Agent in Italy: A Memoir of a Spy in World War II

I couldn't hear a sound, either from the corridor and offices beyond the door or from the sleeping city of Milan outside. All the rest of the world could have died.
It was stifling. Italian police stations are badly ventilated. My throat was very dry and I kept coughing. I smoked another cigarette but that made it worse. The smoke hung in the dead air.
I tried the door again. My wet palm slipped on the unclean handle. The door was still locked, of course.
I didn't know exactly what time i...