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“There’s much more to do than simply write the love letters,” he said. “We have to give our man a life.”
“A life?” Charity repeated.
Niven nodded. “Quite. Before we give him a swim.”
“A credible life the Germans will believe,” Montagu explained.
“One everyone will believe,” Niven added.
“Right,” Montagu went on. “We have our man. Now we need to create a cover for who he is…was.”
“Who…was…why…?” she said, confused, then looked at Niven. “Did you say ‘swim’?”
“Charity,” Lieutenant Colonel Ed Stevens said, “we brought the body here because what we’re going to do within a two-week time frame is absolutely critical to the success of the Allied landing in Sicily
. It requires complete secrecy, and we decided that a safe house such as Whitbey House was the best place we could hide a frozen cadaver and not have questions asked or covers blown.”
Stevens let that sink in, then, after a moment, decided not to go on. It was clear there was too much information being supplied at once—or, perhaps, not enough—and this really wasn’t the place to get into details. He noticed that even Bob Jamison looked confused.
“I realize this is quite a lot to consider. I know it took me some time to swallow,” Stevens said, finally. “Complete details to come tomorrow. In the meantime, welcome to Operation Mincemeat.”
“Mincemeat?” Charity repeated, and immediately had graphic mental images of her first haggis.
“Ah!” Major Niven suddenly said, looking across the room and starting to half stand and wave. “There he is—finally!”
Charity Hoche looked over toward the door. She saw the driver of the ambulance standing there. In his arms, he cradled what looked to be a very heavy brown canvas bag. He returned Niven’s wave, and began to make a direct line through the crowd toward them.
At the table, the private placed the bag before Niven with a thud. From inside the bag came the clank of heavy glass hitting together.
That, Charity thought, sounds like a booze bottle in that bag—booze bottles.
“Well done, Private!” Major Niven said loudly. “Now, you may go shine my shoes, brush down my wardrobe, and the sundry other noble tasks of a good batman.”
The private, who stood five foot nine, stared at Niven. Then his moon face changed to an expression of amusement. His eyes twinkled.
“With all due respect, Major,” the private replied, as he took an empty chair from the adjacent table and pulled it up to the table beside Niven, “you can shine your own goddamn shoes.”
Everyone at the table stared at the private, who was now reaching into the bag and pulling out a bottle of clear liquor.
Looking again at Niven, the private went on:
“I just drove that ambulance all the bloody way out here, just oversaw the securing of its frozen passenger in the bloody basement, and now I believe that I have bloody well earned a taste of Genever.” He paused. “SAH!”
Niven turned to everyone at the table and dramatically said, “You will please excuse him. As you must know, the war has made good help so very hard to find.”
At that point, the private looked at the major—and gave him the finger.
“And I mean that in the most respectful manner, SAH!” he said with a grin.
Major Niven laughed.
When he saw the look of shock on Charity’s face, Niven said, “Oh, everyone, please forgive my rudeness. Allow me to introduce my batman, Private Peter Alexander Ustinov.” He looked at Charity. “He too is friendly with one Stanley Fine, Esquire.”
It was a moment before Charity found her voice.
“You’re also an actor?” Charity said to Ustinov.
“A lousy one,” Niven answered for him, “if you consider how he plays the role of batman.”
