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“In the interest of providing information for the war effort,” Canidy said, “and not running any rackets.”
“Certainly the former,” Gurfein said. “As to the latter?” He shrugged. “Regardless, in no time word worked its way down through the ranks that Luciano said to cooperate and they did. They even went so far as to issue union cards to ONI guys to work everywhere from on the fishing boats themselves to behind the counter of the hatcheck rooms in nightclubs.”
Donovan said, “And, Dick, that’s the kind of access you’re going to need in Sicily.”
“From Luciano?” Canidy said. “Do you think patriotism is going to cut it again? It’s a different dynamic.”
“Not necessarily,” Donovan said. “What makes you think Luciano would not want to expand into his home country?”
Canidy considered that. Before he could reply, Gurfein spoke up.
“You can ask him for yourself, Dick,” Gurfein said. “About the patriotism part, that is. I’ve got it set up for you to meet Lanza, then maybe Luciano.”
[ THREE ]
Jacksonville, Florida
1130 28 February 1943
As Richard Koch turned the yellow-and-black 1930 Chevrolet pickup truck onto U.S. 1 and drove toward the St. Johns River, he studied the in
struments on the dashboard.
He saw that the speedometer did not register—its needle rested below the zero on the dial face—and that the mileage shown on the odometer, which was not turning, was 40,348. With the odometer displaying only five digits, he knew that the numbers had to have rolled all zeros, and that meant that the truck really had, at the very least—who knew when the odometer had last worked—140,348 miles, if not 240,348.
He noticed, too, that the oil pressure and ammeter gauges seemed to be registering properly and in a good range. The needle on the gauge labeled OIL/P.S.I. pointed to 50 and the AMMETER needle bounced between 8 and 10.
He glanced at the gauge labeled FUEL. Its needle was flat against the E.
Does that mean it’s broken, too, or we’re out of gas? he wondered. Either way, I have no idea how much gas is in the tank.
He tapped the gauge glass with his right index finger. The needle didn’t respond.
“Damn!” he said.
“What?” Kurt Bayer said.
“We need gas,” Koch replied.
After a moment’s thought, Bayer said, “They didn’t issue us any ration coupons.”
Even if the Abwehr had, Koch thought, they’d probably be the wrong ones. Like that damned twenty they gave me.
Bayer glanced around the truck, then through the back window to the cargo area where Rolf Grossman and Rudolf Cremer were riding, leaning against built-in boxes used for carrying tools and plumbing parts.
“There’s probably a rubber hose back there,” Bayer said. “We could siphon some from another vehicle.”
Koch nodded. “Yeah, good idea.” He looked at the glove box. “Just for the hell of it, check in there.”
Bayer opened the glove box door and wads of discolored papers that had been crammed inside came pouring out.
“What the…?” Bayer said as they fell in his lap and down to the filthy floorboard.
He began picking through the mess. There were handwritten receipts on standard forms from plumbing supply shops and blank invoices imprinted in black ink with STAN’S PLUMBING, MANHATTAN BCH, FLA.
After a moment, Bayer’s voice sounded excited.
“Well, would you look at this…”
