It took Fuller a moment to locate them individually. The man was splayed out, his arms awkwardly pointed in opposite directions, and Fuller had had to start with each shoulder and work the beam out from there, following each arm until he reached the hand.

No lesions on the skin of his hands, either, Canidy thought. Canidy thought.

He said, "No weapons. Put the beam back on his head and hold it there."

Fuller did.

Canidy then stood up from his crouch and, with his pistol aimed squarely between the man's shoulder blades, carefully moved toward him. The man made no move whatsoever.

When Canidy reached him, he used the toe of his right shoe to nudge the man's hip.

The man groaned but otherwise didn't move.

Canidy stepped to the other side, trying to get a look at the man's face.

"C'mere," Canidy called impatiently to Fuller.

Fuller came running with the penlight.

"Hit his face with that beam."

When Fuller did, Canidy said, disgustedly, "Oh, for christsake!"

"Is he dying?" Nola said, approaching slowly.

Canidy looked at Nola and said, "What happened up there?"

"The mice," Nola said, disappointment in his tone, "they got out of the box when it fell. The lid opened. I am sorry."

You mean when you you fell and fell and you you dropped the box? dropped the box? Canidy thought. Canidy thought.

So we're down to two mice? No backups?

Oh, hell.

Nothing to do about it now.

Canidy rolled the man over onto his back. When he did, Fuller moved the light, and it first found a wine bottle that had been between the man's chest and the path.

Then he shined the beam from the man's face down to his soiled shirt, then to his sodden pants. His fly was open, his penis barely out.

"The sonofabitch is stone-fucking-drunk," Canidy announced. "And it would appear that he passed out in the process of pissing his pants."

There was a moment's silence before Fuller spoke up: "At least it's not gas poisoning...."

They came to the edge of Palermo. As they skirted a piazza, then reached an intersection that Canidy thought that he recalled, an obese cat suddenly bolted out of an alley.

It saw the three men and raced straight for them.

Fuller instinctively reached up to his shoulder strap and, with his big hands covering the pouch tied there, protected the mice from attack.

Then, just as suddenly, the cat made a ninety-degree turn and disappeared down another alley near the piazza.

As Fuller exchanged glances with Nola, Tubes looking somewhat embarrassed, a wiry dog came flying out of the first alley. It was apparent that he was looking around for the cat. When he found the cat was gone, he shook his body from nose to tail, clearly pleased with himself and his little game.

The dog looked at the men, wagged his tail twice, then turned back for the alley.

More signs of normal life, Canidy thought. Canidy thought. Thank God. Thank God.

Nola began leading the way again, making turns with the conviction of a citizen of Palermo that he was.

It's interesting how attached they've become to the mice, Canidy found himself thinking. Canidy found himself thinking.

Or maybe it's not the mice.

Maybe it's what the mice represent-a sure way to save their asses in a situation where, right now, nothing is for sure.

Because even now-especially now-the answers still are wildly unknown.

From the time they had left the drunk to sleep off his bender in the path near Arenella, Canidy had been running scenarios based on that encounter.

But what can you really make of one drunk?

No telling where that guy had been when the gas went up.

Or maybe it didn't, and the sonofabitch was just plain stinking drunk.

Who knows?

We should, very shortly.

After another block, Canidy realized that they were headed back uphill.

"Where the hell are we going, Frank?" Canidy said.

"My cousin's," Nola said, "is ten blocks this way-"

"No," Canidy said.

Nola and Fuller stopped and looked with some frustration at Canidy. Clearly, everyone was tired-and more than a little apprehensive.

Canidy glanced at his watch. It was just shy of five o'clock. They would have to hurry to beat the sunrise.

He quickly looked around. When he glanced up, he saw a street sign bolted to the side of the building. It read VIA MONTABLO VIA MONTABLO.

And he recognized that from when he'd first come to Palermo. He remember it intersected with Quinta Casa street. Which led to the port.

"This way first," he said, nodding downhill. "I have to see the harbor. It's only a few blocks. Then we go to your cousin's."

As they went, Canidy thought he heard the sounds of movement coming from one of the buildings they passed, then from another.

I must be imagining things.

Willing there to be someone moving, getting up.

But, he realized, it was the right time. It wouldn't be unusual for some people-one, two, a few-to be getting up.

Even Sicily has to have its own early risers.

At the next corner, where the sign on the building read VIA QUINTA CASA VIA QUINTA CASA, they turned left.

Then across the street, in a window, Canidy saw something move.

It was a curtain being drawn back. Then, beyond that, a candle was being lit.

"Look!" he said, pointing.

Nola and Fuller followed to where he was pointing.

Human life, Canidy thought. Canidy thought.

Maybe it is okay here after all.

Or at least not a horrific human disaster....

He picked up the pace. They now were about two blocks from the fishermen's pier where the cargo ship had been moored.

And then they were within one block.

And then...they suddenly encountered a stench.

"What the hell is that?" Fuller said.

Not fish decay, Canidy thought. Canidy thought. It's a far more corrupted odor. It's a far more corrupted odor.

He looked back at Nola and Fuller.

Fuller had the collar of his T-shirt pulled up over his nose, using it as a makeshift air filter.

Nola had buried his nose in the crook of his arm, breathing through the fabric of his shirtsleeve.

They finished walking the last of the final block and turned the corner.

Nola literally gasped at the sight.

Shit! Canidy thought, and instinctively stepped into the shadow of a doorway, out of sight. Canidy thought, and instinctively stepped into the shadow of a doorway, out of sight.

Nola and Fuller followed him, their eyes fixed on the heavy wooden beams that formed a fifteen-foot-tall framework over the foot of the pier.

There, from the uppermost beam, the bodies of two fishermen hung from wire nooses, their silhouettes backlit by the ruby horizon of the sun that was just about to rise. Dried blood caked their faces and upper torsos.

Canidy tore his eyes from the horror and scanned the port area.

He noticed that the T-shaped pier where the cargo ship with the Tabun had been tied up no longer was a T. T. It was a stub, only a third its original length. And then he saw that the pebble beach was stacked with the burned hulls of the smaller fishing boats. It was a stub, only a third its original length. And then he saw that the pebble beach was stacked with the burned hulls of the smaller fishing boats.

"That explains why there was no fishing-boat traffic near shore," Canidy said softly. "No one is going in or out of this place."

Nola still stared at the sunbaked bodies.

"They look," he said, his voice beginning to quiver again, "as if they have been there for some time."

"About a week-" Canidy began.

He stopped when he heard behind him the wrenching sound of Jim Fuller violently throwing up on the sidewalk.

[THREE].

OSS Whitbey House Station Kent, England 1550 3 April 1943 "What exactly do you mean you're not sure you like this next part, Ewen?" Commander Ian Fleming said. "And that there's little we can do?"

Lieutenant Commander Ewen Montagu raised his eyebrows.

"It's not exactly a terrible thing," he explained. "Certainly, not what I feared it could be." He paused, gathered his thoughts, then went on: "It would appear that everyone likes to be a spy. No one more so than those so high that they could not possibly be one; they are stuck at their desks, making the big decisions."

"Who are we talking about?" Major David Niven said.

"As we were in the process of getting approvals for this mission," Montagu explained, "the Vice Chief became keenly interested in how this ruse would play out-"

"So Archie Nye wanted to play?" Niven said.

Montagu nodded. "Very much so. Without any inquiries on my part, he offered up some scenarios. Then he approached Lord Mountbatten-"

"Oh, for christsake!" Niven interrupted. "Dickie got involved, too? Have they not enough to do?"

"Dickie?" Charity repeated.

"Mountbatten's nickname," Niven explained. "He got it, story goes, due to some nonsense concerning Czar Nicholas of Russia." He looked at Montagu. "Anyway, what exactly did Archie and Dickie have to offer?"

Montagu pulled two sheets of typewritten paper from his briefcase and handed them to Niven.

Niven quickly read the first page, making an occasional grunt as he went down the sheet. When he had finished, he slid it across the table to Fleming and began reading the second page.