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“Standard answer? I don’t have a damn choice. Last I asked, they won’t let me out of the OSS. Not until we make some certain crazy sonsofbitches in Berlin and Tokyo history.”

“No, that’s not what I meant. You do have a choice. You had all kinds of valid excuses not to put this mission together, starting with Eisenhower declaring Sicily off-limits. And you’re not supposed to be operation

al. You know too much. Yet . . . here you are.”

Canidy said: “From all the Top Secret messages that you’ve seen in the commo room, you’re not supposed to be operational, either.”

“You’re not answering my question.”

Canidy looked at him a long time, then exhaled audibly.

“What? You want me to wave the flag and hum ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’?” Canidy mimicked waving a tiny flag with his right hand and hummed, Oh say can you see . . . “Sure, there’s patriotism. But it’s really about not letting the bastards win—on a personal level, not letting the cruel sonsofbitches get to our families in the ways we’ve seen them do others.”

He paused, saw John Craig nod his understanding, then went on: “Two years ago, with England on its knees, Churchill spoke at that London boys’ school—what’s it called? Harrow—and said something that’s stuck with me: ‘This is the lesson:’ he said, ‘never give in, never give in, never, never, never—in nothing, great or small, large or petty—never give in except to convictions of honor and good sense. Never yield to force; never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy.’”

John Craig considered that and said, “You mentioned earlier about not taking counsel of your fears.”

Canidy nodded. “Right. There’s no damn time for that. It’s all about ‘This is the lesson.’”

John Craig’s stomach then growled noisily.

“Got your appetite back?” Canidy said.

He reached into the suitcase and pulled out a small paperboard box. It had olive drab print that read: DINNER and US ARMY FIELD RATION TYPE K.

John Craig took the box and tore it open.

“I’m starving. Thanks.”

He dumped the contents on the table beside the radio. He picked through the round tin of ham and cheese and the packets of crackers and sugar and salt and powdered orange drink mix. Then he stuck the Peter Paul Choclettos candies, Dentyne chewing gum, and the four-pack of cigarettes and matches in his pocket.

As he worked the tiny key to open the tin can, Canidy said, “You should stay away from those Chesterfields. I hear smoking cigarettes stunts your growth.”

John Craig grunted. “That’d be the least of my worries right now.”

“You’re right. So, be careful with that radio. You do not want to be found. Where’s your Q-pill?”

John Craig suddenly looked up from the food.

“You’re serious?” he said.

“You’re goddamn right I’m serious.” He gestured at the Sten. “You can shoot your way out only so far. So you either save a couple rounds for yourself, or you bite the pill.”

John Craig dug in his pants pocket and produced the inch-long brass tube that contained the rubber-coated glass vial of cyanide.

Canidy nodded as he held up his tube. “Do I need to remind you about what the bastards did to Mariano?”

* * *

As Canidy knocked again on the wooden door of the brick building, he saw that the padlock hasp was empty and open.

So someone is either in there—or didn’t lock the damn door when they left.

He grabbed the doorknob and tried turning it. It was locked and just barely budged. But he saw that the door did move somewhat, indicating slop in the lock’s tang. He rapped on the door once more, waited a count of fifteen, then pulled out his pocketknife. He slid the knife blade in the crack of the door beside the knob. The blade depressed the tang, pushing it back into the door, and the door swung inward.

He pulled his .45 out as he entered, then pushed the door shut behind him.

Just as the last time he’d been there, Canidy found the same pair of desks pushed together back-to-back in the middle of the room, a wooden office chair at each, both piled high with papers. A row of battered wooden filing cabinets stood against the near wall. And random clutter—boxes of half-eaten German rations, broken wine bottles, overflowing cans of trash—was everywhere.