so hard at being nonchalant around each other that I was certain they were both head over heels. Good for Kaz. He’d suffered more than most, lost more than most, and had cared less for life than most. The princess and the baron. It sounded like a happy ending, but those were in damn short supply these days, and I worried about my own chances for one.
Kaz didn’t have a get-out-of-jail pass, and Koch had his photograph, so he stayed behind to look for Zlatko. If things went smoothly, I’d be back in an hour, and we’d have some pieces of the puzzle in place. Of course, if smooth had been in the cards, I wouldn’t be out in this weather. Head bowed into the wind, I crossed the bridge and took the Via Agonale, which led into the north end of the square. Neptune stood in a fountain with his trident like a sentry, his gaze fixed on the obelisk where I was headed.
I skirted the left side of the square, mixing in with pedestrians who were walking between the few open restaurants and shops; mainly German officers going in for an early lunch, with a few leather-coated civilians thrown in for good measure. Any of them could have been on the lookout for me. Or just hungry. I did a full circuit of the square and didn’t spot Remke. I arrived back at the Fountain of the Four Rivers, with its Egyptian obelisk, a trophy from another war.
Kaz had told me the four rivers marked the extent of papal authority, back in the days when God’s kingdom was as much of earth as of heaven. Each river was represented by a statute. The Danube, the Rio de la Plata, the Ganges, and the Nile. Kaz had explained that the figure representing the Nile had his robe pulled over his face to symbolize that the source of that river was unknown. The guy was as much in the dark as I was, so it seemed like a good spot to wait.
“Follow me, Lieutenant Boyle,” a voice whispered to me. It wasn’t Remke, but I didn’t get a chance to protest. He headed south out of the piazza, taking a narrow side street, which led to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, the Piccola Cuccagna. The walls were the familiar rusty red, and the smell of rotting garbage wafted up from the alley. Not one of Rome’s finer attractions, but out of the way and dry. A good choice.
My escort opened the door, and the aroma of warm food from the kitchen made it an even better choice. Remke sat at a corner table, alone, a single glass of red wine at hand.
“What news do you have? Don’t worry about speaking English, we have the restaurant to ourselves.” As he spoke, his men closed the curtains and doused most of the lights. “These officers are all loyal to me and our cause, so you may speak freely.”
“I will get the letter from Montini this afternoon. I met with him this morning, and he agreed to write it.” When you need to lie convincingly, the truth can be convenient. I glanced at Remke’s men, who gave me approving nods. Nice to have a vote of confidence from the enemy.
“You are certain? You will have it tomorrow?”
“I can have it for you later today. Why don’t we do a switch this afternoon?”
“Impossible. I have generals to brief later, and they all like to talk, and drink. A waste of time, but necessary. Tomorrow will be soon enough. I will have your friends nearby. If you deliver, they will be freed.”
I didn’t inquire as to the alternative. “I will. Have you found Severino Rossi?”
“Yes.” Remke signaled for a glass of wine for me. I took that to be a bad sign.
“I don’t need a drink, Colonel. I need Rossi. Is he alive?”
Remke looked uncomfortable, and I wondered if he were the type who felt he had to deliver on a promise, no matter how hard. He was reminding me more and more of my own Colonel Harding.
“Yes, he is alive. But getting him out will be difficult.” Remke had said he would give me Rossi if I held up my end of the deal. For him, that meant all in. If Rossi had been dead, he wouldn’t lose a moment’s sleep. But not delivering on a promise, that would keep him up at night. “When the jailers at Regina Coeli did not receive any further instructions from Soletto, they didn’t know what to do. Yesterday, when you encountered Koch at the prison, he was there for prisoners. They gave him Rossi.”
“Prisoners to torture.”
“Yes. He does it both to extract information and for the pleasure it gives him.”
I took a large gulp of wine. “Would he release him to the Vatican Gendarmerie?”
“Koch would laugh at them. Their jurisdiction means nothing to him. He is clearly insane, although I am told he is devoted to his wife and children, as well as his mistress.”
“Would he release him to the Abwehr?” I locked onto Remke’s eyes, daring him to take the step I was suggesting. We had a bond now, a bond made of new loyalties in a changing world, where enemies were friends and friends were not to be trusted.
“Perhaps the question is, could the Abwehr take him from Koch? Giving is not in his nature.”
“Colonel, I respect what you’re doing against Hitler. But my story to Colonel Harding will sound a lot better if you take an active role in rescuing a Jew from the clutches of this crazy Fascist cop. It would help me sell the whole package, especially if I were an eyewitness.”
“Sell the package? You sound like a UFA producer. This is not a film script, Lieutenant. If we go after Rossi, and take you, it could mean your life.”
“I have to go. I know what he looks like.”
“All right, my American friend. We will go. But you must dress the part. So we can sell this package to Koch.” Then he laughed, and I couldn’t decide if he had a healthy sense of humor or a death wish. He rattled off some German and his men gathered around.
The next thing I knew, I was changing clothes with a Wehrmacht captain who was about my size. There was a lot of nervous laughter and kidding among Remke and his band of four men. Five, counting me. It was the kind of banter you’d hear in any unit before an operation, especially if one of the guys were down to his skivvies and switching clothes with a phony priest. It was a barrel of laughs.
“You are familiar with the Walther?” Remke asked me as I pulled on the leather belt and holster. The boots were a tight fit and the sleeves a bit long, but other than that I looked like any well-dressed Kraut.
“The Walther P38?” I said. “Sure. You point the barrel at the bad guy, right?”
“Do not forget to pull the trigger,” the newly frocked priest said. Even Remke laughed.
“All right,” Remke said, once we were ready. “Dieter will drive, and Carl will stay in the car with him, in case anyone wonders why a priest is driving a German staff car. Hans, you stand guard at the door and cover our exit. Lieutenant Boyle and I will go in with Bernard. Boyle is with us to identify Severino Rossi. We go in very serious, very angry, but not at Koch and his men. They are our colleagues, and it is the incompetent fools at Regina Coeli who deserve our wrath. Understood?”
Heads nodded. It was a good approach. Smart.
“Lieutenant Boyle,” Remke said. “Koch is set up in a small hotel, Pensione Jaccarino, not far from the Excelsior Hotel. Remember, we are there for one man. You will likely see others in great need. You must ignore them.”
“Okay, but call me Billy, Colonel. Everyone does.”
“Well then, so I must, Billy. The hotel is small, narrow corridors and many rooms. Do not become separated from us, and obviously, do not speak. The men of Banda Koch are the worst of the worst. The Gestapo calls them a Special Police team, but all that means is that they are the cruelest of the Fascist Police, the Gestapo, and the SS combined.”
“So if there’s trouble?”
“Shoot to kill, Billy,” Dieter said. “The world will be a better place.”
We crammed into the staff car, Remke explaining that his men would walk back to the Excelsior if we got Severino out. Meaning he probably wouldn’t be in shape to sit up straight. We drove up the Via Veneto again, this time turning right after the Excelsior and coming to a stop on the Via Romagna, outside a modest three-story hotel. The rain had stopped, but the air was colder and slick patches of ice coated the pavement. Bernard, Remke, and I went up the steps and the colonel tried the door. Locked. He pounded on it, shouting in Italian. Hans walked up and down the sidewalk, checking the alleyway, giving the all-clear signal.
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
