They were both about five-four with full, curvy figures and olive skin. One had very short brown hair and big almond eyes. The other, with her rich wavy dark hair touching her shoulders, had warm dark eyes. They appeared to be somewhat tolerating their escort.

Kappler saw that the two men at the bar glanced at the women, then, seeing the SS uniform, made a face and immediately turned away.

Muller took a long moment to look around the lounge, then found Kappler in the far corner and nodded for the girls to follow him.

Has the bastard been drinking? Kappler thought.

Muller came closer, and Kappler then thought, No, not just drinking. He is drunk!

Kappler was going to keep his seat, but at the presence of the women he automatically got to his feet.

"Heil Hitler!" Muller began thickly, his words slightly slurred as he thrust out his arm.

Kappler simply stood staring at him.

Muller dropped his arm and went on in German: "It is so very good to see you again, Herr Obersturmbannfuhrer. I trust your room is to your satisfaction?"

Kappler, who realized from Muller's forced tone that he was working at being hospitable, looked him in the eyes.

And his drunkenness is an outrage! he thought.

I should run these women off and have him locked up for dereliction of duty!

But . . . this behavior is absolutely nothing compared to what I tried to have him punished for the last time. And look what I accomplished with that-not a damn thing.

Muller made a thin-lipped smile.

And, you smug bastard, you know that!

Well, I have much bigger problems to concern myself with. I cannot be distracted by this unprofessional behavior.

So, okay, I shall play along with you, you bastard . . . which could very well confuse the hell out of you.

"I asked about your room?" Muller said. "Is it not to your liking?"

"It is quite a nice room," Kappler said.

"Very good," Muller said.

Muller then waved to get the bartender's attention and made a circling motion over their table to order drinks all around. The bartender nodded.

"Shall we sit?" Muller then said, and when the women did not move, he impatiently motioned at them individually, instructing them to sit on the outside of him and Kappler.

They don't speak German, Kappler thought, looking at them.

Meine Gott, they are indeed quite attractive. . . .

"Allow me to present Lucia," Muller said, gesturing first to the long-haired one, "and Maria."

They smiled at Kappler.

They at least understood their names and the gesture.

What do I say?

Kappler nodded and smiled, then decided to keep it simple and said, "Ciao."

The bartender appeared with Kappler's open bottle of red wine, two others, and three more glasses. He drained the open bottle and a second one in the glasses, then turned to leave with the empties.

"Send Signore Palasota!" Muller called after him in German.

The bartender looked back and nodded, then disappeared from the room.

Does he understand German? Kappler thought. Or he just recognized the name?

"I want you to meet the fellow who runs our place," Muller said, and leaned closer to Kappler, putting his hand on his shoulder.

"Our place"? Kappler thought, looking at him, then at the hand on his shoulder.

"I am aware," Muller said, "that we may have had our differences in the past. And I am glad that that is where they are-in the past."

Kappler looked at him.

What the hell is he doing?

Muller made a thin smile and held up his glass in a toast.

"Here's to our making a fresh start and moving forward," Muller said. "Salute!"

He tapped his full glass to Kappler's very full one, causing some wine to spill. Muller did not seem to notice, or did not care, as he took a sip of his wine.

Kappler shrugged, then carefully sipped his wine.

"Of course."

"And as an olive branch," Muller went on, laughed, then said, "or perhaps, as is the case, an olive-skinned branch, you'll allow me to treat you?" He glanced at the big-eyed young woman. "Do you like Lucia?"

Kappler looked at Muller.

What the hell are you talking about?

"Treat"?

So these are whores?

Kappler realized that the girls were looking provocatively at him. Lucia batted her big brown eyes and made a well-practiced smile. He caught himself automatically smiling back.

Then he felt an involuntarily stir in his groin, and hated himself for it.

They are!

I don't care how attractive they are. I am not going to degrade myself by following some miserable prick who was able to come up with . . . with . . . however the hell much a whore costs!

He looked at Muller, who was looking toward the arched passageway.

And, you bastard, I certainly do not want you believing you've done me any favors-and not one such as this.

Scheisse!

"Ah!" Muller suddenly said. "Here comes Signore Palasota!"

[FIVE].

Palermo, Sicily 2255 30 May 1943 Dick Canidy and John Craig van der Ploeg rolled into Palermo proper. The city was dark and eerily quiet. The few people they passed-the bicycle allowed them to approach quietly and quickly-ducked down alleys or found other shadowy spots when they realized they'd been seen.

Why? Canidy thought. Is there a curfew?

If so, we're screwed if we're stopped.

After ten minutes, getting closer to the western side of the port, Canidy made sure they kept clear of the train station at Via Montepellegrino in case troops were arriving. Canidy then turned onto Via Altavilla and, looking intently, found the familiar side street that was lined with two-story apartments.

"We're ten blocks up from the port," he said quietly. "Which is where we go tomorrow and visit the Brothers Buda."

John Craig van der Ploeg, even in the dim light, could see that the neighborhood was run-down. Trash littered the street. And the shabby buildings were not at all maintained.

Dick's had to have been here before. But why?

"Where are we?" John Craig said.

"Our home away from home, I hope. I'll tell you more once we're inside."

Canidy skidded the bicycle to a stop at an apartment midway down the street. Its wooden door was a faded yellow, the paint peeling. Mounted above it, in a small space, was a small, weathered wooden crucifix. Four empty clay flowerpots painted bright colors were in a wrought-iron rack in front of the lone window.

Canidy planted his feet on the ground as he steadied the bicycle.

"Can you get off by yourself okay?" Canidy said over his shoulder.

Canidy immediately felt John Craig put more weight on his shoulders and then the bike shudder as he slid off. Canidy thought that the bicycle, free of its burden, could almost float. He then leaned it against the wall under the clay pots. He pulled the clay pot that was painted red out of its holder and reached in under it.

He triumphantly held up a small object toward John Craig, and with a tone of satisfaction said, "Thank God for old habits."

Canidy moved to the yellow door.

The key, John Craig figured out when he heard Canidy working the knob. So, he has been here before.

Canidy then exclaimed: "I'll be damned. It's been kicked in."

Canidy pulled his .45 from the small of his back, then pushed at the door with his boot. It swung inward, its hinges making one long, low squeak.

There were no lights burning in the apartment, and when Canidy reached inside and slapped at the switch, none came on.

"Damn it," he said, then carefully entered.

John Craig saw the beam from Canidy's flashlight sweeping the room.

A moment later, he was back at the door. He rolled the bicycle inside, then said, "Get in here."

John Craig winced with pain as he shuffled through the door. He pushed it shut behind him, then had to push it twice more before it stayed shut.

It was pitch-dark inside, but he could just make out that they were in the kitchen-and that the place had been trashed. Something crunched under his feet as he walked. And there was a faint fetid odor, as if something had been left to rot a long time ago.

"Wait here," Canidy said. "I'm going to check the rest of the house."

"Okay," John Craig said, pulling out his .45 and putting his weight against what felt like a tile-covered counter by the front window.

As he strained to make out any objects in the kitchen, he could hear Canidy moving quickly through the apartment. First there were the sounds of Dick opening and closing doors on the first floor, then ones of him pounding up the wooden stairs and searching the second floor end to end.

He's spent almost twice as much time upstairs.

Then John Craig saw the yellow beam of Canidy's flashlight filling the stairwell and heard the sound of him bounding down the stairs.

As he entered the kitchen, the yellow beam briefly swept the room, then went out. In that short time John Craig could see that the place was more than just a sloppy shambles. It had been demolished. The table was overturned, the chairs broken, cupboard doors torn from their hinges, plates and drinking glasses shattered on the floor.

"What the hell happened here?" John Craig said.

"Nothing good, that's for goddamn certain."

"Is the place empty?"

"Yes and no."

"What's that mean?"

"It means I've got some bad news, which could be good news, and some really bad news."

"And what does that mean?"

"Nothing that can't wait another few minutes until I can get some damn lights burning."