"Absolutely. He didn't tell them anything they wanted to know. If he had, he would have the bullet to the brain but still would have most of his fingernails intact. And next to none of those bruises. They wouldn't have wasted their time and energy-the SS are lazy bastards-beating him head to toe with a cosh."

John Craig nodded.

"You said something about this Charley Lucky helping us. We're working with the Mafia? Those guys don't even like each other. . . ."

Canidy nodded. "They're cutthroat and worse. But as General Donovan told me, 'Sometimes we have to dance with the devil.'"

"But . . ."

"But nothing. We have to do whatever's necessary. Churchill really put it in perspective when he said, 'If Hitler invaded hell, I would make at least a favorable reference to the devil in the House of Commons.'"

"Huh," John Craig said, unconvinced.

"Look," Canidy said, an edge to his tone, "the mob has its hands in everything in New York. We approached Charley Lucky's lawyer, who passed to him our request for help hunting Nazi sympathizers there and for getting us connections here. Luciano hates Fascism-particularly Mussolini, whose vicious secret police, the OVRA, Organization for Vigilance and Repression of Anti-Fascism, swept through Sicily arresting suspected mafiosos-and agreed to help us. A mob guy named Joe 'Socks' Lanza-who's the union leader who runs the Fulton Fish Market-introduced me to Francisco Nola. Lanza, by the way, is the wise guy who had the stolen Johnny guns; that's where I got mine. Anyway, Frank Nola-whose wife is Jewish and who had relatives arrested by the OVRA and thrown in the penal colonies on those small volcanic islands north of here-helped me (a) rescue Professor Rossi and (b) in the course of that rescue, helped me discover that the goddamn Krauts had-and probably still have-plans to use nerve gas." He caught his breath, then ended with, "So that's why 'but nothing.' Sometimes we do have to dance with the goddamn devil."

John Craig, clearly exhausted, was expressionless. He simply nodded.

Canidy then dug into his coat's inside pocket and produced an envelope.

"And this is why," he said, holding it out.

John Craig opened it and found a letter folded inside a handkerchief.

"Be careful with that," Canidy said. "The letter's a little ragged around the edges from the last trips here."

John Craig saw that the letter was written in English and again in Sicilian. He read both, and saw that they were the same:

March 1943 The bearer of this letter is Mr. Richard Canidy.

With this letter, the bearer brings to you my many good wishes.

It is requested of you in turn that the bearer be given the same respect and considerations that would be given if I were to personally appear before you.

Your friendship is appreciated and it will not be forgotten.

Charles Luciano (Salvatore Lucania)

"What's with the handkerchief?" John Craig said, handing it all back.

"It's from Luciano's family. It will be recognized, establishing our bona fides, and it may damn well be key to finding Tubes."

Canidy returned the envelope to his pocket. Then he stood, tested his work, and announced, "Your desk, more or less, is ready."

Even though Canidy had at least fifty pounds on Mariano, John Craig could see that he was having trouble getting him down the stairs. The rigor mortis had set in while Mariano had been tied to the chair, and his muscles now rigidly held the body in the seated position.

Ten minutes later, Canidy reappeared alone at the top of the stairs, grabbed the dirtiest sheets, then went back downstairs.

When he came up the next time, he found that John Craig had opened the suitcase and dug out its contents to reach the false bottom, then taken out the transmitter, the receiver, and the power supply. The three instruments were now on the low wooden table, connected by two thick black power cords with chromed plugs.

After hooking up the antenna-a six-foot length of thin, dull, bare wire-John Craig had run it out the window, attaching it along the plant shelf there.

Canidy walked over to the two shredded mattresses and dragged them to the front wall.

John Craig yawned.

Canidy saw it and said, "There's your luxury five-star accommodations-but not before you get your ass on the air."

John Craig, sitting on the floor, put his fingers together as if in prayer. He interwove his fingers, then stretched his arms, palms out, causing at least a half-dozen knuckles to make rapid popping sounds. Then he separated his hands and exercised his right hand, wiggling his fingers and rotating his wrist.

Canidy watched the ritual with mild amusement. He had seen Tubes do the same in the very same place.

The transmitter and receiver had black Bakelite faceplates with an assortment of switches and dials. The bottom right-hand corner of the transmitter featured a round key on a short shaft that resembled a black drawer pull handle.

After a long moment, he finally looked up at Canidy, who was puffing on his cigar.

"Ready when you are. Do you want to send encrypted?"

"No, out in the open is fine. Message: 'Hail, Caesar! We have checked into the Ritz, and are partaking of local wine, women, and song. Tell Hermes thanks for the lift. Send our mail in next five minutes, or tomorrow. Jupiter/Apollo.'"

"Hermes is god of-?"

"Flight, of course. He's also the god of thieves and mischief, which nicely fits Darmstadter. Stan'll figure out that part, no doubt."

John Craig made a weak smile, then looked serious.

"You're not mentioning me, landing in the tree and screwing up my foot? And screwing up the mission?"

"Well, you haven't screwed up the mission. Yet. And what can they do about your foot? It's our problem."

John Craig nodded, then held one of the headphone cups to his ear with his left hand. He looked at the W/T transmitter box and put his right index and middle fingers lightly on the round key, and began rhythmically tapping out the Morse code.

After a minute, he said, "Done. I added 'confirm receipt.'"

Then he threw the switch to RECEIVE.

Almost another minute later, with the can still on his ear, he heard the receiver tap out, "Apollo. Receipt confirmed. Good to hear your hand. Be safe, buddy. Daffy."

John Craig put down the headset, grinning at the mental image of Bob Duck, his deputy in the OSS Algiers commo room. Eighteen-year-old "Daffy" Duck took great delight in mimicking the voice of cartoon characters. He did it as skillfully as he tapped out Morse code-and often did it at the same time, ending more than one string of code by filling the commo room with his lively version of Porky Pig's Tha-tha-that's all, Folks!

"There's confirmation," he said. "Guess we have no mail."

Canidy snuffed out his cigar and put it in his pocket. "Then shut it down and let's get some shut-eye."

"You don't have to tell me twice. . . ."

As John Craig reached for the power-and in his head heard Duck's voice saying, Tha-tha-that's all, Folks!-the receiver came alive.

"Oh, shit!" he exclaimed, reaching for the cans.

Five minutes later, after pulling out the codebook and writing freehand on the transcription pad, he had the message decrypted.

He tore out the sheet and handed it to Canidy.

"And, no," he said, "I did not make up the second part."

"What?" Canidy said as he began reading:

30MAY 2345.

To Jupiter From Caesar Neptune says he will pick you up per usual. Contact him on Schedule EO-1.

Good thing Neptune will, because I have to ground Hermes for what I guess is excessive drinking. He won't quit telling wild story about Apollo shooting down Nazi Giant bird with tiny gun.

More soon. Check six.

[THREE].

OSS Algiers Station Algiers, Algeria 1201 31 May 1943 Stanley Fine was eating a grilled tuna steak on a hard-crusted roll at his desk while reading the overnight messages-and rereading the ones from Wild Bill Donovan and Allen Dulles, and shaking his head-when he heard a knock at his office door.

Oh, hell, he thought when he looked up. What does this sonofabitch want?

"Colonel," Fine called out formally. "Nice to see you. Please come in."

Fine was amazed at how the tall, slender, balding man looked uncannily like his boss-despite the fact that the clean-shaven Ike doesn't have that ridiculous-looking "toilet seat" male-pattern baldness.

Intellectually, however, they had next to nothing in common.

A brilliant soldier, General Dwight David Eisenhower was commander in chief of AFHQ, and already had been tapped to command the even more important invasion of Normandy. Meanwhile, his aide Lieutenant Colonel J. Warren Owen was an Ivy Leagueeducated world-class bullshitter whose only redeeming quality was his ability to recite chapter and verse of military protocol-then force it down others' throats. He was prone to pretension, and always quick to remind everyone who his boss was, and thus, when he spoke, who he spoke for.

Some of Owen's detractors devoutly-if not hopefully-believed that Ike kept Owen around because of the resemblance, and thus made for a convenient decoy-if not a bullet magnet.

Owen entered Fine's office, seemingly awaiting Fine's salute of a superior officer. When Fine simply stood and smiled, Owen unceremoniously held out a manila envelope.

"The General asked me to offer you his warm personal regards," Owen said officiously. "And this."

"Thank you," Fine replied, taking the envelope.

Fine began to sink back into his seat. He did not bother opening the envelope but instead casually tossed it on his desk. He absently motioned for Owen to take the chair before his desk.

Owen's expression made it clear that he did not want to do anything at the suggestion of a lowly captain, but reluctantly he took the seat and somewhat awkwardly crossed his long legs.

"The General," Owen then said, snootily, nodding at the envelope, "asked me to hand deliver to you the details of the bombing plans. He's concerned, of course, about your station there."

Stan Fine, more out of hunger than thought, automatically reached down and picked up his sandwich. Then he made eye contact with the disapproving Owen.

"Forgive me," Fine said. "I should have asked if I could interest you in some lunch. We have a very nice kitchen and a terrific chef. I'm told that this tuna was swimming this morning. Now it's lightly charcoal-grilled-I like my tuna rare-and delicious."

Fine did not think it necessary to share the information that the fish had arrived at Dellys aboard one of Francisco Nola's boats-and with three members of Nola's wife's family just smuggled out of Sicily. The family members were being interviewed at OSS Dellys.

Fine then saw the look on Owen's face and wondered if the idea of rare fish did not meet with Owen's palate.