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“I won’t mention any names,” Stevens went on, “but someone said the other night at the Savoy bar that if Owen could get an I Wuz There ribbon for using the women’s restroom—and there was absolutely no risk of a shot being fired in anger in his direction—he’d be front of the line.”
Canidy let out a belly laugh.
“Yeah,” Stevens smiled, “that’s what everyone at the bar did, too. Laugh. Apparently, it’s not a secret. And, at least in my opinion, it’s not a good way for people to think of an officer who ranks so high—especially one sitting at the right hand of Ike.”
“I agree. Does this Colonel Owen have any other stellar qualities?”
“Well, he does go by the book. Strictly. Which is why I think that Ike likes him. But his going by the book really means that he doesn’t like making waves, specifically doesn’t like anyone else making waves.”
Stevens stared at Canidy.
“Which means—”
“I know, I know,” Canidy said, holding his hands up chest high, palms out. “I get it. Which means he won’t like me. Especially if he gets wind of this.” He waved the folder. “Ike has made it clear (a) that he doesn’t think much of the OSS, and (b) that he damned sure doesn’t want us going in ahead of the rest.”
Stevens raised his eyebrows.
“Exactly,” he said.
“So, I’ll deal with it,” Canidy said.
Canidy looked at his wristwatch, then changed the subject.
“I’ve got one stop to make to deliver some girly things”—he nodded at his suitcases—“then I’m going to hop out to the airfield at Scampton and hitch a ride there on one of the B-17s that the Royal Air Force is ferrying to Algiers.”
Stevens looked to the suitcases, then back to Canidy and smiled warmly.
“Good for you. But watch yourself, my friend. When I said that you should not forget that you are good at what you do, I meant at being a spook. A woman in love is a far more dangerous proposition.”
Canidy grinned.
“Duly noted, Colonel.”
When Lieutenant Colonel Ed Stevens had called down for one of London Station’s motorcars to be made available to Major Richard Canidy, the Brit in charge of the vehicle pool had told him that he was terribly sorry but all of the standard-issue vehicles in service—a small fleet of nondescript English-made sedans—were in use. The garage, unfortunately for the moment, was stark empty.
But when the Brit had heard the disappointment in Stevens’s voice, he quickly offered one option: If it was to be a local errand, his brother—who had just pulled up to bring him his sack lunch of a sardine sandwich—could do so in his personal vehicle.
Stevens had immediately accepted the kind offer.
Canidy stepped from the building with a suitcase in each hand. Two British male civilians in their early twenties—they looked almost like twins—approached him.
“Mr. Canidy, sir?” the one on the left, who wore a tie and jacket, said.
Canidy nodded. “Yes.”
“I’m Robert, sir. And this is my brother, Harry.”
Canidy nodded.
“Thank you two again for your kind offer.”
Canidy saw that Harry was looking at the suitcases with what appeared to be mild shock.
“Any problem?” Canidy said.
“Those are to go with you, sir?” Harry said.
“Sure. Why?”
