The Torch Betrayal

by Glenn Dyer

  Sean looked at Emily and cocked his head, his eyebrows knitted tightly.

  “Conor!” Emily snapped. “You were saying?”

  Thorn stopped fiddling with the ashtray and looked at Emily. He took a deep breath. “Yeah. Uh . . . so I was saying that Longworth’s number-one goal is to make sure the document gets in the right hands and that he has an opportunity to personally sell the fact that it’s genuine. So it would have to be someone he trusts completely.”

  “Hmmm. Did he have any love interests?” Emily asked.

  Thorn gave her a hard look. Good question. Leave it to the woman on the team to go in that direction.

  Sean reflected for a moment. “No. At least none that I am aware of. There were rumors, of course. It is, after all, the Vatican.”

  “Rumors about what?” Emily asked.

  “He was seen at a few social functions with the wife of one of the Vatican’s lawyers. It got some tongues wagging. I didn’t pay attention. But it couldn’t be her.”

  “Why not?” Thorn asked.

  “She passed away. Back in early 1939. About a month before Longworth was called back to England.”

  “Hmmm . . . interesting timing,” Thorn said, rubbing his chin. “So who else might be on the list? What about the British ambassador Osborne? They worked together, right?”

  “Closely, for a few years,” Sean said.

  “But that wouldn’t work,” Emily said. “D’Arcy Osborne is back in London and has been for the past few weeks or so. He’s not due to return to Rome until after the king knights him. Longworth wouldn’t send the document to him if he’s not there to receive it.”

  Thorn nodded, feeling as if Sister Mary Catherine, his fifth-grade teacher at Saint Catherine’s, had just told him that his solution to a math problem made no sense.

  A quiet descended on the three travelers, and Sean moved into the aisle. “I think I’ll go up to chat with Mr. Taylor. He said he wanted to get some inside information about the inner workings of the Vatican.” He scrambled up the aisle, bouncing from one side to the other.

  Thorn sat back, discreetly pulled out his Colt, and began wiping it down with his handkerchief—a nervous habit that he felt safe to indulge given that Sean was bending Taylor’s ear. “I know one thing—that diary page is sitting somewhere in the Vatican waiting for Longworth to pick it up.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  0800 Hours, Friday, October 16, 1942

  Littorio Airport, Rome

  For the entire flight to Rome, Longworth sat facing a middle-aged Abwehr agent who reeked of garlic and wine. The agent slept the entire flight, snoring incessantly while the handcuffed Longworth sat staring out the plane’s window, doubts as to the success of his plan taking root.

  Shortly after the three-engine German Junkers transport touched down at Rome’s Littorio Airport, Longworth was passed off by his inebriated companion into the hands of two mute Abwehr agents. They marched him off the tarmac, which was rapidly becoming sunbaked, toward a waiting Mercedes that sat inside the gate. Its engine was running, producing exhaust that appeared to cling to the asphalt due to the stillness of the air. One of the agents opened the rear door and then retreated to another sedan parked behind the Mercedes. Longworth stood there as a waft of cigarette smoke escaped the interior of the car and mingled with the Mercedes’s exhaust fumes.

  Someone barked at the guard from the rear of the sedan to remove Longworth’s handcuffs. Longworth recognized the voice; it made him stiffen and clench his teeth. The agent uncuffed Longworth, who massaged his reddened, raw wrists. Longworth hadn’t seen Kappler since the major first approached him a week after Maria had died in his bed. That night, in an empty café near the Vatican, was the first time he had seen the photos. Kappler had started with pictures of him and Maria enjoying some wine, followed with photos of gentle foreplay. Things that night, as on most nights, had progressed swiftly—Longworth taking control, Maria fighting back, then submitting, then resuming her fight, ending with both achieving a release that drained their bodies. The photos caught it all. The last one was of Longworth as he stood over Maria’s lifeless body. But some things had changed since he and Kappler had first met—now, Kappler had no power over him.

  “Come in, Longworth. Please join me.” Kappler’s thick accent clanged in Longworth’s ear.

  While he expected to see Kappler at some point, Longworth groaned. Seeing him served to further weaken his resolve. He’d botched killing Bright, was nearly killed in an aerial attack, and had suffered ill treatment at the hands of the Abwehr, and now he had to deal with Kappler. His only source of comfort was that he had killed the impudent Thorn.

  Longworth bent down to get in the Mercedes, which produced a throbbing pain above his left ear. He sat opposite Kappler, with his back to the driver. “Major Kappler, I would like to say it’s a pleasure to see you again. But it’s not.”

  Kappler greeted Longworth with an icy stare, then gave the order to drive to the German embassy. Kappler, his civilian attire topped by a black hat pushed to one side rakishly, its front brim angled downward, had been reviewing a file when Longworth entered the smoky sedan. Kappler closed the file, placed it under his arm, and pressed it tightly against his rib cage. “Lisbon is such an exciting city, is it not? Full of intrigue and subterfuge. And from my sources, it appears that you have experienced quite an adventure,” Kappler said, his face the picture of smugness.

  “I was only there long enough to see the Abwehr’s subterfuge.”

  “And yet, here you are. All in one piece. I trust that your wound has been cared for appropriately.”

  “I believe so. It’s no longer bleeding, so that’s an improvement.”

  “Excellent. Excellent,” Kappler said, his voice dripping in faux concern. Several moments passed. A sly smile appeared on his face. “You surprise me, Longworth. You took great risks to come through that city—risks to your life and, more notably, at least to the Abwehr, risks to the intelligence that you brought with you.”

  “The risks to myself were necessary and calculated. I counted on the Abwehr to see to my safety. I did not calculate that we would be attacked by your Luftwaffe.”

  “Ahh, yes. A clear example of the vagaries of war. It is best if one is prepared to die any day. I do sincerely hope that the intelligence you promised to Bishop Heinz is more . . . valuable and impactful than the worthless trash you have been feeding the Abwehr up to now,” Kappler said, his tone stripped of its condescension. Longworth now heard anger.

  “It is, Major.”

  Kappler tilted his head back and eyed Longworth through narrowed eyes. “Very well then. I am sure you understand that I would prefer to judge for myself. Let me see it.”

  Longworth had rehearsed this conversation several times on the flight from Lisbon. “Major, I have taken proper precautions. I do not have it with me.”

  Kappler lowered his head, his face knotted in confusion.

  “But, I assure you, it is in a safe place.”

  Kappler took off his hat, tossed it on the seat, and placed the file on his lap. His hair was combed straight back and held in place by a generous portion of hair oil. “I do not take you for a stupid man, but you are playing an enormously dangerous game. A game whose outcome is not in your control.”

  Longworth sighed; he was tiring of dealing with this idiot. “I took possession of a particularly valuable piece of intelligence concerning the Allied plans for a second front. To have that intelligence on my person as I traveled through the English countryside and Lisbon would have been insane. As I said, if you were listening, it is in a safe place.”

  “Oh, I was listening, Longworth.” Kappler leaned forward. Longworth could smell the strong scent of the hair oil. “Must I remind you that we hold all the cards in this game?” The major opened the file and extracted a black-and-white, glossy photograph and handed it to Longworth. It was only the second time he had seen any of the photos of the last night he’d spent with his mistress. Kappler handed ove
r three more, each more graphic than the previous. The images were as jarring and regretful as they had been upon his first viewing. “The stakes are high. The London Daily Mail will have no trouble identifying you in these pictures. And if you have any ideas about ever returning to England, you must not fail to deliver this intelligence.”

  Longworth looked up at Kappler and smiled. He was quite satisfied with Kappler’s look of astonishment.

  “What are you smiling about?” the man insisted.

  “These photos—they no longer have any hold over me.” He threw the photos into Kappler’s lap. “You, Major, have no hold over me.”

  Kappler’s face reddened, and Longworth noted that his chest was heaving. “Oh, is that so. You—”

  “My life in England is over. Hopefully, with the help of friends in the Vatican, a life in Vatican City awaits me. You see, what it has all now come down to is this—killing communists. That is what I want. That is what the church wants. That is what Hitler wants. Without a second front to concern you, how many communists can your German armies kill?”

  Kappler stiffened and sat taller in his seat. “Where is the document?”

  “I sent it to the Vatican.”

  Kappler’s jaw dropped open, and his eyes widened. “The Vatican is a neutral state. We do not have access.”

  Longworth ignored Kappler and stared out the window. “Where are you taking me?”

  “To the German embassy, of course.”

  “No,” Longworth snapped. “We must get to the Vatican and Sir D’Arcy Osborne’s office.”

  “Why is he involved?”

  Longworth looked at Kappler. If he could have killed him now, he would have done so gladly. “I sent the document to myself, in care of his office—my old office. It should have arrived yesterday. The office staff knows that I am no longer assigned to the ambassador’s office, so I must retrieve it quickly, before they send it back to England.”

  Kappler slumped in his seat. He took a moment before replying, “How quickly?”

  Longworth looked out the rear window of the Mercedes, calculating the number of days that had passed. “A return pouch will be leaving tomorrow for Westminster Cathedral. We shouldn’t waste any time.”

  Kappler looked at his watch. “Then we must get Heinz. He will have to arrange for access to the Vatican, so as not to arouse suspicions.” He leaned forward and looked around Longworth. “Driver, take me to Santa Maria dell’Anima, the Piazza Navona. Quickly.” He sat back.

  The depleted Longworth sat with his eyes closed. “Where are the Allies going to establish a second front?”

  Longworth didn’t respond.

  “Longworth!”

  “French North Africa.” Longworth did not open his eyes.

  “Ah, a rumor we have heard all too often. And Norway. And Dakar.”

  “Wait until you see what I have before you rush to judgment.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  0845 Hours, Friday, October 16, 1942

  Church of Santa Maria dell’Anima, Rome

  Longworth’s eyes were shut tight for the entire trip; he was hoping to squeeze the pounding in his head into submission. Vibrations moved up his spine as the Mercedes traveled over the tightly knit cobblestones of the narrow streets that surrounded the Piazza Navona. Kappler’s driver pulled the Mercedes onto Vicolo della Pace, the street—which resembled an alley—that flanked the imposing church where Heinz had an office.

  When the sedan stopped, Longworth opened his eyes. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the bright morning sun. He recognized the sand-colored façade, which was made up of undersized bricks, and the stained-glass windows that lined one side of the sixteenth-century church. The windows of the national church of German expatriates were protected by a chain-link barrier that had been built to protect the glass artwork from the stones thrown by angry Romans.

  Kappler and Longworth moved down the narrow alley, its cobblestoned surface wet from rain. After entering the rear of the church, they ascended a marble staircase; decade upon decade of foot traffic had worn the surface of the hard stone steps, leaving them indented. At the top of the stairs, a long hallway traveled the full length of the rear wall of the church. Midway down the hallway, Kappler and Longworth entered an office and startled a nun in a black habit crowned with a white headdress. The old woman was bent over her desk, peering into an ancient typewriter and losing a battle with a typewriter’s ribbon spools, her fingers stained black.

  “Cosa vuoi?” asked the nun, sitting back in her chair as she wiped her hands on her habit.

  Longworth conversed with the nun for several moments, then turned to Kappler. “She says that Heinz was called to the German embassy this morning. She doesn’t know by whom, since Heinz took the call himself.”

  “The embassy?” Kappler said, his face taking on an imperious look. “Impossible. Ask if there is a phone we can use.”

  A short question and answer later, Longworth pointed to a phone on a desk in the corner.

  Kappler rushed over, picked up the handset, and dialed. After a long pause, he spoke loudly into the handset. “This is Major Kappler. I am looking for Bishop Heinz, and I have been told that he was called to the embassy.” He looked over his shoulder at the nun, who had gone back to fighting the ribbon spool. “Called by whom?” Kappler asked, clearly irritated.

  Longworth took a seat near the nun’s desk and dropped his face into his cupped hands.

  “Admiral Canaris!” Kappler shouted.

  Longworth snapped his head up at the mention of the Abwehr chief’s name.

  Kappler turned his back on Longworth and the nun. “You must tell them, at once, that they must meet me and Henry Longworth at Heinz’s office. We must travel to the Vatican immediately . . . No, no, there is no time. We are closer to the Vatican than the embassy is. Tell them.” Kappler hung up the phone and stood over Longworth. “We shall wait for the bishop . . . and Admiral Canaris. You can tell your story to the admiral. I am sure that he will not be amused.”

  #

  Thirty minutes passed before Heinz and Canaris arrived. When Canaris entered the office, Longworth rose from his chair.

  “Bishop, we require some privacy,” Canaris said, scowling at Longworth.

  “In here, Admiral.” Heinz led the group through a door, steps away from the nun’s desk. They entered a cramped office space that featured one large window, the exterior of which was soot stained and keeping the morning sunlight at bay. Behind the desk were two flag stands—one sporting the flag of the Vatican, the other the flag of Nazi Germany, the black swastika centered on a field of blood red. Canaris looked at the flag and winced. No one made a move to sit.

  “Admiral, you honor us with your presence. May I welcome you to Rome?” Kappler said, his words dripping with deference. Canaris was surprised to see Kappler out of uniform but pleased that he didn’t have to see the lanky major strut about with his ribbons.

  “Just tell me what the situation is,” Canaris ordered.

  Kappler’s look changed immediately from cordial to official.

  Longworth explained why it was too risky to carry the document with him and that it had been mailed in the Vatican’s diplomatic pouch to the office of D’Arcy Osborne. “We need to retrieve it right away, before it is sent back to England,” Longworth added.

  “Why would it be sent back?” Canaris asked.

  “Because they know that I have been appointed to a new post there. They will think it was sent by mistake by someone who is unaware of the . . . reassignment.”

  “Will they not be . . . surprised when you show up to claim it?”

  “I’m sure at first, but I can talk my way through that. I counted on Osborne’s absence from the office to help me with that.”

  “Admiral,” Kappler said, puffing out his chest, “I believed it wise to have Bishop Heinz lead us, his guests, into the Vatican and to Osborne’s office.”

  Canaris looked at Heinz and realized that, coming as far as h
e had, he might as well as see this drama through to the end. “Will there be any problems, Bishop?” Canaris asked.

  “I do not anticipate any,” Heinz replied. “If anyone inquires, I will say that I am escorting some German nationals to the German College to see relatives who are studying there.”

  “I see.” Canaris looked at his watch. “Then let’s proceed to the Vatican,” he said as he made to exit the office.

  “Admiral, there’s one more thing you should know,” Longworth said.

  Canaris stopped and turned back to him, annoyed at another possible twist to the drama that was unfolding. “You’re wise to be forthcoming, but I hope it is not bad news.”

  “There were two agents on my trail. One OSS agent and one MI6 agent. While dealing with them, in a moment of . . . of rage, I revealed much of my plan.”

  “Good God, man, why would you do that?” Canaris blurted.

  “I was about to eliminate them. They would have posed no threat. But things did not go as planned. I killed one, an OSS agent named Thorn.”

  “And you believe that MI6 is still in pursuit of you?”

  “I do.”

  Canaris looked down at the floor, pondering the possibility of interference from MI6.

  “He would be awfully foolish to enter Rome. It is a German-held fortress,” Kappler said.

  “She. And she is exceedingly persistent, Admiral,” Longworth said.

  The Abwehr chief ambled over to face Longworth. He sensed that Longworth was holding his breath. “It should be your hope that her persistence has its limits—as does my patience.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  1000 Hours, Friday, October 16, 1942

  Inside the Papal Limousine, Rome

  When Thorn observed the four officers from a security detail mounted on motorcycles that were to escort their limousine into Rome, he realized that, for the first time since the start of the war, he was in enemy territory and in plain sight. If I can pull this off, I want an Academy Award. The flags of Pope Pius XII on each of the sleek front fenders snapped in the wind as the limousine, a black 1940 Cadillac with curtained privacy windows, hastily made its way to the residences of Santa Marta, located inside Vatican City.