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Then he decided that Bruce was subtly reminding Stevens he was still smarting over another message from OSS Washington—one handwritten by Donovan—that had been personally couriered by Charity Hoche. She’d delivered it on February fourteenth, and ever since had left Bruce somewhat paranoid.
It had informed him, in the gentle but commanding manner of which Donovan was master, that a mission put on by the President himself was taking place in Bruce’s backyard. Donovan had explained that Bruce had not been told till now because he hadn’t had the Need to Know. Further—and what really had poured salt on the open wound that was Bruce’s badly wounded ego—was that Stevens, Bruce’s subordinate, did have the Need to Know.
Donovan had attempted to temper that by writing that Stevens had been given only limited details, just enough so that he could act if any actions by Bruce or OSS London Station threatened to blow the presidential mission.
On one hand, Bruce had more or less understood the logic o
f the mission taking absolute precedence. On the other hand, however, knowing that his deputy had been considered more worthy of having highly classified information than he was made him furious.
Worse, when he calmed down a little, it had caused him to wonder what other ops there might be that he’d been deemed not worthy of knowing about. And so he felt he was entitled to a little pettiness about being left out of the loop in the past…and now wondering what might be going on under his nose without his knowledge.
“I’ll relay the request in here,” Bruce said finally, tapping the sheet of paper with his pen. “Let Donovan make the final decision. We know he likes to hold all the cards. Meanwhile, message back to Fine that Rossi can stay, pending approval of OSS Washington.”
Stevens stood, started for the door, and said, “I’ll get right on—”
There was a knock at the door.
“Come!” Bruce called.
As the wooden door began to swing open, Stevens reached for the doorknob.
An attractive brunette in her thirties peered through the opening. She had a quizzical look on her face.
“Sir?” Captain Helene Dancy, Women’s Army Corps, said tentatively.
“Yes, Helene?” Bruce replied a little impatiently to his administrative assistant.
Dancy answered: “There’s an unusual call from the Admiralty—”
“I cannot take it right now, Helene,” Bruce interrupted, tapping impatiently with his pen.
She looked at Bruce.
“Not for you, sir,” Dancy said. “It’s from naval intelligence”—she looked at Stevens—“and it’s for you, sir.”
Stevens heard Bruce stop the tapping…and thought he saw him squint his eyes.
“It’s a British officer, Colonel Stevens,” she explained. “A Major Niven. Quite a distinctive voice.” She paused. “He sounds very much like the movie star, you know?”
“David Niven,” Stevens offered.
“Yes, sir.”
“What does Niven want?” Bruce put in.
Dancy looked at Bruce, then again at Stevens.
“Sir, he said that he’s at Admiralty with a Commander Fleming, and that the commander, quote, needs to know straightaway where you wish the cadaver to be delivered as it appears to be thawing, unquote.”
“‘Cadaver’?” Bruce parroted. “A frozen cadaver?”
He looked at Stevens, who looked back wordlessly with raised eyebrows.
[TWO]
Aéroporte Nationale Algiers Algiers, Algeria 1605 30 March 1943
Major Richard M. Canidy, USAAF, watched “his” baby blue U.S. Navy P11 staff car leave in a cloud of reddish dust as it drove through the gap in the airport perimeter fencing, then off into the distance. Monsieur Khatim was at the wheel, en route to return the vehicle to AFHQ. They had had no choice but to take the baby blue staff car to the airport—conspicuous or not, and, as it turned out, they’d had no trouble—because when they got to Fine’s car, they found its left rear tire had gone flat.
