And now where the hell do I look?

Maybe check the port and Nola's warehouse? Could ask Antonio if there's more T-83-what he calls "buh-lets." That has to happen at some point.

But then what? I guess just go back and see if John Craig has raised Tubes or whoever on Mercury Station, then try to track the signal.

Wait . . . the hooker!

John Craig said that Tubes wrote him about a whorehouse. Tubes didn't find that on his own. Nola had to show him. And if Nola knows where it is, so should his cousin.

Canidy then pointed again at Antonio, then at his own eyes . . . then paused.

Okay, how the hell do I mime "whorehouse" without looking like a fool?

In point of fact, how the hell do I mime anything without looking like a fucking fool?

He looked back at Antonio, who appeared to be waiting somewhat anxiously for his next clue.

Wait . . . that's it!

He then slipped the .45 inside his waistband at the small of his back.

Canidy then smiled and started over.

He pointed at Antonio, then at his own eyes, then with his right hand, he made a circle with the index finger and thumb and then poked his left index finger in and out of the circle.

"Si?" he said, and repeated the poking motion.

Antonio's eyes grew huge and his body seemed to quiver.

Antonio then very loudly and very angrily said, "Andrea?"

Oh, shit!

Then, hands and arms flying, he let loose with a rapid-fire barrage of what Canidy decided were probably very colorful Sicilian longshoreman expletives.

"No, no, no!" Canidy quickly said, holding his hands palm out and shaking his head.

Antonio stopped his verbal salvo and stared intently at Canidy.

Now what the hell do I do?

What would- Oh yeah!

Canidy then held out his right hand toward Antonio, then repeatedly rubbed the tip of his thumb across the tips of all his fingers. Then he again made a circle with the index finger and thumb, then poked his left index finger in and out of it.

Antonio looked at Canidy's hands, then met his eyes.

Canidy saw that there now was a conspiratorial gleam to Antonio's eyes-It's damn near a leer-as he chuckled a knowing Heh-heh.

"Si!" Antonio finally said slowly, smiling broadly.

He started to stand. The process of getting to his feet took a moment, and when he was finally up, he was not steady.

Canidy feared that the movement was going to trigger another episode of flatulence. It did not come to pass.

Antonio Buda led Dick Canidy-unsteadily at first, with only two comparatively brief episodes of flatulence-almost twenty blocks to Palermo's four corners city center. There they turned down an alley, and finally took some stone steps that led below street level.

We're entering a whorehouse through a secret entrance?

No, it looks like a service entrance.

There was a heavy steel door that had at eye level a smaller door behind metal bars. With his sausage-shaped knuckles, Tweedle Dee rapped out a series of three knocks three times. There was no answer, and after a minute, he sighed, then repeated the code, this time knocking harder and louder.

There was no answer still, and Antonio looked at Canidy and shrugged. They waited another minute, then an impatient Canidy hammered the code out with his fist.

The smaller door suddenly flung open, and the left side of what looked like a young woman's smooth-skinned face immediately filled it. Her big brown eye curiously darted between Canidy and Buda-then the face and eye were yanked out of the way.

That was a really good-looking woman, Canidy thought.

A pockmarked acne-skinned face with a hard-looking dark eye immediately replaced the first. The eye also darted between them, this one looking less with curiosity than it did with great suspicion.

Judging by how the face was turned to look up and out, Canidy guessed it was that of a boy.

He must be standing on his tiptoes.

And his haircut is about as bad as the Budas' bowl cuts.

The boy's face then quickly pulled back, and the small door slammed shut. There then came the sound of locks being turned, and the door was opened slightly. A small male arm then appeared in the opening, impatiently waving them to come in. Tweedle Dee had to push open the door more in order to fit though the gap. When Canidy had followed, the door was slammed shut and it was immediately locked by the boy. The woman was nowhere to be seen.

Canidy was surprised to see that the boy had a stub of a cigarette now dangling from his lips-and then realized that the boy wasn't a boy.

It's a fucking midget!

The adult male stood four-foot-four. He wore the pants and vest of a dark gray woolen suit, and a wrinkled white open-collared cotton shirt, its sleeves rolled up past his elbows.

And he's armed!

Canidy could see that inside the man's waistband, somewhat hidden by the vest and his suspenders, he carried a small-frame semiautomatic pistol. It was familiar to Canidy. The black Colt Model 1903 Pocket Hammerless, chambered in .380 ACP, was standard issue as general officers' pistols-and for officers in the OSS.

Should I be suspicious of where the hell Shorty got that Colt?

Hell, if he's Mafia, then he probably stole it.

But where would he get one here?

The midget then took a last long drag on the cigarette, tossed it to the stone floor, and stubbed it out with the toe of his shoe as he exhaled.

See, John Craig? Canidy thought, suppressing a chuckle. Here's proof those damn things will stunt your growth.

And they apparently cause craters of zits. . . .

Canidy discreetly scanned the room and saw that they were in some sort of a storage room. The wooden shelving along the right wall was stuffed with stacks of folded linens. Against the far wall were cases of canned food and wine in stacks five to six feet high.

Antonio Buda bent over to exchange pats on the back with the midget. Then they had a brief conversation, one with a great deal of gesticulating. The only thing Canidy understood for sure was the mentioning of Francisco Nola. The man constantly glanced at Canidy as Antonio spoke.

I wonder, since he's carrying that Colt, why he didn't see if I've got a gun.

Maybe Antonio's telling him now. . . .

Then Antonio pointed at Canidy's coat.

Shit, he is!

But then Canidy realized he was pointing to where Canidy had put the envelope. Canidy produced the letter of introduction that was written in Sicilian.

Here you go, Shorty.

He watched the man read it, raise his eyebrows, and nodded. The midget then looked up and studied Canidy for a long moment. He said something to him in Sicilian. Canidy was about to gesture he didn't understand when Antonio said what Canidy guessed was exactly that-he didn't speak Sicilian.

Then the man grunted and marched out of the room with the letter.

Now what?

I don't want that damn thing disappearing!

Canidy looked at Antonio, who shrugged but then put out his hands as if he were a priest blessing his congregation, the gesture suggesting It'll be okay.

Canidy raised an eyebrow and made a face.

It damn well better be.

Glancing around the storage room, Canidy saw nothing unusual among the shelves-until he came to two medium-sized cardboard boxes. One was labeled bluntly in black block lettering, the other in a flowing red typeface that was below a red cartoon drawing.

The black was in German. It read: LATEX FORSCHUNGSGEMEINSCHAFT KONDOME.

The red was in Italian-PER AMORE-and the drawing was that of Cupid putting what looked like a balloon on his blunt-tipped arrow.

Aha! Occupational necessity . . . condoms.

And guess which one's stick-up-their-ass Kraut-made and which one's Italian.

Five minutes later, the midget appeared at the door to the storage room and exchanged a few words with Antonio. He then looked at Canidy and motioned for him to follow him.

Canidy looked at Antonio and raised an eyebrow.

Antonio started with miming. He pointed to Canidy and gave him a thumbs-up. Then he pointed at himself, held his palms together at the side of his head, indicating sleep, then pointed in the direction of the import-export office.

Okay, so he's going back to the couch to sleep-and probably to fart. No surprise.

Canidy gave him a thumbs-up that he understood.

Then Antonio made the knowing leer again. He formed the circle with thumb and index finger and poked at it. He grinned and gave Canidy a thumbs-up.

What the hell? I'm not here to get laid.

He'd better not have given Shorty the wrong idea. . . .

The midget caught the exchange. He grunted.

"Prego!" the man said, gesturing impatiently for Canidy to follow.

[THREE].

Schutzstaffel Field Office Palermo, Sicily 0905 31 May 1943 SS-Obersturmbannfuhrer Oskar Kappler grinned inwardly watching the visibly hungover SS-Sturmbannfuhrer Hans Muller desperately fumble as he closed the blinds of the window to his office. It had rained most of the night, and the morning light was especially bright, causing Muller to shield his eyes as he did so.

The office was very nicely furnished. There were fine oil paintings, thick rugs, and heavy ornate furniture. Muller clearly had helped himself to whatever he wanted in Palermo. Seeing that made Kappler remember the story his father had told about Goring's "sweetest dream of looting and looting completely"-and that that criminal mentality, especially at the highest levels, had been what motivated him to diversify the family assets in other countries.

Kappler sat on the leather-upholstered couch, carefully sipping coffee from a fine china cup. A china coffee service that had been brought in by SS-Scharfuhrer Gunther Burger was on the low table before him.

Everything about Muller looked worse than usual-he had huge dark bags under his unpleasant dark eyes, his paunch was distinctly bloated, his thin black hair stuck out at odd angles.

You look like shit, Hans ol' buddy.

And from all that booze you clearly feel like it, too.

Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy . . .

"Herr Obersturmbannfuhrer," Muller said after he sank into the leather chair behind his desk and picked up his coffee cup. "I thank you for being understanding about having to postpone the review of the warehouse until later. I thought that they understood my orders to be prepared this morning. I will deal with them later, and I promise you it won't happen again."

Who the hell do you think you're kidding, you bastard?

We're not going anywhere because you're too damn hungover.

You're just lucky that I drank far more than I should have.

And that I did not actually get a lot of sleep.

If I felt any better myself, I'd insist we go just so that I could enjoy watching you suffer. . . .