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Canidy glanced out the doors at the harbor, out to the sea, and said, “You know, Donovan didn’t tell me what I was looking for in Sicily besides Rossi, only to keep my eyes open, that I’d know it when I found it.”
“And you did.”
“But I thought that it was the villa with the yellow-fever lab…. And then, as we were leaving the dock, Rossi told me about the Tabun…and I just blew it up.”
He turned and looked at Fine and said, “You know, maybe David Bruce is more right than I want to admit. I am a loose cannon, in way over my head.”
Colonel David Kirkpatrick Este Bruce was the distinguished, high-level diplomat currently serving as the OSS London chief of station. At forty-five, he had more than twenty years—and a wealth of experience—over Canidy. And he was not hesitant to let him know that.
Fine made a face of frustration.
“Dammit, Dick. You know better than that. You’re not going to get any false sympathy out of me. You had your orders and you followed your orders, and you did it damn well.”
Canidy didn’t respond to that. Instead, after a moment, he went on, his tone matter-of-fact, “I thought and rethought it on the sub and about the only thing that I came up with that was positive about the gas was the fact that the sea was flat calm that night. Not even a bit of a breeze.”
“So if the Tabun did go up,” Fine finished, “the cloud didn’t go far.”
Canidy nodded.
“Right,” Canidy said. “We were sitting there on the fishing boat—the Stefania—waiting for the sub, about twelve klicks northwest of the explosion. Which was why we had such a good view of the show…”
“And the Casabianca got there right after that?”
“Uh-huh. Like clockwork.”
“And another—what?—half hour for you to get out of the boat and into the sub?”
“Just shy of that, maybe twenty minutes from the moment it surfaced to the order to dive. L’Herminier’s a real pro. So we weren’t endangered by the Tabun. Trust me, I had the sub’s doc keep a close eye on Rossi and me for symptoms. But I’m not sure where the Stefania went after dropping us. She was supposed to come here.”
“After your messages en route,” Fine said, “I had some discreet questions asked down at the commercial docks.”
“And?”
“The Stefania is en route to here, fishing on the way, of course, as both a cover and a genuine source of income. She’s due in tomorrow or the next day, though that does not mean anything. They said she’s often late, especially if there’s a mechanical problem.”
“Like a bullet to the engine block?” Canidy suggested. “After the cargo is looted by a German patrol boat?”
Fine grunted.
“They didn’t say that,” he said, “but I could see it as being problematic.”
“I understand that that’s a common occurrence,” Canidy went on, “particularly for captains hesitant to surrender their tuna…and/or whatever they might be smuggling.”
“Well, so far there is no word from her—which can be read pretty much any way anyone wants to read it. Bottom line: They were not too concerned.”
Canidy shook his head in resignation. “If they went back into the port for any reason…”
“But why would they? A ship had just blown up. Who’d go into an inferno?”
Canidy shrugged.
“Changing the subject somewhat,” Fine said, “what about the villa with the yellow fever?”
Canidy raised his hands, palms upward, and shrugged again.
“Hell if I know, Stan. Rossi had two assistants who had access and who he said he trusted completely. I gave them the C-2 and then taught a very basic demolitions course—where to place it for best effect, how much to use, et cetera. But we did not stay offshore long enough to see the villa blow. Which, now that we know what we do about what happens when nerve gas burns, I can’t say I’m disappointed.”
“But we don’t know if the villa went up.”
