At an intersection a street trolley rattled past, unbelievably full, a trio of nuns hanging off the running boards, its klaxon lowing as it attempted to clear a way through a tangle of traffic. Convoys of trucks were being directed by an American military policeman in a white tin helmet and, opposite him, an Italian carabiniere in an elaborate band-leader’s uniform. The American had a whistle in his mouth; shrill blasts accompanied his gestures, impatient and stern. The Italian, by contrast, seemed almost apologetic as he shrugged and gesticulated at the traffic. Long-horned oxen, harnessed in pairs to wooden carts like something out of an Egyptian watercolor, defecated lethargically as they waited their turn. Small boys darted amongst the mayhem selling lipsticks and lucky charms.
Eventually a friendly British fusilier pointed him in the right direction. The way led down a side street barely larger than an alley, then followed a dizzying series of zigzagging stone staircases. It was a relief to be out of the din and the crush, and it was a little while before James realized that he was no longer hemmed in on every side by buildings.
He stopped, momentarily taken aback by the view. In front of him, a vast orange sun was setting over the Bay of Naples. Under the red sky the sea was as smooth as a saucepan of boiled milk. Along the seafront, palm trees nodded in the evening breeze. And on the other side of the bay, the vast bulk of Mount Vesuvius loomed abruptly out of a distant peninsula, like an egg in its eggcup. A tiny question mark of smoke hung over its summit.
“Gosh,” he said aloud. Then, conscious that one was not here to admire views but to finish a war, he descended the steps toward the large building he could see at the bottom.
6
THE FIELD Security Service had done itself proud; that much was immediately apparent. His new headquarters was an ancient palazzo, somewhat dilapidated in appearance but still bearing signs of its former grandeur. Inside the imposing entrance, a faded fresco showed nymphs and satyrs engaged in some kind of food fight. James wandered into an inner courtyard, which contained a lemon tree and four brand-new jeeps.
“Hello?” he called cautiously.
Through one of the windows that gave onto the courtyard he spotted an orderly in an American uniform scuttling from one room to another, bearing an armful of files. “Excuse me,” James said, leaning through the window. “I’m looking for FSS.”
“Try upstairs,” the orderly said uninterestedly over his shoulder.
So much for information sharing between Allies, James thought. “Any idea where?”
“Third floor, maybe.”
James heaved his kit bag onto his shoulder again and trudged up the huge staircase that filled one corner of the courtyard. His nail-soled boots echoed on the stone—the American’s rubber soles had made barely a sound.
On the third floor he opened a door and stepped into a large, barely furnished salon. It contained an elegantly dressed woman, who was sitting by the window in an equally elegant chair, and an emaciated old goat, which was tethered to the chair by a chain. A child was sitting cross-legged on the floor next to the goat, milking its teats into a bucket. All three looked up at him as he entered, although only the goat looked particularly surprised. “Scusate,” James muttered, withdrawing quickly. He had forgotten that when an American said the third floor, he actually meant the second.
On the floor below, the tapping of a typewriter indicated that he was now in the vicinity of an office, an impression confirmed by a printed sign on the door bearing the words “312 Field Security Service (British Army).” Beneath it a second, typewritten notice said: “Wedding Officer. Appointments only. Office hours 3.00–4.00.” The same information was repeated in Italian. At some point the notice had been torn into several pieces, as if it had been ripped from the door in exasperation, and then stuck back together. James put down his kit bag and knocked.
“Avanti,” a voice said.
He opened the door. It was a large room, and a long table running down the middle of it was piled high with files and papers. A dark-haired man was perched on the side of the table, shuffling papers from one vast pile to the next. He had a colored neckerchief pushed into the collar of his shirt, which gave his uniform a faintly raffish air. “Yes?” he said, looking up.
“Hello. I’m Captain Gould.”
“Oh.” The man seemed surprised. “We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
“I got a lift from Salerno. A supply truck on its way to the front.”
“Ah. Rightio.” The man gestured at the papers. “I was just sorting things out for you, as a matter of fact. I’m Jackson.” He stood up and offered his hand.
James stepped forward to shake it. “Looks like quite a job,” he suggested, eyeing the mounds of paper.
“It is that.” Jackson ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m a bit behind, actually. I was going to write you a note. But since you’re here, shall we do it over dinner?”
James had not had anything that could properly be described as “dinner” for a very long time. “Do you have a mess?” he asked hopefully.
Jackson laughed. “Not exactly. That is, there’s a man called Malloni who cooks our rations for us, but his culinary skills aren’t up to much. We suspect he’s skimming off the corned beef and selling it on the black market—the locals have somehow become convinced it’s an aphrodisiac, I suppose on the principle that anything that tastes so vile must somehow be good for you.” Jackson had a slight twitch, which punctuated every other sentence with the faintest of pauses. “No, I was thinking more of a restaurant. There’s a place called Zi’Teresa’s, down in the harbor. Black market, of course, and priced accordingly, but that needn’t worry us. It’s one of the better perks of the job—just ask the owner to sign the bill, and he’ll knock fifty percent off straightaway.”
“But isn’t that just the sort of thing we’re here to stop?”
“Believe me,” Jackson said with a lopsided grin, “kicking out the Jerries is nothing compared to the job we’d have if we tried to separate the Neapolitans from their grub. And we’ve got bigger headaches to worry about. How about it?”
“Take a look at the pictures, when you get time,” Jackson suggested as they walked back toward the stone staircase. “Some of them are rather racy. If you like that sort of thing.” Now that James looked more closely, it was not only food that the nymphs and satyrs were fighting over in the frescoes. “Your transport.” Jackson pointed to where a Matchless motorbike was propped underneath a statue of Proserpine, her naked buttocks pockmarked with bullet holes. “Whatever you do, don’t keep it in the street. The Yanks have had three jeeps stolen already. Not to mention several trucks, a freight locomotive and a couple of class C warships.”
“How come you’re both in the same HQ?”
“The theory is that their Counter Intelligence Corps and our Field Security do pretty much the same job. Some bright spark thought we should do it together.”
“And do you?”
Outside the palazzo Jackson turned left, marching briskly along the seafront. Automatically, James fell in beside him, their arms and legs swinging in unconscious military unison. “Well, we try not to step on each other’s toes. It’s a marvelous setup they’ve got—twenty-five staff to our three, and a filing system that takes up a whole room. How’s your Italian, by the way?”
James confessed that so far, he had barely understood a word that had been spoken to him.
“That’s probably because what you were hearing was Neapolitan—it’s almost a separate language, and some of the older folk profess not to understand anything else. Don’t worry, you’ll soon pick it up. But CIC are hampered by the fact that not a single one of them even speaks standard Italian.”