by Mick Hare
The car arrived as Friedrich opened the gates. Robert leaned into the car and said to Lily.
“I must go and finish off the one in the truck. If I don’t he could raise the alarm before we have sufficient time to get away.”
Lily nodded and switched off the engine. Robert turned and ran back up to the old brewery yard. He had no need to go through the old building. He could follow the tracks around the side to the spot where the truck stood.
When he got to the truck he could hear shouting in Italian. Somehow, the guard had managed to expel the gag from his mouth. He was ordering a middle-aged woman to untie his bonds. She was untying the scarf around his legs as Robert climbed into the truck. When she saw him she stopped and stepped away. With his leg bonds loosened the Italian scrabbled away from Robert screaming, “No! No! No!”
Like a man about to cut a cabbage head from his allotment, Robert calmly approached the frightened man, reached around his throat and opened it with his blade. There were now approximately twenty to twenty-five men, women and children in the truck. There was no reaction from them. They stared like so many cynics at something they had seen a thousand times before. As he jumped down from the truck Robert turned and said in German, English and Italian, “You can go! You are free!” Then he turned and ran all the way back to the gate.
From an upstairs window in the old brewery building, the cowering figure of O’Shea watched as his nemesis jumped into the car at the gate and sped away. After waiting over an hour for his courage and strength to return, he slowly picked his way through the derelict building and began his long walk back to civilisation. He walked for an hour and a quarter before reaching a village. He was dimly aware that he should have telephoned the authorities from the brewery but nothing could have prevailed upon him to linger in that place. On arriving in the village he immediately went to the church and knocked at the door of the priest’s house. He was ushered inside by the housekeeper and given permission by the parish priest to use the telephone. He informed the Vatican authorities of the crimes he had witnessed and they informed the German SS. After another hour a Mercedes screamed to a halt outside the village church. Schirach and Dortmuller got out. They collected O’Shea from the priest’s house and then sped off towards the old brewery.
O’Shea refused to move out of the gatehouse and so Schirach and Dortmuller went on alone to inspect the carnage. The light was fading now as night began to reclaim the hemisphere. Shadows became one with the night as Schirach and Dortmuller finally approached the old railway truck. The door was still open and the stench reached their nostrils well before they reached it. Covering their faces with their sleeves to look inside, they were shocked to find one bloodied corpse and twenty to twenty-five men, women and children staring out at them. The traumatised captives had waited to be told what to do. They had not been able to trust the word of the assassin who had lied to them about freedom.
“Close the door!” ordered Schirach.
Dortmuller tugged at the door and slid it to.
“Lock it!”
Dortmuller lifted the heavy chain through the padlock and snapped it shut. Schirach marched away and Dortmuller followed him. He scouted around the yard until he found the thing he was looking for. He had guessed that a railway truck terminus would need to have a fuel bin. Filling a bucket each with fuel, Shirach and Dortmuller returned to the locked truck. They splashed the contents of their buckets over the walls of the truck. One or two voices from inside could be heard to moan, “Oh, please, no.” Schirach took a cigarette lighter from his pocket and held the flame to the fuel-soaked walls. The flame caught and licked its way greedily over the truck. Moans turned to screams as Schirach and Dortmuller walked away back to the gatehouse.
* * *
When the car arrived at the fishing port, Robert refused to get out. He was unable to go through another goodbye with Grete. He struggled to harden his heart whilst it was breaking. Lily and Friedrich escorted the Hildbergs and the Marinos down to the dock. Robert did not turn to watch them go. He did not see Grete try to walk back to the car to say goodbye to him. He did not see Lily restrain her and force her to walk on towards the dock. Money changed hands and the skipper of the fishing trawler agreed to deliver them to Palermo and there to guide them into the hands of the allied authorities who would support them in their desire to emigrate to Palestine, after which Lily and Friedrich returned to the car. No one spoke on the long drive back into Rome.
Seventy-one
Three weeks later
In his panic O’Shea could only think of one place to go. He had been to the catacombs many times. He had often guided visiting clerics through the passageways and delivered a potted history to them. He knew his way around and he knew a way in, even at this late hour. If only he had not needed to visit the Red Cross office tonight - the one fronting the underground exit route for Nazis and Fascists to make their escape to South America. His superiors in the Vatican had made it clear that he was no longer required in Rome. He had been allocated to a parish outside Buenos Aires where he would oversee the development of primary Catholic education in the region. But he needed to travel under an alias to avoid his own personal grim reaper - Sean Colquhoun. What cursed luck to be discovered by Colquhoun and his cohorts on this, his last night in Rome.
It had been a long time since he had run so far and so fast. Until now his fear had propelled him but now he was breathless and exhausted. The cold night air burned in his lungs and his cassock was wet and sticky with his sweat.
His fear of Sean Colquhoun was overpowering. His nose ran and he sniffed back tears like a terrified child. To know that this man was dead set on snuffing out his life made him angry and frustrated. He longed to be able to strike back at this evil that pursued him, but, like a child, he was helpless.
He fell against the entrance he had chosen and fumbled with the key he held in his shaking hand. It was an entrance not used by the public and he hoped to God that Coplquhoun would not find it.
The sound of running feet clutched at his heart as he fumbled with the key. Two pairs of feet; a man’s and a woman’s. Who was this female fiend, he wondered? What evil had possessed them both, her most of all, to want to murder a man of God? What a ridiculous question, he realised. These two had assassinated His Holiness. Why would they balk at the thought of murdering a humble Monsignor like himself!
He cursed the key for its lack of co-operation and begged God’s forgiveness at the same time. His very veins were racing when at last the key turned. ‘I’ve done it,’ he thought triumphantly. He pushed the heavy door open and tugged at the key to retrieve it from the lock. The cursed thing caught in the lock and fell from his fingers to the damp paving stones. The running feet were just around the corner now. He just had time to reach out of the doorway and pick up the key. There was no way he could leave it there. It would give him away immediately. He stepped out and stooped down. The scrape of feet caused him to glance up towards the corner just as his hand closed around the key. There was Colquhoun sliding to a halt. As he grabbed the key, turned and bolted into the tunnel he heard Colquhoun’s voice.
“Lily, quick! He’s here!”
O’Shea slammed the door enclosing himself in the pitch black of the tunnel. No time to mess with the key attempting to lock the door. He could here Colquhoun’s hands on the other side of the door, even now turning the handle. He shot away into the darkness. ‘Maybe Colquhoun saw me,’ he thought, ‘but at least I know my way through the catacombs – blindfolded.’
Robert held the door open for Lily and she entered to stand alongside him. From where they stood there was only one passageway along which O’Shea could have gone. Robert pulled a torch out of his pocket, flicked it on and said, “Okay, let’s go.”
Together they hurried along the cold, dark tunnel. Occasionally, Robert bumped his head on a rough overhang. From time to time the sound of running feet ahead of them could be heard.
O’Shea was gambling between speed and care. H
e had already fallen twice and was sure his pursuers had heard him. His cassock slowed him down and he was at the edge of his endurance. The realisation that he could not outrun these relentless pursuers was fast seeping into his crazed mind. But as he stumbled forward he knew he only had to make it so far. About thirty yards further on there was a fork in the passage. The fork itself led nowhere, but halfway along it there was an alcove big enough to hide a man. That is where he must go. Dressed in black and deep inside that alcove he would be hard to spot, even with a torch. He didn’t have to outrun them. If he could reach the alcove beyond the fork he knew he would be safe. His only concern was that they would catch him before he got there.
Having made up his mind he felt a sense of relief, although it was a very relative thing. He took care not to stumble again, even if it meant sacrificing some speed. He walked with a measured and quiet tread. As soon as he reached the fork he ducked into it and went straight to the alcove where he crawled to the far end and curled himself into a black ball against the black rock. ‘Now,’ he thought. ‘Keep coming Mr Coquhoun and let’s see what happens.’
He heard his pursuers approach the mouth of the fork and he heard their footsteps cease. Voices came to him but with the effects of echo he could not make out their words. Then he heard more footsteps. He was sure they were not getting closer to him. They grew fainter and then they died altogether.
A feeling of elation swept over him. As soon as it had passed, a feeling of dread re-invaded him. Then he was victim to a triumphant sensation. His emotions went up and down like this but there was a gradual yet growing conviction that he had outsmarted his would-be assassins yet again. Now it might be their turn to feel fear. The utter and endless silence of the catacombs persisted. He had heard no sound since their footsteps had died away. How many minutes ago? One? Ten? He had no way of knowing. That was puzzling him. Surely he should have heard something by now. He realised that the longer he stayed where he was, the less able he would be to gauge the passing of time. He also knew that the longer he waited, the greater the likelihood of his pursuers’ return if something had gone wrong.
He uncurled himself from the ball he had become and slowly, stiffly straightened himself up. With great caution, feeling his way along the cold wall, he moved stealthily out of the alcove and back along the passage towards the entrance to the fork. In the utter silence he felt confident that he was alone. In his thoughts he offered a prayer to God for preserving him from the evil that his pursuers had intended.
As he approached the junction with the main tunnel he was determined to take no chances. He crept silently along the wall to the corner. Pressing himself hard against the rock he craned his neck to look and listen along the tunnel his pursuers had taken. Nothing! Creeping further forward he paused again to look and listen. Again, nothing! But then! A click! And a flashlight blinding in his face. And then as it fell away Colquhoun’s face six inches from his.
“Good evening Father O’Shea. It’s been a long time.”
O’Shea remained uncharacteristically calm.
“I have nothing to say to you, Colquhoun. You have committed the worst crime known on Earth. You will rot in hell.”
“Well you’re going to have to save a place for me there because that’s where you are going right now. You can spend the rest of this evening explaining to your God what you did to my son.”
“I did nothing to your son,” retorted O’Shea a level of fear registering in his voice. “I loved your son.”
Robert reached out wildly and grabbed O’Shea by the throat.
“Don’t you dare speak about my son in that way. Don’t you dare mention him again.”
O’Shea recovered himself somewhat and, pulling himself as much as he could from Robert shouted, “They are here! Come out! Come and arrest them!”
Robert and Lily froze. What was this? Robert and Lily listened intently. Nothing!
“Nice try, O’Shea. But that was your last gambit.”
Robert bounced O’Shea off the wall and took him from behind. With his arm around O’Shea’s throat and his hand upon his chin he braced himself to snap his miserable neck in one swift movement. O’Shea emitted a pathetic, childlike cry of protest.
Lily and Robert were both instantly blinded by a searchlight which blazed into life, bathing them in stark, white light. As their eyes grew accustomed to the glare they began to decipher uniformed figures approaching them from all sides. In the shock of the moment Robert had let slip his hold on O’Shea and he was now wriggling free of Robert’s clutches. Robert and Lily were seized by two officers apiece and flung against the wall of the tunnel.
“Good evening Herr Doctor. I’ve been waiting to meet you for a long time,” said Hauptsturmfuhrer Schirach.
Robert estimated twenty men surrounding them. There was no escape.
“You have been here all the time,” he stated.
“Correct,” returned Schirach.
O’Shea scrabbled to his feet, his face wet with tears and snot.
“What the hell took you so long, you bastard, Schirach. He could have killed me. Kill them!” he screamed. “Kill them! Kill them!”
Schirach turned to look at O’Shea
“I heard what this man said to you, man of God. You deserved to die. I don’t know why I stopped him. Get out of my sight before I change my mind. And remember, holy man, do not be in Rome in the morning.”
O’Shea glanced at Colquhoun. The depth of hatred in Robert’s eyes was bottomless. A wave of fear swept over O’Shea and he collected the skirt of his cassock in his sweaty palms and ran out of sight towards the entrance they had used minutes earlier.
Schirach nodded to a group of his men and they bound Lily and Robert by their hands in seconds.
“And now,” continued Schirach, “We will make our way to my temporary headquarters in this eternal city.”
At his command the detachment headed off towards the entrance O’Shea had used. Robert tried to get close to Lily but his captors would not allow it. He called back to her.
“Lily, I’m sorry. You didn’t need to be involved in this. It was my folly. Tell them everything they want to know. We have nothing to hide now.”
A guard pushed the butt of his rifle into Robert’s face and ordered him to shut up. For the rest of the procession through the catacombs, Schirach spoke quietly to Robert so that he could not be overheard.
“Your mission has been a complete failure. Oh, maybe you succeeded in killing the Pope but sadly for you the world will never know it. His idiot brother has been excavated from his secret obscurity. He will be Pope Pius XII now. All Papal decisions will be made for him. He will keep right out of politics from now on. This is exactly what the Fuhrer has always wanted. The Fuhrer would thank you personally if he hadn’t ordered your immediate execution. As for your collaborator, Lily Brecht. You beg her to tell all in a vain attempt to save her from the intricacies of our interrogation techniques. But as a German citizen, and an agent of the Third Reich, she has committed the crime of treason. It would not matter if she were to sing her secrets from the top of the Brandenburg Gate, her treatment will be specialised and prolonged.”
As they emerged from the catacombs and were shepherded towards the waiting vehicles, Robert experienced despair. This was his fault. He had finally hit bottom in his long fall from sanity and civilised behaviour. The young man who set off for Germany in his twenties with a mission to save lives had come to this. A killing machine! All hope gone! All optimism fled! And, worst of all, he had dragged Lily into this situation. She had proved herself his true ally. She had played her part in the success of their mission and then his own personal folly had led them on this wild goose chase to find and kill O’Shea and to seek out Grete. At least Friedrich was not caught up in this disaster. Hopefully he’d found a way of getting them out of Italy and would now use that route to save himself.