Lorenzo drove the young couple away from Quirinal Palace, back to the humble home of Carla DeFelice. It was approaching midnight, as the car pulled up to her front door. Mac got out to hold the car door for his lovely young lady. They stood at the front door of her home, in each other's arms. Mac leaned in to kiss the beautiful Italian girl on her lips. She kissed him back; her eyes closed, with passion, neither apparently wanting to allow the other to go.
“Thank you, Mac! It has been a night I will never forget. You showed this young peasant girl a world she had never even dreamed of. I am forever grateful. But, more importantly, you have touched my heart with a love I had never even dreamed of. For this, I am eternally yours. Voglio passare il resto della mia vita conte.”
“Oh, Carla! I want to spend the rest of my life with you as well. Sei il sol della mia vita! You are the sun in my life. Cuore mio! You are my heart! You fill me with an overwhelming desire to be your love, and to be your protector. Ti amo! I am yours!”
Mac leaned in to kiss Carla again, their lips melding from the heat between them; she was limp in his arms. He was holding her tightly, looking deeply into her eyes, as the light came on over the DeFelice front door, with Alberto standing there in the doorway, smiling at the sweet moment between his sister and her suitor.
“Enough for tonight, children,” said Alberto softly. “Tomorrow is another day. I hope you had a good time.”
“Wonderful,” said Carla, dreamily. “Church tomorrow, Mac?”
“Ten o’clock, I will be there,” he replied, with a reluctant wave goodbye. “Goodnight Alberto. Thank you! Your sister was the belle of the ball!”
Mac rode back to the Inn as if he was floating on a sea of clouds. He thanked Lorenzo for being so gallant, and he tipped him handsomely. He entered the quiet lobby of the Inn. He rode the old elevator up his apartment, and he got himself undressed, putting on his warm flannel robe over his boxer shorts. He fixed himself a neat single malt to wind down from the excitement of the evening.
Mac grabbed his Lucky Strikes from his coat pocket, opened the shutters to the terrace, and then closed them behind him, so he could sit quietly in the moonlight with his cocktail. He lit a cigarette, sitting on a cushion-covered cane chair, blowing the smoke toward the cloudless sky. There was now a chill in the air, but the spirits had a warming effect. As Mac considered the Trinita dei Monti in the moonlight, he thought about the evening, about Carla, about Sara, about being a guest in Quirinal Palace. His life had changed so much in the past two months; he could hardly believe it. He was a young naïve lawyer toiling away to be successful, and now he was rubbing elbows with kings, queens, dictators, and ambassadors.
He put out the first Lucky Strike, and he lit another, while swirling the amber colored liquid in his crystal glass. His thoughts went solely to Carla, and how beautiful she looked that night. Not only was her classic elegance intoxicating, but her poise and dignity transcended her beauty. He saw Carla as the person that he would want to be standing beside him no matter where life would take them. She was smart, yet innocent. She was engaging, yet demure. She was polite, yet inquisitive. Men fall all over themselves in her presence, yet women are impressed as well. Even seeing Sara again did not dissuade him that Carla was the girl he wanted to spend his life with. Perhaps it was the certainty of Carla over the uncertainty of Sara, the safeness over the danger, the simplicity over the complex. Perhaps it was a part of his maturation, to want the young, devoted Italian girl over the worldly, mysterious Russian spy. Both were beautiful, and both were alluring, but Carla tugged at his heart like no one before. He wanted to be hers, and hers alone. Of this, he was sure.
As he went back inside to pour himself another single malt, Mac thought he heard a light tapping. He looked around, listening, but heard nothing. He started to walk back out to the terrace, when he heard it again, a light tapping seemingly coming from the door to his apartment.
Someone is at the door? At two o’clock in the morning?
Mac opened the door to his apartment slowly, cautiously. He saw her, Sara, standing in the hallway, a worried look on her face. She had a black tam pulled down over her head, her black hair pulled back in a black ribbon. She wore a black sweater, black slacks, and black ballet slippers. Sara stood there in the hallway, begging to be let in with her eyes alone.
“Sara, what are you doing here?” Mac asked, as he opened the door all the way.
Sara rushed into the apartment, checking behind her as she did. She went directly to Mac, hugging him fiercely, like small, scared animal, without answering his question.
“Sara? What is going on?”
“Thomas, I am so frightened!” she whispered, as she reached back to push the door closed herself. “They are following me!”
“Who is following you? Why did you bring them here?”
“Thomas, I had nowhere else to go,” responded Sara, still breathing heavily, looking at him in the eyes, pleadingly.
Her blue eyes were drowning in fear. Yet, Mac was not going to allow himself to get sucked in.
“What do you mean? How did you know where to find me?” Mac asked, gently breaking her embrace.
“It's my job to know these things, Thomas. I have known you were here since you got to Rome.”
“What? And you didn’t tell me you were here as well?”
“I was working on something quietly, Thomas. There was no reason to involve you, until now, that is. I am so sorry. It was killing me not to tell you.”
“What the hell does that mean, Sara? You are working on what?”
“Oh, Mac! I was sent to Duce's offices tonight, while everyone was still at the Ball. I was sent to see what I could find. You know, with what is going on between Germany and my country, no one knows what's next. Everyone is looking for clues.”
“What? That is crazy, Sara!”
“Well, it is what I do, darling,” Sara said, now impatiently, with a toughness Mac had never heard in her before. “Now, listen to me, will you?”
“What?”
“I found documents crucial to both of our countries, things they need to know about. I heard noises while I was in the office. I grabbed them, and I ran. They seemed too important to just leave without them. I was able to get out of the offices, but they were on my heels. They are chasing me, Mac! I had nowhere to go! I thought to come here, because it was close, and because maybe you would possibly let me hide here.”
“Sara, I cannot have you stay here.”
“Why? Oh, I know. I know. Carla? She is lovely, Thomas, but she will never have to know. I swear!”
“Sara, you cannot stay here!” yelled Mac.
“Oh Mac, this is too important to worry about your propriety. Your country comes first, Mac. Wake up! Do the right thing for your country, if not for me!”
“You are not staying here, Sara. Not only is my propriety at stake, but also it is too dangerous for both of us to be here together. If they were following you, they will be looking for you here. You are risking both of our lives. You will not only get us both locked up, or worse, you will lose the documents you just risked your life for. That makes no sense!”
“Mac, you at least must take pictures of these documents for me. I know you have a camera here, somewhere, no?”
“Yes, I do, but what are they, Sara, these documents? What's so important?”
Sara pulled up her black cashmere sweater from the back, pulling out the papers she had folded, and hidden in her waistband, while letting Mac see her naked breasts in the process. Mac could not help but notice, but he was not going to let her melt his resolve.
“Here, Thomas, you read German, don’t you? Look at this. I didn’t have the time to study them, but they look incredibly important.”
Mac took a minute to peruse the documents with a shocked look on his face, as Sara paced the room, occasionally coming over to look over Mac's shoulder.
“What is it, Thomas? It's big, isn’t it? I know it is important. I just know it!”
“Oh my God, Sara, this is a directive from Adolph Hitler himself. Are you kidding me? Where did you get this?”
“I told you, Mussolini's office. Oh Mac, what is it?”
“Fuhrer Directive 21, dated December 18, 1940, code-named “Operation Barbarossa,” read Mac aloud, translating to English. “It seems to be the authorization to invade the Soviet Union. Is this real? The accompanying documents seem to lay out the whole battle plan,” continued Mac, as he paged through the Directive and corresponding material. “Oh, my God, Sara! What am I supposed to do with this?”
“I am taking it back to my people in Russia, Thomas. You photograph it and give it to your people. In case something happens to me. They will know what to do with it.”
“Oh, Sara! This is crazy!”
“Thomas, they are looking for me, I know it. Please, hurry! Photograph it; then we will figure out what to do next. Maybe you are right. I should not stay here. We should keep the proof in two places. Quick, get your camera. Photograph it!”
Mac went to his bedroom to grab his camera, leaving Sara in the living room to wait impatiently. He heard a commotion coming from out in the hall, as the apartment down the hall was being rousted.
“What is that, Sara?” he asked, coming back into the room.
“I don’t know. Hurry! They are searching for me!”
“For God's sake, Sara!”
Mac hurried to set out the documents on the wooden dining table for contrast, and he quickly took two photographs of each page. When he was done, Sara grabbed the documents, and she shoved them back in her waistband.
“Thomas, it sounds like they are going door to door looking for me.”
“Here, get out on the balcony. Quickly! I will distract them.”
Mac opened the shutters leading to the terrace. Just then, there was a loud knock on the door to the apartment.
“Quick, get out here, and be quiet!”
Sara leaned in to kiss Mac on the cheek, tears in her eyes.
“Thomas, I have something I have to tell you.”
“What?” he asked, as he was pulling the shutters closed behind him.
“Later, Thomas. Later.”
Mac quickly removed the film from the camera, putting it in his robe pocket, as the knock on the door to the apartment got louder. He put the camera down on the dresser just inside his bedroom door, he straightened himself out, and he ran to the apartment door.
“Yes, yes!” yelled Mac, as he went to open the door, while checking to make sure the shutters to the terrace were closed. “What is the meaning of this? Do you know what time it is?” asked Mac, as a Squadrista, in his unique black uniform shirt, black tie, and black fez was pushing in through the partially opened door, with Signore Beaumonti, he too in his bathrobe, and other Squadristi in tow.
The Squadristi, or more commonly called the Blackshirts, was a paramilitary wing of the National Fascist Party, the members of whom were fiercely loyal to Benito Mussolini, to whom they swore an oath. They used violence and intimidation against Mussolini's opponents, and opponents of fascism. The Blackshirts wore the same uniform as the Italian Army, with the addition of a black shirt, and tie and a black fez. The uniform jacket had black flames with two ends on the collar in place of the army insignia, and the lictor bundles, bundles of wooden sticks with an ax signifying the power and authority of ancient Rome, instead of the army stars. The Blackshirts spread fear and fostered compliance wherever they went.
“Where is she?” demanded the Blackshirt who was clearly in charge.
“Where is who?” asked Mac, smartly, with no sign of being intimidated by the gruff officer.
“You know who! She came into this building, and we have checked every other apartment. She must be here!”
“I do not know what you are talking about, signore,” Mac said indignantly. “I have just gotten back from the Christmas Ball at Quirinal Palace with Il Duce and the King, no less. I was getting ready for bed when you came pounding on my door. And now you come into my home and accuse me? What is your name, signore?”
“And what is this, sir?” asked one of the other Squadristi, coming out of the bedroom, holding Mac's Leica.
“It is a camera?” asked Mac, sarcastically.
“The camera is empty,” the Blackshirt replied, opening the back. “Where is the film?”
“It is right there in the dresser drawer, is it not? Signore Beaumonti's boys were diligent in unpacking for me, isn’t that right, Signore Beaumonti?”
“Yes, that is what they do, sir,” said Beaumonti, clearly scared to death that he was involved.
“Now, as you can see, there is no one here, so get out of my rooms. I want to go to bed. Tomorrow, I will send a note to Duce, and we will see what he thinks about this outrage. What is your name?”
“That is not necessary, Signore. We will be leaving now,” said the Blackshirt leader, as he went to the shuttered terrace, without giving Mac his name.
The Squadrista pushed open the terrace door dramatically, and he walked out on the terrace, lingering for a moment, while Mac's heart was in his throat.
“Nice view from here,” said the Blackshirt, looking at the Trinita dei Monti in the moonlight. “Too bad we cannot have the lights on anymore. Bastards!”
The Blackshirt sauntered back into the apartment, walking toward the front door, motioning for his men to follow him. He turned to Mac, looking at him harshly for a silent moment.
“Scusi, Signore. We are sorry to have disturbed you. If you should see a dark-haired woman, dressed in black, please call us,” the Blackshirt said, turning to walk out the door.
“I will do just that,” chided Mac, without asking for the telephone number.
After locking the front door, Mac ran out to the terrace, the shutters still open. There was no sign of Sara anywhere.
Where did she go?
He looked down over the stone railing to the street six floors below. Sara was standing there in the street. With a slight wave, and a smile, she took off, running down the Piazza di Spagna.
He looked around at the terrace quizzically, trying to figure out how she was able to get away, how she got down to the street six floors below.
No! Could she have done it? How else?
Mac looked at the copper drainpipe running down the side of the travertine building, past the terrace railing.
Amazing woman!”