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  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?”

  “He seems quite capable, although I don’t know much about butlers. I have a cousin who was a housemaid, though.”

  “You Irish are lighthearted, indeed. It must be from living on an island with a
cold sea between you and your enemies. We Croats are too wary of knives at our throats to joke so much.”

  “Shouldn’t we go find Soletto now?” I had to get out of there before I gave him a history lesson that might involve a right hook.

  “Certainly, if now is convenient for you,” Zlatko said. He stood, smoothing down his black cassock and adjusting the scarlet sash. Then he spoke, standing with his hands clasped behind his back. “One thing you should remember about Saint Peter. He was first called Simon, and only later became known as Peter. When Jesus said to him, ‘on this rock I will build my church,’ he may have been making a joke at his disciple’s expense.”

  “What kind of joke?”

  “Peter- Petros — means rock in Greek. It may have been a commentary on Simon Peter’s mental prowess more than his steadfastness. Remember, he was the one who denied Jesus three times after he was arrested.”

  “I don’t follow your meaning, Bishop.”

  “As a matter of doctrine, the Pope is infallible. But we should also remember that the Church of Rome was founded by a mortal, one who needed help and assistance, as does the Holy Father today.”

  He smiled and bobbed his head, letting me know he was ready to leave. A gentleman. He’d never raised his voice, never shown a glimpse of anger. But as we left, I knew that hatred simmered beneath that smooth skin and that soft voice, and a line had been drawn. I also had the feeling that I’d been interrogated, and that Zlatko had gotten a lot more out of the conversation than I had.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The Tribunal Palace that housed the Gendarmerie Corps was a squat, five-story structure that would have been at home in any city stateside-plain and unassuming, with a main entrance like any other police headquarters. A flag flapping in the breeze, guards at the door, and a handful of officers off to the side, smoking cigarettes and talking. They glanced at us, with that sideways look cops give when assessing a newcomer or a potential threat. Their eyes didn’t linger. Bishops were commonplace, and another harmless priest didn’t rate a second look.

  If it weren’t for their fancy-pants uniforms, the Vatican gendarmes could have been cops anywhere. But they still wore a getup from the last century, with white pants and a black short coat, complete with gold epaulets and silver buttons. Napoleon would have felt right at home under one of their red-plumed hats. As a guard opened the door for Bishop Zlatko, I noted their sidearms were strictly twentieth century, 32-caliber Berettas in shiny, black leather holsters.

  Soletto’s office was on the third floor. The walls along the corridor were hung with the portraits of generations of Vatican cops, mostly dressed in the same getup. The floor was marble, inlaid with the crossed-keys crest of the Holy See. A guard at the double doors to Soletto’s office opened them for Zlatko, with me in tow. Were we expected, or was the bishop a regular visitor? With Soletto supposedly pro-fascist, and Zlatko friendly with the pro-Axis Croatian government, it made sense. The door shut behind us with a decisive, quiet sound, the kind that comes from centuries of craftsmanship, not the low-bid, thin sound of a Boston city government office.

  Soletto had himself a big piece of real estate at the corner of the building, and I almost had to squint to make him out across the expanse of carpet. His desk was right in front of a window with a magnificent view of Saint Peter’s. The light shining in made it hard to focus on his features, and I could tell he knew it.

  “Benvenuto, Vescovo,” Soletto said as he rose to greet the bishop. They exchanged rapid-fire Italian as we walked to the chairs set in front of the massive desk. Polished walnut with a deep, dark color, it was probably an antique when the Boyles were still in Ireland. It held one telephone, an ornate model with gleaming brass, a blotter, a fountain pen, and one folder, which took up about a tenth of the space. The rest Soletto probably used to check his reflection. He was a stocky fellow, with wiry, graying hair. He had the look of a politician about him, that attention to grooming that marks a guy who wants the world to notice him. Since there wasn’t much ordinary criminal activity within the Holy See-no prostitutes, drinking, or gambling must do a lot to keep the crime rate down-I figured his job was mostly political, which maybe meant crooked too.

  “My English, not good,” Soletto said.

  “Il mio italiano non e perfetto,” I said, trying to say the same thing back to him about my Italian. It was a practiced phrase, and got a laugh. Soletto opened a drawer, offered cigarettes, and he and Zlatko lit up. They were Echt Orients, a common German brand. Not a good start.

  “Please thank the commissario for seeing me,” I said. “Any help he can provide will be greatly appreciated.”

  Zlatko translated, and Soletto blew smoke in my face as he answered in staccato Italian.

  “Commissario Soletto says he is seeing you as instructed by the Pontifical Commission,” Zlatko said. “He considers the investigation closed and the guilty party has been turned over to the proper authorities. As you would be,” Zlatko added with a hint of apology in his voice, “if he had the authority to do so.”

  “I understand,” I said. “I was a police officer myself before the war, and I would not stand for any hint of interference either.” I waited for that to get through, hoping for some brotherly solidarity.

  “The commissario says you are still a spy now, and should be handed over to the Germans for violating the neutrality of the Holy See. He says that as a fellow officer of the law, you should understand his position.”

  The Boyle charm was obviously failing. Zlatko gave a little shrug, as if to say, What did you expect?

  “Ask him what specific evidence he has against Severino Rossi, and if I may see it,” I said. I’d dropped the word “please.” That would show him.

  As Zlatko spoke, Soletto turned to look out the window, admiring his view. From here, I could almost see where Rossi had been found among the colonnades.

  “ E Ebreo,” Soletto said. “ Con il sangue sulle sue mani.”

  “He is a Jew,” Zlatko said. “With blood on his hands.”

  “Really? On his hands? I thought it was only on his clothes? Or are we talking metaphorically?”

  “Do you really want me to ask him that question?”

  “For laughs, yes.”

  Zlatko did so, and Soletto answered angrily. “He says it makes no difference,” Zlatko said. “Rossi was covered in blood, Monsignor Corrigan was dead. It was enough for him. He suggests you take matters up with the Gestapo if you wish to learn more.”

  “Does he know if Rossi is still alive?” As I spoke, I thought I saw a reaction on Soletto’s face. Did he understand English better than he let on? If so, what was it about the question that caused that quick blink, the look away, as if he had something to hide? Or something he didn’t want to face.

  “He does not know,” Zlatko said when the translation was complete. “The Gestapo does not keep the Holy See informed on such matters.”

  “One last question, then. Ask him why he thinks Monsignor Corrigan dragged himself up to the top step at Death’s Door.” Zlatko ran that by Soletto, but I’d seen his eye widen as soon as I said it. His English was maybe not as poor as he claimed.

  “Where did you hear that?” Soletto growled, waving off Zlatko.

  “Is it the truth?”

  “There was a struggle. Monsignor Corrigan, he bled everywhere. Molto sangue.” He shrugged at the sadness of it all.

  “I saw a distinct trail of blood in the photographs. The ones your gendarmes took.”

  “All you had to do was ask,” Soletto said, stretching out his arms. “We would have provided them to you. You cannot rely on someone who takes bribes.”

  “I agree. Your English is very good, Commissario.”

  “There are so many Englishmen here these days, one has the opportunity to practice,” Soletto said. “I would prefer to keep to Italian, but the Inglesi do not bother to learn it. You said that was your last question, yes?”

  “You didn’t really answer it. Are you certain Monsignor
Corrigan did not move from where he was left?”

  “He could not have. His injuries were too severe.”

  “Thank you for your time,” I said, rising from my chair. There was something Soletto was hiding, something that made him nervous. There was no reason he should be, nothing that I could pin on him. Rossi was dead or in the Regina Coeli. Case closed.

  Or was it? I felt for the diamond that was in my pocket. It was a long shot, but if Soletto was in cahoots with the killer, then a wedge between them might do the trick.

  “By the way, have you found any more diamonds?”

  “Diamanti?”

  “Yeah, like this one.” I held the sparkling gem up between my thumb and forefinger, letting it catch the light.

  “More diamonds, you said?” Zlatko asked. “Where were the others?”

  Soletto looked confused, his thick eyebrows knitted together.

  “The killer-the real killer-hid them in the one place he knew was safe. Corrigan’s room. He must have gotten in after you had it searched, Commissario. Or did you miss that loose floorboard? A small fortune, maybe more, I’m not a jeweler.”

  “Those diamonds are evidence!” Soletto bellowed, banging his fist on the table.

  “But the case is closed, Commissario. You said so yourself. I will turn them over to the Pontifical Commission, as soon as my investigation is complete. Buongiorno.”

  I walked out as calmly as I could. There was dead silence until I cleared the door, then more shouting and fist-banging, which told me our little chat had been worthwhile. I’d expected the cold shoulder, for a lot of reasons. A cop protecting his turf and pro-fascist tendencies were at the top of the list.

  One thing I could always count on was greed. If there were more diamonds-and outside of a rich dame’s ring, they seldom traveled alone-then I’d bet that’s what the killer used to pay off Soletto. The phony line about more diamonds unaccounted for might lead Soletto to think the murderer was holding out on him. Or plant the idea he could squeeze him for more. Either way, my hope was that Soletto was now a loose cannon, rolling toward a killer who thought he was home free.