“Fascista,” the railway man said with venom, the appearance of the RSI officer snapping him out of his shock. The officer gave him a quizzical look, as if he couldn’t understand the man’s insolence, his defiance of authority. His eyes flickered and squinted, trying to focus and take in the scene before him: the open railcar door, two priests, the keys, the curse. I watched his eyes as he assembled the pieces of the puzzle, working through the fog of pain, smoke, and surprise. Maybe he was a security officer on duty, or maybe he was passing through and got caught in the air raid. But it didn’t matter. He was on to us, all of us, and he wasn’t on our side.
His hand went to the leather holster at his belt, but Kaz still had a grip on his good arm. He twisted it behind his back with a savage thrust, and the officer gasped as Kaz threw him to the ground, then fell on him, trying to keep his hand from getting to the pistol. The officer slammed his injured arm at Kaz, loosening his grip. In a second, the Beretta was in his hand, his face contorted in pain from using his bloodied arm. I gave that arm a kick, and he screamed, his mouth round and his eyes wide with animal fear and pain. The pistol was still in his hand, and I dropped on it, pinning his good arm to the ground. Kaz was next to me, and his hands grasped the officer’s neck, choking him, desperate to silence the threat. The guy was strong and his legs thrashed, shiny black leather boots pinwheeling behind us. His neck bulged as he gasped for air, and I wondered if Kaz was strong enough to do the job.
I wrenched the pistol from the guy’s hand and hit him with the butt. Hard, twice. His legs stopped moving and he went limp, his face still showing the rage he’d fought us with. It was the last emotion he’d ever show. Kaz rose from the body, clenching and unclenching his hands.
“There couldn’t be a witness,” I said, tossing the pistol on the ground.
“No,” Kaz said, shaking his head as he brushed himself off. “He would have gotten us all killed.”
Our guide felt no need to justify what had been done. He spat on the body and dragged it by the heels to the burning truck, leaving the RSI officer crumpled on the ground, an obvious victim of the bombs. He trotted back, full of energy now, motioning for us to climb in, impatient to get away. The car was packed with supplies, crates of food, barrels of wine-a month of feasts. He led us down a narrow passage to the back of the car and pushed against the rear wall. There was a click, and the wooden slates moved, enough for them to slide sideways and allow Kaz and me to squeeze inside. The door closed and we were in total darkness. We heard the railcar door shut and the latch lock in place. Then nothing.
I lit a match and we surveyed the space. A couple of blankets. Space enough for the two of us to sit on the floor facing each other. Not much else to see.
“I wonder if this compartment opens from inside,” Kaz said.
“Let’s hope we don’t have to find out,” I said. Engine sounds drew closer, and I could feel the vibration coming up from the tracks. A thump announced that a locomotive had hooked up with the cars, and seconds later we lurched forward.
“Rome, next stop,” Kaz said, trying a bit hard to be the life of the party.
“We had to do it,” I said.
“Yes. There was no alternative.”
I should have felt bad. I’d helped kill a wounded man. I’d been shot at, bombed, and I’d sent a poor soul on his way with ersatz last rites. But the only thing I really felt was tired. Bone tired from too little sleep. Tired of disguises, lies, and the kind of war where bashing an injured man in the head was the only logical thing to do. I fell asleep against the rough wood planks, but not before a tiny voice in my head, a dream perhaps, told me that my body might rest, but my soul would be grievously tired for a long, long time.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The train finally came to rest hours later, the brakes taking so long that I thought we had stopped until that final little jolt pushed me forward against the rough wood wall. I must have slept, because bits of light were filtering in between the slats, barely enough to let me make out Kaz slumped opposite me.
“Tell the porter to bring coffee,” Kaz said, grunting as he tried to sit up.
“I will, as long as he isn’t wearing a German uniform,” I said. Muffled voices sounded outside as the door to the railcar slid open. Footsteps thumped closer, followed by a sharp rap on the false wall. It opened, and a workman in a blue coverall held his finger to his lips. I followed him out, clutching my suitcase and blinking my eyes against the morning light. Waiting outside the boxcar was a well-dressed gent in a black topcoat and shined shoes. He was at odds with the workers who stood at a distance, ready to unload the train, but they seemed to wait patiently for him. He touched his snap-brim fedora and inclined his head as we jumped down, giving us a little salute.
“Fathers Boyle and Dalakis, I take it,” he said, his English accent sounding polished, but with a hint of Cockney underneath. “Welcome to the Vatican. My name is John May.”
“I’m Boyle,” I said, shaking his hand. He had lively eyes that watched us and everything else at the same time. His bushy eyebrows stood above high cheekbones, and he reminded me of some smart hoodlums I’d known back in Boston, the confident way he oversaw this smuggling operation. “We’re in Vatican City? Neutral ground?”
“Indeed. Since you came through that wall.” He pointed to the iron door that was shut tight in the wall behind us. We were between the train and the railway station, and as I looked up, the dome of Saint Peter’s loomed high beyond the station. “You’re both a bit worse for wear, aren’t you?”
We were. Soot and dried blood covered our black cassocks, probably not the usual attire within these walls. May had a hurried conversation with the workmen as he took off his topcoat. He gave it to me, and another coat, considerably more worn, appeared for Kaz.
“Put these on and leave the suitcases. They will be delivered later. Follow me, but at a distance, about twelve paces. Try to look contemplative.”
“Why the secrecy?” I asked. “Aren’t we safe here?”
“Safety is relative,” May said. “We have to pass by the Gendarmerie headquarters, and I don’t want to attract attention. Trust me, we’ll be safe and sound in no time.”
“I thought we were,” Kaz said. May ignored him and walked off. We followed, leaving our suitcases behind, trailing our mysterious guide.
Contemplative was tough. We were in Rome, behind enemy lines, smuggled inside a neutral enclave. Saint Peter’s dominated the skyline, and even though it was winter, the gardens and pathways were green and well tended, cypresses and cedars forming a backdrop that softened the hard reality of the wall and encircled this tiny domain. I tried not to gawk like a country bumpkin, and stayed behind May, glancing around for anyone taking notice of us.
May turned his head and looked at a building on our right. It was five stories of soft, beige limestone, with the yellow-and-white Vatican flag flying over the main door. Men in blue uniforms came and went, Vatican gendarmes. I didn’t know if we had to worry about all of them or just their boss, Soletto, but May seemed to be steering clear of the whole crowd. So I bowed my head and folded my hands, sending up a quick prayer to Saint Michael, patron saint of policemen, asking him to keep the local cops occupied while we got on with things.
We made our way through a formal garden and ended up in front of a long, narrow building, much fancier than the police headquarters. Marble steps led up to the main entrance, with two wings extending on either side. But May didn’t head for the front door, which was flanked by two gendarmes standing at attention. He took a garden path that led to the back of the building, and headed for a side door, which he unlocked after consulting a heavy ring of keys.