“The steps are in the back there,” the squat Italian added, pointing to a far corner.
“Thanks,” Canidy replied.
Fulmar followed Canidy to the back corner, then up the steps, which led to a narrow landing on the second floor and a wooden door with a small metal sign reading: OFFICE.
Canidy knocked, and then they heard footsteps approaching the other side of the door. The knob turned and the door flew open inward.
The office was dimly lit by a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, but Canidy and Fulmar could see well enough to tell that they were looking at the muzzle of a high-caliber long arm—and immediately put their hands up, waist high, palms out. Canidy’s attaché case hung painfully on his thumb.
Behind the business end of the firearm was an Italian fishmonger, this one somewhat slender and of medium height, wearing a dark wool sweater and black rubber overalls. Canidy could not be sure in the low light of the office but he thought that this guy looked like one of Nola’s men whom he had seen loading crates on the truck the previous night.
I can easily grab the end of the barrel, Canidy thought. But even if I get the muzzle pointed away, this could get messy fast, especially if that’s what I think it is and it’s on full auto.
Canidy saw some motion behind the fishmonger, and then Francesco Nola’s voice called from farther inside the office. “Mario! Put that gun away!”
Another set of footsteps quickly approached the door. The door swung open completely and there stood Nola. He pushed Mario to the side, forced the direction of the muzzle to the ceiling, and then smacked him on the side of the head.
As Fulmar and Canidy put down their hands, they exchanged glances. Fulmar’s said what Canidy was thinking—We’ve got to deal with dangerous goons like this?
“Nice welcoming party,” Canidy said. “I’d hate to see how you host people you don’t expect.”
“My apologies,” Nola said. “Mario, he’s just a little jumpy. Come in, come in.”
Canidy looked around the office once they were inside. There was a rusty filing cabinet against one wall, a grimy, threadbare couch with the stuffing poking out the cushions against another, and in the middle a big, beat-up wooden desk that had its front right leg reinforced by a two-by-four nailed to it.
“This is a very close friend of mine, Frank,” he said as he gestured to Fulmar.
Nola offered his hand to Fulmar. “Francesco Nola.”
Fulmar shook the hand but made no effort to offer his name.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Nola.”
“It’s Frank, please.”
Canidy said, “Mind if I ask where Mario got that gun?”
“Why?” Nola said.
“Can I have a look at it?” Canidy pursued.
“Mario,” Nola said, “give my friend the rifle.”
Mario, in a sloppy motion, swung the barrel so that the muzzle swept across Canidy and Fulmar. This time Canidy did grab the end of the barrel and thrust it toward the ceiling.
“No offense, Mario,” he said coldly, “but I’ve seen people killed that way.”
Nola smacked the top of Mario’s head again. “Idiot!”
Mario looked hurt and let loose of the stock.
Canidy held up the gun to the light from the bare bulb. He looked it over, then read the stamping on the receiver. “Yeah, just what I thought.”
He looked at Fulmar, then handed him the gun. “Ever see one of these?”
“A Johnny gun, no?”
Canidy nodded. “A Johnson model 1941 light machine gun, chambered for thirty-ought-six Springfield. They’re rare.”
“And they’re a helluva weapon. They had the semiauto rifle version at the range in Virginia. Next to the Thompsons. I think the range master said that the LMG in full auto puts out four hundred and fifty rounds a minute. Reliably. Open bolt, no jams.”
The range in Virginia was at an estate that the OSS used as its agent training facilities. They called it “The Farm.” It essentially was an intense boot camp—one where all the agents in training went by their first name and only their first name—complete with instruction in all types of explosives and weaponry, domestic and foreign. The gun range had a wide range of pistols and rifles, anything the OSS could get its hands on from the field so that agents would have some familiarity in their use should they find themselves left with only, say, a German Mauser or British Sten to defend themselves.
“Johnny gun” was a word play on “Tommy gun,” the nickname for the storied Thompson .45 caliber submachine gun.
“They said the LMG was in short supply,” Fulmar finished, handing the gun back to Canidy.
Canidy pulled the twenty-round box magazine from its mount in the left side of the receiver, checked the action to ensure that a round wasn’t chambered, then handed the gun to Mario. He inspected the magazine and then tossed that to him.
“Do us a favor, Mario. Leave it unloaded till we leave, okay?”
Mario squinted his eyes to show his disapproval.
“Do as he says,” Nola added.
Mario nodded, then walked with the gun to the grimy couch on the far side of the office and took a seat, laying the weapon across his knees.
Canidy turned to Nola.
“Reason I asked where you got that,” he said evenly, “is that they are in short supply, and the ones available were supposed to go to the Marines.”
That’s one reason. Another is: I’d like to get my hands on one for myself.
“No,” Nola said, “that one came from a crate that was supposed to go to the Netherlands.”
Canidy’s eyes lit up.
“Really?”
He looked at Fulmar.
“Story I heard was that there was a real pissing match over the Johnny gun even being considered to take the place of the BAR,” Canidy explained.
The beloved Browning automatic rifle was the U.S.’s primary automatic weapon, tough as nails and reliable as hell. In many minds it had no peer, and never would, and when Boston attorney—and Marine Corps reserve officer—Melvin Maynard Johnson Jr. designed and built the first generation of the Johnny gun—a semiautomatic rifle that he felt was superior to the new M1 Garand—his battle for it to be adopted was straight uphill. In the eyes of the U.S. Army Ordnance Department, the Johnson had all the chance of being military issue that a Red Ryder BB gun or a slingshot did.
Johnson did get his M1941 LMG into the hands of some Marine Raiders. And the Marine’s First Parachute Battalion came to prefer the weapon because it weighed only twelve pounds (the BAR was a hefty twenty), and because its buttstock and barrel were designed to be quickly removed and replaced, allowing for more compact packing and easier servicing in the field.
“Then,” Canidy went on, “some Marines praised its performance in the Solomons and ’Canal—more than one swearing it beat the BAR hands down, especially in the jungles—and the Dutch got wind of that and ordered a bunch for their colonial troops in the East Indies.”
“But the Japs took the islands,” Fulmar said.
“Right. And after they did, the U.S. embargoed the weapons that had come out of the Rhode Island factory and not yet shipped. So at that point no one was getting them, except now…”
Canidy looked at Nola.
“Would I be guessing wrong if I said that friends of Socks peddled this one?”
Nola did not have to say anything. The answer was on his face.
Canidy said, “I’m not at all happy with the idea of the mob getting them.”
Nola shrugged. “What can I say? Better than the Japs.”
“I heard that they had to pull a whole shipment off one of the Liberty ships.”
Nola shrugged again. “If you say. I do not know. I am sorry.”
Well, this is starting out as some fine partnership, Canidy thought.
He said, “Have you seen Lanza today?”
“Yes, he was here at the market.”
“Was or is? I’d like to see him.�
�
Nola walked over to the desk and picked up the phone and asked for a number.
“This is Frank Nola,” he said after a moment. “Is Mr. Lanza still there?” There was a pause. “At his office? Thank you.”
He broke off the connection by pushing the receiver hook down with his index finger, then asked for another number.
“Mr. Lanza? Frank Nola—
“Yes, sir, those fish were processed, packed, and loaded—
“Probably three days. The Annie should be out right now—
“Yes, sir, I will. Mr. Lanza, I have Mr. Canidy here. He wants to see you—
“I will. Good-bye.”
He put the receiver in its hook and looked at Canidy.
“He said to come by his office. He has something for you. He’s going to get something to eat, then he’ll be back there till midnight.”
“In Meyer’s Hotel?”
“Room two-oh-one.”
“Okay,” Canidy said, carrying his attaché case to the desk. “In the meantime, I hope I can find something that you do know about. I brought some charts of Sicily and the islands. Think we can start with a tour?”
Nola nodded. “Yes. And I may have other things that would be of help.”
Canidy unfolded the chart that covered the southern coast of Sicily.
“We run boats from here at Porto Empedocle,” Nola began, pointing to a midpoint on the southern coast of the island, “across the Strait of Sicily down to the Black Pearl, then over to Tunisia.” He paused. “Do you have a chart that shows Africa?”
“Hang on,” Canidy said and pulled the Michelin Guide from his attaché.
Nola took it and flipped to a regional map that included a sliver of the northern African coast just under Sicily, then continued, “To here at Nabeul, then up and around Cape Bon and into Tunis itself.”
Canidy pointed at the Sicilian island in the strait that was closer to Tunisia than to Sicily. “The Black Pearl?”
Nola nodded.
“Pantelleria,” he explained. “It is volcanic rock—black rock—about fourteen by eight or nine kilometers. It’s known for its capers, figs, lentils, grapes. I have cousins there. Rizzo is the family name. Many Rizzos there. They are tonnarotti.”
Canidy shook his head.
“Tuna fisherman,” Fulmar translated.
Nola smiled and nodded. “Bluefin tuna. You would like it. They take a number of boats and work the nets, surrounding the big fish like cowboys herd cattle. The nets close in and the great tuna struggle to escape, and the water, as you can imagine, becomes a brutal swirl of fish and blood.”
Fulmar said, “Those fish can be four hundred pounds.”
Nola smiled again.
“Yes. Some as big as some cattle. And when you catch the entire school—twenty, thirty fish or more—it is called a mattanza.” He paused. “That is a word that also has come to mean ‘massacre.’”
Canidy studied Nola, who clearly was happy with this tale of his family heritage, then glanced at Mario on the couch.
Maybe there is some fight to these people after all, Canidy thought. Not blooded in human battle, but unafraid of being around blood and violence.
“So how far from here to here to here—Porto Empedocle to the Black Pearl to Tunis?”
“About one hundred and fifty kilometers,” Nola said. “One way.”
“And how often does your family run the route?”
“Every day. There are boats traveling in both directions. They usually take two, three days—when there are no patrols or other problems, such as mechanical breaks—fishing as they go.”
“What if they did not fish?”
“Straight across? Less than a day, considering the seas.”
Fulmar said, “Tell us about the patrols.”
“Germans mostly. Sometimes Italians. They usually do not stop us. But sometimes they board the boats, make sure we are doing what we say we’re doing. Sometimes they take our fish. Confiscate it?”
Fulmar nodded. “Harassment.”
“Yes. They say it is a price of doing business.” He paused. “One captain from another family refused to give up his catch—he had been stopped twice that month—and the Germans shot his boat full of holes. So he lost the catch and the boat…and was lucky to live.”
Canidy said, “How many boats do you have and what size?”
“There are—or at least there were when I was last there—nineteen boats. Eight of them are deepwater boats that average twelve meters in length. The others are smaller—maybe six meters—and completely open.”
“And the crew for the big boats?”
“Two to six. Depends on the time of year—more in May and June, when the big tuna move through—and who is available.”
Canidy pointed to the chart, at the southern shore of Sicily.
“Let’s say I was coming into port on one of your boats. What would I see? Who would I see?”
Nola’s eyes brightened and his narrow face spread with a broad grin.
“Oh, you would see the most beautiful port in your life. And the most wonderful people.”
Canidy said, “I need details, please. Specifics.”
Nola nodded agreeably.
“Not a problem.”
He went to a box across the room and took from it a heavy leather-bound volume some two feet square and at least three inches thick.
He brought it back to the desk and said proudly, “My family photographs.”
He opened the cover and pointed to a somewhat faded black-and-white photo that dominated the first page. It showed a score of heavyset middle-aged and older men, ten of them, sitting in straight-backed wooden chairs and the other half standing behind them, all in dark suits and shoes and white shirts.
“These are the padrones,” Nola said. “The leaders of Porto Empedocle.”
Canidy thought, Jesus Christ, that is one tough unattractive crowd.
“This was taken about five years ago. Some are still there.”
He pointed to two of the men standing. They were a bit taller and far more slender than most of the others. They resembled Nola.
“This one is my father,” he said. “And next to him, his brother, my uncle Ignazio, who was on the town council.”
He pointed at a very fat, very gray-headed man seated in the middle chair. “This was the mayor, Carlo Paglia. A very wise man.”
And looking mean as hell, Canidy thought.
“The Nazis took Mayor Paglia and Uncle Ignazio off to prison. Some of the others fled to Tunis, but most stayed.”
He sighed and turned the page.
Nola went through the album, describing each photograph, where it was taken, and pointing out that location on an admiralty chart—or, if in Tunis, on the 1935 tourist map of Tunisia that he had produced—then writing down names of who was who. He set aside duplicate loose photos for Canidy to keep.
The majority of the images showed Sicily. It clearly was a more robust and happier time. The towns built along the hills were busy. The people looked full of life. They ran their businesses and raised their families. They swam the clear turquoise waters and played on the beaches of pebble and sand, strolled the crowded palazzos and shopped the open-air markets that offered plentiful meats and vegetables and fruit.
That likely was not the case now, not with everyone forced to work for the war effort. The Germans also took the majority of their food production and shipped it to feed others elsewhere. Rationing was widespread—not to mention discontent with Mussolini and fascism.
After two hours, Canidy and Fulmar felt that they knew the extended family of Francisco Nola and the families of the padrones damned near intimately. Both those in Porto Empedocle and Tunis.
Nola folded the sheets of paper, then handed them and the photographs to Canidy.
“Thank you,” Canidy said.
He put them in his attaché case.
“Frank, how soon do you think you will be able to leave?”
Nola looke
d back at him blankly.
“Leave?”
“Yes. Leave. You are going with me, right?”
“That was not the plan,” Nola said.
“Well, then it is now.”
“No, it is not possible for me to go with you.”
Canidy exchanged glances with Fulmar, then looked back at Nola.
“Why the hell not?”
“I cannot say.” He glanced at the folded papers. “Once you locate my family, the letter of introduction will do the rest. You will have many people.”
Canidy started stuffing the books and charts back in his attaché case.
Dammit! I knew this was going too smoothly.
“What the hell happened to the guy who wanted to blow up all of the Germans himself?” Canidy said furiously. “Where the hell is he now? Jesus H. Christ, Frank!”
“He still stands before you,” Nola said stiffly, his voice wavering with emotion.
Canidy shook his head, then looked him in the eyes.
“Frank, I’m going to need more than family snapshots. I need hard intel. How many troops and exactly where? Who is in charge of harbor security, of town security? The locations of minefields on the beaches and offshore, and what’s been booby-trapped. I need documents on enemy ops. And more….”
“And you will have that,” Nola replied evenly.
Canidy stared at him for a long time. Then he looked as his watch, then at Fulmar. “Let’s go see Lanza. Ready?”
Fulmar nodded.
“I’ll be in touch, Frank,” Canidy said sharply.
He grabbed his attaché case and they went out the door.
Canidy and Fulmar crossed South Street and started walking the block north toward Meyer’s Hotel.
“Sonofabitch!” Canidy said. “I don’t know if I’m madder at Nola for saying he’s not going or at myself for assuming he was going.”
“I would not worry about that too much,” Fulmar said. “You have what appears to be good information to get going now. Each bit—”
“I know, I know. Each bit of info leads to more info. But I needed a lot yesterday.”
Canidy stopped walking.
When Fulmar stopped and looked back at him, Canidy said, “There’s just something about this that doesn’t feel right.”
The Saboteurs Page 27
