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Then Antonio made the knowing leer again. He formed the circle with thumb and index finger and poked at it. He grinned and gave Canidy a thumbs-up.

What the hell? I’m not here to get laid.

He’d better not have given Shorty the wrong idea. . . .

The midget caught the exchange. He grunted.

“Prego!” the man said, gesturing impatiently for Canidy to follow.

[THREE]

Schutzstaffel Field Office

Palermo, Sicily

0905 31 May 1943

SS-Obersturmbannführer Oskar Kappler grinned inwardly watching the visibly hungover SS-Sturmbannführer Hans Müller desperately fumble as he closed the blinds of the window to his office. It had rained most of the night, and the morning light was especially bright, causing Müller to shield his eyes as he did so.

The office was very nicely furnished. There were fine oil paintings, thick rugs, and heavy ornate furniture. Müller clearly had helped himself to whatever he wanted in Palermo. Seeing that made Kappler remember the story his father had told about Göring’s “sweetest dream of looting and looting completely”—and that that criminal mentality, especially at the highest levels, had been what motivated him to diversify the family assets in other countries.

Kappler sat on the leather-upholstered couch, carefully sipping coffee from a fine china cup. A china coffee service that had been brought in by SS-Scharführer Günther Burger was on the low table before him.

Everything about Müller looked worse than usual—he had huge dark bags under his unpleasant dark eyes, his paunch was distinctly bloated, his thin black hair stuck out at odd angles.

You look like shit, Hans ol’ buddy.

And from all that booze you clearly feel like it, too.

Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy . . .

“Herr Obersturmbannführer,” Müller said after he sank into the leather chair behind his desk and picked up his coffee cup. “I thank you for being understanding about having to postpone the review of the warehouse until later. I thought that they understood my orders to be prepared this morning. I will deal with them later, and I promise you it won’t happen again.”

Who the hell do you think you’re kidding, you bastard?

We’re not going anywhere because you’re too damn hungover.

You’re just lucky that I drank far more than I should have.

And that I did not actually get a lot of sleep.

If I felt any better myself, I’d insist we go just so that I could enjoy watching you suffer. . . .

“Very well,” Kappler said, “but I will need to review it before my return to Messina.”

Müller seemed to wince as he sipped his steaming coffee.

I bet you’d love to have a little hair of the dog in there.

Then again, for all I know, you do. Günther served you away from me.

As Müller closed his eyes and rubbed them, he said, “And when would that be? What I mean is, when do you plan to return? You have just arrived here.”

“I am not sure at the moment.”

Müller grinned as he opened his eyes.

“I trust then that you had a pleasurable evening?” he said.