"With a reply from McKenna?" Niven said.

Montagu nodded.

"One to the father?" Fleming said dubiously.

"I agree, Ian. That would not be logical," Stevens said. "Martin would not have his father's letter in his possession."

"Then let's have it concern Major Martin's own legal papers," Montagu said. "He knows that he's off on a highly dangerous mission and, accordingly, wants his affairs in order for Pam should something happen."

"Like his aircraft crashes?" Charity said.

"And he drowns at sea?" the Duchess added.

"Precisely," Montagu said warily, not certain if they were mocking him or not.

"And maybe something concerning the payment of taxes," Niven went on.

"Ah, yes," Fleming said, "the only two things certain in this life, death and taxes."

Niven picked up the McKenna letterhead, then stood and went to the Olivetti Model M40. He spun the letterhead into the Italian typewriter and typed:

[image]RE: Your affairs.

Dear Sir, We thank you for your letter of yesterday's date returning the draft of your will approved. We will insert the legacy of 50 to your batman and our Mr. Gwatkin will bring the fair copy with him when he meets you at lunch on the 21st so that you can sign it there.

The inspector of taxes has asked us for particulars of your service pay and allowances during 1941/2 before he will finally agree to the amount of reliefs due to you for that year. We cannot find that we have ever had these particulars and shall, therefore, be grateful if you will let us have them.

Yours faithfully,

McKENNA & CO.Major W. Martin, R.M.

Naval & Military Club 94 Piccadilly London, S.W.1.

Montagu took that, read it over, then passed it around the table.

"Very good," he said. "Now, as to his personality. Specifically, his personal spending habits."

"Thus far," Fleming said, "he has proven to be quite the responsible chap. There must be a chink in the armor. Everyone has one."

"Speak for yourself, sir," Niven said drolly. "My armor is impeccable. As is every other aspect of my personal being."

There were chuckles.

Niven then looked at Ustinov and said, "Didn't you recently get a letter concerning unpaid accounts?"

"It was in error," Ustinov shot back defensively. "And after my confrontation with the manager of the institution, was corrected to my satisfaction."

"Yes, of course," Niven said. "Sorry. I did not mean to suggest any armor problems on your part. What I was going after was, you are still familiar with the tone, the phrasing, et cetera, of that letter?"

"Oh, yes. It was short, sweet, and painfully to the point."

Niven gestured toward the Remington typewriter.

"Have at it," he said.

Montagu produced a new sheet of letterhead, this one from a familiar financial institution, and put it beside the big, heavy American typewriter.

Ustinov shrugged, then moved to the chair in front of the Remington.

He rolled the bank letterhead into the machine. Then he looked at Niven and held up both hands, making them into fists.

"There are ladies present," Niven cautioned, fearful of which digits were about to be displayed.

Ustinov looked to his fists. First the left index finger popped up, then the right index finger.

"I will now show you how this is properly done," Ustinov said formally, and slowly, very very slowly, punched out the letter with a series of slowly, punched out the letter with a series of tap...tap...tap tap...tap...taps:

Lloyds Bank Limited Head Office London, E.C.3.

[image]

Major W. Martin, R.M.

Army & Navy Club Pall Mall London, S.W.1.

Dear Sir, I am given to understand that in spite of repeated application your overdraft amounting to 79 19s 2d still outstands.

In the circumstances, I am now writing to inform you that unless this amount, plus interest at 4% to date of payment, is received forthwith we shall have no alternative but to take the necessary steps to protect our interest.Yours faithfully,

Joint General Manager

"Luckily for us, this was the short letter," Niven said.

Ustinov removed the sheet from the typewriter, signed it E. Whitley Jones above the title of Joint General Manager, and handed the page to Montagu.

"Any particular reason you used the Army and Navy Club address," Montagu asked, "as opposed to the Naval and Military Club we put on the McKenna letter?"

"He moved," Ustinov said simply.

Montagu made a face of appreciation. "I like that," he said. "Simple. Plausible. And another item for the Germans to confirm-or dissuade them."

He began folding and unfolding this letter, too.

"I'm not sure I like the next part of our exercise," Montagu said. "But we would appear not to have much choice with it...."

[TWO].

Gulf of Palermo, Sicily 0235 5 April 1943 The three canvas-skinned kayaks were moving through the dark in a pyramid formation, Dick Canidy paddling on point, with Jim "Tubes" Fuller ten feet off his stern at five o'clock and Frank Nola a little farther back at seven o'clock.

There was a soft rhythmic sound coming from the paddles of Fuller and Nola as their blades dipped in the water. But not from Canidy's; his strokes were awkward, irregular, the blades occasionally making somewhat-noisy slaps as they broke the surface.

I hate this goddamn excuse for a boat, Canidy thought. Canidy thought.

He had almost immediately decided that he did not care for the kayak over the tiny raft that he had used the first time he went ashore of Sicily. And he hadn't been a big fan of that damn rubber doughnut, either.

He granted that the kayak was faster. But he was convinced that it could capsize at any second.

And being faster probably also means faster to sink when the damn thing dumps over.

Canidy also was more than a little apprehensive about transitioning from the rickety boat to shore. He mentally went over how he was going to accomplish it, then realized that that was pretty much an exercise in futility since he had never done it before.

And, therefore, I have no fucking idea of what I'm doing and what's going to happen.

Except there's every possibility that I'll get soaking wet.

Which is okay as long as I don't dump the W/T.

It did not necessarily help that both Nola and Fuller maneuvered like expert kayakers. They each worked their paddle, with the blades at opposite ends of the shaft, with the smooth, regular rotation of a windmill.

Small surprise. Nola's whole life has been in boats.

Fuller probably learned at the beach or in Boy Scouts...or both.

Me, I was born to fly above all this damn nonsense.

Out of the corner of Canidy's right eye, a motion in the darkness at about three o'clock caught his attention. Carefully, so as not to upset the boat, he turned to look.

It was the bow of Fuller's boat. More precisely, it was the extra paddle Fuller had tied to the bow to project out in front of his boat.

And hanging from the tip of the blade was a veritable ship's figurehead-the squirming soft pouch dangling by its pull-string closure.

Canidy couldn't stop himself-he chuckled.

As Tubes paddled up alongside, he heard Canidy and smiled.

"Thought it'd be a good idea to use Adolf and Eva as our early-warning system," Tubes said, grinning.

Canidy just shook his head.

Wordlessly, Tubes paddled ahead and took point.

The sounds of small waves lapping on the pebble beach became louder and louder.

Canidy heard the sudden scraping of Fuller's boat running up on the shore, then some quick movement, then footsteps crunching on pebbles, then the sliding of the boat as it was pulled up onto dry land.

Well, good for you, Tubes. You made it.

Too bad you can't show me how you did it.

Canidy looked over his left shoulder. He saw the vague outline of Nola in his kayak. He had already shipped his paddle, apparently in preparation for landing, and Canidy decided that he should follow suit.

Just as Canidy began to vaguely make out the outline of the shore, he heard footsteps crunching on the pebbles, then splashing in the water. They were coming toward him. He instinctively reached back to make sure he had quick access to the .45 in the small of his back. At the moment he touched the pistol, he saw the distinct shape of Tubes coming closer.

Tubes casually stepped sure-footedly through the shallow surf.

With such ease, he looks as if he just as well would be headed out to go swimming.

"I got it," Tubes whispered as he grabbed the bow of Canidy's boat.

He then towed the kayak to the shoreline, where he turned it parallel to the beach, and held it steady.

Canidy grabbed the gunnels of his boat, then awkwardly rose from his seated position and stepped ashore, his feet dry.

"Thanks," he whispered.

Just then, a few feet away, there came the sound of a boat scraping on pebbles. Canidy turned in time to see the bow of Nola's kayak coming out of the darkness, then the silhouette of Nola himself as he maneuvered the boat parallel to the shore and, with catlike grace, leapt out and landed on his feet.

Nola then picked the bow of his boat up high and, with very little sound, moved the entire boat onto shore.

Canidy did likewise. Then he looked up and down the beach. There were no lights except from the stars, and he saw absolutely nothing inland but darkness beyond a distance of maybe ten feet.

He heard Nola's boots crunching toward him.

"I know precisely where we are," Nola whispered. "Is a popular bathing beach. And a ten-meter cliff is close by. Is where I told you there are small grotta- grotta- the caves-where we can hide the boats. Vergine Maria-" the caves-where we can hide the boats. Vergine Maria-"

"Virgin Maria?" Tubes whispered excitedly. Maria?" Tubes whispered excitedly.

"Not that that kind of a virgin," Canidy said drily. "It's the town's name." kind of a virgin," Canidy said drily. "It's the town's name."