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“Meaning, they read the contents? The writings finely crafted at Whitbey House?”
Stevens reached for a stack of papers and said, “Commander Fleming brought these over. These are far more interesting to read.”
“And they are…?”
“Intercepts of German wireless traffic courtesy of the fine folks connected to the Golf, Cheese, and Chess Society.”
Canidy grinned. He knew a little about the Brits’ code-breaking operations at Bletchley Park, some forty miles northwest of London. Golf, Cheese, and Chess Society—GCCS for short—came from its Government Code and Cypher School there.
Canidy flipped through the documents.
“I’ll give you the executive summary,” Stevens said, clearly enjoying himself.
“I’d say a bit of Niven or Fleming or Ustinov rubbed off on you, Ed.”
“They’re great guys, Dick,” Stevens replied. “Anyway, in the first week of May the German agents telegraphed the contents of the letters to German intel in Berlin. They stated that, due to time—the Admiralty was hammering the naval attaché to get them back, right?—they’re unable to examine documents for authenticity.”
Canidy nodded.
Stevens went on: “The first message sent to Berlin that was intercepted was boldly detailed and gave us a marvelous step-by-step. It said that the body of the Royal Marine had been found on the beach at Huelva by a fisherman who then had brought it to the attention of personnel at the nearby naval station. There a naval judicial officer took charge of all documents and personal effects. And the body was sent to the morgue, where a doctor certified that Martin had fallen into the sea alive but died of asphyxiations from five to eight days ‘exposure to sea.’”
“Ah, those brilliant Spanish physicians,” Canidy said, sipping his scotch.
“They even had a Captain Ron Bowlin, USAAF, who’d crashed into the sea there on April twenty-seventh, brought in to identify the body. He couldn’t, of course, but now we know where ole Ron is.”
Canidy chuckled.
“Meanwhile, German intel, working from photos of the contents of Major Martin’s briefcase, had determined that the documents were indeed genuine. That information then got forwarded to Admiral Doenitz.”
“Commander in Chief, Naval Staff,” Canidy said. “Ding, ding. We have a winner.”
“Even better, the cover letter read: ‘The genuineness of the captured documents is above suspicion.’”
Canidy shook his head in amazement.
“Then just yesterday came the sweetest piece,” Stevens went on. “His Heil Hitler himself now believes that the Sicily invasion is a diversion. He’s demanding that, quote, measures regarding Sardinia and the Peloponnese take precedence over everything else, unquote.”
Stevens stopped to take a sip.
“And now we hear that General Keitel—”
“Corporal Schickelgruber’s commander in chief,” Canidy said, impressed. “Very nice.”
“—has passed word down that they expect Sardinia, Corsica, and Sicily to be attacked all at once, or perhaps one at a time, when we take Greece.”
“I heard you were sucking up all those drachmas. Guess they did, too.”
Stevens nodded. “It was more than drachmas, but they helped.”
David Bruce finally spoke up.
“We couldn’t have asked for more out of an operation,” Bruce said. “They clearly believe that the Allies have enough troops for both assaults. And that can only cause them to defend—or not defend—territory accordingly.”
“So the radio traffic confirms that Mincemeat was swallowed?” Canidy said, but it was more a statement than a question.
“Whole,” a familiar voice said from the doorway.
“Jesus Christ!” Canidy said, seeing who it was, and struggling to quickly get to his feet.
