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He secured the line, then rushed toward the stern. He hit a slippery spot, started to slide, and, for one terrifying moment, thought that he would skid off of the deck and into the damned river.

He regained his traction, and, in a somewhat comic fashion, fast-walked the rest of the way.

“Line!”

Canidy got to the stern just as the rope came sailing aboard.

He secured it, then looked back and watched as the guy on the dock jumped aboard at the stern, miraculously landing solidly on the fish-slimed deck.

If I’d done that, I’d have slid all the way to New Jersey.

The guy tipped his hat to say thanks for the help, and Canidy turned for the front of the boat.

As he walked to the pilothouse, he could see the tall man inside, lit by small spots of light from the instrument panel, motioning for him to come in.

He went to the steel door and entered.

It was bare-bones inside the pilothouse—a ragged captain’s chair on a pedestal, two old wooden folding chairs against the far wall, two wooden bunks bolted one above the other on the back wall, and nothing more. A pair of Ithaca Model 37 12-gauge pump shotguns with battered stocks stood on their butts in a makeshift rack to the left of the helm.

Canidy noticed that it felt slightly warmer inside but figured that was mostly because there was no wind. The smell of fish still was strong.

The tall man was alone, standing at the helm, facing forward and scanning the river beyond the bank of windows.

“Thanks for the hand with the lines,” he said, looking at Canidy in the reflection of the window.

“No problem,” Canidy said, rubbing his hands.

“There’s a wipe rag by the door, if you want.”

Canidy looked and found a crusty, brown-stained towel hanging on a small peg.

Better than nothing, I suppose.

He got the slime off his cold hands as best he could, put the towel back, then walked toward the helm.

The tall man kept his eyes on the river, navigating the Annie past a Liberty ship that was moving toward the Brooklyn Terminal docks.

He extended his right hand to Canidy.

“Francesco Nola,” he said.

Canidy took it. The grip was firm, the hand rough. “Richard Canidy, Captain.”

“Call me Frank.”

“I’m Dick.” He looked out the window. “Mind if I ask where we’re headed?”

Canidy saw Nola grin slightly.

The captain said, “I was told you’re looking for information.” He paused. “I thought you might want to go along as we refuel a U-boat.”

Canidy stared at Nola’s face in the reflection, trying to determine if he was serious.

After a moment, Canidy said evenly, “If that’s a joke, it’s not funny.”

They were out of the East River now, entering Upper New York Bay.

Nola used the open palm of his right hand to gently bump the twin throttle controls forward. There was a slight hesitation, as if the engines had become flooded with fuel, then the rumble grew a little louder and the bow came up as the boat gained speed.