The Rules in Rome (20 page)

On Tuesday morning, Zimmerman took
a pair of enlisted men with him to follow up on a black market lead and investigate where the iron pipes went after they were sold.

The black marketeer didn’t want to talk at first. “I sell only legal items.”

Zimmerman motioned to his men, and they both leveled their machine pistols at the portly merchant’s stomach.

“I only sold pipes once—and nobody told me what they were used for after that.”

“Who did you sell them to?” Zimmerman asked.

“I didn’t learn their names.”

Zimmerman leaned in. “You’d better try very hard to recall both their names and where they can be found. If you can’t remember, I’ll have to take you to the Via Tasso until your memory improves.”

The man swallowed. “They were from a little village north of Rome.”

“Möller, go get my map case,” Zimmerman ordered.

Möller was quick. When the merchant pointed out the village, Zimmerman recognized its name but couldn’t remember why. It was small, insignificant . . . but he had a source there. A young Italian woman, devoted to Mussolini.

“Let’s go,” Zimmerman ordered his men.

“Good luck,” the merchant said.

“Oh, you’re coming with us. If you can point out the men you saw, we’ll take them to prison. Otherwise, we have a cell waiting for you.”

* * *

Zimmerman and his men had changed into plainclothes and found a small café, but the villagers seemed wary, as if they could tell they were really soldiers.

“Möller, find this address.” Zimmerman handed the man a piece of paper. “See if you can locate a woman named Isabella. If you find her, have her meet me here.”

“Yes, sir.”

When Möller returned, he seemed unhappy. “I spoke to her parents, sir.
They haven’t seen her in almost a week, not since Wednesday morning.”

Zimmerman mulled over the information. Isabella had told him she suspected one of her neighbors. He was unemployed but was often away for days at a time, and she’d seen him sneaking inside late at night more than once. Betraying members of the Italian Resistance was a dangerous game. When threatened, they didn’t hesitate to defend themselves.
Not so different from us.
Her disappearance made Zimmerman think her suspicion was correct.
Isabella challenged the neighbor, and he eliminated her.

He led his men and the black marketeer to a modest house across from Isabella’s. The residents were surprised and frightened, but he promised them they wouldn’t be harmed if they cooperated. Until
Zimmerman was done, they were to wait silently in one of the bedrooms.

The afternoon crept by slowly as they waited. A few villagers walked past, but the black marketeer said he didn’t recognize them. Not long before curfew, a young man left a house two doors away from where Isabella had lived. An even younger man joined him.

“That’s him,” the merchant pointed to the first man. “He bought the pipes from me.”

Zimmerman smiled. “Wait here,” he told one of his men. “Watch our merchant friend, and make sure the family stays in the back room. Möller, come with me.”

They followed the two men until they left the village. Zimmerman hesitated, knowing the men would soon notice him, but he wanted to follow them as long as possible in case they led him to others who could prove useful. The older of the two suspects looked around, noticed them, and kept walking.

“Sir?” Möller asked.

“Keep following them. If they run, we shoot.”

Not two minutes later, the younger of the two glanced around. He said something to his companion, and they split up.

“Follow the younger one,” Zimmerman said. “Take him alive, and meet back at the house in the village.”

“Are you sure he’s a partisan?” Möller asked.

“If he’s not, we can release him later.”

Zimmerman followed his quarry for perhaps five minutes before the man slipped into an old barn, out of sight. Zimmerman approached cautiously. Was the man hiding? Did he have a friend there waiting for him? Was he armed and planning an ambush?

Zimmerman reached the barn and inched his way forward, stepping gently with the hope he wouldn’t be heard. He paused near the door, checking behind him before taking a deep breath and kicking in the door.

He held his pistol with both hands as he rushed inside, but there was no sign of the man he stalked. He checked the stalls and climbed a rickety ladder to the loft. Nothing but a pile of hay. Zimmerman climbed most of
the way down the ladder before he saw the pitchfork hanging on the wall.

I saw him come in, so he must be here somewhere.
Zimmerman grabbed the pitchfork and climbed the ladder again. He circled the pile of hay, looking for any telltale signs that someone was inside. The straw looked undisturbed—surely no one was hidden there. Zimmerman began to feel foolish. What if the man escaped while he wasted his time on the loft? He stuck the pitchfork in the hay in frustration, then did it again and again. With the third strike, he heard a muffled cry, and one end of the pitchfork came back tipped in scarlet.

Zimmerman pulled his pistol from its holster. “Out, now!”

Silence filled the barn for a few long moments, but then the hay began to move. The man emerged slowly, bits of straw stuck in his clothes and hair, his face tense as he tried to control obvious pain. A red stain had
spread across his left thigh. Zimmerman felt for weapons, but the man was unarmed.

“Down.” Zimmerman motioned to the ladder.

The man had trouble moving because of his bad leg, but with Zimmerman’s handgun as motivation, he slowly struggled to his feet and started descending the ladder. Halfway down, he fell. His injuries seemed serious enough that he wouldn’t run off, so Zimmerman climbed down after him.

As his prisoner writhed on the ground, Zimmerman saw a strange mix of fear and defiance in his face. He almost felt sorry for the man—he was young and wounded yet brave too. But Zimmerman remembered what it had been like to grow up under the oppressive Versailles treaty. He could still taste the poverty, the massive inflation, the utter lack of hope. Hitler
had ended those things.
Never again
, his father had said when Hitler was appointed chancellor.
Never again will we let someone hold us down.

* * *

Zimmerman set aside his report the instant Ostheim walked into view.

Ostheim sat across from him and grinned. “The one you captured is called Roberto. He isn’t talking yet. He wouldn’t even tell me his name. But his friend Carlo started cooperating about the time I removed his third fingernail. He and Roberto were checking a field that’s supposed to be used as a weapons drop. They were to meet Carlo’s brother—Giovanni—and another man in a few hours. The other two won’t know anything’s wrong until their friends don’t show up.”

Zimmerman smiled. He owed Ostheim something big; if he managed to capture a few partisans and an Allied weapons drop, he might be able to slip away from the disapproval that had shadowed him since San Lorenzo. His eyes paused on the picture of his wife and son, and he quickly looked
away. The boy Ostheim had tortured wasn’t much older than his own son.
I must ensure victory for the Fatherland
, he told himself,
whatever the cost.

A few hours later, Zimmerman positioned his men around a dark, open field. Determined to avoid the mistakes he’d made with the San Lorenzo church and the arrest of the women, Zimmerman managed everything himself, making sure each man was sufficiently concealed.

The two Gappisti appeared quietly, like ghosts, cautiously walking to the center of the clearing with something in their hands—
probably signal lamps
. Zimmerman’s men followed their orders and waited. The boy in prison had said only two would come, but Zimmerman wanted to be sure. Only when the two separated did Zimmerman give the signal, firing a flare into the air and illuminating the field.

Trapped in the light, the two Gappisti ran. One of them darted right into the SS trap, but the other went the opposite direction. Zimmerman didn’t have enough men to surround the entire field, and the Gappisti slipped through one of the gaps.

“Get him!” Zimmerman ordered Möller, who was crouched nearby. Möller and four others moved out as the Gappisti ran over a slight rise and out of sight. Zimmerman wasn’t concerned—his men would catch up. A hail of gunfire sounded, and while he waited for his men to trap the runaway, Zimmerman walked over to the one they’d already caught.

He hadn’t surrendered without a fight. In the fading flare light, Zimmerman could see blood streaming from the man’s nose into a thin mustache and assumed one of his men had subdued him with the end of a rifle. He studied him for a while, wondering what information he held in his head.

The flare had burned out when Möller and the others returned, but Zimmerman could make out shadows—several of his men were carrying bodies. He assumed one of the bodies was the Gappisti, but as they got closer, he realized one of his men was dead, another seriously wounded.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Möller said, cradling his right forearm. Zimmerman suspected it was injured, which made two wounded. “He escaped.”

Zimmerman felt his anger flash. But his men had tried. And he’d caught
three of the Gappisti. That was something. Ostheim would have three of the man’s friends, so Zimmerman didn’t think it would be long until he rounded up the one who’d gotten away.

* * *

Bastien planned to ask Marcello about smuggling Gracie out of Rome during their Wednesday meeting at the bar, but Marcello wasn’t there. Bastien looked around and didn’t recognize anyone. He found a corner booth, ordered a glass of cheap wine, and waited.

He’d been there ten minutes when Giovanni slipped into the seat next to him. “Sorry I’m late.”

Bastien shrugged and slid the untouched glass over.

Giovanni took a few gulps and looked around, making sure no one could overhear them. “Roberto and my brother have disappeared. Haven’t seen them since yesterday. Marcello was arrested at the drop.”

“What happened?”

“We were surrounded by a squad of SS troops. I got away, barely. Marcello had sent me to look for the others. I shot a few SS men as I escaped, but there were more troops on Marcello’s side of the clearing—he didn’t have a chance.”

“Is he dead?”

“I don’t think so,” Giovanni whispered. “He was surrounded before he knew they were there.”

That meant someone who knew exactly what Bastien was doing in Rome was in Nazi hands. “Do you know where he’s being held?”

Giovanni shook his head.

“Arrested by SS troops?”

“Yes.”

“Your brother too?”

Giovanni scowled. “I’m not sure. Is there anything you can do?”

Bastien thought long and hard before answering. Marcello and Roberto could both blow his cover. Maybe it was time for him to abandon his act and head for the American lines. How long would they hold out under torture? Could he do anything for Marcello, Roberto, and Giovanni’s brother, or were they lost? “I’m not sure. I’m billeted at a hotel on the Via Veneto. I’ll walk along the south end of the street an hour before curfew. Meet me there, and I’ll tell you if I’ve thought of anything.”

Giovanni nodded and left.

Bastien wasn’t sure what to do about Marcello and the others, but he knew he had to warn Gracie. If he was at risk, so was she.

Bastien said a silent prayer
as he knocked on Gracie’s door, pleading for her to be home. There was no answer. He rested his back against the door, wondering if he should leave a note.
What would I say? Run?
Could she get out of Rome without his help?

He heard soft footsteps on the stairs, and soon after, she came into view carrying what looked like groceries, but he guessed it was her radio. Her lips curved up when she saw him—the same bittersweet smile she’d had the last week—but it disappeared when he didn’t smile back.

She unlocked her door and, to her credit, didn’t ask what was wrong until it was closed and they were both inside. “The flat fell through? Or something worse?”

Bastien had almost forgotten the new apartment. Enrichetta had told
him about it early that morning, and he’d picked up the key between inspecting a stretch of the Hitler Line and meeting Giovanni. He pulled the key from his pocket and handed it to her. “You can move in whenever you like.”

“Then it’s something worse?” Gracie set her bag on the bed and gave him her full attention.

“The SS arrested two of the three men who were with me when I became Dietrich.”

Her eyes widened. “When?”

“Within the last twenty-four hours.”

“Do you think they’ve talked?”

“If they have, someone will be waiting to arrest me when I go back to my hotel.”

“Then don’t go back.”

That was an option, but Bastien wasn’t sure he was ready to give up yet. There was still a war to fight, still a brother to save. “They might not talk. And I might be able to rescue them.”

“Do you know where they’re being held?”

“No, but I can guess. I’ll check at the Gestapo prison on the Via Tasso first. If they aren’t there, I’ll check the Regina Coeli. If I don’t come back, it will be time for you to leave. The man I was going to send you with is
one of the arrested men, so you’ll have to try getting out alone. I’m sorry.”

Gracie glanced at her radio, then back at him. “The building on the Via Tasso—that’s where Otto Ostheim works, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe I can help. I could distract him or something.”

“Absolutely not,” Bastien said immediately, louder than he’d meant to. “That would be like sending a lamb to play with a tiger.”

“What if I slipped a sleeping pill in his drink?”

“Do you have any sleeping pills?”

She looked at the floor. “No.”

“Distracting Ostheim is too dangerous.”

Gracie shook her head and flung a hand out in frustration. “Everything about this mission is dangerous. We both know Ostheim hates you. If you walk into the Via Tasso, he’ll do everything he can to thwart you, even if he doesn’t know what you’re doing. And he might get suspicious. But if you wait until most of the officers are gone and he’s busy with me, none of the
other guards will question a captain transferring prisoners or checking the prison roster.”

“Have you thought of how you might keep him busy? Because I have a good idea of what he wants from you, and frankly, I’m more concerned about what he can do to you in an hour than I am about what he can do to his prisoners in a week.”

“I just want to help,” she whispered. “Your friends are being tortured. Otto asked me to supper once. Maybe I can get him to repeat that offer. We’d be in a restaurant, and if he got out of hand, I could break his nose again.”

“What if you try to break his nose, and he breaks your neck?”

“He didn’t seem so horrible when he was sober. I don’t think he wants to kill me.”

“And if he gets drunk?” Bastien asked.

“Do you have a better idea?”

“Yes. Pack your things. If I rescue my friends, you join them on their way south. If I don’t show up again, you run.” Rome was getting too dangerous for Gracie. He wanted her somewhere safe.

“Actually, I had decided to stay. Until the army gets here. Or until we both have to leave, together. If you think you can keep it up, I want to stay
and be your radio operator. And tonight, I want to help you rescue your friends.”

Bastien tried to decide what to do. She was the perfect bait for Ostheim,
but bait usually didn’t make it out of the trap in one piece, and he wasn’t about to sacrifice Gracie for a chance to free Marcello. Part of his reasoning was personal—he didn’t want to see her get hurt. But it was practical as well—Gracie in Gestapo hands was just as big a threat to his mission as Marcello’s capture. But what if there was a way to use her without putting her in danger?

* * *

Gracie wore the black dress she’d purchased for the curfew party. She applied her makeup more heavily than usual and left most of her hair down, as Ley had suggested.

Number 145, Via Tasso, didn’t look like it housed evil, but Gracie shuddered as she walked up the steps. Ley had told her which way to go, and
he’d also warned her that the guards would question her every move.

“What do you want, Fr
ä
ulein?” a soldier at the entrance asked.

“I’d like to see Untersturmführer
Ostheim, please.”

His lips twitched to the side. “Why?”

“It’s personal.”

After a slight hesitation, the guard let her pass. She swallowed as she walked past him and felt her hands grow damp from perspiration. Every step she took into the building was like one more step into darkness. She followed Ley’s directions and turned down the correct hallways, closer to Ostheim’s lair, until a uniformed clerk stopped her and asked her what she wanted.

“I’d like to see Untersturmführer
Ostheim, please,” she repeated. There was a tremor in her voice because she was nervous and frightened, but she
was standing outside a Gestapo prison, so she doubted the clerk would think her fear out of place.

“What about?”

She hesitated. “I have a personal request for him.”

He motioned her to a chair and told her to wait. When he finished his paperwork, he left for a few minutes, she assumed to pass on the news of her arrival. The clock on the wall ticked loudly, but the second hand seemed to take three times longer than usual to make its revolutions. Twice she thought she could hear cries of pain coming from the prison. She tried to think of something other than the likelihood that whoever was making those sounds was one of Ley’s friends. Even if they were the cries of strangers, it was horrible, but she couldn’t let herself think about that now.

Instead, she remembered the way Ley had looked at her before they’d parted, the way he’d run one of his hands through her hair and stared at her with those piercing blue eyes, asking her if she was sure she wanted to do this. She was beginning to believe there was more than friendship behind his concern, something real in his kisses, and that thought was enough to calm her breathing.

The clerk returned and sat at his desk, then started filling out more paperwork. Gracie waited. When she focused on where she was and who she was about to meet, she had trouble controlling the tremor in her hands. When she focused on Ley, on all the things he’d done for her, on the way he smiled and the way his lips made her feel, she could stay composed.

Ostheim walked into view and stopped. He looked her up and down and raised one eyebrow in question.

Gracie stood. “Otto, I’m sorry to show up like this. I just didn’t know where else I could go.” She glanced at the clerk and bit her lower lip, hoping Ostheim would read her gesture as a sign that she wanted to talk to him alone.

He stepped closer. She hadn’t seen him since the curfew party. If she really had broken his nose, it had healed well. “Concetta. This is a surprise.”

Gracie had a hard time maintaining eye contact, so she looked away. “I’m sorry to interrupt you at work. I almost went to the café instead, where we first met, but I was afraid you wouldn’t be there and that Adalard might see me.”

His fingers lifted her chin so she was looking at him again. “Why do you want to see me?”

“To apologize.” Gracie’s voice trembled because Ostheim’s touch frightened her, but she hoped he would think she was just emotional. “I was wrong about you and wrong about my boyfriend. Adalard’s starting to scare me . . .” She glanced at the clerk. He seemed to be working, but she guessed he was hearing every word. “Do you believe in second chances, Otto?”

A smile that made her nervous crept across his face. “I’ve got a few things to finish up. Why don’t you wait here for a bit, and then I’ll take you somewhere quiet, and we can talk?”

Gracie nodded as if that was exactly what she wanted. In a way, it was—she was trying to get him out of the Via Tasso—but it certainly wasn’t because she was suddenly attracted to him. He kept his fingers on her chin, watching her every breath for several long moments.

“I won’t be long.” He turned and walked back to the prison.

Gracie sat on the chair again, relieved that the first part of the plan seemed to be working, nervous about everything that could still go wrong, and dreading the next step.