Sir.”
“You are welcome, Miss,” he said, struck again by her face. Battered as it was, he saw that she had healed somewhat. The bruising was not fresh. On impulse, as if this were the breakup of a conference on Pennsylvania Avenue, he pulled out his wallet, withdrew a business card, and handed it to her. “If I can help,” he said. She took the card and pocketed it without a word. Without seeing its useless letters and numbers, his office in Washington.
A few minutes later, outside the pedestrian door on the hangar’s far side, Warburg rejoined Deane. The sun had climbed in the sky and was asserting itself, a hot day coming. The rumble of jeeps, small trucks, and animal carts competed to ignore the shrill whistles of numerous MPs. Warburg put his suitcase down beside the priest’s.
“Hey, by the way,” Deane said, “nice move back there with the Red Cross people.”
“You set the pick, Father. Or should I say ‘Monsignor’?” Warburg smiled.
“Pick-and-roll, David. Like a couple of point guards. And why don’t we make it ‘Kevin’? Since you’re not in the club.”
“The club?”
“The Church.”
“What if I’m a convert?”
“Are you?”
Warburg laughed, but also, at the base of his spine, shivered. Convert? “No. No.”
“You still play b-ball?” the priest asked.
Warburg shook his head. “Not in years.” A pair of exceptionally tall men, recognizing each other—a different club. “But you were no point guard.”
“Neither were you. Not bad for a pair of posted forwards, then.”
After a beat of silence, Warburg said, “What did you make of that woman?”
“What about her?”
“Bruises. On her face and neck.”
“Get used to bruises, David.”
Warburg turned to the priest—was there a hint of condescension? But he saw only a matter-of-fact clarity in Deane.
Pushing toward them through the mess of traffic was a large black sedan. Its horn was blaring. “This is me,” Deane said. Fixed to the car’s front bumper were a pair of gold-and-white flags. “You need a lift?”
Warburg shrugged. “I guess my reception committee didn’t show.” In fact, he felt a familiar stab of resentment, the goddamn Army, the goddamn State Department, both primed to ignore the WRB.
“Where are you going?”
“Clark’s headquarters, wherever that is.”
“So you are brass. We’ll find it. Hop in.”
The driver, on the other side of a half-shut glass screen, was dressed in a chauffeur’s cap and suede gloves, even in June. They set out along the multilane main road to Rome, but it was so pitted with unrepaired shell holes and so congested that the driver turned off. Soon they were a lone vehicle following a narrow road hugging a meandering stream.
With Warburg ensconced beside him in the back seat, Deane explained that he’d spent four years at the North American College in Rome, earning a doctorate in theology at the Gregorianum, the pontifical university. He loved Italy. He loved Rome. He hated what Mussolini had done to it. Never mind the Krauts.
He fell silent and looked out the window. The fields around them were barren and unplanted—battleground, not farmland. The road also twisted through battered villages of ruined buildings and burnt huts. The faces of villagers lifted at their passing. Those vacant expressions may have been what prompted the priest to open his book. Deftly, he flipped a ribbon, and his lips began to move silently.
After passing yet another battered town, Warburg couldn’t help interrupting him. “The church belfries are all destroyed,” he said. “Every church we’ve passed. The Germans attacked the churches?”
“Just the towers. Because of lookouts and snipers. It’s the first thing that approaching artillery targets. Belfries. Steeples. And not just the Germans. That’s our propaganda. The Allies do it, too.”
“How do you know this?”
“My job has been to keep the archbishop briefed.”
“On the war?”
“The battle for
“You are welcome, Miss,” he said, struck again by her face. Battered as it was, he saw that she had healed somewhat. The bruising was not fresh. On impulse, as if this were the breakup of a conference on Pennsylvania Avenue, he pulled out his wallet, withdrew a business card, and handed it to her. “If I can help,” he said. She took the card and pocketed it without a word. Without seeing its useless letters and numbers, his office in Washington.
A few minutes later, outside the pedestrian door on the hangar’s far side, Warburg rejoined Deane. The sun had climbed in the sky and was asserting itself, a hot day coming. The rumble of jeeps, small trucks, and animal carts competed to ignore the shrill whistles of numerous MPs. Warburg put his suitcase down beside the priest’s.
“Hey, by the way,” Deane said, “nice move back there with the Red Cross people.”
“You set the pick, Father. Or should I say ‘Monsignor’?” Warburg smiled.
“Pick-and-roll, David. Like a couple of point guards. And why don’t we make it ‘Kevin’? Since you’re not in the club.”
“The club?”
“The Church.”
“What if I’m a convert?”
“Are you?”
Warburg laughed, but also, at the base of his spine, shivered. Convert? “No. No.”
“You still play b-ball?” the priest asked.
Warburg shook his head. “Not in years.” A pair of exceptionally tall men, recognizing each other—a different club. “But you were no point guard.”
“Neither were you. Not bad for a pair of posted forwards, then.”
After a beat of silence, Warburg said, “What did you make of that woman?”
“What about her?”
“Bruises. On her face and neck.”
“Get used to bruises, David.”
Warburg turned to the priest—was there a hint of condescension? But he saw only a matter-of-fact clarity in Deane.
Pushing toward them through the mess of traffic was a large black sedan. Its horn was blaring. “This is me,” Deane said. Fixed to the car’s front bumper were a pair of gold-and-white flags. “You need a lift?”
Warburg shrugged. “I guess my reception committee didn’t show.” In fact, he felt a familiar stab of resentment, the goddamn Army, the goddamn State Department, both primed to ignore the WRB.
“Where are you going?”
“Clark’s headquarters, wherever that is.”
“So you are brass. We’ll find it. Hop in.”
The driver, on the other side of a half-shut glass screen, was dressed in a chauffeur’s cap and suede gloves, even in June. They set out along the multilane main road to Rome, but it was so pitted with unrepaired shell holes and so congested that the driver turned off. Soon they were a lone vehicle following a narrow road hugging a meandering stream.
With Warburg ensconced beside him in the back seat, Deane explained that he’d spent four years at the North American College in Rome, earning a doctorate in theology at the Gregorianum, the pontifical university. He loved Italy. He loved Rome. He hated what Mussolini had done to it. Never mind the Krauts.
He fell silent and looked out the window. The fields around them were barren and unplanted—battleground, not farmland. The road also twisted through battered villages of ruined buildings and burnt huts. The faces of villagers lifted at their passing. Those vacant expressions may have been what prompted the priest to open his book. Deftly, he flipped a ribbon, and his lips began to move silently.
After passing yet another battered town, Warburg couldn’t help interrupting him. “The church belfries are all destroyed,” he said. “Every church we’ve passed. The Germans attacked the churches?”
“Just the towers. Because of lookouts and snipers. It’s the first thing that approaching artillery targets. Belfries. Steeples. And not just the Germans. That’s our propaganda. The Allies do it, too.”
“How do you know this?”
“My job has been to keep the archbishop briefed.”
“On the war?”
“The battle for
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