The Double Agents (AUDIOBOOK) (CD)

by W. E. B. Griffin

  “I thought that that was you,” Nola said warmly.

  “Frank,” Canidy said with a wave from the pier, “I cannot tell you how good it is to see you.”

  Nola looked at him a bit oddly. “I appreciate the kind words, Dick. But…why?”

  “I was worried that you—” Canidy paused and looked around cautiously.

  Nola noticed that. “Come on board,” he said.

  One of the crew members pushed past Nola.

  Nola called to him, “Go up there and tell Giuseppe that we have some kind of fuel-flow problem and that I want him to take a look at it now.”

  “Yes, sir,” the crew member said and jumped down to the pier.

  Canidy caught that. “So that’s why you’re late coming in? Fuel starvation? After we flew over you, I calculated how long it would take you to reach dock and you took twice the time.”

  Nola nodded.

  “We lost power today more times than I want to count,” Nola explained. “I found that if I kept the RPMs low, all was fine. But anything over nineteen hundred, she’d shut down. Just happened today, which makes me wonder if it’s trash in the fuel from the bottom of the tank. We’re very, very low on diesel.”

  Nola motioned toward the cabin.

  Canidy stepped up onto the boat, and they went inside the cabin.

  Nola left the door open, and, after a moment, Canidy understood why.

  Stacked all along the walls of the cabin were cases labeled as containing canned almonds and pistachios. Two crew members came in and each picked up a case and carried it outside to a pallet that had been put on the pier.

  Nuts? Wonder if that’s really what’s in there? Canidy thought. But what else could it be?

  And all this wasn’t in here when they took us out to meet the submarine.

  Then another crew member came up from down below. In his arms were two cases of olive oil—each holding six one-liter bottles, according to the stencil on the side of the boxes—and he, too, went out the door and to the pallet.

  Nola settled into the well-worn seat atop the rickety pedestal at the helm. There was a box at his feet labeled OLIVE OIL, its top flaps folded closed.

  Canidy noticed that on the helm beyond the wooden spoked wheel was a large cutting board. On it was a knife that was long and thin, its blade sharpened so many times that it was almost picklike. Next to the knife was a slab of fish flesh, about a kilo in weight, and a beautiful, bright ruby red color that was not at all bloody. There were squeezed halves of lime and lemon, an open bottle of olive oil, the skins and an end of what had once been a whole onion, a few finger-shaped red peppers, and some sort of minced green-leaf spice.

  He wondered more than idly what the hell that was—he hadn’t eaten anything substantial since breakfast—but pressed on to more-important matters.

  “We need to discuss Palermo,” Canidy said. “Especially the cargo ship that I blew up.”

  Nola nodded. “What about it?”

  “Have you had any word from Palermo?” Canidy asked.

  Nola shook his head.

  “Nothing since we left?” Canidy pursued.

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “Is there any way to get in touch with someone there?”

  Assuming they’re still alive, he thought, and not being dumped at sea, as the Nazis try to cover up the mass deaths from my Tabun cloud.

  Nola considered that a moment, then said, “Not without going there.” He stared at Canidy. “What is this about?”

  Canidy inhaled deeply, collected his thoughts, then exhaled.

  “There was nerve gas on the ship—”

  “Yes, I know,” Nola interrupted. “Which was why you blew it up.”

  “But the professor we brought out—?”

  “Professor Rossi,” Nola offered, his voice rising as it turned emotional. “Is he all right? Something happened to him on the submarine?”

  “No, no,” Canidy said, shaking his head. “Listen to me, Frank.”

  Nola stared at Canidy. He kept quiet, motioning for Canidy to continue.

  “Rossi has explained to us that it is highly likely that the burning nerve gas from that ship created a cloud that caused mass deaths—anyone near the port, and possibly farther inland.”

  Nola’s eyes grew wide and he quickly moved his hand from forehead to chest, making the sign of the cross over his body.

  “Dear Holy Jesus,” he whispered.

  Canidy nodded solemnly.

  “Rossi did say that there was some small chance that it was only the fuel that burned and that the Tabun went to the harbor bottom—”

  Nola’s eyebrows went up.

  “But that’s the long shot,” Canidy finished.

  Nola frowned.

  After a moment, Canidy went on: “I have to find out exactly what has happened there. And I need to know what happened with you after we got on the submarine.”

  Nola shook his head.

  “I do not understand,” he said softly and slowly, clearly still in shock over the realization of the atrocity that a nerve gas cloud could cause.

  “Where did you go,” Canidy said, “what did you see after the submarine left?”

  Nola again shook his head.

  Canidy sighed.

  “Okay,” he said. “Did you go back into the port at Palermo?”

  Nola shook his head.

  “Did you sit and wait for the villa to blow?”

  Nola shook his head.

  “Jesus Christ, Frank!” Canidy flared. “You’ve got to help me here!”

  Nola looked hurt.

  “Sorry, Frank.”

  After a moment, Nola finally spoke: “It didn’t.”

  “What didn’t?” Canidy said.

  “It didn’t,” Nola repeated.

  “You mean the villa did not explode?” Canidy said.

  Nola shrugged.

  “There was only one blast that night,” he explained, then softly added, “the one from the boat with the gas.”

  Jesus! Canidy considered that for a moment.

  Well, there could be any number of reasons for that.

  Maybe Rossi’s men at the villa got cold feet after the cargo ship exploded.

  Maybe they bungled the C-2 charges. Plastic explosive is mostly foolproof—but not completely.

  Or maybe the charges were discovered by that Nazi sonofabitch, that SS Sturmbannführer Whatshisname.

  Who the hell knows?

  “What would be the fastest method of getting news from Sicily?” Canidy asked.

  “There should be another of our fishing boats arriving in the next day—”

  “In the next day?”

  “—or two. It’s the one I met off of Marsala, when we took on these cases”—he motioned at the boxes stacked about the cabin—“before it continued fishing. And then there’s another boat a day or two after that.”

  Canidy shook his head.

  “Not good enough,” he said. “That’s if they got out of Palermo unharmed. And if they did, then if they didn’t break down between here and there. And if not that, then if they didn’t get waylaid by some goddamn Kraut gunboat on patrol.”

  He sighed loudly.

  “We don’t have the time to wait on so many ifs. We need the intel now.”

  Nola shrugged.

  Canidy looked him directly in the eyes.

  “I’m going to ask you something, Frank,” he said, “and I want you to think about it before replying. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I need someone to be my eyes and ears in Palermo, someone who is connected and can help me collect information on the Nazis—specifically, their use of the nerve gas and yellow fever. Would you—”

  “Yes!”

  “I said to think before replying. You don’t even know what I want you to do. Because should you be caught, you will be killed.”

  Nola was silent a long moment, during which time he looked deeply into Canidy’s eyes.

  “Okay,” he then s
aid. “I have thought about it. And this is what I have thought: Sicily is my home and those people are my family. They are already dying. God willing, I will do what it is that you need, and what I cannot do I will find someone who can.”

  Canidy nodded slowly.

  “Thank you, Frank.”

  Canidy glanced around the cabin, and his eyes settled on the cutting board with its fish and spices. At that moment, his stomach growled.

  Nola could not help but notice.

  “Would you care for some?” he said.

  “What is it?” Canidy asked.

  Nola reached farther back beyond the cutting board and from a spot out of Canidy’s view produced a glass bowl. It appeared to have mixed in it a little bit of everything that had been on the board. Nola then reached back to the same spot and came up with a half loaf of a hard-crusted bread. He broke off a piece, ran it through the mixture in the bowl, then offered that to Canidy.

  “Thank you,” Canidy said, taking it.

  He sniffed at the mound of food that was on top of the bread. It smelled sweet, mostly of citrus, with a strong spice he could not recognize and with the olive oil that he could. There were cubes of meat cut to the size of his pinkie fingernail and this he recognized as the fish, although it was more translucent, as opposed to the ruby red of the filet on the cutting board.

  “Eat,” Nola said, smiling. “Is very good.”

  Canidy nodded, then took a bite of just one corner of the bread and its mound.

  The tart juices of the lemon and lime immediately made his cheeks involuntarily pucker. With the war, any citrus—any fruit, period—was extremely hard to come by. It had been longer than he could recall since he had enjoyed the tart taste…and the reaction it caused.

  Then he tasted the delicate flavor of the fish.

  Tuna. Tender, full of flavor but not fishy.

  And that then was countered by a short-lived, searing-hot spice.

  The red pepper!

  He popped the rest of the bread into his mouth, hoping the starch would ease the fire. It did. And as the citrus caused his cheeks to pucker and then the hot spice flared again, they seemed more subtle this time, his mouth becoming more accustomed to the bold flavors.

  He looked at Nola and smiled appreciatively.

  “See?” Nola said, tearing another piece of bread from the loaf. He dredged it through the bowl and handed that to Canidy. “Is good, as I said.”

  Canidy took it, and said, “I could eat this all night! What is it?”

  “Sibesh,” he said. “The Spanish, who claim they originated it, call it ceviche. But my family has been making sibesh since my ancestors first took to the sea to fish.”

  “Very nice,” Canidy said, nodding.

  “It is a natural marinade. It gently cooks the tuna as it flavors it.”

  Canidy nodded, wolfed down the second offering, then, with his mouth full, asked, “What is the leafy stuff?”

  “Leaves of coriander,” Nola said.

  Canidy shook his head that he didn’t immediately recognize it.

  Nola added, “Is also called cilantro.”

  Canidy nodded.

  “One more,” Canidy said, “and then I’ll stop, before I eat the whole damn bowl.”

  “You are welcome to the whole damn bowl.”

  “Thank you but no.”

  Nola tore off another piece of bread, then piled it so high with the sibesh that a third of it fell to the deck as he handed it to Canidy.

  Nola shrugged. “I can make more. We have a boatful of fish.”

  Then Nola reached to the cardboard box that was at his feet and unfolded its flaps. He stuck his hand in and pulled out an opaque-glass one-liter bottle with a paper label that read OLIVE OIL. He then produced two slightly grimy jelly jars from the same box, and, using the cuff of his shirtsleeve, wiped out the inside of the jars.

  Jesus, we’re not going to wash down the fish with a shot of olive oil? Canidy thought.

  Nola took the bottle in one hand and, holding the jars side by side with his other hand—his fingers inside their rims—he began pouring.

  Canidy laughed aloud when he saw red wine slosh out, some of the grape splashing on the deck but most making it into the jars.

  Nola winked at Canidy. Then he handed one of the jelly jars to him and held up his own in a toast.

  His smile quickly faded.

  “To killing the Nazi bastards,” Nola said.

  Canidy looked him in the eyes and saw that he was sincere.

  “To killing the Nazi bastards,” Canidy repeated, touched his jelly jar to Nola’s, and washed down the sibesh.

  [TWO]

  OSS Whitbey House Station Kent, England 0655 3 April 1943

  “So how did you come about the body, Ewen?” First Lieutenant Robert Jamison, USAAF, said across the breakfast table.

  Royal Navy Lieutenant Commander Ewen Montagu looked up from his plate that held a partially eaten, thick grilled ham steak, a mound of scrambled eggs, and slices of panfried potato. He motioned with his finger, asking for a moment to complete the chewing and swallowing of his mouthful of food.

  The small breakfast room—fifteen by twenty feet, a quarter the size of the vast dining room nearby—was dim despite the fact that the dark brown, heavy woolen drapes had been pulled back. A gray light from the overcast morning filtered in through the handcrafted glass panes of the wrought-iron casement windows set in the sandstone wall. There was a single swinging door that led to the main kitchen.

  Also seated at the table were Lieutenant Colonel Ed Stevens, First Lieutenant Charity Hoche, Commander Ian Fleming, Major David Niven, and Private Peter Ustinov. They, too, enjoyed their morning meals of ham and egg and potatoes.

  A side table held two industrial-sized, restaurant-quality beverage dispensers—one containing coffee and the other hot water—a selection of English teas in square tins, three porcelain teapots, a bowl of sugar, a container of milk, and what was left of a pyramid of a dozen stacked porcelain cups and saucers. On a lone saucer, in a small puddle of cold tea, were four wire-mesh tea strainers and a collection of tea-stained spoons.

  Before Montagu was able to reply, Niven, looking to be in some pain, sighed.

  “We need a name,” Niven said. “We simply can’t continue referring to it as ‘the body.’” He paused, then dramatically rolled his eyes. “And, my God! I cannot believe I’m discussing such matters over the breakfast table.”

  He put down his fork and knife, then reached into the front pocket of his pants and produced a small flat tin that contained a dozen or so white tablets. He waved it before the others.

  “Would anyone care for an aspirin?” Niven said, politely.

  Everyone declined.

  “Didn’t you already just take some of those?” Fleming said, conversationally.

  Niven glared at him through droopy eyes.

  “Must you really shout?” Niven said softly. “And for your information, Commander, I take these to thin the blood. They say a daily regimen of one tablet is good for the heart.”

  “I’d say all those martinis last night should have thinned the blood quite well,” Ustinov said.

  There were chuckles around the table.

  Niven glared at Ustinov.

  “Et tu, Brute?” he muttered, then popped two tablets in his mouth and washed them down with hot tea.

  “You’re right, of course, about the name,” Ewen Montagu said, changing the subject. “We need one. And it must be the right name. But to answer your question directly, Bob, while the war sadly has created a steady supply of bodies—some from battle, some from bombings here, some from everyday natural causes such as old age and disease—none of these worked for our purposes. We needed a military-aged male who, if we were lucky, simply had drowned. But we were having no luck whatsoever.”

  Montagu sipped his tea, then went on:

  “Then, if we did find what we needed, there was the matter of taking away the body from hospital or morgue. You canno
t do it without questions arising. The paperwork involved alone is quite daunting, particularly when having to deal with the deceased’s loved ones. You soon have too many people getting too close to the secret. So while we discreetly inquired about our needs to select administrators we had connections to at hospital and morgue, months passed, and we came up with nothing useful.”

  “So then what? You had to resort to getting one from the grave?” Jamison said.

  “That was considered,” Montagu said, “but for many reasons was dismissed, the primary one being we needed a fresh corpse for this ruse to be convincing. Then, last week, I was at my desk in the basement of the Admiralty when I got a call. A man who in December had lost all of his family—his wife had been staying with his parents—to a Luftwaffe bombing had become so despondent that he tried taking his own life by swallowing rat poison. He hadn’t died directly from that. Rather, he’d collapsed in the shell of the bombed home, then exposure caused the pneumonia that ultimately did him in.”

  Niven dramatically put his fork and knife down on his plate with a clank.

  “I really can’t believe we’re discussing this over our food,” he said, then set about to sip at his tea.

  Montagu glanced at Niven, then saw Fleming make a hand motion that said Go on.

  Montagu looked back at Jamison and tried to wind up his story: “I put in a call straightaway to Sir Bernard Spilsbury, our distinguished chief pathologist who understands our needs, and explained the new circumstances. He said that it would take a pathologist of his advanced skills to discover the traces of the poison during an autopsy. There were maybe three such in all of Europe—he being one—and certainly none in Spain.” Montagu paused and smiled. “Actually, when I inquired Sir Bernard had grunted, then replied, ‘Absolutely, unequivocally none.’”

  Montagu took another sip of tea and continued:

  “He said that they would likely find only water in the dead man’s lungs, caused by the pneumonia, which would make his death consistent with drowning and/or exposure at sea. Thus, with no family to make inquiries—all the easier for Sir Bernard to have the paperwork ‘misplaced’—and the perfect cause of death, we had our man. He’s in his early thirties. He’s not in good shape, not physically fit at all, which was fine, as he only has to look like a staff officer.”