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He found a corkscrew, cracked open the bottle of wine, and half-filled one of the glass jars.
He grabbed a fistful of olives and popped a couple in his mouth as he carried the jar of wine over to the window. He saw that he had a clear view of most of Palermo and all of the port—and Civil War Major General John Buford, the Union Army cavalry officer, suddenly came to mind.
He puffed on his cigar and grunted.
“General, we have taken the tactical high ground, have a solid foothold, and the enemy in sight. All is well.”
We may be one helluva long way from Gettysburg, General Buford, sir, but battles is battles.
Then he thought: Where the hell are you out there, John Craig?
And Tubes?
And I don’t even want to think about that Kappler SS bastard.
He took a healthy gulp of the wine, then could not help but notice that there was only one S-boat at the pier—and I don’t want to try to think what that means—and, moored opposite it, there now was an Italian submarine.
The sleek black one-hundred-eighty-foot-long Ascianghi had a complement of nearly forty crew and six officers.
Well, that damn sure explains all the drunk swabbies—shore leave.
No coincidence that rhymes with whore leave.
He then had a sudden need to hit the head—this wine is going right through me—and made a beeline for it.
Fifteen minutes and one lukewarm bath later, he came back into the room with a towel around his waist, poured another half-jar of wine, then went and sat on the bed.
He took a gulp of the wine, put the jar on the side table, and leaned back on the pillow.
Setting priorities, he thought as he closed his eyes, here’s what I know . . .
One, find Kappler, then await word as to what I’m supposed to do with the bastard. Killing him—or having it look like the SS or OVR did it—certainly would simplify that. But, failing that . . .
Two, in order to find out what I’m supposed to do with Kappler, I have to find John Craig and/or his suitcase radio to get my messages from Stan and Neptune or . . .
Three, go out and get one of the suitcase radios I stashed. And probably the C-2. And definitely a bottle of that scotch.
He grinned.
Not necessarily in that order of importance.
And then there’s the original One and Two—now Four and Five—finding Tubes and Frank, and any Tabun.
Forget verifying the half-million troopers. Even Jimmy Skinny didn’t seem to buy that bullshit figure.
Canidy had suddenly caught himself in a huge yawn.
What I don’t know is if John Craig got nabbed like Tubes did . . . or if I’ll find either of them.
He had yawned again.
Then he had fallen asleep.
* * *
And then, nearly eight hours later, the hammering started.
[TWO]
