“Yes, sir!”
Cracco watched three soldiers lift the crate off the floor and stagger outside with it.
Kohl turned to Cracco. “Well, my friend, it’s been a short acquaintance, though a productive one. I think I am going to like this country. The politics, the freedom, the culture … And, more important,” the man said with a serious frown that soon blossomed into a smile, “restaurants where you can find an entire meal behind little glass windows. This clearly is a paradise on earth!”
Cracco and the colonel embraced, and the German stepped out the door of the bakery into the alley to accompany the uranium, with all his potential for horror and for good, to New Mexico.
Tom Brandon stood partly at attention, partly slumped, a difficult pose to achieve.
Geller said, “We’ll talk later, Tom. Oh, and if you hear from J. Edgar Vacuum or his boys, send ’em to me.”
“Yes, sir.” The younger OSS officer nodded, then walked through the door, pulling his coat about him.
Geller turned from the empty doorway. “I got word this afternoon: Your brother’s safely back in Italy, behind Allied lines.” The general reached forward and shook his hand. “Ah, Luca. You’ve done a good thing here.”
The baker shrugged. “It was my duty. The attack by the Japanese on Pearl Harbor was inexcusable. I would do anything to avenge that crime against my country.”
His country.
America.
It had been Cracco who’d suggested the name Operation Payback. For, indeed, it was.
Geller added, “Oh, and here.” He handed Cracco a dollar bill, open, not folded, as in the past.
“What is this?”
“When I told President Roosevelt about the operation, he asked me to thank you. And when I told him what a fine baker you were, he asked me to bring Eleanor and him a loaf of your bread.”
“The president of the United States wants a loaf of my bread?” Cracco blinked.
“Semolina, of course.”
“I’ll bake some now. At once.”
Geller said, “Don’t have time. I’ve got to leave for Washington in a few hours. The first train out.”
“Sit,” Cracco said. “Have a café, which I’ll make myself, while I bake.” He picked up a metal bowl of risen dough, covered with a damp cloth.
“No, don’t bother. I’ll take one of those.” He pointed to a bin of a dozen loaves.
Cracco frowned. “No, no, that’s day old. Good only for turkey stuffing and pudding.”
“Roosevelt won’t care.”
“But I would.” And Luca Cracco pulled off his jacket and took an apron from the stack of cleans ones that Violetta had laundered and carefully folded. He slipped it over his head and tied the drawstrings around his girth.
“Sit,” said the baker once more.
General Geller sat.
A former journalist, folksinger, and attorney, JEFFERY DEAVER is an international number-one best-selling author of thirty-five novels and three collections of short stories. He’s received or been shortlisted for dozens of awards. The Bodies Left Behind was named novel of the year by the International Thriller Writers Association, and the Lincoln Rhyme thriller The Broken Window and a stand-alone, Edge, were also nominated for that prize. He has been awarded the Steel Dagger and the Short Story Dagger from the British Crime Writers’ Association and the Nero Wolfe Award; he is a three-time recipient of the Ellery Queen Readers Award for best short story of the year. Deaver has been honored with the Lifetime Achievement Award by the Bouchercon World Mystery Conference. His most recent works are The Starling Project, an original audio play from Audible.com, The Skin Collector, and The October List, a novel in reverse.
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