John Birmingham - Stalin's hammer:Rome

Ivanov could hear street noises close overhead, a truck rumbling through, and the crunch of hobnail boots stomping along a street in unison. A patrol of the People’s Polizia, no doubt. The authorities put extra men on the street about an hour before the traditional start of passeggiatto . A public-order measure, according to the mayor’s office, but in reality a bullying tactic. Increasingly the patrols had taken to arresting strollers for minor, summary offenses. Offenses that carried harsh punishments behind the Wall-in addition to the random beatings that often accompanied arrest.

The OSS operative took a moment to call up a mental map of the street above them. Albergo Grimaldi, the hotel where his contact, Anna, was staying, was less than two minutes’ walk from the church where they had just established an observation point. And it wasn’t the best observation point. A difficult angle in the turn of the street gave them only an impeded view of the Albergo’s top two floors, but it was the best they could do. Approaching the hotel from below, unfortunately, entailed a much longer and more arduous journey. one that had just deposited them, reeking of filth, another minute’s walk from their objective.

“Come,” said Franco, taking a knife from his boot. “His woman will be waiting for us in the laundry block at the rear of the building.”

Ivanov followed him, careful not to splash through the sewage. As they moved quietly along the drain toward the grate, he took up his own weapon-a silenced contemporary-era MP5. A bit on the heavy side because of the lack of composites, but the OSS Field Operations shop had produced a credibly effective copy. He was happy to have it.

Franco whistled through the grate. Ivanov heard the rumbling of steel-shod wheels and, a moment later, a fishmonger parked his cart overhead and reached down to lift the grate for them. The smell of brine and fish gone too long without ice drifted down on them. With a quiet word of thanks, Furedi and Ivanov climbed up and squeezed through into the street.

It was deserted, save for their nameless helper, who nodded briefly, holding the bill of an old fisherman’s cap, before taking himself off down the narrow, cobblestoned conduit. Moving swiftly, they reached the rear of the laundry. Franco, with his knife palmed for immediate use, opened the door and led the Russian past a group of women working through steaming piles of white sheets. As they moved, the women grunted and wrinkled their noses in disgust yet said nothing. It was as though the men were not there. An older woman, bent over and swaddled in black rags, hobbled after them with a bucket and mop. She set to cleaning the sewage they tracked behind them.

Franco looked around, concern on his face.

“What is it?” Ivanov asked.

“I’m not sure.”

A woman screamed and the first shots barked out at exactly the same moment. The washerwomen screamed too, all of them scattering for cover and squawking like startled birds. Ivanov snapped out the stock of his weapon and pulled the bolt back.

The doors to the laundry block crashed open to reveal two NKVD operatives in cheap Russian suits. Their eyes scanned the room, quickly falling on the two men, rank with excrement and filth, standing in the middle of a mountain of white linen.

Ivanov snapped his MP5 up to his shoulder and squeezed off a burst that caught the man to the left in the chest, dropping him in a bloody mess onto a basket of pillowcases. The other operative, a taller, shaven-headed man, dived to the floor, protected by a knot of screaming women blocking Ivanov’s line of sight. The laundry workers stampeded for the door as he and Franco knocked them out of the way, searching for a clear shot.

A pistol roared and bullets ricocheted off the tile near Ivanov’s ankles. The security man unloaded his clip from down low, near a table at the back of the room. Franco circled around a mound of linen, now stained with blood spray, and fell upon him as the hammer of the hapless Russian’s weapon fell on an empty chamber. The mafioso stabbed his knife deep into the man’s throat and ripped it out through the trachea.

Taking his cue, Ivanov ran over to the door leading to the hotel and attempted to peer inside-only to have to pull back when the doorframe splintered from a fusillade of incoming rounds. Changing mags, he quickly emptied three thirty-round clips into the hallway, chasing them with a pair of grenades. The entire room shook when they detonated.

Franco ran up to grab him. Ivanov brushed him off.

“GO!”

South Rome (Allied sector)

At first, the owner of Osteria del Gallo insisted on clearing the best table in the house for them, but Harry refused to displace the family already sitting there. Aldo, the owner, then tried to convince the prince and his companion to take his private dining room in the restaurant’s converted cellar, a space more suited to hosting two dozen people. Harry’s security detail thought that a spiffing idea, but he and Julia elected instead to sit at a small table in a secluded corner of the establishment. He also discreetly arranged to cover the bill of the poor locals who’d almost been kicked out onto the street on his behalf, partway through their insalata caprese .

The del Gallo was a new place, a few blocks south of his apartment on Via Giustiniani. It was hugely popular with the Anglophone diplomatic crowd and those locals who could afford the top-tier prices. Harry recognized the MI6 station chief at a nearby table, sharing bruschetta and a bottle of soave with his opposite number from the OSS. Their protection details were even more obvious than his. At least the first layer of protection was apparent: the bodyguards sipping water at the table next to the spy chiefs’ and four more prowling the streets outside. There would be other, unseen lines of defense surrounding them. The great game was played hard and fast here under the shadow of the Roman Wall.

“So, did you just come to Rome to enjoy your new status as an action-movie hero, or are you actually doing any work here?” Julia asked as she tore small pieces from a ciabatta loaf to dip them into the bowl of olive oil and balsamic. “At the trade talks maybe-earning a little ambassadorial scratch on the side?”

“I suppose that depends on whether my girlfriend is asking,” Harry replied. “Or whether Julia Duffy, ace reporter, wants to know.”

She popped a piece of crusty bread into her mouth and sucked the oil from her fingers. “Girlfriend now, is it? Last week the Times referred to me as your ‘longtime on-and-off companion.’ I think that was some subeditor’s idea of drollery.”

“How so?”

She cocked an eyebrow before quoting from the article: “ ‘She offered her honor, he honored her offer, and all night long it was on her and off her.’ ”

“Cheeky fuckers,” he snorted. “New York or London?”

“ New York Times , of course. Your Times can hardly bring itself to admit we’re even dating.” She paused long enough for it to become significant. “We are dating, aren’t we?”

Harry leaned forward. “I thought we were fuck buddies,” he said quietly, with a brief, mock-malicious grin. “That’s how you described us to that Walter Winchell toad.”

Julia shrugged as she tore another small piece of bread from her roll. “He’s a tool. But I knew he couldn’t print it or repeat it on the air. I just wanted to see his piggy little eyes spinning round. And you didn’t answer my question, Your Highness . Business or pleasure? I do have a stake in your answer, so don’t make me put my reporter’s hat on. They still wear them here, you know-real hats with a press ticket in the band, and everything.”