Death's Door (16 page)

I came closer to the tomb of Saint Peter, if I remembered my Sunday school lessons right. It was in front of the massive Papal Altar, with four black-and-gold curved columns reaching to the ceiling under the great dome. At that moment, sunlight streamed in from the windows at the base of the dome, lighting the people standing underneath, bathing them in luminous brilliance. I spotted Kaz, shoulder to shoulder with Princess Nini, their necks craned as they studied the altar.

I wasn’t as close as I’d thought. The scale of the basilica threw me off as the vastness and grandeur of the building overwhelmed my senses. Kaz and the princess were tiny, as if they were miles away, or was it a trick of the light? I looked up to the ceiling and the room swirled around me, the colors thick and heavy, the weight of centuries pressing on me. I covered my eyes and looked again, and Kaz was still distant, mingling and disappearing into a crowd as clouds killed the sunlight, turning the interior into a cold, gray murkiness.

I left the holy place as if it spit me out.

I sat on the cold steps, my head in my hands. Something terrible
had happened to Diana, I was sure of it. It wasn’t the Pieta, or the Germans, or the dazzling light. It was a scream in my brain, and I was certain where it was coming from.

The Regina Coeli.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I
WANDERED THROUGH
the gardens, making my way back to the German College. My brain was in high gear trying to figure some angle that would get Diana out of that damned prison. But this wasn’t my town and I had less pull here than a hooker in a monastery.

“Father Boyle,” said a voice from behind. I nearly jumped out of my skin. It was Robert Brackett, the American deputy chargé d’affaires. I didn’t like being surprised, especially by a heavy-footed civilian. Stay focused, I told myself. Diana worried me, a lot. But I needed to worry about a murder as well. Not to mention the murderer.

“Out for a walk, Mr. Brackett?”

“I was looking for you, actually. You asked about seeing Soletto.”

“Right,” I said. I’d forgotten we’d asked Brackett to arrange that, since he seemed less than enthusiastic about our investigation. “You have any news?”

“Yes, he’s agreed. I had to go through the Pontifical Commission for the Vatican City State,” Brackett said, knocking ashes from his pipe and tucking it into a pocket of his rumpled suit.

“That’s a mouthful,” I said, pleasantly surprised at Brackett’s sudden interest.

“It did take some talking. The commission is the executive branch of the Vatican government, and they take any hint of a
violation to their sovereignty very seriously. But given the severity of the crime, they approved it, with one restriction.”

“What’s that?”

“A representative of the commission must be present at all times, to insure that the rights and privileges of the Vatican City State are respected. That’s an exact quote, by the way.”

“So who’s my minder?”

“Bishop Krunoslav Zlatko. I’m not sure if they did us any favors with that one,” Brackett said.

“Why?”

We sat on a bench near a grove of small pines as the wind swayed the branches, creating a sound like waves on the shore. But Brackett didn’t look like he was having a day at the beach.

“Zlatko is here as the representative of Archbishop Ivan šarić in Sarajevo, Yugoslavia,” he said, as if that explained everything. “Or, as he’d insist, in Croatia. Zlatko is one of the Ustashi. You know what they are?”

“Yeah,” I said, remembering what Sterling Hayden and his Partisans had told me. “Killers.”

“There are a lot of killers these days,” Brackett said. “The Ustashi are a fanatical Croatian militia. They hate Serbs, Jews, and the Eastern Orthodox Church with equal passion. They’ve killed thousands, tens of thousands, maybe more. As you can imagine, precise information is hard to come by.”

“My guide to justice within the Vatican is one of them? Is that someone’s idea of a joke?”

“It may well be,” Brackett said. “There are factions within factions among the cardinals. Some support the Croatian state and the Ustashi as a bulwark against Communism. They hate Tito and Stalin, and the feeling is mutual. If a strong Catholic state gets created out of the ruins of Yugoslavia, then they figure the godless Marxists can be held at bay.”

“So thousands of bodies are a small price to pay?”

“Yes. Especially when the bodies don’t contain Catholic souls. The Croatian government has a policy of dealing in thirds. One
third of the Serbs to be driven out, one third to be forcibly converted to the Roman Catholic Church, and one third to be killed. There are cardinals within the Holy See who consider it a bargain.”

“Let me guess. Those are the same cardinals who would not care for the work Corrigan was doing with Bruzzone and O’Flaherty,” I said.

“Now you’re getting the hang of how things work around here. But Bruzzone has eased up a bit on the cloak-and-dagger stuff. He hasn’t left the Holy See for months.”

“Are the police on the lookout for him?”

“That’s what I figure. Word must have gotten around. O’Flaherty himself takes to a disguise now and then, so he won’t be recognized visiting his safe houses.”

“These guys deserve a medal,” I said.

Brackett shrugged, as if their work was nothing remarkable. “Now don’t expect Zlatko to be a big help. Of course, the official line is that he speaks good English and Italian, and since he doesn’t know the people involved, he can be fair to all sides—your need to investigate, the Vatican’s desire for secrecy. Say, you happen to have any cigarettes?”

“No, I don’t smoke. Does this have the Pope’s approval?”

“All this goes on within the Pontifical Commission and the Secretariat of State. Pius is above it all, or so he lets the world think. Different factions vie for dominance, and meanwhile people die while we sit in this pleasant garden.”

“That’s the way of the world,” I said, not wanting to get drawn into Vatican politics. It wasn’t a fight I could win, and I didn’t want to end up like Brackett, bemoaning my fate to whoever would listen and bumming smokes. “Right now I’m only interested in one dead person, and that’s Monsignor Corrigan. If it takes an Ustashi bishop to get me to Soletto, then so be it.”

“Only trying to give you the lay of the land, Boyle. You wanted to see Soletto, go see him. You’ll find Zlatko in the Governatorato building. I’ve done my bit, now you do the rest. Jeez, what I wouldn’t give for a Lucky Strike.”

I left Brackett on the bench, content he’d done his duty, dreaming of American cigarettes. I made my way beneath the shadow of Saint Peter’s and went in the front entrance of the Governatorato this time. A gendarme at the door directed me to Zlatko’s office and I walked between large pillars, across the marble emblem of the Vatican on the floor, the crossed keys of Saint Peter gleaming up at me. Yesterday we’d been snuck in the side door, and today I was on my way to see a bishop. Funny how quickly I’d become accustomed to the place, confident in my false identity, at home with the solemnity. Everything about the Vatican was majestic, constructed to an enormous scale, one measured by centuries and souls. It felt natural to bow my head as I walked, to give deference to the art, beauty, and order all around me. Maybe it was being brought up as an altar boy. More likely it was my desire for a place of peace and calm amidst the world at war. Either way, it wasn’t the right move. If there was a killer prowling the holy grounds, I needed my eyes up and wide open. I needed to be afraid, not awed.

As I arrived at Zlatko’s door, I tried to shake the cobwebs from my mind. Diana wasn’t far away, I reminded myself, and she was hardly calm and at peace. Corrigan was very far away, maybe at peace, who really knew? Here, something corrupt lurked beneath the surface. I had to protect myself from being lulled by sanctity and Renaissance architecture. I took a deep breath, and knocked.

Opening the door, I braced myself to see a stern-faced monster, a fanatic Croatian fresh from the crusades. That wasn’t what the petite guy behind the desk looked like at all.

“Ah, you must be the American,” Zlatko said, in a delicate, airy voice, as if he might break into song at any moment. He set his pen down and invited me to sit. The room was plain—a wooden desk, a couple of chairs, a picture of Pius XII on one wall, a crucifix on the other.

“The passport is Irish, Bishop Zlatko,” I said. “I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course, and I will play the charade with you, Father Boyle, and help you any way I can.” Zlatko folded his hands on the desk
and took a breath. He was small. Thin, with delicate hands. His close-cropped hair was flecked with gray, but his face was smooth, the skin pink and healthy. The kind of complexion some priests get, the ones who don’t drink too much. I always figured it was from a life of being taken care of. No manual labor, not much wind and sun on your face, nuns keeping house, cooking your meals and washing your clothes. It was like looking at a boy in a middle-aged body. But the eyes were deep and aware, no childish twinkle at home there.

“I understand you will be my escort when I speak to Commissario Soletto,” I said.

“Yes, that is a good way to put it,” he said, the only trace of an accent being a hardness in the consonants. “The
commissario
speaks only a little English, so I can assist with translation as well. Have you had any success in your investigation?”

“Nothing yet,” I said. “Which is why I need to find out what the Vatican police know.”

“Do you think it is true, what they say about the Jew?”

“I only know what Soletto’s opinion is, and that’s secondhand. What do you think, Bishop?”

“Who can understand the nonbeliever? The Jew, the Serb, the Protestant—none are of the true Church, and I have pity for them. Perhaps in his twisted mind, this young man struck out at the hand which helped him, not understanding Christian charity.”

“If he didn’t do it, there is a murderer walking free, within these walls.”

“Then I pray for his heart to be healed. I am more concerned with your presence here. Have your brought your conflict with you? Shall you divide us, or bring ruin down upon this house?”

“That’s not my plan. Justice is all I want.”

“Justice often requires sacrifice. What will you ask of us? Will you push the Holy See closer to taking sides in the war?”

“I have no such grand plans, Bishop. If justice sounds too threatening, then I’ll settle for the truth.”
Even though I know it is a long shot
, I wanted to add.

“Ha! That is even worse. Your truth, Serbian truth, Italian truth, English truth, my truth—which shall it be?”

“Good point, Bishop. From what I hear, your truth is pretty rough on a lot of people back in Croatia.”

“We are a new nation, and sometimes nations in their youth go too far. Perhaps we have. Still, Croatia stands for civilization amidst chaos. The chaos of Communism, Zionism, the false Eastern Church. After all, it was His Holiness himself who called Croatia the outpost of Christianity. We live in the wilderness, my American friend. Our backs to the Adriatic, Serbs in our midst, godless Russians to the east. Do not judge us for defending our lives and faith.”

“There’s a lot I don’t know,” I admitted. It was true enough, and the last thing I needed was to pick a fight with my ticket to Soletto, so I backed off.

“And I as well,” Zlatko said. “You have become acquainted with Monsignor O’Flaherty, haven’t you? What is he like?”

“He seems to have a good heart,” I said. “As every priest should.”

“Ah, yes. I understand he brings escaped prisoners and criminals into the Vatican. Sanctuary for all.”

“I wouldn’t call them criminals,” I said. O’Flaherty’s activities were an open secret, so it was useless to deny it.

“The civil authority in Rome has ordered all Jews to be transported north. Those who do not comply are in breach of the law. Therefore, criminals.”

“Do you know what that means, Bishop? Transport north?”

“That is not the point. The Germans run Rome and make the laws. The warmhearted monsignor is risking the Holy See itself with his actions. He is violating their laws and the neutrality of the Vatican State. As are you, Father Boyle.” Zlatko smiled apologetically.

“I’m here to solve a murder, not settle a question of diplomacy, Bishop. There is a logic to what you say. But there is also logic to what O’Flaherty is doing.”

“And what logic is that?”

“Isn’t there something in the Bible along the lines of ‘I was a stranger, and ye took me in’?”

“Yes, the logic of Matthew,” Zlatko said, closing his eyes and reciting. “And the King shall answer and say unto them, verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye have done unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done unto me.”

“The least of our brethren are everywhere these days, I’d say.”

“
My
brethren are not the heathen Jews or godless Communists. Certainly not the heretical Protestants or Eastern Orthodox Serbs. My brethren are my fellow Catholics. You, Father Boyle, or whatever your real name is, you are among my brethren.” Zlatko leaned forward, his eyes locking on mine in what he must have thought was brotherly love.

“Wasn’t it Saint Peter himself who told us to practice fervent charity, to cover the multitude of sins? To give hospitality without grudging? Isn’t that was Monsignor O’Flaherty is doing?” The good saint’s words were always part of the talk Sister Mary Margaret gave in school about giving to the poor and to the church, although not necessarily in that order.

“You know your Bible, Father Boyle. As does the devil.”

“Only bits and pieces from Sunday school, Bishop. I was an altar boy, but Father McGonigle did call me the devil’s own once or twice.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Zlatko said with a sly grin. “You have a pleasant way about you, Father Boyle, I must say, in spite of your misguided belief in the monsignor. Although I doubt he would be so successful without the help of the English ambassador and his disappearing butler.”

“Disappearing? Do you mean John May? Where is he?”

“Oh, he is always somewhere. In Rome, or visiting the hiding places within the Holy See. I wonder how he has time to take care of the ambassador, don’t you?”