What the hell?
He put his fingers behind his aviator sunglasses and rubbed his eyes.
Am I seeing things?
Shielding his eyes against the glare of the low sun, he looked down at the surface—and the long shadow cast by a fishing boat down there.
He tapped Darmstadter’s shoulder. Holding his left index finger upright, he made a circling motion.
Darmstader immediately understood, scanned the sky for other aircraft, and stood the Gooney Bird on her starboard wing, putting her belly toward the sun.
That cut the glare, and when Canidy looked out the windscreen, his direct view was now that of the ocean surface.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” he suddenly said.
He motioned to get Darmstadter’s attention, then pointed at the ocean surface, signaling for him to take a closer look.
Darmstadter banked the aircraft a little more for a clearer look, then saw the shape of the small boat and its shadow. He nodded, leveled off, then pushed the yoke forward, the nose instantly dipping.
God does take care of fools and drunks, Canidy thought, and I qualify on both accounts.
Canidy got on the intercom.
“Can you get all the way down on the deck, Hank, so I can be sure?” he said. It was a statement more than a question.
Darmstadter made turns so that the Gooney Bird would approach the fishing boat from the stern, keeping to its port side so that Canidy, in the copilot’s seat, would have an unobstructed view.
As they closed on the aft of the boat, brightly lit by the sun, Canidy could see four people at the transom. They watched the aircraft, and no doubt wondered what the hell it wanted.
“Not too close,” Canidy said over the intercom. “Never know who has an itchy trigger finger.”
Darmstadter raised an eyebrow and nodded.
They flew closer, and Canidy was sure he could make out the tall, solidly built man whom he knew to have an olive complexion, thick black hair and mustache, and a rather large nose. He’d last seen him five days ago, when Canidy and professor Arturo Rossi stepped off that boat and into the submarine.
In a flash, the Gooney Bird caught up to the boat and blew past. Canidy had just enough time to glance at the faces aboard—Yep, that’s Frank Nola, in the flesh—and to read what was painted on the ship’s bow just below the rusty anchor: STEFANIA.
Sweet Jesus, he thought, smiling. They did get out okay.
Or at least look like they’re okay.
Then he raised his left hand so that the palm faced down, rocked it left to right, then with his index finger poked repeatedly toward Algiers.
Darmstadter nodded in understanding.
He waved the wings of the Gooney Bird at the crew of the boat, then gained altitude before heading for the airfield.
[THREE]
OSS Whitbey House Station Kent, England 1655 2 April 1943
It had been a ghastly, mind-numbing day. The weather had turned dreadful and dreary—again—the gray-black clouds rumbling with the threat of rain. Worse, the day’s paperwork had seemed endless. And as twenty-two-year-old Charity Hoche walked quickly down the wide corridor to her bedroom, heels tapping rhythmically on the parquet flooring, she knew that there was only one thing that could even begin to make up for it.
I’ve been working since five o’clock, she thought. I deserve this. Twelve hours is enough.
Charity Hoche was accustomed to getting what Charity Hoche wanted.
And no damn war is going to change that.