The door swung open, and he lifted his hook from the table.

  “Thought that might get you boys’ attention,” he said.

  The soldier—a new kid, couldn’t be older than eighteen, was tall and only sort of blonde(truthfully more of a mousy brown, but apparently Hitler didn’t mind cutting a few corners if the rest of the gene pool was right)—entered the room and looked over each corner and all over the floor and ceiling. He said something in German.

  “That was me. Sorry.” O’Neil held up his hook hand. “Makes an awful racket when I get bored.”

  The soldier glared at them both, then stepped out and slammed the door behind him.

  “And just what was that supposed to accomplish?” Tommy asked.

  “I’ll give it two minutes before Zellenleiter Johannes Hertz pops in to say hello.”

  O’Neil counted the seconds out loud just to annoy Tommy.

  The door crept open at only one minute and twenty-three seconds.

  “Herr Hertz?” he asked.

  “Zellenleiter Hertz,” the German corrected him.

  “You say to-may-to, I say to-mah-to.”

  “Zellenleiter, Mr. O’Neil.”

  “Right.”

  Hertz walked to the back wall and leaned against it. “So, where is it?”

  “Where is what?”

  “You know what I want.”

  “I don’t have what you want. I don’t even know what it is you’re talking about.”

  Tommy coughed and brought his chair flat on the floor. “I don’t see how any of this is helping us.”

  “Your young friend is correct.”

  “My young friend is an idiot sometimes.”

  “It seems to me you are being the idiot, Mr. O’Neil.”

  “I’ve been accused of worse.” O’Neil popped his neck again. “Still doesn’t change the facts.”

  “You are being what you Americans call obtuse. But I assure you that I can loosen the tongue of even the fabled Hook-Hand of the Jungle.”

  O’Neil laughed loudly. “Is that what they call me?” He slapped the table with his good hand. “Or just a limitation of translating native-gibberish into German?”

  “Enough!” Hertz pushed himself off the wall and walked to stand over O’Neil. “I’ll tell you what the situation is for you and your friend since you insist on making light of it.” He rested his hand like a rusty vise on O’Neil’s shoulder. “You and Mr. Huston were discovered with the dead bodies of two SS operatives and a murdered daughter of a high-ranking German. The bullets do not match those of your .38, but that doesn’t matter. It is an easy task to dispose of a murder weapon for one as cunning as you.”

  “Go on. You’ve got my attention.”

  Hertz nodded. “Good. Very well. We could have you shot as murderers at any moment, based purely on the way you attacked your superior.”

  “We’re not in the same army, Nazi.”

  “As you say, that still doesn’t change the facts, does it?”

  O’Neil started to speak, but thought silence the better part of valor for the moment. Instead, he shifted in his seat and tried to twist out from under the German’s grip. But Hertz held firm.

  “But I do not believe you killed my men or the Drechsler girl.”

  “So what are we still doing here?”

  “You are still here because someone will need to be charged with the crime, and unless you give me what I’m looking for, that someone will be you and your friend.”

  Hertz stopped, and said nothing for almost a minute, obviously intending to let the impact of his words sink in. O’Neil, though, waited without caving in to the urge to fill the silence with more words, tapping his hook on the table.

  It was Tommy who cluttered the empty air. “Look, we don’t have the damn thing, and whether you believe that or not, it’s the truth. And there’s no reason for us to kill Bridgette because O’Neil wanted the job and I wanted her attention.”

  No one spoke for a moment, so Tommy continued.

  “So I don’t, for the life of me, see what charging us for the murders will accomplish.”

  O’Neil turned to Tommy, cleared his throat. “It will close the case and earn Zellenleiter Hertz a new commendation and possibly a higher rank.”

  Hertz smiled. “Your crippled friend is correct, Mr. Huston. I do not care very much if the real killer is found or not, to be honest. My men are replaceable, and the woman was only a woman. But what I do care about is what is missing from my soldier’s pocket.”

  “And what is that?”

  Hertz laughed and shook his head. “Very well, I will play along with your ruse for now.” He knelt at the edge of the table. “It’s an etching from a monk who disappeared in the jungles nearly two-hundred years ago.”

  “Killing people over pictures now?”

  Hertz locked his eyes on O’Neil’s. O’Neil grinned.

  “It is a map to the birthplace of the Thule.”

  “Well, a map.” O’Neil stopped drumming the table. “That explains why you think I’m involved.”

  “The Thule?” Tommy asked.

  “Didn’t know you guys were still around after Hitler cut the ties a few years ago.”

  Hertz’s voice dropped to a whisper. “There are some of us who answer a calling even higher than der Führer.”

  Chapter Four

  Armless O’Neil really wanted a drink. He’d been smacked around, interrogated, and finally separated from Tommy and taken by Zellenleiter Hertz to the local provincial office to sit across a fine mahogany table from Marshal Emilio De Bono himself.

  “It would be simpler to kill them,” De Bono said to Hertz, ignoring O’Neil for the moment, which was just fine with him.

  “This man is the best tracker the jungles have produced. Pay no mind to what little white remains on his leathered skin. Even the natives who live so deep that we don’t have names for their tribes sing songs of his legends.”

  “And not a trace a German blood, somehow,” O’Neil spoke up.

  Hertz cut him a glare. He shut up.

  “Then why bring him here?”

  “I believe he can find the man who killed my men.”

  “And…”

  Hertz nodded. “And the other thing as well.”

  “And why would he do this for us?” De Bono straightened the medals of his dress uniform.

  “Because we have his young friend detained, and we will shoot him in forty-eight hours if O’Neil does not return with either the name and location or the head of the person who has the etching.”

  O’Neil coughed. “Your man Hertz really knows how to motivate a fellow.” He nodded toward the row of shiny bottles behind De Bono’s desk. “Of course, a glass of the good stuff would go a long way as a motivator too.”

  The Italian Marshal stroked his long white beard and sucked in a deep breath. “Even a dying man is entitled to a final drink.”

  “Cognac, if you’ve got it.”

  “Of course,” De Bono said.

  “We are wasting time,” said Hertz.

  “A good liquor is never a waste of time, Johannes,” said O’Neil.

  Hertz glared again. “You will address me as Zellenleiter Hertz.”

  “Sure thing, Joe.”

  It was a dangerous game, and O’Neil knew it, but it was crucial to know which set of Fascists had the upper hand in town—the Germans or the Italians. And that meant playing the old man with the beard against the younger one without so much as a single root of hair growing on his face.

  “Relax,” said the Italian. “Sit down. I’m sure Mr. O’Neil will control his impertinence from this point on.”

  Hertz huffed quietly and couldn’t stop fidgeting in place, but he said nothing else about it. He did not, however, sit down. It wasn’t much, but O’Neil noted it and filed it away for future use, should the need arise.

  A servant, who had been quietly standing near the entrance of the office, walked to the bottles, poured three glasses and brought one each to De Bono, Hertz, and O’Neil.

  O’Neil took his and pounded it quickly then returned the empty glass to the servant. “That’s a good start. How about another?”

  The servant looked to De Bono, who nodded, then took the empty glass back to the bottle and poured a second drink for the American.

  “A drink this exquisite should be enjoyed slowly, Mr. Armless O’Neil, not poured into a man’s throat like a woman throwing out a child’s bathwater.”

  O’Neil grinned. “I assure you I enjoyed it. Quick or slow, my appreciation remains the same.”

  De Bono returned the grin, then said something in Italian to the servant, and the man left the room.

  “Now,” De Bono, said, “let’s discuss the terms of this…” His face scrunched up in thought. “…delay of your sentence.”

  O’Neil held the glass in front of him, watching the way the sunlight beamed through the open windows and reflected sparkles from the brown liquid. Not amber, which meant the drink was as expensive as he suspected. It had obviously aged well for a long time. Apparently being a high-ranking fascist paid better than being a ne’er-do-well adventurer.

  “I do not trust you, Mr. O’Neil.”

  “So noted.”

  “You will be respectful!” spat Hertz.

  “Also noted,” O’Neil said with a smile.

  “As I said, I do not trust you, but I must permit you some freedoms to complete your task. Therefore…”

  Another man appeared at the door.

  “Ah,” said De Bono. “I’d like you to meet Lieutenant Rubiano Costa.”

  Costa entered the room and as he did, O’Neil took in the sheer physical immensity of the man. At least six and a half feet tall and as wide as a barrel at the shoulders, he was every inch an imposing figure. Black short hair hidden almost completely beneath his cap and not even his uniform could disguise the hint of muscled tone under the layers of cloth.

  O’Neil didn’t stand, mostly because he didn’t want to lose the sunlight in the giant Italian soldier’s shadow.

  “They grow ’em bigger now in Italy than the last time I visited,” he said.

  “Costa is a boxer, or he was, and will be again,” De Bono said.

  The servant entered behind Costa and poured him a drink. When he brought it over, the giant refused the drink.

  “I’m sorry,” De Bono said. “I forgot. Training.”

  “I’ll take it,” said O’Neil, grabbing the glass and holding it next to his other drink. “Can’t let this go to waste.”

  “Lieutenant Costa will hold your leash for the next forty-eight hours, Mr. O’Neil. He will keep you focused and keep you in Ethiopia.”

  Hertz cleared his throat. “And with any luck, keep you sober.”

  “Better men have tried, Hertz.”

  “I assure you, there are no better men,” De Bono said, glancing at Hertz.

  O’Neil waited for Hertz to counter with some Aryan doublespeak, but apparently his authority stopped at the door to De Bono’s office. Still, the Zellenleiter struggled to keep his composure, making a show of popping his knuckles and puffing out his chest. If only he had possessed peacock feathers, he would have probably unfurled those as well.

  “And Tommy?”

  De Bono opened a desk drawer and retrieved a file, which he placed on his desk. “You friend has two days to live, depending on Herr Hertz’s faith in your abilities.”

  The Italian opened the file with one hand, and shooed the lot of them away with the other, not looking up from the papers he began spreading out in front of him.

  Chapter Five

  The streets of Ethiopia breathed dirt and dust, both from the ground and the people wandering around the few automobiles that dared to risk the throng of filth. O’Neil walked two steps ahead of his giant Italian watch dog—though De Bono had called him the leash holder, not that O’Neil cared a whit about mixing his metaphors—and when he finally got tired of slowing down, the armless man stopped and turned around to face Lieutenant Rubiano Costa.

  “You’ve got the longest stride on three continents, Tree Top. You think you could move a little faster.”

  “The bar will still be open when we arrive, Mr. O’Neil, regardless of my pace.”

  “With a mouth like that around, I’ll barely notice Tommy isn’t here.”

  O’Neil glanced up to see if the soldier was smiling. He wasn’t.

  “Well, for starters, I wasn’t heading to the bar. I wanted to go back and look around the warehouse. There’s a chance the murderer didn’t find the map either.”

  At the mention of the word ‘map,’ the corner of Costa’s mouth turned up slightly, then fell flat again.

  Just a small tell, O’Neil thought. This guy must be an ace in a game of poker.

  “Not that I have the damndest idea why you fellas would care about something so ridiculous as the location of Thule.” He wiped black, streaky sweat from his brow. “I suppose we’ll look for the fountain of youth and the crew of the Marie Celeste next.”

  “It would be advantageous to keep your voice more quiet, Mr. O’Neil.”

  “Guard dog showing his teeth already?”

  Still the same flat expression. “There is no need to advertise what we are searching for.”

  “Of course there is.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “That’s okay. I do.”

  “What I mean is that you should expl—”

  “I know what you mean.”

  Costa looked down at him.

  O’Neil resumed his brisk walk.

  “Well?” Costa asked.

  O’Neil whispered, “That, my guard dog, is what we don’t want to advertise.

  They walked in silence, turning corner after corner, zigging the zag of streets from what passed as a city to the row of shambled warehouses that served as a makeshift industrial area. When they at last reached the scene of the murders, O’Neil motioned for Costa to enter first.

  The soldier cast him a confused glance.

  “Because Herr Hertz and Marshal De Bono saw fit to send me wolf-hunting without my sidearm, that’s why.”

  Costa nodded.

  “Well?” O’Neil said.

  The giant nodded again, then entered the warehouse.

  O’Neil watched from the open doorway as Costa started in the front, searching around the table and checking around the boxes in the middle, then marched practically to the boxes in the back and a new stack of even larger crates along the right wall. After about two minutes, Costa motioned that the warehouse was clear.

  “It’s been cleaned,” O’Neil noted.

  “Is that bad?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then why bring it up?”

  “Just noticing. It means that even though more people have been inside here after the deaths, the clean-up crew Hertz sent in obviously didn’t find the map either, or else they would have reported it.”

  “Unless they stole it.”

  “I have a feeling our friend Hertz would have had them watched.”

  “Zellenleiter Hertz is no friend of mine.”

  “Good to know.” O’Neil tapped his foot and glanced around the interior of the huge wooden framed building. Then his gaze settled on the table at the door. The playing cards were gone, but the papers strewn about it were still a mess. “I don’t plan to invite him to any of my soirées either. Regardless, we need to turn this place upside down.”

  “Where do you propose we start searching?”

  “Well, if you were a map of an imaginary Nazi wonderland, where would you hide?”

  Costa looked confused again.

  “Nothing. Never mind.” O’Neil sighed. “Check the table. I’ll dig into the crates.”

  Costa wandered to the table near the entrance as O’Neil made his way to the middle of the building. When he reached the row of crates, he dug his hook into the uppermost box.

  “What are you doing?” Costa yelled.

  “Looking for your map so I can take Tommy back to his mother.”

  “No.”

  “No what?”

  “No, you are not to open those crates.”

  O’Neil slammed his hook onto the top of the crate. “So I have to go hunting without my gun or permission to look in the places where the wolves are likely to hide? By damn, you Italian dung heap! I don’t have time to play games.”

  He tried to pull his hook away, but found it caught in the crate.

  “Damn it!” he said, jerking with more force than he knew was needed to pull free.

  The extra power sent the crate sliding off balance and it tumbled into the floor, breaking open at one corner. Straw and shells strewed onto the concrete.

  “Didn’t want me to see that, I guess?” he said.

  Costa had already covered half the distance to him, and the look in his eyes didn’t say he was going to offer a trip to the local bar and promise to pay the tab. O’Neil steadied himself for a fight, hoping to get a lucky first shot with his hook.

  But Costa stopped short a few feet from the box.

  “You have found it, Mr. O’Neil,” the big man said.

  “I did what?”

  “The map. You have found it.”

  O’Neil turned slowly, still expecting the giant Italian’s fists to crash into the back of his neck and send him out to slumberland. But as he did, he noticed the folded paper sitting on top of the crate left exposed by the one that had fallen.

  “So I did.” He grabbed the page. “But let’s not get too excited yet. This could be just a love letter or a shipping manifest, Mr. Holmes.”

  He carefully unfolded the page, once, twice, and even a third time, until it was open. Sure enough, it was a map. But in German. And not even contemporary German, judging by O’Neil’s complete lack of recognition of most of the words. A dialect far older, closer to something from the time of Otto I than the time of the Führer.

  “Damn.” He handed the map to Costa. “Don’t suppose you can read this.”

  The soldier took the map, looked it over, then shook his head.

  “I guess we need Hertz after all, then,” O’Neil said. “Of course I did expect this to take longer.”