Saint Peter's Soldiers (A James Acton Thriller, Book #14) (8 page)

Via Dello Statuto, Rome, Italy
July 7
^th
, 1941

Sturmbannführer Bernard Heidrich removed his hat as he entered the
bakery, his nostrils filled with the aromas of fresh baked goods he missed so.
He longed to return to the streets of his beloved Munich, yet it wasn’t to be,
not for some time at least. He had been tasked to collect a set of artifacts in
Italy that Dr. Mengele himself had compiled. What the purpose for this was, he
wasn’t privy to, all he did know was that he had been given tremendous latitude
in fulfilling his mission, the orders in his breast pocket impressively signed
by the Führer himself.

It was a
license to do anything.

Any
thing.

Including
torturing Italian farm boys who got in his way.

But he
wasn’t a monster. Far from it. He had parents whom he loved dearly, an older
brother in the Wehrmacht that he was immensely proud of, a sister who was a
file clerk in Berlin, and several nieces and nephews, all in the Hitler Youth
and Young Girls’ League. They were all proud Nazis, and loyal Germans. It
didn’t mean they were vicious animals without hearts. If you cooperated, you
were left alone. If you didn’t, then the law would be applied without mercy.

The
young man had cooperated quite quickly.

And if
he had told the truth, he just might survive the day.

But if
he lied and wasted his time?

He would
be shown no quarter.

“Are you
the owner?” he asked, stepping ahead of the line of patrons, none daring to
protest.

The man
jerked out a quick nod, it clear he was terrified.

Good.

“Y-yes.
Unless you ask my wife, then she’s in charge.”

Heidrich
smiled slightly. This one was quick on his feet, even when scared. He held up a
photo of the boy before he had been beaten. “Do you recognize this young man?”

The
baker leaned over the counter and nodded. “Yeah, he was here earlier. Asked me
for some expired offer and I sent him in the back to talk to my wife.”

So he
didn’t lie.

“How
long did he stay?”

“Maybe
five minutes. He came back out and I gave him his bread.”

“Did he pay?”

“Damn
right he did.” The man frowned. “But at the lower price.” He shrugged. “My wife
is a soft one with anyone but me.”

“Where
is she?”

“In the
back.” He turned toward a door and shouted. “Greta! A German officer here to
see you!”

“Send
him in!”

The man
motioned with his chin and Heidrich bowed slightly, snapping his heels together
with an impressive click, before walking toward the bead-covered opening. An
Italian police officer with him sped ahead, holding the beads aside and Heidrich
ducked slightly as he entered, his eyes adjusting to the dimly lit room. A
woman sat at a desk covered in what appeared to be receipts.

She eyed
him suspiciously, though with little fear.

He
doubted any man actually scared her, and felt a moment of pity for the hard working
baker outside.

He held
out the photo. “I am led to believe you met with this man earlier today?”

She took
a quick glance at the photo then shook her head. “No.”

“No?” Heidrich
frowned. “Your husband says you did.”

“He’s an
idiot.” She shouted an insult in Italian through the beads, it was greeted with
a shouted, “Yes, dear, I know.” She looked at Heidrich then shook her head. “He
was here, but he didn’t meet with
me
. There were two police officers
here that were expecting him. I don’t know their business, just that when the
police ask me to do something, I’m smart enough to do it.”

Heidrich
had to admit this was a surprising development, and a quick glance at the two
officers accompanying him suggested they felt the same, along with a bit of
fear at how he might react. “Police officers?”

She
nodded. “I’ve never seen them before, but then again I don’t really pay the
police any mind. They came here in the morning with another man, asked if they
could wait here, said that a young man would be coming later asking for a deal
on a ridiculous amount of some bread and I was to have my husband send him back
here.” She glared at the door and raised her voice. “I’m amazed the idiot
didn’t screw that up and send him away.”

“I heard
that!”

“Of
course you heard that, you were meant to, you inbred alcoholic!”

A curse
was returned that even Heidrich’s excellent Italian couldn’t fully comprehend. “Who
was the other man?”

She
shrugged. “No idea. He wasn’t in uniform. Never seen him before.”

“And
what was said when he arrived?”

“Not
much. He handed over a drawing of some sort, then was told to go to his aunt’s.
Then they all left.”

“And
that’s all.”

“Yes.”

Heidrich
frowned. “If you’re lying to me—”

“Then
you can shoot me.” She waved a hand at the pile of receipts. “The way my
husband gives away food, we’ll be bankrupt and begging on the streets ourselves
before long. Shoot me now and you’ll save me that disgrace.” She pointed out
the door. “Shoot
him
and you’ll be doing me a favor.”

Heidrich
stifled a chuckle. “Is there anything you can tell me about the three men that
might help identify them?”

She
shook her head. “Two were in uniform, like I said. I didn’t see much beyond
their guns. The third was dressed like a laborer, maybe your age.” Her eyes
widened and she raised a finger. “And he had a tattoo. It seemed to be of some
significance. He showed some of it to the young man and it seemed to calm him
down quite a bit, as if he were expecting it.”

Heidrich’s
eyes narrowed. There was no doubt the woman was telling the truth and wasn’t
involved. Mentioning the tattoo could serve no purpose. She had helped these
people out of a sense of duty or fear, which, it didn’t matter. That in itself
was enough to have her put in prison if he wanted, though he saw no need for
it. He got the sense however that she had been told to cooperate fully, any
information she might have of no use.

These
three men were shadows, at least to people like her.

She’d
never see them again.

“Could
you draw the tattoo?”

“No
need. It was the cross of Saint Peter.”

His
eyebrows rose. “Excuse me?”

“Upside
down cross with two keys? The cross of Saint Peter?” She frowned. “You’re not
religious, are you?”

He
didn’t answer, he the one asking the questions. He glanced over at his liaison
officer, Captain Luzzatto, and noticed he seemed nervous.

Interesting.

Heidrich
bowed, clicking his heels. “Thank you for your time, signora.”

He
quickly exited the room, shoving the beads out of his way as he marched outside
and into the early evening sunshine. Climbing into the back seat of his car, he
turned to Luzzatto.

“Tell me
everything you know.”

Beads of
sweat covered the man’s brow and he wiped them away with a handkerchief.
“A-about what?”

“That
tattoo.”

Luzzatto
looked about then lowered his voice. “When I first started on the force, oh,
almost twenty years ago, I worked on a case where we found the body of a man,
badly beaten. He had a tattoo exactly as she described on his chest.” He mapped
it out with his finger, the tattoo large, stretching from the top of the
ribcage to the solar plexus. “It was very detailed, very unusual, unlike
anything I had ever seen before.”

Heidrich
sensed there was more, hesitation in the man’s voice. “And?”

Luzzatto
looked about again. “Well, the next day the body was gone from the morgue and
the case reassigned. My notes were confiscated and my captain told me to never
mention the case again or I’d go to prison.”

Heidrich’s
eyes narrowed. “That seems odd.”

“I’ve
never encountered anything like it since.”

“And
where was this body found?”

“Outside
the walls of the Vatican.”

OVRA Headquarters, Rome, Italy
July 7
^th
, 1941

“He had help, sir.”

“You are
certain?”

Heidrich
nodded, the phone pressed against his ear. “Yes, sir. He was met in Rome by
three people, two dressed as Italian police, a third in civilian attire with a
Christian symbol tattooed on his chest.”

“What
symbol?”

“I’m
told it is the cross of Saint Peter.”

“Upside
down with two keys?”

Heidrich’s
eyes widened in surprise. “Why, yes. You’re familiar with it?”

“Of
course I am. And you should be too. You’re seeking out religious artifacts,
familiarize yourself with the damned religions.”

Heidrich
felt his balls shrink. “Yes, sir! We’re continuing to canvass the area, but I’m
not optimistic. They were disguised as police so most people look away.”

“They
probably did that on purpose. But you assume they were disguised.”

“Sir?”

“What if
they actually were police? That is where I would start. And Sturmbannführer?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t
bother coming back to Berlin without it. The Führer wants that portrait.
Failure is not an option.”

Every
muscle in Heidrich’s body momentarily contracted. “Yes, sir.”

“Heil
Hitler!”

“Heil
Hitler!”

The call
ended and he hung up the receiver, noting his hand was trembling. Dr. Mengele
was the most terrifying man he had ever met, and he had met the Führer himself.
The Führer was a terrifying man to those who didn’t devote their lives to him,
and Heidrich had no doubt of his loyalty to the man. And it would never be the Führer
that would kill him should he fail. It would be someone like Mengele who would
be given the task.

And that
was far more terrifying than the Führer’s bark.

The
question he had to now face was how he was going to find a small self-portrait
hidden in a city of millions.

By a
group of people who seemed well connected and well protected.

I
guess we bring in the bakers.

“That’s one of them.”

Heidrich
peered at the photo the baker’s wife was pointing at. “Are you sure?”

She
nodded. “Yes. He was the one in charge. He did all the talking, except for the
one who wasn’t police. Once the boy arrived, he did almost all the talking.”

Heidrich
turned to his liaison officer, Captain Luzzatto. “I want his file and photos of
everyone he works with, now!”

Luzzatto
nodded, taking the binder of police personnel files and leaving the room. Heidrich
turned to the woman and pointed at the stack of binders. “Keep looking,
there’re two of them.”

She gave
him a glare that would have withered any other man, especially a husband, then
returned to flipping through the pages. He stepped outside and headed for the
office assigned to him while he was here. Sitting behind his desk, he propped
his feet up on the corner as his secretary brought in a cup of espresso. It was
a guilty pleasure he had developed a taste for while here, one he feared he’d
never be able to continue when he returned home.

If
you don’t find that damned portrait, you won’t need to worry about going home.

He
wondered how long Dr. Mengele would tolerate failure. He doubted long. He
couldn’t expect to be simply exiled to Rome. Eventually he’d be called back to
Berlin to explain himself, then probably sent to one of the good doctor’s
laboratories, to be experimented on.

He
shivered, setting aside his cup.

He
closed his eyes and there was a sudden knock on the door, startling him awake.
He checked the clock to see how long he had been out.

Almost
an hour.

He
hadn’t realized how exhausted he was, his chase after the portrait now in its
third day with only a few hours sleep squeezed in while travelling. Luzzatto stood
in the doorway, holding several file folders.

“I have
what you asked for, sir.”

Heidrich
motioned for Luzzatto to hand the files over. He flipped the first one open as Luzzatto
gave him a summary.

“Lt. Lupo.
He’s the one she identified. He’s on duty now. I’m having him picked up. He
should be here shortly.”

Heidrich
cursed. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

Luzzatto
immediately paled. “Why?”

“We
should be following him, to see where he goes. Picking him up means any chance
of finding out who he’s involved with is now impossible.”

“I-I’ll
call it off.” Luzzatto turned to leave when Heidrich waved off his departure
with a flick of the wrist. “No point. It went out over the radio, I assume?”

Luzzatto
nodded.

“Then he
knows, or someone he’s connected with knows.”

“I-I’m
sorry, sir.”

A young
officer poked his head inside the office. “Excuse me, sirs, but Lt. Lupo is
here.”