The Rules in Rome (10 page)

One of the first things
Bastien had noticed about Marcello was his ability to always look relaxed. Initially, Bastien had found it disconcerting, making him doubt he could rely on the Italian man, but Marcello had quickly proven his competence.

“Ah, Capitano, how was your week?” Marcello said from the shade of a grapevine. This week, Roberto accompanied him.

Bastien dismounted his motorcycle and joined them in the vineyard. “Mostly the same, except for getting shot at by a pair of Gappisti a few days ago.”

Marcello’s head jerked around. “I take it they missed?”

Bastien nodded. “Shot my radio though. Broke the crystal. It’s useless without a replacement.”

“Has Hauptmann Dietrich been doing anything to merit execution?” Marcello asked. Most of the time, Italian partisans were selective about whom they shot—preferring Gestapo agents or Italian Fascist traitors over normal army men.

“Such as torturing the Gappisti or executing black-market dealers? No. Maybe they wanted my vehicle and my Luger.”

“Do they really execute you for selling things on the black market?” Roberto asked.

“Depends on what you’re selling and who arrests you. I think forced labor is a more common sentence. Not quite the same thing as execution. Usually ends in death, but a slow death by starvation instead of a quick one in front of a firing squad. Why do you ask? Have you been selling things?”

Roberto smiled, which was as good as saying yes.

Bastien grinned back. “Just see that you don’t get caught.”

“Do you have anything for us today?” Marcello asked.

Bastien took a few papers from his pocket. “Just a shipment schedule. No idea what type of escorts they’ll have, except for the one tonight. It might be larger than you want to hit without help.”

Marcello read the list.

“And I heard a rumor at supper the other night. I’m wondering if you’ve seen or heard anything along the same lines,” Bastien said. “A Wehrmacht intelligence officer is convinced the Allies have given up taking Rome from the south. Doesn’t think they’ll ever get past Cassino or the Alban Hills.
Expects them to launch another amphibious assault, this time north of Rome, near Civitavecchia.”

Marcello tucked the list away. “I haven’t heard anything. You, Roberto?”

Roberto smiled lazily. “Do I ever hear anything you haven’t already known about for a few days?”

“If they send in patrols for reconnaissance, try not to shoot them, will you?” Bastien said.

“Ask questions first; shoot later. Sure thing, Capitano.” Marcello shifted in the shade. “Have you seen that SD man lately?”

“Not in the last week.” Nor had Bastien seen anyone who looked like he was picking up where the SD officer had left off, but he couldn’t be sure.

* * *

Gracie had seen Captain Ley daily since the Gappisti attack, and the frequency of their meetings worried her. Her trainers at OSS would recommend more separation because if either of them was caught, both their missions would be compromised. Yet Colonel Ambrose himself had ordered them to act this way, and Gracie didn’t think there was a manageable alternative, not with the extent of Ley’s information, so she tried to shrug off her concern.

She also took reports from her other contacts. She supposed she should have made her exchanges with Otavia and Angelo quick, but she enjoyed their company, and she was lonely. She spent hours in lines each day, surrounded by other civilians, but she couldn’t be friends with any of them. Her fellow spies were the only people she could talk to for more than a sentence or two.

On the first day of March, she wasn’t supposed to meet with anyone but Ley, and the lighter schedule gave her time to shop around the black market. She was nervous, but anything she could get legally tasted awful, and there
was never enough of it. She bought enough food that even if Ley didn’t give her any when they met that afternoon, she wouldn’t have to go to bed hungry.

As she hurried home with her illegal purchases, she was shocked to recognize Angelo. She’d seen him two days before and didn’t expect to see him again for another week.

“Concetta?” His eyes widened, and his mouth hung open when he saw her. He took her arm and led her off the main road. They’d only gone a few
steps when she noticed his limp. “Seeing you is an answer to prayer.”

“It is?” She glanced around to make sure no one was close enough to overhear them.

“Yes. The Germans are having a massive roundup in my neighborhood, taking anyone they think they can get a few days’ worth of work out of. I
barely got away.” He smiled, but the expression lacked its usual warmth.

“What happened?”

“I jumped out a second-story window and ran. Did something to my leg.” Angelo stopped to rest as they waited for someone to pass them.

“Do you think they’re looking for you?”

He shook his head. “No, they didn’t have a list of names or anything. But curfew is coming, and I don’t have anywhere to go. Can you hide me until morning? Tomorrow I can find somewhere else, but today I don’t have any way to contact the other Gappisti, and I’m not moving fast enough to outrun patrols when curfew starts. I figure seeing you is a sign.”

Gracie hesitated, but she couldn’t really say no to an injured contact. “I just have one room. It’s not very big.”

“It’s better than being crowded into the back of a truck and shipped off to dig trenches. And better than a jail cell.”

Gracie nodded. At least she’d bought extra food today. She slowed her stride to match Angelo’s limp and tried to support him with her arm. They were only four blocks from her flat, but it took longer than usual to get there. When they reached the stairs in her apartment building, the ascension
quickly proved the hardest part of their journey. Angelo winced every time his left foot touched the floor.

“Let me help,” she said.

He moved an arm around her shoulders, but each stair still seemed to cause him pain. “Which floor are you on?”

“The fifth. I’m sorry.”

Angelo laughed softly. “Well, beggars can’t be choosers.”

A middle-aged woman Gracie had seen before passed them in the stairwell, and one of her neighbors left his apartment right when they arrived, but no one said anything. As soon as she unlocked and opened the door, Angelo stumbled over to her bed and collapsed on it.

“I’m glad that’s over,” he said. “Maybe tomorrow my ankle will feel better.”

Gracie didn’t know much beyond basic first aid but thought elevating his leg was wise. Angelo’s head wasn’t on her pillow, so she folded the nearly-flat cushion in half and propped it under his injured ankle, then looked through her drawers and pulled out one of the fabric pieces she normally used for wrapping radio parts. “Can I look at it?”

He nodded.

She undid his old shoe and pulled his sock away from his ankle. The skin was discolored and swollen, but she wasn’t sure what to do about it. “I can wrap it,” she said softly. Anything spoken above a whisper could carry into a neighboring apartment.

“Thank you.” He watched her, and as she finished, he straightened on the bed so he was no longer sprawled across it. “I guess we’ll be cozy tonight, eh?”

Gracie opened her mouth in surprise. Her bed was big enough for two
people, but surely he didn’t expect them to share it . . . or did he?

“I don’t suppose you have a chess set or a deck of cards?”

“No. I haven’t been here long.” Gracie glanced around the room. Even for a student’s apartment, it looked sparsely decorated. “I have a few books.” She pulled them from the top drawer in her dresser and held them out to him.

He glanced at the titles and shook his head. “No, thanks.”

What am I going to do with him until tomorrow morning?

“You look tired. Come on
. Get off your feet,” Angelo said.

Gracie was tired, and the only places to sit were the bed and the floor. She put the books away and hesitated. Angelo patted the bed beside him, and she took her shoes off, then sat on the bed with her knees bent and her feet curled up behind her.

“So where do you come from, Concetta?”

“Nettuno. At least originally.”

“And since then?” Angelo’s dark eyes met hers. He was a good-looking man, and somehow the stubble along his jaw made him even more attractive.

Gracie’s OSS training kicked in. “It’s probably best if you don’t ask personal questions.”

Angelo smiled. “I won’t ask you about your past, then. But what about
the future? What do you want to do after the war?”

“I have to survive a while longer before I worry about that.” And to be honest, Gracie wasn’t sure what she’d do when the war ended and OSS no longer needed radio operators. She’d thought her life was all planned out,
but that had changed, and now her future looked murky and unfocused.

“Did I upset you, Concetta?”

“No, of course not.”

“You were frowning.”

“I was? Sorry.”

Angelo’s lips curved into another smile. “You don’t have to apologize for frowning. I’m the one who said something wrong.”

“You didn’t say anything wrong . . . I was just thinking.”

“What were you thinking about, Concetta? Or is that the wrong question to ask? And is Concetta your real name?”

“No.” Gracie smiled. “Is Angelo your real name?”

“No.” He laughed, and she joined in. “You know, Concetta, or whatever your name is, you have a beautiful smile.” As he spoke, he rested his hand on her leg just above her knee and ran his fingers over the thin fabric of her skirt. She could feel the warmth and strength of his hand, and it made
her feel like a mouse caught in a trap. Gracie couldn’t stay with him in the apartment all night.

“I forgot. I have another contact I have to meet tonight.” Ley would be waiting for her.

Angelo looked at his watch. “Curfew’s in twenty minutes.”

Gracie pulled her suitcases out from under the bed and opened the small one. She packed her radio inside, along with a change of clothes. “I really can’t miss this information. I’ll stay with a friend so you’ll have the place to yourself. The bathroom’s down the hall, and there’s plenty of food in my shopping bag.”

“Wait, Concetta. Did I do something wrong?”

Other than being entirely too handsome and friendly?
“No. I just can’t miss this meeting.”

She hurried from her room before he could say anything else. Gracie was outside before it fully hit her that she didn’t have a place to sleep now. Otavia would let her in, she didn’t doubt, but Gracie had no idea where Otavia lived.
You have to see Captain Ley anyway. Maybe he’ll have a backup plan.

Like the other civilians still outside, she walked quickly, trying to beat the clock and make it inside before curfew. The guard in the hotel lobby nodded his recognition and checked his watch as she arrived. Gracie’s fingers tightened around the handle of her suitcase. She hadn’t wanted to leave the radio with Angelo. She trusted him, but the radio was her responsibility, her most important tool. She couldn’t leave it with her houseguest, especially now that Ley’s radio was damaged and she no longer had access to a backup set. But she also realized what the suitcase must look like to the guard who’d seen her with Captain Ley so often.
As long as he doesn’t suspect what’s really inside.

Ley opened the door as soon as she knocked, and he leaned into the hallway to give her a kiss. Once they were inside with the door closed, he looked pointedly at the suitcase. “Is everything all right? You’re later than usual.”

Gracie flung her free hand up in a show of desperation. “I ran into one of my other contacts, and he needed help. He’s hiding in my apartment, and it took a while to get him settled.” She set her suitcase on the floor. “So he’s there, and I couldn’t leave my radio with him. And I can’t very well go back to my place tonight, and I’m sure the guard thinks I’m bringing my luggage along because I’m moving in with you or something, and . . . and it’s all a mess.”

“This other contact—did anyone follow him to your apartment?”

Gracie let her hands fall to her sides. “I’m not sure. I looked around a few times, but someone could have followed us without me noticing.” She dropped her eyes to the floor, expecting a lecture and thinking she probably deserved it.

“Why is he on the run?”

“There was a roundup of civilians today.”

“So I heard. Seven hundred of them.”

She shifted her gaze from the floor to Ley. “You knew?”

“I heard about it at headquarters after it happened, when I went to file my report.”

“He was trying to keep it from being seven hundred and one, and he hurt his ankle and can barely walk.”

“So not only did you neglect basic principles of watching your back, but you were with an obviously injured man, and he now knows where you live?” Ley’s voice was quiet, as it always was in his suite, but the words stung.

She felt her face burn with shame and a touch of resentment. “Yes.”

“Well, at least he’s not wanted for spying. Sounds like he’s just an anonymous face who slipped through the roundup net.” He walked over to the sitting area. “Would you like to sit down, Concetta?”

Gracie followed him and sat in one of the armchairs.

“So you aren’t planning to go back to your flat tonight?”

“No. You’ve seen how small it is, and . . . and I’m not sure what his, um, expectations are of a female hostess.”

Ley laughed softly. “So where are you sleeping tonight?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet.”

“And your supper plans?”

Gracie shrugged. “I had breakfast and lunch today, so supper isn’t all that important, I suppose.”

Ley leaned forward. “How about this? I’ll take you to supper. That’s what
the guard will expect, and it’ll give us a chance to check if anyone’s watching
you. I’ll sleep on the couch tonight, and you can have my bedroom.”

“I couldn’t take your bed.”

“The maid comes on Wednesdays. You’ll have clean sheets.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean to suggest you have bad hygiene or anything. You’re cleaner than I am—my building only has running water a few hours each week.” Gracie looked at her skirt. It wasn’t dirty, but it wasn’t exactly clean either. “I don’t want to kick you out of your bed.”

Ley’s lips turned up in amusement. “It makes more sense for me to sleep on the couch. I plan to leave several hours before dawn, and if someone knocks, they’ll expect me to answer the door. They’d be suspicious if you
were sleeping on the couch when they looked into the room.”

“Do you expect someone in the middle of the night?”

“It’s unlikely. But if you hear a knock, make sure both sides of the bed look slept in, and be wearing something scandalous.” He looked her up and down, and she felt her face go hot again. He stood and cleared his throat. “Supper?”

* * *

When Gracie woke the next morning, Ley was already gone. She had showered the night before, but knowing she had only a sponge bath to look forward to at her own flat, she showered again.

Ley had left breakfast for her: a pair of hard-boiled eggs lay in the wet bar’s ice box, and there was a thick roll—real bread made with real flour instead of the substitutes civilians had to manage with—and jam wrapped in waxed paper so it wouldn’t make the bread soggy while she slept in.

Gracie shook her head. Ley had been so civil yesterday at supper, then had withdrawn again as soon as they’d returned. She assumed the smiles at the restaurant were an act but wasn’t sure how to explain the thoughtfulness behind the breakfast he’d left for her.

* * *

After his morning inspections and a trip to army headquarters, Bastien went to the Gestapo building on the Via Tasso. He hated going there because most of the people who worked inside had at least a small streak of evil, but there were times when it was unavoidable. He hesitated as the gray-and-
yellow building came into view, then walked past the rolls of barbed wire meant to deter a Gappisti attack.

Zimmerman was easy to find on a Thursday afternoon. When Bastien walked over to him, Zimmerman stood and yelled out an enthusiastic “Heil, Hitler,” and Bastien returned the greeting. As an army officer, he could get away with a standard military salute, but he didn’t want anyone to question his pretended loyalty. If the wrong people doubted him, he’d be locked in one of the twenty cells in the building’s north-wing prison.

“What can I do for you, Hauptmann Dietrich?” Zimmerman motioned
to a chair and waited for Bastien to sit before he returned to his seat.

Bastien scanned the desk, seeing a few files, a pile of postcards, and a picture of a woman and a little boy. “Your family?” Bastien asked, pointing to the framed photograph.

Zimmerman nodded. “Taken a few months ago.”

“It must be hard being away from them.”

“I am happy to serve our Führer.”

“Of course,” Bastien said. “As am I.”

Zimmerman relaxed, a smile forming as he looked at the picture. “Someday I hope to bring them to Rome. My son would love the buildings, and my wife would love the art galleries. But between the Gappisti and the train shortage, now isn’t the best time.”

“The Gappisti . . . Did they give you any trouble yesterday during the roundup?”

“No, nothing to speak of. I’m sure a few slipped away, but we met our quota.”

“Good.” Bastien hoped that meant no one would trace Gracie’s contact
and, by tracing him, find her. “All my crew leads are asking for more labor.”

Zimmerman’s glance shifted to someone beyond Bastien. When Bastien looked over his shoulder, he saw Ostheim. Bastien outranked Ostheim but
saw no reason to make him wait, especially not after stealing Gracie from him at the café.

“Well, I just wanted to check on the roundup.” Bastien stood, grateful for an excuse to leave. Family man or not, Zimmerman was a fanatical SS officer, and so was Ostheim.

Ostheim saluted as Bastien walked past him. The motion was above reproach, but Bastien detected resentment in the man’s crisp blue eyes.