Aldo thanked God that they didn’t know about Marco. He got his bearings. “I’m sure I’m not the only one of our cell to have a father who’s a committed Fascist. I’m my own man, and nevertheless loyal to our cause.”
“We know that, and that’s not why I’ve come. I’m here to tell you to go to Orvieto tonight.”
“Tonight?” Aldo swallowed hard, off balance. “Why tonight? What happened?”
“Something came up, that’s all I can say.”
Aldo wished he could stall her. The longer he could put off getting the guns, the better. “But I don’t know if I’m ready.”
“Why not?”
Aldo tried to think of a lie, but he was a terrible liar. “Uh, but tonight is such short notice.”
“It couldn’t be helped.”
“But I have to prepare.”
“Prepare what?”
“My bike. I have to get it in order.”
“Is it broken? Can’t you fix it?”
“No, well, it’s not broken, but—”
“Aldo, are you afraid? Is that it?” Silvia’s blue eyes sharpened with suspicion. “Is that why you’ve gotten so thin? Is it from anxiety?”
“Yes,” Aldo answered, sensing that the woman was too smart to believe an outright denial. “But I didn’t want to admit it in front of the others.”
“I knew it. I see things my husband doesn’t.” Silvia patted his arm. “Be brave. It’s dangerous, but not unreasonably so. You said you would go, and you must. My husband shouldn’t have to do everything. Do your part. Keep your word.”
“Okay.” Aldo resigned himself to going, as it didn’t bring the date of the retirement party any closer.
“Bravo.” Silvia smiled briefly. “Leave after nightfall and be back by morning. Our contact will be waiting for you at a tavern called Piccolo’s, on Via del Duomo off the Corso Cavour.”
“How will I know him?”
“He goes by Fabio and he’ll be wearing a checked cap. He’s going to give you a package of six pistols. Ride back to Rome straightaway and place them in a hole in the underbrush near the Terme di Caracalla, where Viale delle Terme di Caracalla intersects Via Antoniniana. Are you familiar?”
“No.”
“I just told you the location. You’ll find it with ease. If it’s not safe for any reason, hide in place or travel the next night. Don’t go back to Orvieto looking for our contact. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good luck. Goodbye.” Silvia opened the door to the storeroom and left, and Aldo heaved a sigh. His chest felt too small for his lungs to fill, and he had always had excellent wind. He left the stockroom and entered the bar.
Marco crossed to him with a sly smile. “Aldo, was that her?”
Aldo understood the mix-up, which worked to his advantage. “Uh, yes.”
“A blonde! What a beauty!”
“Uh, thank you.” Aldo realized that he wouldn’t be able to ride home with Marco tonight, if he had to go to Orvieto. “She came by to tell me that her husband’s going out of town, so I can stay with her the whole night. Will you cover for me with Papa and Mamma?”
“Yes, of course. But what about in the morning, when you’re not home?”
Aldo felt nonplussed, but Marco’s face lit up.
“I have an idea. I’ll tell Papa that you felt good and decided to train until late, like take an endurance ride. Then he and Mamma won’t wait up. Just be back before they’re up in the morning.”
“Great idea,” Aldo said, forcing a smile. The irony wasn’t lost on him that his little brother was helping him obtain the guns that would be turned against him.
“Now tell me.” Marco leaned closer, his eyes glinting. “What happened in the stockroom? Did you give her some, that quick?”
“Marco, no!” Aldo chuckled, though he felt sick to his stomach.
“It can be done, brother. I know, for a fact.”
Aldo didn’t reply, except to shove him playfully.
* * *
—
Evening darkened into nightfall, and Aldo rode out of Rome and found the back roads heading north. He kept an eye on the traffic around him, making sure he wasn’t followed, but he felt safe. His thoughts churned as he went, knowing that each revolution of his wheels brought him closer to something he dreaded. He had to save Marco, and tainted pork seemed like his best alternative.
Over three hours passed on the bike, and Aldo finally reached the medieval town of Orvieto. He rode through its cobblestone streets and found Piccolo’s, a shabby bar on a narrow street lined by closed shops. Everything was dark except for the tavern, which shed an elliptical shaft of light onto the sidewalk. Slumping against the wall near the entrance was a man in a checked cap, drinking from a wine bottle. It had to be Fabio, posing as a drunk. On the ground next to Fabio lay a bulky package wrapped in brown paper and twine. The guns.