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“On my way,” he said.
“You’d be wise to use one of our cars,” Fine said reasonably. “Less conspicuous, as I suspect someone is very likely hunting that Plymouth. And Owen, I think, noticed it as he left.”
Canidy considered all that a moment, then nodded.
“Dammit, Stan, I hate it that you’re always right. Almost always. But you know how much I hate returning something that I just borrowed.”
Fine snorted.
“Yeah, I do,” he said, “but give me the key, anyway.”
Canidy tossed the fob with its key to him.
Fine raised his voice slightly. “Monsieur Khatim!”
The leather-tough Algerian appeared almost instantly at the arched doorway.
“Please run Major Canidy out to the airport in my car, then take this Navy staff car”—he tossed the key to Khatim, who Canidy noted snatched it out of the air with catlike speed and grace—“back to AFHQ without letting them know you’re doing it.”
Wordlessly, Monsieur Khatim bowed slightly and turned and left.
Fine looked at Canidy. “I’ll check on the Casabianca’s schedule with L’Herminier,” he said, “and also, as an alternative, see what other sub might be available.”
“Good idea,” Canidy said. “Thanks, Stan.”
“Anything else you can think of?”
Canidy shook his head.
“Not right now, but you know there’s always something…and I usually discover it at the worst possible moment.”
He scooped up his black rubberized duffel, went to the doorway, then stopped and looked back at Fine.
“Wait. Here’s an obvious one,” Canidy said. “I’m going to need the professor’s help. Sit tight on him till I get back, will you??
??
“Sure. Any idea when that’ll be?”
“As soon as I can, Stan. As soon as I fucking can.”
[ONE]
OSS London Station Berkeley Square London, England 1501 30 March 1943
Lieutenant Colonel Ed Stevens—who was tall and thin and, at forty-four years old, already silver-haired—stood in the doorway to the office of Colonel David Bruce. He held a message from OSS Algiers Station and waited for his boss to get off the phone.
The distinguished-looking chief of station, whose chiseled stone face, intense eyes, and starting-to-gray hair caused him to appear older than his age of forty-five, had outstretched his left hand and signaled Just another minute with his index finger.
Stevens filled the time listening to the one side of the conversation, as the Metropolitan-Vickers radio in the corner of the office droned out yet another stiff bit of classical music courtesy of the British Broadcasting Corporation. He enjoyed classical music. But much of the BBC’s selections were uninspired, and Stevens found himself looking forward to the breaks in the music for the BBC’s regular readings of the Allied cryptic message traffic: “And now for our friends away from home: Churchy wishes Franky a happy birthday, Churchy wishes Franky a happy birthday. Adolf needs a shave, Adolf needs a shave….”
Stevens was not learning much about Bruce’s call.
The chief of station’s contributions were limited to multiples of “I understand” and “Right” and a few grunts. Then, almost exactly a minute later, he finally said, “Thank you, Mr. Ambassador,” and placed the handset in its cradle. He stared at the phone with disdain, then looked up at Stevens.
“That,” Bruce announced, “was not good news.”
He waved Stevens to take a seat on the couch opposite the desk.
