he seemed less than enthusiastic about our investigation. “You have any news?”

“Yes, he’s agreed. I had to go through the Pontifical Commission for the Vatican City State,” Brackett said, knocking ashes from his pipe and tucking it into a pocket of his rumpled suit.

“That’s a mouthful,” I said, pleasantly surprised at Brackett’s sudden interest.

“It did take some talking. The commission is the executive branch of the Vatican government, and they take any hint of a violation to their sovereignty very seriously. But given the severity of the crime, they approved it, with one restriction.”

“What’s that?”

“A representative of the commission must be present at all times, to insure that the rights and privileges of the Vatican City State are respected. That’s an exact quote, by the way.”

“So who’s my minder?”

“Bishop Krunoslav Zlatko. I’m not sure if they did us any favors with that one,” Brackett said.

“Why?”

We sat on a bench near a grove of small pines as the wind swayed the branches, creating a sound like waves on the shore. But Brackett didn’t look like he was having a day at the beach.

“Zlatko is here as the representative of Archbishop Ivan saric in Sarajevo, Yugoslavia,” he said, as if that explained everything. “Or, as he’d insist, in Croatia. Zlatko is one of the Ustashi. You know what they are?”

“Yeah,” I said, remembering what Sterling Hayden and his Partisans had told me. “Killers.”

“There are a lot of killers these days,” Brackett said. “The Ustashi are a fanatical Croatian militia. They hate Serbs, Jews, and the Eastern Orthodox Church with equal passion. They’ve killed thousands, tens of thousands, maybe more. As you can imagine, precise information is hard to come by.”

“My guide to justice within the Vatican is one of them? Is that someone’s idea of a joke?”

“It may well be,” Brackett said. “There are factions within factions among the cardinals. Some support the Croatian state and the Ustashi as a bulwark against Communism. They hate Tito and Stalin, and the feeling is mutual. If a strong Catholic state gets created out of the ruins of Yugoslavia, then they figure the godless Marxists can be held at bay.”

“So thousands of bodies are a small price to pay?”

“Yes. Especially when the bodies don’t contain Catholic souls. The Croatian government has a policy of dealing in thirds. One third of the Serbs to be driven out, one third to be forcibly converted to the Roman Catholic Church, and one third to be killed. There are cardinals within the Holy See who consider it a bargain.”

“Let me guess. Those are the same cardinals who would not care for the work Corrigan was doing with Bruzzone and O’Flaherty,” I said.

“Now you’re getting the hang of how things work around here. But Bruzzone has eased up a bit on the cloak-and-dagger stuff. He hasn’t left the Holy See for months.”

“Are the police on the lookout for him?”

“That’s what I figure. Word must have gotten around. O’Flaherty himself takes to a disguise now and then, so he won’t be recognized visiting his safe houses.”

“These guys deserve a medal,” I said.

Brackett shrugged, as if their work was nothing remarkable. “Now don’t expect Zlatko to be a big help. Of course, the official line is that he speaks good English and Italian, and since he doesn’t know the people involved, he can be fair to all sides-your need to investigate, the Vatican’s desire for secrecy. Say, you happen to have any cigarettes?”

“No, I don’t smoke. Does this have the Pope’s approval?”

“All this goes on within the Pontifical Commission and the Secretariat of State. Pius is above it all, or so he lets the world think. Different factions vie for dominance, and meanwhile people die while we sit in this pleasant garden.”

“That’s the way of the world,” I said, not wanting to get drawn into Vatican politics. It wasn’t a fight I could win, and I didn’t want to end up like Brackett, bemoaning my fate to whoever would listen and bumming smokes. “Right now I’m only interested in one dead person, and that’s Monsignor Corrigan. If it takes an Ustashi bishop to get me to Soletto, then so be it.”

“Only trying to give you the lay of the land, Boyle. You wanted to see Soletto, go see him. You’ll find Zlatko in the Governatorato building. I’ve done my bit, now you do the rest. Jeez, what I wouldn’t give for a Lucky Strike.”

I left Brackett on the bench, content he’d done his duty, dreaming of American cigarettes. I made my way beneath the shadow of Saint Peter’s and went in the front entrance of the Governatorato this time. A gendarme at the door directed me to Zlatko’s office and I walked between large pillars, across the marble emblem of the Vatican on the floor, the crossed keys of Saint Peter gleaming up at me. Yesterday we’d been snuck in the side door, and today I was on my way to see a bishop. Funny how quickly I’d become accustomed to the place, confident in my false identity, at home with the solemnity. Everything about the Vatican was majestic, constructed to an enormous scale, one measured by centuries and souls. It felt natural to bow my head as I walked, to give deference to the art, beauty, and order all around me. Maybe it was being brought up as an altar boy. More likely it was my desire for a place of peace and calm amidst the world at war. Either way, it wasn’t the right move. If there was a killer prowling the holy grounds, I needed my eyes up and wide open. I needed to be afraid, not awed.