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. Canidy thought. But what else could it be? 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 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, he thought, and not being dumped at sea, as the Nazis try to cover up the mass deaths from my Tabun cloud. 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. 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 Sturmbannfuhrer 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 said. "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 he said. "The Spanish, who claim they originated it, call it ceviche ceviche. But my family has been making sibesh sibesh since my ancestors first took to the sea to fish." 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.