The Italian vehicles were swinging eastwards near the harbour, heading along the coast road, the noise of their engines loud. Morton studied them for a moment, then he pointed to the stairs.
‘Time’s up,’ he said. ‘Fetch ’em down.’
Barbieri rolled his eyes. ‘They’ve had so little time together, Signore. Give them a little longer.’
Morton didn’t argue. He ran up the red-tiled staircase and started banging on the only door he could see. ‘Morton here. Out you come.’
‘Already?’ It was Caccia’s voice. ‘We’ve hardly started.’
‘You’ve had long enough to last you till the war’s over.’
The door opened and Caccia appeared, holding a towel round him. Beyond him, Morton could see Rosalba staring indignantly at him over the top of a sheet.
‘The missis, too,’ Morton said. ‘I’ve come for the map. We fulfilled our part of the bargain. And look slippy. Things are moving.’
Rosalba slid from the bed and Morton had a tantalizing glimpse of a great deal of bare flesh. When she appeared at the door, she was wearing a cotton dressing gown tied at the waist. It was open for a long way down the front and didn’t conceal much. She thrust the second half of the map at Morton.
‘There,’ she said. ‘Now leave us alone.’
‘We’re going,’ Morton said. ‘All of us.’
‘Now?’ Her eyes widened. ‘Mamma mia! I haven’t packed.’
‘You have five minutes.’
As Morton appeared downstairs again, Barbieri thrust a glass into his hand. ‘A toast,’ he said. ‘To the young couple. And perhaps a cigar. German cigars. Very good ones.’
He handed cigars round and Morton and Clegg lit up, drinking with Barbieri until Caccia and the girl appeared, both a little flushed.
‘The car’s outside,’ Morton said.
The girl dropped the small leather bag she carried containing her belongings. Sticking out of one corner was the yellow dress Scarlatti had obtained for her. She clutched at Barbieri.
‘I’ll send for you,’ she said. ‘Everything will be all right. In England everything’s always all right. We shall be rich.’
The all-clear was sounding as Morton pushed them towards the door and stuffed Rosalba into the back of the car.
‘No standing on the platform,’ she chirruped. ‘Pass down the bus.’
As he turned to give Caccia a push, Barbieri indicated the shed where he kept his stores. He gestured conspiratorially.
‘Un momento,’ he pleaded. ‘A bottle for them to take with them.’
There was a strong smell of petrol as the door swung open and they could see stacked square silver cans among the straw and shavings.
‘What’s he got in there?’ Morton asked. ‘It looks like petrol.’
‘It is petrol,’ Caccia said. ‘For Christ’s sake, don’t go near it with that cigar! It’s British petrol and, judging by the smell, the cans are leaking as usual.’
As they turned away, they became aware of Schwartzheiss, the German sergeant, standing in the shadows. He’d obviously been watching them for some time.
‘So,’ he said, grinning. ‘What have we here?’
‘They’ve just got married, sergeant,’ Morton explained in German.
‘And now they’re going where?’
Morton shrugged. ‘To the bridal bed.’
Schwartzheiss stepped forward. ‘They’ve already been in the bridal bed,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I was standing beneath the window listening. It was most entertaining. Who are you?’
‘Mortoni, Ugo. Conte di Barda. Tenente, 34th Engineers. In command of 64 Light Vehicle Repair Unit.’
Schwartzheiss smiled. ‘I dare bet you’re not,’ he said. ‘Faiani doesn’t think you are either.’
Morton’s heart began to thump. Clegg was watching him, wondering what had gone wrong, and Rosalba’s face appeared from the back of the Humber.
‘Your car,’ Schwartzheiss went on. ‘An English Humber, no? And’ – his smile widened – ‘according to my instructions, army vehicles are not to be used for the transportation of civilians.’
Morton managed a shrug. ‘It happens,’ he said.
‘Not in the German army. Of course, I know that the Italian army is different. It provides lorries to transport its whores. Perhaps this lady is one, hein?’
It was a mistake. Rosalba understood German and her screech of rage swung their heads round.
‘Porca miseria!’ she screamed. ‘I’m a good girl!’
She scrambled from the car and stood in front of Schwartzheiss, shaking her fist under his nose. ‘We were properly married! I have the documents! The mayor himself, Signor Carloni, performed the ceremony! And then the priest, Father Anselmo, who’s with the army, married us in the eyes of God! He’s my husband!’
Schwartzheiss seemed to be laughing to himself. ‘I think you’re lying,’ he said mildly. ‘I think he’s not even Italian.’
‘He’s my cousin! I have proof! In the house is a picture of him with me, taken when we were children!’
‘It’s the picture of my cousin Ansaldo,’ she murmured to Caccia as she headed for the bar. ‘But he’s so stupid he’ll never know the difference.’
By this time several Italian soldiers were watching with interest and amusement, and it was clear that with every second they stood there arguing it was going to be more difficult to get away. Barbieri, who had reappeared cheerfully from the shed to slam a bottle of brandy into Clegg’s hand, had taken in the scene at a glance and was clutching his fat cheeks in horror, his eyes as huge as saucers.
His mind moving swiftly, Morton was wondering where the LRDG men were. ‘If you’re in trouble,’ they’d said, ‘we’ll be there.’ They ought to be here now, he thought, like the man on the white horse, with the reprieve tucked into his gauntlet. But there was no sign of them, and bitterly he assumed the bastards were looking for something to blow up. As he stared about him, his eyes moving desperately, Clegg, big, square, long-jawed, looking like an amiable drayhorse, was standing near Schwartzheiss, holding the bottle of brandy and shrewdly assessing the histrionic possibilities of the situation.
‘I think you’d better come with me,’ Schwartzheiss said cheerfully. ‘All of you.’
Clegg watched carefully. Most of the Italian and German that had been spoken had passed over his head but it had dawned on him from Schwartzheiss’s manner and the expression
