James Benn - Death

Finally the door opened. A stocky guy, short but solid, stood in the doorway. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his suspenders hanging off his waist. Sweat beaded his brow. He looked Remke over and fired a volley of Italian at him. Remke held up his hands, shaking his head, probably telling the guy he had it all wrong, it was the idioti down at the prison who were responsible for this mix-up.

It was enough to get us inside. The stocky guy beckoned us into a room that had probably once been a parlor for guests. Newspapers littered the floor, an empty schnapps bottle lay on its side. In the next room, down a dingy hallway, a phonograph was playing loudly, an opera of some sort. He cupped his hands to yell over the music, obviously calling for his superior, or at least another German to deal with this officer.

“ Un momento,” he said. So far so good. Heavy footsteps sounded as the scratch of a needle across vinyl signaled the end of the music. But the soaring operatic voice seemed to go on, terribly out of tune and without accompaniment. It was a scream. A piercing shriek at the edge of madness, a rising cry that stopped only for desperate breath before starting up again, climbing the scales of disbelieving pain.

“Basta!” the stocky guy yelled, gesturing at someone in the room, telling him to stop. A tall, thin man with sunken, dark eyes and a two-day growth of beard sauntered out of the room, a pair of bloody pliers in one hand. He wore a leather apron, stained with both fresh and dried blood. The screams lessened to cries and whimpers, the opera in intermission.

“Siamo qui per il prigioniero che si chiama Severino Rossi,” Remke said. “Koch e qui?”

The two Italians shook their heads. No, Koch wasn’t there. They argued a bit with each other, and then the short guy seemed to win. He pointed upstairs, and beckoned us to follow. We passed the room where the tall guy had returned to his work. In it, a figure was tied to a chair, his face unrecognizable. Four fingers on his left hand were ruined, the pliers having done their work. You save the thumb for last. If it was Rossi, I wouldn’t have had a chance at recognizing him. The opera of pain began again, louder and more insistent. I could feel my heart pounding as I fought to control myself and act as if this were just another day on the job.

Upstairs, a room had been converted into an office. A man sat at a desk. He was dressed in civilian clothes, nicely tailored at that. White shirt with silver cuff links, blue silk tie, charcoal-gray wool suit. Large photographs covered one side of the desk, mostly mug shots, some of crowds on the street. He was working his way through a stack of files, a fountain pen poised above a notepad. There were no traces of blood to be seen, but ink had leaked from his pen, a trail of blue spots seeping into the blotter.

“Was wollen Sie?” he asked, without looking up. His dark hair was slicked back and the odor of a perfumed pomade wafted toward us. I glanced at the photographs and saw Kaz, his face upside down but clear as day. And my own mug in the background.

“Was ist ihr Name?” Remke demanded sharply.

“Hauptsturmfuhrer Becher. Und Sie?”

“Oberst Remke von dem Abwehr.” Remke’s tone made it clear that as a colonel, he outranked the plainclothes SS man Becher.

“Der Gefangene Severino Rossi,” Remke said. “Schnell.”

They started to argue, so I feigned boredom and eased out of the room, hands clasped behind my back and boot heels clicking against the floor, like an arrogant Aryan. I glanced into the rooms leading off the main hallway. In one, a woman lay on a bare mattress, her hands manacled to the iron frame. She had one black eye and a look of hopelessness in both. The next room didn’t even have a bed, only a crumpled blanket with a monk curled up on it, his hands clasped in prayer. Maybe he’d been picked up in Koch’s recent raid on Vatican properties. Neither met my eyes, which was fine with me.

In the third room, two men were slumped in opposite corners, like fighters between rounds. Their faces were bloodied and both had their eyes swollen shut from a fresh beating. The walls were sprayed with blood and a bucket half filled with water was by the door. I wondered whose job it was to clean the place up.

From the corridor I heard raised voices, but they didn’t have that edge of danger to them. They were aggrieved, but not violent. It sounded like a dustup over paperwork down at the precinct.

I stepped into the room, and nudged one of the men with my boot. He didn’t move. I squatted down to get a closer look, but I couldn’t make anything of his face. His hair was wrong, though. Short and dark brown, not black and curly. I stood, and as I did he fell to the side, his head hitting the floor with a disquieting sound. He was dead.

I grabbed the pail and doused the other guy with water. He moved, grimacing as he did. Although his hair was matted with dried blood, I could tell that it matched Rossi’s. The face I wasn’t so sure of, but he was thin and gaunt, as Rossi had looked in the picture. Footsteps and mutterings were headed my way, so I stepped back as Remke and the other German entered the room. The civilian, or cop, or whoever he was, consulted a clipboard. He was unconcerned with the dead body, so I figured he’d gotten what he wanted from him.

“Rossi,” he said, pointing to the heap in the corner, which had begun to moan at the mention of the name.

“Danke,” said Remke, with a quick click of the heels, very Prussian. He snapped his fingers and pointed to Rossi. Bernard and I grabbed him under the arms and made for the stairs, not in too much of a hurry, but not taking in the sights either. As we came downstairs, the volume of the opera lowered. The Italian stood in the doorway of the torture chamber, wiping his hands on a towel.

“ E morto,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. No reason not to enjoy the music, I guess.

Remke went ahead and opened the door. We dragged Rossi along, his feet bouncing on each step. He cried out, and that in turn caused him pain. He gasped, and I realized he was able to see through those black eyes, since there was Pietro Koch, black leather trench coat and all, staring at us from the sidewalk. Two similarly garbed men stood behind him, hands deep in their pockets and eyes on us.

“Ho bisogno di questo prigioniero per l’inchiesta,” Remke said, as Carl opened the rear door of the BMW. Carl stood with one hand on the open door and the other resting on his holster. The snap had already been undone, in case Koch didn’t buy the explanation, which was something about needing the prisoner for questioning. Becher appeared on the doorstep, looking down at us, a pistol in his hand hanging loosely at his side.

“Colonnello Remke, si?” Koch said, his eyes darting to the doorway of the pensione, then back to the group around the car. His words came out on frosted breath, his cheeks as rosy as a schoolchild’s.

“Si,” Remke said, with that click of the heels again.

Koch walked around the car, his eyes settling on Dieter, who wore my coat buttoned up tight to cover the white collar. Remke and I got in, me in the backseat with Rossi, trying to hold him upright. Carl and Bernard crossed the street, taking up stations behind a parked car. Koch looked in the window, his gaze on me, and I nodded, as if to say thanks for the loan of the half-dead prisoner. Koch’s dark, beady eyes stayed locked on mine until he broke into a smile and nodded back. He stood, thumped the hood of the car, and headed into the building.

Dieter put the car in gear and waited for a truck to pass. The vehicle slowed, and I cursed silently as Rossi slumped against me. His breath was ragged and wheezy as he mumbled in French. I glanced up at Koch and Becher, who were watching us from the doorway to the pensione, and saw their eyes dart to the sidewalk.