guard.
“Just a moment, Hauptmann.”
Bastien turned to meet the man’s arrogant blue eyes. “Yes, Obersturmführer?”
“Your name, please.”
Bastien unfastened the top buttons of his overcoat, exposing Dietrich’s Iron Cross. “Hauptmann Adalard Dietrich. And your name?”
At the sight of the award hanging from Bastien’s neck, the obersturmführer lost some of his confidence, and his lips trembled slightly as he spoke. “Obersturmführer Fritz Meyer.”
“Carry on, then, Meyer.” Bastien strode from the boxcar, hoping Dietrich’s decoration would deter Meyer from filing a report.
And if it doesn’t? Bastien shivered in the early morning chill. He was supposed to have gone to the Ruhr for an imaginary aunt’s funeral. If questioned, he could perhaps claim he’d acted under the influence of her compassionate nature. Travel through Lombardy was reasonable, especially with the transportation disruptions air raids, sabotage, and winter weather caused, but drawing attention to himself had been a mistake.
“Stop!”
It took Bastien a few moments to recognize the feminine voice.
“Stop! Thief!” At least Gracie had remembered to shout in Italian, but now neither of them was blending in like they should.
Chapter Six
Bastien found Gracie in the crowd, chasing a young man who was running off with her suitcase—the one with the radio. He hesitated. Stepping in would only draw more attention to himself. Bastien still had Smitty’s radio, so Gracie could use that if she lost hers, but if the thief reported the radio to the Gestapo, Gracie would be in trouble. And while Bastien might not be eager to work with her, he didn’t want her to get caught.
Bastien moved to cut the man off at the edge of the platform, but someone else intervened first. A shot sounded, the young man fell, and Obersturmführer Meyer, his pistol still drawn, approached the thief and kicked him in the ribs.
Bastien pushed his way through the crowd forming a circle around Meyer and the thief. The man on the ground wasn’t dead yet, but his wound looked fatal. Bastien considered asking if there were any doctors in the crowd, but although death was a severe punishment for stealing a suitcase, interrogation by the Gestapo, followed by death was even more severe. And there was the radio to worry about.
Bastien reached for the dropped luggage, but Meyer beat him to it. Bastien swallowed. Suitcases packed with radio parts were heavier than they looked.
Meyer hefted it by the handle, scrunching his eyebrows together and staring at the piece in surprise. “Weighs more than I expected.”
Bastien reached for it. Meyer pretended not to notice. “I’ll take that, Meyer.”
Meyer reluctantly handed it over.
“Thank you, Obersturmführer. I assume you can deal with this.” Bastien gestured toward the dying man.
“I think it best that we take every precaution, don’t you? We should question him and search the suitcase, see if the man or the woman has partisan connections.”
“He looks young for a partisan.” That wasn’t true—the wounded thief looked about Roberto’s age, a teenager, and Bastien had seen other partisans far younger than any of Marcello’s men. “He’s probably just a pickpocket trying to move on to larger items.”
Bastien met Gracie’s gaze and walked toward her. She was breathing hard, and despite the chill, a few dark hairs were matted across her forehead with perspiration. Her face was pale, and she looked ill. Bastien wasn’t sure if that was the result of the theft or of what had happened to the thief, but in either case, she didn’t look up to an interrogation by Obersturmführer Meyer. “I’ll investigate the suitcase and its owner,” he told the SS man. Turning back to Gracie, he lifted the suitcase and switched from German to Italian. “Is this yours, Signorina?”
Gracie nodded.
“Do you have any other luggage?”
She looked around as if she’d completely forgotten her other
“Just a moment, Hauptmann.”
Bastien turned to meet the man’s arrogant blue eyes. “Yes, Obersturmführer?”
“Your name, please.”
Bastien unfastened the top buttons of his overcoat, exposing Dietrich’s Iron Cross. “Hauptmann Adalard Dietrich. And your name?”
At the sight of the award hanging from Bastien’s neck, the obersturmführer lost some of his confidence, and his lips trembled slightly as he spoke. “Obersturmführer Fritz Meyer.”
“Carry on, then, Meyer.” Bastien strode from the boxcar, hoping Dietrich’s decoration would deter Meyer from filing a report.
And if it doesn’t? Bastien shivered in the early morning chill. He was supposed to have gone to the Ruhr for an imaginary aunt’s funeral. If questioned, he could perhaps claim he’d acted under the influence of her compassionate nature. Travel through Lombardy was reasonable, especially with the transportation disruptions air raids, sabotage, and winter weather caused, but drawing attention to himself had been a mistake.
“Stop!”
It took Bastien a few moments to recognize the feminine voice.
“Stop! Thief!” At least Gracie had remembered to shout in Italian, but now neither of them was blending in like they should.
Chapter Six
Bastien found Gracie in the crowd, chasing a young man who was running off with her suitcase—the one with the radio. He hesitated. Stepping in would only draw more attention to himself. Bastien still had Smitty’s radio, so Gracie could use that if she lost hers, but if the thief reported the radio to the Gestapo, Gracie would be in trouble. And while Bastien might not be eager to work with her, he didn’t want her to get caught.
Bastien moved to cut the man off at the edge of the platform, but someone else intervened first. A shot sounded, the young man fell, and Obersturmführer Meyer, his pistol still drawn, approached the thief and kicked him in the ribs.
Bastien pushed his way through the crowd forming a circle around Meyer and the thief. The man on the ground wasn’t dead yet, but his wound looked fatal. Bastien considered asking if there were any doctors in the crowd, but although death was a severe punishment for stealing a suitcase, interrogation by the Gestapo, followed by death was even more severe. And there was the radio to worry about.
Bastien reached for the dropped luggage, but Meyer beat him to it. Bastien swallowed. Suitcases packed with radio parts were heavier than they looked.
Meyer hefted it by the handle, scrunching his eyebrows together and staring at the piece in surprise. “Weighs more than I expected.”
Bastien reached for it. Meyer pretended not to notice. “I’ll take that, Meyer.”
Meyer reluctantly handed it over.
“Thank you, Obersturmführer. I assume you can deal with this.” Bastien gestured toward the dying man.
“I think it best that we take every precaution, don’t you? We should question him and search the suitcase, see if the man or the woman has partisan connections.”
“He looks young for a partisan.” That wasn’t true—the wounded thief looked about Roberto’s age, a teenager, and Bastien had seen other partisans far younger than any of Marcello’s men. “He’s probably just a pickpocket trying to move on to larger items.”
Bastien met Gracie’s gaze and walked toward her. She was breathing hard, and despite the chill, a few dark hairs were matted across her forehead with perspiration. Her face was pale, and she looked ill. Bastien wasn’t sure if that was the result of the theft or of what had happened to the thief, but in either case, she didn’t look up to an interrogation by Obersturmführer Meyer. “I’ll investigate the suitcase and its owner,” he told the SS man. Turning back to Gracie, he lifted the suitcase and switched from German to Italian. “Is this yours, Signorina?”
Gracie nodded.
“Do you have any other luggage?”
She looked around as if she’d completely forgotten her other
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