One of the first things Bastien had noticed about Marcello was his ability to always look relaxed. Initially, Bastien had found it disconcerting, making him doubt he could rely on the Italian man, but Marcello had quickly proven his competence.
“Ah, Capitano, how was your week?” Marcello said from the shade of a grapevine. This week, Roberto accompanied him.
Bastien dismounted his motorcycle and joined them in the vineyard. “Mostly the same, except for getting shot at by a pair of Gappisti a few days ago.”
Marcello’s head jerked around. “I take it they missed?”
Bastien nodded. “Shot my radio though. Broke the crystal. It’s useless without a replacement.”
“Has Hauptmann Dietrich been doing anything to merit execution?” Marcello asked. Most of the time, Italian partisans were selective about whom they shot—preferring Gestapo agents or Italian Fascist traitors over normal army men.
“Such as torturing the Gappisti or executing black-market dealers? No. Maybe they wanted my vehicle and my Luger.”
“Do they really execute you for selling things on the black market?” Roberto asked.
“Depends on what you’re selling and who arrests you. I think forced labor is a more common sentence. Not quite the same thing as execution. Usually ends in death, but a slow death by starvation instead of a quick one in front of a firing squad. Why do you ask? Have you been selling things?”
Roberto smiled, which was as good as saying yes.
Bastien grinned back. “Just see that you don’t get caught.”
“Do you have anything for us today?” Marcello asked.
Bastien took a few papers from his pocket. “Just a shipment schedule. No idea what type of escorts they’ll have, except for the one tonight. It might be larger than you want to hit without help.”
Marcello read the list.
“And I heard a rumor at supper the other night. I’m wondering if you’ve seen or heard anything along the same lines,” Bastien said. “A Wehrmacht intelligence officer is convinced the Allies have given up taking Rome from the south. Doesn’t think they’ll ever get past Cassino or the Alban Hills. Expects them to launch another amphibious assault, this time north of Rome, near Civitavecchia.”
Marcello tucked the list away. “I haven’t heard anything. You, Roberto?”
Roberto smiled lazily. “Do I ever hear anything you haven’t already known about for a few days?”
“If they send in patrols for reconnaissance, try not to shoot them, will you?” Bastien said.
“Ask questions first; shoot later. Sure thing, Capitano.” Marcello shifted in the shade. “Have you seen that SD man lately?”
“Not in the last week.” Nor had Bastien seen anyone who looked like he was picking up where the SD officer had left off, but he couldn’t be sure.
* * *
Gracie had seen Captain Ley daily since the Gappisti attack, and the frequency of their meetings worried her. Her trainers at OSS would recommend more separation because if either of them was caught, both their missions would be compromised. Yet Colonel Ambrose himself had ordered them to act this way, and Gracie didn’t think there was a manageable alternative, not with the extent of Ley’s information, so she tried to shrug off her concern.
She also took reports from her other contacts. She supposed she should have made her exchanges with Otavia and Angelo quick, but she enjoyed their company, and she was lonely. She spent hours in lines each day, surrounded by other civilians, but she couldn’t be friends with any of them. Her fellow spies were the only people she could talk to for more than a sentence or two.
On the first day of March, she wasn’t supposed to meet with anyone but Ley, and the lighter schedule gave her time to shop around the black market. She was nervous, but anything she could get legally tasted awful, and there was never enough of it. She bought enough food that even if Ley didn’t give her any when they met that afternoon, she wouldn’t have to go to bed hungry.
As she hurried home with her illegal purchases, she was shocked to recognize Angelo. She’d seen him two days before and didn’t expect to see him again for another week.
“Concetta?” His eyes widened, and his mouth hung open when he saw her. He took her arm and led her off the main road. They’d only gone a few steps when she noticed his limp. “Seeing you is an answer to prayer.”
“It is?” She glanced around to make sure no one was close enough to overhear them.
“Yes. The Germans are having a massive roundup in my neighborhood, taking anyone they think they can get a few days’ worth of work out of. I barely got away.” He smiled, but the expression lacked its usual warmth.
“What happened?”
“I jumped out a second-story window and ran. Did something to my leg.” Angelo stopped to rest as they waited for someone to pass them.
“Do you think they’re looking for you?”
He shook his head. “No, they didn’t have a list of names or anything. But curfew is coming, and I don’t have anywhere to go. Can you hide me until morning? Tomorrow I can find somewhere else, but today I don’t have any way to contact the other Gappisti, and I’m not moving fast enough to outrun patrols when curfew starts. I figure seeing you is a sign.”
Gracie hesitated, but she couldn’t really say no to an injured contact. “I just have one room. It’s not very big.”
“It’s better than being crowded into the back of a truck and shipped off to dig trenches. And better than a jail cell.”
Gracie nodded. At least she’d bought extra food today. She slowed her stride to match Angelo’s limp and tried to support him with her arm. They were only four blocks from her flat, but it took longer than usual to get there. When they reached the stairs in her apartment building, the ascension quickly proved the hardest part of their journey. Angelo winced every time his left foot touched the floor.
“Let me help,” she said.
He moved an arm around her shoulders, but each stair still seemed to cause him pain. “Which floor are you on?”
“The fifth. I’m sorry.”
Angelo laughed softly. “Well, beggars can’t be choosers.”
A middle-aged woman Gracie had seen before passed them in the stairwell, and one of her neighbors left his apartment right when they arrived, but no one said anything. As soon as she unlocked and opened the door, Angelo stumbled over to her bed and collapsed on it.
“I’m glad that’s over,” he said. “Maybe tomorrow my ankle will feel better.”
Gracie didn’t know much beyond basic first aid but thought elevating his leg was wise. Angelo’s head wasn’t on her pillow, so she folded the nearly-flat cushion in half and propped it under his injured ankle, then looked through her drawers and pulled out one of the fabric pieces she normally used for wrapping radio parts. “Can I look at it?”
He nodded.
She undid his old shoe and pulled his sock away from his ankle. The skin was discolored and swollen, but she wasn’t sure what to do about it. “I can wrap it,” she said softly. Anything spoken above a whisper could carry into a neighboring apartment.
“Thank you.” He watched her, and as she finished, he straightened on the bed so he was no longer sprawled across it. “I guess we’ll be cozy tonight, eh?”
Gracie opened her mouth in surprise. Her bed was big enough for two people, but surely he didn’t expect them to share it . . . or did he?
“I don’t suppose you have a chess set or a deck of cards?”
“No. I haven’t been here long.” Gracie glanced around the room. Even for a student’s apartment, it looked sparsely decorated. “I have a few books.” She pulled them from the top drawer in her dresser and held them out to him.
He glanced at the titles and shook his head. “No, thanks.”
What am I going to do with him until tomorrow morning?