James Benn: Death

“Tell me why you’re really here,” I finally said.

“To give you a direct order from Sam,” Big Mike said. “He didn’t want to give you this assignment, but Ike insisted, I guess because he had no choice.” I could tell he was stalling.

“What’s the order?”

“Stay away from Diana Seaton,” Big Mike said, sitting up and looking straight at me. “You are not to attempt to contact her or free her from prison. You are to take no action which would jeopardize the successful conclusion to this assignment, and make no contact with any other agents.”

“Why?”

“Sam said that would be the first thing you’d say, so here goes.” He cleared his throat, and closed his eyes, reciting from memory. “Any interference in the affairs of Vatican City, as a neutral state, would have a detrimental effect on our relations with the Italian government and the Papal State, and endanger the neutrality of the Vatican. Your assignment is to assist in the apprehension of a murderer within the Vatican, while avoiding any clandestine operations or situations that would imperil the neutral status of the Vatican.” He opened his eyes. “Got it?”

“Got it,” I said.

“No, Billy, I mean do you really get it? This isn’t like all the other orders you’ve ignored, like not returning to London. Sam said he can’t protect you if you disobey. There’s a lot of pressure on this one, and it goes all the way back to Washington. That’s one heavy load of bricks ready to come down on your head if you go off the reservation.”

“What else is going on here?” I asked, my teeth on edge. “What’s the real deal? There’s got to be dozens of operations going on in Rome and Vatican City. SOE, OSS, or half a dozen other secret outfits.”

“Exactly,” Big Mike said. “That’s why you’re ordered to steer clear of anything except this murder investigation. You could get agents killed by charging into their operations. You know that.”

“Maybe so,” I said, grudgingly. “It still stinks. Diana gets thrown to the wolves, and I’m dancing like a puppet while someone in the Archdiocese of New York pulls the strings.”

“Hey, Billy, you know as well as the next guy how things work in the army.”

“I get it, Big Mike. It’s political. General Eisenhower wants to keep General Marshall happy, who needs to keep the president happy. Corrigan’s already dead, so he doesn’t care about being happy. Diana’s probably dead, or will be soon. And me? I’ll know I did nothing while the woman I loved died. Hell, what’s the difference? Two, three hundred miles or two miles away?” I stood up, kicking the chair away, angry at the world but taking it out on Big Mike because the rest of the world wasn’t here. “I could be two hundred yards away and all she’ll know is that I left her there to die.”

“Billy,” Big Mike said, getting up and resting his arms on my shoulders. “So far it’s all been bad news. Here’s a little good news. Sam said to tell you we know Diana is still alive. As of two days ago, anyway. In the Regina Coeli prison.”

“How do you know? Are you sure?”

“Sam’s sure,” Big Mike said, his voice trailing off. I watched his face go pale and felt his arms slip from my shoulders. His eyes rolled up and he swayed like a tree about to be toppled, until he fell, right on me.

I’d taken the weight of Big Mike’s fall and gotten more banged up than he had. The hardest part was getting him back on his feet and half carrying him to a bed. Croft had summoned a doctor from the RAF hospital on base, who examined Big Mike and then asked who the devil had discharged him from medical care so soon after surgery. Big Mike was silent on the subject, but agreed to stay prone for the rest of the day. I took the file he’d brought and settled into an easy chair in the library. Croft was right, SOE knew how to live. Not to mention die.

It quickly became clear that Monsignor Edward Corrigan was connected, and not only to FDR via his cousin the bishop. He worked for the Supreme Sacred Congregation of the Holy Office, the outfit that until the start of the century had been called the Inquisition. I was pretty sure they weren’t burning heretics at the stake anymore, but it made me wonder if there was any religious connection to the killing. I’d been an altar boy back in Boston, and I heard enough gossip about bishops and archbishops to know that church politics was a game of hardball.

But murder? Revenge, maybe. He’d been killed up close, face to face, with a knife thrust between the ribs, and that could mean it had been personal, the murderer wanting Corrigan to see who was ending his life. Or the killer simply knew how to use a knife.

An orderly brought me tea. I’d hoped for more coffee, and had been surprised when Croft had had it served this morning. This was an English outfit after all, and tea was in their blood, even though I noticed more Brits picking up the java habit whenever they could get ahold of American supplies. I read through the file, focusing on what little information there was, trying to read between the lines to tease out any thread of substance that would give me something to go on.

I spread out the documents on the floor, and soon was sitting cross-legged among them, as I’d seen my dad do dozens of times, when a case was going nowhere. A Boston PD homicide detective, he’d often come home with a leather briefcase stuffed with documents, and after dinner he’d be in his den, on his knees, staring at the papers all around him. It was a good long time before he’d let me look, the crime scene photos not being meant for kids in short pants.

So I played out that scene here, far from my home in Southie, leaning into the motions of my father, hoping by some mysterious means to fall into his routine and absorb his experience-moving files and papers around, tapping key phrases with my finger as if casting a spell and drawing out the truth from a mass of tangled details and the occasional well-placed lie. I found myself doing this more and more, copying the rhythms of my old man, fooling my mind into thinking I had half his smarts, until I failed all on my own-or something clicked and the movements became my own, the memory of then mingling with the here and now, and I saw what had been hidden in plain sight. But not today.

I was lost in thought when Kaz came in and flopped down in a chair opposite mine, hitching his trousers up as he crossed his legs.

“Well, this ought to be fun,” he said.

“You heard?”

“Captain Croft gave me the news as soon as I got here. The driver stopped at that fleabag hotel of yours and packed up your gear. It’s in the room next to Big Mike’s. He was sleeping when I looked in on him.”

“Easy for him,” I said, getting up and closing the door, keeping my voice low. “He’s not visiting Rome ahead of the Allied armies.”

“Billy, we are on a secure base, in an SOE building. Do you think there are spies about?” Kaz gave a little laugh, to show he wasn’t serious, but I saw in his eyes that he was, as worry briefly furrowed his brow.

“Of course there are spies here, Kaz. That’s what these people do. Which means there could be double agents, too. Or SOE security checking on us.” It sounded crazy, but the secret stuff was the craziest part of this war, and that was saying something.

“You have a point,” Kaz said, in a tone that said it was one I’d taken too far. “As for Rome, it is where you wanted to go, you said so yourself last night. Now we have the SOE to get us there. It is a gift from heaven,” he said, twirling his fingers upward.

“Well, God Himself does have something to say about it,” I said. “Our orders come direct from the White House. General Eisenhower’s only the messenger.” I told Kaz about FDR and the bishop, and the warning to steer clear of Diana.