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“There’s a small place we took over called Dellys, about sixty klicks east of here,” Fine explained as he gestured to the right, toward the eastern point of the coast on the horizon. “It’s sort of a miniature Algiers, with a port, an ancient casbah, assorted buildings like these”—he gestured at the city below—“just smaller and fewer, and not much else. We’ve got four or five fishing boats and a dozen or so small rubber boats. With these we practice putting the agents ashore. And we’ll use the aircraft to drop agents in.”
That got Canidy’s attention.
“Aircraft?” he said.
Fine nodded. “We got our hands on a couple C-47s. Darmstadter did. And—”
“Darmstadter?” Canidy said, excited. “He’s here? With Gooney Birds? This is getting better by the second.”
“Yeah. A week ago he arrived with the aircraft. I’ve got him on a very short TDY. He’s getting the aircraft squared away; they’re out at the airport, someone with them at all times to keep them from disappearing. He brought pilots with him, then the plan is he’ll head back to England, back to the Aphrodite Project.”
Like hell, Canidy thought, visualizing the B-17s being turned into Torpex-filled drones. Not if I decide I need him.
“Hank’s a good guy,” Fine went on. “And a decent pilot.”
“Agreed.” Canidy grinned, and added, “Not as good as me, but then few are, said he with overwhelming modesty.”
Fine shook his head, grinned, too, then went on, “And no one knows more than he does about dropping sticks of paratroopers than Hank.”
“Agreed again,” Canidy said, then thought again about the twin-engine transports. “Can we get more Gooney Birds?”
“Why?”
“Why not? We could call it Canidy Air Corps just to piss off the Brits. And maybe Colonel Pompous.”
Fine laughed. When Canidy didn’t laugh, too, Fine’s expression suddenly changed.
“You’re not serious, Dick, are you?”
Canidy made a devious face and shrugged.
“I don’t know, Dick,” Fine said cautiously. “Everyone is fighting over scraps here. We’re lucky to have the two we do.”
Canidy put up his hands, chest high, palms outward.
“Okay,” he said. “Just asking. I’m trying to get an idea of what we have immediate access to, and what assets I’ll have to acquire, shall we say, by other means. If it turns out we need more, I can always play the OSS trump card as a last resort.”
“Good thing you’re better practiced at theft,” Fine said. He was smiling again.
“Who, me?” Canidy said with mock indignation, his hands on his chest. “That’s an unjust characterization, Counselor! I’ll have you know that I prefer the term ‘borrow,’ as I always return that which I take…perhaps not in the condition in which it was acquired, but return it nonetheless.” He paused. “Unless that proves to be impossible. Then I don’t. But my intentions—like my heart, dear sir—are pure.”
Fine shook his head in resignation.
Canidy grinned, then with some finality went on:
“Okay, so we have some challenges. My immediate one is finding the Stefania and seeing what they know about the status of Palermo. It’s been four days since I blew up the ship; the cleanup has to be well under way. Then I need to find out when the Casabianca sets sail again and if I need to get that date moved up. And then, or maybe before, I need to set up an SO team for Sicily, so we can run a réseau—or whatever the hell the Sicilian word for réseau is.”
Canidy thought: And keep a low profile so that Ike and his flunky Owen—and anyone else who can bloody well spell AFHQ—don’t know what I’m doing.
“Get Darmstadter to run you out to Dellys,” Stan Fine said. “You may find what you need at our school. Know that Corvo is out there with Scamporinio, Anfuso, and some others.”
Canidy had met Max Corvo in Washington, D.C., in ’42, shortly after the chief of the OSS Italian Division, Earl Brennan, had recruited the twenty-two-year-old U.S. Army private. Of Sicilian descent, Corvo had strong connections—family, friends, business associates—both in America and Sicily. He spoke Italian as well as Sicilian dialects. Despite his age and rank, he was put in charge of OSS Italy SI (Secret Intelligence) and quickly manned his section with a dozen Sicilian Americans to serve as SI field agents. Victor Anfuso and Vincent Scamporino, both young lawyers, were among his recruits.
Canidy knew that as far as AFHQ was concerned, Corvo and Captain Stanley S. Fine were the official face of the OSS here. Canidy was attached to neither OSS Italy nor OSS Algiers. On paper, he was in charge of the safe house known as OSS Whitbey House, which made him the number three man in OSS London, behind David Bruce and Ed Stevens.
But right now, Canidy worked directly for OSS Washington; he was Wild Bill Donovan’s wild card.
Canidy reached into his pocket and pulled out the stamped-metal fob that held the key to the Plymouth.
