“Couple of days ago,” Big Mike said, puffing out his cheeks as if he’d run up a dozen flights. He sat down heavily, beads of sweat on his forehead. The last time I’d seen him was more than a week ago, in a military hospital in Naples, his head swathed in bandages, coming out of a deep sleep after a nasty blow to the head.
“Do you need help, Sergeant?” Croft said, a look of confusion on his face.
“Naw, I’m fine, thanks.” Big Mike had a way with officers. Most guys couldn’t pull it off, but he had the knack. Unless he sized up one of the brass as a real twit, he treated him like one of the guys. He knew when an actual salute was called for, and he could toss off a nice one when he had to. Otherwise, it was like old pals chewing the fat. And who didn’t mind a likable strongman as a pal?
“You don’t look fine,” I said. I wanted to find out what was going on, but I was more concerned at that moment about Big Mike. He was pale, and his face looked thin and drawn-and thin was a word I’d never applied to him before. “Are you sure you shouldn’t still be in the hospital? Or on your way back home?”
“I’m okay, Billy, only a bit winded,” Big Mike said. “I was in bed for a week, that was enough hospital for me.”
“Were you wounded?” Croft asked, giving Big Mike the once-over, looking for telltale signs. Big Mike took off his garrison cap, revealing a crescent-shaped incision on his skull, above the right ear. His hair was shaved down to a crew cut, and the red, angry scar still showed where the stitches had recently been removed.
“Subdural hematoma?” Croft said, peering closely at the scar. Big Mike nodded, his eyes closing as he did, trying to shut out the pain. “Acute?”
“No,” Big Mike said. “The doctors called it subacute, or something like that. Are you a medical man, Captain?”
“Not exactly, but everyone in Force 226 is trained in emergency medicine to one degree or another. It helps to assess the effectiveness of men in the field. I’d guess you should still be on bed rest at least. Discharged from the service at worst, although perhaps you wouldn’t think of that as the worst outcome.”
“No need to discharge me yet, I’m fine,” Big Mike said. I watched him take a deep breath, like an old man in a rocking chair. Then I understood.
“Big Mike is a career policeman,” I said to Croft. “I’ll bet he talked his way out of a medical discharge because the Detroit Police wouldn’t hire him back with a certified head injury. Am I right, Big Mike?”
“Can’t say I’d mind going home,” Big Mike admitted, shaking his head wistfully. “But I can’t risk losing my spot on the Force, or my pension. So I told Sam to keep me in Naples as long as it took to rest up and get back in shape.”
“Sam?” Croft said.
“Colonel Samuel Harding,” I explained. “He works for General Eisenhower, and we work for him in the Office of Special Investigations.”
“Exalted circles, indeed,” Croft said, raising an eyebrow. “The air you breathe is positively rarified. Sergeant, we are both restraining our curiosity about what comes next. If you are able, please get on with it.”
“Sure, sure,” Big Mike said, resting his hand on a manila envelope marked Confidential and sealed with red tape. “I’ve got a pile of paperwork here, orders, briefing information, memos from MI6 to SHAEF with copies to Captain Croft. But maybe you want the long story short?”
“Paperwork gives me a headache,” Croft said. “Please, in your own words.” I was beginning to think this guy was okay.
“There’s been a murder,” Big Mike said. So far, no surprise. Murders that get in the way of the war effort are our stock and trade. “A priest named Edward Corrigan took a shiv between the ribs. A monsignor, actually.”
“Corrigan? Was he Irish?” I wondered if this were leading to another trip back to the old country.
“Nope. American. Now comes the tricky part. He was murdered in Rome. At the Vatican.”
“Rome,” I whispered. Diana. I felt my heart race, and hoped God would forgive me for how glad I was that someone knifed Monsignor Corrigan. In Rome.
“A pity, to be sure,” Croft said. “But what does it have to do with SOE, or Lieutenant Boyle, for that matter? Vatican City is neutral territory. Surrounded by German-occupied Rome, another problem altogether.”
“I’ll answer the one about Billy first,” Big Mike said. He spoke slowly, each word a struggle, and I worried about the toll this trip had taken on him. But I wanted to know more about Rome and getting closer to Diana, and I willed him to get on with it. “Monsignor Corrigan is, or was, an American. But he held Vatican citizenship, and had lived and worked there for years.”
“Corrigan worked for the Pope,” Croft said.
“For the Holy Office, to be precise,” Big Mike said. “He was a lawyer, and drafted statements on church doctrine for the cardinals to review, that kind of thing.”
“What does this have to do with me?” I asked, impatient for the other shoe to drop. The death of a priest in a city of priests was hardly earthshaking news.
“What it’s got to do with you is that Monsignor Corrigan is a cousin of Bishop John Murphy Finch, of New York. Him and FDR are childhood buddies. From what I hear, when Bishop Finch got the news that cousin Edward was murdered, he gave FDR an earful. FDR passed it on to General Marshall, who passed it onto Ike, who handed it over to Sam. Sam got the news before he left Naples for London, and told me to bring the details to you once plans were in place. It helped keep me from getting sent home, since I was under orders from Ike himself.”
“Forgive me, Sergeant,” Croft said, “but in the British Army, noncommissioned officers are not usually privy to the thoughts of the general staff.”
“I got a few pals at SHAEF,” Big Mike said. Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force in London was where we were based, and where Big Mike rubbed elbows with General Eisenhower, not to mention his chief of staff at SHAEF, General “Beetle” Smith, who knew everything about everybody. Nobody got along with Beetle on a regular basis, except Big Mike. “We stay in touch.”
“So President Roosevelt wants me to find out who murdered Monsignor Edward Corrigan, so he can tell Bishop Finch justice has been served,” I said, getting the conversation back on track, and trying to understand what was being said-and what wasn’t.
“You got it. I hear the bishop and all the other Catholic voters in New York state will be very happy to receive the news,” Big Mike said, giving Croft a sidelong glance and a shrug. “But then I’m just a noncom, what do I know?”
“Forgive me, Sergeant, I am obviously in the presence of a born politician. And let me guess, my role in all this is to find a way to bring Lieutenant Boyle into Vatican City.”
“Exactly. Billy and Kaz, that is.”
“Lieutenant Kazimierz will be dining with us tonight,” Croft said. “Orders from on high, received last night. Now I see why.”
“Sam wants you and Kaz here until you leave,” Big Mike said, handing me the file. “Top secret on this one. Why don’t you read through this stuff and we’ll talk some more later.”
“I’ll organize a place for you to rest, Sergeant,” Croft said.
“Thanks, Captain. Feel free to call me Big Mike.”
Croft smiled, as if he’d been asked to join the most exclusive club in London.
“Whatever you say, Big Mike.”
Croft left us alone on the veranda, the sun warming the tiles at our feet. I was enticed by the possibility of getting closer to Diana, but I had to calm down and focus. We sat in silence, and I let the wheels turn. I thought about all the deaths in Rome, in Italy, and all throughout Europe. I thought about what I knew of politics and the Roman Catholic Church, and revenge. The wheels turned some more and I didn’t like where they ended up.
“Tell me why you’re really here,” I finally said.
“To give you a direct order from Sam,” Big Mike said. “He didn’t want to give you this assignment, but Ike insisted, I guess because he had no choice.” I could tell he was stalling.