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He took his drink and stepped closer to the fire, and, deep in thought, stood and stared silently at the flames.
So this is how it ends? Canidy thought somewhat morosely. In a glorious mansion with exquisite scotch? The unwashed amid the trappings of great wealth and comfort and success? How rich!
He took a healthy drink of the single malt and waited a moment before swallowing, enjoying its deep flavor and warmth on his tongue.
He looked up at the exotic animals. He raised his glass to them.
“Make room for me up there, boys. I’m soon to join your lot….”
As he took another drink, he heard the door hinges squeak across the room and he turned.
Canidy recognized the distinguished-looking gentleman of sixty standing in the doorway. He was stocky yet fit, with a full head of silver hair neatly trimmed and strong eyes set in the ruddy face of an Irishman. He wore a well-cut, double-breasted dark gray suit, a crisp white shirt, and a marine-and-white rep necktie. He had a strong presence; his confidence filled the room.
There was a reason for this, Canidy well knew. Here was a man whose accomplishments were legion—successful Wall Street lawyer and Medal of Honor recipient led the long list—a warrior, a genuine leader, someone whom men would follow anywhere, anytime, for anything, without question.
And here, Canidy knew, was the man he had let down.
“Good evening, sir,” Major Richard Canidy said, mustering a voice stronger than he felt. He started walking toward him.
“Dick,” Colonel William J. Donovan, director of the Office of Strategic Services, said warmly. “How are you?”
“Getting better by the sip, sir.” He raised his glass. “I hope you’ll forgive me for starting.”
Canidy and Donovan met in the middle of the room and they shook hands with some intensity.
“It’s really nice to see you, Dick,” Donovan said, his eyes locked on Canidy’s.
“Thank you, sir. And you.”
After a long moment, Donovan released Canidy’s hand, took a step back, and looked at Canidy’s glass.
“Do I suspect you’re into the good single malt?”
“Guilty, sir.”
“Well, then, what the hell.” He smiled. “As we say in the business, ‘When with evil companions, try to blend in.’”
Canidy grinned, nodded once, said, “Single malt it is, sir,” then turned for the bar, and thought, Helluva way to get my head handed to me. But—he glanced at the animal trophies—I can think of worse.
As Canidy poured another crystal tumbler with two shots of twenty-year-old Famous Grouse single malt scotch, the director of the OSS said behind him, “I read your after-action report.”
That was all he said. There was a silence, interrupted only by the sounds of Canidy putting the bottle back on the tray with a clunk and of the fire crackling.
Canidy wondered if he was supposed to say something in reply.
But what? Is this where I throw myself on the mercy of the court—court, my ass; more like the court, judge, jury, and firing squad—and confess to having fucked up, apologize to Donovan for having caused him to bring me home to deal with my actions, and then beg him that I not be sent to some hellhole of a stockade or mental ward where I’ll spend the duration of the war cutting sheets of paper into paper dolls and confetti?
“Yes, sir,” Canidy said—it was more of a question than a statement—as he handed the drink to Donovan.
“Thank you.” Donovan took the glass and raised it to Canidy in a toast. “To successful missions—”
“Sir?”
“—To successful missions that contribute to winning the war.”
Canidy touched his glass to Donovan’s, but as they both took sips it was clear that Canidy was not completely following the OSS director’s meaning.
“Nice,” Donovan said, holding the glass in his palm and admiring the booze. “Very nice.”
