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the Manhattan and hooked the battery to the wireless set. He took out the tiny black-and-brown telegraph key and mounted it to the top of the unit.
    He was slightly troubled to be using an Italian transmitter—he thought Mussolini treated the Führer with disrespect—but this was mere sentiment; he knew that the Allocchio Bacchini was one of the best portable transmitters in the world.
    As the tubes warmed up he tried the key, dot dash, dot dash. His compulsive nature had driven him to practice for hours on end. He’d timed himself just before the ship sailed; he could send a message of this length in under two minutes.
    Staring at the nearing shore, Heinsler inhaled deeply. It felt good to be up here, on the higher deck. While he hadn’t been condemned to his cabin, retching and moaning like hundreds of the passengers and even some crew, he hated the claustrophobia of being below. His past career as shipboard bookkeeper had had more status than the job of porter and he’d had a larger cabin on a high deck. But no matter—the honor of helping his surrogate country outweighed any discomfort.
    Finally a light glowed on the face plate of the radio unit. He bent forward, adjusted two of the dials and slipped his finger onto the tiny Bakelite key. He began transmitting the message, which he translated into German as he keyed.
    Dot dot dash dot… dot dot dash… dot dash dot… dash dash dash… dash dot dot dot… dot… dot dash dot…
    Für Ober —
    He got no further than this.
    Heinsler gasped as a hand grabbed his collar from behind and pulled him backward. Off balance, he cried out and fell to the smooth oak deck.
    “No, no, don’t hurt me!” He started to rise to his feet but the large, grimfaced man, wearing a boxing outfit, drew back a huge fist and shook his head.
    “Don’t move.”
    Heinsler sank back to the deck, shivering.
    Heinie, Heinie, Heinie the Hun…
    The boxer reached forward and ripped the battery wires off the unit. “Downstairs,” he said, gathering up the transmitter. “Now.” And he yanked the A-man to his feet.

    “What’re you up to?”
    “Go to hell,” the balding man said, though with a quavering voice that belied his words.
    They were in Paul’s cabin. The transmitter, battery and the contents of the man’s pockets were strewn on the narrow cot. Paul repeated his question, adding an ominous growl this time. “Tell me—”
    A pounding on the cabin door. Paul stepped forward, cocked his fist and opened the door. Vince Manielli pushed inside.
    “I got your message. What the hell is—?” He fell silent, staring at their prisoner.
    Paul handed him the wallet. “Albert Heinsler, German-American Bund.”
    “Oh, Christ… Not the bund.”
    “He had that.” A nod at the wireless telegraph.
    “He was spying on us? ”
    “I don’t know. But he was just about to transmit something.”
    “How’d you tip to him?”
    “Call it a hunch.”
    Paul didn’t tell Manielli that, while he trusted Gordon and his boys up to a point, he didn’t know how careless they might be at this sort of game; they could’ve been leaving behind a trail of clues a mile wide—notes about the ship, careless words about Malone or another touch-off, even references to Paul himself. He hadn’t thought there was much of a risk from the Nazis; he was more concerned that word might get to some of his old enemies in Brooklyn or Jersey that he was on the ship, and he wanted to be prepared. So he’d dipped into his own pocket just after they’d left port and slipped a senior mate a C-note, asking him to find out about any crew members who were strangers to the regular crew, kept to themselves, were asking unusual questions. Any passengers too who seemed suspicious.
    A hundred dollars buys a hell of a lot of detective work but throughout the voyage the mate had heard of nothing—until this morning, when he’d interrupted Paul’s sparring match with the Olympian to tell him that some of the crew had been