A Dark Song of Blood Read Online Free PDF Page A

the tour of Roman sites: it all made sense now. Angrily leaning over the parcel, Guidi turned pages until he met the first and only name in the list of suspects: the Secretary General of the National Confederation of Fascist Unions, now heading its “detached office” in the city. “My God” escaped him.
    Next he called Caruso’s office in Piazza del Collegio Romano.
    “That’s right,” the head of police said coolly. “That’s why we need a newcomer. The suspect doesn’t know you , and you don’t have to be as discreet as others have to. Keep looking in the dossier, there’s plenty about His Excellency’s goings-on. The Germans will want his neck, so prove he killed her.”
    “I understand, Dr Caruso. What then?”
    “Then we’ll show our Germanic allies that we’re as good as they are when it comes to administering justice. His Excellency might be the token we must turn in to them. I ordered that you be issued your own car, Guidi.”
    Guidi stared at the dossier, uncomfortably reminding himself that Caruso had just finished playing his role of headhunter at the great show trial in Verona. “What happens if we find out that Secretary General Merlo has nothing to do with it?”
    “You had best have someone else in hand by then.”
    *
    The Parioli district, on this side of the Tiber due north of the great Villa Umberto Park, had for the past decade been favored by the upper class and the nouveau riches. SS Colonel Ott’s house sat at the corner of Viale Romania and Via Duse, hugging it with its sleek lines over the manicured boxwood of the garden. When Bora arrived, several guests were already assembled in the spacious living room. Ott met him at the entrance, handed him a cognac and introduced him to his wife, who’d just flown in for their tenth wedding anniversary. Near the grand piano, Bora saw Dollmann conversing with a man in a similar uniform. Both were slim, fair, with slicked-back hair and angular, sly features, and both were looking into the room.
    Mindful of Westphal’s advice, Bora came to greet the SS officers. Soon Dollmann walked back with him toward the refreshments table. “Kappler was dying to meet you.” He smiled.
    “I don’t know if I should be flattered, Colonel.”
    “Because he’s head of the Gestapo in Rome? Don’t be a prude. He’s a charming enough man. Here, have some caviar.”
    Bora looked straight at him, which was a frank habit of his and often unnerved people. “There is much in this assignment I could learn from you – we both like Italian culture.”
    “Oh, Kappler does, too. Collects art. Ancient things, preferably.” Dollmann looked around with his vulpine eyes. “Unlike men who collect young ones, like the Reiner girl. What else do you know about the story?”
    “No more than you do, Colonel. The word is accident or suicide.”
    “But of course you don’t believe that!”
    “I believe even stranger things these days.”
    “She dated a couple of ruffians. Speaking of which, the Allies have taken Cervara, and soon will have it all from Ortona to south of Gaeta.”
    Bora drank slowly, so as not to have other drinks forced on him when he wanted to gather information.
    Dollmann suavely upbraided him. “Finish your drink, I want you to taste some real vodka. It came from better days at Kursk.” He reached for a square of toast topped with a creamy mixture. “By the way, what was your specialty in Russia?”
    Bora was sure the SS knew already. “Counter-intelligence, related to guerrilla warfare,” he answered nonetheless.
    “And in northern Italy, as we hear. So. Do you have nightmares?”
    “Not about guerrilla warfare.” Bora finished his cognac. He took from the closest tray two glasses of vodka, and offered one to Dollmann. “To Rome, caput mundi .”
    “Yes. Head of our world, at any rate. Does it include the Vatican?” Dollmann held the vodka before his lips without drinking. “You were at its doorstep twice this week.”
    “It’s the