James Benn - Death

As I arrived at Zlatko’s door, I tried to shake the cobwebs from my mind. Diana wasn’t far away, I reminded myself, and she was hardly calm and at peace. Corrigan was very far away, maybe at peace, who really knew? Here, something corrupt lurked beneath the surface. I had to protect myself from being lulled by sanctity and Renaissance architecture. I took a deep breath, and knocked.

Opening the door, I braced myself to see a stern-faced monster, a fanatic Croatian fresh from the crusades. That wasn’t what the petite guy behind the desk looked like at all.

“Ah, you must be the American,” Zlatko said, in a delicate, airy voice, as if he might break into song at any moment. He set his pen down and invited me to sit. The room was plain-a wooden desk, a couple of chairs, a picture of Pius XII on one wall, a crucifix on the other.

“The passport is Irish, Bishop Zlatko,” I said. “I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course, and I will play the charade with you, Father Boyle, and help you any way I can.” Zlatko folded his hands on the desk and took a breath. He was small. Thin, with delicate hands. His close-cropped hair was flecked with gray, but his face was smooth, the skin pink and healthy. The kind of complexion some priests get, the ones who don’t drink too much. I always figured it was from a life of being taken care of. No manual labor, not much wind and sun on your face, nuns keeping house, cooking your meals and washing your clothes. It was like looking at a boy in a middle-aged body. But the eyes were deep and aware, no childish twinkle at home there.

“I understand you will be my escort when I speak to Commissario Soletto,” I said.

“Yes, that is a good way to put it,” he said, the only trace of an accent being a hardness in the consonants. “The commissario speaks only a little English, so I can assist with translation as well. Have you had any success in your investigation?”

“Nothing yet,” I said. “Which is why I need to find out what the Vatican police know.”

“Do you think it is true, what they say about the Jew?”

“I only know what Soletto’s opinion is, and that’s secondhand. What do you think, Bishop?”

“Who can understand the nonbeliever? The Jew, the Serb, the Protestant-none are of the true Church, and I have pity for them. Perhaps in his twisted mind, this young man struck out at the hand which helped him, not understanding Christian charity.”

“If he didn’t do it, there is a murderer walking free, within these walls.”

“Then I pray for his heart to be healed. I am more concerned with your presence here. Have your brought your conflict with you? Shall you divide us, or bring ruin down upon this house?”

“That’s not my plan. Justice is all I want.”

“Justice often requires sacrifice. What will you ask of us? Will you push the Holy See closer to taking sides in the war?”

“I have no such grand plans, Bishop. If justice sounds too threatening, then I’ll settle for the truth.” Even though I know it is a long shot, I wanted to add.

“Ha! That is even worse. Your truth, Serbian truth, Italian truth, English truth, my truth-which shall it be?”

“Good point, Bishop. From what I hear, your truth is pretty rough on a lot of people back in Croatia.”

“We are a new nation, and sometimes nations in their youth go too far. Perhaps we have. Still, Croatia stands for civilization amidst chaos. The chaos of Communism, Zionism, the false Eastern Church. After all, it was His Holiness himself who called Croatia the outpost of Christianity. We live in the wilderness, my American friend. Our backs to the Adriatic, Serbs in our midst, godless Russians to the east. Do not judge us for defending our lives and faith.”

“There’s a lot I don’t know,” I admitted. It was true enough, and the last thing I needed was to pick a fight with my ticket to Soletto, so I backed off.

“And I as well,” Zlatko said. “You have become acquainted with Monsignor O’Flaherty, haven’t you? What is he like?”

“He seems to have a good heart,” I said. “As every priest should.”

“Ah, yes. I understand he brings escaped prisoners and criminals into the Vatican. Sanctuary for all.”

“I wouldn’t call them criminals,” I said. O’Flaherty’s activities were an open secret, so it was useless to deny it.

“The civil authority in Rome has ordered all Jews to be transported north. Those who do not comply are in breach of the law. Therefore, criminals.”

“Do you know what that means, Bishop? Transport north?”

“That is not the point. The Germans run Rome and make the laws. The warmhearted monsignor is risking the Holy See itself with his actions. He is violating their laws and the neutrality of the Vatican State. As are you, Father Boyle.” Zlatko smiled apologetically.

“I’m here to solve a murder, not settle a question of diplomacy, Bishop. There is a logic to what you say. But there is also logic to what O’Flaherty is doing.”

“And what logic is that?”

“Isn’t there something in the Bible along the lines of ‘I was a stranger, and ye took me in’?”

“Yes, the logic of Matthew,” Zlatko said, closing his eyes and reciting. “And the King shall answer and say unto them, verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye have done unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done unto me.”

“The least of our brethren are everywhere these days, I’d say.”

“ My brethren are not the heathen Jews or godless Communists. Certainly not the heretical Protestants or Eastern Orthodox Serbs. My brethren are my fellow Catholics. You, Father Boyle, or whatever your real name is, you are among my brethren.” Zlatko leaned forward, his eyes locking on mine in what he must have thought was brotherly love.

“Wasn’t it Saint Peter himself who told us to practice fervent charity, to cover the multitude of sins? To give hospitality without grudging? Isn’t that was Monsignor O’Flaherty is doing?” The good saint’s words were always part of the talk Sister Mary Margaret gave in school about giving to the poor and to the church, although not necessarily in that order.

“You know your Bible, Father Boyle. As does the devil.”

“Only bits and pieces from Sunday school, Bishop. I was an altar boy, but Father McGonigle did call me the devil’s own once or twice.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Zlatko said with a sly grin. “You have a pleasant way about you, Father Boyle, I must say, in spite of your misguided belief in the monsignor. Although I doubt he would be so successful without the help of the English ambassador and his disappearing butler.”

“Disappearing? Do you mean John May? Where is he?”

“Oh, he is always somewhere. In Rome, or visiting the hiding places within the Holy See. I wonder how he has time to take care of the ambassador, don’t you?”

“He seems quite capable, although I don’t know much about butlers. I have a cousin who was a housemaid, though.”

“You Irish are lighthearted, indeed. It must be from living on an island with a cold sea between you and your enemies. We Croats are too wary of knives at our throats to joke so much.”

“Shouldn’t we go find Soletto now?” I had to get out of there before I gave him a history lesson that might involve a right hook.

“Certainly, if now is convenient for you,” Zlatko said. He stood, smoothing down his black cassock and adjusting the scarlet sash. Then he spoke, standing with his hands clasped behind his back. “One thing you should remember about Saint Peter. He was first called Simon, and only later became known as Peter. When Jesus said to him, ‘on this rock I will build my church,’ he may have been making a joke at his disciple’s expense.”