for some minutes, but when he didn’t return, she grew restless and wandered around the room. It held no interest, as it was almost completely bare, with only a single desk and two chairs. So she plucked up the courage to peep into Koch’s private office. She tried the door and, to her surprise, found it was unlocked.
As she opened the door, she was amazed by what confronted her: almost an entire wall covered with pictures of herself. Publicity shots, magazine covers, film posters – her whole career was laid out, neatly pinned onto a huge cork board. It was both flattering and disconcerting. Koch had obviously been obsessed with her for years. Suddenly all his behaviour made sense: his indulgent treatment of her, his unexpected agreement to her request to help Vicenzo, his studied politeness. It was all at odds with his reputation as a torturer and murderer of her countrymen.
Remembering Salvato’s admonishment of her, she wondered if there was anything in Koch’s office that might assist the Resistance – something that would clearly demonstrate her loyalty. The surface of Koch’s desk was predictably tidy – there was only a fountain pen and a leather-bound notebook. She flicked through the notebook, and found it disappointingly empty, but at the back was a leather pocket, in which he had hidden a small key. Her heart racing, she tried the key in the desk’s top drawer, and it opened. The first thing she saw was a typed list of over thirty names, under the heading: ‘Partisan suspects – to be arrested’. Some of the names were people that she knew – aristocrats and famous industrialists among them. Realising its importance, she removed the document and hid it in her handbag. Breathlessly, she closed the drawer, locked it and replaced the key. She had only resumed her seat moments before Koch returned.
‘Please,’ he said, ‘come with me.’
‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked nervously, as he led her down the stairs. She was struck by a terrible thought. Had he been spying on her, and seen her rifling through his desk?
‘You’ll see,’ he said calmly, as they reached reception. He held open the main doors for her and escorted her outside to his car.
He drove off at high speed, taking a route past Villa Borghese and towards Parioli. Was he was taking her home? she wondered. No. To her surprise, he drove into Via Salaria and pulled up outside Vicenzo’s villa. He switched off the engine and turned to look at her.
‘I’ve let Vicenzo go,’ he said simply.
She gasped, scarcely able to believe it.
‘I have transferred him to a prison for VIPs called San Gregorio; it’s an old convent and quite comfortable. He can receive food from outside and occasional visits. He has been given a false name, Guidi, so the Germans can’t track him down.’
He remained quite impassive as he spoke, but Isabella was overcome with emotion. Almost involuntarily, she took his hand and squeezed it. Then, on impulse, she lifted it to her lips and kissed it.
‘Thank you, Pietro. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.’
He blushed. ‘I have brought you here to collect some things for him. You know what he will need?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Koch waited in the car while she ran to the house.
Constanza opened the door and Isabella threw her arms around her. ‘Vicenzo’s been released!’ she said excitedly. ‘I’ve come for some clothes for him.’
Isabella went upstairs and packed a bag with clothes, bed linen and a few toiletries. Downstairs, she went to the sitting room and took a couple of bottles of his favourite whisky from the drinks tray and slipped them beneath the clothing. Then, waving Constanza goodbye, she ran back to Koch’s car and they drove to San Gregorio.
Vicenzo met them in a communal room. He looked tired and scruffy. He was unshaven, his hair long and unkempt, his black eyes hollow from lack of sleep. He was wearing an old pair of trousers that she didn’t recognise, and a tattered shirt. He smiled faintly when he saw her, but something seemed to hold him back. Perhaps it was the sight of Koch lurking in the shadows at one side of the room, studying his enemy.
‘Aren’t you happy?’ Isabella asked, kissing Vicenzo on the cheek. She had dreamed of this moment for so long, of him being out of danger, of his gratitude, and how he might tell her he loved her. ‘Look,’ she said, handing him the bag, ‘I’ve brought you