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Pissed at this supersecret outfit, pissed at having left the AVG, pissed at himself for his options.
Or lack of options.
He had a choice: either agree to this “mission of considerable risk” or, now that he was privy to top secret information, be locked down in a secure institution for “psychiatric evaluation” for an unspecified time—habeas corpus be damned—which was to say, a very long time, at least the duration of the war, in order to keep the information safe.
Canidy, still pissed but smart enough to keep his mouth shut, chose the mission. In due course, he was given the assimilated rank of major and presented with credentials stating that he was in the United States Army Air Corps and another (for when the first did not get him what he needed) stating that he worked for the Office of the Coordinator of Information, which carried a presidential priority.
The mission had turned out to be of considerable risk indeed, not to mention had required cold, ruthless decisions, ones he found himself not necessarily enjoying but perfectly capable of carrying out.
He realized it was a situation not unlike the one he had discovered as a Flying Tiger in China: that he more or less liked what he was doing and he did very well at it.
This was not lost on Donovan and his top spies in what the COI now was called: the Office of Strategic Services. An unusually natural operative, Canidy proved expert at espionage and sabotage and more—at the “strategic services” deemed important to winning the war.
Over time, Canidy was given—which was to say, Wild Bill Donovan had assigned him indirectly at first, then directly—more and more responsibility.
There were missions to nab more engineers and scientists (ones with expertise in nuclear fission, the development and manufacture of jet aircraft, manned and unmanned), missions to smuggle uranite for the Manhattan Project’s development of the atom bomb, and missions to modify B-17s into explosive-filled drones that could be flown from England into German assets (submarine pens, plants manufacturing fighter jets, et cetera).
Most recently—within the last month, in New York City—Canidy had found himself dealing with the Mafia in the extraction of Professor Rossi prior to the Allied Forces’ early planning of the invasion of Sicily.
It had been the top mafioso himself—one Charles “Lucky” Luciano, in a New York State slam on prostitution and racketeering charges but still the acting “boss of all bosses”—who had directly helped Canidy make connections on and off the island.
Canidy carried in his possession a personal note from Charlie Lucky that asked of anyone so able to please provide Canidy whatever aid possible. It was a carte blanche instrument that Canidy now expected he would desperately need to use to find out about the nerve gas.
And so Fine, in short, understood that Canidy had become “almost” the perfect spy. “Almost,” because he’d also become what no spy was supposed to be…indispensable.
“I don’t think it’s so much what Donovan thinks about all this,” Fine began, then reached for the stack of papers before him on the table and fingered down through it until he came to what he was looking for. He pulled out a typewritten sheet, held it out, and went on, “This came back in response to your second message, the sit-rep sent from the Casabianca.”
Canidy walked over to the table, took the sheet, and read the decrypted message:
“‘By highest authority’?” Canidy quoted. “‘Any and every expeditious method’?”
“I’d say the President has taken a personal interest in your discovery,” Fine said. “And clearly he’s aware of possible obstacles and wants this done quietly.”
Canidy grunted.
“So I’m going to have to go back in. And, Stan, I’m going to need help. Help on the island and help in keeping clear of AFHQ.”
Fine nodded.
“Both will be a challenge,” Fine said. “We’ve already had some trouble, not counting today’s visit from Owen.”
“Why both? And what kind of trouble?”
“Help on the island is difficult because basically AFHQ has declared it off-limits. We’ve been told that we can plan for the invasion, collect intel, but we are not supposed to go there.” He paused. “I understand—though not necessarily agree—as to why. Hell, anyone with a map can make a rather well-educated guess what Hitler considers possible in the way of Allied intentions.”
“Sure,” Canidy said. “He sees that we can go from here into Sicily, then up through Italy. And, alternatively, from here up through southern France. We know he’s bracing for a cross-channel invasion of western France, as he’s been using forced labor to build defensive positions all along the coast. And then there’s an attack from across the Balkans. And, of course, the Red Army has Hitler looking nervously over his shoulder to the east.”
Fine sipped his coffee and nodded.
“Hitler just does not know which one when,” he said.
“And each one—location and D-Day—is a huge variable by itself,” Canidy put in. “Torch was first expected to land in May. Six months is a long time to wait, especially if you’re not sure you’ve got the right spot.”
“Exactly,” Fine said. “And Hitler cannot defend them all…and wait it out. So the trick is to fool him as to exactly which island and when. Done right, he sends his defenses to where we say, then we take advantage of his weak spots. But if, say, you get caught in Sicily now, Dick, and his intel is telling him that we’re amassing troops and ships here and in Tunis, it would be clear we’re preparing for an invasion.”
Canidy’s eyebrows went up. “And next is, as we know, Sicily.”
“As of today, right. Never mind what you found there. OSS London is helping our cousins with one very quiet operation that’s meant to fool the Germans and Italians into believing that the invasion will be on Sardinia and Greece. Meanwhile, we—OSS Algiers—are supposed to be concentrating on training teams for the French réseau.”
