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He walked over to the nearest leather couch, sat down, then motioned for Canidy to do the same on the facing couch. Canidy did, and now realized that the arrangement of furniture created an environment where a discussion could be at once open and confidential.
After a long moment, Donovan looked at Canidy. “Anything you want to add that you may have purposefully left out of your after-action report?” he said, his tone pointed yet at the same time assuring.
What the hell is he hinting at? Canidy wondered. I put everything in there.
“There were some minor things,” Canidy offered. “Operational logistics, communications snafus, that kind of thing.”
Donovan nodded.
Am I missing something here? Canidy thought. Of course I am. And, Christ, it’s crystal clear—that sonofabitch David Bruce even spelled it out for me—so why the hell not just get it over with?
Canidy inhaled deeply, let it out, and said, “There is one thing that I felt best not put in writing.”
Donovan raised an eyebrow.
Canidy stood. “I fucked up, sir. And I apologize.”
The director of the Office of Strategic Services did not respond.
“It’s just that,” Canidy went on, “someone had to do something to complete the mission. And so, completely aware of the fact that I was the control—and knew too much to go behind the lines—I ignored that and…and I went in.”
He took the last sip of scotch, put the empty tumbler on the coffee table, and after a long moment of considering if he should say his next thought, he dismissed it, then mustered the courage to say it.
“Colonel, while I do apologize to you personally, I feel you should also know that I would do it again. I couldn’t leave Eric and the professor in there; they knew too much. I couldn’t do it—wouldn’t do it—and so I would suggest that I am more than a little in over my head. That now said, I’m prepared to—what? I’m not exactly sure of my options. Quit? Resign? Drive a desk and push papers here in Washington?”
Donovan was quiet as he considered that. He looked Canidy in the eyes, looked at his glass, sipped the last of his single malt.
“None of the above,” Donovan finally said. “You know that, Dick. In fact, you know too much.” He paused. “Your offer—however misplaced—is declined—”
“Sir? I—”
“Let me finish, please. While I appreciate what you’ve said, more than I think you realize, I did not come here—I did not bring you back from London—to shut you down.”
Canidy, not believing what he was hearing, simply stared at the director of the Office of Strategic Services.
“Would you mind, while you’re up?” Donovan said, holding out his tumbler to Canidy. “But just half this time. And a water alongside, please.”
Canidy nodded, and as he walked to the bar Donovan said, “Tell me your understanding of what we’re doing in England.”
“As far as the OSS specifically?” Canidy said, uncorking the single malt bottle and pouring.
“Yeah.”
“Well, starting with the topic at hand, we’re pulling scientists such as Dyer out through our pipelines, as well as running harassment campaigns, such as Eric Fulmar’s blowing up of the ball-bearing plant that was in my report. Then there’s the Aphrodite Project, B-17 drones packed with Torpex to blow U-boat pens and targets of opportunity.”
Canidy delivered to Donovan his drinks, placing the glass of water and the glass of single malt on the coffee table in front of him.
“That, plus some counterintel and psych ops, are all being run out of Whitbey House Station,” Canidy said, returning to the bar for his drink and bringing it back to his place on the couch. “And just now, David Bruce told me I’m losing Stan Fine, who Bruce is sending—maybe has already sent—to Algiers to begin setting up teams to go into France to support the resistance the way we’ve got agents in Corsica.”
Canidy watched as Donovan picked up the glass with the water, poured some into the scotch, diluting it by about fifty percent, then picked up the single malt, took a test sip, and, apparently satisfied, put the glass back on the table.
“That’s mostly correct about Fine in Algiers,” Donovan finally said. “It’s all about building a réseau—a net—of resistance.”
He paused in thought.
“Let me paint you a couple of pictures,” Donovan went on. “First the big one. The Allies are mustering for a large push and Hitler knows it. And it’s pretty obvious to anyone paying even half attention that France is key; we take it back, take all of it back, and the march is on to Berlin. What isn’t so obvious is how we would take France—simply by going in across the narrow top of the English Channel or by coming up from the south, through what Churchill has intimated as ‘the soft under-belly of Europe,’ or by doing both—and what must be even less obvious to Hitler is how to successfully defend against any—indeed, all—of that while at the same time battling the Russians.
“Our having done so well with Torch,” he continued, “and now with having so many Allied forces in North Africa would tend to suggest preparations for the latter, taking Italy,
