‘The SS Belize Star sails tomorrow night for British Honduras and Guatemala,’ Herschel said, rubbing his eyes. ‘I’ve organised three berths, and we’ve an agent in Guatemala City who will meet the children. I’ll take these papers down to the Immigration Department tomorrow morning and arrange Turkish passports.’
Roncalli smiled. ‘Where I come from, that would take weeks… domani, domani, always domani.’
‘Fortunately we’re not in Italy, Angelo, and I have a contact who is sympathetic. I just hope the children will be fit to travel.’
‘Children can be remarkably resilient, Mordecai, although I’m worried about Ariel Weizman,’ Roncalli said. He’s been through more than any adult should endure in a lifetime.’
Archbishop Roncalli drove his battered Fiat slowly along the darkened dockside on the southern shore of the Golden Horn. The concrete was still wet from an earlier shower, and the rail lines glinted in the feeble yellow light thrown from the portholes of steamers tied up at the dock.
‘That’s her,’ Herschel said quietly, ‘at the end of the pier.’ Smoke was issuing from the Belize Star ’s single stack, her crew preparing to sail. Roncalli brought the old car to a stop near the rickety gangplank, but as he pulled on the handbrake, the darkness was pierced by two powerful headlight beams from a Mercedes parked in the shadows. A tall, blond SS officer stepped out from the passenger side. Roncalli recognised him immediately.
‘So, what brings you down to the docks so late at night, Excellency?’ Von Hei?en tapped his leather cane once, twice against his palm.
‘I might ask you the same question, Obersturmbannfuhrer,’ Roncalli replied evenly, getting out of his car.
‘I do hope you weren’t planning to spirit these children out of the country,’ von Hei?en said politely, looking past Roncalli’s shoulder to the three children in the back seat of the Fiat. ‘I’m afraid my government has serious questions about the validity of these children’s papers and how they themselves came to be in Istanbul.’
Fear gripped Ariel in the depths of his stomach. He looked his father’s killer in the eye, not knowing that his mother, too, was dead. Ariel loathed the German with every fibre of his young being.
‘I would have thought the Reich had better things to do than worry about the immigration of children, Obersturmbannfuhrer.’
‘What’s going on? We’re about to sail!’ the short, stocky captain of the Belize Star demanded in a heavy Spanish accent as he descended the gangplank.
‘These Jewish children are wards of the German government, Captain,’ von Hei?en said. ‘If you take them on board, you will be guilty of kidnapping. I doubt your employers would be too pleased if their ship were impounded at your next port.’
Roncalli stepped forward. ‘The Obersturmbannfuhrer is mistaken, Captain. All these children are Catholic and in the care of the Sisters of Sion Monastery here in Istanbul.’ He took the children’s papers and passports from his briefcase.
The captain of the Belize Star glanced at the papers and shrugged at Roncalli. ‘If there’s doubt, that’s not my problem, signor,’ he said, turning back to his ship.
A slow smile spread across von Hei?en’s face.
Mordecai Herschel took three strides and intercepted the captain at the bottom of the gangplank. ‘Their papers are perfectly in order, Captain, and the German government has no jurisdiction on a Turkish dock.’ He fished a large wad of Turkish lire from his pocket. The captain’s eyes glinted, his gaze shifting from the money to the children and back to the money. ‘Get them on board,’ he said finally, ‘we sail in ten minutes.’
Ariel reached the rusted deck of the tramp steamer, one hand in his pocket, checking for the hundredth time on the maps his father had said were so important.
20
‘ G loria in excelsis Deo. Et in terra, pax hominibus bonae voluntatis…’ Eugenio Pacelli, now Pope Pius XII, read from the Missale Romanum held by one of his secretaries.
‘Major General William Joseph Donovan: for feats of arms, writing, and deeds that have spread the Faith and safeguarded and championed the Holy Church,’ another of the Pope’s secretaries intoned. He proffered the Holy Father a red velvet cushion, in the middle of which nestled the eight-pointed gold-and-white enamelled Grand Cross of the Order of Sylvester. One of the most prestigious of the papal knighthoods, fewer than a hundred men had received the honour since its inception in 1841 by Pope Gregory XVI.
Franklin D. Roosevelt’s intelligence chief and head of the Office of Strategic Services stepped forward. In time the fledgling American intelligence service would be known as the CIA. The crusty old general bowed his head, allowing Pius XII to place the medal’s golden chain around his neck.
‘A great honour, Holiness. Thank you,’ he said, kissing the papal ring.
‘The pleasure is all ours. It’s very well deserved.’
Alberto Felici joined in the polite applause. The Papal Knighthood cemented what would become a lasting marriage between the Vatican and the CIA. Felici smiled to himself. Things were starting to fall into place. The new Pope had agreed to the recommendations on Vatican finances, the newly established Vatican Bank had an advantage no other bank could match – it was immune from external audit. Felici’s own position as a delegate to the board provided him with unprecedented personal power. His appointment as the Vatican’s liaison officer to Donovan’s intelligence staff was not without power either. It was power Felici fully intended to wield at the meeting Donovan had scheduled in his Rome office later in the day.
‘Communism is the greatest threat facing the United States since Hitler came to power!’ General Donovan rasped. ‘Wild Bill’, as he was widely known, was in no mood for compromise. Felici nodded his head. The war against the Japanese in the Pacific was yet to reach its horrific conclusion in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, but the war with Germany was drawing to a close, and a new threat was emerging. An iron curtain was about to descend, one which would divide Europe in two. If the US and the Vatican’s fight against Communism was to succeed, key Nazi intelligence officials and scientists would have to be smuggled out of Germany. General Donovan’s staff had drawn up a top-secret list.
‘The list you’ve got in front of you is provisional,’ General Donovan advised the three intelligence officers detailed to oversee the escape routes. ‘We’re going to need every German officer with knowledge of Soviet operations, including Soviet logistics and industrial capabilities. Add to that every German scientist who can assist us with the war in the Pacific.’
‘But not including those who have been members of the Nazi party, surely?’
Donovan glared at the bespectacled State Department liaison officer. ‘Listen, sonny, every goddamned scientist in Germany is a member of the Nazi party. And that includes Wernher von Braun, arguably the best rocket scientist on the planet. So before you guys in Foggy Bottom start getting your knickers in a twist, ask yourselves whether you want these guys working for Stalin or Uncle Sam!’ The general was convinced America should do whatever it took to curtail the growing threat of the Soviet Union. ‘Their dossiers can be sanitised… the hard part will be getting them out.’
‘I think we can help there, General,’ Felici offered. ‘The Brenner Pass on the Austrian-Italian border is still the main line of escape, but anyone as well known as von Braun might have difficulty getting through – unless he’s disguised.’
‘As what?’ the man from the State Department asked.
‘No one is likely to question a priest, particularly one carrying a Vatican passport. I’ve added a further name to this list, General,’ Felici continued, passing the paper back across the table. ‘Standartenfuhrer von Hei?en is one of Reichsfuhrer Himmler’s closest confidants. I think US intelligence might find him very useful.’
‘The “fees” are fifty per cent, Standartenfuhrer. Take it or leave it,’ Felici told von Hei?en. ‘My intelligence links are impeccable, and the US 11th Armored Division has already crossed the Danube – they will be here within days.’
‘That gold in the strong room is worth over three million Reichsmarks, Signor. Fifty per cent is exorbitant!’
