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“What?” Fuller whispered, then looked to where Canidy stared as if he’d seen a ghost.

Four blocks up, moored to the dock next to some warehouses, was a ninety-foot cargo vessel. It was under the armed guard of four sailors from the Regina Marina.

The rusty, utilitarian vessel looked very much like the one that Canidy had blown up—a small main cabin at the bow, and the rest of the topside a long, flat deck with large hatches and a pair of tall booms.

And, to the best of his memory, it had not been docked in the port of Palermo earlier that morning.

I damn sure would’ve seen it sitting there, he thought, even as I was distracted by those poor bastards swinging on the gallows.

“Does it mean anything?” Fuller said.

“Hell if I know.”

Two blocks down Christoforo Colombo, the single-story brick building that bore the address that Frank Nola had given Canidy looked barely habitable. Canidy wondered if it was the right place.

Did Frank fuck this up?

And now Tubes and I have to go back to the apartment and wait for however long it’ll take him to show up so we can start the whole process all over again?

Jesus….

Canidy stood to the side of the heavy wooden door, using the masonry wall for protection, and leaned over to knock. After a couple of minutes, and a second series of louder knocks, there came from the other side of the door the metallic sound of latches being undone.

The door cracked open, and, when Canidy looked, he saw Nola’s pronounced nose.

Frank Nola waved Canidy and Fuller inside, opening the door enough for them to just pass through. Then he swung it shut with a slam and secured the latches.

Apparently, Canidy realized as he looked around the dimly lit main room, the place was somewhat habitable.

It’s set up about half and half…half office, half landfill.

A pair of desks piled high with paper were pushed together back-to-back in the middle of the room, a wooden office chair at each. There was a row of five battered, wooden filing cabinets against the near wall. And the rest of the room was random clutter—half-eaten German ration boxes, empty wine bottles, upturned wooden cases, overflowing cans of trash.

Canidy looked at Nola, who motioned toward a door on the far side of the room and said: “This way. And hurry. We do not have much time. The brothers have to get back to work at the warehouse.”

At the doorway, Nola stopped and nodded toward the next room.

“In here, Dick,” he said.

Canidy looked at him.

“Why don’t you go ahead, Frank? You know the fucking way.”

Nola frowned.

“Just being polite,” Nola said, sounding hurt.

“After you, Frank,” Canidy said.

When Nola had started through the doorway, Canidy glanced at Fuller, who shrugged.

The next room was another office, a smaller one, with a single desk, a wooden chair behind it, and a wooden bench against the wall.

The brothers Buda were seated on the bench. Each had been reading a different section of a newspaper and now looked up at the strangers, Canidy and Fuller, who followed Nola inside.

The Budas were about thirty years old, maybe five foot five and two hundred pounds. The dirty overalls they wore fit tightly, the cotton fabric stretched and defining the rolls of fat of their midsection. They had an olive skin, but their face and neck and hands were coarse from long exposure to wind and sea and sun.

Their mop haircuts looked to have been done by placing a small bowl on the head and then trimming any hair that stuck out with dull scissors.