to help.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “Your POW camp-inspection trip was a cover for that.”
“Yes, very good. It was, but the visits to the camps were important too. Many of the POWs who escaped after the fall of Mussolini remembered our names and came here seeking sanctuary.”
“What happened in Genoa?” Kaz asked.
“We became too visible. The Gestapo began questioning people we came into contact with. Our Vatican passports protected us, but not the other clergy in Genoa. So we turned over our funds to the Delegation for the Assistance of Jewish Emigrants, an underground group doing good work, especially with children.”
“Did the Gestapo know about Corrigan?” I asked, wondering if this had been a revenge hit.
“Yes, they questioned all of us. Politely, of course, given our diplomatic status. They said they were concerned about our safety, given the Jewish and Communist bandits who were running loose. The usual lies, but we understood the meaning.”
“What about here in Rome?” I asked, fishing for information about Diana. “Has the Gestapo been arresting clergy?”
“Father Boyle, there are many priests and nuns at the mercy of the Nazis. Little is ever heard of those taken.” Bruzzone lit another cigarette, flicking the lighter shut with a click, blowing smoke to the ceiling.
“If a member of the clergy is taken into custody, you are not informed? The Vatican, I mean.”
“If the person holds a Vatican passport, yes. But of the thousands of priests, nuns, and monks in Rome, very few do. Unless it was brought to the attention of Cardinal Maglione-he is the secretary of state for the Holy See- nothing could be done. Even then…” He ended with an eloquent lift of the shoulders. Who is to know?
“Is there anything else you can tell us about Father Corrigan?” Kaz asked.
“Nothing other than stories of his goodness. But in the morning, I will show you to his room. Perhaps you will find something there to help.”
“Didn’t Soletto have it searched?” I asked.
“No, he thought it not necessary. I had it locked and kept the key. No one has been in since the murder. I will show you tomorrow, but now I will escort you to dinner with Sir D’Arcy. To be sure you do not take a wrong turn and end up in the hands of the Nazis.”
“You are well informed as to our plans,” Kaz said.
“It is important to be well informed. It could save your life.” Bruzzone crushed out his cigarette and stood, donning his cloak.
“We need to speak to Soletto, or at least the officer in charge of the investigation,” I said. “Even if he’s an informer.”
“One thing you would do well to remember: Trust no one until you know which side they are on, and then keep your own counsel if they are not friendly. The Vatican City State may be neutral, but the great majority who live here are Italians. Many welcomed Mussolini and his Fascist Party and were glad to see them in power instead of the Communists. Some wish he would return, and hope for a German victory. Be very careful.”
“Would any of them kill for their cause?” I asked.
“We of the clergy have more experience as martyrs than murderers. But both welcome death, do they not? Follow me.”
With that cheery thought, we followed the monsignor out into the cold evening air.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Sir d’Arcy Osborne, Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to the Holy See,” May intoned. Gone was the playful smile. Dressed in a dark suit and wearing white gloves, he bowed slightly as he introduced us.
“Sir D’Arcy,” Kaz said, more comfortable with the ways of the upper class than I was. “Thank you for inviting us.”
“Ah, Father Dalakis, I assume, from the accent. And Father Boyle. Welcome.” We shook hands all around. May disappeared to do some butlering as D’Arcy led us into the dining room. Bruzzone had delivered us to the Hospice Santa Marta, a short walk from our rooms, but a world away. It was like stepping into an elegant London flat. The furniture was heavy and plush, the curtains thick, and the candelabras gleaming. There was a framed portrait of the king, but I think it was Sir D’Arcy himself who made it feel like a bit of old England. His receding hair was fine and light, his cheekbones high, and his posture perfect. Unlike Brackett’s, D’Arcy’s three-piece suit looked new and well tailored. His shoes were shined and I’d bet there were no holes in his socks.
“Forgive me if I do not ask about your journey,” D’Arcy said as we sat at a table set for four. “I’m sure it was terrible, and that you can tell me little for security reasons.”
“Right on both counts,” I said. “Speaking of security, how many people do you think know we’re here?”
“Quite a few, but let’s discuss all that after dinner. Our other guest should be here soon.”
May entered and poured wine for us. D’Arcy sniffed it and held it up to the light, as if he knew what he was doing. He tasted it, and nodded his approval to May. I took a slug and realized this wasn’t the sort of vino I’d been drinking in Italy. They must have been hiding all the good stuff in Rome.
“Brunello di Montalcino,” Kaz said, his eyebrows raised in admiration. “Excellent.”
“And increasingly rare,” D’Arcy said. “The Germans are taking all the best wines from Tuscany. May works wonders at keeping our cellar stocked.”
“He has a clever delivery system,” I said, then took a smaller sip of the wine.
“I don’t know how he does it, and I don’t wish to,” D’Arcy said. “The position of Allied diplomats within the Vatican is precarious. We must not do anything overt to threaten the neutrality of the Holy See. That includes the black market, smuggling food, and hiding those on the run from the Nazis. So, I drink this fine wine in happy ignorance.”
“Leviticus tells us that if a man sins through ignorance, then he shall pay for his trespass a ram without blemish from his flock,” a voice boomed from the hallway. “But I shall settle for some of that lamb being prepared in your kitchen, Sir D’Arcy.”
“Monsignor O’Flaherty,” D’Arcy said, introducing us.
O’Flaherty was dressed in the full monsignor getup, but it didn’t disguise his liveliness. He was tall, broad- shouldered, with a thick head of hair that curled down over his forehead. His grin was pleasant, and he shook our hands warmly. His wasn’t what you’d call a handsome face, with a good-sized nose, thin lips, and round glasses giving him an owlish look.
“Father Dalakis,” O’Flaherty said as he took his seat. “I’ve been around this part of the world long enough to have an ear for accents. You’re certainly not Romanian. Polish-born, I’d guess. And you, Father Boyle, a Yank if I ever heard one. But I’d guess your granddad was from the old sod. You’ve got a trace of the brogue right at the edge of your tongue, boy.”
“My grandfather came from County Roscommon,” I said. “Last of his family to survive the Potato Blight.”
“Awful times,” O’Flaherty said, slowly shaking his head, and then flashing a ready smile at D’Arcy. “But out of respect for our English host, we’ll talk of other things. Politics and good food do not mix. My own home is in County Cork, where I’m glad my family is safe from this war.”
The food was brought in, and it smelled a whole lot better than army chow. For the next hour, we feasted on grilled lamb, thick strands of pasta seasoned with cheese and black pepper, green beans and tomatoes, and more of D’Arcy’s wine. O’Flaherty told stories of his assignments for the Vatican in Egypt and Czechoslovakia before the war. He and D’Arcy talked golf, the Irishman being quite the player.
“The monsignor is also a pugilist,” D’Arcy said. “Perhaps you’d like to give him the opportunity to fight a new opponent, Father Boyle. He’s worn out most comers by now.”
“I don’t think I could hit a priest, much less a monsignor,” I said.
“What makes you think you could lay a glove on me, boy? Anyway, in the ring it’s just one man against another. No white collar, no rank. A bit like life, eh? Sometimes you have to leave certainty behind and come out swinging.” He and D’Arcy exchanged looks, and the Englishman stood.
“Gentlemen, I must take your leave. I thought it best if you and Monsignor O’Flaherty met and talked, so as to avoid any confusion in your investigation. He has a rather active organization, and you are bound to cross paths.
