Then he said, "What the hell else can go wrong?"

"Don't ask," John Craig said. "With my luck anything is possible."

Then they both chuckled, and that turned into hearty laughter.

After a moment, they composed themselves.

They got up, shakily.

"Okay," Canidy said once they had regained their balance, "let's try it again . . . and go!"

Progress over the uneven ground was slow. Finding a comfortable rhythm seemed impossible, even as they quietly counted out a cadence-"One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . and one . . . two . . . three . . . four . . ."

They pressed on, more or less stumbling forward, and almost a half hour later came to the narrow road. They turned to follow it downhill. The smooth surface made finding a rhythm a little easier. They were making better time despite John Craig moaning that the pain was becoming worse.

They heard a dog barking ahead.

Then John Craig suddenly exclaimed: "Damn it! Stop! I need to stop!"

They shuffled to the side of the road.

"It just hurts too much," John Craig said. "Just leave me."

He moaned as he collapsed under a squat tree.

Now what? Canidy thought, and inhaled deeply.

He noticed that the tree had a strong, familiar smell. He reached up to one of the limbs, felt an equally familiar shape growing there, and plucked it.

Lemon, he thought, then remembered the landmarks he had marked on his map. This is part of that citrus farm.

The dog barked again.

"There's a farmhouse just down the road," Canidy said. "I wasn't sure if it was inhabited, but that dog means it probably is. I'm going to go have a look. You should be fine. We're far enough away from the LZ. And there's been no sign that someone has seen us, or at least is coming after us."

"Go," John Craig said, curling up in a fetal position.

Nice, Canidy thought. This just keeps getting fucking better . . .

Canidy shook John Craig's shoulder fifteen minutes later.

"Wake up!" he said. "You can sleep when we get to town."

"What? How do we get there?"

"Let's go," Canidy said, then put his hand under John Craig's right arm and pulled him to his feet. Then, with great effort, he got him to the road.

"A bicycle?" John Craig said. "I can't pedal with this bad foot."

"You're not going to. Just sit on the seat."

It took another great effort to get John Craig on the bike seat and balanced. Canidy found that the real challenge came next, when he mounted the bike just in front of John Craig.

"Put your hands on my shoulders," Canidy instructed.

John Craig did so.

Canidy, his left foot on one pedal, then started pushing the bicycle forward with his right. When he went to get that foot on its pedal, he found that their combined weight made the bike terribly unbalanced, causing the front tire to wobble wildly.

Canidy was convinced they were about to go down-and hard.

Behind him, he heard John Craig begin to chuckle.

"Don't you dare fucking start with that now!" Canidy said, but he chuckled when he said it.

He managed to get in a couple strong rotations of the pedals, and with more speed the wobbling tire evened out and the bicycle became more stable.

Just like a damn airplane, Canidy thought as he stood somewhat triumphantly and steered along the dark road.

They coasted downhill, picking up speed, and after a couple minutes passed the farmhouse.

John Craig noticed that there had been no barking.

Is that because the dog didn't hear us?

Or because Dick had to do something so he could steal this bike?

Then he felt sick at that mental image. And then guilty.

Damn it! None of this would've happened if I hadn't landed in that tree and screwed up my foot.

Thinking it would ease his conscience, he was about to ask Canidy about the dog, then decided that it was a really long shot that Canidy would even answer the question-and, if then, answer truthfully-and John Craig decided he really didn't want to hear his fear confirmed.

[THREE].

Schutzstaffel Field Office Palermo, Sicily 1830 30 May 1943 This is the last place I want to be right now, SS-Obersturmbannfuhrer Oskar Kappler thought as the driver turned off the engine, but at least I'm out of Messina. And I'm ready to get out of this goddamn car.

Starting before noon, Kappler had been almost desperate for an excuse to leave the SS headquarters. He knew painfully well that he was disturbed by the contents of the letter from his father, and feared that his distraction was apparent to anyone and everyone-and particularly obvious to SS-Standartenfuhrer Julius Schrader.

Schrader took an odd pleasure in boasting that, having known Kappler so long, "I can read you like an open book, my friend."

Kappler did not buy that-and often took offense at what he considered Schrader's prying into his private life, especially his family's wealth and privilege-but that did not stop Schrader from trying. Thus, Oskar did not want to be around Juli all damn day, and tomorrow, and very likely the next, constantly having to fend off what he knew would be Schrader's persistent proclamations as to why Kappler was behaving in such an unusual manner.

When Kappler had heard Schrader mention checking on Muller and his SS field office operations, he had had to restrain himself from appearing overly eager. Schrader knew Kappler loathed Muller. Thus, Kappler had gone to his office and passed a couple hours-a time frame that seemed much longer-then finally stood in the doorway to Schrader's office and, in a tone he hoped came across as casual if not bored, announced that he would be leaving to drive to Palmero.

Schrader had made a harumph sound, and said, "I think not."

What the hell? Kappler thought.

"Otto will drive you," Schrader had then announced. "That is not open for discussion. That is an order, my friend. I can see that you are mentally distracted over this morning's meeting with the Abwehr agent and the topic of nerve gas. I do not want to find myself sending out a team for search and rescue because you lost your way and drove off a cliff into the Mediterranean Sea. The trip will give you the opportunity to ensure that Muller continues making proper amends. And a nice three-hour drive and change of scenery will be mentally cleansing."

Otto Lieber was Schrader's newly arrived SS-scharfuhrer bodyguard. He was slight of build, a fresh-faced, blue-eyed blond seventeen-year-old Weisbadener whose peach fuzz cheeks convinced Kappler that he'd yet to have his first shave.

Schrader glanced at his wristwatch.

"It is now just after three o'clock," he said. "Otto should have you arrive around six, in time for Muller to treat you to drinks and a nice dinner."

"I'll be fine driving myself," Kappler protested.

Schrader held up his hand, palm out.

"You'll be better being driven, my friend. I will send for Otto to bring around my personal vehicle. Nothing but the best for you!"

Kappler thought, I despise that little car!

He looked Schrader in the eyes and sighed audibly.

"Very well, Juli. I surrender. I suppose I should be saying, 'Thank you.'"

"Yes, you should."

The next thing Kappler knew, the scharfuhrer was pulling up outside the headquarters building in Schrader's two-year-old Fiat 1500.

Kappler put his overnight bag in what passed for a backseat and his black leather briefcase on the front floorboard. Then he made a tight-lipped smile at the driver as he squeezed his tall, athletic body into the cramped two-door Italian sports car.

SS-Scharfuhrer Otto Lieber, after the initial twenty minutes of forced small talk about weather and how great the war was going, quickly got the message that SS-Obersturmbannfuhrer Oskar Kappler had no desire to spend the trip chatting.

"If you don't mind, I have a few things to consider before we reach our destination," Kappler said.

"Jawohl, Herr Obersturmbannfuhrer! I fully understand," Lieber said, and turned his attention to the winding coastal two-lane road, running the Fiat up and down its gears.

There was nothing to see but ocean and the waves pounding the rocky shoreline, and Kappler gazed out at it in deep thought.

That morning, after shaking hands with Ernst Beck and leaving Cafe Alessandro, Kappler had reread his father's letter a half-dozen times, at the very least, and now had it memorized.

Father always used my full name when I was a child-especially when he was angry as hell. I can hear it now, his voice growling: "Oskar Karl Kappler, you will do as I say or else!"

And when he was speaking to me about something very serious, he always called me "Karlchen" in a calm, commanding voice to get my full attention.

Well, he sure as hell has it now.

I do not think that there is any significance to be found in his sending the love of my mother and sister, other than that simply being a method not to draw attention to the "Karlchen" code so that it can be used again. Especially because he did state that Mother and Anna were unharmed and in Berlin.

I had wondered what, if anything, had happened to the family businesses in the Ruhr dam bombings. There have been no details of that in any news reports, suggesting that something big did happen and that Berlin is keeping that quiet.

What has been surprising to me is that the messages I sent Felix asking what he knew about the bombings have gone unanswered. That could mean that he did not get them-which is very doubtful, as he's never not gotten my messages and not answered them-or that he does not know-doubtful again, considering his position in the SD-or that he has been ordered not to tell me.

This last one I have come to believe, though if it is correct I do wonder why Felix then didn't reply that he did not know and was looking into it.

His not answering any of the messages . . . does that mean something?

Perhaps not.

Regardless, what happened to the Ruhr operations would appear to be a trivial point now. Even if all seven were lost to the bombings, it does not matter-not if Hitler has stolen them from us.

Just as he stole Fritz Thyssen's.

And why is the bastard throwing the Thyssens in a concentration camp?

Is Hitler that paranoid? That revengeful?

Or is the war, contrary to Otto's happy talk, that lost?

Or all the above?

My father and mother did not do as the Thyssens-give Hitler and his Thousand-Year Reich the finger in front of all their fellow Germans and then leave the country. As far as I know, my father has done all that's been required of him.

Yet it is absolutely crystal clear that Father fears that our entire family is in danger.

He said to take "extraordinary actions to save yourself from a possible similar fate but also ones to save your mother and sister."

Then he suddenly thought: Jesus Christ!

He turned and looked out the side window so that the scharfuhrer would not see his expression.

Am I being watched?

Is that why the hell Juli ordered me to take this kid on the trip?

The bastard's keeping an eye on me!

He looked to the floorboard, to where he had put his black leather briefcase. Inside the case, among his official papers, was his Luger and four extra magazines of 9mm. He then glanced at Lieber. The peach-faced Otto stared straight ahead, seemingly oblivious to anything except the dotted lines on the macadam.