The Rules in Rome (7 page)

“Remind her to get to the shelter quick, then.” Bastien didn’t bring up the German bombings of Warsaw or London or Belgrade, but maybe Heinie was right—the death of civilians on both sides was tragic and was happening with far too much frequency. “Does she work at the ball-bearing plants?”

Heinie nodded.

“Well, I’m sure they have plenty of warning before attacks, and they have deep shelters.”

Heinie was quiet for a while, so Bastien switched subjects, hoping his friend would give him additional information he could pass on to Gracie. It was a little odd, thinking of Heinie as a friend. They belonged to opposing armies, and Bastien never hesitated to gather information from him, but he liked Heinie. Even as he used him, Bastien hoped that someday Heinie and Maurleen would be able to wed. “How are those new flak batteries coming along?”

Bastien stared at the trench
that had been carved into the mountain by a group of forced laborers, part of the Hitler Line, prepared to defend Rome should the Gustav Line fail. The workers weren’t there—they were often forced to work at night when Allied air patrols couldn’t see them. Most of the slaves had been kidnapped from the streets and were fed only enough to stave off starvation. Their taskmasters were cruel, so even with unskilled, half-starved men, the results were imposing. Italy seemed designed for defensive warfare, and Kesselring’s Army—and the slaves they employed—were making it even worse.

It was Dietrich’s job to inspect the finished entrenchments, and though Bastien often worked nights, the sun was high as he examined the lines cut into the rocky ground. He wasn’t sure how well the latest pillboxes and slit trenches could be destroyed from the air, but at least the Allies would know where they were.
As long as Gracie can radio it in
.

Bastien continued his inspection, taking careful notes for Wehrmacht headquarters and for Gracie. He had to walk a fine line—if there were obvious defects, he had to point them out so they could be fixed. The result was something more difficult for the Allies to seize, but if he didn’t report it, he’d be considered incompetent and lose access to the information he collected.

After a full morning, Bastien rode his motorcycle back to Rome. As was his habit, he took the long way home. If asked, he could say he was trying to avoid assassination by the Gappisti. That was partially true; he didn’t want his allies to shoot him. The long route also allowed him to observe more of the German positions, and sometimes, like today, it gave him a chance to meet with old friends.

Bastien rode over a hill and pulled the NSU 351 off the road. He checked his watch. He was two minutes early, but so were his contacts.

“Do you have any idea how intimidating you look in that uniform?” Marcello asked from the shade of an olive tree. His arms were folded behind his head, his legs crossed at the ankles. Giovanni lay next to him.

“But you aren’t one to let an intimidating officer interrupt your siesta?”

Marcello chuckled softly and propped himself up on his elbows as Bastien approached. “Nothing should get in the way of siesta. Except perhaps liberation. Where are all your American friends? They should have been here weeks ago.”

Bastien sat beside Marcello and Giovanni in the shade, wondering the same thing. After the landings in Anzio and Nettuno, he’d expected Allied troops to reach Rome in days, not months. “Maybe if your country didn’t have so many rivers and mountains and things like the Gustav Line. Why can’t Italy be more like Kansas?”

“Kansas?” Giovanni’s eyebrows wrinkled in question.

“Flat. I haven’t seen it myself, but one of my sisters married someone from Kansas.”

“Perfect panzer country,” Giovanni said.

“Good thing the German Navy is almost kaput, eh?” Marcello pushed himself up the rest of the way.

Bastien wasn’t sure the Kriegsmarine was really out for the count, but he doubted they’d be launching an invasion across the Atlantic, not for at least a decade. Kansas was safe, and so were his sisters, but if the war dragged on much longer, how many men like his brother, Lukas—still boys, really—would be brought into combat? “I have information about expected shipments to Rome. I’m not sure how large the escorts will be.” Bastien handed a copy of the schedule to Marcello.

“Giovanni’s brother looked over some of the fortifications north of Rome.” Marcello gestured to Giovanni, who handed a paper to Bastien. “Not a bad trade, eh, Capitano?”

“No, not a bad trade.”

“Ready to thank me yet for making you wear that uniform?”

“No, not yet. Especially not now that I’ve got a new radio operator to babysit and an SD man on my tail.”

Giovanni and Marcello looked around as if they both expected the SD officer to suddenly appear and arrest them.

“I haven’t seen him today,” Bastien said. “I had an early start.”

“So you think he’ll be waiting for you back in Rome?” Marcello asked.

Bastien shrugged. “Maybe. I’ve been able to lose him twice so far. He’s not exactly easy to slip past, but he’s manageable.”

“Your new radio operator, is he any good?”

Bastien didn’t correct Marcello’s assumption that the radio operator was male. It was better not to share details. “The new radio operator is good with the radio, inexperienced with everything else.”

Giovanni cocked his head to the side. “Working with amateurs? That’s not like you.”

“Orders.” Bastien had almost gotten used to the idea of working with Gracie until yesterday’s fiasco. Now he was certain Vaughn-Harris had thought up the whole thing as one more shot at revenge. It wasn’t right for Vaughn-Harris to try to get Bastien killed and risk the information he collected, nor was it fair for Gracie to be thrown into a mission she wasn’t ready for. But Colonel Ambrose wouldn’t allow Vaughn-Harris or anyone else to manipulate his agents. Ambrose, at least, thought the arrangement with Gracie would work.

“So you’ve got someone from the SD on your tail and a clumsy partner. Will we see you again?” Giovanni was still just as direct as ever. “Other than in prison?”

Bastien pursed his lips. “I’ll plan on meeting you in a week. If I don’t show up, I’ve either been arrested or killed or my cover’s been blown and I’ve gone south.”

Marcello stood as Bastien walked back to his motorcycle. “Take care of yourself, eh, Capitano? You’ve had a good run. Don’t keep it up longer than you need to.”

Bastien nodded. Marcello’s advice was wise, but Bastien was afraid he wouldn’t know he’d kept the charade up too long until it was too late to let it go.

* * *

The ride back to Rome was uneventful. Bastien avoided his office, going directly to his meeting with Gracie, and arrived at the hotel lobby before the appointed rendezvous. One of the hotel waiters offered to bring him coffee—he even claimed it was real coffee—but Bastien turned him down despite the temptation to order some just so he could see what Gracie would do when he handed her a cup.

She arrived right on time. Bastien stood as she came through the doors, quickly catching her attention. Doing his best to remember his manners, he motioned her toward a seat and remained standing until she sat down. She looked around the room and leaned into the cushions as if exhausted.

“Are you all right?” he asked. They were the only ones in the lobby, so he didn’t bother with pretend formalities.

“I’m fine. It’s just been a long day.”

Bastien glanced at the large clock hanging over an unstaffed hotel desk. “Only four o’clock, and it’s already been a long day?” Bastien had been up for twelve hours, working through most of them, but given the long curfew, he doubted that was the case for Gracie.

Her fingers, which rarely stopped moving, fiddled with the end of a decorative pillow. “Waiting for breakfast and sending my report in and standing in line for water took until now.”

“Where did you transmit?”

“Today I went to a deserted apartment near the Vatican.” She motioned with her hands in the appropriate direction. “I’ll try not to use the same place more than once or twice.”

“Good. They taught you something useful in training.”

“I learned plenty in training.” Before she could continue, her stomach rumbled. One hand flew to her mouth, and her cheeks grew pink.

“Hungry?” Bastien asked.

“I haven’t had time to eat since breakfast.”

Bastien stood and offered Gracie his arm. “Early supper?”

She nodded. “If you think we can finish before curfew.”

“If we’re late, I’ll walk you home. I have permission to be out whenever I like.” After seeing Gracie home, he’d have to write a report for his German superior about that morning’s inspections and see if the SD man was still around. He hadn’t seen him yet today, but the man had previously been near headquarters, not in random Roman hotels or pillboxes along the Hitler Line.

The hotel’s restaurant host bowed slightly as they approached, and Bastien peeked at Gracie. “Pretend you’re enjoying yourself,” he whispered.

She glanced at him, startled, and tried to smile.

She was taller than Julie or Annie, but Bastien reminded himself that now wasn’t a good time to think about the past and that Gracie’s height was irrelevant to everything they were doing in Rome.

“Could we have a more private table?” he asked when the waiter led them to the most crowded corner of the restaurant.

The slight man hesitated only an instant. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” He pointed to a table in the room’s opposite corner, where the nearest patrons were at least three tables away. “Would that do, sir?”

“Yes, thank you.”

When they were seated, the waiter gave them their choices.

“I’m hungry enough to eat anything,” Gracie said.

“Two of the chicken dishes, then,” Bastien said.

“And to drink?”

“A bottle of your house wine.” As Bastien spoke, Gracie opened her mouth, no doubt to protest, but he met her eyes and held them, and she took the hint, saving her comment until after the waiter disappeared.

“I don’t drink alcohol.”

“Yes, I know. And I’ve no intention of making you drink it, but if you look around, you’ll notice that every other restaurant patron has a glass of wine in front of them. We’d be drawing attention to ourselves if we didn’t order some. If you like, we can pour it in the plant behind you.”

“When in Rome, at least pretend to do as the Romans do?”

“Something like that.”

Gracie studied the ivy behind her. “Will the wine hurt the plant?” She kept her voice down so no one would overhear her.

Bastien shrugged. “If it does, I doubt the effects will be noticeable before we’ve finished.”

“Will you be drinking yours? We could switch glasses, and you could have mine too.”

“And show up at German headquarters with half a bottle of wine in me? No, I think I’ll donate mine to the plant. Best to keep a clear head in this line of work.” He wasn’t looking forward to writing his report and possibly facing the SD officer again, and he still wasn’t sure if he’d offered Gracie supper as a way to stall the inevitable or out of genuine concern for his hungry radio operator.

“Where did you learn Italian?” Gracie asked.

“I spent time in Switzerland, about a year in the Italian-speaking part.”

“What were you doing there?”

“I wasn’t with the military.” She looked at him as if expecting him to elaborate, but he wasn’t about to give her any additional information. “You ask a lot of questions.”

She rolled her eyes and flitted her hands in an irritated arc. “That’s usually how people get to know each other. And since I was under the impression we’re pretending the start of a romantic relationship, I thought questions would be part of a normal conversation. Or did you want me to sit silently all through supper? The other patrons seem to be talking with their table mates.”

Bastien caught himself smiling. He was going to get into trouble if he underestimated Gracie’s verbal sparring abilities. “You can ask any question
you like about Adalard Dietrich, but I’m afraid I won’t know many of the answers.”

“I’d rather get to know someone real.”

“Adalard is real; he’s just dead.”

Gracie’s lips curled up at the ends, and she studied him as the waiter filled their glasses with wine. She watched the man leave, then turned back to Bastien. “You said
is
, not
was.
Does that mean you believe in an afterlife?”

“According to my papers, I’m an evangelical Christian. But since I didn’t have a Bible among my things, I don’t think I’m very devout.” He wished Dietrich’s belongings had included a Bible. Bastien had been forced to leave all his kit, including his scriptures, with Marcello.

“So Adalard’s religious beliefs are hazy. What about the real you?”

“The real me doesn’t matter. Not in Rome.” The truth would probably surprise her, but he saw no reason to share unnecessary facts.

“Does it ever bother you, pretending to be someone else? I mean, I’m Concetta Gallo, but she’s never existed, not in real life. Whereas you . . .” She gestured with her hand. “Do you think Adalard’s ghost will try to haunt you or something?”

He fought back a laugh. “I’m not haunted by ghosts. And while I do believe some part of Dietrich still exists somewhere, I imagine his soul has more important things to do than worry about me.”

“But didn’t you kill him? Don’t you think—”

“I’m sure he knows it was nothing personal.” Bastien had long ago realized war called for different standards. He couldn’t fight violence with mere words. Bastien’s father had tried that, and it hadn’t worked.

Gracie was quiet until the food arrived. She focused on her meal for a while, then paused and watched him cut his chicken. “Is Adalard left-handed? I noticed you were back in Switzerland.”

“His pistol was strapped to his right side, so I assume he was right-handed. We’re not a perfect match. We also have different blood types, so if I’m bleeding to death, don’t bother taking me to the hospital.”