Table of Contents
Cover
A Selection of Titles from Sarah R. Shaber
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prolog
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Epilog
Afterword
A Selection of Titles from Sarah R. Shaber
The Professor Simon Shaw series
SIMON SAYS
SNIPE HUNT
THE FUGITIVE KING
THE BUG FUNERAL
SHELL GAME
The Louise Pearlie Series
LOUISE’S WAR *
LOUISE’S GAMBLE *
*available from Severn House
LOUISE’S GAMBLE
Sarah R. Shaber
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First world edition published 2012
in Great Britain and in the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
Copyright © 2012 by Sarah Shaber.
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Shaber, Sarah R.
Louise’s gamble.
1. United States. Office of Strategic Services–
Employees–Fiction. 2. Suspense fiction.
I. Title
813.6-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-229-0 (ePub)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8133-5 (cased)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
For my writing buddies: Margaret Maron, Brenda Witchger,
Katy Munger, Diane Chamberlain, Alexandra Sokoloff and
Kathy Trocheck (Mary Kay Andrews).
I can’t imagine my life without you!
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
First I must thank my family for their continued support and encouragement. My husband, Steve, son Sam, and daughter Katie have endured the trials of my writing career right along with me. Katie is my official first reader. She always knows what I need to do to improve my books, and even better she’s mastered how to tell me!
My writing buddies, Margaret Maron, Kathy Trochek, Brenda Witchger, Alex Sokoloff, Katy Munger, and Diane Chamberlain, to whom this book is dedicated, are irreplaceable colleagues and friends.
Many thanks to my agent, Vicky Bijur, for her professionalism, patience and friendship. And I am so fortunate that my home bookstore is Quail Ridge Books here in Raleigh.
I am grateful to Edwin Buckhalter, Rachel Simpson Hutchens, and Michelle Duff, at Severn House Publishers, for taking on my new series during such a difficult time for publishers.
PROLOG
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ Turi said. ‘Mia piccola sorella! I thought I would never see you again!’
Alessa flung herself into her brother’s arms, eyes streaming. Turi encircled her body in a bear hug. Just as she thought her ribs might crack he released her and held her out in front of him, taking her in from head to foot.
‘When the boss man said a fine lady was asking for me, he wasn’t kidding,’ Turi said. ‘When did you arrive?’
‘Months ago,’ Alessa said. ‘We thought we could tolerate Mussolini until after the war, but when the Nazis built their Stuka bomber nests we left.’
Turi held up ten fingers in his boss’s direction, and the man nodded his permission.
‘Come,’ Turi said, leading Alessa away from the clamor of the dockyards. They stepped over a coil of rope as thick as Turi’s arm and stood on the landward side of a metal and tar-paper shack at the foot of a massive West Side pier. Almost every berth was occupied by a cargo ship or Navy vessel. The air reeked of motor oil and creosote. Seagulls wheeled and shrieked overhead. Dozens of longshoremen, some operating tall winches or forklifts, loaded the ships with crates. As soon as trucks were emptied, new ones pulled up on the dock, piled with more crates.
‘So,’ Turi said, ‘you didn’t forget your father’s bastardo.’
‘Of course not! And Papa loved you, Turi.’
‘As much as he could, I suppose.’
‘He hid you in the cellar for days and then smuggled you out of Sicily and paid your fare here, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, little one, he did. But enough about him. Do you have any children yet?’
‘We’re going to wait until after the war is over.’
Turi shrugged. ‘Pfft, there will always be wars,’ he said. ‘Me, I have four! Two boys, two girls!’
Alessa’s eyes lit up with excitement, and she took his hand and squeezed it. ‘Oh, Turi! I want to see them!’
‘Of course. Where are you living?’
‘We’re visiting New York. We have an apartment in Washington.’
‘Washington?’ Turi’s smile faded, and his dark eyes hooded. He searched in his pockets for a cigarette, found one, and turned away from Alessa to light it out of the wind. When he turned back to her his expression was grim. ‘We must talk again.’
‘Why, of course we will!’
‘That’s not what I mean. You must do something for me. And not just for me. For thousands, perhaps. Where is your hotel?’
She told him.
‘Good, I know it. Two blocks east is an Italian pastry and coffee shop. You can’t miss it. It’s got a red awning with “Angelo’s” lettered in gold. Meet me there at ten o’clock tonight. Don’t tell your husband where you are going.’
‘This must be terribly important.’
‘Life and death, cara mia, life and death.’
ONE
‘Please tell me you’ve got hamburgers today,’ I said, browsing the grease-spotted menu.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ the colored waitress, whose name I already knew was ‘Jonesy’, answered, pulling a pencil from behind her ear and suspending it over her order pad, ‘but they won’t last long.’
So I hadn’t dreamed the sizzle of beef fat on the grill and the odo
r of frying red meat that struck me when I walked into the diner.
‘Thank goodness. I’ll have a cheeseburger, medium, French fries, and a glass of milk. And I’m expecting someone to join me.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Jonesy said.
The diner was hot and close with the body heat of hungry people crammed into booths. Steam fogged the plate glass window that fronted Pennsylvania Avenue. Happily, the smell of grilled onions and frying bacon disguised the odor of people who couldn’t bathe or wash their clothes as often as they’d like. If you lived in a boarding house with a dozen other people your time in the bathroom was limited.
Alessa di Luca sat down opposite me in the booth, sliding across the seat and tugging off the heavy coat I’d seen her wear every Friday evening for a month. And I thought, for the umpteenth time, that it looked like a man’s discarded greatcoat she’d picked up at a thrift shop. One button didn’t match the others, and the seat fabric was rubbed shiny from wear.
‘Am I late?’ she asked.
‘Not at all. But I ordered already. I couldn’t wait! They have hamburgers and cheeseburgers!’
Jonesy appeared at Alessa’s side.
‘If you still have hamburgers, I want one,’ Alessa said.
‘We do, ma’am,’ Jonesy said. ‘But they’re going fast.’
‘Well done, please,’ Alessa said.
‘Fries with that?’
‘No thanks. Coffee if you’ve got it. With lots of milk.’
I didn’t know Alessa well, but I liked her very much. We’d been casual friends since we met at a Friday night knitting circle I attended, where she generously repaired my frequent dropped stitches. We’d had coffee together a couple of times. Last night she’d asked me to have lunch with her today, and I was happy to spend time with someone congenial I didn’t work or live with.
Alessa was a war refugee who spoke English fluently with an Italian accent. Despite her thrift shop clothing she had soft hands, perfect skin and lovely manners, so I assumed she was a gentlewoman in ‘distressed circumstances’, waiting until the end of the war to discover if she could return to Italy, or if her home even existed any more. Thousands upon thousands of refugees from all over the world like her waited in dread, with a spark of hope, for news of their homes and loved ones.
So I didn’t know Alessa’s story, and I didn’t ask. In Washington, DC, in November of 1942, no one had time for such pleasantries. Besides, it was none of my business, and I was accustomed to secrets.
‘You got our last hamburger, ma’am,’ Jonesy said to Alessa as she set our plates in front of us and poured fresh coffee for Alessa.
The new arrivals in the booth behind us heard her, and a hum of disappointment and frustration rose and fell, as they adjusted to getting grilled cheese sandwiches or hot dogs for lunch.
I tucked into my burger. I was hungry. Dellaphine, the cook and housekeeper at my boarding house, didn’t prepare any meals on the weekend except Sunday dinner. I’d eaten a single slice of toast, without jam even, for breakfast. I wasn’t complaining, mind you. I felt lucky to live at ‘Two Trees’, where I got breakfast and dinner during the week, had my own bedroom and shared a bathroom with Phoebe and Ada.
My cheeseburger, topped with a thick slice of fried onion and sweet pickle relish, tasted heavenly, and the salty fries weren’t the new mealy frosted kind, but fresh-cut and crisp, with the skin on. I ate half of what was on my plate before I paused.
‘This is a popular place,’ Alessa said, looking around. Every booth and counter stool was full, and a dozen people waited near the door for a seat.
‘There are so many boarding houses in the neighborhood,’ I said. ‘You can hardly get in for breakfast during the week. And the food’s not too greasy.’
‘I’m not particular,’ she said.
‘Who can be?’ I said.
‘No one. We must remember those who have nothing to eat at all, and be grateful.’
I searched for a topic of conversation. Not easy, when so much of my life was off-limits.
‘What part of Italy are you from?’ I asked.
‘Not Italy, Sicily,’ she said. ‘Our island hasn’t always been part of Italy. We Sicilians are sensitive about our heritage. We even have our own language, although only the country people speak it now. I could tolerate Mussolini, but I left after the Nazis came to build their air bases and the bombings began. I stay with my mother’s cousin here. I suppose you would call me a poor relation.’
‘I have a dear friend who’s a refugee on Malta,’ I said. ‘The Nazis bomb it every day. Every single day.’ I’d gotten two letters from Rachel after she’d escaped to Malta. She insisted she and her children were safe. I chose to believe that for my own sake, since I’d done everything I could for them.
‘The Germans bomb Malta from their bases in Sicily, and the British bomb Sicily from their bases on Malta,’ Alessa said. ‘Yet the islands are less than a hundred kilometers apart. The situation would be absurd if it weren’t monstrous. And our little island is so very lovely. Sometimes I daydream that I’m picnicking on a bluff overlooking the Gulf of Palermo, where there are only fishing boats, no warships, drifting at anchor, eating focaccia, sipping limoncello and listening to the breeze rustling through the leaves of lemon and almond trees.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said.
‘With God’s help I’ll go home some day.’
‘What part of Sicily are you from?’ I asked.
‘Near Palermo,’ she said. ‘But I cannot say more.’
‘I understand,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to pry. I’m from Wilmington, North Carolina, myself.’
‘The South? Where the cotton plantations are?’
‘Wilmington’s on the coast. We make our living from shipbuilding and fishing.’
‘You came here to work for the government?’
‘Yes, soon after Pearl Harbor.’ Washington, DC, once a sleepy southern city, was now a boom town crammed with soldiers and sailors. Washingtonians repeated constantly the wisecrack that DC was an occupied city – occupied by its own troops! Not to mention thousands of government workers, job seekers, drifters, prostitutes, con men, pickpockets and just plain hoodlums. Washington’s homicide rate was more than twice New York City’s!
‘So, busy as you must be with your job, what inspired you to take up knitting?’ Alessa asked.
Smile crinkles formed at the corners of her brown eyes, and her mouth turned up in an impish grin. Despite her troubles Alessa still had a sense of humor!
‘Because I’m so good at it?’ I grinned back. ‘You’re awfully nice to correct my mistakes every single week!’
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you are very competent . . . at something else!’ We both laughed out loud.
‘Oh, I don’t know why I bother,’ I said, ‘but there’s all this talk about the need for socks in Europe. Maybe I should switch to scarves. They’re easier.’
‘It doesn’t matter what your socks look like,’ she said, ‘as long as they are warm.’ Without knowing it Alessa repeated what Joe, the refugee Czech who boarded with me at ‘Two Trees’, said every time he noticed me struggling with my knitting needles and yarn.
There were people waiting for our table, but I wasn’t ready to head home yet. I wondered what the two of us could do for fun this afternoon. I could hardly ask Alessa to go shopping with me; it was obvious she had little money. I wondered if she’d let me treat her to a movie ticket.
Alessa noticed me glancing at the queue of people waiting for a table. ‘We should go,’ she said. ‘But first.’
She leaned far across the table toward me, took my hand, and lowered her voice.
‘I know where you work,’ she said.
‘Pardon me?’ I said. Stunned, I felt my heart leap with alarm. Had I slipped up somewhere? Dropped a clue in the midst of some random conversation?
Alessa sat back in her seat and rummaged in her handbag, pulled out a stubby pencil, and printed three letters on a
clean napkin. She turned the napkin toward me, and I saw . . . OSS. The Office of Strategic Services.
‘How did you know?’ I asked.
‘It was easy,’ she said. ‘I followed you to your boarding house after knitting circle ended last week. Then Monday morning I got up quite early, stationed myself outside the house, and followed you to work.’
‘The building’s not marked.’
‘I stopped at a diner across the street and asked the waitress who worked in your building. She said it was full of spies! Besides, there’s an army camped outside!’ That would be the Army squadron that bivouacked on OSS grounds to guard us. Attracted attention to us, too!
The chatter of the customers, Benny Goodman blaring from the jukebox, the clatter of pots and pans, and the shouted orders of the waitresses to the cooks all receded, until it was just Alessa and me, as if we were crowded together in a phone booth on an empty street. I was aware of no emotion except caution. Who was this woman, and what did she want from me? My training kicked in.
‘I’m a just file clerk,’ I said.
‘Dear Louise,’ she said, ‘you are not an ordinary government girl. You’re educated. And older. You have an important boss, no?’
Why pretend? ‘Yes,’ I said.
‘I have something you must give to him.’ She pulled a thin leaflet, folded in half, out of her bag and handed it to me. ‘Here is the knitting pattern I promised you,’ she said, so loudly that I guessed she wanted our neighbors in the next booth to hear. Of course I reached for the leaflet, and she pressed it into my hand, gripping it for a second before she turned it loose.
Alessa got to her feet and struggled into her heavy coat. ‘So I’ll see you Friday night, for the knitting?’ she said.
‘I’ll be there,’ I said.
She strolled calmly out of the diner, leaving me astonished by her audacity.
By now the waiting diners huddled inside the door were glaring nastily at me, so I hastened to leave my booth, tucking the leaflet carefully into my handbag.
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