James Benn - Death

“It sounds like hope had passed Mr. Hogan by long before he pulled the trigger,” Kaz said.

“I don’t think so. He probably had hope up until the last race, which could have won him everything back. That’s the thing about hope. The thought of it bucks you up for one more try.”

“Like Colonel Remke,” Kaz said.

“And maybe our killer. If only you’d stayed out later, Rossi might have told me. How was your walk with Nini?”

“It was raining, Billy. We went to her room after supper.”

“Kaz, are you blushing?”

“No, not at all. It is warm in here.”

“These rooms haven’t been warm since August. Imagine, a baron and a princess. They could make a movie about you two.”

“Who would play me, do you think?” Kaz asked, kicking off his shoes.

“Jimmy Cagney,” I said, knowing that would please Kaz. He was really more of a Leslie Howard type, but he’d been shot down last year over the Bay of Biscay, so I didn’t mention him. “Did Nini know anything about Genoa? Or were you too preoccupied to ask?”

“Duty comes first,” Kaz said, hanging up his cassock. “She did say that Monsignor Montini channeled a good deal of money to Cardinal Boetto in Genoa. Boetto works with a Jewish relief agency, the Delegazione Assistenza Emigranti Ebrei. The cardinal, along with a group of priests, nuns, and lay people, help them with funds, forged documents, and smuggling routes into Switzerland.”

“And Corrigan, Bruzzone, and O’Flaherty were the go-betweens?”

“Yes, until a few months ago. The Gestapo raided the cardinal’s offices but found nothing. They left him alone, but are hunting several of his aides, who have gone into hiding. Nini said our three monsignors had all left Genoa moments ahead of a roundup.”

“Which is basically what Bruzzone told us,” I said. “That’s why he didn’t leave the Vatican for so long.”

“Nini thought that he was overcautious,” Kaz said. “Corrigan went into Rome often and was not picked up. O’Flaherty only stopped recently, since his activities here have attracted so much attention. Even so, he continues to go over the wall at night, in disguise.”

“Maybe Bruzzone simply lost his nerve. Hard to blame the guy.”

“We should ask him more about that,” Kaz said, turning off the light. “But now I have to sleep. I am exhausted.”

“I’ll bet,” I said.

Kaz threw a shoe at me, missing by a mile.

We had an escort of six Swiss Guards the next morning, surrounding Monsignor O’Flaherty, who had a firm grip on the briefcase that held the documents from Remke. Monsignor Bruzzone was along as well. O’Flaherty had told us over an early breakfast that he’d shown the documents to Montini the night before, and that we were sure to get a favorable hearing.

We crossed Saint Peter’s Square, the sky a dense gray that matched both the damp paving stones and the uniforms of our escort. Passing between a pair of guards at the Bernini colonnades, we entered the Cortile di San Damaso, a small courtyard within the Apostolic Palace, where Swiss Guard stood at attention at the entrance to the Pope’s personal quarters. We went the other way, entering the Medieval Palace under an archway just as heavy raindrops began to splatter the ground.

O’Flaherty led us into a room that was a riot of color compared to the dreary day outside. It was huge, probably forty by sixty feet. The floor was white marble with the papal crest inlaid in gold. The walls were papered in yellow and white, topped off by ornate moldings with angels tucked into the corners. Couches and chairs were arranged around three sides, all done up with some florid chintz of yellow flowers and vines. It looked like a vision of what a classy whorehouse back home might aspire to, except for Bishop Zlatko, who stood sour-faced, looking everywhere but in our direction.

We sat, facing an empty table. The door opened and a thin man in his forties strode in and sat alone at the center. His hair was thinning, and his eyes were hooded by heavy brows, his forehead wrinkled in worry.

“I think it will be easiest if we all confer in English,” he said, speaking slowly but precisely. “I am Monsignor Giovanni Montini, Minister of Ordinary Affairs for the Secretariat of State. I have asked the good Bishop Krunoslav Zlatko to attend to us. Bishop, I understand you had lodged a complaint about our visitors, but it is now withdrawn. Is that correct?” Montini nodded in our direction, but his eyes were on Zlatko.

“Yes, Monsignor,” Zlatko said, rising from his chair. It must have irritated him to have to defer to a mere monsignor. But among the Roman Curia, a monsignor could have the Pope’s ear while a dozen bishops cooled their heels in the palace hallway. “I was concerned for the safety of His Holiness and our neutral status. But I have conversed with these two young men on several occasions, and I believe their intentions are honorable. I would only counsel discretion on their part.” In other words, we’d worked a deal and he had something that would insure my silence.

“Very well, Bishop Zlatko. Thank you. Do not let me keep you from your duties.” Zlatko looked stunned at the dismissal, but recovered quickly. As he passed me, he made eye contact and gave a slight nod toward the door. We’d meet outside.

“Gentlemen, I have unfortunate news,” Montini said after the door had shut behind Zlatko. “I have just spoken with His Holiness. He is much disturbed by the activity of Banda Koch. They invaded the extraterritorial properties at Saint Paul’s Outside the Walls. They took over sixty refugees, Jews, antifascists-anyone without papers.”

“It is terrible,” O’Flaherty said, a touch of belligerence in his voice. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. “What is the Holy Father going to do about it?”

“He feels this may be the first step in a German takeover of the Vatican,” Montini said. He had a pained expression that said he thought this was wrong, even foolish. “We have heard rumors of a plan by the SS to invade the Vatican and place the Pope under Nazi protection. In Germany, of course. His Holiness believes that the actions against our properties may be the first step in implementing this plan.” Montini sighed, not making eye contact.

“What are you not telling us?” Bruzzone asked.

Montini folded his hands on the table as if in prayer. Then he spoke, so quietly that I had to strain to hear him. “In order to avoid giving the Germans a pretext for invasion, His Holiness has directed that all guests be expelled from Vatican properties outside these walls. It is to be done immediately.”

“That is outrageous!” O’Flaherty barked as he stood. “I don’t believe it.” Bruzzone pulled him back down onto the flowered couch, where he sat, teeth gritted against the anger straining to burst out of him. He struck me as the kind of priest who had to really work at obedience.

“What will you do?” Bruzzone asked.

“I have managed to dissuade the Pontifical Commission from making this their work. If I had not, this would be an official meeting with the cardinals present, instead of a gathering of steadfast friends. And their welcome guests.”

I could feel O’Flaherty exhale. “You are going to throw a monkey wrench into the works, then,” he said.

Montini waved his hand and shrugged, granting the point even if he didn’t understand what a monkey had to do with a wrench. “Do you recall when the commission ordered the Swiss Guard to turn away Allied prisoners entering the piazza?”

“Yes,” O’Flaherty said. “The order was never enforced.”

“And once His Holiness has ignored an order-his or the commission’s-it remains ignored. So leave it to me. No one will be expelled. But it means this is a difficult time to ask the Pope to engage in espionage.”