The Lost Catacomb (24 page)
Rostoni quickly left the Apostolic Palace after his meeting
with the Pope.
The meeting had been
successful
—
successful,
in fact, beyond his most optimistic expectations.
Without going into unnecessary detail
that might sidetrack the Holy Father, Rostoni had, with great economy and
skill, explained the need for cooperation with the Reich, the necessity of
ensuring the Vatican
’
s
continued, special status as a neutral territory and fully autonomous
city-state, and how all that need be done was
—
absolutely nothing.
Passiveness, neutrality, inaction.
Those would be the watchwords.
Those would be the order of the day.
He now crossed the courtyard behind the Pope
’
s residence and headed
towards a smaller building near the Vatican
’
s parking lot, which was occupied by row upon neatly
arranged row of nearly identical, shiny black limousines, all of which bore
Vatican license plates.
It was an
undistinguished building, architecturally speaking, given its proximity to the
splendor of the Apostolic Palace and the grandeur of San Pietro with its
surrounding concourse and classical Bernini pillars.
The building housed the barracks of the
Swiss Guards, but more importantly, for Rostoni
’
s purposes, it also contained several small
apartments designated for use by priests who worked for the Vatican in various
capacities.
Among those fortunate priests who had convenient lodgings at
the Vatican, unlike those occupying apartments on Church properties located in
Rome itself, was the aforementioned Father Barrio, the nondescript archivist
who had so unwittingly allowed him to be victimized by the flattery of
well-rehearsed German officers and a newly discovered predilection for alcohol.
Assuming that the element of surprise would work in his
favor, Rostoni knocked on Barrio
’
s
door, and after waiting several seconds for a response, he turned the handle
and walked in.
The priest was still
lying in bed, in what appeared to be the last vestiges of a drunken stupor, the
bedclothes in total disarray, a discarded champagne flute resting on its side
on the nightstand, a recognizable musky odor pervading the air.
In disgust, Rostoni walked over to the bedroom window and
opened it.
The sunlight and gust of
fresh air seemed to rouse the drowsy priest, who now looked up in surprise at
Rostoni and tried, somewhat ineffectually, to cover his nakedness with the
sheet that had half fallen off the narrow bed.
“
Get
out of that bed,
”
Rostoni
commanded in harsh tones.
“
Now!
And get dressed immediately.
You're going to show me what you so
stupidly showed those German lovers of yours last night.
”
The priest blanched visibly and began to tremble
uncontrollably.
As he sniveled and
shrank back into the bed, Rostoni threw him a look of undisguised repugnance.
“
Oh,
yes.
Don
’
t attempt to deny it.
I have my sources, and they are
unimpeachable.
You're going to show
and tell me everything.
And then
perhaps I'll consider what the Holy Father should be told about your loyalties
and whether or not you'll continue to be employed here at the Vatican,
”
he added roughly.
“
You
have five minutes to get that disgusting smell off of you and to put on some
decent clothes.
I
’
ll be waiting right
outside the door.
Don
’
t make me repeat myself
and don
’
t make me
drag you out of here,
”
he
said with menace in his voice.
Rostoni now stormed out angrily and waited in the
hallway.
Within the allotted five
minutes, an embarrassed Father Barrio emerged from the apartment and mumbled
some contrite, awkward apologies, which Rostoni deliberately ignored.
Hanging his head and avoiding all eye
contact, the humiliated Barrio led the way to a side entrance to the papal
residence, where he produced a large, rusty looking key from his pocket.
Unlocking the door, he proceeded down
one of the corridors and entered a small vestibule that contained two wooden
bookcases that stretched from floor to ceiling. A pair of straight-backed
chairs flanked a small table laden with a leather-bound New Testament, Paulo
Orano
’
s biography
of Mussolini, and an outdated copy of
L
’
Osservatore Romano
, the Vatican
’
s in-house daily
newspaper.
Rostoni glanced around the room, and seeing nothing worthy of
his attention, said edgily to Barrio,
“
Well,
where is it?
Don
’
t try my patience.
”
Barrio hastily removed a few volumes of the
Catholic
Encyclopedia
from the shelf of the bookcase closest to the door, revealing
a lock into which he now inserted another key.
As he turned it counterclockwise,
the lock clicked open audibly and the bookcase swung away to reveal a narrow
recess.
Rostoni hid his
surprise and with a guarded expression on his face shoved the priest into the
passageway.
“
Wait,
”
Father Barrio
objected, for the first time showing some display of self-confidence.
“
We
need some light.
”
He went over to the other
bookcase and retrieved a flashlight hidden on one of the shelves.
“
Who
told you about this place?
”
Rostoni asked peremptorily.
“
How did you find out
about it?
”
Barrio allowed himself to smirk cryptically, enjoying a
momentary sense of importance, which quickly faded when he remembered that he
was essentially powerless in the face of Rostoni
’
s threats.
He quickly described how he had discovered the existence of the key and
the passageway after stumbling upon some mention of them in crumbling old
documents he had been asked to file away in the Apostolic Library the previous
year.
One afternoon, with nothing
much to do in the Archives, he had decided to follow the clues and had located
both the key and the hidden doorway.
No one else knew of this, he hastily assured Rostoni, no one but those
nasty Germans who had managed to trick him last night.
What could he say, but that he was truly
sorry.
“
So
you
’
re not quite
as dull and unexciting as I
’
ve
always thought,
”
Rostoni
reflected aloud.
“
Perhaps you can be of
some use after all.
And not merely
to the Germans,
”
he
added with deliberate emphasis.
He paused and waited for a response.
Father Barrio looked wary and unsure of
himself.
“
And now, my dear Father Barrio,
”
Rostoni continued
coldly, taking him painfully by the elbow,
“
you are going to show me just what lies at the end
of this secret little passageway.
”
Outside the Rossi family
’
s apartment, not far from the ghetto, six men dressed
in dark uniforms waited in the gloomy street, half-hidden behind the knotted
old larch trees that dotted the unevenly paved road and the narrow buildings
fronting it.
The foliage and
branches of the trees cast long shadows, like ghostly fingers, onto the
pavement, interspersed with the pale glow of the nearby wrought-iron
streetlights.
Since the time
of the German occupation, blackouts were not as rigorously observed as before,
though the evening curfew continued to be strictly enforced.
Humidity hung in the air like a mist, and the few errant
stars that had peeked out between the shifting clouds now hid themselves behind
the nearly opaque curtain of the sky.
It was ten o
’
clock
on that unusually heat-oppressed August night, a time when most of the
population of Rome was already in bed.
Few indeed were those who risked ignoring the German-imposed
restrictions on movements outside the home during the evening hours.
But for those watchers in the dark, there was no danger of
arrest.
“
Are
you sure this is the right place, Giovanni?
”
one of them asked.
“
Of
course,
”
he
replied sharply.
“
Stella
’
s information is always
accurate. Why do you think we pay her for it?
”
“
All
right,
”
whispered
yet another, grinding the remains of his cigarette into the pavement with the
heel of his heavy jackboot.
“
I think it
’
s time.
”
No longer bothering to remain silent, the six men moved
quickly towards the main entrance of the building and ran up the stairs to the
second floor, not caring whom they woke with their heavy footsteps.
They rapped loudly, and then
viciously kicked in the door of the Rossi apartment, their rifles cocked and
ready to fire.
One of the men
remained in the hallway, prepared to shoot any neighbor who might try to
interfere, though the chances of that were small.
No one interfered with the Blackshirt
squadisti
when they were carrying out an arrest, not if they valued their own lives.
Niccol
ò’
s
parents, who had gone to bed early and had been in a deep sleep for the better
part of the evening, now cowered together in terror under their light blanket,
caught in the harsh beam of a flashlight as three men trained their weapons on
them.
In another room, two
other Blackshirts yanked the startled Niccol
ò
out of bed and began to pummel him with their rifle
butts.
“
So,
Jew boy,
”
one of
them taunted, punching him in the stomach.
“
Thought you could mix with the Aryans, huh?
Thought you could have a little Catholic
pussy on the side, didn
’
t
you?
”
he said with
an ugly smirk, throwing Niccol
ò
to the floor.
“
Well, you
’
re never going to be
able to fuck again.
Not after we
get through with you.
”
Giovanni now kicked him repeatedly in the groin and stomach
as his companion smashed a rifle butt into Niccol
ò’
s face over and over again.
By now barely conscious, his nose and
cheekbones smashed, most of his teeth broken or knocked out, he began to choke
on his own blood and gasped feebly for air.
The darkness beckoned him.
It called out to him seductively, in
dulcet tones.
Come to me, it
whispered gently.
Come.
Its soothing embrace promised the
comfort of oblivion, of release from pain.
But still he held back, resisting, and fought for breath.
Then a shot rang out, piercing the silence of the street
below.
And the darkness reached out
and enfolded him in its arms.