Kaz didn’t reply. He looked at me from behind steel-rimmed spectacles, his eyes moist. A lift of the eyebrow, a nod, and that was enough. I let my hand slide from his shoulder, and we both fidgeted in our seats, trying to figure out what to say next.
“So, Dick Tracy,” Kaz said. “Tell me what to look for.”
“Okay,” I said, glad of the change in topic. “Look at their hands. Pros will take care of their hands, more than any regular guy. Lock picking takes concentration, patience, and good hand-eye coordination, so watch for somebody comfortable with himself, like a guy who could sit and wait without fidgeting. And if he’s a professional criminal, he’ll sniff out a cop in no time, so be subtle.”
“I am merely a simple priest, Father Boyle. Bless you for your concern.”
I slugged him in the arm and left.
At the German College, I knocked on Monsignor O’Flaherty’s door. It was opened by a short, wiry man with thick black hair and a finely trimmed mustache. One hand rested on the doorknob and the other held an open straight razor.
“Come, come,” he said, waving the razor at me. “I shave the monsignor, come, come.”
“Father Boyle,” O’Flaherty’s voice boomed out. “Meet Rino Messina, the best barber in all of Rome.” He was seated in a straight-back chair in the middle of the room, with a towel draped over his shoulders and a half-shaved face.
“Father Billy Boyle,” I said, following O’Flaherty’s lead to maintain my priestly identity. It was probably a good idea not to share too many secrets with a guy who visited the Regina Coeli as often as he did. “Pleased to meet you, Rino.”
“Please, Father, sit and I cut you next.” I took that to be a limitation of his English, not a threat. I sat in an easy chair facing O’Flaherty, who gave me a quick nod of approval.
“Rino is one of our close friends,” the monsignor said. “He gives haircuts to the wandering souls who show up on our doorstep and makes them presentable. He also smuggles clothes in for the men, right, Rino?”
“Yes, some days I wear three suits in and one out!” Rino had a good laugh over this.
“The POWs I just left were still wearing their uniforms,” I said.
“That’s a fraction of the boys we’ve got hidden,” O’Flaherty said. “Most are kept in apartments throughout Rome. Rino helps outfit them so they can blend in once they leave here.”
“I bring soldati anywhere in Rome, safe,” Rino said as he finished with the monsignor. “Good shave, yes?”
“Excellent. Father Boyle, a bit of a trim?”
“Sure,” I said, getting into the chair and letting Rino adjust the towel around my neck. He worked the scissors the way barbers do before they start in, and then began snipping.
“The monsignor say you ask about Sister Justina, yes?” Rino said as he bent my head forward.
“Yes. Do you know her?”
“Oh, yes. Good nun, she help many people. I go with her, many times, to bring food and lira all over the city.”
“To the families who house the escapees,” O’Flaherty added.
“Yes. Not much food in Rome, very hard.”
“Were you with her when she was arrested?” I asked.
“No. I would not be here if I was. She was taken at checkpoint on Via del Corso. Bad luck, many people arrested.”
“For what?”
“All manner of violations,” O’Flaherty said, staring out the window like a hunted gangster. “Forged papers, no papers, deserting work details, and so on. The Germans will seal off a block and check everyone’s papers at least once a day. They always bag a few that way.”
“What was Sister Justina charged with?” I had to stop myself from saying her real name.
“That’s what Rino found out on his last visit to the prison,” O’Flaherty said, nodding to the barber.
“Black market,” Rino said. “She purchase food and have many lira as well. It is not good, but the Gestapo does not know about the POWs.”
“That’s great, right? Half of Rome must be dealing in the black market these days.” An arrest for dealing in the black market was preferable to a charge of spying.
“True, true,” O’Flaherty said. “The punishment for dealing in the black market can be severe, but so many do it that the decrees are seldom enforced. And the fact that they haven’t made any connection between Sister Justina and our activities is very promising.”
“So how do we get her out?” I asked as Rino finished with the scissors and brushed the back of my neck.
“There is some good news,” Rino said, with a shrug and a glance at O’Flaherty that told me the bad news was going to far outweigh the good.
“Give it to me straight,” I said.
“Well, me boy,” O’Flaherty said, “the good news is that Rino has found someone to bribe. A guard who is thankfully both religious and greedy. He doesn’t like seeing nuns arrested, but he wants a stack of lira for his troubles. His regular shift takes him to the gate where food and other deliveries are made. Where Rino goes in and out.”
“What about priests? Are they allowed to visit the prisoners?”
“Yes, usually to give the last rites. But it is not uncommon. And to answer your next question, yes, they use the same entrance.”
“If two of us go in, he’ll let three out, for the right price?” This was sounding like it could actually happen.
“Yes, yes, money is not the problem,” O’Flaherty said, somewhat hurriedly.
“What is the problem? What’s the bad news?”
“Two things,” he said. “First, the jailer in charge of the cells where Sister Justina is kept with other nuns is not bribable.”
“He is a fascist pig,” Rino said, with feeling.
“Can you get us to her cell?” I asked him.
“Yes. I have cut hair of women. Not nuns, but other women. I go there, and make believe I am good friends with the guard. He is a fool as well as fascist.”
“Okay,” I said. “What’s the other problem?”
“Pietro Koch,” O’Flaherty said. At the mention of the name, Rino crossed himself. Not a good sign.
“Who the hell is he?”
“The devil himself,” O’Flaherty said. “Italian-Austrian by birth, sadist by temperament, and more fascist than Mussolini, who is said to fear him. He heads up the Fascist political police, and operates with a gang of like-minded Italians and the worst of the Gestapo. He’s taken over a small hotel near the Villa Borghese and uses it as a private torture chamber. They call themselves the Koch Gang.”
“Banda Koch,” Rino said, looking like he wanted to spit.
“Tell me what this has to do with Diana-I mean Sister Justina.” I could barely get the words out.
“Koch has requested the transfer of all nuns in the Regina Coeli to his facility at the Pensione Jaccarino.”
“Why?”
“Because it amuses him to torture nuns. The man is insane, but connected. He has full powers of arrest, so no one dares speak out. He’s also under the protection of the Gestapo chief in Rome, so even the German Army couldn’t move against him.”
“He doesn’t have them yet,” I said, praying I’d understood correctly.
“No. The Germans love paperwork, bless their Teutonic hearts. It will take some time. We may have two or three days.”
“Rino, when are you scheduled to go back to the prison?”
“In two days. The visits are set by the Gestapo; I cannot go sooner.”
“In two days then, I go with you.” He nodded his agreement, and began to gather up his things. “Meet me at the monsignor’s place on the steps, where he waits for refugees. We will walk to the Regina Coeli. And pray God we return.”
“But how in the name of God will you get her out of that cell?” O’Flaherty asked after Rino had gone.
“Monsignor, have faith. I am sure the Lord will provide an answer.” Was I? Was I right to put others at risk on the possibility I’d actually get Diana out?
Yes, I decided. I’d gotten this far, and that had to mean something. Maybe it was all due to chance, or perhaps it was the Lord’s work. Either way, I had to make the most of it.