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Canidy had Nola seated on his bunk. Canidy looked at him. His eyes—bright red and wet from crying—were now huge.

“That fishing boat just saved our lives, Frank. They diverted the attention of that patrol boat.”

“This day, I vow, I never will forget,” Nola had said.

In L’Herminier’s office, Canidy said, “Our purpose here, then, is to clarify what happens next—in the next three days, and maybe in the next three months.”

He looked at each man, then went on:

“One. Our main mission is to find out about the nerve gas. Was it on the boat? Did it do the damage we suspect? I think those questions will very quickly answer themselves.

“Two. Find out what happened with the villa and the yellow fever.

/> “Three. Assuming we get to three, then we set up Frank and Tubes to stay behind and send intel to OSS Algiers.

“And four. If we can progress to this point, we expand the team and begin building a resistance, the underground. Then sabotage teams from Dellys can come in.”

He looked around the room.

“Okay? Any questions?”

“What if nerve gas was there?” Tubes said, his tone more serious than Canidy had ever heard it. “What do we do?”

“This mission was laid on to find out about the gas, period,” Canidy said. “If it was used, we get evidence, then get the hell out. If it wasn’t used, we try to find out, one, if it was there, and, two, what the plans were for its use, then get the hell out.”

Tubes nodded.

“The answers are critical,” Canidy continued, “because—and this is me talking, not anything told to me from above—if nerve gas was or will be used, then everything that anyone is doing right now—at AFHQ, in London, wherever—is, basically, wasted effort. Roosevelt said he was against chemical or biological warfare—but would not hesitate to use it in retaliation. And we all know Churchill’s take on it; he’s for anything that ends the war yesterday.”

There was silence for a long moment, then Canidy went on: “So we get in and get the hell out.”

“And my part of that,” L’Herminier said, “is that after we drop you, we will go out and lay on the bottom. Then between 2100 and 0400 hours we will rise to periscope level and stand by for your signal—either light from shore or via the W/T—at fifteen minutes after every odd hour. If there is not one, we will lay on the bottom a second day, then the next night rise to await your signal at fifteen minutes before every odd hour.”

“And if you get nothing after that,” Canidy said, “you get the hell out of here, Jean.”

L’Herminier nodded solemnly.

“Reluctantly,” he said. “But we still will maintain the radio watch each night on the same alternating schedule. And return, if necessary.”

“Thank you, Jean.”

The submarine was on the surface of the Gulf of Palermo, its decks still slightly awash. The night was clear and quiet, the air cool and still.

Inside the sub, L’Herminier was at the periscope, scanning the immediate area one last time.

At the foot of the conn tower, Dick Canidy stood squirming into dark brown overalls made of a thick cotton fabric that was coated with a stiff, impermeable rubberized material. The outfit had close-fitting, almost-constrictive cuffs at the wrists and ankles. The gloves were of the same construction as the overalls. As was the full hood, the big difference being that it had a heavy rubber mask vulcanized to the rubber-coated cotton fabric. The mask had two thick glass lenses, and a pair of round air filters that protruded down from either side of the chin like two massively swollen moles.

L’Herminier turned the scope over to his executive officer, who continued the scanning, and walked over to Canidy.

“How are you doing?” L’Herminier asked.

“How do you think?” Canidy said, picking up the hood to put it on. “It’s hotter than hell in here.”

L’Herminier nodded sympathetically.

“That’s some spiffy suit—the real cat’s meow!” Jim “Tubes” Fuller said.

Canidy looked blankly at Fuller, who was holding the box of mice.