Louise's Gamble

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

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

‘
J
esus, 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

‘
P
lease 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 odor 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.