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And, to the surprise of some British, the Americans had done well, in an intelligence sense, in the invasion of North Africa. If they had failed, perhaps there would have been a chance to argue again for British control. But that hadn’t happened. There was no way now to talk the Americans out of independent operation. There would be cooperation, nothing more.
And that, Stevens thought, was the real reason "C” was sitting across the poker table from him now. The ostensible purpose of this meeting had to do with certain operational details involving Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz and Johann Müller. If the British had been running these agents, the personal attention of "C” would not be required. "C” was here now to ensure that his people understood that the decision had been made to cooperate with the independently operating Americans.
Photostatic copies of all the MI-6 files on Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz and Johann Müller, on the von Heurten-Mitnitz family, on the Baron Fulmar, on the German rocket installation at Peenemünde, on German jet-engine experimentation, on everything the Americans had asked for, plus some things they hadn’t asked for but which they would find of interest, had been brought to the
meeting at Station X.
It took more than four hours before the Americans had examined the photostats and were out of questions; arranged the details of liaison with the British agents in Germany; and come to an understanding, an agreement, about where British support would end and the Americans would have to fend for themselves.
And then the Americans left.
The deputy chief of MI-6 sat alone with "C” at the poker table, a bemused look on his face.
“If you’re about to say something witty, Charles, about our American friends,”"C” said, "please spare me. Otherwise?”
“I had a rather profound thought, actually,” the deputy chief of MI-6 said. “I confess to thinking about sending virgins off to do a woman’s work. But then it occurred to me they all start off as virgins, don’t they? All it takes is once.”
"C” smiled.
“I knew I could count on you for something romantic, Charles.” Then he added: “But I don’t think you can fairly categorize either that Major Canidy or that half-German chap they’re going to send in as virgins. They may not yet know how to run a professional like von Heurten-Mitnitz, but they’re not virgins. They’ve both been operational.”
“Virgins,” the deputy chief of MI-6 insisted. “Deadly virgins, perhaps. But virgins.”
Chapter THREE
The Hotel d’Anfa Anfa,
Casablanca, Morocco
8 December 1942
Though it was now functioning as officers’ quarters for Western Task Force, the Hotel d’Anfa had lost none of its elegance or ambience. The pool and the tennis courts remained open, as did the only rooftop bar and night club in Casablanca.
Eldon C. Baker, a man of not quite thirty-two years with something of a moon face and thinning, sandy hair, sat in a corner of the bar. He wore an officer’s uniform with the customary "U.S.” lapel insignia but without insignia of branch of service or rank. On the shoulder of his green gabardine tunic was a square embroidered in blue. There was a triangle within the square and the letters "U.S.” It was the insignia worn by civilian experts attached to the U.S. Army in the field.
Baker carried both orders and an AGO card in the name of James B. Westerman. The orders had been issued by the War Department and authorized priority military air travel from the United States to “Western Task Force in the Field” in connection with activities of the Office of the Comptroller of the Army. In the “RANK” block, the AGO card said, “ASS Lt/Col.” This meant that Baker carried the assimilated rank of Lieutenant Colonel and was entitled to the privileges of that rank when it came to quarters, transportation, and so on. So far, no one else had thought “ASS Lt/Col” was at all amusing.
Baker also carried—in a safe place—a second identification card and a second set of orders. These had his correct name on them. The identification card, which came with a badge, identified him as a Special Agent of the U.S. Army Counterintelligence Corps, and the orders, issued in the name of the Assistant Chief of Staff, Intelligence, said that he was engaged in a confidential mission for the Assistant Chief of Staff, G-2, and any questions concerning him and his mission should be referred to that office.
While the second set of credentials was genuine—they had in fact been issued by G-2—Eldon C. Baker was not an agent of the CIC. He was in fact an employee of the State Department and was paid as an FSO-4. For more than a year, however, he had been on temporary duty with the OSS. He was listed on the OSS table of organization as “Chief, Recruitment and Training”; and it was in connection with this that he had come to Morocco. His primary mission was to recruit people, with emphasis on officers fluent in French, Italian, or German, for planned covert operations against Germany and Italy. He also intended to arrange for the parachute training of OSS agents by the U.S. Army. And he had a third mission, known only to Colonel Donovan and Captain Douglass: He was going to send a postcard.
The third mission had a higher priority than anything else that had brought Eldon C. Baker from Washington to the rooftop bar of the Hotel d’Anfa.
Baker saw Eric Fulmar before Fulmar saw him. As Baker expected, Fulmar came into the bar a little after five o’clock. The hint of a smile appeared on Baker’s lips when he saw him. Eric Fulmar was rather obviously pleased with himself and his role in the scheme of things.
He was in olive-drab uniform: a shirt, trousers, and tie. His feet were in highly polished jump boots, which went with the silver parachutist’s wings on his breast pocket just above his two ribbons. He was wearing the ETO (European Theater of Operations) ribbon with a battle star and the ribbon of the Silver Star medal. Hanging from his shoulder was a Thompson machine-pistol, a non-issue weapon.
As he sat down, he rather ostentatiously laid the weapon on the bar stool beside his and, in Arabic, ordered Scotch and water from the Moroccan barman.
He got strange looks from the other officers at the bar, who were young staff officers of one kind or another assigned to the various rear-area support services in Casablanca. Fulmar managed to remind them, Baker saw, that while they might be in uniform, they weren’t really soldiers. Fulmar, with his Silver Star and parachutist’s wings and Thompson machine-pistol, was a soldier.
Baker stood up from his table, walked to the bar, and slid onto the stool beside him.
“Wie gehts, Eric?” he asked in flawless German. “Was ist Ios?”
That got some attention from the other officers at the bar, too. It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do, Baker thought; but on the other hand, he felt sure that Fulmar would somehow already have let the others know that he spoke German.
Fulmar turned to look at him. His eyes were cold. Baker was made a little uncomfortable to be reminded that beneath the facade of self-impressed young parachutist hero, this was a very tough and self-reliant young man.
