“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.