Free The Rules in Rome by A.L. Sowards Page A

Italian civilians, her clothing looked a decade old. She was pretty, to be sure, even with the birthmark on her right cheek, but she seemed less . . . desperate than most of the others.
    “Do you come here often?” Ostheim asked, speaking Italian.
    “No, but I think I should. It’s lovely.” Concetta gestured out the window.
    Zimmerman glanced at the street, but it seemed ordinary to him.
    Ostheim and the woman continued their conversation, but Zimmerman promptly tuned them out to focus on his food when the waiter brought it. Zimmerman’s Italian wasn’t as good as his friend’s, and he had trouble keeping up with the woman’s rapid speech. How does she talk so fast and move her hands at the same time?
    Zimmerman was halfway through his spiced mutton when a Wehrmacht hauptmann entered the café and stopped near their table. Zimmerman had spoken briefly with Dietrich before, long enough to know he was an engineer and, like Zimmerman, preferred to work away from his desk. He only remembered the hauptmann’s name because an SD man had been asking questions about him a few hours ago. “Good evening, Hauptmann Dietrich. Looking for a seat?” Zimmerman pointed to the empty chair beside him.
    “Thank you. I have other arrangements for supper, but when I saw the signorina, I wanted to stop and say hello.” Dietrich turned to Concetta. “I don’t suppose you remember, but we ran into each other at the train station the other day.”
    The Italian woman’s face lit up in a smile. “Yes, of course I remember. Thank you for your help with my luggage.”
    “What were you doing at the train station?” Ostheim asked Dietrich.
    “Returning from a short leave. A bereavement pass, but the journey did have its bright spots.” Dietrich turned his attention from Ostheim to Concetta. “Actually, I seem to remember planning a walk along the Tiber with you.”
    Ostheim cleared his throat. “Fr ä ulein Gallo and I were about to order—”
    “Actually, a walk along the river sounds perfect.” Concetta stood, then turned back to Ostheim and Zimmerman. “It was a pleasure to meet you both. I hope we’ll see each other again soon.”
    Ostheim glared at the couple as they left. He wasn’t used to losing, and Zimmerman could tell Dietrich had just made an enemy.
    * * *
    Captain Ley was silent for several blocks. Gracie was relieved that he’d shown up because drawn-out conversations that revolved around her cover story made her nervous. She was ravenous, though, and disappointed to miss supper. Whatever Ostheim’s friend had been eating looked and smelled heavenly after eating nothing but bread for the last day and a half.
    “Do you have any idea who you were sitting with?” Ley’s face still held a pleasant smile, but his whisper was icy.
    “Otto—I think his last name was Ostheim. And his friend was Lieutenant Zimmerman.”
    “I am fully aware of their names, ranks, and duties. What I’m wondering is if you noticed the silver S ’s on their uniforms, like a pair of lightning bolts.”
    Gracie wondered why Ley seemed so upset. “Yes, but back in Switzerland you told me to be friendly with other army officers so it wouldn’t look strange for me to be friendly with you when you arrived.”
    “ Army officers. Obersturmführer Kornelius Zimmerman and Untersturmführer Otto Ostheim are not members of the German Army . They’re members of the Allgemeine SS, and they specialize in arresting Jews, partisans, and spies and deporting or torturing them. They aren’t the type of men you want to cross, and thanks to you, Ostheim, and probably Zimmerman too, now has a very good reason to hate me.”
    “Well, what was I supposed to do when Ostheim came up to me?”
    Ley didn’t answer, instead taking a pencil and a sheet of paper from his pocket. He wrote something on the paper, folded it, and handed it to her. “My report. And an address. If you’re not under arrest, meet me there tomorrow for my next report. Sixteen