Nola took a turn at the scope to see if he could tell if it was one of his boats being shaken down—right at the time the Germans machine-gunned the fishermen. Nola became hysterical when the Casabianca’s captain ordered an emergency dive and heard that they could not shoot at the S-boat and risk themselves being fired on—and their mission blown.
At least L’Herminier put a torpedo in the S-boat that was escorting the ship carrying the Tabun that he took out with a second fish.
Two blocks farther down Cristoforo Columbo, he came to the single-story brick building that held Nola’s import-export business office. It was where he had introduced Canidy and Tubes Fuller to the Brothers Buda.
Antonio and Giacomo—aka Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Fucking Dumb.
Canidy turned the corner and realized he now was walking through what at first glance was trash scattered all up and down the street. Then he looked closely at a couple of the eight-by-ten-inch sheets and realized they were familiar. He picked up one for a closer look of its sketch—a German soldier’s helmet on top of a wooden cross and the word “You?”
Hank passed over Palermo all right.
Kauffman should’ve tossed them out a little more slowly so they didn’t all land in almost one spot. Too bad he didn’t dump these directly on the SS over in Quattro Canti Quarter. . . .
Canidy tossed the sheet back to the street and walked up to the door of the building. The weight of his .45 in the small of his back was somewhat reassuring as he stood to the side of the wooden door and rapped on it with his knuckles.
But I’d rather have the Johnny gun that I left with Apollo. . . .
* * *
An hour earlier, Canidy had walked out of the small crapper and found John Craig van der Ploeg struggling to get off his torn mattress. John Craig had pulled off his boots before going to sleep at midnight. His right foot had looked swollen then. Now, in the morning light, it looked both swollen and horribly bruised.
Rising to his left knee, he slowly tried putting weight on the injured foot—and his face contorted with pain.
“Damn it!” he said, shaking his head.
“As much as I hate to say it,” Canidy said, “you’re not going anywhere today. Even if you could manage to walk, you’d draw attention. You just need to give that damn foot time to heal.”
John Craig van der Ploeg glanced over at the radio.
“At least I still can run that.”
“Yeah, and it probably works out better that you do sit on the radio while I go see what I can find this morning. What is the radio schedule?”
“They’re alternating ones. With Neptune, it’s her usual Schedule OE1-0—odd-numbered days she will transmit and be available to receive at fifteen minutes after odd hours. On even-numbered days, it’s fifteen minutes after even hours. With Algiers, it’s Schedule OE3-0, which means we’re available during the same odd/even setup, but it’s fifteen minutes before the hour.”
Canidy glanced at his wristwatch.
“Today’s the thirty-first. And it’s ten after seven. So Neptune should be on the air in five. Think you can raise her?”
John Craig nodded.
“If the Casabianca’s at periscope depth and ready to receive.”
He stood, putting all his weight on his left leg. Sliding his hand along the wall, he started hopping toward the window, almost dragging the bum foot. It took a little effort, and a lot of pain, but he eventually got situated at the radio, carefully keeping clear of the dried pool of blood.
He then went through the ritual of warming up his right hand and wrist.
“Time?” he finally said.
“Sixteen after,” Canidy said.
John Craig then tapped out Morse code alerting Neptune that Jupiter was standing by.
John Craig switched to RECEIVE, picked up the headset and put one of the cans to his ear, then reached into the suitcase and came up with a transcription pad.
Canidy and John Craig then stared at the W/T.
Nothing happened.