by James R Benn
The third man turned to face the second prisoner and spoke to him in Italian. It was a gentle voice, soothing and calm. But I knew it masked something else. The speaker was Pietro Koch. He wore the same wisp of a smile I’d seen on his face at Saint Peter’s as he nodded to his two leather-coated accomplices. They tipped the bloodied prisoner over the railing, and watched him fall to the hard floor below.
It wasn’t that far to fall, but he fell flat, the sharp sound of cracking bone followed by silence. Deep-red blood seeped out from under the body. His legs gave a final thrash, and then the body was inert, the inescapable pose of death—all gravity and finality as the physical body became nothing more than a leaking bag of bones and blood.
Koch gave an appreciative laugh, and patted his prisoner on the shoulder, as if complimenting him on watching the spectacle. Handcuffs were produced and Koch’s henchmen led the prisoner toward us as the jailer protested. One of them replied in German, the other in Italian. I didn’t understand the words, but the meaning was clear. Go to hell.
They brushed past us, the prisoner wearing a stunned, vacant look on his face. Koch came last, stopping smack in front of me, his languid eyes looking deep into mine, as if they could see my thoughts, hook into my brain, and pull the truth out into the open.
“Prega per lui,” he said, then patted my shoulder as he had the prisoner’s. He chuckled, a gentle, amused laughter, as he waited for me to respond. Behind him, Rino lifted his hands, palms together in prayer. Pray for him, he was telling me.
“Sì,” I said in a whisper as I kissed the Bible and took the stairs, praying indeed, but for Koch not to say another word, to not hear the sound of steel on leather, a pistol being drawn, a shouted command to halt. All I wanted to hear was the sound of my own shoes on the metal stairs.
“Ma non per me!” Koch shouted out, and laughter followed from the other two thugs. That I understood. But not for me. No worries there. We went up, they went down, as the guards on the ground floor directed two prisoners to drag the body away.
The third tier had a guard posted at the top, seated at a small desk off the landing. This must be the unbribable Fascist that Rino had told us about. Along the catwalk, a woman guard stood gazing at the scene below. Prisoners were bringing in mops and pails to clean up, and it looked like this was the high point of her day. Rino signed a sheet on the guard’s desk. He’d explained that since this tier was the women’s section, there was this last checkpoint, mainly to keep idle guards away from the female prisoners. Rino and the guard laughed over something, and another package of cigarettes appeared. The jailer thanked Rino and opened the pack, leaned his chair back against the wall, and lit up. This put him out of sight of the catwalk, maybe so he wouldn’t have to share his smokes. Whatever the reason, it gave us a break.
We walked toward the female guard, who waved at Rino while making eyes at Abe. He winked at her, being either a great actor or a consummate ladies’ man.
“Buongiorno, Fabrizia,” Rino said. Fabrizia smiled as she opened one of the cell doors. Abe played his part well, admiring the curves beneath the uniform. Fabrizia moved to another door and opened it, playing with her hair and chatting with Rino, maybe asking if he could give her a trim. Her hair was black and curly, popping out from under her cap in all directions.
I passed each door as she opened them. Inside the first were two women, huddled in fear on their small, narrow cots. One was bruised and bloodied, another had a dirty bandage covering one eye. Haircuts were probably the last thing on their minds.
Now there were three doors open. I caught a glance of Rino nodding toward where the catwalk curved around the wall. We wanted cell number 321, and we were in front of 313. With Rino consulting Fabrizia about her hair, and the open cell doors blocking her view, Abe and I rounded the corner. He stopped at a barred door that connected to a circular staircase at the opposite end of the wing from where we had entered. This door was out of sight of the guard and would be our exit route. Abe got out his picks and made quick work of it, leaving it unlocked behind us. We had to move fast, and I trusted Rino to disengage from Fabrizia and join us. She’d have to stay by the prisoners or lock up, and either way it gave us some time. Not much, but enough.
A red sign greeted us as we came to the last of the cells. Limitato. Restricted.
Each cell had a Judas hole that was latched shut. Beneath that was a thick iron bar that was set into a lock welded onto the door. Cell 320 was unlocked, probably empty. But number 321 was closed up tight.
“Kee-rist,” Abe whispered. I shielded him with my body as best I could as he knelt to work his picks into the lock. He cursed under his breath as he went. This lock seemed tougher than any of the locks in the Vatican. I pressed my hand against the cold steel door, the only thing that stood between Diana and freedom. Or me, at least. Freedom was a few more doors away, and we had only minutes before the shift changed and our bought-and-paid-for guard went home for the day. Voices rose from the main hall, but it was only the prisoners cleaning up. The clatter of pails echoed against the walls, but I still heard the click as Abe picked the lock. With a grin on his face, he pulled the iron bolt back and opened the door.
I expected the worst. I knew she’d be in rough shape, even if the worst hadn’t happened. But the last thing I expected was to see Diana seated at a table, dressed in a clean gray skirt and white silk blouse. Two empty chairs faced her. Her light-brown hair was pulled back from her face, which looked pale but otherwise undamaged. Her expression was full of apology, or sorrow, I couldn’t tell, but either way it wasn’t good.
Her eyes were rimmed with tears as she gave a quick glance to my right, where a German officer lounged against the wall.
“Lieutenant Boyle,” a familiar voice said. “I believe you are acquainted with Miss Diana Seaton, also known as Sister Justina?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“DIANA! WHAT’S GOING on?” I barely got the words out before shouts echoed from the catwalk outside.
“Do not worry, Lieutenant Boyle,” Erich Remke said. “Your comrades will not be hurt. Now, sit down. We must talk.”
I’d encountered Remke twice before. Once when I was on the wrong side of the bars in a Vichy French jail cell, and another time in Sicily, when we were vying for the allegiance of a Mafia boss. I hoped he wasn’t sore about how that had worked out.
“I prefer to stand, Major Remke,” I said, trying not to look concerned about the scuffle outside the door, and to overcome the shock running through my brain. What was happening here?
“It is Colonel Remke now, Lieutenant,” Remke said as he sat down. “And you are still a lieutenant? Does the American Army not recognize officers with initiative?”
“What’s going on here?” I asked. Still standing. It was about the only thing I had control over.
“Go ahead, Billy, sit down,” Diana said. She tried for a smile, and it almost worked. So I sat, and our eyes locked on to each other’s.
“There, now we can talk, the three of us,” Remke said. He spoke excellent English, with more of an Oxford accent than a German one. He was tall, with a chiseled face, all angles and soldierly intent. He wore his uniform well, the green-gray fabric well tailored. On one sleeve was a cuff with Brandenburg in Gothic script. I knew that was a special commando outfit attached to the Abwehr, the German intelligence service. Remke noticed my glance. “Yes, as you can see, Miss Seaton and I are engaged in the same work. Intelligence, or what passes for it.”
“What do you want?” I asked. I’d been thinking of doing what we’d been told to do if captured, which was to give name, rank, and serial number, then clam up. But this was all too elaborate, too complex. We were way beyond the protocols of the Geneva Convention.
“Are you not glad to see Miss Seaton well?” Remke demanded. “You must know the reputation of this place. This is a pleasant surprise, is it not?”
“Diana, did you tell him your name?”
Remke leaned back and nodded to Diana, giving h
er the floor. They were a bit too much at ease with each other. Something was up, something that I needed to figure out, fast.
“No, Billy. He knew it. And, I know this sounds odd, but it’s so good to see you,” she said, her lip quivering. I reached out with one hand to take hers, but Remke held me back.
“I am sorry, Lieutenant Boyle. For now, we have important matters to discuss. Later, you and Miss Seaton may embrace. But not yet.”
“You’re Rudder,” I said. It was chancy, but if I were right, it might throw him off. It did.
“Very good,” Remke said, surprise flashing across his face. “How did you come to that conclusion?”
“You’re here, for starters. You know Diana’s name. A few clues from the Vatican. Too many people claiming to be Rudder, or being in contact with him.”
“Yes, I am Rudder. We captured an American OSS team four months ago, radio and all. We had been watching them for some time, and monitoring their transmissions. Once we took them, we kept transmitting and recruited new agents.”
“So the people in the Vatican thought they were helping the Allies? Brackett, Corrigan, Bruzzone?”
“The first two, yes. Monsignor Bruzzone was not recruited. He has kept a low profile since Genoa, where I hear he was almost trapped by the Gestapo.” Score one for Bruzzone; he hadn’t lied to me about Rudder.
“Even Bishop Zlatko?”
“No, not the good bishop. He is working with us, trying to curry favor with the high command. He reported on activities within the Vatican while he tried to ferret out information about Tito and his Partisans, but he is of little use to me. He has peddled the same information to the Gestapo, who have him on their payroll. That has become inconvenient for him, of course. The last I heard, he was trying to convince an American diplomat that he was a double agent, and on the side of the Allies. I think he is planning for the future.”
“I doubt the Allies will take him seriously.”
“Or the Wehrmacht. The violence of the Ustashi left even the SS stunned, which is a remarkable achievement.” His eyes avoided mine, and I wondered at the atrocities he’d seen to make that judgment.
“I’m sure that kept you up nights. Now what is this all about? You could have picked us up on the way here. Why bring me all the way to Diana’s cell?” As I spoke, I remembered the situation in Algiers, when Remke found Colonel Harding and me in that Vichy jail cell. He let us live for his own purposes, to help free one of his agents also being held by the Vichy police.
“Because I have a task for you, Lieutenant Boyle. One that is especially suited to the nephew of General Eisenhower.”
“How did you know …?” I’d never let that slip, and I didn’t believe Diana would have told him. I also knew the OSS hadn’t included that tidbit in any of their transmissions.
“After our encounter in Sicily, I began to build a file on you, Lieutenant William Boyle, late of the Boston Police Department. A distant but trusted relative and confidant of General Eisenhower.”
“Very distant, and as you point out, still a lowly lieutenant, so don’t count on me being worth much in a trade.” I figured Remke wanted to swap me for one of his agents, and if Diana wasn’t enough of a bargaining chip, maybe he thought I was.
“No, Lieutenant Boyle. I do not want to exchange you. I want you to help me end the war.”
That was the last thing I’d expected to hear. Looking at Diana, I could tell she wasn’t surprised. Remke had filled her in, and from the way she held herself, I knew she believed it. There was no fear, no hesitation in her eyes, more of an eagerness to draw me in. I wanted to trust her instincts, but this was happening too quickly.
“Perhaps you should have thought of that sooner,” I said. It’s always easier to fall back on a wisecrack when you don’t know what else to do.
“We did,” Remke said, leaning back in his chair. “Allow me a brief history lesson. In 1939, Admiral Canaris of the Abwehr began to recruit intelligence agents with links to the Vatican. Canaris sent Josef Müeller to Rome to meet with the Pope. The message was that an anti-Nazi circle existed and that plans for the assassination of Hitler and a coup d’état were in place.”
“You’re telling me that the top ranks of the German Intelligence service are all anti-Nazi? That’s hard to believe.”
“I am telling you nothing that is not known to the highest ranks of your own intelligence services. Now, in late 1939, Müeller met with the Pope’s private secretary, Father Leiber. He laid out the plans for him and asked that the Pope contact the British and help determine if they would support the coup and not attack Germany while the anti-Nazi forces were struggling for control.”
“The SS probably wouldn’t give up easily,” I said. “Even with Hitler dead.”
“Exactly. We needed to be assured that England would not strike in the midst of a German civil war. That would only turn the nation against us.”
“So what did the Pope do?”
“He agreed to help. He met with the British ambassador, Sir D’Arcy Osborne.”
“I know him,” I said, trying to take in the enormity of what I was hearing.
“Yes, I know,” Remke said. “You dined with him the day you arrived.”
“How do you know that?”
“Through an Italian boy who works in his kitchen. Sir D’Arcy is well aware he is an informant. The trick in Rome is to know who is informing on whom, and to tailor your comments accordingly. In any case, Pius told D’Arcy of the plot, and the ambassador forwarded the information to the British Foreign Office. Cables were exchanged, and for a while it seemed as if the English took us seriously.”
“But they didn’t?”
“Not in the end. In February 1940, they were given the plans for the invasion of France and the Low Countries. They reacted by demanding a list of all the conspirators, their ranks, roles in the new government, and so on.”
“Wait a minute. You’re saying that the British had the plans for your invasion of France in 1940?”
“Yes. They were passed through the Pope’s offices to Sir D’Arcy, and then on to the Foreign Office. They are probably buried deep in a locked room somewhere in London, if they have not been destroyed. Quite embarrassing, if the truth came out. Admiral Canaris also informed the Dutch directly about the invasion plans, but they thought it a trick and ignored him.”
“There was no coup in 1940,” I said, trying to get back on track.
“No. As you can imagine, no one thought it wise to hand a list of the top opponents of the regime to the British. They could easily have used it in an attempt to destabilize Germany, which would have only cost the lives of many good men.”
“And then Hitler defeats France and the British hightail it out of Dunkirk, and he’s in the catbird seat.”
“The British depart in a great hurry, and Hitler is left in an enviable position,” Diana translated, noticing Remke’s confused expression.
“Ah, American idioms. Wonderful use of language, I must admit,” Remke said. “Yes, without a guarantee of cooperation, and given Hitler’s victories, nothing could happen in 1940. His success in France was our greatest undoing. With the non-aggression pact with the Russians, our eastern border was secure. In the West, France was ours and England stood alone. Some thought it would end with a negotiated peace, and others believed Hitler was the genius he insisted he was. Instead, that little Austrian fool decided to attack Russia when he became bored with sacrificing his Luftwaffe over England. Since then, there have been several attempts on his life, but nothing even close to success.”
“You’ve got something in the works,” I said. I was beginning to see a glimmer of hope. Remke was naming names, and that meant either he was gambling for big odds or he didn’t plan on either of us ever repeating any of them.
“I am only a courier. Admiral Canaris put this plan together. I reported to him when I uncovered your relationship to Eisenhower. Then, when we heard you were coming to Rome, things began to fall into place.”
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br /> “Is that why you grabbed Diana? Sister Justina?”
“No, Billy,” Diana said. “I was picked up in a routine identity check. I was carrying food for some of our guests, and the police arrested me for trading on the black market.”
“But you knew who she was,” I said to Remke. “And you used her as bait to get your hands on me.”
“Yes. What better place to meet than the Regina Coeli? The Gestapo would never guess we were using the prison for our rendezvous. And I wanted a certain leverage, to guarantee you play your part. This place is quite suitable for that purpose.”
“To blackmail me, you mean.”
“If you should prove recalcitrant, this visit should serve to remind you of what could happen to both of you. Many are left to their fate in the Regina Coeli every day. Two more would not be noticed.”
“I haven’t been mistreated, Billy,” Diana said. I knew what she meant. Diana had been tortured and raped in Algeria by a psychotic Vichy officer, and it had been a long road back for her. And us. Since the war began, Diana had seen more action than many men. Serving with the British Expeditionary Force in 1940, as a switchboard operator in Lord Gort’s headquarters, she was one of the lucky ones who made it out of Dunkirk, just ahead of the Germans, only to have her destroyer blown out of the water courtesy of the Luftwaffe. She’d watched wounded soldiers on stretchers slide off the decks into the cold Channel waters as the ship went down, and barely survived herself. Since then, Diana had constantly flirted with death, perhaps to test herself to see if she deserved to live while so many around her had died. I looked into her eyes, and nodded. It was very good to know.