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on. “They’re making straight for the interior.”
    “Call Soratte at once.” Even as he left the threshold, Westphal’s voice summoned him back. “Stand ready to evacuate the building and the city.”
    In the early hours of the morning, the magnitude of the disaster was first assessed. By this time emergency troops had been dispatched to cordon off the landing area, and the void behind them was likely to be overwhelmed any time. But at noon, the line still visibly held.
    “If they only hesitate today and tomorrow,” Westphal wished out loud, bright-eyed with anguish and hope, “you may yet unpack your trunk.”
    Bora found it easy not to smile. “It’s less than sixty-five miles away. In Russia we traveled them in one hour.”
    “You were not facing German soldiers. No, no. Schlemm and Herr are doing everything right. The 65th Division is a resurrected ghost, but we’ll have the 362nd and the rest soon enough, if only we hold until then. The Panzer troops will.” Carelessly Westphal threw his greatcoat on. “I’m off to Soratte, and won’t be back until von Mackensen shows up. If Kappler calls for men, give him what he asks.”
    Bora followed him out of the office. “The power of news being what it is, by your leave I suggest that in the next few days we’ll see renewal of partisan aggression in Rome.”
    “All right, I’ll make sure the field marshal hears the voice of experience – and I promise I’ll sandbag my car. Speaking of experience, have we heard from Holz?”
    “We heard from his staff. He was killed earlier today.”
    “For shame. Well, get some sleep when you can. Any calls from the Vatican, don’t let through unless it’s the Secretary of State and up. You know what to do if the enemy breaks through.” About to leave, Westphal seemed startled, but immediately turned with a grin to Bora’s pale and unmoved countenance. “What do you know? You can hear the cannon from Rome.”

2
    23 JANUARY 1944
    By Sunday, it seemed the Germans had vanished overnight. Their field-gray cars no longer patrolled the streets. Even the fierce mouths of tank guns had retreated from alleys and little tucked-back squares. Wild rumors of liberation were whispered and denied, but the deep roll of artillery to the west did not lie. Guidi was all the more surprised when Bora’s well-bred voice invited him over the telephone to a late lunch.
    “It’s absolutely impossible, Major.” He made up his mind to refuse. “I have work to do.”
    “All right. I’ll come there, then.”
    Guidi had no chance to reply, because the receiver had already been clicked down. He scrambled for the next ten minutes to clear his desk, knowing that Bora did not have a long way to travel from Via Veneto to Via Del Boccaccio. Soon the black Mercedes pulled in by the curb, and there was Bora, overcoat nonchalantly doubled on his left arm, getting out and climbing the steps with his stiff, quick gait. “Leave the door open,” he told Guidi. “I have lunch coming.”
    “Here?”
    “Why not?” Bora didn’t say he had hardly eaten in the last two frantic days. “I’m hungry.”
    The men in the police office made themselves scarce. As for Bora, he took advantage of the fact that no one would ask him about the military situation. So he showed far more leisurethan matters warranted, amicably inquiring about Guidi’s new address, and whether he could be of assistance, “now that it seems we’ll be working together.”
    Guidi watched him stand by the window with his back to it, in apparent disregard of prudence, and suspected Bora may be trying to hide signs of sleeplessness or worry. He joined him to take a better look at his face. “Do you mean you didn’t know as of our first meeting?”
    “Why, no, I only found out a week ago. I’m glad, though.” In order to face Guidi, Bora turned toward the overcast light of day. On his fine-grained skin, character lines still disappeared after a change of expression. “Why are