The Rules in Rome (29 page)

He put a box of raisins and a chocolate bar in his pocket. They were American rations found on the black market and confiscated by another German officer. Bastien took it as a sign that the army was getting close. They weren’t very impressive gifts, but he thought Gracie would like what they represented. Rome’s liberation was near.

And what will Dietrich do when the Germans leave Rome?

He tried to ignore the twinge in his side and went to Gracie’s first apartment. He’d checked it carefully a few days before, and since her other contact was still free, they assumed the apartment was safe. When he arrived, he knocked softly on the door before unlocking it and going inside.

It was late, so he’d half expected to find Gracie asleep, but she was sitting on her bed, fully dressed, with her knees pulled up to her chest. She watched him come in but didn’t say anything.

“Are you all right?” he asked after he’d shut the door.

“I lost my radio.” Her whisper sounded lifeless. She held her hand out to him, and he reached for the small object she was giving him: a square metal box with two prongs. Her radio crystal. “That’s all I have left of it. I walked right into their trap.”

“You didn’t get my warning?”

“Not until I got back.” She inhaled deeply, her breath ragged.

Bastien sat beside her and put his arm around her. “I’m sorry. I wish I’d found out sooner.”

Gracie leaned into him and sighed. “I was stupid. I should have left when they started jamming me—found a different location. And the more I think about it, the more I’m sure the request I heard to repeat Friday’s message was from the Gestapo, not from headquarters. It was a different code. And the signal was the strongest I’ve ever heard—probably being sent from a block away. I should have known.” Her voice cracked. “I’ve
got to be the most gullible radio operator who’s ever lived.”

“Gracie, you’ve been amazing here in Rome. You didn’t have time to analyze everything while you were sending a report, and the Gestapo is very good at what they do. That you managed to escape and leave them with nothing but a radio they can’t use is a credit to your skill.”

“But what good is your information if no one ever hears it?” Her hands flared in frustration. “I’ve ruined your mission.”

“Nonsense. If you really want your radio back, I can walk into SS headquarters and get it for you.” And he would if it would make her happy.

She jerked her head around to face him. “Don’t you dare. If you got caught and it was my fault, I’d never forgive myself.”

“Fine. If you don’t want me to get yours, you can borrow mine.”

“Yours?” Gracie’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “I thought yours was broken.”

“The crystal is broken. The rest of the radio is fine.”

Gracie shook her head. “I’m such an idiot. I should have asked what was wrong months ago. When you said it was broken, I assumed it was something bigger.”

“You’re not an idiot. You’re a brave, brilliant woman who’s been under enough stress to paralyze most other mortals.” There was just enough light for him to watch her face soften into a smile. He ran his fingers through her hair and felt an overwhelming urge to kiss her. But he couldn’t do that, not while they were completely alone in her dark bedroom.
He slid her radio crystal into his pocket and pulled out the American rations. “Did you get much to eat today?”

“No,” she whispered.

“Well, the army has to be close because these were being sold on the black market.” He handed her the chocolate and raisins. She looked at the American labels and grinned. “Thank you.”

“I’ll bring my radio over tomorrow. Maybe I should come with you the next time you send something in.”

“I’d like that. Thank you.”

He brushed his fingers along her cheek, pausing at her birthmark, wishing they were somewhere other than Nazi-occupied Rome. Then he pulled his mind back to the mission. “Tell them you need to vary your transmission schedule.”

Gracie nodded.

He stood to leave and turned back before he closed the door, letting her image sink into his memory. As he walked to his hotel, he knew exactly what he wanted to do: finish the mission and, when Rome was out of Nazi hands, end his charade as
Adalard Dietrich and take Gracie on a real date.
Or a few dozen
. But he also knew his duty to his new country and to his family, and he had every intention of fulfilling it. He would see Gracie to safety, and then he’d carry on as Hauptmann Dietrich for as long as it was feasible, even if his role took him to Berlin.

Gracie felt a mix of
emotions as she walked to her meeting with Angelo the Friday after she’d lost her radio. The Americans had finally broken out of the Anzio beachhead, and the excitement on the streets was contagious. Their arrival in Rome was just a matter of time.
Not long now
, she told herself.
Then Ley and I will be done, and Angelo will be free.
She felt a stab
of pain that Otavia wouldn’t get to see Rome’s liberation, something she’d sacrificed so much for.

But the festive atmosphere she walked through couldn’t completely mask a growing worry. What would happen when the Allies arrived? Would she receive another assignment? And what about Ley? His reports had grown longer this month, full of details on how the Germans were reacting to the Allied advance. She doubted the Allies had many sources as useful as Ley, and she worried what his next assignment would be. Would Colonel Ambrose and OSS expect him to continue on as Dietrich?

Angelo surprised her, slipping out from a side street and kissing her on the cheek. “
Buongiorno
, Concetta.” He put his arm around her waist and matched his pace to hers. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

He grinned as he looked around to make sure no one was close enough to overhear him. “One of my friends passed by the German embassy in the Villa Wolkonsky this morning. Smoke. They’re burning their papers. I guess they don’t think they’ll be here much longer.”

Gracie felt him slip something into her pocket, and his fingers lingered on her hip. She was tempted to push his hand away, but they looked less suspicious if they acted like a couple.

“There’s my report,” he said. “Are you busy tonight? I found some prosciutto on the black market and real flour. You and I could celebrate Rome’s liberation a little early. Then I’m going to sabotage a few German retreat lines. We can always use an extra hand if you want to join the Gappisti.”

“I can’t,” Gracie said. “The Gestapo almost caught me on Monday. They were tracking my signal. So now I have to transmit at different times, and I have another contact who’s going to keep watch while I’m on the air in case
they track me again. We have an appointment, and it’s too late to change it.”

“I’d be happy to stand guard for you while you use your radio.”

Gracie wasn’t sure how to politely decline Angelo’s help. She couldn’t tell him Ley was a more effective escort because he wore a German uniform, nor did she want to say anything that would suggest she trusted Ley’s security more than she trusted Angelo’s. “He’ll have more information for me to include.”

Angelo was quiet as they walked past another couple. “Is it always the same man, that contact you keep running off to?”

Gracie nodded and tried not to blush as Angelo studied her face.

“He’s a lucky man. If the Germans are still here next Tuesday, I’ll meet you at the flower stalls near the Spanish Steps. If they leave before that, maybe I’ll see you sooner.” He stopped walking and pulled her around to face him. Then he leaned closer and kissed her firmly. He was a skilled kisser, but something was missing. She felt his kiss with her mouth, but it didn’t stir anything deeper than her lips, and she was overwhelmed with relief when she finally pushed him away.

Angelo looked hurt, but she didn’t want any more of his kisses. Hesitantly, he ran his hand across her check. “Remember, Concetta, he’s not your only option.”

She watched Angelo stride away. He was handsome, brave, and fighting for a noble cause, but Gracie didn’t need more than one option. She only wanted Ley.

* * *

Zimmerman looked up to see Richter standing in front of his desk. “Yes?”

“He’s back on the air,” Richter said.

“Great. We’ll try again tomorrow morning.”

Richter sank into a chair. “It’s not quite that simple. He’s been transmitting at a different time every day. New locations. If you can give me enough men, I think we can pull it off, but we’ll need at least twice what we had before, probably more.”

Zimmerman frowned. Providing a few dozen men for a few hours was one thing, but Richter was asking for more than fifty for the entire day. “I’ll have to think about it. We’ve been busy preparing for the withdrawal. And we’ve had good luck lately picking up the Gappisti.”

Something similar had happened the week the Americans and British invaded Anzio. The Gappisti suddenly thought they’d be rid of the Germans in a few days, and they’d let their guard down. Zimmerman had never yet matched the number of arrests he’d made that week, but now, as the Allies advanced again, he was coming close. He wanted the wireless operator, but more than that, he wanted all the saboteurs and double agents his men were tracking down. Even if he could get the number of troops Richter was requesting, he wasn’t sure it would be worth it to pull them away from their current work—not when they might catch a dozen Gappisti in the same amount of time.

Richter walked away with shuffling footsteps and hunched shoulders. Zimmerman glanced at the clock and stood. He had Italian scum to arrest—an informant had overheard a friend bragging to a girlfriend about his work with the Gappisti and about a rendezvous to take place in an hour. Zimmerman planned to be waiting with Möller when the Gappisti arrived.

Zimmerman changed into civilian clothing and met Möller at the door. “Do you want anyone else?” Möller asked.

Zimmerman shook his head. His men had other leads to pursue, and Zimmerman was confident he and Möller could handle a group of three. He’d brought a submachine pistol as backup but thought his Luger would be enough firepower.

It was past curfew, so the streets were deserted. The neighborhood they went to smelled of inadequate plumbing, rotting garbage, and cheap bread.
The smell of poverty.

The garage where the Gappisti were supposed to meet was across from a run-down apartment building. “Find a room with a view of the garage and wait there,” Zimmerman ordered.

Möller nodded and crossed the street. Zimmerman located a back entrance and waited inside the garage, behind a dilapidated fire truck. While he waited, Zimmerman thought of his other leads. He was neglecting them because this one offered him the chance to collect three Gappisti. But as time crept by, he wondered if he’d invested his energy in the wrong project.
The crack in the garage’s side entry grew darker. He couldn’t see his watch, but it seemed like he’d waited an eternity.

Eventually, the door opened, and a shadow came inside. “Mario?” a male voice whispered. “Are you there?”

Zimmerman crouched down, peering up through the truck’s windows while the man lit a lantern, leaned against the truck, and took out a cigarette. Zimmerman tried to control his breathing to make sure the Gappisti wouldn’t know he was there—not until his friends arrived. As the Gappisti neared the end of his cigarette, two others joined him.

“You’re late,” the man with the cigarette said.

The shorter of the new arrivals smiled. “Sorry. I was celebrating with my girlfriend.”

The first Gappisti groaned. “Don’t rub it in.”

“Things didn’t work out with that girl, then?”

“No. She wasn’t interested in promises of prosciutto or sabotage.”

“I thought everyone was hungry,” the taller man said.

The man flung his cigarette stub to the ground. “She lost weight in April, same as everybody. She’s got something going on with another contact. She’ll change her mind, or I’ll find somebody else.”

“Is that any good?” One of the newcomers gestured to the cigarette.

The first Gappisti pulled out his pack and offered some to his friends. “Bought them at the black market this morning. American.”

“I’ve never had an American cigarette.” The shorter man reached for one.

“Did you bring the maps?” The first man put the cigarettes away and reached for the papers when one of the newcomers pulled them out. “So this road here, that looks like the best. Stop the first car in the convoy with our nails, then ambush anyone who tries to clear away the wreck. Maybe confiscate a few weapons. This could be our last chance to hit them before the front lines change, eh?”

Zimmerman had heard enough. He straightened and stepped away from the truck, keeping his machine pistol pointed at the Gappisti trio. “You’re under arrest, all of you.”

The men froze for an instant, then the short one reached for his pocket. Zimmerman shot him. The other two dove to the ground, and one of them got off a shot that whizzed past Zimmerman’s ear. He’d planned to take them alive, but he shot another one in the confusion, hitting him as he pulled the door open. The third man escaped.

Zimmerman swore under his breath and ran out the door after him. He could see his quarry running away on the dark street, but Zimmerman knew something the Gappisti didn’t. Möller was one of the best marksmen in Rome. Zimmerman heard the crack of a rifle and saw the last Gappisti fall.

Möller left the apartment, and Zimmerman waved him toward the man he’d just shot. Zimmerman went back into the garage to check the men he’d gunned down. They were both dead. In the lantern light, their young eyes stared up at him. He wished he would have planned things differently so
they could have been captured rather than killed. Dead, they wouldn’t lead him to any of their friends.

He went outside again as Möller marched the third man back. It was the Gappisti who’d arrived first at the garage, the one who’d been shopping at the black market and had unsuccessfully wooed a woman that day. He had his hands on his head and dragged his left leg. When he got closer, Zimmerman noticed the gunshot wound in his thigh. And there was something else too—his clothing hung strangely, and there was a wet mark on his abdomen. When the man was close enough, Zimmerman pulled on his jacket just to confirm his guess. The man winced.

Zimmerman laughed. “You know the great thing about these four-pointed nails?” he said to Möller. “If you’re chasing a Gappisti with a pocket full of them and he falls, he’s always going to impale himself.”