The Rules in Rome (2 page)

“We’ll stand guard, make sure the initial act in your play goes according to plan.”

Bastien walked to the trunk, opened it, and searched through the luggage. He retrieved a clean pair of Dietrich’s underwear, because pulling on the dead man’s underclothing was more than he was willing to do, and stared at the framed picture of Dietrich in uniform. It could have been a picture of Bastien. He held back a shiver. He had almost ended up in the German Army. Were it not for his father’s convictions, Bastien would be fighting on the other side of this war.

Giovanni handed him Dietrich’s clothes.

“Did you notice any scars?” Bastien asked.

“No. Maybe he just got sick.”

Bastien looked at Dietrich’s face one final time. Dietrich’s chin wasn’t as pointed, but they both had detached ear lobes, the same cheek structure, and similar eyebrows. The resemblance was uncanny. Bastien removed the cord with Dietrich’s oval ID tags and placed them around his own neck. He hesitated for an instant before handing Giovanni the dog tags that identified Bastien as a member of the United States Army. “Take these. Get rid of them. And I want Smitty’s radio.”

Sergeant Smith had parachuted into Italy with Bastien as the team’s radio operator. They’d worked together almost a month, until a German patrolman riding a motorcycle had killed Smitty. Bastien wasn’t great with the radio, but he’d managed to encode one message and get it to headquarters, and if he discovered anything worthwhile as Adalard Dietrich, he wanted his information to reach the right people.

“You should change,” Marcello said. “Then if traffic picks up, you’ll be ready. Giovanni, get the radio. We’ll deal with the body later.”

Marcello went to check on Roberto as Bastien dressed himself in the dead man’s uniform. The road sustained only light travel most nights, and Bastien hoped the pattern would hold. He needed more time. The rhythm of his heart seemed loud, and although the night was cool, his skin felt slick with sweat. He knew he had to seize this chance while he could, but it was happening too fast.

Marcello returned, and Bastien handed him his Thompson submachine gun and his Colt pistol. “Roberto gets the tommy gun.” The boy had been eying it for weeks. Bastien thought Roberto had probably watched too many Hollywood movies about gangsters, but he knew the weapon would be in good hands. Roberto was young—not yet twenty—but his aim was
impressive. Bastien strapped on Dietrich’s Luger, then took the pistol out to check the clip.

When he was satisfied with his sidearm, Bastien retrieved the personal letters from Dietrich’s bag and skimmed them by flashlight. There were only three, and they were all from his mother. She seemed to write weekly and began each letter with an admonition for her son to write more often.
Perfect, she’s not used to hearing from him regularly.
The letters were short, but he picked out that Dietrich’s father was dead.
Something else we have in common.

“I was thinking, Capitano . . .” Something in Marcello’s voice made Bastien think the Italian man was about to suggest something he wouldn’t like.

“What?”

“You look good for someone who just survived an ambush and a car wreck. There’s blood on the back seat of the car but none on you.”

Bastien snorted. “You want to shoot me in the arm or something? Bad idea. I’m supposed to stay out of hospitals, remember?”

“I was thinking a bump on the head, a little cut, nothing more. Then you could complain of a headache and maybe have a day to rest before you report for duty. A day to prepare.”

Bastien considered it. He didn’t want Marcello to whack him in the head, but if it would help their plot . . . “What are you going to hit me with?”

Marcello held up his Sten gun.

“No.”

“A torch, then?” Marcello pointed to Bastien’s flashlight.

Bastien frowned. “All right.”

It took every bit of Bastien’s self-control not to flinch when Marcello rammed the flashlight into his forehead.

“Ow! Are you trying to knock me out?” Bastien put his hand to his forehead, although that didn’t diminish the sharp ache’s intensity.

Marcello pulled out his knife. “Not finished yet. Sit down.”

Bastien sat inside the personnel vehicle and closed his eyes. He felt a sting as Marcello’s knife bit into his hairline.

“There, just enough to make a mess.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Marcello was right. Bastien didn’t really mean it, but he was itching to bash something into his friend’s head. It wouldn’t contribute to the scheme’s success, but it would make him feel better.

Marcello handed Bastien the flashlight and the leather bag with Dietrich’s papers. “Someday you’ll thank me.”

“Don’t expect that day to come anytime soon.”

Giovanni returned. The radio he carried was in a suitcase, so Bastien pointed to the trunk. “What happened?” Giovanni asked.

“Marcello is getting back at me for all the times I interrupted his drinking. But if you ask him, he’ll tell you he’s giving me an excuse to look groggy.”

Bastien thought he saw smiles on the two Italians’ faces as Marcello and Giovanni stowed the radio and went to watch the road. Bastien spent the next few hours going over the papers in Dietrich’s attaché case. His head pounded, so eventually, he stretched out on the bloodstained seat and fell asleep.

Marcello woke him before dawn. “A car’s coming. We’ll wait in case there’s trouble, but there won’t be. This is going to work. I’ll meet you in two days, the bar north of Castel Sant’Angelo. I’ll be there all evening. Come when you can.” Marcello left, darting across the sunken road and up the bank that bordered it.

As Bastien waited for the German car to reach him, he silently repeated what he’d told himself all night long, at least until he’d dozed off.
My name is Adalard Dietrich. I am a soldier in the Nazi Army, and I am loyal to Adolf Hitler. Bastien Ley no longer exists.

February 18, 1944

Switzerland

Gracie stared into the fireplace
, watching the flames dance along the logs, forcing herself not to fidget.

“He’s probably dead.”

Gracie glanced across the common area of the luxurious cabin in the Swiss mountains to where American Captain Vaughn-Harris stood by the window, gazing into the snow. Gracie didn’t say anything. Vaughn-Harris was talking to Colonel Ambrose, not to her, and he’d already predicted the death of the agent they called Centurion multiple times.

They’d waited all of yesterday and all morning. Ambrose had said they’d wait until nightfall for the agent’s arrival, but Gracie was beginning to agree with Vaughn-Harris’s pessimism, which was a pity. She’d heard so much about Ambrose’s mysterious super-spy that she wanted to meet him. She half expected him to look like Captain America or Superman or one of the other comic book heroes her nephews loved. She tried to picture Clark Kent as a corpse but couldn’t see it, so she went back to watching the fire. Agent Centurion would either come as he’d been ordered, or he wouldn’t, and there wasn’t anything she could do but wait.

She hoped he’d come. If he didn’t, she wasn’t sure when she’d get another chance for real field work. This was her best shot to really make a difference, to show her mother and everyone else that being smart was better than being beautiful and that her college degree hadn’t been a waste.
Not that I’ll be able to tell anyone about my assignment if Centurion shows up and I join him in Italy.

Gracie picked up the Italian-language Swiss paper and skimmed through the articles. The paper was dated February 16, 1944, so it was a few days old, and she’d already heard most of the news on the radio: American Marines fighting in the Marshall Islands, the Red Army capturing large numbers of German soldiers in the Ukraine’s Korsun Pocket, continued Allied failure to move north of Cassino and the Gustav Line, and unending hell on the Anzio beachhead, where the Allies had landed in an attempt to bypass the Gustav Line but had instead gotten stuck.
I can help with the fiasco at Anzio if Centurion shows up.

“Well, I’ll be,” Captain Vaughn-Harris said. “I owe you dinner, Colonel.”

Gracie put her paper down, assuming the agent was in sight if Vaughn-Harris was admitting he’d have to pay up on the bet he’d made with Ambrose over supper the night before. She looked toward the window. Ambrose had joined Vaughn-Harris in front of the glass, so she couldn’t see anything from where she sat, but she stayed where she was, not wanting to
appear overeager. She wanted the men to think she was professional.

It seemed like an eternity before Ambrose returned to his chair and Vaughn-Harris walked to the door. He waited just inside, his hand inches from his holstered pistol. Gracie wondered about his defensive posture. Centurion was late, but there were guards outside to deal with any security problems.

Two firm knocks sounded on the cabin door, and Vaughn-Harris opened it. A tall man stood in the doorframe, skis balanced on his shoulders, ski poles clutched in one hand. Vaughn-Harris stepped back to let the agent come inside.

“Welcome, Captain Ley. We saved a seat for you by the fire.” Ambrose motioned to the empty spot on the sofa next to Gracie.

Ley leaned his ski equipment in the corner behind the door and put the bag strapped to his back and his winter clothing in a wardrobe near the cabin’s entrance. His nose and cheeks were red from exposure, but instead of
taking the seat between Gracie and the fireplace, he perched himself on the edge of the seat farthest from the fire’s warmth, closest to the cabin’s exit.

“You remember Captain Vaughn-Harris?” Ambrose asked.

“Yes.” Ley’s eyes followed Vaughn-Harris as he sat next to Ambrose. Ley was five yards away, but Gracie could pick out the bright blue of his eyes and the dark shadows beneath his lower eyelids.

Ambrose motioned to Gracie. “Agent Graziella Begni, recently arrived in Europe after the usual OSS training. One of the best radio operators I’ve ever seen.”

Ley met her eyes briefly before turning back to Ambrose.
He didn’t stare at my birthmark
, she thought with relief. Most people did—it was on her right check, the size of a dime, brown like her eyes. Her father had called it an angel kiss. Gracie had believed him until she’d turned thirteen and overheard her mother and one of her sisters lamenting her marred complexion.

“Did you have any trouble at the border?” Ambrose asked.

“No. I went across on skis.”

Gracie added
accomplished skier
and
heavy German accent
to the list of things she was learning about Captain Ley. He pronounced his
W’
s like
V
’s. Ambrose had told her agent Centurion had been born in Germany, and she supposed he wouldn’t have survived his current assignment if he didn’t still sound German.

“Any chance you’re being tailed?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?” Captain Vaughn-Harris studied Ley with suspicion.

“Yes. That’s why I’m late. It took some time to lose him.” Ley gave Vaughn-Harris a less-than-friendly glance and ran a hand through his light-brown hair, still matted down from the stocking cap he’d been wearing when he’d arrived. His
TH
sounded like a
Z
.

“So someone did follow you?” Vaughn-Harris asked.

“Not far.”

“Just one tail?”

Ley nodded.

“And what happened to him?”

Ley looked at his hands. They were discolored with patches of what looked like dark-pink scar tissue. “You don’t need to worry about him anymore,” Ley said. Gracie had run into several men who kept a running total of the Nazis they’d killed. To his credit, Ley was calm about the run-in, but he didn’t seem pleased by it.

Vaughn-Harris snorted. “Wonderful. I’m sure disappearing Gestapo agents won’t cause any suspicion.”

“I’m not the one who requested this meeting,” Ley snapped. “He was SD, not Gestapo. I made it look like an accident.”

Gracie shivered, even though her seat near the fire was warm. Being followed by someone in the Gestapo sounded bad, but being pursued by someone from Himmler’s SS Security Service sounded even worse.

“Well, after your putting us off for two and a half weeks, we’re glad you
could finally fit a trip to Switzerland in,” Vaughn-Harris said.

“The German Army has been a little busy lately,” Ley said. “I couldn’t ask for leave when it looked like an Allied invasion of Rome was imminent.”

“What did you tell your unit?” Ambrose asked.

“I’m on leave for an aunt’s funeral. I’m supposed to be somewhere in the Ruhr. I don’t know if Hauptmann Dietrich has any aunts, let alone dead ones in the Ruhr, but I don’t think anyone else in Italy knows that either, so it should be fine.”

Gracie assumed
Hauptmann Dietrich
was the name Ley was going by in Italy. He’d been undercover for months, and Ambrose seemed to think his Centurion could return to Rome and continue the ruse.

“The SD man . . . Do you think you’re being investigated?” Ambrose shifted in his seat.

“Possibly.”

Ambrose frowned. “So is it safe to send you back?”

“Safe?” One corner of Ley’s lips pulled into a smile. “I doubt any of your assignments are
safe
, but I plan to return if you want me to. You certainly need me to. Do you know what the Germans are calling your little beachhead at Anzio? The world’s largest self-supporting POW camp. What type of idiot do you have running the invasion?”

Vaughn-Harris’s eyes narrowed. “
Captain
Ley, I think you forget yourself. Or maybe you’ve been out of touch a little too long. Captains don’t insult generals, not in our army, anyhow. Perhaps the Germans do it differently, but here you will show respect for your superiors.”

“No, the Germans don’t insult their incompetent generals; they relieve them. Which is what you should have done—any green second lieutenant with the right intelligence could have done better at Anzio.”

“General Lucas didn’t have the right intelligence,” Vaughn-Harris hissed through his teeth.

“I told you the Germans weren’t ready to counterattack. But instead of pushing on to better ground while there was time, your commander holed up on the beach, and now he’s stuck there, surrounded by German artillery focused in from the Alban Hills—the high ground your commander had
plenty of time to take
before
the Germans regrouped and counterattacked.”

Vaughn-Harris stood and started pacing. “Your message of January twenty-seventh included an incorrect security check. We couldn’t be sure you hadn’t been turned, so we couldn’t trust it or any subsequent reports. Perhaps you remember. The word was
counterattack
.”

Ley’s eyes followed a few of Vaughn-Harris’s strides. “Last I checked, counterattack ends with a
CK
and has three
T
’s, not two.”

“Oh, you mangled the spelling sufficiently,” Vaughn-Harris said. “But you were instructed to misspell one word in each message and were told to choose the word based on the date your message was sent.
Counterattack
was, in fact, the twenty-sixth word of your message, not the twenty-seventh.”

Ley’s jaw went slack for an instant. “You’ve ignored three weeks’ worth of messages and let our army get trapped on the beach because my misspelling was off by one day?”

“No,
you
let our army get trapped on the beach because
your
misspelling was off by one day.”

Gracie was shocked. Agents made coding errors all the time. A simple error like the one Ley had made should have resulted in a few follow-up questions, not in discarded messages.

Ley frowned, and his eyes narrowed. “When I sent that message, I hadn’t slept since the twenty-fifth.”

“Yes, it’s no doubt a challenge to be a full-time German soldier and a part-time American spy.” Vaugh-Harris slowed his pacing, his words sympathetic but his tone patronizing. “Which is why you will take Agent Begni with you when you return to your post so she can handle your reports and ensure you don’t make the same mistakes again.”

Gracie did her best not to flinch as Ley’s glare shifted from Vaughn-Harris to her. She didn’t think Ley had known why she was in the room until that moment, and he didn’t seem pleased.

Ley turned back to Vaughn-Harris, his voice calm but cold. “I have enough to do without babysitting one of your rookie radio operators.”