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They made eye contact, but then the man quickly looked away.
Damn! If that’s not Francisco Nola, it’s his genetic twin.
Canidy looked again, hard, but the guy had started walking away and then disappeared into the crowd.
Incredible…but then I guess maybe half of the people here could be part of Nola’s genetic pool.
The crowd cleared out from in front of the car and the driver picked up speed.
He turned on a narrow street that went uphill, drove another three blocks, and pulled to a stop in front of a large, French Colonial–style villa. It resembled the Hotel St. George, except that it was maybe half as large, and its masonry exterior was a faint pink color.
There was no signage to indicate the place was anything more than a private residence.
“La Villa de Vue de Mer,” the driver said with some finality.
He stepped out of the car.
Canidy got out of the backseat dragging one of the suitcases, then reached in and pulled out the other. He had no idea how much to pay the driver, who stood watching him.
He motioned to the driver with both hands, palms out and fingers spread, to wait right there.
The driver looked at him suspiciously, then nodded.
Canidy went to the large wooden door of the villa, looked at it, and noticed that it had a heavy brass knocker and, next to it at eye level, a smaller door about four inches square.
He knocked and after a moment the small door opened.
A very unfriendly looking face, belonging to what looked like a local male who was about age fifty, appeared in the opening.
He said nothing but raised his right eyebrow as if to ask, Yes?
Canidy glanced over his shoulder at the driver, who was watching with what appeared to be a mixture of curiosity and annoyance.
Canidy looked back at the door and said, “Pharmacist for Pharmacist Two.”
Lieutenant Colonel Stevens had told Canidy that he would use the code names from the last mission in his heads-up message to Fine.
The unfriendly face contorted as if it had encountered a foul smell.
What the hell? Is this the right place?
“Pharmacien pour Pharmacien Deux,” Canidy repeated in French.
The unfriendly face left the opening and the little door closed and locked.
Canidy stood there, wondering what to do next.
He looked at the cabdriver, then smiled, nodded, and held up one finger to say, It’ll be just another minute, buddy. Everything’s okay.
After a couple of minutes, Canidy could hear what sounded like something large and heavy sliding on the inside of the big, heavy door.
Then the door swung open.
There stood the fit and trim Captain Stanley S. Fine in the uniform of the USAAF.
Behind him was the fifty-year-old man with the unfriendly face.
Fine looked past Canidy.
