The Rules in Rome (19 page)

It took Bastien a few
hours to fix the motorcycle Gracie had crashed. When he finished repairing it in the hotel parking lot, his hands were filthy, but he couldn’t find his handkerchief to wipe them off. He finally remembered he’d given it to Gracie to use as a bandage.
Maybe I should carry more than one.
He needed to return the picnic baskets to the kitchen but decided to wash up in his room first. When he heard someone whistling “Lili Marlene,” Bastien knew Heinie was just around the corner. He waited, his key in the lock.

“Adalard, hello.” Heinie looked over Bastien’s civilian clothes. “I’m surprised you got leave today. There was a big meeting they wanted everyone to attend about anti-partisan warfare. As if engineers need to worry about that. Wasted day.”

Had Bastien known a meeting was scheduled on that subject, he wouldn’t have taken leave. “No one told me.”

“You’re lucky. Most of it was listening to a long-winded Italian talk about coordinating our efforts. His German was horrible, but he wouldn’t use a translator. Then he had us all examine those four-pointed nails—as if anyone with half a brain can’t tell their primary use is sabotage—and had us look at all the parts of a captured radio set—as if we’ll run into those on the street.” Heinie rolled his eyes. “If you ask me, the main problem is the Italians. They won’t admit it, but their security is practically nonexistent. I guess they’re overreacting about a shootout a few days ago. They lost one man, and a second was injured.”

“I didn’t hear about a shootout.”

“Not much to hear,” Heinie said. “A pair of agents followed someone they suspected to a meeting with another Gappisti. One of them must have noticed they were being tailed. They led the agents into a building and ambushed them.”

“Do they have any leads?”

“Not unless the injured agent recognizes them. He’s in the hospital, so he’s unlikely to find them anytime soon.”

“Did they decide anything about how we’re to work with the Italians in the future?” Bastien tried to appear uninterested, but he was cursing himself for missing such a huge intelligence opportunity.

Heinie shrugged. “I almost fell asleep, so I pretended to take notes and wrote a letter to Maurleen.”

Bastien laughed, even though he wished Heinie had taken real notes so he could borrow them.

“What did you do instead?” Heinie asked.

“I tried to teach Concetta how to ride a motorcycle.”

“How did it go?”

Bastien frowned. “I don’t think she likes motorcycles.”

Heinie grinned. “Well, nobody’s perfect.”

“I know, but I was hoping it would go a little better than it did. She crashed hard enough that she’ll be feeling it for a few days. I wanted it to be fun for her, but I think I blew it.”

“I did that once with Maurleen. We used to go hiking together all the time. Once, I packed egg-salad sandwiches for lunch, and it turns out she hates hard-boiled eggs. But she still let me kiss her good-bye that night.”

Bastien nodded. He wasn’t sure how Gracie felt about their day off. She’d fallen asleep on the way home and had still been a little groggy when he’d
helped her to her apartment. He’d kissed her on the cheek for the benefit of her neighbors, but it had left him wanting more.

Heinie fished in his pocket for his keys. “I doubt she’ll hold it against you for long.”

Bastien doubted she’d hold it against him at all but still wished things had gone differently.

After washing up, he found the cook, Enrichetta, in the kitchen and returned the baskets. “Thank you.”

“How did it go?” she asked. Enrichetta was a short, stout woman with graying hair.

“The food was delicious, especially the pastries.”

“And the rest of the day?”

Bastien smiled and changed the subject. “Actually, I wanted to ask a
favor. There are certain Italians who don’t approve of the alliance with Germany. I don’t want anyone to hurt my friend because she chooses to spend time with me.”

“You don’t want the Gappisti attacking your girlfriend just because she’s
your girlfriend?” Enrichetta put the baskets away and walked over to a pile of dirty dishes.

“Exactly. I don’t think her current apartment is safe. I’m trying to find another one for her.”

Enrichetta frowned as she filled the sink with water. “I heard rumors she was in your room most nights.”

“I work strange hours. Sometimes I’m up in the middle of the night.”

“And she can’t go back to sleep?”

“She’s a student. She needs a good night’s rest, not one interrupted by me.”

“Hmm.” Enrichetta started scrubbing out a pot with remnants of mashed potatoes in it. “I’ll see what I can find.”

“If you find something, I’ll be sure to show my appreciation.” Bastien patted the pocket where he kept his billfold.

The cook smiled and continued with her dishes.

* * *

Gracie met Angelo as planned at the Via Quattro Fontane the Monday after
her motorcycle lesson. It still hurt to walk, but she took the long way, doubling back multiple times to be sure no one followed her.

Angelo was waiting. He took her arm, and she felt him slip something into her pocket. “I’m clean today. No one’s following me.”

“Good. I’m all right too.”

“What did you do to your forehead?”

Gracie felt the scab, trying to think what she could tell Angelo without giving too much away. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him—she did—but it would be silly to hint that she’d been spending time with a German officer, and who else would have access to a pair of motorcycles? “I fell—it’s
nothing serious and nothing to worry about. I didn’t get it running from the Gestapo or anything like that.”

Angelo nodded, then waited, his back slumped against a nearby shop. At their last meeting, he’d said he wanted to show her something, but now there were few people on the streets and it was unnaturally quiet. Then she heard something.

It took Gracie a while to figure out what the sound was once she picked it out. Boots marching and men singing, only the singing didn’t sound like a men’s choir. There was too much anger in the voices; it was more of a martial chant than a song. A column of soldiers came into view, and Gracie tried to count them as they marched past in their steel helmets. She couldn’t get an exact number, but she guessed there were around one hundred fifty of them. Between the strike of their boots against the cobblestones and the song bellowing from their lungs, Gracie felt as though the sound was
swallowing her whole. It wasn’t until the last of them had marched past that she found her voice again. “Who are they?”

“Eleventh company, third Bozen SS battalion,” Angelo whispered. “They’re a police unit made of ethnic German recruits from South Tyrol. Still in training.”

“What are they singing?”

“It’s called ‘Hupf, Mein Mädel.’ Just a silly song . . .”

“But it sounds terrifying,” Gracie finished.

“Yes. For now.”

Gracie studied Angelo, wondering what he meant. He’d hinted that the marching would end soon, but it didn’t sound like he planned on waiting around for the British or American armies to arrive in Rome and put a stop to it.

He followed the last line of troops with his eyes. “Every day, they go to the firing range. Then they march along the Via Rasella, pass through here, and head to their barracks by the interior ministry. Same time every day.
Same song too. Bold but stupid. They’ve given us the perfect opportunity.”

“But there are so many of them—how could you attack them? They’d slaughter you.”

Angelo shrugged. “We’ll see.”

Gracie shivered at the memory of the eleventh company marching past and at the hatred she detected in Angelo. His eyes burned, his jaw was set, and his lips were pulled into a hard, thin line.

Zimmerman balled up the paper
he’d just read and threw it across the room. Ever since the disaster at the San Lorenzo church, he’d worried he would be demoted. He was still an obersturmführer, but his assignments had changed. He’d thought being tasked with finding Jews was bad enough. Now he’d been shifted to rounding up black marketeers. He wanted to
arrest saboteurs and spies and assassins—real threats. His new assignment wasn’t a demotion, but the loss of prestige still made it a punishment.

Ostheim bent to retrieve the wadded report from the floor in front of Zimmerman’s desk. “Rough day?”

Zimmerman grunted. “I’ve been assigned to round up black marketeers.
It seems I am no longer trusted to round up hidden Jews and partisans.”

Ostheim sat across from Zimmerman and smoothed out the paper. “Sometimes black marketeers know things. Who’s working with the Gappisti, for example. Partisans have to eat too.”

“No one cares about the black market.”

“Obviously someone does, or it wouldn’t be illegal.” Ostheim read through the paper. “This report says a man is dealing in iron pipes.”

“So? Iron’s rationed, but does it really matter if we have a few pounds less of it?”

“It does if the iron pipes are being turned into bombs.
Spezzones
is what they call them. All they need is some TNT, a detonator, and a pipe. I had one of my prisoners telling me all about it a few days ago. His little Gappisti bomb factory.”

Zimmerman looked at the paper again, wondering how he’d overlooked its significance.

“Do well with the black marketeers, and they’ll lead you to the Gappisti,” Ostheim said. “We’ll work together. Catch me one Gappisti, and I’ll make him tell us who all his friends are. Then you’ll be back on anti-partisan duty, and I’ll be one step closer to outranking Dietrich.”

* * *

When Gracie went to Ley’s apartment that afternoon, he took his time closing the door, and while the door slowly inched toward the frame, she found herself torn between wanting it to close instantly and wishing it would stay open forever because as soon as it shut, his kiss would end. What was it about the gentle pressure of his lips on hers, the smell of his freshly washed skin, and the strength of his arms holding her close? It was irresistible and beautiful. Yet it was also painful because it stirred up so many emotions in her heart, and her brain always reminded her it couldn’t be real.

She felt a little dizzy when the door clicked shut and Ley slowly released her. The room seamed stuffy—the weather was getting warmer, so maybe
that was why. Ley’s report was on the table, as well as extra paper so she could encrypt it. “Can I get a little fresh air before I start?”

“Of course.” Ley opened the door to his bedroom for her and let her walk past. His face showed concern, but she didn’t try to explain what was wrong, didn’t even say it in her head because she was afraid she wouldn’t like the answer.

From Ley’s balcony, she could see a few other hotels and multiple churches. Up that high, it was easy to ignore the dirt and grime and, instead, see just the beauty. The breeze helped clear her head, but she waited, not ready to go inside again. After perhaps five minutes, Ley came out to join her. He stood behind her, slipping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder and his cheek against hers. Part of her wanted to sigh with contentment, and part of her wanted to cry because it was all a charade to him but she wanted it to be real.

“Are you all right, Concetta?” he whispered.

She wondered if he could hear the sound of her heart breaking. She didn’t trust herself to speak, and she certainly wasn’t going to tell him the real problem now that she’d admitted what it was, so she just nodded.

He held her a while longer, then loosened his arms. She turned to go back inside, and his arms fell away, but his face was only inches from hers, and he tilted his head to kiss her again. All the earlier emotions were back, magnified, and so was her certainty that she was falling for someone who would never return her feelings. She heard footsteps below the balcony, so she knew there was a reason behind the kiss, but this time, she couldn’t hold back a few tears.

Ley stopped kissing her and stared at her instead. After a quick glance below, he pulled her inside and closed the door to the balcony. “What’s wrong?”

Gracie wiped her tears away and tried to control her emotions. Ley waited patiently, giving her the time she needed. “I’m not sure how much longer I can do this.”

“Otavia’s death was tragic. It will take time to get over it, and that’s normal. Add the shootout with your other contact last week and the spill from the motorcycle a few days ago—you’ve had a rough few weeks.”

“No, it’s not just that.” Gracie met Ley’s blue eyes and was sure he knew exactly what she meant, sure his eyes could see directly into her soul and know how much she was drawn to him. She couldn’t go on kissing him when each kiss was a game to him and a bit of torture for her. She shook her head and looked away, almost hearing what he was going to say. He’d call her a silly spy for falling in love with her partner, and he’d be right. She met his eyes again, expecting to see a look of triumph on his face or at least a teasing smile, but instead, she saw compassion. “I should have listened to you in Switzerland. You told me I didn’t know what I was getting into, and you were right.”

“But you’re doing a good job.”

“No, I’m not. I almost blew things at the train station and when I met Ostheim and then again when we found Otavia. And I probably would have starved to death by now if you weren’t giving me food. And pretending to be in love with you is getting a little complicated—” Gracie took a deep
breath, then stopped when Ley stepped toward her and gently grasped her wrists. “What are you doing?”

“I just wanted to see if you could talk without your hands.”

Gracie’s roommates in college had occasionally made fun of her for talking with her hands, but it had always been in good fun. Ley’s joke was completely out of place, a distraction from a serious conversation. She studied his face, but though he was smiling, it was without the levity she would have expected. He let go of her wrists, leaving her to wonder why he’d taken them in the first place. Was it a deliberate attempt to sidetrack her? Anger her?

Whatever his motivation for holding her wrists, she needed to encode his report so she could send it in along with Angelo’s. She was tempted to take it to her apartment for coding, but if a Gestapo agent stopped her on the way home, having the message in code instead of plain text could buy them a little extra time. Gracie sat at the dining table and worked on the report.

Ley stayed in his room until she was almost finished. “Maybe you just need a break,” he said. “One that doesn’t involve motorcycles. You’ve been working hard, and you’ve had a run of bad luck.”

“No, you were right when you told me things would be different in the field. I should have listened.” Gracie finished her transposition and set the pencil down. “I just . . . I don’t know . . . I thought it would be different.”

“You’ve adapted well.”

Gracie shook her head. “No, I’m barely surviving.”

Ley sat across from her, quiet for a long time as his leg made the table vibrate. “If you want out of Rome, I know some Italian partisans. I trust them, and I think they could get you to the American lines.”

“I can’t just quit.”

“You can say you were sick and left because you couldn’t get proper care here. Leave your radio with me. I’ll send a message and explain it before
you arrive so it won’t be a surprise for them.”

“It’s not just my orders. I’ve never given up on something like this before. I couldn’t just leave you.” As painful as being around Ley was, she didn’t want to abandon him in the middle of his mission. What if the Gestapo found him while he was sending in his report—doing the job she was supposed to do?

“You don’t have to worry about me. And you don’t have to decide right now. Just let me know by Wednesday, midday. That’s when I meet my contact again.”

Gracie couldn’t decide which would be worse: staying and enduring the pain in her heart every time she saw him or leaving and not knowing if he was dead or alive.

* * *

When Bastien walked Gracie back to her apartment, he kept his good-bye kiss gentle and brief. He could sense a whirlwind of emotions starting to build up in her again, but he didn’t know what to say to make things better.

She shut her door most of the way, then stopped. “Do you ever work with the SS Bozen battalion?” she whispered.

“No.”

The muscles around her lips relaxed in relief. “Make sure you don’t start.”

“Why?”

She hesitated. “I think the Gappisti are planning something with them, and I don’t want you in the middle of it.”

Bastien wanted to ask how she knew, but he could guess the information had come from her other contact. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She gave him a sad smile and closed the door.

As he walked back to his hotel, he realized she still hadn’t given him a clear answer on whether she wanted to stay in Rome, and he wasn’t sure which option he hoped she’d choose. The truth was, she was a good radio operator. His work was easier when he could hand his reports to her and know they would be competently encoded and sent in. He could do it himself, but then he’d be back to where he was in January and most of February—exhausted, barely getting any sleep, on edge. He’d be just like Gracie was now.

Sending Gracie away with Marcello would make his mission more difficult, but he was willing to accept that if it meant she’d be safe. Yet the thought of saying good-bye was a bitter one. As much as he hadn’t wanted her to come, part of him didn’t want her to leave. He’d miss talking to someone who knew what he was really doing in Rome, and he’d miss her. He thought of her slip, that pretending to be in love with him was getting complicated. He’d tried to stop her before she said something she’d regret, something that would change their relationship and their mission, but if
he was honest with himself, it was complicated for him too.

If she stayed, something had to change. The act that was starting to feel real would have to continue, but maybe he could make it less intense.

But if she left and if he lived to see the Allies free Rome, what would happen then? Would he try to find her again, or would he let her go?