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Donovan nodded.
“Dick Canidy,” he explained, “two days ago blew up a cargo ship that had the nerve gas onboard. I personally sent him on a mission in Sicily to bring out a professor, a metallurgist, we wanted for the Manhattan Project.”
Roosevelt nodded.
The Manhattan Project—TOP SECRET PRESIDENTIAL—was FDR’s race to build the atomic bomb before Nazi Germany built its own. Albert Einstein and a number of other distinguished scientists who had fled Europe for the freedom of America had convinced Roosevelt that it was only a matter of time before scientists learned how to harness the power of a nuclear reaction and create the world’s most powerful weapon—one producing the explosive equivalent of twenty thousand tons of TNT. FDR understood that whoever won the race for such a weapon also won the war.
Quietly supplying the Manhattan Project with whatever it needed—men, matériel, smuggled scientists, whatever—had become the OSS’s number one priority. Number two concerned the enemy’s development of jet aircraft, and the OSS hotly sought in any way it could to steal, delay, and destroy the Germans’ plans for superiority in the air war. Thus, this wasn’t the first scientist whom Canidy had helped nab, and so neither was this the first time he had come to the attention of the President.
“The evidence of nerve gas, is it conclusive?” the President asked, measuring his words.
“As yet, there is no hard evidence. But there appears to be no reason to doubt the professor. He said that there was nerve gas. Canidy believes him.”
“That’s really not enough to go on, Bill, now is it?” the President said reasonably.
Donovan exhaled audibly.
“Canidy is no dummy,” the director of the OSS replied somewhat defensively. “He’s one of my best men. That’s why he’s basically working directly for me.”
“Is that wise? Is it a good idea to send one who’s a bit of—what did I hear was the phrase?—‘a loose cannon’?”
Donovan frowned as his face flushed.
“Franklin,” he said, his voice beginning to rise, “I’ve heard that crack about Canidy, too. I will tell you that he gets done what has to be done in whatever way necessary, even if—no, especially if—that gets ugly and complicated. Unfortunately, his methods often offend those stiff-shirt types who have been afraid to color outside of the lines ever since they were in diapers.”
Donovan heard what he just said, and how loud he’d said it, and paused.
He threw his hands up, and exhaled audibly.
“Excuse me for that little outburst, Mr. President.”
The President of the United States leaned his head back and laughed out loud.
“That’s the Wild Bill Donovan I know,” the President said fondly. “And you’re absolutely right, Bill. No apology necessary. I should apologize to you. I’ve heard that same loose-cannon phrase attached to you, and felt it was as unfair to you as I believe you feel it is to Canidy.”
He took the two last puffs of his cigarette, then looked intently across the desk. “You’re not done yet, are you?”
After they silently looked at one another a moment, and after Roosevelt snuffed out his cigarette and reached for another, Donovan spoke up.
“I’m afraid Canidy came across more than that,” Donovan said.
“More?”
Donovan explained: “The professor—Rossi—showed Canidy a lab that the SS had set up. They were injecting prisoners with yellow fever.”
The President took the cigarette holder from his mouth.
“My God!” FDR said. “Germ warfare, too? That’s as bad as the damn nerve gas!”
Donovan nodded. “The lab—a makeshift lab, actually, in a villa—was supposed to have blown up, too.”
“Supposed to?”
“They had to leave before they actually saw it go up,” Donovan explained. “But they did see the explosions of the ship that had the gas on board.”
The President looked at Donovan a long moment, mentally measuring it all, before replying.
“Let me see if I have this straight,” Roosevelt said finally. “We know that a ship was destroyed but don’t know conclusively that it had nerve gas. And we know conclusively that a yellow-fever lab existed but don’t know that it was in fact destroyed.”
