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was a brief silence, while Eisenhower stared down at the file. ‘All right, what's your solution?’
    ‘Well, there is a man, General, named Luca. Don Antonio Luca. He's what's known in Sicily as Capo di Tutti Capi. Boss of all the bosses. The fascists imprisoned him in 1940. Sent him to prison on the mainland Naples. He escaped later that year and returned to Sicily where he's been in hiding ever since. He's the one man they'll all listen to. I don't wish to blaspheme, but in Sicily he could pull a larger audience than the Pope.’
    ‘Then find him,’ Eisenhower said.
    ‘He doesn't want to be found, sir.’
    ‘Could you find him?’
    ‘I've tried. Total silence so far. I've got a better chance than most people, though. He doesn't care for Americans. It seems he had a young brother called Cesare, who was a rumrunner on the Great Lakes during Prohibition. One night in 1929 Cesare was ambushed by a rival gang outside Chicago and personally shot three men dead. He died himself in the electric chair the following year.’
    Eisenhower stood up. He paced up and down a couple of times, then turned to the map and stood looking up at it. ‘Still, one thing's for sure. If George Patton and his boys have to fight their way through those mountains to Palermo, they'll die by the thousands.’
    He repeated the phrase in a whisper as if to himself. Carter knew that in his mind's eye, Eisenhower was seeing again the American dead on the battlefield of Kasserine, that terrible débâcle in which untried boys had found themselves faced with the cream of the Afrika Corps.
    Carter cleared his throat. ‘With respect, General, I do have a suggestion.’
    Eisenhower turned, suddenly alert. ‘And what might that be?’
    ‘After all is said and done, Luciano still seems to me the key figure in the whole affair. His influence with the Sicilian Mafia is unquestioned. He might provide the right link with Luca. Enough to make Luca come out of hiding and declare himself for us. If he does that, General, then we have Mafia on our side one hundred and ten percent.’
    Eisenhower stood there for a long moment, staring at him, then nodded slowly. ‘Damn me, Major, but I have a sneaking suspicion you might be right.’
    ‘Then you'll put Intelligence in Washington on to it right away, sir?’ Carter said. ‘They could approach Luciano again during the next couple of days.’
    ‘I'll think about it.’ Eisenhower glanced at his watch. ‘And now you must excuse me. This is the time of day when the telephone lines start hotting up to Washington. I talk to the President most days. He likes to be kept informed.’
    ‘I'll go then, sir.’
    Carter got up, put on his cap and saluted. Eisenhower acknowledged the salute perfunctorily, already busy with papers again, and Carter walked to the door.
    As he got it open, Eisenhower called, ‘I'd like you back here at eleven.’
    Carter turned in surprise. ‘You mean eleven tonight,
    General?’
    ‘That's it, Major,’ Eisenhower replied without looking up.
    Carter closed the door, paused, then crossed the hall to the entrance and went down the steps to his jeep. He climbed in beside the driver and glanced at his watch. It was just after six. Almost five hours to kill.
    ‘Where to now, sir?’ asked the driver, a private first class who looked at most sixteen year of age.
    ‘Do you know the RAF base at Maison Blanche?’
    ‘Sure do, Major. About an hour and a half from here.’
    ‘Fine,’ Carter said. ‘Take me there.’
    The Douglas DC 3 , the famous Dakota, was probably the most successful general transport plane ever built, but the one which Wing Commander Harvey Grant was bringing back from Malta to his base at Maison Blanche just before dark had definitely seen better days.
    Not that it was in any sense his regular plane. The old Dakota did a milk run to Malta and back three times a week with medical supplies. The duty pilot had been taken ill that morning, and as there was no replacement