He dropped like a rock, wailing as he went.
Then the tethered line snapped taut, and the jumper bobbed a few times under the tension of the springs before coming to a rest, gently swinging three feet above the sandpit LZ.
“Nice jump, Pierre!” the instructor called down. He had an American accent. “Next time, though, lose the scream, huh?”
Pierre, hanging his head with relief while staring at the sand LZ, didn’t reply.
Canidy then heard a voice with a slight Italian accent call behind him, “We’ve been expecting you.”
Canidy turned. He saw two men in Army fatigues without insignia coming down the stone steps at the building’s main entrance. Both had dark olive skin and close-cropped black hair and bushy black mustaches; one was about six feet tall, the other a head shorter. He recognized the short one as Max Corvo.
“We got a heads-up from Algiers on the landline,” Corvo said, offering his hand to Canidy. “Good to see you. Max Corvo.”
“I remember,” Canidy said, shaking his hand. “Nice to see you, too.”
“Vincent Scamporino,” the tall man said, offering his hand.
“Dick Canidy,” he replied, taking the hand.
Canidy glanced at Darmstadter.
“And you’ve met the terror of the skies here?” he said.
Corvo turned to Darmstadter.
“I thought we’d come to some agreement about those buzzings,” he said seriously.
“Major Canidy here grabbed the wheel. I was just trying to get control of the aircraft back before he killed us all.”
Corvo, a stern look on his face, studied Canidy.
Canidy shrugged. “He said I should get a close look at the Sandbox.”
Corvo looked at Darmstadter’s blank expression and sensed he was having his chain pulled.
“All right,” Corvo said finally. He looked at Canidy. “Let’s go to my office and talk in private. I’ve got work to do.”
The building construction of the old Catholic school was not unlike that of the villa that served as OSS Algiers Station. It was of a similar sturdy masonry design but more utilitarian, and certainly not as nicely furnished. Its hard surfaces amplified the softest of sounds and caused louder ones to echo.
The room that Corvo called his office had actually been a classroom, one that the church had thoughtfully supplied with a wooden crucifix that filled the space between the top of the doorframe and the ceiling, and, on the wall near the small window, amateur artwork in charcoal of what looked to Canidy’s eye to be biblical scenes.
And that was how Corvo had left the room set up: a teacher’s wooden desk and chairs, at the front of the room in front of the wall that held the wide blackboard, and the remainder of the room filled with two dozen wooden student desks, with hinged wooden writing surfaces, in three rows of eight desks each.
Judging by the size of the desks, Canidy guessed the room had served to instruct boys who were ten or twelve years old.
“Help yourselves to a seat,” Corvo said, leaning his buttocks against the front edge of the teacher’s desk. “Captain Fine said to give you whatever you ask. Tell me what I can do for you.”
Canidy noticed that Darmstadter didn’t move toward a chair, just leaned against the wall. Then Canidy looked at Corvo and wondered if he was the one now doing the chain pulling. But when Scamporino squeezed himself into one of the student desks, Canidy realized that Corvo wasn’t.
“I think I’ll stand,” Canidy said finally. “I’ve been sitting a lot lately.”
“Something to drink?” Corvo said.
“Maybe later, thank you. I’m in a hurry, so let me get right to the point.”
“Please do.”
“I need intel out of Palermo and I need it right now. And I need to set up a wireless team long-term,” Canidy said.