The Spymasters (Men at War 7)

“Nice work.”

John Craig van der Ploeg smiled. “Thank you. But the part of the chickenfeed that tells me whoever is running Tubes’s W/T isn’t really Tubes comes from the personal stuff I send him. We exchanged a lot of information when we practiced—including, of course, about . . .”

“About what?”

Canidy could see that John Craig was embarrassed.

“For Chrissake, the man’s life is at stake. What the hell can you be embarrassed about?”

“Well, we used to message back and forth about girls. And then, right before you came back from Sicily, he messaged me about that girl he met there in Palermo.”

Canidy looked at him for a long time.

Jesus, he’s talking about Andrea Buda.

And Tubes was more than smitten with her.

And why wouldn’t he be? Twenty years old, maybe five-seven with a perfect curved figure. Inviting, doe-like almond eyes. Rich chestnut brown hair that fell to her shoulders. And those perfect, magnificent breasts . . .

Yeah, small wonder he had a hard-on for her.

Wait. That one afternoon she just disappeared—is she the reason Tubes got caught by the SS?

That can’t be possible. She hid from the SS.

Professor Rossi’s sister taught her to pray the rosary in church.

And her father’s a fisherman on one of Nola’s boats.

Not to mention those morons Tweedle Fucking Dee and Dumb are her brothers. Stupid as a box of rocks, yes, but they did tell me where the Tabun was stashed. . . .

“Andrea,” Canidy furnished.

John Craig van der Ploeg nodded.

“She is stunning,” Canidy said.

“That’s what he said. That and really . . . uh, horny.”

Really!

Well, no surprise there. She exuded sex from her every pore.

“And?” Canidy said.

“Well, uh, he told me certain things that she liked, uh, when they were getting, well, you know, doing things only he would know.”

I can only imagine what those were, Canidy thought. And I told that sonofabitch to keep his hands off her—that thinking with the little head could get him killed.

Shit. Maybe that is what happened . . .

“And when I alluded to them in the chickenfeed,” John Craig went on, “whoever was working the W/T did not have a clue what I was talking about. Then there was talk about a brothel, which made no sense. Why would he pay for hookers if he had something as hot as Andrea? And for free.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” Canidy automatically replied. “One way or another, you pay for the companionship of women. As a rear admiral at Pensacola once told me, ‘Son, if it flies, floats, or fucks—rent it!’ I’m not a hundred percent onboard with that. Deep inside this hard-ass persona is an old-school romantic who doesn’t share women. But now, John Craig, you, too, are privy to that distinguished old sailor’s sage advice and may apply it as you see fit.”

Canidy glanced at Fine, who he saw was grinning, then said, “Anyway, so you created your own danger signal for a compromised station. Very nicely done.”

“John Craig is good,” Fine put in. “That’s why I made him our station signal officer.”