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“Thank you but no.”

Nola tore off another piece of bread, then piled it so high with the sibesh that a third of it fell to the deck as he handed it to Canidy.

Nola shrugged. “I can make more. We have a boatful of fish.”

Then Nola reached to the cardboard box that was at his feet and unfolded its flaps. He stuck his hand in and pulled out an opaque-glass one-liter bottle with a paper label that read OLIVE OIL. He then produced two slightly grimy jelly jars from the same box, and, using the cuff of his shirtsleeve, wiped out the inside of the jars.

Jesus, we’re not going to wash down the fish with a shot of olive oil? Canidy thought.

Nola took the bottle in one hand and, holding the jars side by side with his other hand—his fingers inside their rims—he began pouring.

Canidy laughed aloud when he saw red wine slosh out, some of the grape splashing on the deck but most making it into the jars.

Nola winked at Canidy. Then he handed one of the jelly jars to him and held up his own in a toast.

His smile quickly faded.

“To killing the Nazi bastards,” Nola said.

Canidy looked him in the eyes and saw that he was sincere.

“To killing the Nazi bastards,” Canidy repeated, touched his jelly jar to Nola’s, and washed down the sibesh.

[TWO]

OSS Whitbey House Station Kent, England 0655 3 April 1943

“So how did you come about the body, Ewen?” First Lieutenant Robert Jamison, USAAF, said across the breakfast table.

Royal Navy Lieutenant Commander Ewen Montagu looked up from his plate that held a partially eaten, thick grilled ham steak, a mound of scrambled eggs, and slices of panfried potato. He motioned with his finger, asking for a moment to complete the chewing and swallowing of his mouthful of food.

The small breakfast room—fifteen by twenty feet, a quarter the size of the vast dining room nearby—was dim despite the fact that the dark brown, heavy woolen drapes had been pulled back. A gray light from the overcast morning filtered in through the handcrafted glass panes of the wrought-iron casement windows set in the sandstone wall. There was a single swinging door that led to the main kitchen.

Also seated at the table were Lieutenant Colonel Ed Stevens, First Lieutenant Charity Hoche, Commander Ian Fleming, Major David Niven, and Private Peter Ustinov. They, too, enjoyed their morning meals of ham and egg and potatoes.

A side table held two industrial-sized, restaurant-quality beverage dispensers—one containing coffee and the other hot water—a selection of English teas in square tins, three porcelain teapots, a bowl of sugar, a container of milk, and what was left of a pyramid of a dozen stacked porcelain cups and saucers. On a lone saucer, in a small puddle of cold tea, were four wire-mesh tea strainers and a collection of tea-stained spoons.

Before Montagu was able to reply, Niven, looking to be in some pain, sighed.

“We need a name,” Niven said. “We simply can’t continue referring to it as ‘the body.’” He paused, then dramatically rolled his eyes. “And, my God! I cannot believe I’m discussing such matters over the breakfast table.”

He put down his fork and knife, then reached into the front pocket of his pants and produced a small flat tin that contained a dozen or so white tablets. He waved it before the others.

“Would anyone care for an aspirin?” Niven said, politely.

Everyone declined.

“Didn’t you already just take some of those?” Fleming said, conversationally.

Niven glared at him through droopy eyes.

“Must you really shout?” Niven said softly. “And for your information, Commander, I take these to thin the blood. They say a daily regimen of one tablet is good for the heart.”

“I’d say all those martinis last night should have thinned the blood quite well,” Ustinov said.

There were chuckles around the table.

Niven glared at Ustinov.