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“Four would be better,” Fischer agreed.
“And a grease pencil and Scotch tape. The wider the better.”
“Sergeant!” General Wallace raised his voice.
The portly master sergeant appeared at the door.
“Mr. Frade will require four large manila envelopes, Sergeant, some Scotch tape, and what else was there, Mr. Frade?”
“A grease pencil, black, please, Sergeant,” Frade said. “And if you have some of the two-inch-wide Scotch tape?”
“Yes, sir,” the master sergeant said. “Right away.”
Frade used the grease pencil to write Unexposed Film Top Secret Eyes Only DDWHO in large letters on both sides of one of the manila envelopes, put the film cassette he’d shown Wallace in it, and wrapped it tightly with the Scotch tape.
Then he repeated that operation twice, creating a thick roll of envelopes and tape. He put the roll into the fourth envelope, then on that outer envelope wrote BY OFFICER COURIER TOP SECRET EYES ONLY DDWHO OR GENERAL DONOVAN. He sealed the envelope, then signed C. FRADE, AREA COMMANDER on the flap, and covered his signature with more Scotch tape.
“Do you think that’ll do it, Mr. Fischer?”
“I think that should do it,” Fischer said. “General, you don’t happen to have a courier’s briefcase we could use, do you?”
“I don’t know what a courier’s briefcase is,” General Wallace said.
“They have sort of a stainless-steel wire and handcuff arrangement,” Fischer said, “so the briefcase can be attached to the courier.”
Where the hell did Len get that?
“Perhaps we could improvise something,” General Wallace said.
“That would be helpful,” Fischer said. “Thank you.”
“May I ask what DDWHO means?” General Wallace asked.
“Deputy Director, Western Hemisphere Operations,” Frade said. “The courier doesn’t need to know that. All he has to do is take the briefcase to the National Institutes of Health Building, ask for the duty officer, and give it to him.”
“I understand,” General Wallace said. “May I make a suggestion?”
“Certainly.”
“We have
an aircraft—a B-24—leaving within an hour or two for the United States. Perhaps Mr. Fischer could travel on that?”
Why not? That would save Len the trip to Rio de Janeiro.
But it’s a long goddamn ride in the bomb bay of a B-24 from here to the States.
“Ordinarily, General,” Frade said, “that would be a splendid idea. But there are reasons why Mr. Fischer should travel on Pan American Grace”—for example, sitting in a softly upholstered seat while a steward in a white jacket serves him chilled champagne and a five-course meal—“that make that ill-advised. Perhaps the B-24 pilot—presuming he’s a field-grade officer—could serve as the officer courier, but my priority now is to get Mr. Fischer to Rio de Janeiro just as soon as possible.”
“I understand,” General Wallace said, and raised his voice again: “Sergeant!”
The master sergeant appeared in the door a moment later.
“Sir?”
"Call Base Ops and have a C-45 readied for an immediate flight to Rio. Priority One.”
“Yes, sir.”
