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"The Italian Co-Belligerent Army. A complex name for a simple concept. Another fact most Americans do not know: Italy and the Allies were antagonists only at the start of the war. Both sides signed an armistice in nineteen forty-three, ending their hostilities long before Germany fell. True, some fascist soldiers fought on, in league with the Nazis, but our king and prime minister joined with the Americans and British and fought against the Germans. The Co-Belligerent Army was the Italian wing of the Allies.
"But, as you might guess, war is complicated. War is sciatta. Messy. After September 'forty-three, although the armistice was in full force and we were supposed to be fighting together, many of the American soldiers did not trust the Italians. My grandfather was a brave and decorated infantry commander who was in charge of, you would say, a company of men to assist the U.S. Fifth Army and break through the Bernhardt Line, halfway between Rome and Naples. A very stubborn defense on the part of the Nazis.
"My grandfather led his men behind the line, near San Pietro. They attacked from the rear and achieved a gorgeous victory, though suffered heavy losses. But when the U.S. troops moved forward, they found my grandfather's unit behind the lines. They hadn't heard about his operation. They disarmed the thirty or so survivors of my grandfather's company and rounded them up. But they did not bother to talk to their headquarters. They didn't listen to my grandfather's pleas. And threw them all together in a PoW camp, populated with three hundred Nazis." He gave a chill laugh. "Do you want to imagine how long the Italians lived, at the hands of their 'colleagues'? About ten hours, the story goes. And the report was that most died very unpleasant deaths, my grandfather among them. The Americans merely listened to the screams. When the truth came out, a major with the Fifth Army issued an apology to the six survivors. A major issued the apology. Not a general, not a colonel. A major. He was twenty-eight years old.
"I will add this: War is not only messy but it has consequences we cannot foresee. Now, my mother was a little girl when her father died in that camp. She barely knew him. But something about his loss affected her mind. This, my grandmother believed, in any case. She was never quite right. She married and gave birth to me and to my brother but began to have episodes just after I was born. They grew worse. Depression then mania, depression then mania. Disrobing in public, sometimes when she had arrived to collect my brother and me from school. Sometimes in church. Screaming. She received treatments, extreme treatments."
It's rare that someone knows the raw ingredients of electroconductive gel...
"Those did nothing more than destroy her short-term memory. The sadness remained."
"And her condition now?"
"She is in a home. My brother and I visit. She sometimes knows us. New medications, they have stabilized her. It is, they say, about the best we can hope for."
"I'm sorry to hear it."
"Can I blame your country for this, too, in addition to her father's death? But I have chosen to, and for some very unfair reason that relieves the burden. Allora, that is what I have to say. All I have to say."
Rhyme nodded, acknowledging the oblique apology, which, he knew, was heartfelt nonetheless.
Spiro slapped his thigh, signaling that the discussion on this topic was at an end. "Now, we are agreed that our goal is the truth behind the Garry Soames case. What approach do we take now?"
"The results of the date-rape drug analysis in Rome should be expedited. We must find out if the samples in his apartment are the same as what was in Frieda's system."
"Yes, I will look into that."
"And Beatrice is completing an analysis of the soil outside Garry's window."
"Bene."
"But I have another idea. I'd like to run one more analysis. Ercole can talk to Beatrice about that."
"Ah, the Forestry officer. I had forgotten about him." Spiro walked to the door. Stuck his head out and barked a command.
Ercole stepped inside, looking consummately awkward.
"You are not being dismissed, not yet, Ercole." Spiro glowered. "Captain Rhyme here has saved your bacon. An American expression, well suited for a Forestry officer."
Ercole was smiling, albeit without a splinter of humor.
Spiro's face turned even colder. "But if you ever try to run an end--"
End run, Rhyme nearly corrected, though he decided not to.
"--your career will be over."
"But what are you speaking of?"
"Isn't it obvious? And I don't mean that nonsense of enlisting Detective Sachs to translate Arabic, though the transparency of that ploy was laughable. What I am speaking of is the reporter at the Capodichino Reception Center: Nunzio Parada. The man pelting me with questions the night Dadi was killed. He is a friend of yours, is he not?"
"I...well, I am somewhat familiar with him, yes."
"And did you not, after you saw me arrive, slip away and coach him to ask me about my brilliance in inviting the Americans here?"
The officer's cheeks glowed bright red. "I am so very sorry, Procuratore, but I thought we could benefit if Detective Sachs assisted, and you, with all respect, did not seem willing to allow her to do so."
"La truffa, your scam, served a purpose, Ercole, and so I played along, even though I saw it as such. It was a chance for the investigation to save face, while allowing the talented Detective Sachs to work on the case directly. But your plan was, in English, cheap. And most embarrassing for you, it was pathetically inept."
