The Spymasters: A Men at War Novel

by Griffin, W. E. B. ; Butterworth IV, William E.

  Lucia frowned, then nodded her understanding. She drained her glass and crawled under the sheet on her side of the imaginary line.

  Oskar thought, Well, that certainly went better than I expected.

  He drained his glass, then got in under his side of the sheet. On his back, he looked at the ceiling a long moment, then closed his eyes.

  In the quiet darkness, Oskar could hear Lucia’s soft breathing.

  Their combined body heat was quickly warming the sheets, and with that Oskar noticed that he could now really smell her.

  It’s lilac. So fresh . . .

  She moved to adjust her pillow, and when she did more of her warm scent seemed to engulf him.

  Oskar felt himself inhaling slowly and deeply.

  Then he felt a stir in his groin—and, a moment later, the sheet directly above his groin slowly began to rise.

  The movement did not go unnoticed.

  Oskar felt her hand slide over to him under the sheet, then wrap around his penis. She stroked and he was suddenly extremely hard.

  She giggled—and then her head disappeared under the sheet.

  Ach du lieber Gott!

  What the hell!

  I may well be in a concentration camp tomorrow.

  “Oh, Lucia,” he said softly. . . .

  [TWO]

  Palermo, Sicily

  2335 30 May 1943

  “We don’t want to stay on the air a second longer than absolutely necessary,” Dick Canidy said. “Always a chance someone is listening, and I’ve about had enough excitement for one day without some SS bastard trying to triangulate on our signal.”

  “Understood,” John Craig van der Ploeg said, his voice sounding genuinely tired. He yawned. “And agreed. I’m exhausted.”

  Exhausted and he looks like shit, Canidy thought as he pulled a fat cigar from his pocket, unwrapped it, bit a hole in its closed end, and then lit it.

  Small wonder. He’s been throwing up since we went wheels-up. He got smacked around really good landing in that tree. And now he can barely stand—never mind walk—on that busted ankle.

  But . . . whoopee! Lucky me . . . I’m stuck with him for the duration.

  John Craig was sitting on the floor by the window. Canidy had taken parts of one of the busted beds and with them fashioned short legs for the wooden bedside table that also had been broken. The result was a bit wobbly, but the lower height was close to perfect for John Craig to get his hurt foot under and be able to comfortably work the SSTR-1 wireless telegraphy set.

  What would have been better was the location.

  John Craig sat an inch from where the pool of blood and brain matter from Mariano’s head wound had dried on the wooden floor. It had a distinctive foul odor, and John Craig’s stomach, though absolutely empty after the last series of dry heaves, still was sensitive.

  Canidy saw that John Craig regularly looked to see that he was not in fact sitting on the dried blood.

  Still, Canidy knew nothing could be done; there was only the one window, and the W/T antenna went out it.

  And I really tried to make it right. . . .

  * * *

  After Canidy, with some effort, had turned the chair and Mariano upright, then slid him over by the stairwell, he had taken one of the torn bedsheets and covered the dead man. Then he had taken another bedsheet and scrubbed at the dried pool. All that that had accomplished, however, was to break up the caked blood and tissue—and stir up the fetid odor. The room smelled worse.

  Frustrated, he threw open the window. As a warm breeze floated in, he walked over to the broken beds.

  “The SS think they’re tough, huh?” John Craig said as he watched Canidy work.

  Canidy, puffing heavily on his cigar, grunted.

  “With an organization as large as the SS,” he said, “headed by the sonofabitch Himmler and charged by Hitler to protect the Nazi state at any cost whatever, they are tough. And the sense of invincibility they get from that machine makes them more dangerous. Makes them damn mean”—he gestured with a piece of wood at Mariano—“sadistic even. But separate the man from the machine, and he discovers he’s not the tough guy he thought.”

  Canidy began sorting through the wooden pieces, and said, “General George Washington said that to be a good leader, an effective one, people don’t need to love you, or even like you, but they need to respect you. And that’s the chink in the SS’s armor. Being feared is not the same as being respected.”

  He looked at John Craig, and added, “Eventually people choose not to take counsel of their fears and rise up.”

  “Like the resistance fighters training at your throat-cutting academy,” John Craig said.

  “And the Polish underground I told you about. They are tough and determined, even if they have to fight alone,” Canidy said, still looking at him. He glanced at Mariano. “And he was tough to the end. And Charley Lucky is one tough sonofabitch.”

  “Who?”

  “Luciano. He’s the New York Mafia boss I was going to tell you about. He’s currently serving thirty-plus years—and remarkably still running his gang, and helping us—at New York’s Great Meadow prison.”

  “Running the mob from prison? And helping us how?”

  “I’ll get into that in a minute. You know what omertà is?”

  “Sure. The Mafia’s code of silence.”

  “If you never heard of Charley Lucky then you probably never heard of how he, when left to die, took omertà to a remarkable level.”

  John Craig shook his head.

  Canidy found four more or less even lengths of wood. As he carried them over to the window, he began, “Giuseppe ‘Joe the Boss’ Masseria—a ruthless guinea gangster who was born on the coast about forty miles from here—we damn-near flew over Menfi tonight—fled Sicily to avoid murder charges. He wound up in New York, and eventually became a Mafia don, the capo di tutti capi—”

  “Boss of all bosses.”

  “—Yeah. And Masseria’s mob made a lot of money. Then a hotshot named Charley Lucky became his number two, and he made Masseria even more. Luciano had a lot of ideas and smart connections—his most trusted friend going back to childhood is Meyer Lansky—and suggested to Masseria that they diversify, do business with gangs that weren’t Italian.” He paused, then added, “Now that I think about it, Lansky is another tough Polish Jew, so that had to influence Luciano’s thoughts.”

  Canidy walked back to the beds, found the busted side table, and carried it to the window.

  “Anyway,” he went on, “Luciano was already envisioning a nationwide syndicate. He not only wanted to do business with gangs that weren’t Wops but with gangs that weren’t Wops and weren’t in New York City. Despite Luciano’s pushing, Masseria was having none of it. Worse, Luciano’s hunger for even more power made him paranoid. This was October 1929, and as Luciano stood on the sidewalk in front of the Flatiron Building, there at Broadway and Fifth, a car pulled up. He was forced into the backseat, and the goons bound and gagged him. They took him out to a Staten Island warehouse, where he was strung up with rope, then pistol-whipped and stabbed. Before they left him for dead, they slit his throat.”

  “But you said he’s serving time. So he’s still alive?”

  “Let me finish,” Canidy said, fitting the wooden boards to the tabletop. “Charley Lucky, living up to his name, managed to work free of the ropes, then crawl to the street. Cops from NYPD’s 123rd Precinct found him. Of course they knew who the hell Charley Lucky was, and after they got him stitched up, they made all kinds of threats to get him to tell who tried whacking him. He refused to rat out the goons.”

  “Omertà.”

  Canidy looked up from his project.

  “Omertà in a big way. The cops, having no choice, let him go. Charley Lucky found out who ordered the hit, and settled the score—without breaking the code of silence. Now, that’s goddamn tough.”

  John Craig looked at the dead man.

  “And you think the same about Mariano?�
��

  “Absolutely. He didn’t tell them anything they wanted to know. If he had, he would have the bullet to the brain but still would have most of his fingernails intact. And next to none of those bruises. They wouldn’t have wasted their time and energy—the SS are lazy bastards—beating him head to toe with a cosh.”

  John Craig nodded.

  “You said something about this Charley Lucky helping us. We’re working with the Mafia? Those guys don’t even like each other. . . .”

  Canidy nodded. “They’re cutthroat and worse. But as General Donovan told me, ‘Sometimes we have to dance with the devil.’”

  “But . . .”

  “But nothing. We have to do whatever’s necessary. Churchill really put it in perspective when he said, ‘If Hitler invaded hell, I would make at least a favorable reference to the devil in the House of Commons.’”

  “Huh,” John Craig said, unconvinced.

  “Look,” Canidy said, an edge to his tone, “the mob has its hands in everything in New York. We approached Charley Lucky’s lawyer, who passed to him our request for help hunting Nazi sympathizers there and for getting us connections here. Luciano hates Fascism—particularly Mussolini, whose vicious secret police, the OVRA, Organization for Vigilance and Repression of Anti-Fascism, swept through Sicily arresting suspected mafiosos—and agreed to help us. A mob guy named Joe ‘Socks’ Lanza—who’s the union leader who runs the Fulton Fish Market—introduced me to Francisco Nola. Lanza, by the way, is the wise guy who had the stolen Johnny guns; that’s where I got mine. Anyway, Frank Nola—whose wife is Jewish and who had relatives arrested by the OVRA and thrown in the penal colonies on those small volcanic islands north of here—helped me (a) rescue Professor Rossi and (b) in the course of that rescue, helped me discover that the goddamn Krauts had—and probably still have—plans to use nerve gas.” He caught his breath, then ended with, “So that’s why ‘but nothing.’ Sometimes we do have to dance with the goddamn devil.”

  John Craig, clearly exhausted, was expressionless. He simply nodded.

  Canidy then dug into his coat’s inside pocket and produced an envelope.

  “And this is why,” he said, holding it out.

  John Craig opened it and found a letter folded inside a handkerchief.

  “Be careful with that,” Canidy said. “The letter’s a little ragged around the edges from the last trips here.”

  John Craig saw that the letter was written in English and again in Sicilian. He read both, and saw that they were the same:

  * * *

  March 1943

  The bearer of this letter is Mr. Richard Canidy.

  With this letter, the bearer brings to you my many good wishes.

  It is requested of you in turn that the bearer be given the same respect and considerations that would be given if I were to personally appear before you.

  Your friendship is appreciated and it will not be forgotten.

  Charles Luciano

  (Salvatore Lucania)

  * * *

  “What’s with the handkerchief?” John Craig said, handing it all back.

  “It’s from Luciano’s family. It will be recognized, establishing our bona fides, and it may damn well be key to finding Tubes.”

  Canidy returned the envelope to his pocket. Then he stood, tested his work, and announced, “Your desk, more or less, is ready.”

  * * *

  Even though Canidy had at least fifty pounds on Mariano, John Craig could see that he was having trouble getting him down the stairs. The rigor mortis had set in while Mariano had been tied to the chair, and his muscles now rigidly held the body in the seated position.

  Ten minutes later, Canidy reappeared alone at the top of the stairs, grabbed the dirtiest sheets, then went back downstairs.

  When he came up the next time, he found that John Craig had opened the suitcase and dug out its contents to reach the false bottom, then taken out the transmitter, the receiver, and the power supply. The three instruments were now on the low wooden table, connected by two thick black power cords with chromed plugs.

  After hooking up the antenna—a six-foot length of thin, dull, bare wire—John Craig had run it out the window, attaching it along the plant shelf there.

  Canidy walked over to the two shredded mattresses and dragged them to the front wall.

  John Craig yawned.

  Canidy saw it and said, “There’s your luxury five-star accommodations—but not before you get your ass on the air.”

  * * *

  John Craig, sitting on the floor, put his fingers together as if in prayer. He interwove his fingers, then stretched his arms, palms out, causing at least a half-dozen knuckles to make rapid popping sounds. Then he separated his hands and exercised his right hand, wiggling his fingers and rotating his wrist.

  Canidy watched the ritual with mild amusement. He had seen Tubes do the same in the very same place.

  The transmitter and receiver had black Bakelite faceplates with an assortment of switches and dials. The bottom right-hand corner of the transmitter featured a round key on a short shaft that resembled a black drawer pull handle.

  After a long moment, he finally looked up at Canidy, who was puffing on his cigar.

  “Ready when you are. Do you want to send encrypted?”

  “No, out in the open is fine. Message: ‘Hail, Caesar! We have checked into the Ritz, and are partaking of local wine, women, and song. Tell Hermes thanks for the lift. Send our mail in next five minutes, or tomorrow. Jupiter/Apollo.’”

  “Hermes is god of—?”

  “Flight, of course. He’s also the god of thieves and mischief, which nicely fits Darmstadter. Stan’ll figure out that part, no doubt.”

  John Craig made a weak smile, then looked serious.

  “You’re not mentioning me, landing in the tree and screwing up my foot? And screwing up the mission?”

  “Well, you haven’t screwed up the mission. Yet. And what can they do about your foot? It’s our problem.”

  John Craig nodded, then held one of the headphone cups to his ear with his left hand. He looked at the W/T transmitter box and put his right index and middle fingers lightly on the round key, and began rhythmically tapping out the Morse code.

  After a minute, he said, “Done. I added ‘confirm receipt.’”

  Then he threw the switch to RECEIVE.

  Almost another minute later, with the can still on his ear, he heard the receiver tap out, “Apollo. Receipt confirmed. Good to hear your hand. Be safe, buddy. Daffy.”

  John Craig put down the headset, grinning at the mental image of Bob Duck, his deputy in the OSS Algiers commo room. Eighteen-year-old “Daffy” Duck took great delight in mimicking the voice of cartoon characters. He did it as skillfully as he tapped out Morse code—and often did it at the same time, ending more than one string of code by filling the commo room with his lively version of Porky Pig’s Tha-tha-that’s all, Folks!

  “There’s confirmation,” he said. “Guess we have no mail.”

  Canidy snuffed out his cigar and put it in his pocket. “Then shut it down and let’s get some shut-eye.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice. . . .”

  As John Craig reached for the power—and in his head heard Duck’s voice saying, Tha-tha-that’s all, Folks!—the receiver came alive.

  “Oh, shit!” he exclaimed, reaching for the cans.

  Five minutes later, after pulling out the codebook and writing freehand on the transcription pad, he had the message decrypted.

  He tore out the sheet and handed it to Canidy.

  “And, no,” he said, “I did not make up the second part.”

  “What?” Canidy said as he began reading:

  * * *

  30MAY 2345

  To Jupiter

  From Caesar

  Neptune says he will pick you up per usual. Contact him on Schedule EO-1.

  Good thing Neptune will, because I have to ground Hermes for what I guess is excessive drinki
ng. He won’t quit telling wild story about Apollo shooting down Nazi Giant bird with tiny gun.

  More soon. Check six.

  * * *

  [THREE]

  OSS Algiers Station

  Algiers, Algeria

  1201 31 May 1943

  Stanley Fine was eating a grilled tuna steak on a hard-crusted roll at his desk while reading the overnight messages—and rereading the ones from Wild Bill Donovan and Allen Dulles, and shaking his head—when he heard a knock at his office door.

  Oh, hell, he thought when he looked up. What does this sonofabitch want?

  “Colonel,” Fine called out formally. “Nice to see you. Please come in.”

  Fine was amazed at how the tall, slender, balding man looked uncannily like his boss—despite the fact that the clean-shaven Ike doesn’t have that ridiculous-looking “toilet seat” male-pattern baldness.

  Intellectually, however, they had next to nothing in common.

  A brilliant soldier, General Dwight David Eisenhower was commander in chief of AFHQ, and already had been tapped to command the even more important invasion of Normandy. Meanwhile, his aide Lieutenant Colonel J. Warren Owen was an Ivy League–educated world-class bullshitter whose only redeeming quality was his ability to recite chapter and verse of military protocol—then force it down others’ throats. He was prone to pretension, and always quick to remind everyone who his boss was, and thus, when he spoke, who he spoke for.

  Some of Owen’s detractors devoutly—if not hopefully—believed that Ike kept Owen around because of the resemblance, and thus made for a convenient decoy—if not a bullet magnet.

  Owen entered Fine’s office, seemingly awaiting Fine’s salute of a superior officer. When Fine simply stood and smiled, Owen unceremoniously held out a manila envelope.