James Benn - Death

“ L’e,” he said, pointing to a picture.

“ Si,” another officer said. “It is he. Monsignor Hugh O’Flaherty. Would you please step this way, Monsignor?”

“Not on your life,” O’Flaherty growled. “But tell your boss I will pray for his soul, and likely will be the only one to do so.”

Koch flipped the pages again, smiling at Nini as he did so. He stopped, tapped his finger again, and whispered, “Principessa,” then blew her a kiss. Kaz stepped forward but had the sense to stop. A camera flashed, and Kaz’s mug would soon find its way into Koch’s book.

“My capo says he looks forward to meeting you, in Rome,” the other officer said, tugging on the belt of his coat. “You and the princess.”

I could feel the tension and anger all around me. I felt like reaching over the line and belting the guy, but instead I drew back, not wanting to draw attention to myself and get my photograph snapped. I figured there was a fair chance these guys might have business at the Regina Coeli, and I didn’t want to be fingered as a pal of the monsignor and his gang. That reminded me of old Saint Peter himself, when he was a disciple. At the Last Supper, Jesus predicted that before the dawn, Peter would deny him three times. Of course Peter said he’d lay down his life for his capo. Then, when the Romans arrested Jesus, Peter went right ahead and denied he knew him. Three times.

Today, Roman police still inspired fear and silence. Not a lot of progress to show for two thousand years of civilization.

Nini and O’Flaherty went into a huddle with some of their co-conspirators. Back at the German College, John May was waiting for them, along with a nun and some British escapees in well-worn uniforms. No one had seen Monsignor Bruzzone, and there was a general fear he’d been picked up.

“Odd though,” John May had said. “He hasn’t been outside these walls for months, not since the trip to Genoa. Said he heard the Gestapo had targeted him, and that it wasn’t safe. He must’ve had an important reason for leaving.”

“If he did leave,” I said to Kaz as we talked it over, on our way to see Brackett. “Or maybe we have another corpse hidden somewhere. Or he killed Soletto and went on the lam.” We passed the Gendarmerie headquarters and made for the Governatorato.

“That does not make sense,” Kaz said. “If the Gestapo were after him, why leave the safety of the Vatican? Especially when there is no evidence against him?”

“Yeah, I see what you mean. Maybe he had a good reason to head into Rome, and got picked up by chance. Or he’s lying low until the roundup is over.” As I thought about it, that seemed the most likely situation. The simplest answers are usually the truest ones, my dad always said.

When we went up the main steps, there were no guards in sight. Everyone must have been called up to counter the German threat at the border. Brackett was in his office, staring out the window, the same view he had been so interested in the first time we met.

“Brackett,” I said. He didn’t look up. “Did you hear about the Germans?”

“If they come in, do you think they’ll send us someplace else? A different view, maybe?” He spoke without moving his gaze from the window.

“Yeah, maybe under six feet of dirt. How’s that for a view? I need you to show me the radio tower and where everybody was last night.”

“Do you have a cigarette?” Brackett asked. “Lucky Strike, maybe?”

“No, I told you, I don’t smoke.”

Kaz pulled a half-full pack of Italian Nazionali cigarettes from his pocket and tossed them on the desk.

“The best I could find,” Kaz said.

“Filthy things,” Brackett said, sighing. He still hadn’t moved his head, and I angled myself to get a view of the window. He wasn’t staring at the gardens. It was his own reflection, along with enough of the desk to see the pack.

“Enough with the goddamn cigarettes,” I said, slamming the palm of my hand on his desk. I waited for surprise to show on his face, or maybe shame. “Wake up and do your job.”

“My job?” He picked up the pack of Nazionalis and looked at it as if he’d never seen one before. I wanted to break the window, sweep everything off his desk, and slap him around a bit, all in the name of snapping him out of his daydream, but I knew that would get us nowhere. I stepped around the desk and leaned against the window, blocking his view. I took a deep breath and tried to sound calm.

“Listen,” I said. “We need your help. This is the kind of thing that will mean a promotion once Rome is liberated. They’ll probably make you an ambassador somewhere. But you’ve got to pull yourself together. I know it’s tough, but we don’t have much time.”

“Zlatko,” he said.

“Yeah, he’s trying to get us tossed out, and who knows what will happen with the Krauts lined up outside. Just in case, we need to find out everything we can about what happened inside the radio tower. Can you do that with us?”

“Okay,” Brackett said. “I can do that.”

It had started to rain. As we crossed the gardens, Brackett hunched up his shoulders and drove his hands deep into his pockets. Kaz and I had decided that we’d wait and ask Brackett about his Rudder conversation with Zlatko after he’d shown us everything we needed. I had the feeling he might go off the deep end soon, and I didn’t want to push him to the edge until we’d gotten what we came for. We hustled along the four-story building until we got to the tower, which housed the giant radio masts. Inside, we shook off the rain like mutts and hung our coats. My cassock was soaked where the raincoat hadn’t covered it, and the white collar dug into my neck. This was one disguise I couldn’t wait to ditch.

Radio Vaticana was a major operation, but this place wasn’t all marble and statues like the rest of the Holy See. A long corridor led to a waiting room, with a control room and several studios beyond, all with glass windows and soundproofing. Two were in use. Kaz spoke in a low voice with a sound engineer, who nodded his approval.

“This is the studio we used,” Brackett said, pointing to a slightly larger room. Microphones were set up around a table with three chairs. Nothing else.

“You were inside the studio, I think you said, correct?”

“Yes, myself and the announcer. It was an English-language broadcast.”

“But Monsignor Bruzzone was there as well?”

“Yes, of course. He brought the list of POWs. It came through the Refugee Commission, which is part of his job. He gave it to the announcer, who turned it over to me after the broadcast.”

“Who else was here?”

“The sound engineer. And another announcer waiting for his program.”

“Was that Zlatko’s broadcast?”

“Sure. He did a Croatian-language hour twice a week. He’d been in earlier to make sure his announcer was there.”

“Wait, you mean Zlatko was in the studio, before Soletto was killed?”

“Yes,” Brackett said, thinking about it. “Maybe fifteen minutes or so. He talked with his guy, then said he’d forgotten his notes. He had plenty of time, so he went back to his office.”

“Did he talk with anyone else?”

“He and Bruzzone chatted for a minute, that’s it.”

“Was it usual for Bruzzone to hang around, after he’d handed over the list of American POWs?”

“He would stay for the start of the program. Then he’d leave, other times not.”

“And he was outside the window the whole time?”

“I guess so. I mean I wasn’t keeping my eye on him, no reason to.”

“Okay, that’s fine. Kaz, ask the engineer if that door to the offices is kept locked at night.”