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“The General asked me to offer you his warm personal regards,” Owen said officiously. “And this.”
“Thank you,” Fine replied, taking the envelope.
Fine began to sink back into his seat. He did not bother opening the envelope but instead casually tossed it on his desk. He absently motioned for Owen to take the chair before his desk.
Owen’s expression made it clear that he did not want to do anything at the suggestion of a lowly captain, but reluctantly he took the seat and somewhat awkwardly crossed his long legs.
“The General,” Owen then said, snootily, nodding at the envelope, “asked me to hand deliver to you the details of the bombing plans. He’s concerned, of course, about your station there.”
Stan Fine, more out of hunger than thought, automatically reached down and picked up his sandwich. Then he made eye contact with the disapproving Owen.
“Forgive me,” Fine said. “I should have asked if I could interest you in some lunch. We have a very nice kitchen and a terrific chef. I’m told that this tuna was swimming this morning. Now it’s lightly charcoal-grilled—I like my tuna rare—and delicious.”
Fine did not think it necessary to share the information that the fish had arrived at Dellys aboard one of Francisco Nola’s boats—and with three members of Nola’s wife’s family just smuggled out of Sicily. The family members were being interviewed at OSS Dellys.
Fine then saw the look on Owen’s face and wondered if the idea of rare fish did not meet with Owen’s palate.
“They can of course prepare it medium or better—”
“Thank you kindly,” Owen quickly interrupted. “It looks delightful but I am off to luncheon”—he pulled back his left sleeve and checked his wristwatch, which Stan Fine saw he oddly wore with the face down, underneath his wrist, the clasp on top, and decided that was simply another example of Owen’s pretentiousness—“in ten minutes, so you will understand my having to leave momentarily.”
“Of course,” Fine said.
He thought, Thankfully.
Owen nodded again at the envelope and said, “You’re not curious about the plans?”
“No, not immediately. Should I be? I’ll get to them shortly, I’m sure.”
Stan Fine took a big bite of his sandwich and chewed appreciatively.
“But the General was concerned about the station.”
“The station?” Fine said, trying to swallow. “Which station would that be?”
“Your intel station on Corsica.”
“Ah. You’re referring to Pearl Harbor.”
“Yes, that’s the one. The General is quite pleased with it. If you should have any intel from there for the General, I of course would be pleased to personally carry it to him.”
I’m sure you would, you brownnosing sonofabitch.
And, if it meets whatever you think your needs are, you’ll take the credit for it.
If it doesn’t, you’ll see that it’s quietly tossed.
Never mind that my agent is risking his life every goddamn minute while you’re “off to luncheon.”
“I do appreciate that, Colonel Owen,” Fine said. “But right now, nothing. As you know, that could change at any moment.”
Fine took another healthy bite of his grilled tuna sandwich.
“Yes, of course,” Owen said, looking somewhat uncomfortably at Fine’s sandwich, “at any moment.”
Lieutenant Colonel J. Warren Owen then stood.
Fine stayed seated and looked up at him from his sandwich.
