"I know, I know," Fulmar put in, "it means that he's ID'd our mark, the Sparrow, carrying two white Sprungli candy bags."

He glanced down at one such paper bag with thin rope handles that was beside him.

"-And if he moves the hat from his left arm to his right?"

"That's the abort signal."

"Yeah. He's spotted someone we can't afford getting involved with."

Switzerland was surrounded by vast territory under Axis control. And with Adolf Hitler wanting to grind his boot heel on its neck, the Swiss were not going to give the belligerent Nazi leader any excuse to even attempt an invasion. Thus, it was the job of the Swiss foreign police-Fremdenpolizei-to keep an eye on those who might violate Switzerland's neutrality.

Their job was without end-the country was infested with spies of all stripes, particularly the German Abwehr's Kriegsorganisation-War Organization-but also the SS's Gestapo, and of course agents from the Office of Strategic Services and England's Special Operations Executive (SOE) and Secret Intelligence Service (SIS, known as MI-6). The vast majority operated with either a diplomatic or commercial cover.

Sanderson went on: "Fritz said this place is crawling with Kraut spies and that Dulles's contacts have ID'd at least fifteen hundred."

Fulmar grunted. "Yeah, it's called the German Fucking Embassy. And I bet Dulles has tried turning all of them."

Sanderson chuckled.

Allen Welsh Dulles, carrying credentials of a diplomat with the United States Legation to Switzerland, was OSS deputy director for Europe.

Sanderson glanced at his wristwatch, then looked over his shoulder. "Two minutes. Be careful, buddy."

Fulmar picked up a soft leather briefcase-one packed with $10,000 in mixed currencies, all counterfeit but $500 in U.S. ten-dollar bills-and the white Sprungli confectionery bag that was next to it.

"Jawohl, mein Fuhrer!" Fulmar said drily in flawless German, then nodded and continued in equally flawless English: "Don't worry about me. Just make sure you guys grab the bastard after the exchange. See you back at the safe house."

He reached for the door handle, worked it, and swung open the door with a creak of its hinges. A cold gust blew in, and as he stepped out he turned up his woolen coat collar against the wind.

Geoff Sanderson watched as Eric Fulmar more or less casually made his way down Kramgasse. The briefcase and the white Sprungli confectionery bag Fulmar carried in his left hand. His right hand was in his overcoat pocket, gripping his .45.

A minute later, as Fulmar passed some twenty feet in front of Fritz, Fritz moved his ice cream to his left hand, then used his right hand to turn the homburg so that its crown touched his chest.

Sanderson caught the signal and quickly scanned the crowd as he put the Mercedes in gear. It took him a moment but-There! Coming out from beneath the tower!-he first saw the two white bags and then the contact-a man who looked to be in his late thirties and oddly resembled his code name.

The Sparrow had a bony face with beady eyes and a beak of a nose. He had short legs-he stood maybe five-two-and was thin, almost sickly-looking.

The Sparrow stopped, put the bags at his feet, then pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He nervously exhaled as he surveyed the crowd around him. He then noticed a tall blond man approaching with a leather briefcase and a Sprungli confectionery bag-and immediately looked in the opposite direction.

Sanderson then watched as Fulmar stopped and asked the Sparrow for a cigarette. Then, Sanderson knew, they exchanged their code messages: "I don't know which is a worse habit, the actual smoking or always asking for a free smoke," answered with "Everything must have its price, including chocolate."

Sanderson let out on the clutch and slowly rolled toward the men.

He scanned the crowd for anyone who might be taking unusual interest in Fulmar and the Sparrow, noticed none, then watched as Fulmar placed his leather briefcase and confectionery bag beside where the Sparrow had put his two.

The Sparrow produced a cigarette and, after passing it and then lighting it for Fulmar, exchanged nods, reached down to the bags-and grabbed the handle of only the leather case. He turned and tried to casually walk away, but it was clear that he was motioning nervously with his cigarette as he went.

Sanderson watched Fulmar, his lit cigarette hanging from his lips, smoothly scoop up the three Sprungli confectionery bags in his left hand, then quickly disappear in the crowd at the foot of the Zeitglocke.

At almost the same time, Sanderson saw Fritz put the homburg on his head and carefully track the Sparrow as he walked up Kramgasse in their direction.

Sanderson maneuvered the Mercedes so that the vehicle would be positioned directly in front of Fritz, with the Sparrow, walking at a good clip, soon to be between them.

As the Sparrow nervously scanned the crowd, then the taxi, and then the crowd again, two men in heavy dark clothing and hats suddenly converged on him from behind. One man held at his hip what appeared to be a snub-nosed revolver.

"Oh, shit!" Sanderson said aloud, then saw the gun raised and aimed at the Sparrow's back.

Sanderson began hammering the taxi's horn as he reached for the .45 on the seat beside him. Fritz saw what was happening and pulled out his pistol as he moved quickly toward the Sparrow's attackers.

It was too late.

Sanderson saw the revolver's muzzle flash at the same time that the gilded Chronos's heavy hammer struck the ton-and-a-half bronze bell at the stroke of nine.

The resonating loud ring startled some in the crowd. They jumped, then applauded. The bell's ring completely masked the sound of the pistol shot. There was only the muzzle flash, and then the Sparrow stumbled forward, dropping the leather case as he went.

Sanderson raised his .45-but immediately knew that neither he nor Fritz could fire without the chance of them hitting each other.

Again Chronos struck his bell. And again there was a muzzle flash from the attacker's revolver.

As Sanderson jumped from the taxi, the gunman snatched the briefcase and tossed it to his partner. The two men in dark clothing then separated and disappeared into the quickly panicking crowd.

Sanderson and Fritz reached where the Sparrow lay on the cobblestones.

"Get the back door open!" Sanderson ordered, then bent over and grabbed the Sparrow.

He picked up the small limp body and threw him in the backseat, on the cab's floorboard.

Chronos hit his bell.

And there then came the wail of sirens in the distance.

Fritz jumped in the front passenger seat and slammed the door shut as Sanderson ran around the car and got back behind the wheel.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Sanderson said as he ground the Mercedes into gear and then raced down the cobblestone street.

And again Chronos struck his bell.

After accelerating heavily for two blocks, Sanderson slowed the battered taxicab to a more normal speed. The police sirens grew louder, and in the next block he saw emergency lights approaching, becoming brighter as they flashed off the walls of the buildings ahead.

"Shit!" he said again.

He spun the steering wheel and pulled into an alley, killing the cab's masked headlights as he entered. He stopped the car and kept an eye on his rearview mirror. A moment later, the police cars sped past, their flashing lights momentarily illuminating the alley and filling his mirror.

"Close," Fritz said, looking at him.

"Yeah, too close." He motioned toward the backseat floorboard. "Can you check on him?"

Fritz reached down and put a finger on the Sparrow's neck. After feeling he had a slight pulse, he put the back of his hand in front of the Sparrow's nose and mouth.

"Still with us," Fritz announced, "but barely."

"Damn it!"

They sat in silence for a few minutes, and once sirens could barely be heard, Sanderson put the Mercedes in gear, hit the headlights, and drove out of the alley.

They wound their way to Aarstrasse, followed that street along the river to the next traffic circle, went through that, and crossed the River Aare on the Dalmazibrucke.

Not ten minutes later, after winding down the heavily treed Schwellenmattstrasse, the taxi pulled up to the massive wrought-iron gate of an ancient masonry-walled estate. Sanderson killed the headlights. The diesel engine rattled on in the dark.

About to tap the horn, he muttered, "Where the hell is he?"

Then a sentry in a long black overcoat appeared from the shadows just beyond the gate. Despite the heavy overcoat, Sanderson could tell that the guard carried a weapon-a Thompson Model 1928A1 submachine gun-concealed underneath.

The sentry walked up to the driver's window and looked in as the window came down.

"Open the goddamn gate!" Sanderson flared. "What are you waiting for?"

Jesus! he thought. It's always easiest to assign guard duty to those who really aren't bright enough for more difficult work-but then you're stuck having dimwits with weapons guarding the goddamn gates.

The sentry almost immediately recognized Sanderson-if not his voice and tone-then trotted to the gate and swung it open inward.

The diesel motor revved, and the Mercedes passed through into a courtyard.

There were two heavy wooden garage doors, and the left one then began to move upward. When it was more than halfway open, Geoff Sanderson saw that the man who was opening it was Eric Fulmar. Beyond him, at the back of the garage, was his BMW motorcycle. And resting on its seat was a single white Sprungli confectionery bag.

That hadn't surprised him.

But after the wooden door had been completely opened, and Sanderson had moved the Mercedes inside, the interior light gave him a better look at Fulmar.

What the hell?

Why is he covered in blood?

"What the hell happened to you?" Sanderson said as he got out of the car.

"Someone thought they wanted the bag more than I did," Fulmar said with a shrug, then looked at Fritz stepping out of the car and added: "They were wrong. Had to use my knife after all."

[TWO].

OSS Algiers Station Algiers, Algeria 1003 30 May 1943 "Nice to see you again, Major Canidy!" John Craig van der Ploeg announced, his tone upbeat, as he walked up to the table with a handful of decrypted messages.

"You, too," Dick Canidy said, "but how many damn times do I have to tell you not to call me 'major' or 'sir'? I'll throw you off this balcony if you even think of saluting."

"Yes, si-" van der Ploeg began automatically before catching himself. He absently looked at the sheets of newly decrypted messages he held. "Right."

Van der Ploeg was eighteen, with a youthful energy about him. He had olive skin and an unruly shock of wiry jet-black hair that stuck out at odd angles. He easily could pass as Sicilian-which was what Canidy was looking for in a team member for the second mission that ultimately set up MERCURY STATION-but even better for Canidy was the fact that van der Ploeg was a master at operating the SSTR-1 wireless telegraphy (W/T) set.

He'd readily accepted Canidy's offer to join the mission-but when he showed up dockside at the Port of Algiers and saw the submarine that would be taking the team to Sicily, he admitted that he suffered from acute claustrophobia.

"A train, a plane, a ship-anything with windows I can do," he had said with great resignation, his youthful energy clearly shot. "No one will be happy with me if I board that sub."

With the Casabianca ready to sail, postponing the mission was not an option. That had forced Canidy to recruit one of the radio operators from the commo room at the Sea View Villa.

Twenty-four-year-old Jim Fuller was another master at W/T. Before the war, he and John Craig van der Ploeg had learned Morse code in the Boy Scouts and now had become fast friends as they practiced sending coded messages back and forth. The tall and easygoing Fuller, with shaggy blond hair and all-American features, looked and talked like the Californian that he was. He even had a surfer nickname-"Tubes"-which he earned at age ten from riding under the curl of the wave, where it formed a tube.

In early April, Canidy had been sitting in the same seat at the teak table on the balcony reading messages from MERCURY STATION when van der Ploeg came from the commo room and handed him another message that he'd just decrypted. In it, Tubes said that Nola wanted OSS Algiers to send weapons for them to stockpile and more money for bribes. Canidy responded by saying to send whatever they said . . . until van der Ploeg announced that he did not believe Tubes actually had sent the message.

"That's not his hand," he'd explained. "It's Mercury Station's radio frequency, but whoever is operating the W/T has all the finesse of a ham-fisted gorilla. Tubes is silky smooth."

That Tubes had not sent the code for a compromised station only made it appear more suspicious.

"Have a seat," Dick Canidy said to John Craig van der Ploeg, motioning to the chair nearest Stan Fine's. "You should hear for your general wealth of knowledge what I was just telling Captain Fine."

As John Craig van der Ploeg took his seat, he said, "What's that?"

"That what the SS is up to in Poland is every bit as vicious as what I found them doing with the yellow fever experiment in Palermo," Canidy said, then looked back at Fine. "Torture, slavery, slaughter-same as I saw in Sicily. It all boggles the mind. Even as you begin to comprehend what is happening, you are in denial. You can't believe that humans-supposedly civilized man-could treat another with such cruelty."

"And that's in Sicily?" John Craig asked.

"On a smaller scale than Poland, but yes, it's there," Canidy said, then added, "You haven't heard any of this?"

"Read, yes," John Craig said. "As I sent and received the messages about what the SS did to those Mafia prisoners, I tried reading between the lines . . . and wondered. But heard? Not directly from you."

Canidy raised his eyebrows as he took a sip of coffee, then nodded.

"The inside of that old villa they were using for the yellow fever experiment was a cesspool," he began. "The rancid smell of rotting flesh made you sick to your stomach. The men, their bodies bruised and disfigured, were on wooden gurneys. Leather straps secured their wrists and ankles. Dirty gray sweat- and bloodstained gowns more or less covered their torsos. Their arms and legs-with festering wounds oozing dark fluids-were exposed. The bodies all had rashes. The dead ones were bloated."

Canidy looked over the lip of his cup at Fine, and added, "It really was hellish-something out of Dante's Inferno. Knowing that the SS does this, I don't know how Francisco and Mordechaj control their rage as much as they do-"

"Who is Mordechaj?" John Craig asked.

"-because if that were happening in my country," Canidy finished, ignoring the interruption, "and I had a family, nothing could hold me back from getting my pound of flesh out of the bastards."