We present an extract from The City of God, the latest instalment in the popular Stefan Gillespie series by author Michael Russell.
1943. Garda Inspector Stefan Gillespie, on a diplomatic mission for the Irish government, takes a train from the chaos of German-occupied Rome to the Reich itself. Late at night he waits for a long-delayed connection at an empty station in neutral Switzerland. He sees a train no one is meant to see. A train that shouldn't be there. A beating from the train's SS guards, who shouldn't be there either, leaves him badly injured. Recovering at an Irish diplomat's home, the story of Stefan's journey to Rome reveals something else that was never meant to be known. The brutal murder of an idealistic young priest in a defeated city, and the dark underbelly of espionage, deception and betrayal that the corruption of war has injected into the City of God itself... the Vatican.
Another hour passed at Zurich station. Stefan Gillespie was colder and he was hungry. The buffet would open eventually. There would be hot coffee. It might be real coffee. He had been told Switzerland still had real coffee. He looked up, hearing the trembling of rails that came before the noise of an engine and the clatter of carriages. He watched the engine pull into the station slowly, across the track. A weary hiss of steam. A German train, black, wet, gleaming. He looked back at the high, pitched arches of the glass roof. It must be raining, raining hard.
The train pulled two passenger carriages and some cattle trucks. For a moment nothing happened. Then another hiss from under the engine. The train shuddered to a second halt. Stefan looked up and down the platform. He looked to the concourse. It felt he was alone in this great space. The cleaners had gone. The porters pushing trollies of mail sacks had gone. The wandering policeman too.
Voices came from the cattle trucks. Men shouting. The noise was muffled. Stefan looked on, almost idly. More shouts. He heard no words, but it was Italian. Then another sound. The doors of the carriages. German soldiers jumped on to the platform. A line, running the length of the train, their backs to him, facing the trucks. They didn't hold rifles, but rifles were on their shoulders. Stefan recognised the uniform. The all-pervasive field grey, but no ordinary soldiers. Waffen SS. Nothing remarkable, till it struck him that there was. This was neutral Switzerland.
The shouting was louder. Stefan heard more Italian and some German. A thin officer and a heavy-set NCO strode rapidly along the train. The NCO hammered on the cattle-truck doors, snapping out irritated commands in German.
'Quiet you Eyetie f**kers!’
Now the noise was surly rather than angry.
‘Shut up! We move in ten minutes! Food in Germany!’
Stefan Gillespie lit a cigarette.
By one wagon, officer and NCO stopped. The NCO banged and shouted. There was a conversation through the doors. They were talking to the men inside. The NCO shook his head. The officer shrugged and beckoned two soldiers. A pin was pulled from the cattle door of the goods wagon. Soldiers heaved it sideways. It opened a few feet. Now there were rifles in the hands of the Germans. Stefan could see the men in the wagon too, crowding round the opening, pushing at one another.
‘Get back, you bastards,’ shouted the NCO, holding a pistol.
Waffen-SS men pointed their guns towards the doors.
The men in the doorway were Italian soldiers. The uniforms were ragged and filthy, but Stefan had no doubt what they were. Some of the Italians stepped back. Through the gap came a body, manhandled to the platform. A man was dead. The SS soldiers laid him down with alacrity. No one seemed keen to stand close.
The officer bent down. He stood up, shaking his head, laughing.
Stefan Gillespie dropped the stub of his cigarette. He walked closer to the edge of the platform. He didn’t need to hear. But he was drawn to it. They all were.
‘It’s not typhus!’ shouted the NCO. ‘Non è tifo! Got it? No typhus!’
The shouting died down. Indistinct words came from other wagons. The soldiers lined up along the platform were looking away, talking, lighting cigarettes. Then, with the doors of the cattle truck almost closed, a man leapt out. He was through a gap in the line of soldiers. He was on the tracks, running to the opposite platform. He was trying to pull himself up. But the sudden energy he had found was gone. He was clawing at the stone lip, pulling, pulling and now not moving.
The Germans had turned. In a line as before but facing the Italian. A roar of voices from the train. The Italian soldiers inside were shouting, cheering. Some of them could see something. They hammered loudly on the walls of the cattle trucks.
The officer screamed an order.
‘Under no circumstances shoot!’
The NCO called several of the SS men across to him.
‘Any man who fires,’ continued the officer, ‘anyone –’
Stefan stepped to the edge of the platform. The Italian soldier was only feet away. He bent down and stretched out his hand. The man cried out.
‘Hanno sparato ai – nostri – ufficiali – siamo schiavi!’
He was saying the Germans had killed their officers. They were being taken to Germany as slave labour. The words meant nothing to Stefan, except as a cry for help. As the man grasped his hand, he pulled him onto the platform. The Italian looked at him for only a second. There was an arch behind them. The man saw it and ran. German soldiers clambered onto the platform. The NCO was with them.
Stefan stood between the soldiers and the arch. As one of the SS men ran towards the arch, he put out his foot. The man fell. It wasn’t something Stefan intended to do. A mad instinct. He would give the Italian a few seconds. Maybe it would be enough. The other SS men stopped, staring at the man in a coat and dark suit with surprise. One raised his rifle. The officer roared from the other platform.
‘One shot and I’ll f**king shoot you! Just get the Italian!’
The NCO grabbed a rifle from one of his men. He smashed the butt into Stefan’s head. As Stefan collapsed, the sergeant looked up calmly and shrugged.
‘You heard the officer. Get the Eyetie and bring him back.’
The Waffen-SS men raced through the arch.
The NCO looked down. Stefan lay on his back, barely conscious.
‘You’re lucky, my friend,’ said the German. ‘My officer says no shooting.’ He kicked Stefan hard in the ribs, then he kicked again. He brought the rifle butt close and held it over Stefan’s outstretched hand. He slammed it down. ‘A**ehole!’
The City of God is published by Little Brown
