The Rules in Rome, page 17
They climbed into the alley behind the apartment complex and ran until they reached the main road. Angelo slipped the Beretta into his pocket, and Gracie looked around. Everything seemed normal. No one was staring at them, nor did she see any police or military agents.
They walked in silence for several blocks, Gracie trying to calm her breathing and control the shaking in her arms.
“Next time I tell you to shoot someone, do it,” Angelo said. “You think I want him waking up and finding me again? Who knows how long he’s been tailing me—he could know everything about me. He had to die.” Angelo shook his head in frustration. “I wish the other one was dead too, but I just hit his shoulder before he ducked back into the hallway.”
Gracie nodded but couldn’t picture herself pulling the trigger. She’d come to Rome to operate a radio, not assassinate OVRA agents.
Angelo’s voice softened. “And I’m sorry I was followed. Next week, at Quattro Fontane, I’ll make sure I’m clean before I come. You do the same. And you can consider your friend partially avenged.”
Angelo turned left, and Gracie turned right. She still had an hour before she needed to set out for Ley’s hotel, but she didn’t want to go to her apartment. She kept doubling back, circling blocks, and stopping to hide, wanting to make sure no one followed her.
Taking the long route to Ley’s hotel also helped her process what she’d seen in the apartment hallway. She pictured the dead man’s eyes and remembered Angelo’s parting words. It was one violent death in exchange for another. But Gracie had seen the soldier who had probably killed Otavia, and he was German. Even if it had been the same person, Gracie didn’t think Otavia would approve.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Bastien heard the airplane engines and looked over his shoulder. As the white star on the plane’s wing came into view, he drove his motorcycle into a ditch and threw himself to the dirt along the steepest side of the embankment. Bullets hit the ground all around him, but none of them slammed into his body. All this to get shot at by my own side.
The plane, a P-39, turned and came back for a second pass. The pilot couldn’t know they were on the same side, but didn’t he have more promising targets than German hauptmanns on motorcycles, like the targets Bastien included in nearly every report?
Bastien held perfectly still during the second strafing run, hoping the pilot would think he was dead. As the rat-tat-tat of the guns grew to a crescendo, he held his breath. He remembered how his father had described shellings in the trenches—the noise, the smoke, the confusion. I wonder if he was ever scared.
Bastien prayed, and the plane didn’t come around for a third pass. He stayed in the ditch for several minutes to make sure the P-39 was really gone. When his breathing returned to normal, he stood and dusted off his uniform. The pilot had been on target with Bastien’s motorcycle; it was destroyed.
A long walk back to Rome lay ahead, but first, he needed to meet with Marcello. Bastien was late, but Marcello and Roberto were still there, half asleep in the vineyard’s shade.
“What happened to you?” Roberto asked.
“An American fighter decided a Wehrmacht officer was a good target for strafing. Sorry I’m late.”
“Here’s a list of alternative targets for your fighters.” Marcello handed Bastien a paper, then laughed. “If that pilot’s commander knew he was shooting at one of his country’s top spies, he’d probably ground him.”
Bastien read through the suggested targets on Marcello’s list: newly repaired rail lines, hidden supply depots, camouflaged anti-aircraft guns. He folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket. “I’m hardly America’s top spy.”
“How do you know?” Roberto asked. He had a point—Bastien hadn’t been briefed on any OSS operations other than his own.
“Common sense. And I have something for you.” Bastien pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. “Weapons drop in a week, weather permitting. Came over the radio a few days ago.” Gracie had passed the message to him yesterday: Have Centurion inform Scutum group of airdrop, 0300 hours, March 22, drop zone 9C. Bastien had needed to search the maps hidden with his radio to figure out where the supplies would be dropped, but it was a good location. He thought Marcello and his men would be safe there when the time came.
Marcello grinned. “Does this mean they expect the front to move closer? That maybe we’ll be involved in the real fighting?”
“We can hope that’s what it means.” But Bastien had been requesting more weapons for the partisans since November. Perhaps the drop was timed to coincide with an offensive, or maybe it just took the OSS five months to fulfill requests. Bastien looked around. He couldn’t see any bicycles. “Did you both walk?”
They nodded.
“I suppose that means I’ll be heading back to Rome on foot.”
“Watch out for the Gappisti, Capitano.” Marcello stood and stretched his neck. “Solitary Wehrmacht officers are tempting targets.”
“I know, but I’m closer to Rome than I am to any of the trenches I inspected this morning. Can’t be helped.”
Bastien was about to leave when he heard a faint sneeze. He looked at Marcello and Roberto, but they both shook their heads. Bastien took out his Luger, and Marcello did the same with his pistol. The noise they’d heard had sounded human and been close enough that whoever had made it would have heard every word of their conversation. They’d said enough to blow Bastien’s cover and send all three of them to their executions.
Marcello pointed to the grapevines a few rows over and crept around to approach from the right. Bastien moved to advance from the left. As he squeezed past a grapevine, something dropped in front of his feet: a German potato-masher grenade. He kicked it away as hard as he could. When the explosion came, it knocked him to the ground, and he felt a wall of heat surge past him, stinging his eyes and stealing his breath. Flat on his back, he looked under a row of grapevines and saw their spy’s feet, feminine and running toward him.
He had lost his grip on his weapon when the grenade exploded, but he found it in the grass, gripped it, and aimed. When the woman burst through to his row, her pistol was pointed at him. His finger on the trigger, he hesitated, not sure he wanted to shoot a girl. She was an adult but only barely.
A shot sounded, and the woman collapsed. Roberto, it seemed, had no scruples when it came to shooting women, and Bastien probably owed his life to that fact. He pulled himself to his feet, sore but uninjured, and gazed at the woman’s lifeless body lying crumpled between the grapevines.
“I know her,” Roberto said. “She lives near my parents’ home. Isabella. Her father is the most enthusiastic Fascist in the entire village, but I never figured her for an assassin.”
Marcello frowned. “So she followed you.”
“I checked, and no one was following me.”
“Maybe you need to check harder next time.” Marcello turned to Bastien. “There’s no way of knowing if this is the first time she’s followed us. She might have accomplices. Perhaps we should meet somewhere else next week?”
“Wednesday still?”
Marcello ran his fingers along his mustache as he considered it. “Yes. Somewhere in Rome. That bar near Castel Sant’Angelo.”
“We’ve already met there.”
“Not since November. I’ll think of somewhere new by next week.”
Bastien left Marcello and Roberto to handle the corpse and started his trek back to Rome. He kept his eyes moving, watching for Gappisti ambushes, but the countryside was quiet. He thought of the two dead women he’d seen the past week. It seemed wrong for women to die like that.
As he walked, he wondered how he could possibly survive the war with both sides trying to kill him. Is my life worth so much? He’d give it up if he needed to, especially if his death could somehow save Lukas or Stefanie or Hannah. If it were possible, he’d go back in time and make a deal with God to take him instead of his brother Hans. But Bastien’s survival instinct was still strong. He tried to tell himself he wasn’t afraid to die, but the truth was, he wanted to live.
On the edge of the city, he caught a ride with a Wehrmacht officer returning to Rome in a staff car. “What happened to your head?” the man asked as the driver navigated the streets.
Bastien maneuvered himself so he could see into the rearview mirror. He had a cut along his left temple. “It’s probably from when an American fighter chased me off my motorcycle.”
“Should we take you to a hospital?”
“No. My hotel.”
When they arrived, Bastien checked his watch. It was a few minutes past curfew, and he was two hours late for his meeting with Gracie. He wondered if she’d gone home or if she’d waited for him. Would she be as worried about him as he’d been about her when she’d missed an appointment a week and a half ago?
When he turned the corner to his hallway, he saw her sitting on the floor with her back against the wall and her arms wrapped around her knees. She stared up at him as he approached, and her eyes seemed deeper than he’d ever seen them before. He didn’t care that he was dirty from lying in the ditch and dusty from the long walk back to Rome. He didn’t care that blood was smeared across the side of his face. He took her hand, helped her to her feet, and pulled her to his chest. He kissed her for a long time, longer than normal. He wasn’t quite sure why but thought part of it was his need to know that after everything that had happened that day, he was still alive. And maybe it was just part of the act, but she was kissing him back, almost as if she’d needed to see him as much as he’d needed to see her.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sunlight streamed through Gracie’s window early Saturday morning. She heard someone on the stairs and sat up in bed, hoping the footsteps would continue past the fifth floor. Instead, they came down the hall and stopped in front of her doorway. The knock that followed was gentle, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t the Gestapo.
“Just a minute.” Gracie scrambled out of bed and reached for her clothes. After slipping into her dress, she grabbed a pistol and hid it behind her back.
She opened the door and found Ley standing in the hallway, dressed in civilian clothing. “Good morning,” he said.
Relief that it was Ley and not someone else quickly turned to worry about what she looked like. She hadn’t even glanced in the mirror before opening the door.
“Sorry, did I wake you?” he asked.
Her hair probably looked awful. “Um, I was awake. I just wasn’t out of bed yet.” She heard noise across the hall. “You better come in.” He slipped inside before any of her neighbors peered into the hallway. “Is anything wrong?”
“No, I just had an idea. I’m not even sure it’s a good one.” He looked at the floor almost bashfully, which wasn’t like him at all.
“Well, what’s your idea?”
“I was wondering if you wanted to take a day off. Get out of Rome and not worry about anything for a few hours.”
Gracie didn’t even try to hide her surprise. “You’d do that for me?”
“You’ve had a hard week. I guess we both have. We’ll be more effective if we have a chance to relax for a day, and the German Army isn’t expecting me to do anything for them till tomorrow.”
Rome was beautiful, but this past week, it had felt like a nightmare. The constant danger was wearing enough by itself, but the recent brushes with death haunted Gracie’s memory and made everything worse. A day away sounded perfect. “I’d like that. Thank you.”
“We can leave as soon as you’re ready. I’ve got breakfast.”
Gracie smiled and grabbed a hairbrush. Ley watched as she worked out the tangles. She normally adored men in uniform, but since Ley usually wore a Nazi uniform, Gracie liked his change into civilian clothing. Simple trousers, a blue button-up shirt with the cuffs rolled to the elbows, and suspenders. It felt almost normal for him to be there while she brushed her hair, but she wasn’t sure she should feel so comfortable having him in her room while she got ready.
Ley seemed to notice her sudden discomfort. “I’ll wait outside. I borrowed an Opel Blitz. It’s parked near the front entrance. You can’t miss it.”
Gracie nodded as Ley let himself out. When she finished her hair, she wondered why he’d borrowed a troop transport. It sounded like a magnet for Allied fighters, but then again, most German vehicles were a target. She poured water into the small basin and washed, then tried on three different shirts and two different skirts. Ley’s the only one who will see you today, she reminded herself. Yet it was his opinion she found herself caring about. Did he really mean it, all the times he said I was pretty? She searched her image in the mirror he’d given her. He often withheld information from her, but she didn’t think he’d ever lied. She put the mirror away, eager to join him.
As she walked down the stairs, anticipation made her breathing more shallow than usual. It’s just because I need a break, she told herself. But the nervous excitement in her stomach reminded her of how she’d felt when she went on her first date with Michael.
When she left the building, she scanned the street and saw Ley leaning against the passenger side of a truck. He opened the door for her when she arrived, then helped her up onto the seat.
He climbed in behind the wheel, and Gracie pointed to the machine pistol and box of ammunition piled on the floor. “Target practice again?”
“No. I just don’t want to take any chances. If the Gappisti want to shoot my head off, that’s one thing, but I’m not going to take you out to the country without the means to protect you.” Ley started the engine. “There’s a Walther P 38 under the seat in case you need it.”
Gracie had thought the trip felt like a date, but the weapons quickly changed that.
Ley drove north. They passed through several checkpoints, but once the guards saw his papers and realized Ley was a captain, they asked few questions.
They drove perhaps an hour before Ley turned off the road and parked next to a large tree. He grabbed a pair of binoculars and opened his door. “Wait here,” he said as he hopped out. He scaled the truck’s hood and scanned the area. After a thorough visual search, he climbed down and walked out of her view. She heard him open the back of the truck, then saw him spread a blanket out under a trio of stone pines.
He’d told her to wait, but Gracie opened the door anyway, wondering what he had planned.
“Hungry?” he asked.
Gracie nodded.
“Good. The lady at the hotel put together a picnic.” He went back to the rear of the truck and returned with a small basket. There were pastries inside and a container of whipped cream.
“How did she get cream?” Gracie asked.
Ley shrugged as they sat on the blanket. “Doesn’t seem fair, does it? German officers can eat whatever they want, and the average person in Rome is slowly starving to death. I figure the more we eat, the less the real German officers can have.”
She laughed, then ate three of the pastries. “I think this is the best breakfast I’ve had since the war started.”
Ley offered her another, but she was full.
“Have you ever ridden a motorcycle?” he asked.
“No.” Nor had she ever wanted to. Her clumsy bike riding as a twelve-year-old, combined with several very public falls, had earned her the nickname “ungraceful Gracie.” Bicycles made her nervous. Motorcycles were even worse. When she was fourteen, she’d seen one of her neighbors break his arm when he’d crashed his Harley-Davidson.
“Come here.” Ley led her to the back of the truck, where two motorcycles hid underneath the canvas cover. “They’re DKW NZ 350s. Not too big, not too little.”
Gracie thought they looked enormous, but at least they didn’t have side cars.
Ley climbed inside and picked up a wooden board, then made a ramp out of it and brought the motorcycles down. “I’ll be honest—I prefer British motorcycles. But getting two of these was tricky enough.”
That meant he’d put considerable effort into their daytrip. Gracie wavered between pretending to be excited and telling him she’d rather sit under the tree all day than climb onto one of those motorized death traps. He was smiling as he brought the second one down, and she didn’t want to ruin his mood after he’d tried so hard, so she kept silent. But it must have been written on her face.
Ley’s smile disappeared. “I’m an idiot. I should have asked if you liked motorcycles. You don’t, do you?”
“I’ve never ridden one. But didn’t you almost get killed by an American fighter when you were out riding a few days ago?”
“It’s overcast today. I think the Air Corp will take the day off.” Ley looked up at the clouds as he spoke, then back at her. “I’m sorry. I wanted it to be a surprise, but maybe that wasn’t the best idea. We can do something else.”
“No, I’m willing to try it,” she blurted out, not wanting to snub his efforts. Gracie glanced at the motorcycles. They had two seats. “Maybe you could take me for a ride to start with.” That didn’t seem quite so scary.
Ley hesitated.
“I should at least try, shouldn’t I?” Gracie asked.
A hint of a smile appeared on his face. He reached into the truck and pulled out something made of fabric. “Here, put these on. They’ll be too big for you, but they’re the smallest size I could get without more notice.” He handed her a rope too. “You can use that as a belt.”
Gracie let the material fall open to reveal a pair of pants. Her face pulled into a grin as she thought of how horrified her mother would be. She preferred her daughters in dresses or skirts. But pants made more sense for riding a motorcycle.
“Let me help you up.” Ley climbed into the covered truck bed and offered her a hand. After he’d pulled her up, he hopped down. “I’ll wait by the cab. Call me when you’re finished.”
The pants were the right length, but the waist was too wide and the hips a little snug. She threaded the rope through the belt loops and thought it just as well that she couldn’t see herself in a full-length mirror. “I’m finished.”
