“Put these on and leave the suitcases. They will be delivered later. Follow me, but at a distance, about twelve paces. Try to look contemplative.”
“Why the secrecy?” I asked. “Aren’t we safe here?”
“Safety is relative,” May said. “We have to pass by the Gendarmerie headquarters, and I don’t want to attract attention. Trust me, we’ll be safe and sound in no time.”
“I thought we were,” Kaz said. May ignored him and walked off. We followed, leaving our suitcases behind, trailing our mysterious guide.
Contemplative was tough. We were in Rome, behind enemy lines, smuggled inside a neutral enclave. Saint Peter’s dominated the skyline, and even though it was winter, the gardens and pathways were green and well tended, cypresses and cedars forming a backdrop that softened the hard reality of the wall and encircled this tiny domain. I tried not to gawk like a country bumpkin, and stayed behind May, glancing around for anyone taking notice of us.
May turned his head and looked at a building on our right. It was five stories of soft, beige limestone, with the yellow-and-white Vatican flag flying over the main door. Men in blue uniforms came and went, Vatican gendarmes. I didn’t know if we had to worry about all of them or just their boss, Soletto, but May seemed to be steering clear of the whole crowd. So I bowed my head and folded my hands, sending up a quick prayer to Saint Michael, patron saint of policemen, asking him to keep the local cops occupied while we got on with things.
We made our way through a formal garden and ended up in front of a long, narrow building, much fancier than the police headquarters. Marble steps led up to the main entrance, with two wings extending on either side. But May didn’t head for the front door, which was flanked by two gendarmes standing at attention. He took a garden path that led to the back of the building, and headed for a side door, which he unlocked after consulting a heavy ring of keys.
“Where are we going?” I asked when we were alone in a staircase with May.
“To see Robert Brackett, of the American delegation to the Vatican. This building is the Governatorato, where most of the major delegations are housed. Mr. Brackett has been waiting for you.”
“Do you work for him?” Kaz asked.
“Goodness, no. I am employed by the British ambassador, Sir D’Arcy. Here we are,” he said, stopping at a door and giving a discreet knock before opening it. “I will be back to collect you shortly.”
“Where are you-?” But the door shut before I could finish, and we were left alone in a well-furnished sitting room. It was small, but its tall windows overlooked the graceful gardens below. The rug was plush and soft underfoot. I felt out of place in my filthy clothes.
An inner door opened and a maid entered carrying a silver tray, the aroma of coffee dispelling any worries about my attire. She set the tray down and asked in very good English if she could take our coats. It took her only a second to hide the look of surprise as she saw the condition of our clothes, and then act as if disheveled, bloodstained priests came to visit every morning.
“Ah, there you are. Robert Brackett, at your service.” Brackett was graying at the temples, tall, and a bit stooped over, as if his height had begun to work against him in middle age. He needed a haircut, and his three- piece suit was worn, shiny at the knees and with threads sticking out at the seams. We introduced ourselves, and he nodded absently, as if names were bothersome.
“Are you the American ambassador?” Kaz asked as Brackett poured coffee.
“There is no American ambassador to the Vatican,” Brackett said, motioning us to sit. “FDR had to settle for a personal envoy to the Pope when Congress got into a snit about an official representative. They said it was about the separation of church and state, but it was really anti-Catholic bias. So the president sent a personal envoy, who didn’t stick around when war was declared and the rest of the staff was sentenced to the duration in this gilded cage.”
“You don’t sound too happy about that,” I said, savoring the hot coffee.
“That’s a beautiful view out the window,” Brackett said. “But try looking at it for over eight hundred days.” He frowned, gazing at the view despite himself.
“There are worse places to spend a war,” I said.
“Absolutely. But that doesn’t change things; it only makes one feel vaguely guilty for the resentment. Tell me, how was your trip?”
“Eventful, long, and uncomfortable,” I said. “So, are you in charge here?”
“ Father Boyle,” Brackett said, stressing the title sarcastically, “you are going to have to learn the ways of the Vatican. Lots of formal small talk. It’s a long journey to the truth here, whether you’re asking the time of day or for an opinion on a point of diplomacy.”
“Point taken. I’m usually big on chatter, but for right now let’s get to the point. Who are you, and do you know why we’re here?”
“I know why you’re here, although you probably don’t know the whole story. As for me, I’m only the deputy charge d ’affaires. My job is to keep an eye on you and ensure you don’t do anything to endanger Vatican neutrality and American interests.”
“See, you can skip the small talk just fine,” I said. “What part of the story don’t we know?”
“Why do you think you’re here?”
“We’ve been told that Monsignor Corrigan was a cousin of Bishop Finch of New York, who is pals with President Roosevelt. The bishop called in some favors to find out who knifed his kin, and that was enough horsepower to get us where we are.”
“That’s a fine story,” Brackett said, pulling out his pipe and fussing with it, the way pipe smokers do. “Parts might even be true. What’s missing is one key fact.” He tamped down the tobacco and lit a match, puffing his cheeks like a pair of bellows.
“Yes?” Kaz said, as Brackett finally tossed the match in an ashtray.
“It was Donovan who sent you here. William Donovan, head of the Office of Strategic Services himself. I don’t know about Corrigan and Finch, but I do know that Donovan and Corrigan attended Columbia Law School together. They were fast friends, then and now.”
“Are you certain of this?” Kaz asked.
“Damn certain. I was one year ahead of them. The monsignor and I talked about old times quite often.”
“Did he talk about Donovan?” I said. Brackett’s news made sense, given what Hamilton had told us about Wild Bill’s involvement.
“Never,” Brackett said, frowning at the pipe, which had gone dead. “His silence told me that he was still in contact with him, one way or the other. So forget about FDR and the good bishop. You’re here because Wild Bill Donovan wanted you here. And that can be quite dangerous.”
“Dangerous for whom?” Kaz asked.
“The Pope, directly, and the war effort, indirectly. The last thing we need is the OSS running loose in the Vatican. If the Nazis catch on, they’d have the perfect excuse to invade, which would take about two minutes. They’d claim they were protecting the Pope, or were forced into it by the presence of enemy agents.”
“We are not the OSS,” I said.
“Tell that to the Nazis when they march in here. You’re doing Donovan’s bidding. So keep a low profile, a damned low profile.”
“What does your boss say about all this? Does he feel the same way?”
“He’s instructed me to keep both of you at arm’s length from him. He doesn’t want to meet you or have anything to do with you, in case he needs to deny your presence here.”
“Wonderful. Who exactly sent for us anyway?”
“No idea,” Brackett said, pulling at a thread on the sleeve of his coat. “But I’d wager half of Vatican City knows you’re here.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The Vatican is like a small town, filled with people attuned to nuance. They notice everything. Plus, you’ve got scores of diplomats and their families crammed in these hundred damn acres. All the countries that declared war on Italy and Germany, from France to the smallest South American tin-pot dictatorship. Secretaries, wives, children, servants. People who were used to Roman cafes and fine restaurants, the opera, the wine country. All cooped up in a city not exactly known for its nightlife. What do you think they do? They walk in the gardens, watch each other, and gossip.”
