Hoss went to the door, stopped, and looked over his shoulder.

"Herr Kappler?"

Wolfgang Kappler looked up from the stack of papers, his green eyes staring intently. "Yes?"

"It is good to have you back. It's been very . . . very unnerving around here lately."

I don't believe a damn word you said, except maybe the unnerving part.

"Thank you."

Hoss nodded and left, pulling the door closed after him.

Kappler quickly went to the stack of papers that Hoss had brought. He had flipped through them and found the Special Program order when, a moment later, the door opened and Frau Bruna Baur appeared.

"A moment of your time, Herr Kappler?"

He waved her in, and she closed the door.

"I am not clear what I am to do," she began.

"About what?"

"I just received a call from someone who said they were calling on behalf of Herr Wernher von Braun."

"And?"

"They wished to speak to Herr Hoss or whoever was now in charge."

Interesting that they understood the bean counter was serving temporarily until we could replace Schwartz.

"Ordinarily, I would have had Herr Hoss take the call. But seeing how you are here now, I thought . . ."

Kappler nodded. "You thought correctly. Any idea what they wanted?"

"No idea. When I asked if there was a message, the reply was simply that the call to Herr von Braun's office should be returned as soon as possible."

What could that be about?

Maybe Schwartz is changing his scheduled visit here? Or did he get himself in some hot water?

"Very well. See if you can get them back on the phone. Also, any word from Krupp?"

"Yes, sir. As I said earlier, I called Herr Krupp's office and left your message. When the call was returned just now, by his assistant, she said that Herr Krupp appreciated your condolences for what happened to his people in the Ruhr bombings, that he offered the same to you for your losses, and that he would be pleased to meet with you the next time you are in Berlin."

"Very good."

"It is quite difficult to imagine what has happened in the Ruhr," she then said.

It is damn difficult even when you've seen the photographs. . . .

Kappler noticed that she held her hands together nervously. Then he saw that she held a very tightly folded sheet of paper.

"Have you seen this?" she said somewhat hesitantly, fumbling as she unfolded the sheet.

He looked at the paper she held out. It appeared to be some kind of mass-produced flyer.

"These began showing up here two days ago," she said. "I found this one on the floor of the ladies' toilets."

Kappler took the sheet and read it.

These must be what Allen Dulles said were going to be air-dropped.

"Is there any truth to what it says?" she said. "Are the Americans making those kind of advances?"

He looked up at her and said, "You do realize the grave danger of possessing something like this should the Gestapo find it? Or even Hoss?"

She nodded. "And that would suggest that it's true. If it were lies, they would not care that we have it."

Kappler looked at her a long moment.

It is evident in her eyes. She does indeed still mourn the loss of her son.

As would I if something were to happen to Oskar.

Kappler nodded and said, "From what I understand, yes. They actually were British bombers. Thousands died when the floodwater escaped the dams. There is limited water. And without the dams' hydroelectric plant, there is no power for what homes and industries do remain."

"They said something like this could never happen, that it was impossible."

"Yes, they did."

"Just as they said we would not fail at Leningrad," she added bitterly.

Kappler made a face that he hoped looked sympathetic.

How many mothers must feel as she does?

"All lies this Hitler tells," she then said. "If the impossible has happened, then it could happen again. And that means the bombings . . ."

He nodded. "They could mean the beginning of the end."

Which very well could explain the desperate production rate of high explosive and nerve gas for this Special Program. . . .

[TWO].

Palermo, Sicily 0820 31 May 1943 "Ciao, Antonio," Dick Canidy said, aiming his pistol at the two-hundred-pound five-foot-five Sicilan lying on his back on the grimy couch. Antonio Buda's olive skin was coarse from a lifetime of wind and sea and sun exposure. He wore dirty denim overalls that fit tightly, bulging at his rolls of belly fat.

Wide-eyed, Antonio immediately let loose of the wine bottle neck as he held up his hands chest-high, palms out. The empty bottle clunked on the raw stone floor.

"Sit up," Canidy said, taking a step back and gesturing with the pistol.

Antonio swung his feet to the floor, then keeping his left hand up at chest level, used his right hand to push his massive body to the sitting position.

As he brought his right hand back up, he leaned slightly forward-and experienced an intense episode of flatulence. It went on deeply and loudly before finally ending.

Jesus Christ, Tweedle Dee! That was special.

But I guess that's to be expected of one so damn big.

What goes in . . .

Then Antonio leaned back-and there came a second episode, one lasting nearly as long.

Is he going to shit his shorts next?

What was that-from the wine?

Or from being nervous because he's looking down the muzzle of a .45?

Antonio then grimaced and made a shrug that could have been meant as an apology.

Canidy sighed. After a moment he reached inside his jacket.

He came out with the envelope containing Charley Lucky's handkerchief and letters of introduction. He gave Antonio the letter that was written in Sicilian.

Keeping his left hand high, Antonio took the letter in his right, read it, looked Canidy in the eyes, and nodded, then handed it back.

Canidy, after returning the envelope to his pocket, then carefully put his left thumb and index finger on either side of the hammer of his .45, squeezed the trigger, and gently decocked the weapon.

Then he motioned for Antonio to put down his hands.

When Antonio had, Canidy made a thumbs-up gesture, and as he did so, a wave of relief flowed over Antonio's face. He responded with a thumbs-up, and added a weak smile.

"Where is Francisco Nola?" Canidy said, remembering that the Brothers Buda understood a little English-very little.

"Francisco?" Tweedle Dee said, turning his head and seeming to somewhat understand.

Is Tweedle Dee now playing Tweedle Dumb?

"Francisco," Canidy repeated. "Where is he?"

Antonio shook his head and shrugged.

Oh, this is just fucking great. Conversing with Nola-who also has a room temperature IQ-was never exactly stimulating.

Is he saying he doesn't know where, or doesn't understand what I'm asking?

Now what do I do?

Oh, what the hell. It's worth a try. . . .

Using his left hand, Canidy then pointed at Antonio, then pointed at his own eyes, then said, "Francisco?"

Antonio stared blankly back with his bloodshot eyes.

Canidy shook his head.

Where is Marcel Marceau when you need the sonofabitch?

Canidy thought he then noticed a flicker of recognition in Antonio's eyes.

He knows?

And then Antonio leaned forward and had a short episode of flatulence.

Antonio shrugged and shook his head.

"No Francisco," he said.

Canidy exhaled audibly.

"No Francisco?" Canidy repeated.

Antonio shook his head again.

Canidy then once more pointed at Antonio, then at his own eyes, then said, "Tubes?"

Antonio shook his head.

Damn it! But at least he didn't let rip with another window-rattling fart. . . .

Canidy repeated the miming and said, "Andrea?"

Antonio's face seemed to turn sad at the mention of his sister. Then he shook his head.

All three of them? He hasn't seen a single one? Not even his sister?

What could that mean? Certainly nothing good . . .