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“When you come back,” Canidy said, “make sure no one is following you. Walk in big circles, if you have to.”

“Okay,” Nola said, then went out the front door, locking it behind him.

As Canidy reached into his duffel for a small sheet of the thin flash paper—so named because when a match was put to it, it turned to ash in a flash of flame—Fuller slid the suitcase radio out from under the table. He then grabbed the pouch containing the mice and took it and the suitcase and the Sten upstairs.

Canidy put the flash paper on the table, noticed that the pouch of mice was gone, then looked up and saw Fuller walking away with it.

He shook his head and grinned.

And then he began composing the first message about their mission for Fuller to encrypt and send to OSS Algiers Station.

Fifteen minutes later, there came the sound of heavy footsteps from above, then the sound of boots coming down the wooden steps.

Jim Fuller appeared at the doorway of the kitchen.

“We’re up and running,” he announced excitedly.

“Good job, Tubes,” Canidy said. “I’ll be right up.”

Fuller turned and went back up the steps with a thumping of his boots.

Canidy had just gotten up from the table to follow Fuller upstairs when he heard the key being worked in the lock of the exterior door.

He instinctively reached to the small of his back and pulled out his Colt .45 semiautomatic pistol. Just as he racked back its slide, the door opened.

Frank Nola stood there. He inhaled deeply—either at the sound of the slide having cycled forward, chambering a round, or at his view looking down the large muzzle. Or both.

Canidy brought down the pistol, decocked it, leaving the round in the throat.

When he looked back at Nola, he saw that someone was standing on the sidewalk behind him.

It was a young man, about five foot seven, with soft features and doe-like eyes. His trousers, shirt, and coat looked to be two sizes too big, and of a style typically worn by a much older man. Even his woolen hat was oversize, its rim settling down almost over his eyes.

“C’mon in,” Canidy said impatiently, now aware that the false alarm had triggered his adrenaline. “You caught me off guard for a moment there.”

Nola exhaled loudly. He glanced at the gun, then back at Canidy, then made a sour face. He continued into the apartment. The young man followed, making cautious eye contact with Canidy.

As Nola pushed the door closed and locked it, Canidy studied the young man.

Canidy thought, Why do I have the feeling something’s not quite—

Nola announced, “This is Andrea.”

I knew it! That’s a young woman in a man’s clothes.

And, for some reason, those clothes look familiar.

What the hell?

“Are you just pulling people off the street now?” Canidy said to Nola.

Nola ignored that.

“Andrea,” he said to her, motioning toward Canidy, then switched to Sicilian, “this is my friend. Forget how he answers the door.”

Canidy looked at Andrea. This time, she made stronger eye contact. But she remained silent. He saw her eyes scanning the kitchen. When she came to the Johnny gun leaning against the cabinet, she seemed neither surprised nor bothered by it. The filthy dishes and glasses in the sink appeared to offend her more.

If that’s indeed the case, I like this girl.