ashtray.
“It was Donovan who sent you here. William Donovan, head of the Office of Strategic Services himself. I don’t know about Corrigan and Finch, but I do know that Donovan and Corrigan attended Columbia Law School together. They were fast friends, then and now.”
“Are you certain of this?” Kaz asked.
“Damn certain. I was one year ahead of them. The monsignor and I talked about old times quite often.”
“Did he talk about Donovan?” I said. Brackett’s news made sense, given what Hamilton had told us about Wild Bill’s involvement.
“Never,” Brackett said, frowning at the pipe, which had gone dead. “His silence told me that he was still in contact with him, one way or the other. So forget about FDR and the good bishop. You’re here because Wild Bill Donovan wanted you here. And that can be quite dangerous.”
“Dangerous for whom?” Kaz asked.
“The Pope, directly, and the war effort, indirectly. The last thing we need is the OSS running loose in the Vatican. If the Nazis catch on, they’d have the perfect excuse to invade, which would take about two minutes. They’d claim they were protecting the Pope, or were forced into it by the presence of enemy agents.”
“We are not the OSS,” I said.
“Tell that to the Nazis when they march in here. You’re doing Donovan’s bidding. So keep a low profile, a damned low profile.”
“What does your boss say about all this? Does he feel the same way?”
“He’s instructed me to keep both of you at arm’s length fromhim. He doesn’t want to meet you or have anything to do with you, in case he needs to deny your presence here.”
“Wonderful. Who exactly sent for us anyway?”
“No idea,” Brackett said, pulling at a thread on the sleeve of his coat. “But I’d wager half of Vatican City knows you’re here.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The Vatican is like a small town, filled with people attuned to nuance. They notice everything. Plus, you’ve got scores of diplomats and their families crammed in these hundred damn acres. All the countries that declared war on Italy and Germany, from France to the smallest South American tin-pot dictatorship. Secretaries, wives, children, servants. People who were used to Roman cafés and fine restaurants, the opera, the wine country. All cooped up in a city not exactly known for its nightlife. What do you think they do? They walk in the gardens, watch each other, and gossip.”
“Does anyone ever leave?”
“The Germans guard the border along the entrance to Saint Paul’s. There’s a white line that they patrol. Worshippers can come and go, and sometimes people blend in with the crowd. But if they’re found out, it means internment, in surroundings less pleasant.”
“What about over the wall?” Kaz asked.
“It’s been done, I’m sure, but I think most have turned inward. We get decent food, and money can buy good liquor on the black market. As time passes, the allure of the outside world, the risk of it all, lessens. And with the food shortages, café society is not what it used to be. People have adapted. Changed.” Brackett went silent, his gaze wandering to the gardens, and I wondered what changes he’d endured.
“Who do you think killed Father Corrigan?” I asked, to bring him out of his daydream.
“It’s Monsignor Corrigan,” he said, sitting up straight, his face flushed red. What sort of thoughts had conjured up embarrassment? “You don’t call a monsignor the same thing you’d call a common priest.”
“You and the monsignor were friends?” Kaz asked.
“Of course we were. There aren’t that many Americans amongthe Roman Curia, and we both enjoyed a change of pace from our respective vocations.”
“I was an altar boy, Mr. Brackett, but my knowledge of church structure ends there. What exactly is the Curia?”
“The administrative apparatus of the Church in Rome,” Kaz said, “it includes foreign relations and all the congregations,
“It was Donovan who sent you here. William Donovan, head of the Office of Strategic Services himself. I don’t know about Corrigan and Finch, but I do know that Donovan and Corrigan attended Columbia Law School together. They were fast friends, then and now.”
“Are you certain of this?” Kaz asked.
“Damn certain. I was one year ahead of them. The monsignor and I talked about old times quite often.”
“Did he talk about Donovan?” I said. Brackett’s news made sense, given what Hamilton had told us about Wild Bill’s involvement.
“Never,” Brackett said, frowning at the pipe, which had gone dead. “His silence told me that he was still in contact with him, one way or the other. So forget about FDR and the good bishop. You’re here because Wild Bill Donovan wanted you here. And that can be quite dangerous.”
“Dangerous for whom?” Kaz asked.
“The Pope, directly, and the war effort, indirectly. The last thing we need is the OSS running loose in the Vatican. If the Nazis catch on, they’d have the perfect excuse to invade, which would take about two minutes. They’d claim they were protecting the Pope, or were forced into it by the presence of enemy agents.”
“We are not the OSS,” I said.
“Tell that to the Nazis when they march in here. You’re doing Donovan’s bidding. So keep a low profile, a damned low profile.”
“What does your boss say about all this? Does he feel the same way?”
“He’s instructed me to keep both of you at arm’s length fromhim. He doesn’t want to meet you or have anything to do with you, in case he needs to deny your presence here.”
“Wonderful. Who exactly sent for us anyway?”
“No idea,” Brackett said, pulling at a thread on the sleeve of his coat. “But I’d wager half of Vatican City knows you’re here.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The Vatican is like a small town, filled with people attuned to nuance. They notice everything. Plus, you’ve got scores of diplomats and their families crammed in these hundred damn acres. All the countries that declared war on Italy and Germany, from France to the smallest South American tin-pot dictatorship. Secretaries, wives, children, servants. People who were used to Roman cafés and fine restaurants, the opera, the wine country. All cooped up in a city not exactly known for its nightlife. What do you think they do? They walk in the gardens, watch each other, and gossip.”
“Does anyone ever leave?”
“The Germans guard the border along the entrance to Saint Paul’s. There’s a white line that they patrol. Worshippers can come and go, and sometimes people blend in with the crowd. But if they’re found out, it means internment, in surroundings less pleasant.”
“What about over the wall?” Kaz asked.
“It’s been done, I’m sure, but I think most have turned inward. We get decent food, and money can buy good liquor on the black market. As time passes, the allure of the outside world, the risk of it all, lessens. And with the food shortages, café society is not what it used to be. People have adapted. Changed.” Brackett went silent, his gaze wandering to the gardens, and I wondered what changes he’d endured.
“Who do you think killed Father Corrigan?” I asked, to bring him out of his daydream.
“It’s Monsignor Corrigan,” he said, sitting up straight, his face flushed red. What sort of thoughts had conjured up embarrassment? “You don’t call a monsignor the same thing you’d call a common priest.”
“You and the monsignor were friends?” Kaz asked.
“Of course we were. There aren’t that many Americans amongthe Roman Curia, and we both enjoyed a change of pace from our respective vocations.”
“I was an altar boy, Mr. Brackett, but my knowledge of church structure ends there. What exactly is the Curia?”
“The administrative apparatus of the Church in Rome,” Kaz said, “it includes foreign relations and all the congregations,
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