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Jesus. All these wise guys are connected!

Canidy grunted.

“Yeah, I’ve heard of Al.”

“So I’ve been having Colts and Thompsons, same as I carried in New York, shipped here since I arrived. Joey Socks gets them, then Francisco Nola, until he disappeared anyway, was smuggling them for me.”

No surprise there . . . Lanza’s office is where I got my Johnny gun.

Need to change the name of that place from Fulton Fish Market to Fulton Black Market.

There was a knock at the door, and the door immediately swung open.

Vito entered, trailed by Andrea Buda. Canidy saw that she was nicely dressed but not in anything revealing like the hookers wore. There was something different about her, then he realized that she had had her shoulder-length thick chestnut brown hair cut short.

Changing her appearance on purpose?

Better to hide from the SS?

The shorter hair seems to accentuate those breasts. . . .

Her dark almond eyes glanced around the office.

When she saw Canidy, he started to smile and was about to say “Ciao” when he saw her eyes grow huge—and furious.

She began screaming at him, then lunged. Vito, trying to restrain her, grabbed her around the waist and dug in his heels—but only managed to get dragged across the office.

Canidy caught her wrists as she started hitting him openhanded on his chest.

“Andrea!” Palasota yelled.

IX

[ONE]

OSS London Station

Berkeley Square

London, England

1410 31 May 1943

“That’s right, General Sikorski,” Colonel David Bruce said into his telephone as he made notes on a legal pad. “Sausagemaker confirms that they got the latest delivery. I’ll let you know when I know more.”

Lieutenant Colonel Edmund T. Stevens—standing at the desk and holding a stack of manila folders—watched Bruce hang up the phone, stare at it a long moment, then grunt.

Bruce looked up at Stevens and said, “We could turn over the entire U.S. Army and Navy to Sikorski and it wouldn’t be enough. That makes their third supply drop for May, right?”

“Yeah,” Stevens said. “His Tourists distributed the first two to underground cells in the north, and this third went to Szerynski in the south. It had the usual five thousand pounds of”—he flipped open the top folder and read from a sheet—“four Browning thirty cal machine guns, forty-four thirty cal carbines, fifty-five Sten submachine guns, and just over forty thousand rounds of ammo, plus a couple hundred pounds of Composition C-2.”

“How much more can we get our hands on, and how quickly?”

Stevens looked back to the folder and began flipping pages.

“Two more on hand. That’s an additional five tons’ worth. And enough coming in today to put together another.” He looked up. “I can’t say exactly how long it’ll take—a day or three? Sometimes longer—to requisition more.”

David Bruce noted that on his pad.