by Declan Finn
Figlia waved him into a chair. “What do you know of Pius XII and World War II?”
“And yes,” Goldberg added, “this time, we’re asking for a lecture.”
Father Frank sat, furrowed his brow and thought a moment. “The Vatican released a whole slew of documents back in the 1970s, after the initial Hitler’s Pope accusation came up in the mid-sixties, in a play called The Deputy. However, in 1967, Israeli Diplomat Pinchas Lapide said he believed that Pius was instrumental in saving at least 700,000, and probably as many as 860,000 Jews from the Nazis, surpassing those saved by all other rescue attempts combined.”
Goldberg blinked. “You’re kidding.”
Father Frank looked at her with his violet eyes. “No, I’m not. He was even eulogized by Golda Meir and Albert Einstein.” He learned back in his chair, recalling what he could. “Born of nobility as Eugenio Pacelli. Nuncio to Germany, later Vatican Secretary of State under Pius XI.”
Abasi raised an eyebrow, glancing from one to the other. “Why did he not just say, ‘We hate the Nazis?’ I know it is not diplomatic, but—”
Figlia shook his head at that one. “Is not Vatican policy — if you condemn Al-Qaeda, they could change the name. If one condemns ‘men of violence’ in Afghanistan, it is obvious, si?”
Father Frank nodded. “Correct. But the policy also maintained official Vatican neutrality the year the Nazis took Italy. When Jews were arrested in Rome in October 1943, the Vatican was free to… cause trouble. Adolf Eichmann complained about the Vatican delays because the Nazis only captured a thousand Jews instead of 8,000. Over 477 Jews had been given shelter in the Vatican, and thousands in the Pope’s personal residence. Over the years, 2,600 Jews were sent out of harm’s way into Spain by Pius XII and a Capuchin monk named Father Marie Benoit, who provided false ID papers. The Vatican gave about four million dollars to the Father Benoit operation.
“The Chief Rabbi of Rome, Israel Zolli, mentioned that Pius XII ordered the convents and monasteries to become refuges. When the Nazis held hundreds of Jews hostage in exchange for gold, the Vatican melted down 100 pounds of gold relics. Rabbi Zolli would later become Catholic, taking the baptismal name Eugenio. Over 150 Catholic institutions sheltered Jews during that time.” He stopped.
“Wasn’t there a commission to study all of the documents?” Goldberg asked.
Father Frank grimaced. “It was less of a commission and more of a lynch mob. Most of them were asking questions that had been answered years before, and all of them were hacks. They were as insightful as Wikipedia, only with more of their own agenda. Come to think of it, one of them was a major source on the Wiki page – which proves either that the website is garbage, or the historian was. Anything else?”
Figlia shrugged. “Not unless you can imagine a reason that someone could be killed over it?”
Father Frank thought a moment, and lied. “No.”
“In that case,” Figlia said, standing, “grazie per il suo tempo, Father. We need to look into a few things. Canvassing the area, for one.”
* * *
Scott Murphy walked out of St. Peter’s Basilica, going from one bland, ubiquitous look to another. He had quickly unfolded his light, reversible windbreaker, tucked into the perfect, ever-present piece of tourist garb known as the fanny pack. The windbreaker was a simple black, the best, most nondescript color he could find — it worked well in America, where everyone seemed to wear black, and in Rome, he could easily be mistaken for a priest by the unobservant. He covered his dark blond hair with a dark green baseball cap from Trinity College.
The spy drifted through St. Peter’s Square like a lost tourist, staring at the map in front of him, nearly running over a priest, then a nun, and then a police officer; following such “klutziness,” he tucked himself away at the start of the colonnade at the entrance to Vatican City, trying not to be run over by pedestrian traffic.
The ruse quickly bore fruit, as Giovanni Figlia walked toward him.
I wonder how long it’s going to take him before he realizes something’s up, Murphy wondered. He already knows about the hit man, Clementi, but what happens when he finds out there’s something wrong about the murder itself? God forbid the idiot used the same gun twice, or even the same modus operandi, but this is an Italian terrorist we’re talking about here; they never did anything right.
He frowned at the map. Why was I called in now, anyway? Because our Gucci terrorist struck again, and then got blown out a window? Before, it looked like someone killed Yousef merely because he’s a terrorist. But now, I have to wonder what’s the connection between an old Italian Red Army goon, a dead academic, and a dead terrorist. And what would be the punchline if they all walked into a bar?
Giovanni Figlia walked past the Mossad agent, not even looking his way. He was quickly followed by the Arab and the midget. Murphy made a note to himself to get photos of the woman with Abasi and Figlia and send them back to the Mossad.
Speaking of jokes, what happens when you have an Italian, an Egyptian, and a midget walk into a bar?
Murphy counted to ten, and patiently folded the tourist map, not in any rush. Italian drivers believed that two objects could occupy the same space at the same time. Thus, thus the trio he tailed would take their time heading to… where?
To Herr Yousef. After that, things are going to get real interesting, and damned near impossible. Yousef probably had a false ID, which someone will look into and discover he’s a terrorist; then my boss is going to get a call, and he’ll chat with the Americans. When Mossad and CIA both realize Yousef wasn’t killed by either of them, the fecal matter is so going to hit the air impeller.
Murphy finally stepped out from cover, walking onto Via Ottaviano, where the assassin had himself been sanctioned. Even though the body had been moved, and the car towed, someone had left the crime scene tape around one lane of traffic, on the property that was demarcated as Vatican City. However, closing one lane didn’t stop any of the Italian drivers, who were all crazy enough to take turns going around the crime scene into oncoming traffic.
The spy smiled. Someone has a thorough crime scene analyst on the employment register, and I don’t think it’s the Italians. The Mossad agent continued to move like a cautious tourist, his thumb still in the map as though he might need to refer to it at any moment — which was possible. He’d been in the city before, but very rarely.
Murphy fought his natural curiosity and stay focused on the trio ahead of him. He wanted to try and put the pieces together, but he didn’t even have a general idea. Killing guest researchers of the Archives? That was just too plain strange, even for his overactive imagination. He knew disguises that made his friends at Mossad stand up and take notice, and could spin stories out of whole cloth for anyone — there were days that not even his handlers knew if he told them the truth — but he couldn’t put this one together.
Even Mani couldn’t guess at why Clementi killed Yousef, but I’m certain that whoever did it, they wouldn’t be happy if bin Laden’s crew got their hands on them. Sigh… a good question is, was Abasi really sent here to coordinate with the authorities about Yousef? Then he heard about Gerrity, and decided to work with Vatican authorities because of the similarities? Possible, I suppose — and it’s time to stop thinking, just keep following.
* * *
Hashim Abasi looked over his shoulder down the street for the third time in five minutes.
“Something wrong?”
He glanced down at Wilhelmina Goldberg. “I’m not sure. I tend to look over my shoulder a lot when I’m home… I’m just having similar feelings right now.”
“Why? You think we’re being followed?”
“Possibly, but I’m not sure who’s doing it.”
She nodded, sped up a little bit, and tapped Giovanni Figlia.
Figlia turned. “What?”
“We’re going back the other way, and work the other side of the street first. You got a problem with that?” He shrugged. “I care where we st
art? I care how fast we start. Lead on!”
Goldberg did just that, turning on the ball of her foot, walking back in the direction they had come. A tourist in a black windbreaker almost ran into them — he seemed to be paying more attention to the architecture than the people in front of him. She sidestepped him, and Abasi snapped his fingers in front of the tourist’s face before he could run into him.
Scott Murphy leapt at the “sudden sound.” His attention seemingly snapped back onto the path ahead and he smiled at Abasi. “Excuse me, sir, but might you know where north is?”
Figlia pointed. “Why?”
“You’re sure? Oh darn! Thank you.” He reached down and pulled out his map, immediately trying to open it.
Abasi merely stepped around him. Figlia and Goldberg also visibly ignored him. Tourists were mostly annoying — and it was best not to stay around them long lest they start asking more questions.
Scott Murphy kept fumbling with the map for thirty more seconds, waiting for them to get far enough away. He was about to fold the map when he watched them duck into a café, and he suspected it wasn’t for a cappuccino. He pursued them patiently.
* * *
Giovanni Figlia flashed the waitress his Vatican identification, which got him instant service. He then flashed the photo of the livelier Giacomo Clementi from his old wanted poster.
The waitress, having heard what he wanted, sighed. “Non lo consosco. Io ho tavoli—” I don’t know him. I have tables—
“That was the before,” Goldberg said in Italian. “Would you like to see the ‘after’ photo?”
Giovanni Figlia almost rolled his eyes. The American “bad cop” cliché. God save us.
However, that didn’t surprise him as much as the fact that Goldberg slipped out a photo of Clementi’s face after his life, and his body, had hit rock bottom. The waitress dropped her serving tray. Abasi dropped to one knee and grab it in midair.
Goldberg, satisfied her work was done, turned and walked toward an empty table next to the counter.
The waitress, on the other hand, said, “I’ll get my boss,” and disappeared.
Figlia looked at Abasi and arched his eyebrows. Abasi smiled. “Don’t act surprised that it worked; in Cairo, going easy would be to ‘accidentally’ show them autopsy photos first.”
A slender, elderly man walked to the counter. “Mi chiamo Alfredo Mortati. Che cosa le ha fatto?” I’m Alfredo Mortati. What did you do to her?
Figlia explained his acquaintance as an American, then flashed the less-gory photo.
“Certo, so lui. Venga ogni Giovedì con una pretta.” Sure, I know him. He came every Thursday with a priest.
“What did the priest look like?” Abasi asked in English.
Figlia translated his question, and Mortati’s answer. “Three different priests. One was taller, with gray hair, only in a crew cut; obviously Roman, and brown eyes. The other was pale, cheekbones like aircraft carriers, not yet graying, light blue eyes. The last one was short, with silver hair, but he looked young, and… had violet eyes.” He shared a glance with Abasi.
* * *
Scott Murphy, five tables away, also made a note of it. So, what’s a Lefty terrorist doing with a Catholic Priest? Or why is a Catholic priest with a Communist terrorist?
And what if a man in black really did kill Ashid Yousef? Catholic hitmen? Yeah, right.
Chapter VIII: The Days of Wine and Wafers
As the three of them wandered back to Saint Peter’s Square, Wilhelmina Goldberg looked from Abasi to Figlia as they filled her in on the interrogation. “Violet eyes? Silver Hair? Looks youngish? This sounds a lot like a priest we know, doesn’t it?”
Abasi nodded. “It does, a little.” He leaned against one of the pillars of the colonnade, folded his massive arms, and settled against the marble.
The Secret Service Agent blanched. “A little? Come on! I’m not even certain how much of Williams’ Pius XII history to take seriously anymore. He’s been meeting a known terrorist!”
Figlia sighed, and rubbed his temples, a headache forming. “But a priest committing murder? Do you wish to suggest he even dialed in the explosives?”
“Did the priest use a phone while he was in the shop?” she asked.
Figlia answered. “I checked out the restrooms, the phones are on the way, and no one can remember seeing if the priest left the table this morning.”
Goldberg blinked. “This morning? I thought you said that the priest met Clementi every Thursday?” She checked the day and date on her watch. “It’s only Wednesday.”
He coughed politely. “When you reset your watch, did you move it forward or backward to the proper time?”
She thought a moment, said nothing, and reset the watch. “So, Clementi met three priests there. Who was it this morning?”
“The one with violet eyes,” Abasi answered.
“We saw Frank outside almost immediately after the bomb went off. How exactly is he not someone we’d like to talk to?”
A soft voice said, “Imagine trying to take a rabbi in for questioning in the middle of Brooklyn’s Crown Heights, and you’d have the general idea.”
Abasi bounded off the pillar and pivoted, muttering one or two curses in Coptic. Goldberg took a step back and put her hand on her gun.
Father Frank Williams smiled at the reaction, amused. He looked to Abasi. “I can only hope I’m not damned yet, sir. But there’s always that chance, isn’t there?”
“How long have you been standing there?” Goldberg asked. “Better yet, where?”
Father Frank jerked his thumb over his should. “On the other side of the pillar.”
“Are all of you priests trained to be so freaking quiet? If you are, I’d be happy to have you train the FBI.”
He nodded. “If you are all quite finished discussing my whereabouts today, His Holiness would like to have a word with you.” Father Frank paused, and a mischievous twinkle appeared in his eye. “As would I. Now, please, come along, he even imported some Italian food just for the guests.”
A small smile played across his face, and his eyes shone brightly. Goldberg noted that Father Frank’s eyes were right on her. In fact, they were intently focused.
What the? Her eyes narrowed, and a low growl escaped her throat.
Father Frank gave her a broad, sheepish grin, and stepped aside, letting the three of them pass. Goldberg went first. Abasi insisted the priest precede him.
She groaned inwardly. Well, look at it this way — your rack’s good enough to distract a priest; at least this one likes girls.
Father Frank was content to let her think he had been checking her out. After all, he had already noted exactly where she had holstered her pistol.
* * *
Abasi and Goldberg both had trouble with the image before them — the most powerful religious individual on the planet, the Man in White, was busy assembling a portable dinner table in the middle of his office.
Pope Pius XIII looked at the table, nodded with approval, and before anyone could offer him aid, flipped the table onto its legs. He nodded, slapped the table, and stepped back, running into his desk. With one short push, he slid the desk against the wall.
“Normally,” the Pope said, “we have a special dining hall for guests. But I prefer a more informal atmosphere whenever I can. I have scandalized most of the Italians this way – many prefer their Religious nobility to be more… noble. But I’m still training them. Also, in the formal dining room, there are too many ears around,” he concluded.
The Jew and the Muslim shared a glance, wondering exactly how strong this man was, and why in Allah’s name did they elect a bodybuilding Cardinal to be Pope?
The Pope noted the exchange of looks. “Sorry for showing off, but I have to keep in shape somehow. Using the papal swimming pool isn’t enough. Besides, where I come from, you have to be able to protect one’s flock.”
Goldberg allowed herself a smile. “Is that before or after Idi Amin?”
&
nbsp; The Pope laughed. “Oh, you mean Uganda’s most famous cannibal? Let’s just say that I put him on a diet.”
Abasi grinned. “So, Joshua, you were the Scarlet Pimpernel of Amin’s table?”
The Pope shrugged. “In my youth. But remember, that was over twenty years ago. I had to wear a Kevlar vest to work in the morning, which never matched my robes.”
Goldberg raised a brow. “You mean, you don’t wear a bulletproof vest now?”
“Never again!” he insisted. He checked his watch, and then quickly stepped outside.
She looked to Figlia. “He won’t wear a vest! This is impossible.”
The Italian smiled easily. “You do know they can tailor Kevlar, don’t you?”
Goldberg smiled. “White bulletproof vestments? Nice.”
Pius stepped back inside, bringing along a tall man with deep brown eyes, short gray hair, and a long, Roman nose. “Hashim Abasi, Wilhelmina Goldberg, I’d like you to meet Xavier O’Brien, second-in-command of the Society of Jesus, the Jesuits.”
O’Brien stepped forward. “Pleased to meet you.”
Goldberg smiled up at him. Darn, why can’t priests be ugly by canon law? He’s even got a nice, strong, manly voice… tell me he’s gay, too, just so I don’t feel bad. What was it Frank Williams said about priests? If you put a collar on a broomstick, the girls’ll chase it? She shook his hand. “Charmed.”
Xavier grinned. “I hope not, then we’d need to burn a witch or two, and the Protestants were so much better at that than we were. Even Inquisitors usually told confessed ‘witches’ to get lost, get some medication, or simply go away.” He shrugged. “O’Brien turned to Abasi. “Assalamu alaikum.”
Abasi nodded. “You even pronounce it with the correct accent — where did you learn Arabic, Father O’Brien?”
“Detroit. It’s not too far from Marquette, where I went to college.”
“Ah, so you’re a Jesuit.”
O’Brien smirked. “I’m trying to change the society from the inside, instead of abandoning the sinking ship.”