James Benn - Death

Rino took the hallway to the right, which led into a wing of cells, three tiers tall. Circular stairs at each end gave access to catwalks, where guards patrolled, looking down as we entered. Each catwalk extended to the far wall where they curved around out of sight, connecting to more cells. Moans echoed from the far end, as a sharp, loud cry of pain came from the cell opposite us. I jumped at the sound, but Rino hauled himself up the stairs, as if it were just another day at work.

There was a ruckus on the second tier, raised voices in Italian and German. Three men in black leather overcoats were yelling at a jailer, who was fumbling with his keys at the door of a cell. He finally got it open and two of them hauled out a prisoner. Barely able to stand, his clothes filthy and in tatters, his face a palette of bruises, he was propped up against the railing as the next door was opened, and another prisoner was pulled out. This guy had no marks, and his appearance told me he’d been in the cell for a couple of days, tops. Unshaven, grimy, and disheveled, but standing on his own.

The third man turned to face the second prisoner and spoke to him in Italian. It was a gentle voice, soothing and calm. But I knew it masked something else. The speaker was Pietro Koch. He wore the same wisp of a smile I’d seen on his face at Saint Peter’s as he nodded to his two leather-coated accomplices. They tipped the bloodied prisoner over the railing, and watched him fall to the hard floor below.

It wasn’t that far to fall, but he fell flat, the sharp sound of cracking bone followed by silence. Deep-red blood seeped out from under the body. His legs gave a final thrash, and then the body was inert, the inescapable pose of death-all gravity and finality as the physical body became nothing more than a leaking bag of bones and blood.

Koch gave an appreciative laugh, and patted his prisoner on the shoulder, as if complimenting him on watching the spectacle. Handcuffs were produced and Koch’s henchmen led the prisoner toward us as the jailer protested. One of them replied in German, the other in Italian. I didn’t understand the words, but the meaning was clear. Go to hell.

They brushed past us, the prisoner wearing a stunned, vacant look on his face. Koch came last, stopping smack in front of me, his languid eyes looking deep into mine, as if they could see my thoughts, hook into my brain, and pull the truth out into the open.

“Prega per lui,” he said, then patted my shoulder as he had the prisoner’s. He chuckled, a gentle, amused laughter, as he waited for me to respond. Behind him, Rino lifted his hands, palms together in prayer. Pray for him, he was telling me.

“Si,” I said in a whisper as I kissed the Bible and took the stairs, praying indeed, but for Koch not to say another word, to not hear the sound of steel on leather, a pistol being drawn, a shouted command to halt. All I wanted to hear was the sound of my own shoes on the metal stairs.

“Ma non per me!” Koch shouted out, and laughter followed from the other two thugs. That I understood. But not for me. No worries there. We went up, they went down, as the guards on the ground floor directed two prisoners to drag the body away.

The third tier had a guard posted at the top, seated at a small desk off the landing. This must be the unbribable Fascist that Rino had told us about. Along the catwalk, a woman guard stood gazing at the scene below. Prisoners were bringing in mops and pails to clean up, and it looked like this was the high point of her day. Rino signed a sheet on the guard’s desk. He’d explained that since this tier was the women’s section, there was this last checkpoint, mainly to keep idle guards away from the female prisoners. Rino and the guard laughed over something, and another package of cigarettes appeared. The jailer thanked Rino and opened the pack, leaned his chair back against the wall, and lit up. This put him out of sight of the catwalk, maybe so he wouldn’t have to share his smokes. Whatever the reason, it gave us a break.

We walked toward the female guard, who waved at Rino while making eyes at Abe. He winked at her, being either a great actor or a consummate ladies’ man.

“Buongiorno, Fabrizia,” Rino said. Fabrizia smiled as she opened one of the cell doors. Abe played his part well, admiring the curves beneath the uniform. Fabrizia moved to another door and opened it, playing with her hair and chatting with Rino, maybe asking if he could give her a trim. Her hair was black and curly, popping out from under her cap in all directions.

I passed each door as she opened them. Inside the first were two women, huddled in fear on their small, narrow cots. One was bruised and bloodied, another had a dirty bandage covering one eye. Haircuts were probably the last thing on their minds.

Now there were three doors open. I caught a glance of Rino nodding toward where the catwalk curved around the wall. We wanted cell number 321, and we were in front of 313. With Rino consulting Fabrizia about her hair, and the open cell doors blocking her view, Abe and I rounded the corner. He stopped at a barred door that connected to a circular staircase at the opposite end of the wing from where we had entered. This door was out of sight of the guard and would be our exit route. Abe got out his picks and made quick work of it, leaving it unlocked behind us. We had to move fast, and I trusted Rino to disengage from Fabrizia and join us. She’d have to stay by the prisoners or lock up, and either way it gave us some time. Not much, but enough.

A red sign greeted us as we came to the last of the cells. Limitato. Restricted.

Each cell had a Judas hole that was latched shut. Beneath that was a thick iron bar that was set into a lock welded onto the door. Cell 320 was unlocked, probably empty. But number 321 was closed up tight.

“Kee-rist,” Abe whispered. I shielded him with my body as best I could as he knelt to work his picks into the lock. He cursed under his breath as he went. This lock seemed tougher than any of the locks in the Vatican. I pressed my hand against the cold steel door, the only thing that stood between Diana and freedom. Or me, at least. Freedom was a few more doors away, and we had only minutes before the shift changed and our bought-and-paid-for guard went home for the day. Voices rose from the main hall, but it was only the prisoners cleaning up. The clatter of pails echoed against the walls, but I still heard the click as Abe picked the lock. With a grin on his face, he pulled the iron bolt back and opened the door.

I expected the worst. I knew she’d be in rough shape, even if the worst hadn’t happened. But the last thing I expected was to see Diana seated at a table, dressed in a clean gray skirt and white silk blouse. Two empty chairs faced her. Her light-brown hair was pulled back from her face, which looked pale but otherwise undamaged. Her expression was full of apology, or sorrow, I couldn’t tell, but either way it wasn’t good.

Her eyes were rimmed with tears as she gave a quick glance to my right, where a German officer lounged against the wall.

“Lieutenant Boyle,” a familiar voice said. “I believe you are acquainted with Miss Diana Seaton, also known as Sister Justina?”

“Diana! What’s going on?” I barely got the words out before shouts echoed from the catwalk outside.

“Do not worry, Lieutenant Boyle,” Erich Remke said. “Your comrades will not be hurt. Now, sit down. We must talk.”

I’d encountered Remke twice before. Once when I was on the wrong side of the bars in a Vichy French jail cell, and another time in Sicily, when we were vying for the allegiance of a Mafia boss. I hoped he wasn’t sore about how that had worked out.

“I prefer to stand, Major Remke,” I said, trying not to look concerned about the scuffle outside the door, and to overcome the shock running through my brain. What was happening here?