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Donovan smiled warmly.
“Dave’s fine, too, thank you. What do you hear from Jimmy?”
Donovan knew Jimmy Roosevelt well and liked him very much. As his father’s confidante, in 1941 Jimmy had been, in addition to other presidential assignments, temporarily attached to the COI to minimize the bureaucratic attacks on Donovan’s—and, really, FDR’s—fledgling organization.
More recently, Major James Roosevelt, United States Marine Corps, had been a Marine Raider on the Makin Island raid in the Pacific and awarded the Navy Cross for his heroism in that battle.
“Still successfully dodging enemy bullets,” Roosevelt said proudly.
“We’re very lucky,” Donovan said softly.
“Yes, we are, Bill.”
After a moment, Donovan went on: “Dave is helping plan for Operation Husky.”
Roosevelt saw that after the mention of the code name for the Allied invasion of Sicily, Donovan had paused and his face had changed expression.
“And I’m afraid,” the director of the OSS finally said, “that that’s what I’m here for.”
“Sicily?” the President said. He took a long puff from his cigarette in its holder, exhaled, then added, “I know you’re not asking to keep David from the fight for Sicily—I’m sure he’s hoping to get in the thick of it. So what about it?”
“Mr. President,” Donovan said, his deep voice formal and somewhat stiff, “I’m here to report that there is nerve gas on Sicily.”
The President, his face stoic, took two puffs on his cigarette, turned his chair to look out at the South Lawn, then exhaled the smoke toward the glass.
After a moment, Roosevelt said unemotionally, “Tell that to me again.”
“Frank, it’s true,” Donovan said reasonably.
FDR, still looking out the window, ignored the informality.
“General Donovan,” the President said, his patrician voice an even tone, “indulge me.”
“The Germans have nerve gas on Sicily, Mr. President,” the director of the Office of Strategic Services repeated formally.
FDR turned in his chair and snubbed out the cigarette in a round crystal ashtray with far more force than was necessary.
Donovan now saw anger in FDR’s face.
Roosevelt quietly reached across his desk, opened a silver box that held a dozen or more loose Camel cigarettes, took out one and worked it into his holder, lit it, then inhaled deeply before slowly exhaling a significant cloud of gray-blue smoke.
He remained silent, lost in his thoughts as he absently fingered the stamps in the open envelope on the desk.
Then Roosevelt suddenly banged on the desk with his fist. Stamps went flying. The scissors hit the floor.
“Goddamn it all to hell!” the President exploded.
It was an uncharacteristic act. In all their years, Donovan had known Roosevelt to project calm, particularly at moments of bad news.
The tension or pain—or both—is worse than I feared, Donovan thought.
“Yes, Mr. President,” Donovan, whose temper bordered on the legendary, responded. “My thoughts exactly.”
After a moment, when the President seemed somewhat sure of his anger not getting away from him, he said, “How did we come about this information? And why is this the first I have heard of it?”
“Canidy,” Donovan said. “And I just had it confirmed through radio traffic with the OSS station in Algiers.”
“Canidy?”
