SECRET WARRIORS

by

W.E.B. Griffin

U.S.A. $24.95 Canada $34.99

"W. E. B. Griffin is a master of the genre and a wonderful

storyteller. The Last Heroes brims with action and adventure that his

legion of fans will savor."

Charleston Post & Courier Griffin's millions of fans did indeed cheer

the rediscovery of The Last Heroes, the first volume of Men at War, his

saga of the OSS during World War 11, originally published under the pen

name Alex Baldwin and never before available in hardcover. Kirk us

Reviews called it "a rousing to-the-ends-of-the-earth start for an

absorbing narrative an our shadow warriors' As The Secret Warriors

begins, it is 1942. In Washington, D.C." the OSS, under FDR and "Wild

Bill' Dona van, escalates its tactical war, and plunges into worldwide

covert operations. In Land an, a difficult, exiled Charles de Gaulle

disrupts major invasion plans, and it is up to the OSS to force the

gene rays hand. In the Belgian Congo, a desperate air maneuver drops

OSS agents into Africa, with the aim of smuggling out uranium are

essential to the arms race. In Morocco, OSS men plan a rendezvous with

anti-Nazi Germans in an attempt....

HONOR BOUND

BLOOD AND HONOR

BROTHERHOOD OF WAR

BOOK I: THE LIEUTENANTS

BOOK II: THE CAPTAINS BOOK

Book III: THE MAJORS

BOOK IV: THE COLONELS

BOOK V: THE BERETS BOOK

Book VI: THE GENERALS

BOOK VII: THE NEW BREED

BOOK VIII: THE AVIATORS

THE CORPS

BOOK 1: SEMPER FI

BOOK II: CALL TO ARMS

BOOK III: COUNTERATTACK

BOOK IV: BATTLEGROUND

BOOK V: LINE OF FIRE

BOOK VI: CLOSE COMBAT

BOOK VII: BEHIND THE LINES

BADGE OF HONOR

BOOK I: MEN IN BLUE

BOOK II: SPECIAL OPERATIONS

BOOK III: THE VICTIM

BOOK IV: THE WITNESS

BOOK V: THE ASSASSIN

BOOK VI: THE MURDERERS

BOOK VII: THE INVESTIGATORS

MEN AT WAR

BOOK I: THE LAST HEROES

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED UNDER THE PSEUDONYM ALEX BALDWIN

G. P. Putnam's Sons Publishers Since 1838 a member of Penguin Putnam

Inc. 200 Madison Avenue New York, NY 10016

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and

incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are

used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or

persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 0 1985 by W.E.B. Griffin, originally published under the

pseudonym Alex Baldwin All rights reserved. This book, or parts

thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Published simultaneously in Canada First G. P. Putnam's Sons edition

1998

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Griffin, W.E.B. The

secret warriors / W.E.B. Griffin. P. em.

ISBN 0-399-14381-5

acid-free paper

1. World War, 1939-1945-Fiction.

I.

Title PS3557.R489137S4 1998

97-37485 CIP 813'.54-dc2l

Printed in the United States of America

3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Book design by Jennifer Ann Daddio

FOR LIEUTENANT AARON BANK, INFANTRY, AUS, DETAILED OSS (Later, Colonel,

Special Forces) AND LIEUTENANT WILLIAM E. COLBY, INFANTRY, AUS,

DETAILED OSS (Later, Ambassador and Director, CIA) THE I WARRIORS I

Alameda Naval Air Station Alameda, California April 4, 1942

Although there were four passengers aboard the U.S. Navy PBY-5 from

Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, most of the plane's cargo weight was mailbags

regular mail from the fleet, official mail from various Army and Navy

headquarters all over the Pacific, some from even as far away as

Australia. The Consolidated PBY-5 Catalina flying boat had been

designed not as a transport but as a long-range reconnaissance

aircraft. It had two 1,200-lip Twin Wasp radial engines mounted on its

high wing. Two struts on each side reinforced the wing, the interior

of which contained huge fuel tanks. What every Catalina pilot dreaded

was landing shortly after takeoff, when the fuel tanks were full-and

thus heavy. If the plane could not be greased in, all that weight was

likely to tear the wings off. There was little danger of that now.

The fuel tanks were indicating close to empty. A head wind had been

with them all the way across the Pacific from Hawaii. The pilot had

even worried for a few rough minutes that he would not have enough fuel

to make it to Alameda.

A few hundred miles from the coast, the navigator had wordlessly laid

his calculation on the pilot's lap. His projection was that they would

run out of fuel an hour and fifteen minutes short of Alameda.

At that point the pilot had had two options: He could throw excess

cargo out, or he could try fiddling with the engines to decrease fuel

consumption, and thus increase range. Since neither the official

mailbags nor, obviously, the passengers could be thrown over the side,

the only "excess' cargo that could be jettisoned was the fleet

mailbags. The pilot was reluctant to throw away several thousand

servicemen's letters home, so he elected to try the unusual. He

retarded the throttles, thinned the mixture more than he knew he was

supposed to, and dropped from 8,000 feet to less than a thousand. The

miles he gained by this maneuver would put them that many miles closer

to the California coast, and thus increase their chances of rescue if

he had to set down in the drink and wait for someone to come looking

for them. Since it was daylight and he was forced to fly dead

reckoning, he had no reliable means of knowing whether or not what he

was trying was working. He was flying on a course of 89 degrees

magnetic at an indicated airspeed of 140 knots. Simple arithmetic told

him where he should be. But if he was, say, flying into a 30-knot head

wind-which, very likely, he was-then he was making only 110 miles an

hour over the water. And if the head wind was not coming directly at

him, but from the side, he was liable to be far off his intended

course. He was genuinely thrilled, as well as enormously relieved,

when the radio operator came forward and, without asking permission,

switched the frequency, and over his headset he could hear a

marvelously unctuous, pure candy-ass voice announce that San Francisco

could expect to experience evening temperatures of 68 degrees

Fahrenheit with a slim possibility of early-evening fog. "I make it

about eighty-six degrees from here, Skipper," the radio operator

said.

Mounted on the wing, between the engines, was a loop radio antenna

that, rotated until a signal-strength meter reached a high point,

indicated the direction to the radio transmitter. "How far?" the

pilot asked as he made the necessary small course correction to 86

degrees. "Don't know,' the radio operator said.

"I tried to raise Alameda, and couldn't. IT try it again in a couple

of minutes." The radio operator went back to his desk. His voice came

over the intercom in a moment. "I'd suggest another degree north," he

said.

"To eighty-five degrees."

"Okay. You try Alameda?"

"No reply," the radio operator said. Which meant, of course, that they

were still at least 150 miles at sea. The commercial broadcast station

had a greater range than the shortwave transmitter at Alameda Naval Air

Station. But then, minutes later, Sparks's voice came over his cans

again. "Got 'em," he announced.

"They can't read us, but we have them. "Thank you, Sparks," the pilot

said.

"Keep us advised." The pilot looked at the copilot to make sure he was

awake, then pushed himself out of his seat. He was now going to make

the required airline pilot-type speech to the passengers. Thank

you-for-flying Transpacific Airways; we hope you have found our food

and beverage service to your liking, and that you will give us the

favor of your air travel business in the future. The four passengers

were all captains.

Three were Navy four-stripers from BUS HIPS' in Washington, sent to

Pearl to see what could be done to speed up the repairs to U.S. Pacific

Fleet battleships damaged and sunk during the Japanese attack on Pearl

Harbor four months before. Their party had originally been made up of

three BUS HIPS captains and one BUS HIPS commander; but, over howls of

outrage from the BUS HIPS captains, the BUS HIPS commander had been

bumped from the flight by the fourth captain now aboard the PBY-5. The

PBY pilot found this one very interesting. The fourth captain was an

Army captain, which meant that e was two grades junior to the BUS HIPS

commander he had bumped. But he was also an aviator, and seeing a

fellow airman bump the Engineering Corps commander had not displeased

the pilot. And, although the Army captain was wearing wings on his

ill-fitting, dirty, and mussed tropical worsted uniform, he was also

wearing the crossed sabers of cavalry. The pilot had wondered about

that. The crossed cavalry sabers had the numerals 26 affixed to them,

identifying an officer of the 26th Cavalry. The 26th had not long

before been caught in the Philippines and apparently wiped out on the

Bataan Peninsula. But this captain clearly hadn't come out of the

Philippines, because no one had come out of the Philippines. The poor

bastards had been deserted there, "Navy Bureau of Ships.

No one, of course, except General Douglas MacArthur, his wife and

child, the child's nurse, and some brass hats, who had escaped from

Corregidor on Navy PT boats. The pilot decided it was possible, though

unlikely, that the Army captain was somehow connected with MacArthur.

That seemed even more possible to the pilot when he considered the

captain's travel priority. The end of the shouting session in Pearl

Harbor over whether or not he was to go on the Catalina came after the

admiral summoned to resolve the dispute read his orders and announced

to the BUS HIPS senior brass hat, "Captain, it's not a question whether

this officer is going with you or not, but whom you wish to send in the

available space on the plane with him. The pilot had planned to have a

chat with the Army officer once they were airborne. But the first time

he'd gone back into the fuselage, the captain was sound asleep. He had

made himself a bed of mailbags in the tag of the aircraft, wrapped

himself in three blankets, and was sleeping the sleep of the

exhausted-and more, the sleep of the ill. His eyes were shrunken, and

he was as skinny as a rail. He clearly needed rest, and the pilot

didn't have the heart to wake him. Though there was evidence he had

eaten the box lunches provided every time the pilot had gone back the

Army officer had been asleep There was also proof that the captain was

traveling armed. An enormous old-fashioned World War I Colt revolver

lay on one of the mailbags beside him. No holster, which meant that

the captain had been carrying the pistol under his blouse, stuck in his

waistband. Steadying himself by holding his hand flat against the

fuselage skin above him, the pilot now made his way down the fuselage

to the senior of the BUS HIPS captains and made his airline pilot's

speech. The other two Navy captains leaned forward in their seats to

hear what he had to say. The Army captain did not wake up, "Sir," he

said, "we have just picked up Alameda. I thought you'd like to know.

"We're running late, aren't we?" the captain said. "We've had a head

wind all the way across," the pilot said. "Is that so?" the captain

said.

"Thank you, Lieutenant." Inasmuch as the captain's tone of voice

clearly implied that the head wind was obviously the pilot's fault, a

dereliction of duty that was inconveniencing him and seriously

interfering with the war effort, the pilot did not, as he had intended

to do, inform him that they would land in about an hour and fifteen

minutes. Instead, he walked aft and leaned over the Army pilot,

frowning sympathetically at his sick pallor and sunken eyes. He

touched and then shook his shoulder, The man did not stir. Then he

caught the Army pilot's breath. He chuckled, and felt around the

mailbags until he found what he was looking for. It was a quart bottle

of Scotch. And it was empty. The pilot reburied the bottle and then,

smiling, made his way forward to the cockpit. "Charley," he said, "we

may have a small problem at Alameda, unloading our passengers."

"How's that?"

"The Army guy? He' dead drunk. I found an empty quart of Scotch. S

"No shit?"

"We didn't really have a fuel problem," the pilot said.

"We could have got him to breathe into the tanks. We could make it to

Kansas City on alcohol fumes."

"The brass know?"

"No. I don't think so."

"Let's keep it that way," the copilot said. "Yeah," the pilot said.

"I was thinking the same thing."

An hour and twenty minutes later, the Catalina touched down, none too

smoothly, on San Francisco Bay. "I'm glad we were a little light on

fuel," the copilot said. "Fuck you, Charley," the pilot said. Two

boats met the seaplane, a glossy motor launch for the passengers, the

other a less ornate work boat to take the mail and tow the aircraft to

its mooring. The BUS HIPS brass, as they obviously thought was

befitting their station in life, were sent ashore alone in the motor

launch. The pilot told them that since the Army officer was ill, he

would take care of him. When the brass had motored away, he went back

to the Army pilot.

He was awake, sitting up on the mailbags with blankets wrapped around

his shoulders and wearing an aviator's leather jacket over his tunic.

He was shivering.

Malaria, the pilot decided. "Where are we?" the Army captain asked.

"Alameda Naval Air Station," the pilot said.

"San Francisco. "Well, I guess we have cheated death again," the Army

captain said. "As soon as we get these mailbags loaded in the boat,

we'll take you ashore. "Where's the brass?"

"They're gone," the pilot said. "Good," the Army captain said.

"I somehow got the feeling they didn't approve of me."

"Is there anything I can get you?" the pilot asked. "You wouldn't

happen to have a bottle around here anywhere, would you? "No, but I

know where we can get you one once you're ashore," the pilot said.

"Where are you headed in the States?"

"Washington," the Army captain said. "I'll take you to base cps and

arrange for another flight," the pilot said.

"I gather you've got a priority?"

"Do I ever," the captain said. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Why not?"

"How come the pilot's wings and the cavalry insignia?" The captain

looked coldly at him for a moment. "Nosy bastard, aren't you? "

"Curious," the pilot said with a smile. The Army officer was drunk.

People got belligerent when they were drunk. "The way they're running

this war," the captain said, "is that when you run out of airplanes,

they put you on a horse. And then, when you have to eat the horse,

they find something else for you to do."

"You were in the Philippines? The captain nodded. "Bad?"

"Very bad, Lieutenant, very bad indeed," the Army captain said.

The pilot gave him his hand and pulled the captain to his feet.

"I'd like to keep the blankets for a while," he said.

"Okay?"

"Sure," the pilot said.

They loaded the Army captain into the work boat. Then he sat huddled

under the blankets while the mailbags were loaded aboard and the plane

was towed to its mooring. After that the work boat delivered them to

the amphibious ramp, where a pickup waited. When they walked into base

ops, the Army captain made an effort to straighten up, but he did not

remove the blankets from his shoulders. Then he spotted a pay

telephone. "Can I mooch a nickel?" he asked. "I think they would

prefer you report in," the pilot said. "Fuck 'em," the captain said

matter-of-factly.

"They can wait. I have a call to make."

"Then why don't you give me your orders?" the pilot asked as he handed

the captain a nickel." I'll get the bureaucracy working." The captain

went into his hip pocket for his orders. As he did so, the pilot saw

that he had the old revolver in his waistband. "Thanks," the captain

said.

"The call is important." The pilot was handed only one sheet, instead

of the stack of mimeograph copies he expected. He gave in to his

curiosity as he approached the Continuing Passengers counter unfolded

it, and read:

SUPREME HEADQUARTERS SOUTHWEST PACIFIC OCEAN AREA BRISBANE, AUSTRALIA

Office of the Supreme Commander 28 March 1942

SUBJECT: Letter Orders TO: Captain James M. B. Whittaker 0 1 97644 A-AC

(Det CAV) office of the Supreme Commander, SWPOA a n 1. Verbal orders

of the Supreme Commander re your relief from 105th Explosive Ordnance

Disposal Detachment, Philippine Scouts, in the field, and assigning you

to Supreme Headquarters are confirmed and made a matter of record 2.

You will proceed (Priority AAA-A-1) via first available U.S.

Government, Allied Powers, or civilian air, sea, rail, or motor

transportation from Brisbane, Australia, to Washington, D.C." for the

purpose of personally delivering to the Commander in Chief certain

documents herewith placed in your custody.

3. Commanders of U.S. military installations are directed to provide to

you whatever facilities and services are needed for the expeditious

discharge of your mission, 4. After you have personally delivered the

documents now in your custody to the Commander in Chief, you will

report to Headquarte U.S. Army, Washington, D.C." for further

assignment.

BY ORDER OF GENERAL DOUGLAS MacArthur:

C4ilx4 A. W@4-ty Charles A. Willoughby Brig. General, USA Official:

Sidney L. Huff Lt. Colonel, GSC "What have we got? Who's the guy

wrapped in the blankets?" the officer on duty behind the counter asked

the pilot of the Catalina. The pilot handed him the well-worn set of

orders.

"Jesus Christ!" he said when he had read them.

TWO I Chicago, Illinois April 4,194a The City of Birmingham, a Douglas

DC -3 of Eastern Air Lines' Great Silver Fleet, could accommodate

twenty-one passengers, two rows of seven seats against the right

fuselage wall and a single row against the left. When Mrs. Roberta

Whatley, a brunette with 110 pounds arranged attractively about her

five feet four inches, boarded the airplane, only an aisle seat halfway

up the cabin was unoccupied. Although Mrs. Whatley was pleased to be

on the airplane at all-she had a B-3 priority, which meant she had to

wait for her boarding pass until all those with higher priorities had

been boarded- she was displeased to see that the adjacent seat was

occupie y a man. She had hoped to be assigned one of the single seats

or, failing that, something next to another woman. Mrs. Whatley

carried in her purse a just-issued bill of divorcement and was not at

all interested in masculine companionship. But there was nothing to be

done.

ANNE She would sit in the one remaining seat and politely but firmly

discourage any attempt by the young man to engage her in

conversation.

She slipped into the seat, carefully avoiding looking at the man. That

went Well, she thought. He didn't even glance at me. Out of the

corner of her eye, Roberta saw that the man-he was a young man, and not

at all bad-looking-had a briefcase and a folded newspaper in his lap

and was working on something like a crossword puzzle. It was some kind

of code, she recalled, where you had to guess a famous quotation. With

a little bit of luck, the puzzle will keep him busy for a long time.

The stewardess moved down the aisle making sure everyone had seat belts

fastened. The young man ignored her, too. She had to touch his

shoulder to get his attention. With a look of annoyance on his face,

he raised his briefcase enough for her to see that his seat belt was

fastened.

Lowering it, he returned his attention to his puzzle.

He really was sort of good-looking, Roberta decided.

Then she realized that he looked familiar somehow. She had a vague

suspicion that she had known him-or at least seen him-at Pensacola. Or

maybe Alameda? It will be just my damned bad luck to run into some

brother naval officer of Tom's on the damned airplane. But then she

decided she was wrong. For one thing, now that the war was on,

officers were required to wear their uniforms; and for another, the

hair on this nice-looking young man was much too long for a Naval

officer. Naval officers were careful about things like that. Still,

this young man was of military age and looked somehow military. Or at

least athletic. I wonder why He's not in uniform? The plane began to

move. The young man's interest in the puzzle didn't wane until they

had taxied to the beginning of the runway, where the pilots tested the

engines, or whatever. The noise was bad, and the airplane shook. When

the pilot did that, the young man beside Roberta Whatley lifted his

eyes from his puzzle, cocked his head, and listened carefully. Then he

turned his attention back to the puzzle and kept it there, not even

looking up when the plane started to move down the runway. it was only

when they were up and making a sharp turn-a bank, Tom had called

it-that he raised his head to the window and quickly looked out.

He hasn't looked at me yet. I wonder if something like what happened

to me has happened to him, something that made him lose his interest in

the opposite sex? When they were up in the air about as high as they

were apparently going to fly, the stewardess came down and offered

coffee, tea, or Coca Cola to the passengers. When she got to them, the

young man raised his head from his puzzle long enough to ask for Scotch

and water.

"I'm sorry, Sir," the stewardess said.

"There is no cocktail service on this flight."

"Why not?"

"I don't make the rules, Sir," the stewardess said. "In that case,

bring me two glasses of ice water, please," the young man said. And in

that moment, with his face turned to look up at the stewardess, Roberta

Whatley recognized him. He looked at her, too, but with neither

interest nor recognition. But now she was sure. He was a Navy

officer, a naval aviator like Tom. The last time she had seen him was

at Pensacola, and he had been wearing a high-collared white uniform

with golden wings pinned to the breast. She stole another glance at

him to be sure. it was him, all right. His name was Richard Canidy,

and he was a bachelor with a terrible reputation. if the stories could

be believed, he had carried on with half the unmarried women at

Pensacola-and some of the married ones. A dangerous man, a real

wolf.

down the little table The stewardess appeared with a tray, He folded

the back of the seat in front of him and put the glasses of ice water

on on the b it while Roberta did the same thing with her Coca-Cola.

After the stewardess had gone back down the aisle, Richard Canidy took

a swallow of his water, then took a silver flask from his pocket and

poured whiskey into the glass.

I know it's him! Tom had known Canidy's roommate, Lieutenant (j.g.)

Edwin H, they'd had Ed Bitter to supper, even at Annapolis; and his

escapades.

the men-had been upset at Canidy's romantic As if he sensed her looking

at him, he looked at her.

"Would you like a little taste?" he asked. "No, thank you," Roberta

said primly.

"I think it's against the rules."

"It's the only way to fly," Canidy said. And then he returned to his

puzzle. He looked at me. If I recognized him, he should have

recognized me. I@You're Lieutenant Canidy," Roberta accused. o look

right He looked at her. He had very dark eyes. They seemed t inside

her. "I'm used-to-be-Lieutenant Canidy," he said.

"Do I know you?"

"I'm Tom Whatley's wife," Roberta blurted." Oh," he said." And we've

met? " "At Pensacola," she said.

"I didn't mean that "You didn't mean what?"

"I'm not Tom's wife," she said.

"Not anymore, I mean. We were divorced. just now. That's what I was

doing in Chicago." 't have a little nip?

"Oh," he said.

"In that case, are you sure you won't Either to celebrate or the

reverse?" didn't stop him. He reached for the flask, and she so Rule

One' had worked, Dick Canidy decided. When he had seen this one

walking out to the airplane, and knew because it was the only vacant

seat that she would be sitting beside him, he decided he would have a

shot at her, if for no other reason than that it would make the Chicago

Cleveland-Washington flight pass more quickly. Now it looked as if he

might strike gold. His experience was that divorced women had a hunger

to prove to themselves that they were still desirable. It followed

that that particular flame would burn especially bright a few days

after a divorce. "Just now divorced, you said?" Canidy asked. "I'd

rather not talk about it," Roberta said. Bingo! "You said

'used-to-be' Lieutenant?"

Roberta asked. "I'd rather not talk about it," Canidy said. "Sorry,"

she said. "I'm out of the Navy," Canidy said.

"I got out about a year ago."

"I didn't know they were letting officers resign," she said. "It was

decided I would be of more value as an engineer than as an airplane

driver," he said.

"And I wasn't a very good aviator anyway and a worse naval officer."

"You don't mind not being in the service?"

"They're shooting at naval aviators these days," he said. "Haven't you

heard?" I like that, Roberta Whatley decided. Not only is it exactly

opposite from what Tom would say, but it's honest. "And you like what

you're doing now?"

"It's all right," he said. "What exactly are you doing?"

"Research, in airfoil design for Boeing," he said. "I don't know what

that means," she said. "An airfoil is a wing," he said, "As a wing

approaches the speed of sound, strange things happen. We're trying to

find out exactly what and why. "You mean you're a test pilot?"

"Rule One: The way to attract an attractive woman who is used to

attention is to ignore her.

TEE SECRET WARRIORS M 13

"The only thing I fly is a slapstick," Canidy said.

"Behind a desk."

"Oh," she said. "What happened between you and Tom?" Canidy asked.

"If you don't mind my asking."

"I don't like to talk about it," she said. "Excuse me," he said. "He

wasn't at Great Lakes three weeks before he started running around,"

she said. "That's hard to believe," Canidy said. "Why is it hard to

believe?" Roberta asked. "Look in the mirror," Canidy said. She

blushed.

By the time the City of Birmingham landed at Cleveland, Canidy' silver

s flask was almost empty. They had a drink waiting for the plane to be

refueled, and he was able to refill it at the bar in the airport

terminal. Between Cleveland and Washington, she told him all about how

Tom had been a rotten sonofabitch almost from the beginning. And he

seemed to understand. He patted her hand comfortingly. When they got

to Washington, he confessed that he didn't know where he was going to

stay, but that he would call her when he found a hotel room

someplace.

She replied that he didn't have any idea how hard it was to find a

hotel room in Washington these days, and that should do was come with

her to her apartment and use her what he phone to call around.

Otherwise, he might wind up sleeping on a park bench. While he was

calling around to the hotels, she told him she certainly didn't want

him to get the wrong idea, but she absolutely had to have a shower and

get into something comfortable. She was not surprised when he came

into the bathroom and got into the shower with her. The only thing

that surprised her was that she didn't even pretend to be furious.

When she thought about it later, she decided it was all the Scotch

she'd had on the airplane. Plus the fact that she had left Tom six

months before, and she had the usual needs of a human being. Plus, in

a flash of real honesty, she admitted that she had found it really

exciting when she saw him naked.

THREE

The St. Regis Hotel New York City April 4, 1942

When the ten gentlemen-the group known as the Disciples-gathered to

brief and be briefed by Colonel William Donovan, they found him in pain

in bed in his suite at the hotel. He had a glass dark with Scotch in

his hand, and there was a Scotch bottle on his bedside table. Though

Colonel Donovan, a stocky, silver-haired, ruddy-faced Irishman, was not

a professional soldier, neither was he a Kentucky colonel, nor the

commanding officer of a National Guard regiment. He had earned both

his silver eagle and the Medal of Honor for valor on the battlefields

of France in World War I. Between wars, he had become a very

successful-and, it logically followed, very wealthy-attorney in New

York City, and a power behind the scenes in the Democratic Party, not

only in New York but, even perhaps especially, in Washington. He was

again in government employ, this time at an annual stipend of one

dollar, as the Coordinator of Information, which meant he ran a

relatively new government agency. Donovan reported directly to

President Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Most people, to Donovan's joy,

believed the COI was the United States government's answer to Joseph

Goebbels's Propaganda Ministry. COI did, in fact, have an

"information" function-in the propaganda sense-headed by the

distinguished playwright Robert Sherwood.

But it also had another "information" function, headed by Donovan

himself, which had absolutely nothing to do with whipping the American

people into the kind of patriotic frenzy that would impel them, for the

sake of the war effort," to abandon "pleasure driving" and donate their

aluminum pans to be converted into bombers. The kind of information

that Donovan was charged with coordinating is more accurately described

as intelligence.

Each of the military services had intelligence-gathering operations, as

did the State Department and the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and

federal government like the Departments of Labor, Commerce, Treasury,

and Interior.

Despite sincerely made claims of absolute objectivity, President

Roosevelt realized that when, say, the Chief of Naval Intelligence made

a report on a problem together with a proposal for a solution, that

solution generally involved the use of the U.S. Navy. Similarly, the

Army seldom recommended naval bombardment of a target. Heavy Army Air

Corps bomber aircraft were obviously better suited for that.

It was the Coordinator of Information's duty-which is to say Colonel

William J. Donovan's-to examine the intelligence gathered by all

relevant agencies, and then to evaluate that intelligence against the

global war effort. If asked, he would also recommend a course of

action.

This course of action might well be implemented by an agency different

from the one providing the original intelligence.

To assist him in this task, Donovan intended to gather around him a

dozen men, each of extraordinary intelligence and competence in his

area of expertise. Like Donovan, they would offer to the government

for one dollar per annum services that in the private sector would have

cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. Because there were supposed to

be twelve of these men (he had managed to recruit only ten) and because

they were answerable only to Donovan, it was natural that they came to

be known as the Disciples. Donovan was Christ, answerable only to

God-Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Donovan's and his Disciples' mandate

pleased virtually no one in the intelligence community. The Army and

Navy were especially outraged that amateurs would oversee what their

long-service professionals had developed. Their disapproval, however,

meant very little as long as Franklin D. Roosevelt, who had come to

believe that Donovan's original suggestion was one of his own brilliant

ideas, was pleased with the way things were going. He conferred at

least twice a week with Donovan. One of those meetings had occurred

the day before, which was why the Disciples filing into Donovan's St.

Regis Hotel suite found him in bed in his pajamas. On his way to Union

Station in Washington, where he had gone to catch the 11:55 to New

York, the White House car carrying Donovan had been struck broadside by

a taxicab.

Though his knee was severely-and painfully-hurt in the impact, he

managed to catch the train. In his compartment, the pain grew intense,

and he had the conductor fetch a bucket of ice cubes from the dining

car. He wrapped some in a towel and applied it to his knee. That

helped, but when he began to experience pain in his chest as well, he

knew he had a more serious problem than a bruised knee. After he got

to New York and taxied to the St. Regis, he stopped in the lobby and

asked the manager to send him a doctor. The doctor listened to Donovan

list his symptoms, prodded the knee, and then announced he was going to

call an ambulance and transport Donovan to St. Vincent's Hospital.

What he had, the doctor told Colonel Donovan, was a blood clot caused

by the injury to his knee. The clot had moved to his lung, which was

why he had chest pains. The term for this condition was "embolism,"

the doctor continued. If the clot completely blocked the flow of blood

to his lungs, or if it moved to his heart or to the artery supplying

the brain, he would drop dead. In a hospital, he would be given

medicine intravenously that would thin the blood. If he was lucky, in

a month or six weeks the clot would dissolve. Reluctantly-and after

pressure-the doctor told the colonel that the medicine which would be

used to thin his blood was also available in a pill form. It was,

Donovan was fascinated to learn, a pharmaceutical version of rat

poison.

The doctor also reluctantly admitted that giving him this medicine-and

bed rest-was about all the treatment the hospital could offer. "I can

do that here," Donovan announced.

"I can't go to the hospital now. The doctor couldn't argue with

that.

So he had a pharmacy deliver the blood-thinning medicine, then watched

as Donovan took a strong first dose. "Take a couple of good stiff

drinks, too," the doctor said. Donovan asked the natural question: "I

thought you weren t supposed to mix drugs with alcohol?"

"This is the exception," the doctor replied.

"Drink all you want. Alcohol thins the blood. just stay in bed, and

don't get excited." Donovan was normally a teetotaler, but since

whiskey was less repugnant than rat poison, he ordered up a bottle of

Scotch.

After they had gathered in his room, Donovan told the Disciples how he

had damaged his knee, but not about the blood clot. The first item on

the agenda, as always, was the super bomb. The Science Disciple, who

was on leave from the Department of Physics of the University of

California at Berkeley, reported that there was no question that the

Germans were methodically, if not rapidly, engaged in nuclear re

search. As one proof of this, they had granted the same immunity-"for

scientific contributions to the German State"-to Jewish physicists and

mathematicians involved in such research as they had to Jews involved

in rocket propulsion. And further, a German delegation had not long

before returned from a visit to a plant in Denmark that had been

engaged in research into a substance called heavy water. This

substance, he explained-until it became apparent that no one else

either understood or much cared about it-was water to whose molecular

structure had been appended another hydrogen atom. The Germans were

apparently trying to cause a chain-or explosive-effect by releasing the

extra hydrogen atom so appended. The Science Disciple then argued that

it would be useful to "persuade" scientists engaged in German atomic

research to come to this country-or, 4( persuasion" failing, to kidnap

them. Though he was not convinced that these people would be able to

make a contribution to the American nuclear effort, it was inarguable

that if they were here, they could not contribute to the German

effort.

The problem, Donovan said, was that if German nuclear people started

disappearing, it would alert the Germans to American interest in the

subject. Roosevelt himself had decided that the one American war plan

that most had to be concealed from the Axis was the attempt to develop

an atomic bomb. "Even in the case of that obscure mining engineer we

just brought out of North Africa," Donovan went on, we thought about

that long and hard before we went for him. In the end, because we need

the uraninite ore from the Belgian Congo, we decided we had to have

him. In other words, we'll have to go very carefully with this. As a

general rule of thumb, anybody we got out would have to be very

important. So come up with a list, and rate them twice: how important

they are to the Germans and how important they are to our program."

The second item on the agenda was political: the question of Vice

Admiral d'escadre Jean-Philippe de Verbey, French Navy, retired. Not

just for organizational but for personal reasons. This affair was the

business of C. Holds worth Martin, Jr." the Disciple who dealt with

France and French colonies. Like Donovan, Martin had served with the

American Expeditionary Forces in the First World War. After the war,

he had been appointed to the Armistice Commission. A civil engineer,

he had met and married a French officer's widow, and had subsequently

taken over the running of "I her late husband's construction firm.

This he had turned from a middle size, reasonably successful business

into a large, extremely profitable corporation. His wife's social

position (she was a member of the deposed nobility) and his wealth had

then combined to permit them to move in the highest social circles.

C.

Holds worth Martin, Jr." brought his wife and children to New York

after the fall of France in 1940, purchased an apartment on Fifth

Avenue overlooking Central Park, and promptly enraged the

Franco-American community and large numbers of sympathetic Americans by

proclaiming whenever the opportunity arose that French stupidity,

cowardice, and corruption, and not German military prowess, had caused

France to go down to such a quick and humiliating defeat. Even more

outrageously, he made no secret of his belief that millions of middle

and upper-class Frenchmen indeed preferred Hitler to Blum,' and had

every intention of cooperating with Hitler's New Order for Europe.

One of the few people who agreed with any of this was Colonel William

Donovan. And so far as Donovan was concerned, C. Holds worth Martin,

Jr." was the ideal man to be Disciple for France. He had spent more

than twenty years there, knew the country and its leaders better than

most Frenchmen, and, with very few exceptions, cordially detested most

of them.

Over luncheon and golf, Donovan had learned from him that Martin

detested most of the French as much for their chauvinism as for their

inept army. His success with his wife's firm, because it was an

"American" and not a "French" success, earned him more jealousy than

respect among his French peers. His wife's late husband's family, for

instance, referred t him as "le gigolo Am,@ricain. On January 11,

1942, C. Holds worth Martin, Jr." entered the service of the United

States government, at the usual remuneration of one dollar per annum,

as a consultant to the Office of the Coordinator of Information. Three

days later, C. Holds worth Martin III, a 1940 graduate of the Ecole

Poly technique in Paris, by enlisting in the U.S. Army as a private

"Leon Blum, First Socialist Premier of France, 1936-1938.

soldier, entered the service of the United States government at a

remuneration of twenty-one dollars per month. Although he acted, and

sounded, like a French boulevardier, C. Holds worth Martin, Jr." was

almost belligerently an American. Now C. Holds worth Martin, Jr." was

engaged in a description of what he referred to as "I'affaire du vieux

amir al vicieux" ("the old, vicious admiral"), by which he meant Vice

Admiral d'escadrejean-Philippe de Verbey. When the war broke out,

Admiral de Verbey was recalled from retirement. He was assigned to the

French naval staff in Casablanca, Morocco, and had there suffered a

heart attack, which nearly killed him. By the time he'd spent nine

months in the hospital, France had fallen and an upstart, six-foot-six

brigadier general of tanks, Charles de Gaulle, who had gotten out of

France at the last minute, had appointed himself chief of the French

government in exile and commander in chief of its armed forces. The

majority of French officers still on French sod considered themselves

honor-bound to accept the defeat of France and the authority of Marshal

P6tain, the aged "Hero of Ver dun" who now headed the French government

in Vichy. Admiral de Verbey did not. He considered it his duty as a

French officer to continue to fight. He managed to pass word to de

Gaulle in London that he approved of de Gaulle's actions. He announced

further that as soon as he could arrange transportation (in other

words, escape house arrest in Casablanca), it was his intention to come

to London and assume command of French military and naval forces in

exile.

So far as the admiral was concerned, it was as simple as that. Once he

reached London, he would be the senior officer outside Vichy control.

He had been an admiral when de Gaulle was a major. If de Gaulle wanted

to pretend that he was head of some sort of government in exile,

fine.

But the commander of Free French military forces would be the senior

officer who had not caved in to the Boches-in other words, Vice Admiral

d'escadre Jean-Philippe de Verbey. Brigadier General de Gaulle was not

pleased with the admiral's offer, which he correctly believed would be

a threat to his own power. De Verbey's very presence in London, much

more his assumption of command of Free French military forces, would

remind people that de Gaulle was not anywhere near the ranking Free

French officer and that his self appointment as head of the French

government in exile was of very doubtful legality. He couldn't have

that. Admiral de Verbey shortly afterward received orders-signed by a

major general, in the name of Charles de Gaulle, "Head of State

-ordering him to remain in Casablanca, "pending any need for your

services to France in the future." Early in 1942, de Verbey, furious,

took the great risk of offering his services to Robert Murphy, who was

American consul general in Rabat. The Americans, he told Murphy, could

use him in any capacity they saw fit, so long as it was concerned with

getting La Boche out of La Belle France.

Murphy related the information to Washington, where eventually it S

reached C. Holds worth Martin, Jr. Martin knew de Verbey, and

suggested to Donovan that the old man be brought to the United

States.

It might be useful to have a lever available if de Gaulle-who already

showed signs of being very difficult-became impossible.

Donovan was aware that since Roosevelt looked fondly upon de Gaulle, he

was safe in his self-appointed role as head of the French government in

exile. Further, even if they were to have a de Gaulle replacement

waiting in the wings, he felt they could find someone better than a

long-retired admiral with a serious heart condition. He had not then

rejected Martin's recommendation, however. But he believed that he

would ultimately decide that getting the admiral out of Morocco would

be more trouble than it would be worth, But later there came the

necessity of bringing out of Morocco the French mining engineer who

knew about the stock of uranitite in the Belgian Congo. That operation

had a very high priority and was top secret. Which meant they would

need good cover for it. Donovan's deputy, Captain Peter Doug lass,

USN, had suggested, and Donovan had agreed, that should something go

wrong with the snatch the-mining-engineer operation, the Germans would

begin to suspect an American interest in atomic fission. If, however,

the operation had the escape of the admiral as its cover and the

operation blew up, there was at least a reasonable chance the Germans

would not suspect what was really up. Thus C. Holds worth Martin,

Jr."

had been told that Donovan had decided to bring the admiral to the

United States. He had not been told M'77"M"77777" about the mining

engineer. The operation had been a success. The admiral and the

engineer had arrived at the Brooklyn Navy Yard aboard a submarine,

which had picked them up fifteen miles at sea off the Moroccan coast.

The admiral and the engineer were then taken to a seaside mansion in

Deal, New Jersey, where they could be kept on ice until a decision was

made as to what to do with them, Afterward, Martin told his wife that

the admiral was safe in America, and where he was being kept. Madame

Martin, who had known the admiral all her life, then drove the fifty

miles to Deal, loaded the admiral in her Packard, and took him to the

Martin dulex on Fifth Avenue.

p When the formidable Madame Martin arrived, the naval officer charged

with the security of the mansion incorrectly decided there was nothing

he could do to keep the admiral in Deal. Madame Martin, after all, was

the wife of a Disciple. So he had helpfully loaded the admiral's one

suitcase into the Martin Packard, and then saluted crisply as it drove

off. As a result of this failure of judgment, he would spend the

balance of World War 11 as a supply officer in the South Pacific, but

the damage was done. The admiral was in New York City, prepared to

tell anyone who would listen that Brigadier General Charles de Gaulle

not only was a megalomaniac but had no legal authority whatever for

declaring himself the head of the French government. "This will never

do," Donovan told Martin.

"Maybe we'll need to let the admiral have his say. But for the time

being he has to be kept on ice at Summer Place. If you have to take

him back to the mansion by force, then do that. But we absolutely have

to keep him away from the press. I have had a word with The New York

Times, and they are not going to run the interview they did with him.

But it's only a question of time until the story gets out. God help us

if Colonel McCormick gets wind of what we've done. Who's Colonel

McCormick?" Martin asked, confused. "He publishes the Chicago

Tribune," Donovan said. "He volunteered for active duty on December

eighth. Since Franklin hates his guts-the feeling is mutual-Roosevelt

turned him down, ostensibly because of his age. As a consequence, the

colonel would be very sympathetic to another Old warrior denied active

service by that socialist in the White House."

"I can get de Verbey back to Deal, Bill," Martin said.

"But how are u going to keep him there?"

YO "For the time being-I really don't want to lock him up unless I have

to-I think we should keep staffing him," Donovan said.

"Maybe pay him some Navy attention. That will infuriate de Gaulle when

he finds out about it-and he will. But I still think we can peacefully

stop the admiral from calling him a megalomaniac on the front page of

the Chicago Tribune. "What do you mean by "Navy attention'?" Martin

asked. "Send some Navy brass to ask his opinion about invading North

Africa," Donovan said.

"That might appeal to his ego, keeping his role in 11@ the invasion a

secret."

"And he might even be helpful," Martin said, just slightly sarcastic.

"He was the naval commander in Casablanca."

"Well, you make him feel important, and I'll arrange with Captain Doug

lass to send some Navy brass down to confer with him," "What about some

of the French naval officers in Washington? Can we get him some kind

of a small staff? Otherwise, he'll know we're just humoring him."

Donovan thought that over. The moment Free French naval officers were

assigned to de Verbey, de Gaulle would hear about it-and be furious.

Perhaps that might not be a bad idea. It was MacHiavellian.

Or perhaps Rooseveltian. "I'll speak to Doug lass," Donovan said.

"I'm sure we can find several otherwise unoccupied French naval

officers to serve the admiral."

"I'll have him at Summer Place by noon tomorrow," Martin promised. The

third item on the agenda was financial. Five million dollars in gold

coins had been made available to finance secret operations in Africa,

France, and Spain. More would be made available when needed. Five

million was enough to get started.

Project Arcadia had two basic objectives: to keep Spain from joining

the German-Italian-japanese Axis, and to keep the native populations of

French North Africa (Morocco Algeria, and Tunisia) from throwing in

their lot with the Germans. Five million was a lot of money, but worth

it. Ten times that much was available if necessary from the

President's secret war appropriation. It would be much cheaper to

spend fifty million to keep Spain neutral than to spend two weeks at

war with her.

Donovan and his Disciples knew that it had been decided to invade

French North Africa as quickly as possible. That would be called

Operation Torch. Donovan now told the Disciples something he had

learned from the President only the day before: The Army and Navy were

shooting for an August or September D-Day for Operation Torch, but he

and Roosevelt privately believed the operation could not be executed

until October or November. In addition to the logistical nightmare of

sending an invasion force from the United States directly to Africa,

there were geopolitical problems. If Spain joined the Axis, the

Germans could legally move troops into Spanish Morocco, from where you

could almost spit on Gibraltar. The Vichy government was almost

certainly going to resist Torch with whatever they had. And they had

troops and warships, including the battleship jean Bart, in

Casablanca.

All of these problems would be compounded if the natives decided to

support the Franco-Germans against an American invasion. Some of their

troops were not only good but in French service; and even the least

modernized of their forces could function effectively as guerrillas.

On the other hand, the French Army had never been able to pacify the

ones who disdained French service. Donovan ordered the five million to

be spent with the missions of Project Arcadia alone in mind. As little

as possible would be spent for general war objectives." It was further

not to be regarded as supplemental funds by intelligence operators on

the scene. Gold was worth $32.00 an ounce, $512.00 a pound. Five

million dollars' worth of gold weighed about ten thousand pounds, five

tons. A man named Atherton Richards, a banker on the fringes of the

Disriples, would pick up the gold at the Federal Reserve Bank in

Manhattan, transport it by Brink's armored cars to the Navy base in

Brooklyn, and load it on a U.S. Navy destroyer, which Would then make a

high-speed run across the Atlantic to Gibraltar. Donovan's Disciples

had other plans and operations to discuss, offering suggestions and

seeking instructions, and the session continued for two more hours

before it died down. "Is that all?" Donovan finally asked. He was

tired and wanted some sleep. The rat poison and the Scotch were

getting to him. "I have one thing, William," the Near Eastern Disciple

said. "Has there been any decision about whether, or how, we're going

to deal with Thami el Glaoui?"

"No," Donovan said, adding dryly, "There are many schools of thought on

Thami.

The Disciple, previously professor of Near Eastern Studies at

Princeton, believed that Thami el Glaoui, pasha of Marrakech, was not

only a very interesting character but that he had every likelihood of

becoming king of Morocco. "Who?" the German Industry Disciple asked,

chuckling.

"That sounds like an Armenian restaurant." He was given a withering

look by the Near Eastern Disciple. Thami el Glaoui," the Disciple

began patiently, pedantically, "bridges, one might say-he's sixty-some,

maybe seventy, no one seems to know for sure-the Thousand and One

Nights and what it pleases us to consider modern civilization. He

rules over his tribesmen like a sheikh in the desert, as absolute

monarch, exercising the power of life and death. But he also owns

wineries, farms, a bus company, and phosphate mines. God only knows

how much he made by taking a percentage for smuggling diamonds and

currency out of Morocco and France."

"Can he do us any good?" the Italian Disciple interrupted

impatiently.

"And if so, how?" The Near Eastern Disciple was not used to being

interrupted, and produced another withering look. "We could not have

gotten the mining engineer Grunier out of Morocco without his

permission," he said.

"That cost us one hundred thousand dollars. If I may continue?"

"Please," Donovan said, spreading oil on troubled waters. "If Thami el

Glaoui were to come to believe that we were in favor of his becoming

king, or at least that we would not support the present monarch-who

would, I should add, like to behead him-it could be quite valuable to

us, I think." Sorry, Charley," the Italian Disciple said

contritely."

No offense. The apology was ignored. "The man who has led Thami el

Glaoui into the twentieth century is another interesting chap," the

Disciple went on, as if picking up a lecture. "He is the old pasha of

Ksar es Souk. For years and years and years he was the 6minence grise

behind Thami's maneuverings. He was assassinated on December sixth

last, probably by the king. Probably with the tacit approval of the

Germans.

Possibly by mistake-they could have easily been JEER after his son

instead. The son was involved in high-stakes smuggling."

"I don't get the point of all this, Charley," C. Holds worth Martin,

Jr., said.

THE SECRET WARRIORS N as "On the death of the pasha, the eldest son

became pasha. The pasha is dead. Long live the pasha. The new pasha

of Ksar es Souk is Sidi el Ferruch," the Disciple went on."

Twenty-five years old. Educated in Switzerland and Germany. A product

of this century."

"What about him?" East Europe asked impatiently.

"Can he do us any good?" It was time for Donovan to interrupt. "He

already has," he said.

"He smuggled-with el Glaoui's permission-Gruni er out of Morocco.

Charley feels that he could be very useful when we invade North

Africa.

So do I. But there is, to reiterate, more than one school of thought on

the question."

"You're thinking about causing a native rebellion, then?" The

previously skeptical Italian Disciple was now fascinated. "The Army's

weighing the pros and cons," Donovan said, not wanting to get into a

lengthy discussion of that now.

"It's something for the back burner. A rebellion could quickly get out

of hand, but simply ensuring that Thami el Glaoui's Berbers stay out of

the fight seems worth whatever effort it would take. I'll let you know

what's decided." The Near East Disciple was used to concluding

lectures when he wished to conclude them, and not before. He was also,

Donovan decided, not immune to the romance of his first venture into

international intrigue.

"With an eye to using el Ferruch in the future, and for other reasons,"

the Disciple said, we decided not to bring Eric Fulmar out when we

brought Grunier out."

East Europe took the bait.

"Who is Eric Fulmar?" It was the first he had heard about this

operation. "Still another interesting character," the Near East

Disciple said.

"His father is the Fulmar of Fulmar Elektrische Gesellschaft, and his

mother is Monica Carlisle, the actress." Now that Charley had the

other Disciples' rapt attention, Donovan knew that silencing him was

going to be damned near impossible. "I didn't know she was even

married. Or was that old," C. Holds worth Martin, Jr." said.

"Very likely to make sure that her dark secret-a son that old-did not

become public knowledge," the Near East Disciple went on, "she sent him

to school in Switzerland. Where Sidi el Ferruch, conveniently for us,

was also a student."

I @

"This is off the wall, Charley," Martin said.

"But where in Switzerland? What school?"

"Bull's-eye, Holds worth," the Near East Disciple said.

"La Rosey. Where your boy was." C. Holds worth Martin snorted.

"I'll be damned," he said. "And then el Ferruch and Fulmar went to

Germany-to Phillip's University in Marburg an der Lahn-for college.

Where they apparently took honors in Smuggling 101. The pair of them

have made a fortune smuggling gold, jewels, currency, and fine art out

of France-not to mention the hundred thousand we paid them to get

Grunier out. Fulmar now has over a hundred thousand in the Park and

Fifty-seventh Street branch of the First National City Bank. And I

wouldn't be at all surprised if there was more money in Switzerland,"

"This Fulmar chap was supposed to come out with Grunier?" Italy asked,

and when the Near East Disciple nodded, asked: "Then why didn't we

bring him out?"

"That was part of the deal," the Disciple said, relishing his role as

spy master. He has a surprising talent to be a sono/abitch, Donovan

thought, but so long as it's in a good cause ... "He thought we were

going to bring him out," the Disciple went on. "The Germans were

breathing down his neck. They knew about the smuggling, and the son of

a prominent Nazi industrialist should be in umiform, preferably with

the Waff en SS in Russia. Since he knew that it was a bit below the

salt to have made himself rich by helping the French move their assets

out from under the benevolent control of the Thousand-Year Reich, he

really wanted to get himself out of Morocco. It made him very

cooperative. "If we said we would bring him out, then why didn't

we?"

Italy continued, his sense of fair play offended. "It wasn't nice,

Henry," Donovan said.

"But it was considered necessary. It gave Sidi el Ferruch a choice.

He could turn Fulmar in, and cover himself with the Germans. Or he

could continue to protect him, and leave the door open to us. And of

course, when we're talking about el Ferrucb, we're talking about Tbami

el Glaoui. For the moment, at least, He's decided to leave the door

open.

Fulmar is in the pasha's palace at Ksar es Souk.

"And what does this Fulmar think of us for leaving him behind when we

promised to 2et him out of Morocco?"

"I don't suppose he thinks very kindly of us," Donovan said. "We'll

have to deal with that when we come to it. If we come to it. As I

said, the decision whether or not to try to use Thami el Glaoui's

Berbers has not yet been made," "If I were Fulmar," the Italy Disciple

said, "I would tell you to go straight to the devil." Donovan

suppressed a smile.

"We'll have to burn that bridge when we get to it," he said.

"I don't think waving a flag at him will be very effective, but he

likes money."

"Good God!" the outraged Disciple said in disgust. "Anything else?"

Donovan asked, looking at them one at a time. There were only verbal

reports, nothing that required discussion. When these were concluded,

Donovan's visitors shook his hand and left. He drained the Scotch in

his glass, had another, and then turned the light off. But his mind

would not let him go to sleep. He poured more Scotch and drank that.

He wondered if he would die. He didn't want to die now. Not, he

thought, until the tide had turned. Not while he was having so much

fun. He went to sleep vowing to obey the doctor's command to stay in

bed until the embolism dissolved.

Donovan had been asleep an hour when one of the telephones on his

bedside table rang. He had three telephones there: a house phone, a s

personal, unlisted telephone. The last was ringing. It was probably

Ruth, he thought as he reached for it. He wondered what his wife

wanted at this time of night. Instead, it turned out to be Barbara

Whittaker. Barbara owned Summer Place, the mansion in Deal, and had

made it available without cost or question when Donovan told her he

needed it. Barbara Whittaker was a very old friend of both Ruth and

Bill. She was also the widow of his lifelong friend Chesly Whittaker,

and, he remembered, the aunt of Jimmy Whittaker, who was in the

Philippines in the Air Corps, Turning over Summer Place and the house

on Q Street to Donovan was the only way she could imagine of helping

Jimmy. "I'm sorry if I woke you, Bill, but I had to say thank you."

"For what?" Donovan asked, confused. "Jimmy just called. He's in San

Francisco." Donovan concealed his surprise. The best hope he had had

for Chesly Whittaker's nephew was that he would somehow survive both

the debacle in the Philippine Islands and the certain confinement in a

Japanese POW camp. "He's in San Francisco?" he asked, still

confused.

"All right, Bill," Barbara Whittaker said.

"I understand. But thank you and God bless you."

"He got out of the Philippines?" he asked. "Okay, I'll tell you," she

said, gently sarcastic, humoring him. "So in case anyone asks you,

you'll know. He got out of the Philippines with Douglas MacArthur, and

Douglas sent him from Australia with a letter to Franklin Roosevelt.

They're flying him to Washington tonight with it."

"I had nothing to do with this, Barbara," Donovan said.

"But of course I'm delighted to hear it," "God bless you, Bill,"

Barbara said emotionally "You're really a friend."

"I hope I am," he said. Then the phone went dead. She really thinks I

went to Franklin Roosevelt and got him to give Jimmy special

treatment.

And then he had another thought, a professional thought. Douglas

MacArthur, whom Bill Donovan had known since they had both been young

colonels with the AEF in France in 1917, was very likely up to

something devious. God only knew what that letter contained. Whatever

it said, it could not be allowed to fall into the wrong hands. Donovan

realized that the wrong hands were not only those of Colonel McCormick

of the Chicago Tribune but those of George Marshall as well. Marshall

and MacArthur despised each other, What Roosevelt did with the letter

was his business, but it had to reach him, not get "mistakenly'

released to the press, or "misplaced' mi 41111 the Pentagon. Or

"lost." Donovan picked up the secure telephone and called the White

House. The President was not available, he was told, but would be in

half an hour. He left a message for the President: Jimmy Whittaker was

in San Francisco, en route to Washington, bearing a personal letter to

Franklin Roosevelt from Douglas MacArthur.

After he hung up, he realized that wasn't enough. Interception of the

letter was possible now that he had announced its existence. He picked

up the secure phone again and called the COI duty officer in the

National Institutes of Health building. He told him to find Captain

Peter Doug lass and have him call immediately. Captain Doug lass, whom

Donovan had recruited from the Office of Naval Intelligence, was on the

phone in three minutes. Donovan told him what he had just learned. "I

want you to find out how Whittaker is traveling to Washington," Donovan

said. "If he flew from Hawaii," Doug lass said, "he went to NAS

Alameda.

I'll call there and get the details."

"I want to ensure that he delivers that letter to the President,"

Donovan said. '-Mich means I want you to have the airplane met when it

lands in Washington. I would prefer that you're not personally

involved, but if need be, meet him yourself. Is there anybody

available?"

"Canidy is in Washington," Doug lass replied.

"He came back today from visiting his father in Cedar Rapids. He and

Whittaker are close. I think I can lay my hands on him. And Chief

Ellis is at the house on Q Street, of course."

"Where's Canidy, if He's not at the house?" Donovan asked. "He called

up and said he was staying with a friend," Doug lass said dryly.

"He left her number with Ellis."

"Aside from his cat ting around," Donovan asked, chuckling, "is he

giving us any trouble?" Canidy was a naval aviator who had been

recruited by General Claire Chennault for his Flying Tigers in China.

Canidy had been the first ace of the American Volunteer Group. He had

then been recruited again, this time by the COI to bring Grunier and

the old admiral out of North Africa. After he and Eric Fulmar had been

left floating in the Atlantic off Safi by the submarine they'd both

expected to escape on, Canidy decided he no longer wished to offer his

services to COI Shortly after his safe return to the States, Canidy had

informed Captain Doug lass that now that he'd had the opportunity to

play Jimmy Cagney as a spy, he'd decided that flying fighters off an

airplane carrier didn't seem nearly as dangerous or unpleasant as what

he'd gone through in Morocco, and that he would be grateful if Captain

Doug lass would arrange for his recommissioning in the Navy.

There were several reasons why Donovan could not permit this. At the

top of the list was Canidy's involvement with the "movement" of Grunier

from Morocco to the United States. Canidy knew nothing about why

Grunier was important, of course, but he knew about Grunier, and that

meant he was privy to a nuclear secret, and that in itself was enough

to deny him return to the Navy. And that wasn't the only secret he

knew. He had been in contact with Sidi Has san el Ferruch, pasha of

Ksar es Souk. Donovan believed that Roosevelt in the end would decide

in favor of the notion of using el Ferruch's Berbers in the . But even

if he didn't, the necessity for absolute secrecy about American plans

for North Africa was such that Canidy's knowledge of them-presuming he

was not a cheerful, willing, obedient, loyal Boy Scout's honor COI

volunteer-made him a security risk. So would his very knowledge of the

inner workings at the top of COI For these reasons, if he became

"difficult" Donovan would have to have him sit out the war at a remote

base in Alaska or Greenland. It might even be necessary for Donovan to

order his "hospitalization for psychiatric evaluation." In the opinion

of Roosevelt's attorney general, the legal right of habeas corpus did

not apply to mental patients. If Canidy were "hospitalized," it would

be for the duration. Captain Doug lass could not threaten Canidy with

any of this when he asked to return to the Navy. What he did say to

him was that he should sit and think a moment about why it might be

impossible for him to pin his golden naval aviator's wings back on.

Canidy, who was by no means stupid, saw what the writing on the wall

was, and agreed-by no means enthusiastically-to stay on. "No," Doug

lass said to Donovan.

"He's hardly what you could can a happy volunteer, but he seems to have

reconsidered his situation."

"If he were a happy volunteer," Donovan said, "that would worry me."

Donovan was pleased, and relieved. He liked Canidy personally, and it

would have been unpleasant to order his "hospitalization." And he

agreed with El don Baker, the longtime professional intelligence

officer in charge of the Moroccan operation, that Canidy was one of

those rarities who have the strange combination of intelligence,

imagination, courage, and ruthlessness that an agent needs. It would

have been a pity had it been necessary to lock those talents up for the

duration. Captain Doug lass chuckled.

"Okay," Donovan said.

"Then he's the man. Have Chief Ellis get him out of the lady's bed,

tell him what he has to know, and then let him handle it. Didn't you

tell me you'd gotten him a marshal's badge?"

"It's in the safe."

" Well, give it to him," Donovan said." Send Ellis along with him.

Chief Boatswain's Mate Ellis was an old China sailor from the Yangtze

River Patrol. Ellis was Doug lass's jack-of-all-trades in

Washington.

"Yes, Sir."

"And maybe you better go with them too. Sit in the car or something,

where nobody can see you. just make sure that letter is not

intercepted."

"If I have any trouble, I'll call you back," Doug lass said.

"Otherwise, I will call you when Whittaker is safe in the house on Q

Street."

"Fine."

"How are you, Colonel?" Doug lass asked. "I'm sitting up in bed

drinking rat poison and Scotch whiskey," Donovan said.

"Thank you for asking, Peter."

"Good night, Sir." Somewhat bitterly, Donovan thought he was spending

much too much time in political warfare with the ranking member of the

American military establishment. But it couldn't be helped. His

allegiance belonged to Roosevelt, and no one else.

ONE I Alameda Naval Air Station Alameda, California April 4, 1942

The twin-engine B-25 Mitchell medium bomber taxied up to the Alameda

transient parking ramp and killed its engines. Mounted just below the

pilot's-side window on the fuselage was the single silver star insignia

of a brigadier general on a red plate the size of an automobile license

plate.

A door opened in the bottom of the fuselage and a short ladder

appeared.

A lieutenant, wearing aviator's wings and the insignia of an aide

de-camp, descended the ladder and started toward base cps just as a

Navy captain and an Army captain walked out of the base cps building.

The lieutenant and the Navy captain exchanged salutes. The Army

captain, hands jammed into his pockets, nodded at the lieutenant.

"Hold it down there a minute," a voice called from the pilot's window

of the B-25. A moment later, the pilot, who wore the stars of a

brigadier general on the epaulets of his horsehide zippered jacket,

came out of the airplane and walked toward the others. Another salute

was exchanged.

"Good evening, Captain," the general said, offering his hand. "I'm

General Jacobs. What's this all about?"

"Captain Farber, Sir," the Navy officer said.

"I'm the air operations officer. This is your passenger."

"My name is Whittaker," the Army officer volunteered

conversationally.

Brigadier General Jacobs did not like the appearance of the captain.

He was wearing a horsehide aviator's jacket over his tropical worsted

uniform; that was not only against uniform regulations, it was

unsightly, for the leather jacket did not cover the blouse. Moreover,

he was annoyed at being ordered to divert to Alameda to pick up a

priority passenger who turned out to be nothing but a lowly captain.

Your appearance, Captain," he said, "is disgraceful," "I've been

traveling, General," Whittaker told him. "And you have been drinking,"

the brigadier general snapped. "I can smell it!"

"Yes, Sir, I have been drinking," Whittaker confessed cheerfully. "I

have been informed that he is on a high-priority mission," Brigadier

General Jacobs said to the Navy captain.

"My first reaction is to order him back to his unit." Whittaker

chuckled.

"You're amused?" the general flared. "That might be a little hard to

do, General," Whittaker said. "General," the Navy captain said, "this

officer just came out of the Philippines."

"Oh?" The general's tone softened, but just barely. He looked at

Whittaker.

"I'm sure," he said, "that you have seen difficult service. But that's

really no excuse for looking slovenly. Or drinking on duty. Let me

see your orders, Captain."

"Sir," the Navy captain said, "Captain Whittaker's orders are

classified Secret."

"You've seen them?"

"Yes, Sir," the Navy captain said.

"Captain Whittaker has the highest possible priority to facilitate his

movement to Washington." That explained, then, General Jacobs thought,

why he had been ordered to Alameda Naval Air Station. Brigadier

generals bound for Washington on their own important business are not

routinely ordered to divert for passenger pickups. Curiosity got the

better of him. He looked at Whittaker. "How did you get out of the

Philippines?"

"In apt boat," Whittaker said.

The story of MacArthur's escape-General Jacobs privately thought of it

as "personal retreat"-from the Philippines was well known. It was

logical to conclude that this young officer had been with him. "Well,

get aboard, Captain," he said.

"We've got a long flight ahead of us, and we're only going to stop for

fuel."

"Thank you, Captain," Whittaker said to the Navy captain. General

Jacobs waited until Whittaker and his aide had disappeared into the

fuselage.

Then he looked at the Navy captain. "You can't tell me what this is

all about?" ,I've had two telephone calls already from Washington,"

the Navy captain said, "asking for his schedule. All I know is that

he's headed right for the White House."

"Very interesting," General Jacobs said. He gave his hand to the Navy

captain, then walked to the airplane. As he started up the ladder, the

port engine starter began to grind.

TWO I It was a long and cold flight from San Francisco to Salt Lake

City. The aircraft's weapons had been removed, but the pieces of

Plexiglas intended to cover the weapons ports had not been replaced,

and cold wind whistled through the fuselage from the moment they began

the takeoff roll. When they were at altitude, General Jacobs went back

into the fuselage and expressed regret that it was uncomfortable for

Whittaker, but that he could unfortunately do nothing about it. In

Salt Lake City, while they took on fuel, Whittaker stole a case of

paper towels from the men's room in base operations. As soon as they

were airborne again, he stuffed the towels in the openings in the

nose.

It wasn't a perfect solution, but it helped. When they refueled again

at the Air Corps field at Omaha, Nebraska, It was a toss-up, Whittaker

reflected, whether the general was more annoyed with him for the

appearance of the airplane, or with the people at Omaha for not having

the parts to fill the gaps in the windows. The paper towels were

removed and replaced with strips of blanket, taped in place. General

acobs's ire had preceded them to the Air Corps J base at Columbus,

Ohio, and when they landed there to refuel again, a captain and two

sergeants were waiting with the missing pieces of Plexiglas. From

Columbus to Washington, it was not quite as cold in the fuselage, but

Whittaker's blood was still thin from the tropics, and he spent the

flight huddled under a thick layer of blankets, When the B-25 landed at

Bolling Field, a Follow Me pickup led it far away from the lights of

Base Operations and the hangars to a distant spot on the parking

ramp.

When Whittaker climbed down the ladder and, ducking his head, walked

away from the airplane, he found a number of people waiting for the

B-25. There were two cars: an olive-drab Chevrolet staff car, driven

by a buck sergeant, which Whittaker presumed was for him, and a black

Buick Road master sedan, driven by a Navy chief boatswain's mate. A

tall, erect General Staff Corps colonel approached him first and asked

if he was Captain Whittaker. When Whittaker nodded, he announced that

he was from the Office of the Chief of Staff and that he had been sent

to take possession of the letter Whittaker was carrying. "Excuse me,

Colonel," another voice-oddly familiar, Whittaker thought-broke in,

"but I have been sent to welcome Captain it take r home, and to take

charge of him and the letter."

"I'll be a sonofabitch," Whittaker said, really surprised." Canidy!

Richard Canidy had been James M. B. Whittaker's best friend since they

had been adolescents at St. Mark's School. Until this moment,

Whittaker had believed that Canidy was in China as a Flying Tiger.

Which meant that Canidy, if he wasn't dead, was in the deep shit there

at least as much as he himself had been in the Philippines. "May I ask

who you are?" the colonel asked, "I'm a deputy United States marshal,

Colonel," Canidy said. He took a small wallet from his pocket and

extended it, open, for the colonel's examination. "What the hell is

all that?"

Whittaker asked.

"Just shut up and get in the Buick, Jimmy," Canidy said. "I'll explain

later."

"I can't imagine how the Department of Justice has become involved in

this," the colonel said.

"But I'll tell you this, Mr.- What did you say your name was?"

"Canidy," Canidy furnished. 4j)ll tell you this, Mr. Canidy," the

colonel went on. "Perhaps you didn't understand me. I am from the

Office of the Chief of Staff, and I have every intention of assuming

responsibility for this officer and any material he may have in his

possession."

"Colonel," Canidy said, "the justice Department has just assumed

responsibility for this officer. If you have any questions, may I

suggest you refer them to the Attorney General?"

"This officer's not important," the colonel said.

"You can have him if you like, But I must have the letter he has in his

possession."

"Colonel," Whittaker said matter-of-factly, "General MacArthur told me

to deliver the letter in person."

"And I'm telling you, Captain, that I am here to take it from you.

That's an order." The muscular, stocky Navy chief petty officer who

was driving the Buick walked up. "Chief, would you put Captain

Whittaker in the car, please?" Canidy said. "Yes, Sir," Ellis said.

"If you'll come with me, please?"

"Now, just a minute!" the colonel fumed.

"I will have that letter! "I'm sorry about the mix-up, Colonel,"

Canidy said.

"But I have my orders. I'm sure you'll understand." He walked quickly

after Whittaker and Captain Ellis. The colonel made one last

attempt.

"I order you, Captain," he called after them, "to give me that

letter."

"Sorry," Whittaker said over his shoulder. The confrontation and the

colonel's frustration seemed to amuse him.

"I don't know who you are, Colonel, but Marshal Wyatt Earp and I are

old friends. I think I'd better go with him." He opened the rear door

of the Buick and got in. There was a man sitting against the far door,

wearing a blue overcoat. "Welcome home, Captain Whittaker," he said.

"My name is Doug lass."

"What about your luggage, Captain?" Chief Ellis asked. "Luggage?"

Whittaker parroted incredulously.

"Luggage?" Chief Ellis grinned, closed the door, and quickly got

behind the wheel. Canidy trotted in front of the Buick and slipped

beside Ellis.

"Get out of here, Chief," he said, "before that colonel has a chance to

think of something to do." After they were moving, Whittaker asked,

"What the hell was that U.S. marshal business all about? What are you

doing here, anyway? The last I heard, you were in China, flying P-40s

for the Flying Tigers."

"That was fun for a while," Cariidy said.

"But then they started shooting at me, so I came home."

"And became a U.S. marshal?" Whittaker asked.

"Clever, Richard! An essential occupation that keeps you out of

uniform."

"We're from the Office of the Coordinator of Information," Doug lass

said. "What the hell is that?"

"Colonel Donovan runs it, Jimmy," Canidy said. "And we work for

Colonel Donovan," Doug lass said, "and he wants to make sure you

deliver that letter to the President."

"Where are we going?" Whittaker asked. "To your house," Doug lass

said.

"We're using it now as sort of a hotel. We'll see that you get a good

night's sleep-you must be exhausted and in the morning we'll see about

you delivering your letter."

"I was wondering about that," Whittaker said.

"How would I do that? I can hardly walk up to the White House gate and

announce I've got a letter for Uncle Franklin."

"We'll take care of it in the morning Doug lass said. "Who the hell

are you guys?" Whittaker asked again.

"What do you mean, Dick, you're working for Bill Donovan? What's he

got to do with this? "Can you hold your curiosity overnight,

Captain?"

Doug lass asked. "We'll explain it all in the morn in " i;@

9. I immy," Canidy said.

"For tonight: Colonel Donovan tells us what to do, and he told us to

meet you. Asking questions around here is like farting in church.

Whittaker and Chief Ellis laughed. "Are you hungry, Captain?" Doug

lass asked. "Starved," Whittaker said. be."

"We asked the cook to stay up," Chief Ellis said, "in case you would

"You're in the house, Dick?" Whittaker asked.

"Living there, I mean?"

"Your house is now sort of a fraternity house for strange people,"

Canidy said.

"Like you and me."

"I'll be damned," Whittaker said. "And you'll be surprised, no doubt,

to hear that our house mother is Cynthia Chenowith," Canidy said. "No

kidding?" Whittaker said. He had been in love with Cynthia Chenowith,

the daughter of a close family friend, since he was seven and she was

ten.

At those ages, the age difference seemed to be an insurmountable

problem. Now, he thought, it seemed like a minor inconvenience, even

though Miss Chenowith showed no more romantic interest in him than she

had at ten. "There's something you ought to know about her, Jim,"

Canidy said. "I really think that should wait until morning Doug lass

said quickly. "I don't," Canidy said.

"I think he should know before he sees her, and she's likely going to

be there when we get there."

"What should I know?" Whittaker said. There was a moment's

hesitation.

Whittaker realized Canidy was waiting for permission to continue.

Okay," Doug lass said." Tell him.

Maybe you're right. "They did get word to you about Chesly?" Canidy

asked. Chesley H. Whittaker was Whittaker's uncle. "Yeah," Whittaker

said.

"Uncle Franklin took care of that. He ordered MacArthur to find me and

tell me."

"Uncle Franklin"-Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the President of the United

States-was not really Whittaker's uncle, but the families were so close

that Whittaker had grown up calling Roosevelt "Uncle Franklin" and

thinking of him that way. "He was with Cynthia when he died," Canidy

said.

"At the house."

"I didn't know that," Whittaker said. "I mean with her, Jimmy," Canidy

said. It took Whittaker a moment to digest that. "Jesus Christ!" he

said softly.

"Does my aunt know?" The sly was at a hall game in New York, with

Colonel Donovan, when they got the word about Pearl Harbor," Canidy

said.

"Then he came to Washington with Donovan. Donovan went to the White

House. Chesly went to the house on Q Street. To Cynthia's

apartment.

He suffered a stroke. just dropped dead."

"In the saddle?" Whittaker asked lightly.

Canidy, embarrassed, did not reply. "Jesus," Whittaker said.

"That's only supposed to happen in a dirty joke."

"Cynthia called Donovan at the White House. He couldn't leave, so he

sent Captain Doug lass and the chief. They took care of things, so

there was no scandal.

I don't think your aunt knows."

" How did they 'take care of things'?" Whittaker asked. "We fixed it

so the body was found in his shower," Chief Ellis said. "You carried

his body from her apartment to his room?" Whittaker asked. "Yes,

Sir," Ellis said. "Thank you," Whittaker said, And then, a moment

later, he asked, "How tight a secret is this?"

"It's known only to the people in this car, plus, of course, Colonel

Donovan and Miss Chenowith," Captain Doug lass said, "How did you find

out?" Whittaker asked Canidy. "I was afraid you'd ask that," Canidy

said.

"How did you?"

"I've had several run-ins with Cynthia," Canidy said.

"It came out during one of them."

"What kind of run-ins?" Whittaker asked. "Does it matter?" Canidy

asked.

"You put the make on her?" Whittaker asked.

"You sonofabitch! "No," Canidy said.

"I didn't put the make on her."

"Then what?" Whittaker asked angrily. "Your beloved, Jimmy, almost

got me killed," Canidy said. "How?"

"Stop right there, Canidy!" Doug lass said. "I want to know what the

hell he's talking about!" Whittaker said. "I'm sorry, that's out of

the question."

"I was somewhere," Canidy said.

"Doing something. And the end of the game was when they sent a

submarine to pick us up."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"When we reached the submarine, the skipper said he was sorry as hell,

but he had orders to keep us from coming aboard. "By force of arms if

necessary' is the way he put it."

"Who are'we'and'us'?" Whittaker asked.

"No, Canidy!" Doug lass said.

"Don't even start into that." Canidy raised his hand in a gesture

meant to assure Captain Doug lass that he wasn't going to violate

security, and then went on: "At the time, I thought somebody else was

responsible for giving that order," Canidy said.

"I was going to feed him his balls the next time I saw him. So Captain

Doug lass decided he had better tell me who had really made the

decision. It wasn't who I thought it was, it was Cynthia."

"Cynthia?

She's involved in whatever it is you're doing?"

"Donovan was so impressed with the way she handled herself-when Chesly

died, I mean-that he gave her a job," Canidy said. "Doing what?"

Whittaker asked. "No, Canidy," Captain Doug lass said again.

"Be very careful."

"I was so god damned mad, Jimmy, that I told Captain Doug lass that

Cynthia wasn't the sweet maiden he apparently thought she was."

"That was a pretty shitty thing to do, Dick," Whittaker said. "Under

the circumstances, Captain, I think Dick's reaction was

understandable," Doug lass said. "What circumstances?" Whittaker

asked.

"Is she now fucking somebody else? Donovan, maybe?"

"That's not what I meant," Doug lass said. "Is she, or isn't she?"

"For what it's worth, I don't think so," Canidy said. "Certainly not

Donovan, and I don't think anybody else. She's too busy playing spy

master."

"That's enough of that, Canidy!" Doug lass snapped. In a moment, he

went on: "Under the circumstances, Captain Whittaker, I thought it

necessary to fill Canidy in on the circumstances surrounding your

uncle's death.

"Jesus Christ!" Whittaker said. And then he laughed. "Well," he

said.

"At least Chesly went out happy. All's well that ends well, they

say."

Canidy looked at him curiously. That was not the reaction he had

expected "Tell me this, before the joyous reunion," he said.

"Will Cynthia know that I know she was fucking my uncle?" No," Canidy

said." And she doesn't know that I know, either. "Then let's keep it

that way," Whittaker said.

"Okay?"

"So far as I'm concerned," Doug lass said, "there is no reason to bring

up this subject ever again."

THREE I When the Buick reached the house on Q Street, the driveway gate

was open and Ellis drove right in, stopping the car on the cobblestone

drive in front of the garages.

11 Who,s the guy on the gate?" Whittaker asked.

"He looks like a cop."

"There's a security arrangement here," Doug lass said. "I feel like

I'm in a Humphrey Bogart movie," Whittaker said. "I'm going to have

Ellis take me home," Doug lass announced, "I think it would be a good

idea to put Captain Whittaker's letter in the safe."

"I'll put it in the safe, Captain," Ellis said, "if it can wait until I

get back."

"No, you won't," Whittaker said.

"I've kept it this far, I'll keep it the rest of the way." Doug lass

thought that over. "Whatever you wish, Captain," he said.

"I'll be back here around eight in the morning We can arrange for you

to deliver it then," "Okay," Whittaker said. Doug lass got out of the

car. He leaned in again and gave Whittaker his hand, but didn't say

anything more to him. Ellis tapped the Buick's horn ring. The

plainclothes security man started to open the gate again as Canidy and

Whittaker got out of the car and walked toward the kitchen.

There was a skinny black woman sitting at the kitchen table. She

looked somewhat disapprovingly at them, Whittaker in particular. "Is

Miss Chenowith here?" Whittaker asked. "No, but she should be soon,"

the black woman said. And then, indicating Whittaker with a nod of her

head: "He's staying?" Canidy nodded, "She know?" Canidy shook his

head no. "She told me that if anybody came in she didn't know about,

they was to be put in the second-left bedroom," the black woman said.

"She said she'd be back by now. I don't know why she's not."

"Who's in the master bedroom?" Whittaker asked. The black woman

looked at him curiously.

"They save that for important people."

"Can you fix the captain something to eat?" Canidy asked, amused.

44

I suppose so. If he's hungry."

"Steak and eggs?" Whittaker asked.

"And french-fried potatoes?"

"This time of night?"

"Make him whatever he wants," Canidy ordered flatly. The black woman

shrugged. "Is there anything else we can get for you, Captain?"

Canidy asked, as if Whittaker were a total stranger. "I need clean

clothes. I need a razor, and a comb and brush. And underwear and

socks. I have to see a dentist, and I think I caught the crabs,"

Whittaker said.

"Where would you like to start?" Canidy laughed.

"You're a real basket case, aren't you, Jimmy? " he asked. "And you,

on the other hand, are not only well fed but here, and not wearing a

uniform. I'm going to have to find out how you did that, you clever

son of a bitch."

"Cowardice. It works every time," Canidy said. "Bullshit. I'm the

biggest coward you ever met, and you won't believe what those sons of

bitches had me doing."

"You look like hell, and you smell like a barroom floor, but I'm glad

to see you anyway."

"Fuck you, Dick," Whittaker said fondly. "We can give him pajamas and

a robe," the black woman said practically, "and a comb and a razor and

a toothbrush and that sort of thing-" "Pajamas and a robe? Christ, I'd

forgotten there were such things," Whittaker said. "-but I don't know

what to do about the crabs," the black woman went on matter-of

factly.

"Unless you go to that all-night drugstore on Massachusetts Avenue."

"I'll send the chief when he comes back," Canidy said. "I didn't

mention that I also don't have any money," Whittaker said. "Don't

worry about that," Canidy said.

"I'll trust you. You have an honest face."

Ellis returned as the black woman was frying a steak. Canidy told him

what Whittaker needed, and handed him money.

"Get him whatever else you think he needs," he added. "Right," Ellis

said.

"It won't take me long. You going to be all right?"

"We'll be fine," Canidy said. "I only look this way, Chief," Whittaker

said.

"I'm not really crazy."

"You really want eggs with this steak?" the skinny black woman

asked.

Whittaker nodded.

"Four, sunny-side up. And toast. She shrugged and went to the

refrigerator. "And coffee," he said.

"And milk." While Whittaker ate at the kitchen table, Canidy took a

cup of coffee and sat down with him. The black woman went out of the

kitchen and returned with pajamas and a robe.

"I couldn't find slippers," she said. "Thank you," he said. She saw

that all the food she had heaped on his plate was gone. "if that's all

you want to eat, I'll show you your room," she said.

Whittaker was unsteady on his feet, It was entirely possible he

couldn't make it upstairs by himself. "I'll show him," Canidy said

quickly, and went with him. He was glad he did. Whittaker had to haul

himself upstairs on the banister railing. In the upstairs foyer,

Whittaker stopped at the door to the master bedroom. "As I recall," he

said," the shower in here has two heads. I'll use this."

"The way it works around here," Canidy said, "is that rooms are

assigned by Miss Chenowith. Miss Chenowith goes into a snit when

someone dares disobey her. Miss Chenowith, I think you should know, is

very impressed with her role in the hierarchy around here."

"Fuck Miss Chenowith," Whittaker said, laughing, "which seems to be a

splendid idea, come to think of it."

"You going to be all right in there?" Canidy asked seriously.

Whittaker looked terrible. His eyes were bloodshot and burning, he was

thirty or forty pounds underweight, and he looked as if he was

teetering over the edge of exhaustion. "I look that bad, huh?"

"Yeah. You want me to wait?"

"if you hear a loud crash, come after me," Whittaker said. "But I'd

rather do it myself, thank you."

"I'm really glad to see you, you bastard," Canidy said.

"And now that re here, I don't want you cracking open your skull

falling down in the you shower. "That's not how I plan to die,"

Whittaker said.

"Don't worry."

"Come on down when you're clean," Canidy said.

"If you feel up to it. I've got a bottle of Scotch we can work on."

"Yeah, sure," Whittaker said. Canidy, shamed, realized that drinking

was the last thing the poor, beat-up sonofabitch wanted to do. He

wanted to fall into bed, but his ego required that he accept the offer

to booze.

We'll have one drink, Canidy decided, and then I will announce I'm

beat, and head for bed. He went back down the stairs and into the

kitchen.

Cynthia Chenowith came into the kitchen fifteen minutes later. She was

a tall, lithe, fair-skinned nearly beautiful woman who was in her late

twenties, but looked younger, She was expensively dressed, and the

purse hanging from her shoulder was alligator. She gave Canidy an

impersonal nod by way of greeting. It was all he expected. He didn't

like Cynthia Chenowith, and she didn't like him. She went to a wall

telephone hanging by the door to the dining room and dialed a number

from memory. "This is Miss Chenowith," she announced.

"I'm at the house and will be until further notice." She was checking

in with the duty officer at COI, Canidy thought. She loves it. It

makes her feel important. What would be nice would be for her to go

upstairs and screw that poor, beat-up, exhausted sonofabitch who thinks

he's in love with her But that won't happen. She sensed his eyes on

her. "Something, Canidy?" she asked. "No," he said.

"Nothing at all."

"He brought a man in," the black woman volunteered.

"Him and Ellis."

"Who, Canidy? Cynthia demanded.

"I asked if there was anything."

Well, the hell with you, too. He said, "Donovan sent Doug lass, Ellis,

and me out to Bolling Field to pick him up and bring him here."

"What are you doing here anyway?" she asked. "I'm not sure you have

the need to know, Miss Chenowith," Canidy said, openly mocking her.

"Suffice it to say that I, too, am on duty."

"You're here in connection with our problem with the admiral," she

flared. He smiled, very broadly, very artificially, at her. He didn't

know what the hell she was talking about, except that "the admiral" was

more than likely Vice Admiral d'escadre jean-Philippe de Verbey, French

Navy, whom he had loaded aboard a submarine off Safi and sent to the

States, but he was damned if he would let her know he didn't know. "No

comment," he said.

"I'm sure you understand." White-faced, she tried to stare him down

and failed. With a little bit of luck, he thought, she'll take a swing

at me with her purse. She did not. She turned to the black woman.

"Is the man upstairs a French naval officer?" The black woman shook

her head and told her that the new guest was an Air Corps captain; that

he had arrived looking as if he hadn't had a meal in a week and without

luggage; that he had crabs; and that she had put him in the second room

on the left, as ordered. Cynthia, Canidy saw, with pleasure, was

annoyed. She turned to him. "Crabs?" she asked incredulously.

"Body vermin?"

"Crabs," Canidy confirmed happily.

"I sent Ellis for crab medicine."

"I'll have to have the room fumigated!" she said. "They also serve

who fumigate," Canidy said. Ellis, as if on cue, came through the

kitchen door carrying a large kraft paper bag. "He's in the master

bedroom, Ellis," Canidy said.

"Take it up to him."

"The master bedroom?" Cynthia demanded. She turned furiously on the

black woman.

"I told you to put anybody who came in unexpectedly in the second room,

left."

"She told me," Canidy said.

"But I decided, what the hell, it wasn't being used." He thought for a

moment that she was about to lose her temper. But then, as if she

understood that was exactly what he wanted her to do, she gained

control of herself and smiled at him just as warmly and patently

artificially as he was smiling at her. "Well, we'll just have to move

him where he's supposed to be," Cynthia said, "won't we?" She reached

for Ellis's package.

"Give me that, please. "Mat's in it?"

"Personal-comfort items," Canidy said, winking at Ellis.

"And crab killer.

She took the bag and stormed upstairs to the master bedroom, which was

actually a suite. She had, as she always had when she went to its

door, a mental picture of Ellis carrying Chesley Hay wood Whittaker,

naked, wrapped in a sheet, dead, into that bedroom. And now Canidy had

taken it upon himself to put some vermin infested character in Chesly's

room, to leave his filth in the shower where they had put Chesly.

There was no answer to her knock on the master bedroom's door, so she

walked in. As she did, the sound of the shower died. "Hello in

there," she said.

"I'm Miss Chenowith. I'd like a word with you. ), "I was hoping it

would be the guy with the stuff for my crabs," he said. "I have it,"

she said.

"Open the door a crack." It opened wide enough for a hand to pass.

Steam billowed out. She offered the bag to a scarred hand with

battered fingernails. She had a quick, steam-fogged glance at a face

with gaunt and sunken and very bright eyes. Uncomfortable, she

immediately averted her eyes. Whoever he is, she thought, he looks

like the sort of person who would pick up body vermin. The door opened

and he came out in a robe and pajamas. She didn't want to face him, so

she pretended to fuss with the clock on the bedside table. "There

seems to be some misunderstanding," she said.

"This room is reserved for VIPS."

"Not while I'm here it's not," he said. "I don't know who you think

you are!" she flared, and turned to face him, to glare at him. "I

think I'm Jim Whittaker," he said, in the moment recognition dawned on

her, "and I own this house. How the hell are you, Cynthia?"

"That sonofabitch!" Cynthia fumed.

"Which sonofabitch is that?" Whittaker asked.

"And when did you start using dirty words?" 44 Canidy!" she

snapped.

"He didn't tell me it was you!"

"Maybe he thought a surprise would be nice," Whittaker said. Barely

audibly, shocked both to see him and at his appearance, she said, "I

don't know what to say."

"How about "I'm glad you got out of the Philippines'?" he suggested.

"Or better yet, how about "Hi, Jim, let's screw! "' "Oh, Jimmy, for

God's sake! Please!" Cynthia Chenowith said, and with tears in her

eyes turned and fled. She heard him laughing happily behind her. She

had amused him.

She remembered that when she used to amuse Chesly, he laughed almost

exactly like that. She went into the kitchen. Canidy, obviously very

pleased with himself, was sitting at the table with Chief Ellis. There

was a bottle of Scotch between them. "That was a rotten thing to do,

Canidy, you sonofabitch! What rotten thing was that, Cynthia?" he

asked innocently, "You bastard!" she screamed, and then she fled. She

would die, she thought, before she gave the sonofabitch the

satisfaction of seeing her cry.

FOUR I Chicago, Illinois April 5, 1942 The arrival of the radiogram

turned out to be a disappointment for the doorman of the tall apartment

building on Lake shore Drive. It was his usual practice to relieve

Western Union messengers of their yellow envelopes, hand them a dime,

then turn the envelope over to the elevator Operator. The elevator

operator would then deliver it. With rare exceptions, every tenant in

the building was worth a quarter, and some of them, like the Bitters,

were worth more. The Bitters kept a supply of dollar bills in a vase

just inside the door of their penthouse apartment, to be dispensed

whenever a service was done for them.

But this delivery boy was difficult. For one thing, he wasn't a boy,

but a young man. For another, he adamantly refused to turn his RCA

envelope over to the doorman unless the doorman got the addressee on

the house phone and the addressee told him to turn the message over to

the doorman. Somewhat reluctantly, the doorman passed him to the

elevator, and the RCA messenger rode up to the penthouse atop the

twenty-seven-story building. At the door, he then made the butler sign

for the envelope. Only then did he hand it over. The butler, annoyed,

reached into his pocket and handed him a quarter rather than one of the

dollar bills in the vase. Then the butler delivered the cablegram to

Mr. Chandler H. Bitter, the fifty-five-year-old, silver-haired

president of the Chandler H. Bitter Company, Commodities Brokers.

Chandler Bitter was drinking a second cup of coffee with his wife on

the small patio outside the second-story master bedroom. She presumed

it was business. Seeing him frown, however, she asked him what it

was.

"I think it would be better if you read it yourself," he said gently,

and passed it to her.

MacKay radio 1330greenwich 2apr42 chunking china via rca honolulu Mr

mrs chandler bitter 2745 lake shore drive chicago ill usa.

deeply regret inform you your son flight leader edwin h bitter wounded

in action against Japanese aircraft vicinity chiengmai thailand march

thirty stop complete recovery iwury right knee expected stop air

evacuated us army hospital calcutta india, stop letter from ire g

general chinese ambassador to us follows stop cla, chennault bri

Commanding american volunteer group end "Oh, my!" she said in

frightened wonderment, and turned her face up at him.

She had said the same words, he remembered with sudden brilliant

clarity, and looked at him in exactly the same way, in just about the

same place, when her waters broke, just before he took her to Women's

Hospital to deliver Eddie. "Helen," Chandler H. Bitter, Jr." said

very tenderly, "I want you to listen to me carefully." Her eyes locked

on his, she waited for him to go on. "He's alive," Chandler Bitter

said.

"And he has been taken to an American Army hospital, where he will

receive the best of care. The important thing is that he is alive."

There was a barely perceptible nod of her head. "And this may very

well be a good thing," he said. Her face now registered pain and

surprise and shock-and an unspoken question: How can you say such a

thing? "I don't mean to be brutal, Helen," Chandler H. Bitter, Jr.,

went on, "but he has been injured in the knee. That's bad, because

knee injuries are difficult to repair and take a long time to heal."

"Chan-" she said. "Which means, Marjorie, that he won't be able to fly

for a while, perhaps never again. Which means that they'll probably

send him home for recuperation. He may well be out of it, Helen,"

"Oh," she said thoughtfully. "The military have a thing, Helen," he

said.

"They call it the million dollar wound. It means a wound like his.

It's not life-threatening, and it takes you out of the war." She stood

up and went to him, and he put his arms around her. He saw the butler

watching them. "Eddie has been hit, Morton," he said.

"In the knee. I think it means he will be coming home. Read the

cable, if you like." Morton went to the glass-topped table and picked

up the radiogram and read it. "Thank God he's alive!" he said

emotionally.

"Would you please see if you can get Mr. Chambers on the telephone for

me, Morton?" Chandler H. Bitter said. "Yes, Sir," Morton said. "Bran

don," Chandler H. Bitter said into his wife's hair, "has people over

there, correspondents. I think he may be able to find out something

more for us."

The next day, there was a letter and a small package, sent registered

special delivery, from the Chinese embassy, but it had nothing to do

with Edwin's being wounded, and Mr. Bitter had to explain to his

nearly hysterical Wife that the Chinese were not insane, but that the

embassy had already mailed this letter before they heard about what had

happened in China.

THE EMBASSY OF CHMA Washington, District of Columbia March 22, 1942

Mr. and Mrs. Chandler H. Bitter 2745 Lake shore Drive Chicago,

Illinois My dear Mr. and Mrs. Bitter: It is with pleasure, pride, and

gratitude that i am able to inform you that your son, Wingman Edwin

Howell Bitter, of the. American volunteer Group, was on March 1, 1942,

invested with the Order of the Cloud Banner of the Republic of China,

at the direction of Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek, and simultaneously

promoted to the rank of flight leader. Flight Leader Bitter was cited

for his valor in the air, specifically the downing of five Japanese

adrcraft in aerial combat during the period from December 23, 1941,

through March 1, 1942.

I have learned that he has since then sent two more enemy aircraft down

in flames. You must certainly take pride that your son is one of that

group of brave and farsighted young men who sensed the danger not only

to China, but to America and to freedom throughout the world, in the

ruthless and predatory course of Japanese militarism. Not waiting to

be called, this group went forward to meet the enemy, prepared to

sacrifice themselves, if need be, in order that the democracies might

gain precious time, that freedom might live, and that countless other

lives might be saved.

The record already made by the American Volunteer Group in aerial

combat against the Japanese is one of which every American may be

proud. You may have heard that the American Volunteer Group has

adopted as its emblem a Flying Tiger. The figure chosen was designed

by Walt Disney Studios and shows a winged tiger leaping out of a

Victory V. It is worn as a lapel insignia by your son and his comrades,

and also appears in color on the fuselages of their planes. I have the

honor to send, herewith, a gold replica of this insignia, as well as a

gold miniature of the Order of the Cloud Banner.

As Foreign Minister of the Republic of China, I want to express to you

on behalf of my countrymen and Generalissimo Chiang Kaishek personally

the sense of honor that is ours that your son has allied himself with

the Chinese people in the cause of freedom. Like Lafayette in America,

these gallant young men will ever be gratefully enshrined in the memory

of the Chinese people. Very truly yours, 7V 5" T. V Soong Minister for

Foreign Affairs FIVE I The St. Regis Hotel Now York City April 7,

1942

Colonel William J. Donovan, in white silk pajamas, was propped up

against the headboard of the double bed when Captain Peter Doug lass

and Richard Canidy were shown into his room.

"Good morning Donovan said, offering his hand. Doug lass took it

first, and then Canidy.

A "Nice to see you again, Canidy," Donovan said.

"Has Captain Doug lass told you what's wrong with me?"

"Yes, Sir," Canidy said. "And the medicine? Rat poison?"

"Yes, Sir," Canidy said, and grinned, "It's enough to drive a man to

drink," Donovan joked.

"And it has." He gestured at a bottle of Pinch Bottle Haig & Haig on

his bedside table. "I used to be, almost, a teetotaler."

Donovan waited for the chuckle he expected, then went on. "I consider

this affair of MacArthur's letter to the President important," he

said.

"Which is why I asked you to come up here and tell Me exactly what

happened."

"Yes, Sir," they said, almost in unison.

"So let's start at the beginning," Donovan said.

"You first, I guess, Peter, but I want you to feel free to interrupt,

Dick, whenever you think it's necessary."

"Well, after I spoke with you, Colonel," Doug lass said, "I called

Alameda Naval Air Station. An old shipmate is in command, and he knew

about Whittaker's return. He was traveling on orders signed by

MacArthur's G-2, General Willoughby, which directed him to personally

deliver to the President 'certain secret documents' placed in his

possession. The last leg of his journey to the United States was, as I

suspected, from Pearl Harbor to Alameda on that Catalina courier plane

service the Navy operates." Doug lass hesitated.

"You said' exactly what happened, "Colonel. Captain Whittaker was dead

drunk on arrival."

Donovan smiled.

"He do anything wrong?"

"His priority bumped a naval officer," Doug lass said.

"The senior officer of those who didn't get bumped felt it his duty to

report Whittaker, The first thing Whittaker did on arrival was make a

telephone call. I don't know to whom."

"He told me he called Mrs. Whittaker," Canidy furnished." Just the

one telephone call?" Donovan asked.

"Yes, Sir, I think so," "His orders," Doug lass went on, "were brought

to the attention of the air station commander, my friend, who called

around and found the next available space, military space, was on a

B-25 being flown to Washington by a Brigadier General Jacobs. He

arranged to have Jacobs diverted to Alameda. Shortly after Jacobs

picked Whittaker up, I called out there."

"And what does Jacobs know, other than Whittaker had a high

priority?"

Donovan asked. "Just that, Sir," Doug lass said, "Nothing about the

letter. I then arranged to keep tabs on the flight as it came across

the country. When it was due at Bolling, Canidy, Ellis, and I were

there to meet it. I stayed in the car, and Canidy went to the plane to

meet him.

Dick?"

"There was a colonel there who said he was from the Office of the Chief

of Staff," Canidy said.

"He knew about the letter."

"The word was probably sent from Hawaii," Donovan thought aloud. "Or

perhaps even from Australia."

"Well, this colonel knew about it, Sir," Canidy said.

"And he told Whittaker he had come for him and the letter. I then

showed him my marshal's badge, and said that I had been sent for him,"

"Any trouble?"

"The colonel was pretty upset, Sir, but that marshal's badge worked. I

told him if he had any questions, he should direct them to the Attorney

General. Anyway, Jimmy came with us because he knew me. In the car,

we told him-1 thought we should, and I think Captain Doug lass

reluctantly agreed-about Miss Chenowith and his uncle."

"I thought he knew about that,' Donovan said. "I mean the business

about where Mr. Whittaker died," Canidy said. "Oh," Donovan said.

"Was Cynthia at the house when you arrived?"

"She got there shortly after we did," Canidy said.

"So Whittaker took a bath and went to bed. In the master bedroom,

which annoyed Miss Chenowith somewhat-" "Canidy, please keep your

differences with her out of this," Donovan said, more reasonably than

sharply. J "Yes, Sir," Canidy said. "What shape was he in?" Donovan

asked. "Sick and exhausted, Canidy said.

"I'm sure he has malaria, and Christ knows what else is wrong with

him.

"Vermin," Doug lass said.

"He's vermin-infested." Donovan shook his head.

"MacArthur must have had him on the first plane out of Australia."

"Yes, Sir," Canidy said.

"He told me he left Brisbane two hours after he got there," "At eight

the next morning Colonel," Doug lass said, "I went to the house on Q

Street and checked on him. Then I called Steve Early. I thought as

the President's press secretary Steve would be able to reach the

President immediately. I told him that Whittaker had just flown in

from Australia with a letter from General MacArthur, and that he was

under orders to deliver it personally to the President. I had the

feeling, Sir, that Steve was surprised to hear about it."

"And he carried the word to the President?"

"Thirty minutes later, the White House switchboard called, The

President wished to speak with Whittaker. The Roosevelt and the

Whittaker families have been friendly for decades, you'll recall. if

Whittaker was asleep, the White House said, we need not wake him, but

he was to call as soon as he woke up."

"Was he awake?"

"No, Sir," Doug lass said.

"And I decided to let him sleep." Donovan nodded approval.

"At half past two," Doug lass said, "I called you, and you told me you

thought he had to return the President's call. Canidy and I woke him

up.

He was sick. Shivering and nauseous. He insisted we give him

something to drink. We did. That might have been the wrong thing to

do."

"Much?"

"A good stiff pull at the neck of a Scotch bottle," Canidy said.

"He said it would 'keep the worms happy."

"And then I placed the call to the White House," Doug lass said.

"The President came on the line in a minute, "Do We know what was

said?"

Donovan asked. "I had a stenographer on the line," Doug lass said.

"I have the transcript. But there wasn't much. The President welcomed

him home, expressed his condolences about Mr. Whittaker, and said that

he wanted him to come for supper. Whittaker told him that he had

MacArthur's letter, and the President said he knew he did, and he could

bring it with him.

"You told Early, and Early must have told him," Donovan said. "Yes,

Sir," Doug lass said.

"And then Whittaker said, if it would be all right, he wanted to bring

a friend with him."

"Canidy," Donovan said.

"Yes," Doug lass said.

"And the President said fine, and that he and Mrs. Roosevelt both

looked forward to seeing him."

"Whittaker then said he wanted to catch up on his sleep," Canidy

said.

"And asked us to wake him when it was time."

56 0 W.K.S. URIFFIN "And you did?"

"We sent up a tray, in case he woke and was hungry. And we did what we

could to make him look presentable," Canidy said.

"A rush dry-cleaning job on his uniform. At five-thirty, I went up and

woke him again, and shaved him."

"You shaved him?"

"He wanted more to drink," Canidy said, "and I didn't think he should

have it. When I told him so, he held up his hands, which were shaking,

and asked me how the hell he was supposed to shave, so I told him I'd

shave him, and I did."

"At six-fifteen I sent them to the White House, in the Buick," Doug

lass said. "Had he been given anything else to drink?"

"I gave him a drink in the car," Canidy said. "I told you not to,"

Doug lass said. "I thought it was necessary," Canidy said,

unrepentant.

"He was shaking, and he said he hurt. I think he had cramps. The

drink seemed to help. In view of what was waiting for him at the White

House, I think it was the right thing to do."

"The press, you mean?"

"Yes, Sir," Canidy said.

"There was a Marine officer waiting for us. He took us into the Oval

Office. The press was already there. Whittaker didn't know they would

be, of course, and he didn't like it. I was glad he'd had something to

drink."

"Where was the letter all this time?"

"He had it."

"There was no chance for you to see it?" Donovan asked. "It was

sealed, Sir," Canidy said. "We didn't have time to risk opening and

resealing it, Colonel," Doug lass said.

"I made that decision."

"I'd love to know what the hell it says," Donovan said. "Whatever it

says, General Marshall didn't like it," Canidy said.

"As soon as Whittaker gave it to the President, he gave it to General

Marshall, and Marshall didn't like what it said."

"We're getting ahead of what happened," Donovan said.

"Take it in sequence."

"There were half a dozen photographers, and eight, ten reporters, THE

SECRET WARRIORS 8 ST nd crews from Fox Movie tone newsreel and the

March of Time," Canidy a said.

"The President was already propped up. Standing, I mean, leaning

against a back support. It was very carefully rehearsed, apparently.

Early got Jimmy in position, and then they turned on the floodlights,

or whatever they're -called, and started to operate the cameras. The

President started out and -said he wanted them to meet an authentic

hero who had just escaped from the Philippines with MacArthur and flown

to Washington with a message from the general. He said-with his

grin-that it was normal for an officer to salute the Commander in

Chief, but in this case he was going to give him a hug, because he was

the son of one of his best friends, and he had known him since he was

in diapers. "Then Early pushed Jimmy into camera range, and the

President hugged him and introduced him by name. Then he gave him the

Silver Star for his heroic escape and told the press that Jimmy had

already won medals for valor in the air and on the ground."

"Very touching," Donovan said. There was a hint of sarcasm in his

voice.

"Roosevelt is marvelous at that sort of thing."

"The press wanted to ask Whittaker all kinds of questions," Canidy went

on, "but the President wouldn't let them on the grounds that Whittaker

was exhausted, and that after he and Mrs. Roosevelt had a family

supper with him, he was going to let him go to bed. Somebody turned

off the bright lights, and the press was ushered out."

"You weren't involved at all in the press conference?"

"I almost had to fight my way into the room," Canidy said. "But none

of the press made any connection between you and Whittaker?"

"If anything, they thought I was Secret Service," Canidy said." Good,"

Donovan said." Then what? " "The orderly put the President in his

wheelchair," Canidy said, "and we went upstairs."

"General Marshall was in the living quarters?" Donovan asked. "Not in

the Oval Office?"

"He was waiting for us in the living quarters," Canidy said. "He and

Mrs. Rooseveh."

"And there was liquor?"

"Yes, Sir. But I don't think-I don't know how to say this-Whittaker

was weak, and the alcohol got to him more than it normally would. So

he was probably drunk, but I don't think that's the reason he did what

he did.

11 "Get into that," Donovan said. "Mrs. Roosevelt kissed him, then

asked him if he'd been in touch with his mother and Mrs. Whittaker.

He told her he'd talked with them, and one of the stewards passed hors

d'oeuvres-" "You were introduced how?"

IINIM "As an old friend, who worked for you, Sir," Canidy said.

"Okay," Donovan said.

"Go on."

"Then we went in to dinner," Canidy said. "The only other guest was

General Marshall?" Donovan asked. "Yes, Sir," Canidy said.

"He introduced himself and welcomed Jimmy home. He sat on one side of

the table. Jimmy and I were on the other, and the Roosevelts at the

ends. A steward poured wine, and the President said he had a toast to

make, but he thought it should wait until after grace."

"He said grace?" Donovan asked. "A brief grace," Canidy said.

"Standard Episcopal, with a couple of added lines, one about Jimmy

making it home, and another asking for a speedy victory. When he was

finished, he toasted Jimmy's return, and then Jimmy gave him Mac

Arthur's letter. He read it, and then gave it to General Marshall,

who, as I said before, didn't like what it had to say."

"Did Mrs. Roosevelt read it?"

"No, Sir," Canidy said.

"When the President got it back from General Marshall, he put it in his

pocket."

"What next?"

"We made small talk-prep school, Harvard, that sort of thing-and the

food was served. That's when Jimmy went off."

"What, exactly, did he do?"

"Jimmy asked the steward for an extra glass and an extra plate," Canidy

said.

"I thought it was a little odd, but nothing to worry about. It was

also odd that he hadn't eaten any of his soup. And then, when the

steward tried to take the bowl away, he wouldn't let him remove it. I

thought that was odd, too, but I didn't think it was alarming. I was

more worried that he was going to get sloppy drunk, and that didn't

seem to be happening. "Then the meal, roast beef, was served. That's

when I realized he was up to something. He sliced a small piece off

his baked potato, and put that on the plate he'd asked for. Then he

did the same thing with the slice of beef. And a piece of butter, and

a roll. Then he carefully spooned a small portion of the clam chowder

into the glass he had asked for. "I asked him what the hell he was

doing, and he smiled at me and winked. Then he stood up and walked

around the table to George Marshall. He leaned over and pushed

Marshall's plate to the center of the table. Then he laid the plate

he'd made up in front of Marshall and poured the clam chowder over

everything. "And then he made his speech: "That, General, is a

three-eighths share of our ration. The troops in the Philippines have

been on a three eighths ration for months. Except the men on Bataan

and Corregidor have no beef. What they're eating, if they have meat at

all, is caribou and what's left of the mules and horses of the

Twenty-sixth Cavalry. And there is no butter, no bread, and no clam

chowder."

"Jesus Christ!" Donovan said. "I told him to sit down," Canidy

said.

"He looked at me. He was excited, flushed in the face. He just

grinned at me. And then he looked at the President, came to attention,

and saluted. Very crisply."

"You couldn't have stopped him?" Donovan asked." This all happened

very quickly," Canidy said.

"I didn't know what he was up to."

"Did he say anything to the President?" Donovan asked. "He said he

was sure the Commander in Chief and the Chief of Staff would like to

know what a three-eighths ration was, and that he hoped they would

enjoy it, but that he begged to be excused, because he seemed to have

lost his appetite."

"What did Marshall do?"

"Nothing," Canidy said.

"Mrs. Roosevelt looked like she was about to cry. The President

looked at me and said that he thought it would be a good idea if I took

Captain Whittaker home, he was obviously exhausted."

"By the time they got back," Captain Doug lass said, "General Marshall

had called. He told me that Whittaker was on the way back to the

house, and that since he obviously required medical attention, an

ambulance had been dispatched. Marshall went on to say he had been

ordered by the President to make sure that Whittaker was given this

attention as soon as possible. It wasn't until I saw Canidy that I

learned what Whittaker had done."

"The ambulance was there no more than two minutes after we got to the

house," Canidy said.

"An Army ambulance, from Fort Myer."

"There was a Medical Corps colonel with it," Doug lass said.

"I didn't know what to do but turn him over to them."

"I tried to go along with them," Canidy said.

"But they wouldn't let me, and Whittaker said there was no reason to

go.

So he got in the ambulance, and they took him away."

"And then, Sir, I called here," Doug lass said. "Well," Donovan said,

after a moment's thought, "first things first. You certainly can't be

blamed for his behavior, Canidy. And we accomplished what we set out

to do. The President has MacArthur's letter. If he chose to share it

with General Marshall, that's his business. And, from what you've told

me, Jim Whittaker does need medical help. I'll see if I can find out

what they've done with him. If I can, Canidy, I'll let you know."

"I don't think he's crazy, Colonel," Canidy said.

"I don't think he deserves to be locked up in St. Elizabeth's. "' "I

said I'll try to find out what they've done with him. If I find out

he's in St. Elizabeth's, I'll do what I can about that then."

"Yes, Sir," Canidy said. "Would you mind waiting outside for a few

minutes, Canidy?" Donovan said.

"I've got a few things for Captain Doug lass."

"I'd hoped to have a minute of your time, Colonel," Canidy said.

"About this?"

"About me, Sir."

"What about you?"

"I'd like to know what you have in mind for me," Canidy asked.

"Captain Doug lass has been unable or unwilling to talk about that."

"I was told," Donovan said, "that you were no longer so determined to

leave the comforts of Washington for the glory of aerial combat in the

wild blue yonder."

"Captain Doug lass has managed to make it perfectly clear that my

enlistment in your Navy was for the duration. I think I understand why

I can't go back to the other Navy, but I would like to know what I'm

going to be doing in yours."

"The federal government's psychiatric hospital in the Mstrict of

Columbia.

"For the time being, Canidy, you're going to baby-sit Admiral de Ver

bey," Donovan said.

"He's at Summer Place."

"Cynthia said something about trouble with him," Canidy said, making it

a question. "We have to keep the admiral at Summer Place and away from

the press" Donovan said.

"Preferably amicably, but by force if necessary. Captain Doug lass is

arranging to have some Free French officers assigned to him as a staff,

and there will be consultations between the admiral and various staff

officers from the Navy. So far as the admiral is concerned, you will

be his liaison officer. He knows you, of course, and we hope he will

swallow that line. You'll wear the uniform of an Air Corps major. The

Navy is providing a security force, and they will be told they will

take their orders from you."

"How long will that go on?" Canidy asked. "Until it has been decided

by me that it is no longer necessary," Donovan said. Canidy shrugged

but said nothing. He takes orders, Donovan thought. That's good.

"For the long term, Canidy," Donovan went on, "I'm sure we'll find

things for you to do, taking into consideration both your flying

background and your demonstrated ability to do other things. just

what, and when, hasn't been decided. The ever-resourceful Chief Ellis

has scrounged an airplane for us, and we want you to pick that up and

take it with you to New jersey."

"What kind of an airplane?"

"A Beech D18," Donovan said.

"Is that right, Peter?"

"Yes, Sir."

"I'm a fighter pilot," Canidy asked, more of a question than a

challenge.

"And an aeronautical engineer," Doug lass said, "who knows how to fly a

D18S. Isn't that correct?"

"I got a few hours in the one the AVG had," Canidy said. "Well, you'll

have plenty of time in New jersey to become proficient," Doug lass

said.

"And we'll try to arrange it so that you can get checked out in other

aircraft as well. When you can spare the time from takin care of the

admiral, of course." Canidy nodded his acceptance of this. "Any other

questions, Canidy?" Donovan asked.

"No, Sir."

"I think there's a coffeepot in the sitting room," Donovan said,

Politely dismissing him. "Thank you," Canidy said again, and left the

bedroom, closing the door behind him.

ONE I Lakehurst Naval Air Station Lakehurst, New Jersey Aril 9, 1942 P

A Navy blimp was about to take off as Canidy approached the field in

the twin Beech D18S. The tower ordered him to circle east of the field

in order to get out of the way. Canidy was pleased. He hadn't seen

that many blimps, and he'd never before seen one take off. It

apparently required a great deal of skill on the part of the pilot and

the large ground crew. He could see them now, half a dozen teams-six

to eight men to a line pulling the blimp's nose into the wind while

simultaneously keeping the machine from being blown crossways.

As large as blimps were-there were three others on the ground they were

in turn dwarfed by their hangar. This monster had been built, he

remembered, when he was a kid, at a time when important people

seriously believed that dirigibles were going to be the warships of the

future. A series of disastrous crashes, including that of the Navy's

Indianapolis, off California, and the German passenger zeppelin

Hindenburg right here at Lakehurst, had killed that idea.

The blimp he was watching finally sailed gently into the air and headed

due east, out to sea. It was going on a war patrol to look for German

submarines.

"Lakewood clears Navy Six-one-one for landing on runway two seven," his

earphones announced, waking him up.

"The winds are five, gusting to fifteen, from the west. The barometer

is three-zero-zero-zero." He banked the Beech back toward the field.

It was brand new, a V.I.P transport, neither the navigation trainer nor

the bare-to-the-ribs small transport he had expected. It had been

intended for a senior admiral who had been given a command at sea

before he could take delivery. As was his way, Ellis had heard about

this and "somehow" had arranged for it to be diverted to COI. A useful

man, Ellis.

"Six-one-one on final," he said into the microphone as he lowered the

wheels and put down the flaps. He had a little trouble putting it on

the ground, and he was farther down the runway than he wanted to be

when he heard the wheels chirp. He'd like to put blame, he thought, on

the flight characteristics of the aircraft, but the truth was that the

fault was his. Despite his newly issued Army Air Corps flight records

claim that he was rated as pilot in command of C-45, C-46, and C-47

twin-engine aircraft, he had never been at the controls of a C-46 or a

C-47, and when he had taken this Beech D18S off the field at the Beech

factory in Wichita, it was the first time he had flown what the Air

Corps called the C-45 solo. "Lakehurst, Six-one-one," he reported to

the tower.

"I'm on the ground at ten past the hour."

"Six-one-one, take the taxiway to your left, and taxi to the east door

of the dirigible hangar." The hangar looked even bigger on the ground

than from the air-simply incredibly vast. As he approached, with the

building looming over him, a Navy officer walked from the hangar, stood

in his path, and made 4(come to me" ground handler signals. Canidy

thought it was odd that an officer should be parking aircraft, but his

signals were even stranger. The officer with the commander's shoulder

boards was giving him a left-turn signal, into the hangar itself.

Canidy made the turn, but stopped. One does not taxi airplanes inside

hangars. Prop blast does interesting things inside confined spaces

such as hangars-like turn other airplanes over on their backs. But

inside the hangar was a proper plane handler, a white hat with wands in

his hands. And he, too, was giving "come to me" signals. Canidy

released the brakes, opened the throttles a crack, and obeyed. There

was, he thought, an exception to every rule, and this hangar was

obviously the exception to the one about not operating engines in a

hangar. There were six other aircraft inside. A Catalina with both of

its en genes running taxied toward the far door. It looked at least a

mile away. The ground handler, walking quickly backward, led him a

hundred ards into the hangar and then signaled for him to turn left,

turn around, y and shut it down. When Canidy climbed out of the D18,

the officer who had met him outside the hangar was standing there,

waiting for him. Canidy saluted, and the commander returned it, then

offered his hand. "Major Canidy?" the commander asked. When Canidy

nodded, he introduced himself as Commander Reynolds, the air station

commander. "I like your hangar," Canidy said. Reynolds laughed.

"It's supposed to be the largest covered area without roof supports in

the world," he said. "I can believe that."

"The sun gets hot here," Reynolds said.

"When we have the room, we like to park airplanes inside, keep them

from baking." He's a nice guy, Canidy decided, but that isn't the only

reason he's being so charming. He is aprofessional, keeping the apple

polished.

NASLAKE burst had orders coming directly from the Office of the Chief

of Naval Operations to provide whatever guard force was deemed

necessary for Summer Place, and to place that guard force under the

absolute authority of a United States deputy marshal who would make his

identity known to them. And that morning the "deputy U.S. marshal,"

who was in fact one of the FBI agents on loan to COT, had told the

commander, NAS Lakehurst, that he was being relieved by an Air Corps

major named Canidy, who would be arriving in a Navy airplane. "Mr.

Delaney said that he'd like to turn over to you at Summer Place,"

Commander Reynolds said.

"And I thought, if you had no objection, I'd tag along. I don't know

what your requirements are going to be, and it might save time if I was

there from the beginning."

"I'm glad you can spare the time," Canidy said. "I understand the

importance of your mission," Reynolds said. Translated, Canidy

thought, that means you don't want me to make any waves.

... Commander Reynolds drove Canidy to Summer Place in his Navy gray

Ford staff car. The last time he had been in a Navy car with a

white-hat driver had been at Pensacola. The admiral had dispatched his

car and driver to fetch Lieutenant (j.g.) Canidy from the beer hall to

the admiral's quarters, where he had been introduced to a

leathery-faced old Army fighter pilot named Claire Chennault.

Chennault promptly announced that he was asking for volunteer pilots to

fly Curtiss P-40B Tomahawks for the Chinese, and that Canidy had been

selected.

It's a beautiful place," Commander Reynolds volunteered.

"A turn of-the-century mansion right on the ocean," "I know," Canidy

said.

"I've been here before." Reynolds obviously thought he meant in

connection with whatever was going on there now. But what Canidy

meant, what Canidy was thinking, was how often Jimmy Whittaker's aunt

and uncle had entertained him-and Eric Fulmar-there when the three

friends had been in St. Mark's School together. Mounted every hundred

feet or so on the fence that surrounded the estate there were signs

announcing that this was a U.S. Government Reservation, where

trespassing was forbidden, and that trespassers would be prosecuted.

And far enough inside the gate not to be seen from the road, a guard

shack had been set up. A white hat in puttees carrying a Springfield

rifle stepped onto the road and barred their passage until Commander

Reynolds identified Canidy. The "deputy U.S. marshal" and a young

lieutenant (j.g ) who was in charge of the guard detail were waiting

for them at the house. Canidy recognized the ex-FBI agent from the

house on Q Street. If the ex-FBI agent was surprised to see Canidy in

a major's uniform, it didn't show. "Just as the weather turns nice

here," the ex-FBI man joked, "I have to go back."

"Virtue is its own reward," Canidy announced unctuously. The details

of the guard arrangement were explained to Canidy:

A there were, in addition to the man who met Canidy, four more "deputy

U.S. marshals" at the house working eight-hour shifts in rotation.

They supervised the Navy guards, who worked four to a shift, around the

clock, guarding the road and making irregular patrols of the fence and

along the beach. A telephone switchboard had also been installed.

This was operated by the "deputy marshals." There were direct lines to

Lakehurst, to the Coast Guard station three miles down the beach, and

to the police department in As bury Park. Ten minutes after the

turnover had begun, it was over. On his way back to Lakehurst,

Commander Reynolds gave the ex-FBI agent a ride to the train station in

As bury Park.

A s soon as Reynolds's car was out of sight, Canidy went looking for

Vice Admiral d'escadre jean-Philippe de Verbey. He found him-a tiny

little man who looked both very fragile and very intense-in a

glassed-in sun porch drinking a cup of coffee. "Monsieur IAMIR al,"

Canidy said, saluting. '7e suis encore une fois d votre service." He

had rehearsed the French. He had liked him from the moment he met him

in Morocco. "It is my pleasure to see you again, Major," the admiral

said in excellent English, returning the salute.

"I have often wondered what had happened to you after you were left

behind by the submarine that carried me to this country."

"I have been told," Canidy said dryly, "that there were compelling

reasons to leave us behind."

"Well," the admiral said, touching Canidy's arm, "what is important is

that you finally got out, and are here. I think you'll like it. We

are guests of a Mrs. Whittaker," the admiral said.

"She is a gracious lady, and an even more gracious hostess."

"I know Mrs. Whittaker, mon Amir al," Canidy said. "Before the war, I

was often a guest in this house."

"And is that why you have been sent here?"

"I am honored to have been named your liaison officer," Canidy said.

"Odd,' the admiral said dryly.

"I somehow got the idea that you were my new jailer."

Canidy, flustered, couldn't think of a reply. "Well, I don't suppose

it matters, one way or the other. As there were good reasons for you

to be left behind off Safi, I am sure there are good reasons for my

house arrest here," the admiral said, without apparent bitterness.

"Come, I will introduce you to my staff." The staff consisted of a

French Navy captain, an old man who had served aboard the battleship

jean Bart when the admiral had been her cap tain; a much younger

lieutenant commander (Doug lass had warned Canidy to be very careful

dealing with this one; he was suspected of having strong ties to de

Gaulle); and a middle-aged petty officer who looked pathetically absurd

in his bell-bottom trousers, seaman's blouse with flap, and hat with

red porn-porn. He performed the dual functions of orderly and clerk.

Half an hour later, Barbara Whittaker returned from shopping in As bury

Park. When Canidy caught sight of the old, sedate Rolls Royce moving

majestically up the drive, he excused himself and went down to meet

her.

The Rolls had an A ration sticker stuck on the windshield. The A

ration was for nonessential personal vehicles, and provided three

gallons of gasoline a week. That would be enough, he thought, to get

the Rolls to As bury Park, but not back. Barbara Whittaker's ration

was obviously being augmented, probably from Navy stocks. She was out

of the car and helping the chauffeur unload grocery bags from the trunk

before she saw him. Then she smiled and strode up to him, a tall,

silver-haired woman of great dignity. "Would you be terribly

embarrassed if I put my arms around you and kissed you, Dick?" she

asked.

"I'm so very glad to see you! "I'd be unhappy if you didn't," Canidy

said. She hugged him tightly. He was surprised at the depth of his

own emotion at seeing her again. "Help Tom and me with the groceries,"

she said.

"And then we'll sit on the porch and have some of Chesly's Scotch and

bring each other up to date." She'll want to know about Jimmy, Canidy

thought. And obviously, I am expected to tell her as little as

possible.

Well, fuck that, she's no German spy. I'll tell her as much as I

can.

She meant it about drinking Chesly's Scotch. The bottle she produced

was older than Canidy. And she asked him about himself and what he was

going to be doing while he was at Summer Place, but fortunately she

steered away from asking about Jimmy. This was not an indication of

lack of interest in him. It was rather because she was a great lady

whose sense of duty forbade asking questions. "I met Jimmy when he

flew into Washington," Canidy said. "I don't think you're supposed to

talk about him, are you, Dick?" she said.

"He has apparently been running around in the jungles of Bataan,"

Canidy went on.

"I'm sure he has malaria, and he told me he had a tapeworm named

Clarence," Canidy said. "Oh, my!" she said.

"Chesly had one years ago and had a terrible time passing it."

"He was thirty pounds underweight," Canidy went on, "and he's going to

have to have some serious dental work."

"What of his attitude?" she asked. She means, Is he out of his

mind?

"The President had him to dinner, after that business with the newsreel

cameras," Canidy said, and went on to tell her what Jim Whittaker had

done to demonstrate what a three-eighths ration was. "Even under the

circumstances, that was extremely rude to Franklin and Eleanor,"

Barbara Whittaker said. "Well, please don't apologize for him," Canidy

said.

"If you do, they'll know who told you about this." She waved her hand

to show him she understood, then asked, "Is that why he's been

hospitalized? Why I can't see him?"

"I think he's hospitalized because he needs hospitalization," Canidy

said, hoping she would believe it. "It said in the newspapers that he

carried a letter from Douglas MacArthur to the President," she said.

"And General Marshall was there for dinner. Do you know how much

Marshall and Douglas MacArthur loathe each other?"

"I've heard," Canidy admitted. "Does that have anything to do with

Jimmy's hospitalization? "I don't know," Canidy said after a moment.

"I just don't know." She thought that over. "Chesly and Franklin

Roosevelt were not the best of friends," she said.

"But I am unable to believe that Franklin would-" "Colonel Donovan said

he was going to find out what he could," Canidy said.

"I think the thing to do is wait for him to do that." She leaned over

and patted first his knee and then his cheek. "Thank you," she said.

"I'm sure you shouldn't have told me any of this, but I'm glad you

did."

"Just make sure Colonel Donovan doesn't find out," Canidy said. "He

won't," she said. She stood up.

"When I heard you were coming," she said, "I had Commander Nadine moved

out of your old room. He didn't like it much, but I told him you were

an old friend of the family. Now I'm sorry I said that."

"Excuse me?" Canidy asked, confused. "I should have said you were

family, period," she said. She looked down and met his eyes.

"We generally have a cocktail at half past six, and then dinner around

seven. If you can't make it until then, you know where to find the

refrigerator."

"Thank you."

"Welcome home, Dick," she said, and then she walked off the porch.

TWO I 2745 Lake shore Drive Chicago, Illinois April 21, 1942

Despite Brandon Chambers's assurance to Chandler H. Bitter that he

would have a report on Ed Bitter's condition from one of his war

correspondents in India within a matter of days, the first

amplification of what had happened came to Chandler in the morning mad

two weeks after the radiogram from General Chennauh. The envelope was

cheap brownish paper, and the letter itself appeared to have been typed

on mimeograph paper on a battered portable.

HQ, I at Pursuit Sqdn, AVG APO 607 S/F Cal.

25 Mar 42

Dear Mr. Bitter:

By the time you read this you will have heard that Ed has been hurt. I

thought you would like to know what happened.

! 1@ 1NNN We mounted a two-flight (10 ac) low-level strafing assault on

the Japanese air base at Chien&aaai, Thailand. Our squadron commander

led one flight, I had the other, and Ed was in line to take the place

of either of us if anything should happen. We went in on oxygen at

20,000 feet, and went down near the field for a straftng run. Some of

the ships had 50-pound HE bombs in their flare chutes. There was a lot

more antiaircraft on the way down, and many more heavy machine guns on

the deck when we got there, than intelligence had led us to expect.

The skipper took a hit and was shot down his first pass, and Ed took a

hit just below his right knee on his third pass. I think it was a

glancing shot or a rickoshay (sp?), because the wound, while

unpleasant, isn't nearly the mess it would have been had he taken a

direct hit from a .50, which is what the Japs use, we having obligingly

showed them how to build them.

Ed managed to get his aircraft up to altitude again, but on the way

home he went on the radio and said that he was feeling bad, and faint,

and wanted to set down (rather than risk lo sing consciousness while

still in the air).

Luck was with him. There was a riverbed in the middle of nowhere that

looked like it was hard enough to take a landing, and he set it down

without trouble. Once he was there, and we knew it was safe to land,

we were able to land another plane, load him into that, and with the

pilot sitting on Ed's lap and ducking his head to get it out of the

prop blast, he was able to make off and get Ed back to the base. That

was the worst part. Once he was on the ground, they gave him something

for the pain, did what they could here for his knee, and arranged for

him to be flown to India, where there is a brand new General Hospital

(US Army) in Calcutta. Probably the best indicator of his condition is

that he told me just before he left for Calcutta that he will be back

in six weeks. I don't think so. I think they will probably ship him

home just as soon as they can arrange for it. He is not in danger, so

the worst that Will happen is that he may have a stiff knee.

I have to out this off now, because I'm now the squadron commander and

I'm finding that means a lot of work. Ed and I had become good

friends, and what I've been thinking is that if something like this had

to happen, this wasn't so bad. We're really going to miss him around

here, but he's going to come out of it all right.

Sincerely, Pt,44 D,04-S&", Al" Peter Doug lass, Jr.

Chandler Bitter showed Helen the letter, then suggested she call Bran

don and read the letter to him. After that he left for work. When he

returned that evening, she mentioned to him that she had also called

Ann Chambers and read the letter to her. Ann was Brandon's daughter

and their niece, and she was working on Brandon's newspaper in

Memphis.

Helen had also called Mark and Sue-Ann Chambers in Mobile. The rest of

the afternoon she'd spent having Peter Doug lass's letter photographed

so that she could send copies to other friends who would be

interested.

There was a second letter from the Chinese embassy the next day. Eight

flowery paragraphs proclaimed that a second gold miniature Flying Tiger

was being sent with the personal gratitude of the Chinese people and

Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek.

Mrs. Bitter had that letter photographed, too, so that it could be

sent to sundry and assorted relatives and friends. When things calmed

down a bit, she was going to have the letters framed. She was also

going to have the second gold Flying Tiger mounted and take it to The

Plantation in Alabama. She would hang it all in the library of the

family vacation residence there with the other family war memorabilia,

some of which went back to the War Between the States. Helen's

behavior astonished Chandler. He had been married to her a long time,

and thought he knew her. What seemed to be the strange truth was that

the traditional roles were reversed. He was nearly sick with fear and

relief for their child, and she was reveling in his heroism.

THREE I Memphis, Tennessee may 28, 1942

A reporter-photographer team from Time-Life visited the U.S. Army

General Hospital in Calcutta in early May looking for "upbeat"

stories.

The United States of America had been taking a bell of a whipping in

the opening months of the war, and with the exception of Lieutenant

Colonel Jimmy Doolittle's B-25 raid on Tokyo the month before, there

was a surfeit of depressing stories of courage in the face of defeat.

It didn't take them long to find out there were several Flying Tigers

in the hospital. One of these had a story that would go over well in

New York. The first story about him appeared in the Time issue of May

28, 1942. There was a one-column photograph of Edwin Howell Bitter in

a hospital bathrobe, sitting in a wheelchair with his right leg in a

cast sticking straight out in front of him. The cudine under the

photograph read: "Civilian" Ed Bitter. The story itself seemed sure to

satisfy the editor's demand for something upbeat:

There are five American "civilian" patients in the new US. ga

rmvgeneralhospitatincalcutta.Theirbfllsarepaidbythecht

ncserovernment.

They are employees of the American Volunteer XGROUR) who were "injured

on the job." The job 24-year-old @exlnavy pilot Edwin H. Bitter, of

Chicago, was injured doing was Nstrafing the huge Jap air base at

Chiengmai, Thailand, in a worn out Curtiss P-40B War hawk, an aircraft

the Chinese and their American volunteer pilots were able to fly only

because the British turned them down as obsolescent for service against

the Germans in Europe.

Bitterdownedninejapaneseaircraftinhis obsolete'p-40before he himself

was downed by ground fire in Thailand. He was rescued from certain

imprisonment and possible execution as a "bandit" when another

"civilian" Flying Tiger pilot managed to land his War hawk on the dry

riverbed where Bitter had crashed. E He squeezed the wounded flier

into his cockpit and took off again Names of AVG pilots still fighting

the Japanese are not released. Annapolis graduate ('38) Bitter sees no

future for himself in the U.S. Navy, which, he says, "has no use for

people with stiff knees." When he is able, he will return to his

"civilian job" as a Flying Tiger.

Life magazine, ten days later-it took time to get all the photographs

necessary for a photo-essay to the United States-had a longer story

about the AVG men in Calcutta, but by then Time had been published. It

was not known whether the order had come from President Roosevelt

himself, or from Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox, who had been wounded

as a sergeant charging up San Juan Hill with Teddy Roosevelt in the

Spanish-American War, but the word came down from way up high: "Get

that fellow Bitter back in the U.S. Navy as soon as he can be sworn in,

even if you have to do it with him on a stretcher."

Not long afterward a letter addressed to Miss Sarah Child that bore the

return address "Ltcomdr E. H. Bitter, USN, Det of Patients, USA Gen

Hospital, APO 65Z San Francisco, Calif " appeared in Sarah's and Ann's

box in the Peabody Hotel in Memphis. Before Sarah saw it, Ann Chambers

took the letter and kept it in her purse until she found time to steam

open the envelope over a teakettle and read it. Ann had opened all of

Sarah Child's mail since the visit to Memphis of Sarah's mother. When

Sarah's mother had asked her husband to take her to Memphis to see her

daughter, Joseph Schild-Sarah had Americanized the German a Jewish

Schild to Child before going off to college-had desperately wanted to

believe that time and the maternal instincts of his wife had overcome

her first reaction to the news that their unmarried nineteen -year-old

daughter was pregnant. Her first reaction-rage and fear-had put

Sarah's mother into the Institute of Living, a private psychiatric

hospital in Hartford, Connect it, for six weeks. But Joseph Schild had

taken his wife out of the IOL cu against medical advice when she asked

to go to Memphis. Sarah shared a suite in the Peabody Hotel in Memphis

with her best friend from Bryn Mawr, Ann Chambers. There was no

question in Joseph Schild's mind that Ann, the daughter of Brandon

Chambers, the newspaper publisher, was in Memphis as much to give Sarah

refuge from her in other in New York as she was to work for her

father's newspaper.

But with the world in flames, with the European continent in the hands

of the Germans, with most of their European relatives either missing or

in hiding from the Nazis, with the United States fighting what looked

to be a lo sing battle for its very existence, Joseph Schild reasoned

that his wife would see that their daughter's pregnancy was a joyful

thing and an affirmation of life. In Memphis, at his first sight of

Sarah, Joseph Schild's eyes filled with tears. Not tears of sadness,

he realized, but rather because Sarah looked like a living Madonna.

Her skin glowed, her somewhat solemn eyes glistened. "Bitch!" his

wife had screamed at their daughter in the suite in the Peabody.

"Godless whore! %%y don't you and your bastard die!" Joseph Schild

had had to physically restrain his wife until the hotel could find a

doctor who would come to the suite and sedate her. The instant her

mother and father were gone, Sarah went into an emotional nose dive.

Two days later, she still had not recovered when, on the day the

radiogram from General Chermault arrived in Chicago, she was delivered

of a healthy, seven-pound-five-ounce boy in Memphis's Doctors

Hospital.

The father was listed as "unknown" and the birth added to the

statistics as " illegitimate." Ann Chambers decided that this was not

the moment to tell Sarah that Eddie had been injured, had almost been

killed.

Postnatal depression had come sooner than it usually did, and with a

greater severity than the doctor had expected. In the delivery room he

had thought admiringly that Sarah was a tough little cookie. Sarah was

in the hospital ten days, and then-still depressed-returned to the

suite in the Peabody. There was a nurse all day, but she was alone

when the nurse left at five until Ann came home from The Advocate.

Mich meant that Ann often had to rush home when she would have

preferred to work. In their suite, Ann steamed open the letter over a

teakettle on a hot plate, read the letter, carefully resealed the

envelope, and then went to Sarah's door. She flung the door open and,

waving the letter, went inside. "Poppa is finally heard from!" she

cried. Sarah turned the envelope in her hands and saw the return

address. "Oh, my God!" she said.

"He's in the hospital! Then she tore it open and read it.

Calcutta, India 7 April 1942

Dear Sarah:

I have continued to receive your fine and regular letters, and regret

that I have been such a terrible correspondent. I was involved in a

small accident, slightly Li@juring my leg, and am spending, as you

might have noticed from the return address, some time in the

hospital.

I hasten to say that I am really quite well, and there is no cause for

concern. And being in the hospital finally gives me a chance to answer

your many letters. My big news (which you may also have noticed from

the return address) is that I axa back in the Navy. An officer from

the staff of the Commander, Naval Element, US. Forces in India came to

see me yesterday. He got right to the point. Now that I wasn't going

to be of much use to the AVG, had I given any thought to "coming

home'?

I told him that I was obliged to fulfill my contract with the AVG,

which has until July 4 to run, but he told me that the AVG was willing

to let me out of it. My leg will be in a cast for another month or six

weeks, and probably a little stiff after that, and by the time I'd be

ready to fly again, my contract would just about be over. I thought it

was really quite decent of the Navy to take me back as a temporary

cripple, but they went even beyond that. We were promised (I guess I

can now tell you) that we would be taken back into the Navy with no

loss of seniority, and that if we were promoted while in the AVG, we

would receive a promotion in the Navy. It seems that the Navy has a

policy by which lieutenants (junior grade) with six months in the war

zone are considered eligible for promotion, so they took that into

consideration, and then also made good their word to promote me since I

had been promoted in the AVG. What that means is that I'm back in the

Navy with a grade (temporary, of course) two grades higher than I was

the last time I saw you. I find it hard, frankly, to think of myself

as Lieutenant Commander Bitter (all the lieutenant commanders I knew

were old men), but it must be so, for that's what it says on the sign

on my bed. The other good news is that I will be returned to the

United States. A hospital ship is en route here, and as soon as they

have enough people to fill it up (and there probably will be more than

enough by the time it gets here) I'll be returned to the United

States.

There is a good chance that I'll be gone before any letter you might

write could get here, so you can save stamps. I have no idea where

I'll be stationed in the States, but perhaps I'll be able to come to

Memphis to see you. I would like very much to buy you the most

elaborate dinner the Peabody dining room has to offer. Please say

hello to Ann, and if you'd like to risk the paper and a stamp, write

your Fond Pen Pal, "He's been hurt," Sarah said to Ann.

"Not seriously. He had some kind of an accident."

"He's lying through his teeth," Ann said, Sarah looked at her in

surprise. Ann walked back out of the bedroom and returned with the

manila envelope in which she had all the rest of the story, copies of

the radiogram, and the letters from the Chinese embassy and from Peter

Doug lass, Jr." and the clippings from Time and Life.

"He looks terrible," Sarah said when she saw the photographs. "He

looks starved."

"He's alive," Ann said.

"And he's coming home."

"Why didn't you show me this stuff before?"

Sarah demanded. Ann shrugged her shoulders. "I was suffering from

perfectly normal postnatal depression," Sarah said furiously.

"I wasn't crazy!" Ann smiled at her. Sarah thought of something

else.

"Have you heard from Dick Canidy?

A "Not from or about," Ann said. "Well, they're probably keeping him

busy," Sarah said, "and he just hasn't had time to write."

"Sure," Ann said.

"Either that, or there is a Chinese girl, or girls, or an American

nurse, or an English nurse, or all of the above."

"You don't know that," Sarah said. "I know Richard Canidy, damn him,"

Ann said.

FOUR I Warm Springs, Georgia June 8, 1942

The President of the United States and Colonel William J. Donovan took

their lunch, fried chicken and a potato salad, on the flagstone patio

outside Roosevelt's cottage. The two were shielded from the view of

other patients and visitors at the poliomyelitis care center by a green

latticework fence. Roosevelt had a guest, who vanished immediately on

the arrival of Donovan by car from Atlanta. Donovan wondered why he

was surprised and shocked. Roosevelt was a man, even if his legs were

crippled. Eleanor, he well knew, could be a pain in the ass. Barbara

Whittaker was far more charming, and certainly better-looking, and

Chesly Whittaker had died in the bed of a woman young enough to be his

daughter.

Why should he expect Roosevelt to be a saint? And, he told himself, in

any event it was none of his business. He had come to Georgia to

discuss the war, and what COI was doing to help win THE SECRET WARRIORS

N TO it, Whether Franklin Roosevelt was getting a little on the side

had nothing to do with that. The most important thing on Roosevelt's

mind at lunch was neither the beating the nation was taking in the

Pacific nor even the first American counter stroke, Operation Torch,

the invasion of North Africa, scheduled for the fall. What he wanted

to discuss was the super bomb. Donovan had previously learned that

while the experiments at the reactor at the University of Chicago were

by no means near completion they had yet to try for a chain

reaction-Dr. Conant of Harvard had reported that the scientists were

more and more confident that things were going to work. After these

reports Roosevelt had been so confident-or, Donovan thought, so

desperate-that he had authorized a virtual blank check on his secret

war appropriations funds to go ahead with the effort. As of June 1,

under an Army Corps of Engineers officer, Brigadier General Leslie R.

Groves, the Manhattan Project had come into being, with the mission of

developing a bomb whose explosive force would come from atomic

fission.

Manhattan had been chosen for the project name in the hope that the

enormous expenditures about to be made would be connected with

Manhattan Island, rather than the facilities being built at Oak Ridge,

Tennessee, Han ford, Washington, and in the deserts of the Southwest.

The Office of the Coordinator of Information had so far been involved

in this program in the operation that had located and brought to the

United States Grunier, the French mining engineer who had worked before

the war for Union Mini re in the Belgian Congo. One of the very few

known sources of uraninite ore, from which it was theoretically

possible to extract uranium 235, was in Katanga Province of the Belgian

Congo. From Grunier it had been learned that there were in fact many

tons of uraninite in Katanga Province lying around as by-products of

other Union Mini re mining and smelting operations. Some of it had

simply been removed and pushed aside as slag during copper and tin

mining operations. A few people questioned how much to trust Grunier,

for he had been brought involuntarily to the United States from Morocco

where he was working in phosphate mining. His family was in France,

and he was understandably concerned for their welfare. This concern

was promptly used as leverage by COI He was thus prevailed upon to draw

maps. Donovan then sent an so a agent to the Belgian Congo from South

Africa who had returned with fifty pounds of uraninite ore in twenty

bags. The source of each bag was labeled according to which pile of

spellings it came from. Twelve of his packages turned out to be

useless. They were not what Grunier thought--or at least so he told

the COI interrogators-were supplies of uraninite. Seven more samples

had not contained enough uraninite to make refining possible.

One of the three good samples had contained an adequate

parts-per-million ratio, and the last two, on spectrographic and

chemical analysis, proved to be very desirable. The next question was:

Were the samples truly representative of the pile they were taken from,

or were they a fluke?

This problem was magnified greatly because of the enormous quantities

of uraninite ore required to produce even minute quantities of pure

uranium 235. There was, so far as anyone knew, less than 0.000001

pound of the stuff in all the world. Some scientists believed that as

little as an ounce of pure U-235 would be enough to make up the

critical mass of an atomic fission bomb. But others, just as

knowledgeable, said the minimum figure would have to be at least a

hundred pounds. Thus, to determine how many thousands of tons were

going to be necessary to produce as much as fifty pounds of uranium, it

was necessary to have refinable quantities. In laboratory terms, that

meant a minimum of five tons. For now. And of course much more later,

if things went the way everyone hoped they would. As of December 12,

1941, the German government had informed the Belgian government that

under the terms of the armistice agreement between them, the export of

copper and other strategic minerals and ores from Belgian colonies to

the United States of America was no longer permitted. And all other

exports would henceforth be reviewed to make sure they would not accrue

to the enemy's benefit.

Worrying about how to smuggle several hundred tons of ore out of the

middle of darkest Africa would, however, have to wait. The job now was

to determine if the Katanga ore was what was needed, and the way to do

that was to get five tons of it to the United States. And the way to

do that, Donovan decided, was to fly into Katanga and get it. "You're

working on flying the stuff out, then. Is that right, Bill?"

Roosevelt said.

THE SECRET WARRIORS 8 el "Yes, Sir," Donovan said. "How are you going

to do it?" Donovan was a little annoyed with Roosevelt's interest in

details. It was, in a way, flattering, but it took time. He was often

saying to his subordinates that of all the shortages that interfered

with the war effort, the greatest was time. There simply wasn't enough

time to do what had to be done. The few minutes it would take to tell

the President how he planned to get the uraninite ore from the Belgian

Congo would have to come from the total time Roosevelt was able to give

him. He would have much preferred to spend this talking about other

things. But Franklin Delano Roosevelt was the Commander in Chief, he

reminded himself, and could not therefore be told to stop wasting time

with unimportant questions. "You remember the young man who came to

dinner with Jim Whittaker?" he asked. "Canidy? Something like

that?"

"Richard Canidy," Donovan said.

"Ex-Flying Tiger, and more important now, an MIT-trained aeronautical

engineer."

"I'm a little confused. Isn't he the chap you sent to North Africa

after t mining engineer and Admiral Whatsisname? "That, too," Donovan

said, impressed but not really surprised that Roosevelt had called that

detail from his memory.

"At the moment, he's at Chesly's house on the Jersey shore, trying to

keep the admiral happy and away from newspaper reporters. But he's

also working on this. "How is he working on this)" "He has been

provided with the details-weight and distance, I mean, not what has to

be hauled or where the stuff is. And he has been told to recommend a

way-in absolute secrecy-to move that much weight that far.

He's been getting a lot of help from Pan American Airways."

"Why not the Air Corps?" Donovan was very much aware that he had just

walked out on thin ice. Pan American Airways beyond question had

greater experience in long-distance transoceanic flight that anyone

else-including the Army Air Corps. But their greatest expert in this

area was Colonel Charles A.

Lindbergh, "Lucky Lindy," the first man to fly the Atlantic solo the

great American hero who had not long before enraged Roosevelt and a

large number of other important people by announcing that in his

professional judgment the German Luftwaffe looked invincible.

Lindbergh had then rubbed salt in the wound by involving himself deeply

in the America First movement, throwing his enormous prestige behind

the notion that America should stay out of Europe's wars. Immediately

after Pearl Harbor, Lindbergh, who was a colonel in the Air Corps

Reserve, had volunteered for active duty. Roosevelt, predictably, had

had no intention of letting that happen. Franklin Roosevelt would

allow Lindbergh to serve in uniform over his dead body. Donovan and

Lindbergh, however, were friends. And Lindbergh had proved eager to

help when Donovan asked for flight-planning advice. When Donovan had

told Roosevelt that Canidy was getting a lot of help from Pan American,

he meant help from Charles A. Lindbergh personally. "Because Pan

American knows more about this sort of thing than the Air Corps,"

Donovan said.

Roosevelt grunted, but accepted that. If he had asked if Lindbergh

were involved, Donovan would not have lied to him. But he hadn't

asked, which was just as well as far as Donovan was concerned. "And

you think it can be done?" Roosevelt asked. "Canidy tells me it can,"

Donovan said. "You seem to place a good deal of trust in him, Bill,"

the President said.

"He seems possessed of a number of interesting secrets."

"There are two schools of thought about multiple secrets, Mr.

President," Donovan said.

"If people are limited to one secret at a time, you wind up with a lot

of people who have to be watched. On the other hand, if one man has a

number of secrets, we only have to worry about security for him. And,

right now at least, I don't intend to send Canidy himself to the

Congo.

He's just setting the operation up. In the end, I think it will turn

out that we'll use an Air Corps crew." Roosevelt thought that over a

moment.

"They would like that, I think," he said, grinning.

"They have the responsibility, you know, of dealing with airplanes."

"Yes, I know," Donovan said, just as sarcastically, 'and as I

understand things, I'm supposed to be dealing with intelligence. You

win doubtless be surprised to learn that sometimes, despite our best

efforts, that puts me and the Air Corps in conflict."

"Is that just a general philosophical observation, Bill? Or do you

have something specific in mind?"

"German fighter aircraft propelled by jet engines," Donovan said after

a pause. The President smiled very broadly, his cigarette holder

cocked high between his teeth. He was enjoying the exchange. "You

will doubtless be surprised, Bill," he said, "when I tell you that when

I mentioned those aircraft to George Marshall, he told me that the Air

Corps was not very concerned about them. In fact, they had-with great

tact, of course-asked if such aircraft weren't really a tactical conern

of theirs, rather than a strategic concern of yours." c "Then they're

wrong about that, too, Franklin," Donovan said flatly. "Are they

indeed?"

"Will you listen to me?"

"Of course," Roosevelt said.

"How can I refuse?"

"As it has been explained to me, the Air Corps tactic for Europe is

massive bombing from high altitude of German military targets by heavy

bombers, B-17s and B-24s. The Air Corps believes that the massed heavy

armament of a large flight of carefully arranged bombers can throw up a

r ativeyimpenetrablewahoffireagainstgermanfighters."

"And you don't think they can?"

"Not against German fighters, armed with cannon, that are flying three

times as fast as the bombers," Donovan said. "The Air Corps disagrees

with that, of course," Roosevelt said.

"And they also believe that the Germans are a long way from having

fighters Powered with jet engines off their drawing boards."

"The first flight of a jet-powered German aircraft took place on August

27, 1939," Donovan said, "at an airfield near Berlin. Roosevelt looked

at him sharply. "The Luftwaffe will flight-test within a month or so

one of the twelve Messerschmitt ME-262 fighter planes currently being

built in underground, bombproof facilities in Augsburg. The ME-262 is

powered by a centrifugal Junkers 004 engine, designed by a man named

von Oh ain, which is supposed to be a great improvement over the radial

jet engine they've used up to now." It was a moment before Roosevelt

spoke. "I was about to insult you, Bill, by asking if you were sure of

your information," he said.

"I won't do that, of course. But do you realize what a Spot you're

putting me in with the Air Corps?"

"If the Germans get these fighters operational, Franklin, we will not

be able to accept the losses they will inflict on our bomber

force-either in a tactical sense or a public-relations sense. That, I

respectfully submit, is indeed a strategic consideration." And how do

you suggest we stop them?" Roosevelt asked. That would be the Air

Corps' business," Donovan said." Once they recognize the problem, I'm

sure they'll know how to handle it. My people tell me that

manufacturing jet engines is considerably more difficult than building

piston engines. Not only are they more complex, but they require

special metals and special metallurgy. If we can take out the

smelters, the special steel mills, or the machining facilities, perhaps

we can slow down their development. I doubt if we can stop it, but I

think we should be able to slow it."

"Damn!" Roosevelt said. "I don't think we can ignore the problem. It

win not go away, Mr. President," Donovan said. Roosevelt turned and

glared at him, his eyes cold, his eyebrows angrily raised.

"What exactly is it, Colonel Donovan," he asked icily, "that you wish

me to do?"

"Mr. President, I respectfully suggest that you tell the Air Corps you

have given COI intelligence responsibility vis-a-vis German jet

aircraft, and then direct them to turn over to me what intelligence

they have in their files." Roosevelt snorted.

"That's all you want, their files?"

"I want the authority to look into German jet planes," Donovan said.

"And I don't want to be in competition with them while I'm at it."

"They're not the enemy, Bill,' Roosevelt said, his temper now in

check.

"Their intelligence, Franklin, is being evaluated by Air Corps officers

who simply cannot ignore their knowledge that every one of their

superiors, every one of them, is dedicated to the theory that

heavy-bombardment aircraft can defend themselves. None of them wants

to hear about any challenge to that devout belief." They were back to

first names. The crisis had passed. "Very well," Roosevelt said.

"George Marshall's going to can at five this afternoon. I'll tell him

then."

"Thank you," Donovan said. "Anything else?"

There was a just-detectable hesitation before Donovan said, "No,

Sir."

Roosevelt picked up on it.

"Yes, there is," he said.

"Let's have it." Donovan shrugged.

"I'd like to know what's happened to Jim Whittaker," he said.

"Would you, now?" the President said coldly. "Cbesly and I were

friends for as long as I can remember," Donovan said. "As you, and he,

and a certain lady are old friends," Roosevelt's head snapped toward

him.

There was fire in his eyes again.

Oh, God! He thinks I'm talking about Whatsername, his lady friend! I

simply forgot about her. "And what lady would that be, Bill?"

Roosevelt asked. "Barbara Whittaker," Donovan said quickly, "Oh, yes,"

Roosevelt said.

"How is Barbara?" Now he thinks that the famous glower has made me

hack down! "She's probably more than a little upset," Donovan said.

"She hasn't heard a word from Jimmy since he called her from San

Francisco," "If you think I should," Roosevelt said, "I will call

Barbara and assure her that we're doing everything possible for Jimmy,"

"I've already told her that. What she wants to know is where he is, so

that she can go see him."

"That's going to be impossible, I'm afraid."

"Because of his condition?" Roosevelt nodded. "What exactly is his

condition?" Donovan asked." Somehow, Bill, I think you know," the

President said.

"I know he's being held virtually a prisoner at George Marshall's

personal order in the Army hospital at Fort Knox, Kentucky. And I

would like to know why."

"Where did you get the notion he's a prisoner?"

"When Barbara told me she couldn't get any information out of the

hospital there, I told her that it was probably just the military

system at work, and that I would call down and have Jimmy telephone

her. But I couldn't get through to him. They denied all knowledge of

him. So I called Georgie Patton, since He's in command there and an

old friend of mine, and at first he wouldn't tell me anything either.

I pushed him hard, and he finally told me he had specific orders from @

very close to heaven' and that he simply couldn't tell me anything

more."

"The orders came from me," Roosevelt said.

"Not George Marshall." Donovan's surprise registered on his face.

"Jimmy Whittaker is being given every comfort and the best of medical

attention.

He was a very sick young man on the edge of physical collapse. He was

forty-five pounds underweight. His teeth were about to fall out of his

mouth, and he had, I have been informed, three kinds of intestinal

parasites."

"Why can't he talk to Barbara-or me, for that matter-on the

telephone?"

"You know what happened in the apartment, Bill," the President said.

"Canidy told me," Donovan said.

"I think Douglas MacArthur might have done the same thing. It doesn't

mean that he's crazy."

"I'm the President," Roosevelt said. "And you were playing the role of

Uncle Franklin," Donovan said. "In Jimmy's condition, I can see where

the two roles might be blurred in his mind."

"That's Eleanor's argument," Roosevelt said.

"George Marshall argues-after taking into consideration that Jimmy

probably knows what MacArthur wrote-that keeping him at Knox is the

prudent thing to do."

"What did MacArthur write?" Donovan said. "You don't know?"

Roosevelt said.

"I'm a little surprised."

"I only intercept enemy mail, Mr. President," Donovan said. "Touche,

Bill," Roosevelt said.

"General Marshall thought you might be-what shall I say?-more

efficient."

"And according to Canidy, Jim Whittaker said he had no idea what the

letter said."

"Then far be it from me to violate Douglas MacArthur's confidence, the

President said.

"Suffice it to say that when I showed Douglas's letter to George, he

wanted MacArthur to be given the chance to resign. And if he didn't,

George wanted me to court-martial him."

"It was that bad?" Donovan asked. "One of the kinder things Douglas

said was that he has had no reason to reconsider his opinion that

George Marshall is only marginally fit to command a regiment, and that

giving him the authority I have seen fit to give him borders on an

impeachable offense. Oh, how the Chicago Tribune would love to have

that letter."

"And because George Marshall thinks Jimmy Whittaker may know THE SECRET

WARRIORS M ST the contents of that letter, you intend to hold him

incommunicado indefinitely?" Donovan asked. "You obviously don't

think that's necessary?"

"For one thing, it presumes-and this presumes he knows what the letter

said, and I don't think he does-that the moment he has the chance, he

would rush to Colonel McCormick with it. But really, Franklin, I don't

think he'd do that to you-not as an officer, and certainly not as a

friend."

"Marshall believes that Mac Arthur, in his usual MacHiavellian way,

hopes Jimmy would do just that."

"Bologna!" Donovan said. "Eleanor's word, exactly," the President

said.

"All right, Bill, tell me what you would do."

"Assign him to me," Donovan said. "And what would you do with him?"

"He's entitled to a thirty-day home leave," Donovan said.

"I'd give it to him-at Summer Place in Deal. Canidy's going to be

there, and he's privy to much of this anyway. I can tell him enough

more to make sure that Jimmy doesn't do anything to embarrass George

Marshall."

"George would argue that Jimmy requires psychiatric care," Roosevelt

said. George is saying Jimmy's crazy?" Donovan snapped.

"I don't think he's mad. I think he was under a terrible strain. And

besides, I don't think he's the only officer who would like to do to

George Marshall what he did."

"You don't think his actually doing it raises the question of his

mental health?" Roosevelt asked. "He's as sane as you or I," Donovan

said.

"Christ, Franklin, you've got Putzi von Hanfstaengel,' a certified

Nazi, in the Hotel Washington, and you have him for dinner here. How

can you keep that boy under what amounts to arrest?"

"Putzi is an ex-Nazi," the President said coldly.

"And you know, Bill, how valuable he's been to us."

"Ernst "Putzi" von Hanfstaengel, a classmate and close friend of

Roosevelt at Harvard, was one of the early aristocratic supporters of

Hider and the Nazi party Later, his disillusionment with Nazism became

known to Heinrich Himmler, who ordered von Hanfstaengel murdered. He

learned of the plot and managed to escape 'with his family through

Spain. Roosevelt established him in an apartment in the Hotel

Washington, where von Hanfstaengel spent the war offering his knowledge

of the Nazi inner circle to Roosevelt and the several intelligence

services.

Though he let his displeasure show, Donovan didn't back down. "I would

say that Jim Whittaker has done his fair share of being valuable to

us," Donovan said.

"At the very least, if he has to be-what shall I say?-restrained, then

we can do that as well at Summer Place as Fort Knox."

"You may have a point," the President said. "There's one more thing,"

Donovan said.

"Jim Whittaker's name has come up in connection with the North African

invasion, in connection with a man named Eric Fulmar. "Who's he?"

"Another valuable-to-our-cause German, Franklin," Donovan said. When

Roosevelt glared at him, Donovan went on: "We used him to help us get

the mining engineer out of Morocco. He's close to the pasha of Ksar es

Souk, who, Holds worth Martin suggests, might just be able to arrange

for a rebellion when we invade."

"What's his connection with Jimmy?

"He, Jimmy, and Canidy were in boarding school together. St. Mark's,"

Donovan said.

"We used Canidy to get to him in the Grunier operation, but that burned

Canidy out for Fulmar after we decided to leave Fulmar in Morocco

although we'd promised to take him out. If we go ahead with the idea

of stirring up the Berbers, we'll need another contact. Among the

names that the researchers came up with, absolutely independently, was

James M. B. Whittaker." Roosevelt didn't reply for a moment. Finally

he asked, "Again, Bill, exactly what is it you want me to do? " "Turn

Jimmy over to me," Donovan said.

"I'll guarantee his silence. "I'll discuss it with George," Roosevelt

said. "We both know what he'll say," Donovan protested. "As I've told

you, George doesn't always get what George wants," the President

said.

"But under the circumstances, I think I should ask him what he

thinks."

Donovan just looked at him.

"And under the circumstances, I think you should relay my gratitude to

Barbara for her hospitality to the admiral. You may tell her that I

said I have every hope that she will soon be able to see Jimmy."

I V [ ONE I San Francisco, California June 15, 1942

Lieutenant Commander Edwin H. Bitter returned to the United States

aboard the Swedish passenger liner Kungsholm. The Kungsholm was then

engaged in returning diplomatic and civilian personnel of the various

belligerent powers to their homelands. Its last voyage in this

capacity had been to Japan, carrying among others a hundred Japanese of

American citizenship who preferred Japan to detention in the camps

established for them in Arizona and elsewhere.

The Swedish ambassador to the Empire of Japan then received Japanese

permission to charter the vessel to the United States for service as a

hospital ship. On instructions from Berlin, the German ambassador

supported the Swedish request. The German Foreign Ministry believed

that Germany might require similar services at some time in the

future.

The German request overcame reluctance from some quarters in the

Japanese Foreign Ministry.

The Kungsholm-floodlights illuminating the huge red crosses painted on

its white hull-steamed under the Golden Gate Bridge and docked at the

Treasure Island Naval Base in San Francisco Bay. Most of the Navy and

Marine Corps personnel aboard were transferred immediately to a

hospital train for transportation to the Navy hospital in San Diego.

But since Lieutenant Commander Bitter was ambulatory he required a

cane-he was driven to the Alameda Naval Air Station in a Navy station

wagon. After a complete physical examination he was given an interim

classification of "convalescent" and a partial pay, then ordered to

report to the Great Lakes Naval Station. He was told he would be given

a fourteen-day convalescent leave to his home of record, and that a

reservation priority had been authorized for a roomette aboard a train

to Chicago the next day. Bitter arrived in the United States wearing

Army-issue khakis with an Army major's golden oak leaf on each collar

point. There had been no Navy-size (smaller) rank insignia available

in Calcutta. As soon as he could, he went to the officers' sales store

and outfitted himself with uniforms off the rack. These would do for

the time being.

When he left for the Orient a year before, he had sent most of his Navy

uniforms from Pensacola Naval Air Station, where he had been stationed

with Dick Canidy, to his parents' home in Chicago. He bought two sets

of khaki tunics, trousers, and shirts; two sets of khaki shoulder

boards (two white, two blue); and the appropriate metal insignia of

rank. He purchased golden Naval Aviator's wings to replace the set he

had taken to China. They had been either misplaced or stolen. The

clerk had never heard of the Order of the Cloud Banner, so he could not

buy a ribbon to represent that. And he was further disappointed when

he realized that since he'd gotten his wound while he was in Chinese

service, it did not qualify him for the Purple Heart medal. The clerk

told him, however, that anybody with ninety days' service in the

Pacific was entitled to a Pacific Theater ribbon, but Bitter decided he

wasn't entitled to that either, since he did not have ninety days' U.S.

Navy service in the Far East. He also did not choose to wear the

single ribbon everyone in the service was entitled to, the American

Defense Service Medal. Finally, he pinned his American Volunteer Group

wings above the right breast pocket and his Navy wings above the left,

where regulations prescribed they should be worn. When he examined

himself in the mirror, he was pleased with what he saw. It was good to

be back in a Navy uniform, and he thought that the AVG wings would more

than make up to anyone who knew what they were-and he didn't really

care about anyone who didn't-for the lack of campaign ribbons on his

left breast.

In the men's room of the officers' club that night, he ran into a non

flying rear admiral who did not know what the AVG wings were and was

drunk enough to inquire. "Commander," the admiral asked, "what the

hell is that pinned to your jacket?"

"They're AVG wings, Sir," Ed replied, properly modest. "What say?"

"AVG wings, Sir," Ed repeated, and when there was no glint of

understanding in the admiral's eyes, he explained: "The American

Volunteer Group, Sir. In China."

"Chinaman's wings?"

"Americans flying for China, Sir."

"I would suggest, Commander," the admiral said nastily, "that you

remove those immediately from the uniform of the U.S. Navy. Chinaman's

wings!

Good Christ! On a naval officer! The admiral stormed out of the

head.

Fuck the old fart! Bitter thought angrily. Dumb chair-warming shore

sailor didn't even know what the AVG is! I earned those wings, and

I'll god damned well wear them! In ninety seconds he was calmed down

enough to realize that he was reacting like Dick Canidy, who questioned

every order he was ever given, and not like an Annapolis graduate and

lieutenant commander in the Regular Navy. He wondered again what had

become of Canidy. He had thought often of writing to him after Canidy

had been sent home in disgrace, but had never done so. He really

hadn't known what to say. It was uncomfortable to say anything at all

to a man who had shown the white feather in combat, even though he

himself now understood with insight born of his own combat experiences

how close anyone could come to that. But as he stepped to the men's

room mirror to comply with the admiral's order, he realized that his

feelings really had nothing to do with Canidy. He had earned the wings

as a Flying Tiger, and so far as he was concerned, AVG wings lent

distinction to the Navy uniform rather than shaming it. He didn't take

the wings Off, then, and he was wearing them the next morning when he

went by the transportation office and picked up his tickets for the

trip to Chicago.

The first couple of days at home were a euphoric emotional bath. Al on

S though he professed to be embarrassed, he was really pleased to see

the letters from the Chinese Embassy attesting to his all-around

heroism expensively framed and hanging on the dining-room wall. When

he went with his father to the Commercial Club for lunch, a half-dozen

of his father's friends came by the table to warmly shake his hand and

to tell him how proud his father-and for that matter, everybody who

knew him-was of him. The same thing happened when he went with both

his parents to the Lake Shore Club for dinner, and there, if it hadn't

been for his mother hovering around him, he felt sure that he could

have made a date with at least one-and probably two-of the young women

who followed their parents to the Bitter table. On the third day,

there was a telephone call for him. One of the maids came out on the

patio. She was carrying a telephone on a long extension cord, and

wordlessly she handed it to him. "Hello," he said. "Commander Bitter,

please," a crisp military voice demanded. "This is Commander Bitter,"

Ed said. He was stiff not used to his new rank, and rather liked the

way that phrase sounded. "Hold on, Commander, please, for Admiral

Hawley," the crisp voice said. Faintly he heard, "I have Commander

Bitter for you, Admiral," and then another voice came on the line,

deeper, older.

"Commander Bitter?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Admiral Hawley, Commander," the admiral said.

"I'm Chief, Aviation Allocation, BUAIR. "Yes, Sir?"

"First, let me welcome you home, both to the States and the Navy."

"Thank you very much, Sir." Who the hell is he? I know the name from

someplace. What does he want with me? "Commander, I need an

aide-de-camp, preferably someone like yourself, Annapolis, who has been

in harm's way, and one who is not at the moment on flight status. What

he'll be doing, rather than passing hors "U.S. Navy Bureau of

Aeronautics.

d'oeuvres, is helping me distribute our assets where they will do the

most good. Unless you have objections to the assignment, BUPERS2 says

I can have you. Interested?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Now, I don't want you rushing down here to Washington, Son. You take

your leave. From what I hear, you damned well have earned it. The

reason I called now is so that we can get the paperwork moving."

"I'm on a fourteen-day leave, Sir."

"Well, you take the full fourteen days, and however much longer you

feel you need. I don't want you returning to duty before you feel up

to it."

"Fourteen days will be enough, Sir."

"Welcome aboard, Commander," Admiral Hawley said, and hung up. Ed

Bitter was pleased at this development. It would be some time before

he could get back on flight status, if ever. Thus, he had been a

little afraid that when he reported for duty, he would find himself

officer in charge of enlisted recreation, or in some other "essential"

occupation that could be handled by a grounded aviator. This was

different. Not only would he be on the staff of a BUAIR flag officer,

but that flag officer wanted him because he was Annapolis, and had been

in harm's way, not just because he was an available body. Duty as an

aide-de-camp was considered an essential part to the advancement of an

officer's career, and he was now getting that chance. He was no longer

the shallow junior officer who had gone to China, He was an ace, nearly

a double ace, and he was quite sure that Admiral Hawley would not

object to his wearing his AVG wings. Admiral Hawley obviously knew

what they represented. By the end of the week, however, the euphoria

had palled, and his mother and the procession of friends she marched to

hover over her son the wounded hero now made him more than a little

uncomfortable. By the weekend, he knew he had to get away. "I'm

sorry, Mother," he said when she told him she'd planned a cocktail

party in his honor on Sunday, "I should have said something sooner.

But I won't be here over the weekend."

"But the invitations have already gone out-" "I'm going to Memphis

tomorrow," he said firmly.

"For a couple of "U.S. Navy Bureau of Personnel.

days. Navy business. I called the airfield. They have planes running

to the Memphis NAS, and I can catch a ride on one."

"Whatever do you want to go to Memphis for?" his mother asked. The

reason he wanted to go to Memphis was to see if the little girl who had

been so passionate in bed at the Chambers vacation home in Alabama

would give him the same kind of welcome she had given him before he

went away, but he could hardly say that to his mother. "Navy

business," he said again.

"The Navy has a large air station at Memphis. I thought you knew."

"No," she said unhappily.

"And I don't see why the Navy's making you go all the way to Memphis,"

his mother said.

"With your knee in the shape it is." Having me as a naval hero, he

thought, a little unkindly, works both ways. "Mother," Bitter said.

"I'm a naval officer. The country is at war." She swallowed that

whole.

"Yes, of course," she said.

"Your duty comes first. I was only thinking of your well-being."

At Glen view Naval Air Station, he was given space aboard a Navy R4-D

bound for the Memphis NAS. At Memphis, when he asked in base

operations where he could find a cab, the aerodrome officer took a

quick look at the cane and the AVG wings and announced: "We have cars

for people like you, Commander. Welcome home, Sir! It probably is

unfitting and childish of me, Ed Bitter thought, but under

circumstances like these, there is much to be said for being a hero

returned from the wars. He had the driver take him to the Peabody

Hotel rather than to the newspaper. He didn't really want to see Ann

Chambers. He wanted to see Sarah Child and get her off somewhere

before Ann could guess his intentions and throw up obstacles. With a

little bit of luck, Sarah Child would be alone at the Peabody. He drew

a blank with the hotel operator when he asked for Miss Child, but when

he asked for Miss Chambers, she said, "Oh, you meant Mrs. Schild.

I'll ring." Who the hell is Mrs. Schild?

"Hello?" He recognized Sarah's voice, and his heart jumped. "Hello

yourself, pen pal," he said. There was silence on the line for a long

moment.

"Sarah? That is you, isn't it?"

"Where are you, Ed?" Sarah asked, calmly, distantly. "In the

lobby."

My return, he thought, has not sent the lady into paroxysms of

ecstasy.

"Give me fifteen minutes, Ed," Sarah said.

"Make it twenty."

"And then what?"

"And then come up."

"Caught you in the shower, did I?" Maybe I am getting lucky! "Twenty

minutes," she replied, and hung up. He went into the bar and had a

Scotch, and then another. There were a number of possibilities. She

could have been in the shower, or had her face covered with mud, or any

of the other things that females did to achieve beauty. Or she could

have some guy up there. If she had a guy up there, a likely prospect

considering her hot pants, she would either have to get rid of him or

explain me to him. It was a dumb idea coming here in the first

place.

I should have left things as they were. Pen pals, nothing more. He

waited precisely twenty minutes from the time he had spoken with her on

the house phone and then walked across the lobby to the levators. He

had just given the floor to the operator when he heard a familiar

female voice shout, "Hold that car! It was Ann Chambers. That's why

Sarah had needed twenty minutes. To summon Ann. Sarah was afraid that

I would open the door, carry her to the bedroom, tear off her clothes,

and rape her "If you say' Hello, Ann," Ann said, "I will say, "Hi,

there, Cousin Edwin. How's tricks?"

"She called you, right?" Ed Bitter snapped. "Right.)) "What the hell

for?"

"I don't really know," Ann said.

"Did Dick Canidy get home yet?" A year before, when both Ed Bitter and

Dick Canidy were flying instructors-and roommates-at the Navy base in

Pensacola, Florida, Ed had brought Dick to The Plantation in Alabama.

The Plantation was an antebellum mansion and several hundred thousand

acres of pine trees her father, Ed's uncle, hoped one day to turn into

newsprint. Dick Canidy looked like the answer to a maiden's prayer in

his white Navy uniform with the gold wings of a Naval Aviator pinned to

his manly breast, and she would have cheerfully given him her pearl of

great price right there on the carpet in the library of The Plantation

had he asked for it. Or shown a slight interest in it. But he

hadn't.

He had made it perfectly clear that he regarded her as a college girl,

beneath his consideration, and a relative of Eddie to boot. But an

hour after Ann Chambers had first set eyes on Dick Canidy, she had

decided that didn't matter. She was going to marry him. His

disinterest in her hadn't changed that decision, only made her realize

that the way to capture this man was not to stare soulfully at him and

wiggle her tail.

She would have been perfectly willing to do that, too, but that wasn't

going to work. The way to catch this man was, she knew, to become his

pal, his friend, a buddy in skirts. The birds-and-the-bees business

would come later. She barely managed to start this, by talking flying

with him-she had her commercial single-engine license, an Instrument

rating, and 520 hours in her father's stagger-wing Beechcraft-asking

intelligent questions, putting him at ease, when Dick and Ed set off

for China to save the world for democracy. That had reduced her

campaign to letter writing. Funny letters, the envelopes containing

more clippings she thought would interest him than text. But she did

just happen to mention that she had quit college and was working for

the Memphis Advocate and hoped to get overseas as a correspondent. He

had responded as a pal. Without even mentioning what he was doing in

the war, he wrote about China and about the problems of navigation

where there were no navigation aids and about how difficult it had been

to reassemble crated airplanes with a Chinese work force. And then the

letters had stopped.

She had no idea why, but there was a chance that Ed Bitter knew

something she didn't. "Why do you ask about him?" Ed Bitter replied

as the elevator doors closed. And then he remembered that Ann had had

a schoolgirl crush on Dick Canidy. "Yes or no," she said.

"Simple question, simple answer."

"He's been home for some time," he said.

THE SECRET WARRIORS X ST The way he said that alarmed her. It was

evident in her voice. "He's been hurt?"

"No," he said.

"He has not been hurt."

"Then what?"

"He was sent home months ago,' Ed said. "Why?"

"Is that important?"

"It wouldn't be if you weren't reluctant to tell me."

"If you have to know," Ed said, 'he was relieved."

"What does that mean?" Ann asked. "He was-discharged-from. the AVG,"

Bitter said.

"Under not quite honorable circumstances."

"What, exactly, were those 'not quite honorable circumstances'?" Ann

demanded. "It was alleged that he refused to engage the enemy." She

looked at him intently and saw that he was telling her the truth. "He

must have had his reasons," she said loyalty.

"Where is he?"

"I have no idea," Ed said.

"Under the circumstances, I don't think he wants to see me. Or, for

that matter, you."

"I would like to hear his side," Ann said. "I really don't know where

he is, Ann," Ed Bitter said.

"My advice is to leave it that way." The elevator was by then at the

eighth floor. The operator opened the door and they stepped into a

corridor. He followed Ann down the corridor. She stopped before a

door, took a key from her pocket and unlocked it, and stepped inside.

She waved for him to follow her inside. There was a sitting room, with

doors opening off either side. "Sarah!" Ann called. A door opened.

And Sarah stood framed in it-with an infant in her arms. She looked at

Ed Bitter and then away. Ann went to her and took the child.

What the hell is all this? "Don't tell me that's yours," he said to

Ann.

"Okay. I won't tell you it's mine," Ann said agreeably.

"It's not mine. It's yours."

She walked to him and abruptly handed him the infant.

"He's mine," Sarah said.

"You're the father, but you don't have to think of him as yours unless

you want to."

"I don't believe this," Ed Bitter said. "Scout's honor, Cousin Edwin,"

Ann said. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

"I'm glad you're home safe, Ed," Sarah said. "Goddamn it, don't get

off the subject!" he said.

"Why wasn't I told? "Theoretically," Ann said, "because you were off

saving the world for democracy, and she didn't want to trouble you.

Actually, because she was afraid of what you would do when you found

out."

"Ann!" Sarah said. "Jesus Christ!" Bitter said. "So now that you

know, Ed," Ann pursued, "what are you going to do about him?"

"Ann!" Sarah said again, Ed Bitter looked down at the child in his

arms.

He felt no emotion whatever. This boy is unquestionably my child, if

for no other reason than that a practical joke of this magnitude is

beyond even Ann. And if it is my child, I certainly will have to do

the decent thing: Recognize it, legitimatize it, marry the mother, give

it and her my name. He looked at Sarah. She was staring out a

window.

He looked down at the child again. He had no sense of recognition, he

thought, no animal sensing that this was the fruit of his loins. It

was simply a baby, indistinguishable from dozens he had held as

reluctantly as he held this one. "If I seem somewhat stunned by all

this," he said, "I am.

I came here with the intention of rushing Sarah into becoming engaged

before my leave was up."

"You took your sweet time getting to Memphis, Romeo," Ann said. "And

now," he said, ignoring the remark, "it would seem that it is not a

question of whether she'll marry me, but how soon."

"You don't have to marry me," Sarah said, not meaning it. "I love you,

Sarah," he said, surprised at how easy the words, the lie, came to his

lips. "And we owe it to Whatsisname here, don't you think?" Ann

laughed.

"Give me Whatsisname," she said.

"And I'll take him for a walk."

"No," Bitter said.

"You take a walk, Ann. But leave him here. I want to get to know

him."

Ann looked at the two of them and left, saying nothing. Sarah finally

turned to him. He looked gaunt, she thought, but even more handsome

than the first time she had seen him. She was reacting to him now as

she had reacted to him then. Except now she understood what that

reaction was.

He was ore than the most handsome man she had ever seen, he was the

sexiest. Perhaps that was really what handsome meant.

She wanted very much to rush to him, to put her arms around him, to

feel his body against hers. But that, she sensed, was not what she

should o right now. There had been shock in his eyes when he looked at

her, d maybe even fear. Certainly not lust. In "How's your friend

Canidy?"

Sarah asked.

"Ann hasn't heard from him in a long time, months."

"To hell with Canidy," he snapped.

"Let's talk about this." He raised the baby in his arms. "He's very

healthy," Sarah said.

"And most of the time very happy."

"He looks like you," Bitter said. "Too early to tell," she said.

"You like him?"

"I like him," he said, and looked at her and smiled happily. I'll be

damned if that isn't true! "I'm glad," she said. She smiled back. It

was the first time she had smiled since he had arrived. "Me, too," he

said.

"Glad, I mean. Happy. Stunned, but happy and glad."

"It wasn't what you expected, was it?"

"I came with evil designs on your body," he said. Sarah met his

eyes.

He means that. He came hoping for a quick piece of ass, and was

instead presented with his child. But that is not important. I am not

offended, or hurt. He didn't know, and he came. That is enough.

"He's usually sound asleep at half past five," she said.

"And he sleeps like a log until it's time to feed him again." He was

strangely excited. He recognized it as sexual excitement. What the

hell.

What's wrong with that? "We'll have to get rid of Ann," he said. "If

she can't hear the baby cry, she couldn't hear us," Sarah said.

100 19 W.K.B. GRIFFIX She saw the surprise on his face and added: "I've

been thinking about you that way, too. Does that shock you?"

"I don't think anything will ever shock me again," Bitter said.

Lieutenant Commander Edwin H. Bitter, USN, and Miss Sarah Child were

united in matrimony seventy-two hours after he learned that he was a

father. There were two ceremonies, the first in the chambers of judge

Braxton Fogg of the U.S. Circuit Court for the Tennessee District.

Before going on the bench, judge Fogg had represented the Chandler H.

Bitter Company, Commodities Brokers, in Memphis and become a close

friend of Chandler H. Bitter. judge Fogg was pleased to be able to be

of service, and between judge Fogg and Miss Ann Chambers it was

arranged to keep the news of the wedding from being released to-more

important, published in-the Memphis Advocate, or any other newspaper.

Both the father of the groom and Joseph Schild, the father of the

bride, agreed that the important thing was that Ed had come home alive

to assume-if a little late-his role as husband and father. The story,

it was agreed between them, to be given out was that Sarah and Ed had

been secretly married before Ed had gone off to the Flying Tigers.

It would have been better if Sarah had been willing to divulge the name

of the father before now, so that story could have been circulated

earlier, but there was nothing that could be done about that now.

Mr. Schild confided in Mr. and Mrs. Bitter the unfortunate reaction

his wife had had upon learning that her only daughter was pregnant, and

told them that she was again in the Institute of Living in Hartford.

He was of course desperate to do anything that might help her.

Could Chandler Bitter and his wife possibly see their way clear to

participating in a Hebrew wedding ceremony, photographs of which would

be taken and shown to Mrs. Schild? Together with photographs of the

married couple with their child?

A second wedding ceremony was performed by Rabbi Mo she Teitelbaum in

Memphis's Congregation Beth Sholoin. Wearing hastily rented formal

clothing, Mr. Schild gave his bride to marriage to Commander Bit AM

ter, whose father served as his best man. Miss Ann Chambers served

both as bridesmaid and supervisor of wedding photography. It was the

first time Commander Bitter, his parents, or Miss Chambers had ever

been in a Hebrew place of worship.

TWO I Haugarit Newark Airport Newark, New Jersey June a5, 194a Dick

Canidy was standing in the fuselage of a Curtiss Wright CW-20 airplane

(military designation C-46 Commando) wearing oil-stained mechanic's

coveralls. He had come up to Newark from Summer Place in Deal on a New

Jersey Central Railroad commuter train in a business suit, taken a

Public Service bus to the airport, walked to Hangar 17, and changed

into the coveralls, He had made the same trip every day for the past

four days. d overalls, were with him inside Two men, also wearing

grease-stame s room, in addi the cavernous main compartment of the

C-46-there wa tion to general cargo, for 40 fully equipped troops, or

33 stretchers, or five Wright R-3350 engines, or their equivalent

weight of other goods. One of them was an airframe mechanic on loan

from Pan American Airways, and the other was Colonel Charles Augustus

"Lucky Lindy" Lindbergh, U.S. Army Air Corps Reserve, Inactive, the

first man to have flown solo across the Atlantic Ocean. Come up with

a

Lindbergh and the airframe mechanic were trying to c el-carrying

capacity simple, reliable means of augmenting the C-46's fu tisoned in

the air. The normal range with auxiliary tanks that could be jet of

the C-46-1,170 miles at 180 knots-was not going to be enough for the

mission planned. ad been initially in the very pres Canidy no longer

felt as awed as he hence of Lindbergh. For one thing, Lindbergh didn't

act like a colonel, much less like one of the most famous and admired

men in the world. The lanky aviator Lindbergh had made it almost

immediately plain that since Canidy was another flier, he was thus a

brother. He had then proved, in a number of small ways, that he meant

what he said. Canidy had shared a dozen cold and soggy hot dogs with

the tall, shy hero. Twice, wearing Pan American coveralls, Lindbergh

had walked the half mile to the terminal to buy them himself.

He had not been recognized. He looked like just one more airplane

mechanic trying to fix a broken bird. That was not to say that Canidy

had grown entirely comfortable around Lindbergh. He hadn't been sure

what to call him, for one thing. He certainly couldn't call him Slim,

and-considering President Roosevelt's refusal to call Colonel Lindbergh

to active duty he wasn't sure how Lindbergh would react to being called

Colonel. Finally, toward the end of their first day together, he had

gathered his courage and asked him what he would like to be called.

"How about Slim?" Lindbergh said. "I don't think I could do that,"

Canidy said. "Well, then, Major, call me Colonel if that's more

comfortable for you. "Colonel," Canidy blurted, "I'm not a major. I'm

not really in the Air Corps. I'm just wearing the uniform. Lindbergh

hadn't liked that.

"It was Colonel Donovan's idea," Canidy said. "1 see," Lindbergh

said.

After the first day, Canidy had not worn the major's uniform. And two

days later, when he walked into the Pan American hangar at Newark

Airport, he knew from the look on Lindbergh's face that he had offended

him. "Mr. Canidy," Lindbergh greeted him, 4@ as someone who will

probably never again wear a uniform, who has never heard a shot fired

in anger, I feel a little foolish being called Colonel by the first ace

in the American Volunteer Group. Why didn't you tell me about that?"

Canidy shrugged uncomfortably. "Well, from now on it's Slim and Dick,"

Lindbergh said.

"All right?"

"Yes, Sir," Canidy said. He still could not bring himself to call

Lindbergh Slim. Connecting one casually dropped fact with another, he

learned that Lindbergh had personally laid out, then flown himself,

most of Pan American long-distance flight routes in South America and

across the Atlantic and Pacific oceans, and that he had an awesome

amount of experience with all of the Sikorsky amphibians and seaplanes

Pan Am used. But Lindbergh had already concluded that large commercial

seaplane transports had outlived their usefulness. "I think," he told

Canidy over a hot dog and a Coke, "that we've already reached the point

of diminishing return in seaplane design. The engines-to avoid

ingesting water on takeoff or landing-have to he placed very high. To

mount them that far above the water, we can't use aerodynamically

efficient wings and engine locations. And if we make these planes any

larger, we will have to make their hulls correspondingly stronger, and

the weight penalty there is too high. "There's no question in my mind

that the next step in transoceanic flight is going to he an

aerodynamically efficient airframe, designed for flight at very high

altitude. Howard Hughes showed me some preliminary drawings of a

really beautiful airplane that will carry seventy people at thirty

thousand feet at nearly four hundred miles an hour for three thousand

miles. The big leap forward will come when they come up with a

reliable jet engine. With jets, transport aircraft will actually

approach the speed of sound." Canidy, who had heard only the most

vague references to jet engines, said so, and was astonished to learn

from Lindbergh that both the English and the Germans had test-flown

jet-powered aircraft. Lindbergh had already rejected Donovan's notion

that a seaplane, one of Pan American's Sikorskys, be borrowed for the

long-distance cargo flight he wanted. And Lindbergh also had quickly

deduced where that flight was headed. "Bill Donovan won't tell me

where this flight is going," Lindbergh said, "and if you know, I

suppose you cant tell me either. But unless you tell me it's a waste

of my time, I'm going to work on the idea that it's probably some place

on the west coast of Africa."

"I really don't know," Canidy had told him. Lindbergh shrugged.

"And since there is some question about where my sympathies lie in this

war, I don't suppose I'll be asked to fly this mission. That means, I

suppose, that you will."

"I don't know that, either," Canidy said. "Hub!" Lindbergh snorted,

and then went on: "Well, we'll proceed on the notion that you'll be

flying it."

"I really don't know, Colonel," Canidy pursued.

"I've never flown anything but fighters-and a Beech DI 8S, "They're

sending kids with a hundred twenty hours' total time to Europe as B-17

aircraft commanders,' Lindbergh said.

"How many hours did you say you have, Ace?"

Canidy didn't reply, He had more than 2,000 hours in the air, more than

twice 120 hours in combat, but he was reluctant to say so. Lindbergb

chuckled, then went on: "Far down the west coast of Africa. Perhaps as

far as South Africa. The way to do that is with a Curtiss."

"Why?" Canidy asked simply, "Because it can fly faster and higher tbqn

a Sikorsky, and when we solve the problem of auxiliary fuel tanks,

maybe a thousand miles farther." Lindbergh had arranged for a Pan

American Strato liner, the civilian version of the Commando, to be

flown to Newark. The story was let out that it had been requisitioned

by the Air Corps. While one crew of workmen stripped the seats, the

carpets, and the sound-deadening material from the cabin, another crew

removed the glistening white paint and Pan American insignia from the

outside skin.

Then Hangar 17 was isolated and placed under guard by Air Corps

military policemen. Canidy came to understand that isolating aircraft

and cargo was a routine procedure these days.

Whenever a crew from Pan American was doing something that did not

require his expertise, Lindbergh talked to Canidy at length about

long-distance, high-altitude flight. In the course of these

discussions, Lindbergh and Canidy prepared more than a dozen flight

plans, all based on the idea that the departure point would be either

the Azores or one of the American air bases in England. Though they

didn't know where they were going, Or even where they would leave from,

Lindbergb seemed determined to have a flight plan prepared for every

possibility.

Lindbergb also spent long hours showing Canidy around the Curtiss's

cockpit, familiarizing him with the controls and the peculiarities Of

the aircraft, while delivering conversational lectures on how to milk

the most mileage from its twin 2,000-horsepower Pratt & Whitney Twin

Wasp engines. He gave no consideration to the fact that Canidy had

never flown the Curtiss. Lindbergh seemed to believe that little

problem could be solved in an hour or two in the left seat, going

around the pattern shooting touch-and-go landings.

Although Canidy was by no means modest about his flying ability he was,

after all, a pretty good fighter pilot-flying the Curtiss when the p

time came made him more than a little nervous.

And-there being no question in his mind that Lindbergh had correctly

deduced where the plane was headed-what he had come to think of as the

African flight wasn't all Canidy had to deal with. His primary duty

was still the baby-sitting of Admiral de Verbey at Summer Place, and

there were always other problems with that-most of them small but

time-consuming ones with the guards. They developed colds. One of

them fell over a piece of driftwood on the beach, dislocated his

shoulder, and nearly died of exposure before he was found. And then

disputes between the guards over the duty roster had to be resolved.

Canidy and the admiral had quickly dropped the polite fiction that

Canidy was his liaison officer. The admiral knew that he was being

politely held prisoner. To pretend otherwise would have been

insulting. And the admiral placed yet another demand on Canidy's

time.

In what Canidy came to think of as his Great Summer Place Mistake, on

his second or third night in Deal-caught up in the excitement of the

game he had played some first-class bridge, wiping out the admiral and

Mrs. Whittaker and awing the ex-FBI agent who had been drafted for a

fourth. The admiral thereafter saw in Canidy a bridge player worthy of

his own considerable talent, From then on, whenever Canidy sat down

near a flat surface, the admiral started drawing up chairs and

shuffling cards. Canidy soon realized that he should have dropped the

cards on the floor the first night. And then the admiral announced,

dead serious, that he intended to steal-he said "restore to service

against the Boche'@-the battleship jean Bart, the largest vessel in the

French Navy, currently at anchor "under German monitor ship' in

Casablanca harbor. The first time Canidy learned this, he was torn

between amusement and concern for the admiral's mental health. Telling

himself that humoring the feisty little old man was the price he was

going to have to pay to keep the admiral happy, he had reluctantly

presented himself at Admiral de Verbey's war plans room-a glassed-in

porch on the second floor-to be "briefed."

Charts of Casablanca harbor, the mouth of the Mediterranean, and 106 a

W.E.H. URIFFIN the eastern Atlantic had been thumbtacked to the

walls.

The halves of a Ping-Pong table, resting on folding chairs, now held

large sketches drawn from memory --of the battleship itself, Deadly

serious, the admiral had used the charts and drawings to show Canidy

how the vessel could be seized by a small force and by judicious use of

watertight doors, and how the vessel could afterward be refueled under

way at sea. By the time the admiral finished outlining his plan to

steal the sixth or seventh-largest naval vessel in the world from under

the noses of the German forces in Casablanca, Canidy was no longer

convinced that the old man was living in cuckoo land. Improbable was

not quite the same thing as insane. First of all, the admiral had made

it dear that his chief and only reason for stealing the jean Bart was

as a symbol.

Removing the ship from the shaming control of the Germans would not

just humiliate them; More important, it would Profoundly challenge the

belief now held by most Frenchmen that since nothing could be done

against the Bodies, the logical thing to do was accommodate them. And

Admiral de Ver beys plan to seize the battleship met the first test of

any good naval tactic: simplicity, In compliance with the terms of the

Franco-German armistice, the battleship still remained in French hands

with her full crew and enough ammunition for both her main turrets and

her extensive complement of antiaircraft cannon and machine guns. In

the event of an attack by any enemy-read English or American-against

the sovereign soil of neutral France, the jean Bart was expected by the

Germans to respond with all its firepower. For several reasons, the

Germans were not particularly wo tried that her crew would turn the

jean Bart's weaponry on them or suddenly decide to let loose the lines

and go to sea. For one, the honor of the French Navy was at stake,

France had signed an armistice with Germany. Marshal P6tain, as Chief

of the French State, had through official channels ordered her captain

to remain in port, and to defend French soil, More practically, the

jean Bart's fuel tanks were virtu y d She was all ry regularly

refueled, but with only enough oil to run one of her four engines at

steaming speed for twelve hours. That was not nearly enough fuel for a

dash for the open sea. A dash like that would require all four engines

running at full power. It was, however, sufficient fuel to provide

electrical services and THS SECRFT WARRIORS 0

101 wer for her turrets and separate cannon and their ammunition

hoists. Po ing order.

Each of her four engines was run in turn, which kept all four in good

runnaccording t o the admiral, there were thus only two major problems

to be overcome in the "liberation" of the Jean Bart. The first was the

question his orders.

of the willingness of her captain to fly in the face of his honor and

violate The presence of Vice Admiral de Verbey on the scene would

handle that problem. He was not only the former captain of the jean

Bart, but was also now the senior admiral not under the German thumb.

If he ordered her to sea, his orders would be obeyed. The second

problem, fuel, was by no means as hopeless as it might first appear.

Though the main tanks were officially empty, there was still residual

fuel-many tons of it-in each tank, left there because it was beyond the

reach of her between-the-tanks fuel-transfer pumps. But by setting up

portable pumps, the "empty" tanks could rather easily be pumped dry of

their "residual" fuel, and that fuel transferred to the "active"

tank.

The admiral's calculations had determined that there would be enough

fuel in the "active' tank to run all jean Bart's four engines at full

power for almost two hours. That would see her out of the harbor and

into the Mediterranean. There she would be met, the admiral planned,

by an American tanker and an escort, preferably of destroyers and a

cruiser.

If the escort-and the Jean Bart herself-could provide defense against

the aircraft the Germans would send after her, sufficient fuel could be

transferred in an hour to give the jean Bart the means to sail into the

Atlantic out of range of German aircraft. Then full refueling could be

accomplished more or less at leisure. What the admiral still required,

and what Canidy decided to get for him, were a few technical facts: How

much fuel per minute could be pumped from a tanker into the Jean Bart's

tanks? Using how many lines? What was the pressure of the lines? At

what speed could a U.S. Navy tanker steam while her fuel lines were

attached to the Jean Bart? In what sea conditions?

when Canidy called him in Washington, "I wasn't aware that delusion was

contagious," Captain Doug lass said "What would it hurt to give the old

man the information he wants?"

"Well, for one thing, I'm sure that's classified."

"Who are you afraid he'll tell?" Canidy asked. "I'll work up some

figures, then," Doug lass said. "Get him the right ones," Canidy

said.

"He's no fool."

"You ever think of making an investment in a bridge, Canidy? " Doug

lass said.

"I'm sure the admiral has one he'd be willing to sell you cheap." But

two days later, probably because Doug lass had decided it would keep

the admiral happy and away from the press, a messenger delivered an

enormous stack of technical manuals containing details of U.S. Navy

tanker refueling techniques and capabilities.

THREE I Deal, New jersey June LIS, 1942

Dick Canidy, dressed in a business suit and carrying a briefcase, after

a full day in coveralls in Hangar 17, stepped off the New jersey

Central train at As bury Park. The Rolls Royce was waiting for him.

After making another killing on Wall Street, home comes Richard Canidy,

well-known internationalfinancier, to he met by thefaithfulfamily

retainer in the Rolls. When the Rolls delivered Canidy in his

stockbroker's uniform to Summer Place, the admiral, Barbara Whittaker,

and the admiral's chief of staff were drinking wine at an

umbrella-shaded cast-iron table on the lawn. The lawn was green and

lovely and it stretched down to the beach.

Without being asked, the admiral's middle-aged orderly brought Canidy

some of Chesly Whittaker's older-than-Canidy Scotch. With a breeze

coming off the ocean, it was so pleasant at the table that Barbara

Whittaker ordered that their dinner be served there. And they lingered

over coffee and brandy until it was dark and fireflies came out. The

admiral finally announced he was going to take a stroll along the

beach, and Canidy was flattered when the old man asked if perhaps he

would care to join him.

They caught up with one of the Navy sentries, who was patrolling the

beach with a Springfield rifle on his shoulder and an allegedly

ferocious German shepherd on a leash.

The shepherd obligingly chased pieces of driftwood for the admiral,

proudly delivering them with his tail wagging. Finally, the sentry

resumed his rounds, and Canidy, without thinking, idly asked a question

he immediately regretted. He asked the admiral about his family. "My

wife lives as I do, on charity," the admiral said calmly. "When I was

court-martial ed-" "Court-martial ed?"

"In absentia, almost immediately after I left Morocco," the admiral

said matter-of-factly, "I was convicted of treason. The court stripped

me of my rank and decorations. That of course stopped my pay, and my

property was forfeit."

"Jesus Christ!" Canidy exploded. The admiral shrugged.

"My son was dismissed from the Navy shortly after my court-martial. As

my son, he was obviously not trustworthy. He has been arrested by the

Germans. I don't know where he is."

"I'm sorry."

" I have old friends in New York," the admiral said, "Madame Martin and

her husband, who have been kind enough to provide a little pocket money

for me, enough that I can share a little with my staff."

"You don't get money from the Free French?" I have a letter from

Brigadier de Gaulle," the admiral said, his tone making it quite clear

what he thought of de Gaulle, "in which he states that he, representing

the Free French, does not of course regard my court martial as valid,

and that so far as the Free French are concerned, I am in honorable

retirement. He went on to express his profound regret that because of

other, more pressing claims upon the limited funds made available to

him, he will unhappily be forced to delay the payment of my pension

until after the war. "That sonofabitch!" Canidy said. "You are

referring, mon Major," the admiral said dryly, "to the head of my

government. But under the circumstances, I do not believe I will offer

you the choice of a duel or an apology." They walked along the beach

in silence for a couple of minutes, nodded to the sailor when he came

walking back down the beach with the German shepherd, then turned and

headed back to Summer Place. When they got back to the house, Barbara

Whittaker was waiting for them. Captain Doug lass had called, she

said.

Canidy was to fly the Beech 110 11 W.R.R. GRIFIFIN to Anacostia Naval

Air Station in Washington first thing in the morning Someone would meet

him at the airport.

FOUR I MOM Phis, Tennessee Sune 26,1942

Two signs forbidding personal long-distance telephone calls were tacked

to the employee bulletin board of the Memphis Advocate. One was a

poster published by the Office of the Coordinator of Information. It

showed an Air Corps officer sitting at a desk with a telephone to his

ear. He was wearing a look of pained frustration in response to a

balloon coming from the telephone: "Sorry, Captain, all the lines are

busy." In black letters was the legend "Telephones are tools of war!

If you have to call, make it quick! The second was smaller and more

succinct. It was hand-lettered:

A RECORD OF LONG-DISTANCE CALLS is NOW BEING KEPT. CHARGING PERSONAL

LONG-DISTANCE TELEPHONE CALLS TO THE ADVOCATE IS GROUNDS FOR

DISM188AL.

Ann Chambers ignored both. For one thing, she doubted that one

two-minute telephone call from Memphis, Tennessee, to Cedar Rapids,

Iowa, was really going to lose more battles than were already being

lost. For another, the Memphis Advocate was one of nine newspaper

properties owned by Chambers Publishing Corporation. The president of

Chambers Publishing was Brandon Chambers, and Brandon Chambers was

Ann's father.

She had begun thinking about making the telephone call to Iowa in the

elevator in the Peabody Hotel the day her cousin Ed Bitter had told THE

SECRET WARRIORS 0 III her that Dick Canidy had been sent home in

disgrace from China for "re fusing to engage the enemy." Ed obviously

believed what he told her to be true. And it certainly would explain

why her pen-pal letters to Canidy had gone unanswered. It was possible

that he was a coward, though she didn't feel that was likely. In fact,

the truth was that even if Dick did run away from the japs she didn't

care.

The truth was that she loved him more than she'd ever believed she

could love any man. And what she wanted more than anything in the

world right now was to get his head on her shoulder. Or her breast.

"This is Reverend Canidy," the voice on the telephone said curiously.

"Reverend Canidy, this is Ann Chambers," she said.

"I'm Ed Bitter's cousin, and, more to the point, a friend of Dick's."

"Oh, how nice!" he said, puzzled. "The reason I'm calling is that I'm

going-I live in Memphis-East, and I seem to have lost Dick's

address."

"He's horn ig e from China," the Reverend Canidy said, as I guess you

know? "Yes,' Ann said. "And he's found work with the National

Institutes of Health, as a pi lot." The National Institutes of

Health?

"I'd heard," Ann lied.

"Could you give me his address in Washington? And his phone number?

I'd really like to say hello when I'm there."

"Just a moment," he said.

"I've got it somewhere." Later, when she called the number Canidy's

father gave her, a woman answered and denied any knowledge of anyone

named Canidy. When Ann called the National Institutes of Health, they

had never beard of him either. When she called the Washington

information operator, she said she had no listing for the address

Reverend Canidy had given her on Q Street, NW Ann walked into the

teletype room and sat down before the Chambers News Service

teletypewriter. She typed rapidly, a service message to the Chambers

News Service Washington Bureau. She asked for ALL INFO, FACT AND SPEC

the Washington bureau could develop SOONEST on what was going on at the

address Reverend Canidy had given her on Q Street, Northwest. She

signed it CHAMBERS ADVOCATE. if they thought her father had sent the

service message, so much the better. Her name was Chambers, too, and

if they were inspired to drop something unimportant and get on this

right away, fine.

As she'd hoped, the response was quick, but it was not quite the one

she expected. Two hours after she sent the service message, she had a

telephone call.

"Exactly what is your interest in that address on Q Street? " her

father began without other preliminary. "Hello, Daddy," she said.

"I'm fine, how are you?"

"What are you into?" he said.

"What have you heard?"

"How did you get involved in this?" she asked.

"That address, so far as we're concerned, doesn't exist," Brandon

Chambers said.

"Do you take my point?"

"No, I don't,' she said.

"It's a government installation," he said. "We don't know it's

there.

We don't write about it."

"Oh," she said.

"When you signed my name to that service message, they checked with

me."

"I didn't sign your name to it," she said.

"My name for the time being is Chambers, too."

She beard him sigh in exasperation, but he chose not to argue about

that.

"I have to know, honey," he said, "what you're working on. "I was

looking for Dick Canidy," she said.

"I got that address from his father." There was a long pause.

"Eddie returned from China with an unpleasant report on Mr. Canidy,"

Brandon Chambers finally said.

"That he was a coward," Ann said. "Eddie told me."

"And Canidy's father gave you the Q Street address?"

"And two telephone numbers," Ann said.

"I called both of them, and they said they had never heard of

Canidy."

"What's behind your deep interest in Canidy?"

"I swore Mother to secrecy," Ann said, "but I thought she'd tell you

anyway. I'm going to marry him."

"For Christ's sake!" he said.

"This is not a joking matter, Ann," "Who's jokin&" "Now, listen to me,"

he said.

"Drop your inquiry right now. Right here. If you don't, you can do us

a great deal of harm. I've come to an agreement with certain people-"

"It's a military secret, right?" she challenged, "And I'm a Nazi

agent."

"It is a matter of military secrecy, Ann," her father said. "Odd,

wouldn't you say, that a coward is involved with military secrets?"

she said. "Just drop it, Ann, okay?" he said.

"I want your word."

"Or what?"

"Or you're fired, This moment." He's absolutely serious.

"It's that important?"

"It is."

"All right, then," she said. "And I don't want you talking to

anybody-even Eddie or your girlfriend-" "Mrs. Edwin Howell Bitter, you

mean?" Ann said. "Goddamn it, I'm serious."

"I know," she said.

"Okay, Daddy, you've made your point."

"I really hope so, Ann," he said. Thirty minutes later, Ann walked

into the office of the Advocate's managing editor and told him her

father wanted her to come to Washing ton for a couple of days, and she

was thinking of going Saturday afternoon after they'd gotten most of

the Sunday edition to bed. She hated to ask, but if she could have a

business travel priority certificate for an airplane ticket, that would

get her back to work that much quicker. "Yeah, sure, Ann," he said.

"We can work that out." Being in love does strange things to you.

Sofar this morning I have tied to an Episcopal priest, my father, and

my boss.

And I'm not at all ashamed of myself Then she called Sarah Child Bitter

at the Willard Hotel in Washington and announced that she would be in

Washington on Saturday and needed a place to stay. Sarah and Ed Bitter

were living in Sarah's father's suite in the Willard. Ed was probably

going to be more than a little annoyed when she showed up, since they

had been married only a few days. Having Ann around would be like

having your sister on your honeymoon. To hell with him, Ann thought.

He owes me for taking care of Sarah.

[ ONE I Lakehurst Naval Air Station Labehurst, New Jersey June 27,

1942

While Canidy was doing the preflight on the Beech D18S, Commander

Reynolds's Plymouth staff car drove into the hangar and stopped beside

the aircraft. "I didn't know where you were going, Major," he said.

"But I thought you could use a thermos of coffee and a couple of

sandwiches."

"Washington," Canidy told him.

"Thank you." Commander Reynolds was impressed.

There is something about Washington that impresses professional naval

officers, Canidy thought, as if the place were the residence of God.

"I'm glad you're here," Canidy went on.

"I didn't know about starting the engines inside the hangar."

"We push aircraft to the center lane," Reynolds said, "and make sure

that both hangar doors are open. Then you might as well be outside.

You've already been refueled."

"I noticed," Canidy said.

"Thank you."

"Sailor," Reynolds said somewhat pompously to his driver, "would You

round up some men to push the major's aircraft?"

"Aye, aye, Sir," the white hat said. Canidy winked at him, and he lie

N smiled back, as if to say that it was all right, Reynolds was a

little salty, but a good guy. Canidy climbed into the Beech, released

the brakes, and strapped the thermos and the bag of sandwiches in the

copilot's seat. He wasn't going to need the sandwiches between

Lakehurst and Washington, but it had been a nice thing for Reynolds to

do. He started to leave the cockpit, when the airplane lurched. A

half dozen white hats had started to push it to the center of the

hangar. He went aft and closed the door, then returned to the cockpit

and strapped himself in. He saw another pair of white hats roll up an

enormous fire extinguisher on what looked like wagon wheels. The plane

stopped moving.

Canidy looked at the window.

"Clear!" he called. "Clear!" one of the white hats called back.

Canidy set the mixture, primed the port engine, and hit the engine

start switch. The starter whined and then the port engine bucked,

backfired, and finally caught. He started the other and looked out the

window.

Commander Reynolds was standing there with his fist balled, thumb up.

Canidy smiled and gave him the gesture back, whereupon Commander

Reynolds saluted. Canidy smiled again, returned the salute, and

advanced the throttles. Once he was clear of the hangar, he got on the

radio and asked for taxi and takeoff instructions. "Navy Six-one-one,"

the tower replied," you are cleared to taxi to the threshold of runway

nine. Hold on the threshold. We have an aircraft on final." The

aircraft on final was a Curtiss C-46. Canidy thought he was coming in

way too high, and he was right. "Six-one-one," the tower promptly

announced, "hold your position. The forty-six is going around."

"Six-one-one, roger," Canidy said. He followed the C-46 with his eyes

as it rose again and made a low turn over the pine barrens. It

glistened in the sunlight. A new one, Canidy thought. The next time

the C-46 came around at an altitude Canidy saw was much too low. He

was right again.

Even over the racket of his idling engines, he heard the roar of the

C-46's engines as the pilot gave them enough throttle to make the end

of the runway.

TEE SECRET WARRIORS 0 III When the C-46 flashed by Canidy, he wondered

what it was doing here. There were no markings on either wings,

fuselage, or tail. The only time aircraft did not have at least

identification numbers on them was when their paint had been stripped

off, as the paint had been stripped from the Pan American Curtiss at

Newark Airport. Was this the Pan American Curtiss? If so, what was it

doing here? The Beech, caught in the C-46's air disturbance, rocked.

Canidy was reminded how big the C-46 really was and how powerful its

engines. "Six-one-one, you are clear for takeoff as soon as the

forty-six clears the runway."

"Roger," Canidy replied as the forty-six moved past him. When it

turned off the runway, its prop blast again rocked the Beech. Canidy

waited until it stopped shaking, then spoke one final time into the

microphone.

"Six-one-one rolling."

A few minutes after ten, over eastern Maryland, Canidy raised the

Anacostia tower and requested landing permission. When he went into

base operations to arrange for the refueling of the airplane, a Navy

captain, curious about an Army pilot flying a Navy airplane, looked at

the paperwork, and grew even more curious when he read it. He had

heard about this strange Beech DI 8S. Officially, he had been informed

that by authority of the Chief of Naval Operations "the Navy liaison

officer to the Coordinator of Information" would from time to time be

basing a DI 8 aircraft at Anacostia. The aircraft was not to be

considered part of the Anacostia fleet, and no one was to use the

aircraft without the specific permission of Captain Peter Doug lass,

USN, the senior Naval officer assigned to COI "You at this place, too,

Major?" the Navy captain, whose name was Chester Wezevitz, asked.

"The information coordinator, or whatever it is? " "Yes, Sir."

"What the hell is it?" the captain asked.

"I guess what I'm really asking is what the hell is a Navy

captain-Captain Doug lass-doing at the "Coordinator of Information'?"

The temptation was too great for Canidy (who had even been encouraged

during one briefing or another to offer "disinformation" when

questioned), and he gave in to it. "You know those comic books,

Captain? Warning the white hats about the lasting effects of VD?" he

asked.

"Urging them to use pro kits?"

"I wondered where the hell they came from," the Navy captain said. By

appearing at that moment, Chief Ellis made things even better. "Good

morning Major," he said, saluting crisply.

"I have the major's car."

"Jesus Christ," the Navy captain said.

"A chief, driving a staff car." When they were outside, Canidy asked:

"What's going on, Ellis? " "We're going to the office," he said.

"Mr. Baker's there with the captain."

"What does that sonofabitch want with me?"

"I dunno," Chief Ellis said, "but don't do nothing dumb, Mr. Canidy.

"I'd like to feed him his balls," Canidy said. "That's what I mean by

dumb," Ellis said. "You know what's going on, don't you, you

bastard?"

Canidy said. "And you won't tell me."

"I'm surprised at you." The old sailor laughed.

"Didn't anybody tell you loose lips sink ships?"

"Screw you, Ellis."

Canidy chuckled as he got in the front seat of the Buick beside him.

When they got to the National Institutes of Health building, El don

C.

Baker, a pudgy, bland-appearing man, was sitting on a red leather couch

in Captain Doug lass's office bent over what Canidy in a moment

realized were the flight plans Lindbergh had made up. That seemed to

prove that the Curtiss he had seen landing at Lakehurst was indeed the

Pan American aircraft. "How are you, Canidy?" Baker said, leaning

forward and offering his hand. Canidy ignored the offered hand. The

last time he had seen El don C. Baker had been in the palace of the

pasha of Ksar es Souk in the foothills of the Atlas Mountains in

Morocco. Baker had known then that Canidy was not going to be loaded

aboard the sub then at sea off Safi. He had not told Canidy. Baker

shrugged.

"I'm sorry you still feel that way," he said.

the SECRET WARRIORS N 119

"Do you know what you're looking at?" Canidy asked, "I have a general

idea," Baker said.

"I'm sure you can explain anything I can't figure out myself." Captain

Doug lass, carrying an armful of military service records, walked into

the office." Good morning Dick," he said." Nice flight? How's the

admiral? "A little restive, but under control. Did you know that de

Gaulle sent him a letter saying he couldn't afford to pay him?"

"No, I didn't," Doug lass said. "I would have guessed you were reading

his mail," Canidy said. "His mail is being read," Doug lass corrected

him.

"But his pay status has not until now been brought to my attention.

I'll see what I can do. Obviously, you think it's important, or you

wouldn't have brought it up."

"Do I detect an ever-so-subtle reprimand?"

"Not at all," Doug lass said, and smiled.

"As a matter of fact, I was about to tell you that a number of people

have been saying nice things about you. After that I was going to tell

you I think you're doing a fine job keeping the admiral happy."

"Is that what this is all about?" Canidy asked. "You're not

interested in the nice things people have been saying about you?"

"Go ahead," Canidy said. "Our friend at Pan American told the colonel

that you are an unusually bright, unusually capable young man." Canidy

was embarrassed. "Perfectly capable of supervising the Curtiss flight

by yourself from here on in," Doug lass finished. "I saw that you had

the plane moved to Lakehurst," Canidy said.

"But before we go any further, there is one little detail that seems to

have been overlooked: I've never flown a C-46."

"No problem," Baker said.

"You won't be flying it anyway."

"Who will?" Canidy asked. "I'm not finished with the nice reports,"

Doug lass said.

"I had occasion last night to discuss you with an Air Corps officer.

To hear him tell it, You combine the character traits of a Boy Scout

with the flying skill of Baron von Richthofen." It took Canidy a

moment to guess what was up. Then he broke into a broad smile.

"Oh," he said, "have you by any chance been talking to your son and

namesake? Is Doug back?"

"He's been back about a month. He was home. He stopped off here, on

his way to Alabama. He's been made a major, and they gave him a

fighter group, P-3 8s."

"I'm glad to hear that," Canidy said. "I took what he said about you

with a large grain of salt, of course," Doug lass said.

"But I thought I would pass it on." Canidy laughed.

"Who is going to fly the African mission?" he asked. "African

mission?"

Baker asked incredulously. "That depends in large part on you,"

Captain Doug lass said, ignoring Baker and acknowledging that Canidy's

suspicions were correct. "I don't understand," he said. Doug lass

handed him one of the service records.

"This is the man we would like to make the flight," he said.

"Do you think he could handle it? Canidy took the records and found

the Air Corps captain's flight records. The officer had entered the

service with several hundred hours of single-engine civilian time,

taken a quickie course in a basic trainer, and then gone right into

B-17s. He had picked up not quite two hundred hours as a B-17 pilot in

command, and was currently commanding a bomber squadron. The first

thing he thought was that the captain was not especially qualified for

either a quick transition course to the C-46 or to fly across the

Atlantic to Africa. And then he glanced at the pilot's name: Captain

Stanley S.

Fine.

There were, Canidy thought, probably fifteen Stanley S. Fines in the

Washington telephone directory, and three times that many in the

directories of Los Angeles, New York, and Chicago, but he knew,

somehow, that this one was his Stanley S. Fine. Canidy had first met

Fine in Cedar Rapids, when he and Eric Fulmar were kids. When he and

Eric, horsing around with matches fired from toy pistols intended to

fire suction-cup darts, had managed to set an automobile on fire, Fine

had rushed to Cedar Rapids to buy the guy a new Studebaker, free them

from the clutches of a fat lady of the juvenile Authority, and, most

important, to keep the whole escapade out of the newspapers. Fulmar

had told him Stanley S. Fine was a lawyer who worked for his uncle, who

owned most of Continental Motion Picture Studios. His responsibilities

included keeping the secret that "America's Sweetheart," THE SECRET

WARRIORS R 121

Monica Carlisle, had not only been married but had a thirteen-year-old

son by the name of Eric Fulmar. The last time Canidy had seen Fine had

been here in Washington just before he and Eddie Bitter had gone off to

the Flying Tigers. They had had dinner with Chesly Whittaker and

Cynthia Chenowith. Fine had some business with Donovan's law firm.

The more he thought about it, the more it would be an extraordinary

coincidence if this B- 17 pilot was not the same Stanley S. Fine. "I

think I know this guy," Canidy said. "Colonel Donovan thought you

might remember Captain Fine," Doug lass said. "The question you were

asked, Canidy," Baker said, "is whether you think he can handle the

mission."

"According to this, he's a qualified multi engine pilot with long

distance navigation experience," Canidy said.

"But certainly there ought to be better-qualified people around for

something like the African flight. "But he could handle it?" Doug

lass pursued. "Yeah, I think he could."

"We'll arrange for an experienced crew to go with him," Doug lass

said.

"That's presuming you can talk him into volunteering." Canidy looked

at Doug lass thoughtfully for a moment.

All "You don't mean talking him into volunteering for just this

flight," he said.

"What you want him to do is enlist in Donovan's Dilettantes. Doug lass

laughed.

"You heard about that, did you?"

"We get newspapers in Deal," Canidy said. "The colonel was rather

amused by that piece," Doug lass said, "And told me it would probably

do us more good than harm."

"You didn't answer my question, Captain," Canidy said. "You're right,

we want Captain Fine permanently."

"Why?" Canidy asked. "You ask entirely too many questions, Canidy,"

Baker said.

"Newspaper columnist Drew Pearson, who loathed Franklin Roosevelt and

seldom passed over an opportunity to attack him, had pieced together

one or two facts with a good deal of vague hearsay and written a column

in which he accused Roosevelt, through Colonel William J. Donovan, of

keeping his rich, famous, and social dilettante friends out of combat

service by recruiting them for his propaganda organization. Pearson

had even heard about the house on Q Street, calling it a "luxurious

mansion requisitioned to serve as a barracks for Rooseveltian

favorites," but had mis located it in Virginia.

"He's another good friend of Eric Fulmar," Captain Doug lass said.

"You gave me that too easily," Canidy said. "Which means that isn't

the reason you want him."

"You're getting very perceptive, Dick," Doug lass said.

"But we're not playing twenty questions. If you don't like that

answer, I'm sorry, but it's all you get for now."

"Why have I been picked to recruit him? I hardly know him."

"When I said that's all you get for now, Dick," Doug lass said, "I

meant it."

@A TWO I Chanute Field, Illinois June 28, 194a An eight-ship flight of

B-17Es appeared in the air in the north. Canidy watched from a pickup

truck. The truck was painted in a checkerboard pattern, and a large

checkerboard flag was flying from its bed. The tai lend B-17E dropped

its nose and made a steep descent for a straight-in approach to the

runway.

"That'll be Captain Fine, Sir," the assistant base adjutant, who was

driving the pickup, said to Canidy.

"He likes to sit on the taxiway so that he can offer 'constructive

criticism' of their landings."

Canidy smiled. The translation of that was "eat ass."

The assistant base adjutant, a captain, was very impressed with Major

Richard Canidy. This was his first encounter with an officer assigned

to General Headquarters, Army Air Corps, who was traveling on orders

stamped "Secret." That he was flying a Navy airplane added a

delightful touch of mystery.

"This is Major Canidy, Captain," the base commander had told him. "I

want you to take him where he wants to go and do whatever you can to

assist him. But don't ask him any questions."

The remaining seven B-17Es circled the field in formation. As they

passed over, the roar of their engines was awesome. They were simply

enormous-and seemed invincible. Canidy let himself dwell for a moment

on the incredible logistics problem involved in just getting them into

the air. How many gallons of gas had it taken to fill their tanks?

How many mechanics were required to service that many engines? For

that matter, how many parachute riggers had to be trained just to pack

all those parachutes? One by one, at ninety-second intervals, the

B-17Es detached themselves from the formation and began to land. By

the time the first wheels touched down on the wide concrete runway,

Fine's plane had stopped a third of the way down the parallel taxiway,

shut down its inboard engines, and turned its nose toward the runway.

The captain drove the pickup over next to it, and Canidy saw in the

pilot's seat a thin-faced, ascetic man with horn-rimmed glasses. He

wasn't at all like the man Canidy remembered. Captain Stanley S. Fine

was wearing a leather-brimmed cap with a headset clamped over it. He

looked down at the pickup truck, then turned his attention to the first

plane landing.

A minute later, a sergeant in sheepskin high-altitude clothing came to

the pickup. He saw Canidy's gold leaf and saluted. "Sir, Captain Fine

wants to know if you're waiting for him."

"Yes, I am, Sergeant," Canidy said.

When the message was relayed to him, Fine looked down at the pickup

truck again, without recognition. His eyebrows rose in curiosity, and

he smiled. Then he looked away and didn't look back at Canidy until

the last of the B-17Es had landed. Finally he held up his index finger

as an "I'll be with you in a minute" signal and disappeared from

view.

He appeared on the ground shortly afterward walking around the tail

section of the aircraft, holding his cap on his head with his hand

against the prop blast of the idling engines. He was wearing a

tropical worsted shirt and trousers and a horsehide leather A-2

jacket.

He saluted Canidy.

"Is there something I can do for you, Major?"

"We've met, Captain Fine," Canidy said. Fine's eyebrows rose in

question. "The first time was when Eric Fulmar and I tried to burn

down Cedar Rapids. The last time was in Washington the spring before

the war.

We had dinner with Colonel Wild Bill Donovan and Cynthia Chenowith."

"Dick Canidy," Captain Fine said, extending his hand.

"I don't know Why I didn't recognize you, I guess I expected you to be

halfway around the world."

"I'm much better-looking than I used to be," Canidy said.

Fine laughed.

"I saw in the papers, of course, that Jim Whittaker got out of the

Philippines. I wondered what happened to you."

"I got out of China," Canidy said. "But you were in the Navy," Fine

questioned, indicating Canidy's Air Corps uniform. "And you were a

lawyer," Canidy said as they shook hands, "Things change. The war, I

hear, has something to do with that." Fine laughed again, then said,

"Well, I'm glad you did, and I'm glad to see you. But I suspect this

is not a coincidence."

"Can your copilot handle parking that aircraft?" Canidy asked.

"Interesting question," Fine said dryly "I suppose he has to learn

sometime, doesn't he?" He turned to the airplane and made gestures

telling the copilot to take the airplane to its parking place.

"Curiosity is about to overwhelm me," Fine said to Canidy. The

conversation was interrupted by a roar from the B- 17's outboard port

engine. The copilot, Canidy thought, was running the engine much too

fast to taxi. The copilot retarded his throttle to a more reasonable

level, and the B-17E began to move. Fine and Canidy exchanged the smug

smiles of veteran pilots over the foibles of new ones. Then Fine said,

"He's got a hundred thirty hours' total time. He'll learn."

"Can we talk in your BOQ? Do you have a roommate?"

"We can talk there," Fine said.

Fine's room was in a frame building so new it smelled of freshly sawed

lumber. Fine led Canidy to his spartan quarters-two small rooms, with

the studs exposed, and a shared bathroom with a tin-walled shower-and

told him to make himself comfortable. "Close and lock the door,

please, Stan," Canidy said, then reached into his tunic and took from

it a tiny American flag on an eight-inch pole. He waved it at Fine.

"In case you miss the symbolism," he said, I'm waving the flag at

you.

THE SECRET WARRIORS 0 IRS "I don't think I'm going to like this," Fine

said, laughing. "You always carry a flag around?"

"No," Canidy said.

"I stole this one from your group commander's desk while he left me to

check out my orders." Fine smiled.

"They apparently checked out," he said.

"What do they say?" Canidy handed him the orders. "They don't say

much, do they?" Fine said when he had read them. "Except that

whatever you're doing has the approval of the Air Corps. And that it's

secret. I used to be in the motion-picture business, you remember, and

this has all the earmarks of a Grade B adventure thriller. A

mysterious officer appears, carrying secret orders. Are you now going

to ask me to volunteer for a secret, dangerous mission, from which

there is rtually no chance of returning alive?" VI idy said, "that

you'll get back "I'd say the chances are sixty-forty," Can all

right."

Fine looked at him long enough to see that he was serious. "I'll be

damned!" he said. "There's a mission, a long-distance flight, that we

would like you to undertake, Canidy said. "We?" Fine asked. "@",o's

'we'?"

"I can't tell you that yet," Canidy said. "Hey, come on! " Canidy

shrugged and smiled. "Well, let's see, Dick," Fine said.

"This wouldn't have anything to do with Colonel Donovan, would it?"

"Colonel who?" Canidy asked innocently. "And you are also forbidden

to tell me where I would be going, or for how long, or why. Right?"

"How long will it take you to pack?" Canidy asked. "That would depend

on where I would be going, and how long I would be gone. Will I need

my fur coat or short sleeves?"

"If I were you, I wouldn't leave anything behind."

"I'm usually not much of a drinker," Fine said.

"And taking a drink right now probably isn't very bright, but I'm going

to have one anyway. Scotch all right with you?"

"I'm driving, thank you just the same," Canidy said.

Fine took a bottle of Scotch from a shelf in his closet and poured two

inches of it into a water glass. "And if I tell you "Thanks, but no

thanks'?" he asked. "They wouldn't have sent me after you," Canidy

said, "if they didn't need you."

Saying that seemed to embarrass him, Fine saw, although Canidy tried to

cover it by waving the little American flag again.

I don't know why I am surprised about this, Fine thought. I should

have known that sooner or later the service would require me to do what

it wants me to do, as opposed to indulging me in the acting out of my

personal fantasies.

On December 9, 1941, Stanley S. Fine, Vice President for Legal Affairs,

Continental Motion Picture Studios, Inc." who had been in New York on

business when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, took the train to

Washington to see Greg Armstrong, a friend from law school who had

given up corporate law to serve his country in uniform. When he found

Greg, who was working in one of the temporary buildings-from the First

World War-near the Smithsonian Institution, he quickly saw that his

friend thought Stanley Fine had gone off the deep end. Even though

Greg professed to understand why Fine wanted to come into the service,

and even why Fine wanted to fly, it was clear that Greg thought that

flying was the last thing Stanley should be doing. But still, he went

through the motions.

"There's two ways you can handle the flying thing, Stanley," he said.

"You can apply to one of the aviation cadet selection boards. If

you've got a pilot's license-what did you say you have?"

"I've got a commercial pilot's certificate with five hundred ten hours,

and an instrument ticket, single-engine land."

"Okay. What I'm saying is that you can certainly get into the aviation

cadet program. Which means after you got your wings, you would be

either a flight officer or a second lieutenant. Or, Stanley, you can

go in the service as a lawyer, With your years of practice, you can

start out as a captain. "I don't want to be a lawyer."

"Hear me out. You're a captain. I can have that paperwork for you in

THE BECKET WARRIORS N 18T two weeks. You get a commission, and they

tell you to hold yourself ready for active service. While you're

waiting to be called, you apply for flight duty. Send them a certified

copy of your licenses, and so on. They'll probably jump at you. But

you do have a senator in your pocket who can do you a favor, don't

you?"

"Do I have to do that?"

"You don't even have to go in the Army, Stan.

You're a married man with three kids. And movies are going to be

declared an essential war industry, I heard that last week. If you

want to play Errol Flynn in Dawn Patrol, though, you're going to need a

senator." On February 7, 1942, they gave a going-away party at

Continental Studios. It was held on Sound Stage Eleven, and Max

Lieberman had it catered by Chasen's, so the people in the Continental

commissary could attend. There was one big head table on a four-foot

platform built especially for the occasion. It sat sixty-eight people,

and it was draped with bunting. Behind it hung an enormous American

flag. Everybody else sat at ten-seat round tables. With the exception

of Max and Sophie Lieberman, the guests at the head table were

Continental employees about to enter the armed forces. The honorees

were introduced alphabetically, and Max Lieberman made it through best

boys and truck drivers and clerks and scenery painters and even two

actors until he got to Stanley Fine, who was his nephew-Sophie's sister

Sadie's boy-and who was the nearest thing he had to a son. That was

when he got something in his throat, and then in his eye, and so

Stanley took over for him at the mike and introduced the others while

Uncle Max sat blowing his nose and wiping away tears. The founder and

chairman of the board of Continental Studios got control of himself by

the time Stanley had finished the introductions. He reclaimed the mike

and announced that in case anybody was wondering, everybody had his job

waiting for him, so they should get the lead out of their ass and win

the war. Meanwhile, Continental had movies to make. Captain Stanley

S. Fine, judge Advocate General's Corps, had entered upon active duty

for the duration plus six months on May 1, 1942. His initial duty

station was the U.S. Army Air Corps Officers' Reception Station, Boca

Rat on, Florida. The Adjutant General of the United States Army was

led to understand that assigning Fine to the Army Air Corps would

please the junior senator from California, and he so ordered.

When Captain Fine reached Boca Rat on, he learned that the U.S. Army

Air Corps Officers' Reception Station had only three weeks before been

the Boca Rat on Hotel and Club, an exclusive, very expensive resort.

The Air Corps had taken it over for the duration, rolled up the

carpets, put the furniture in storage, closed the bar, installed GI

furniture and a GI mess, and turned the place into a basic training

camp for newly commissioned officers. Fine's fellow student officers

had also been lawyers, or doctors, dentists, engineers, wholesale

grocers, paper merchants, trucking company executives, construction

engineers, or other civilians whose occupations had a military

application and who had been directly commissioned into the services.

He had been at Boca Rat on six weeks when his senator's influence was

again felt. Captain Fine was engaged in a class exercise in the

administration of military justice. He was playing the role of

prosecutor in a mock court martial when a runner summoned him from the

classroom-which had been the card room of the Boca Rat on Hotel-to the

station commander's office. "I don't understand this, Captain," the

station commander said, "but we are in receipt of orders assigning you

to the Three-forty-fourth Heavy Bombardment Group at Chanute Field. It

says for transition training to B- 17 aircraft. You're not a pilot,

are you?"

"I have a civilian license, Sir."

"I never heard of anything like this before," the colonel said.

"But orders are orders, Captain." When he reported to the 344th

Bombardment Group at Chanute, he was sure there was no way he would be

permitted to become a pilot. "The only time you have is in Piper Cubs

and a Beechcraft?" the colonel asked. "I'm afraid so, Sir," Fine

said.

"I hope you can fly, Fine," he said.

"And not just because you know some important politicians and the

general told me to give you every consideration."

"I wanted to fly very badly," Fine said.

"I thought I needed some help. That now seems rather childish. "If

you can fly," the colonel said, "I'd like to make you a squadron

commander.

I've got a lot of very healthy, very impetuous young men who need a

stabilizing influence. In my day, it took ten years to make captain.

Now we're making them in a year, and then making them B-17 aircraft

commanders with a hundred twenty hours' total time. It's working

better than I thought it would, but I would still like as many officers

like you as I can get. I really need officers with five hundred hours

and some instrument experience. Who can really navigate."

"I was about to say that I might well be more use as a lawyer," Fine

said. "That's not my decision to make," the colonel had told him.

"I have one other officer, Major Thomas son, who was an aircraft

commander before last week. I'm going to introduce you to him, explain

the situation, and see w iat t S. "Yes, Sir," Fine said "On the basis

of your extensive civilian aeronautical experience, Captain Fine," the

colonel said dryly, "Headquarters, Army Air Corps, has seen fit to

designate you as a military aviator. You are now a pilot, Captain

Fine.

Congratulations."

He tossed Fine a pair of aviator's wings still pinned to a piece of

cardboard. 4C "If you can't handle the Seventeen," the colonel said,

and I really hope you can, there are other places where you can be put

to good use."

The next day, Fine began what he was sure would be at least a two week

course in the B-17 aircraft. Major Thomas son turned out to be a

bright-eyed twenty-three-year-old West Pointer who told Fine that he

had graduated from the last prewar, yearlong pilot training course.

Thomas son almost casually went through the B-17E dash-one with him for

most of the day, then took him to the flight line for what Fine

expected would be a hands-on explanation of the aircraft. "I've never

seen one up close before," Fine confessed. "It's a pretty good bird,

Captain," Thomas son said.

"It's the E model. I picked this one up in Seattle last week." Fine

had been introduced to the crew. There was a navigator and a

bombardier, both officers, and an engineer, a radioman, and tail and

turret gunners.

There was no copilot. "I don't think you'll have any trouble with it,

Captain," Thomas son said to him, then raised his voice.

"You guys get aboard."

It took a moment for that to sink in. They were obviously about to

take the B- 17 aloft-without a copilot. The incredible truth seemed to

be that on his first time up in a B-17E, he would fly as copilot. "I

think I should tell you," Fine said as he sat down in the copilot's

seat and looked around the cockpit, "that I have a total of zero hours'

twin-engine time."

"That's exactly as many as I had when I first came down here," Major

Thomas son said.

"They sent me to Seventeens right out of primary."

"Jesus!" Fine said. "The way you fly this thing," Thomas son said,

"is that the copilot reads the checklist out loud." He handed Fine a

sheet of cardboard three inches wide and six inches long.

"And the pilot does what it says. Got it?"

"We'll find out," Fine said. He read the first item on the list:

"Master power buss on."

"Master power buss on," Thomas son parroted. "Uncage gyros," "Gyros

uncaged." Fine looked at the artificial horizon on the instrument

panel before him. There were two sets of instruments-one for the pilot

and one for the copilot. He reached out and uncaged his gyro. The

ball inside began to move. "Verify crew in position, crew hatches

closed," Fine read. He didn't understand that and looked at Thomas

son. "You have to get on the intercom to do that," Thomas son

explained, and showed him how to switch it on. "Crew report,"

Thornasson's voice came over the intercom. One by one, the crew

reported their presence. "Navigator, yo!

"Bombardier here, forward hatch closed and locked," "Radio here,

Sir."

"Tail here, Sir."

"Belly, yo! "Engineer, rear door closed and locked."

"Fire extinguisher in place," Fine read.

"Ground crew clear." Thomas son looked out his window and reported:

"Clear! "Number one engine, full rich," Fine read. "One full rich."

"Prime number one engine."

"One primed."

"Start number one engine," Fine read. "Starting number one," Thomas

son replied. There came the whine of the starter, and then the cough

of the engine as it tried to start, and the aircraft began to

tremble.

The engine caught, smoothed out. Fine looked across the cockpit to the

left wing. He could see the propeller turning. "Number one running

smoothly," Thomas son said. "Lean and idle number one," Fine read.

"Number three engine, full rich."

"Number one lean and idle," Thomas son replied.

"Number three full rich. "Start number three," Fine read. "Starting

number three." The propeller on the engine at Fine's right began to

turn slowly as the starter ground, and then the engine caught. "What

you do," Thomas son said dryly, "is taxi to the threshold with just two

engines."

"I see," Fine said. "Then, when you get there, Captain, before you

take off, I suggest you start the other two." Fine looked at him in

disbelief. "Go ahead," Thomas son said, smiling.

"There always has to be a first time. Fine had picked up the

microphone.

"Chanute, Air Corps Four-oh-one in front of the terminal for taxi and

takeoff."

"Well, at least you know that much," Thomas son's metallic voice came

over the intercom.

"I've had guys in the right seat who got on the horn and called

"Yoo-hoo, Tower! Anybody there?" The tower came back: "Air Corps

Four-oh-one, taxi left on taxiway six to the threshold of the active,

The active is three-two. You are number one to take off. There is no

traffic in the immediate area. The altimeter is two-niner-niner-niner,

the time one-five past the hour, and the winds are five, gusting to

fifteen, from the north."

"Where the hell are the brakes on this thing?"

Fine asked. The pilot showed him how to release the brakes. Fine put

his hand on the throttles and ever so gently nudged them forward. The

pitch of the engines changed, and the B-17E had started to move. A

week later, he was certified as B- 17 qualified, and a week after that

as pilot in command. Two weeks after that, he scrawled his signature

to a document of the 319th Bomber Squadron: "The undersigned herewith

assumes command, Stanley S. Fine, Captain, Air Corps, Commanding." He

then set about to make the 319th Bomber Squadron the best squadron in

the group, in the wing, in the Army Air Corps. He was as happy as he

could ever remember.

I should have known it couldn't last, he thought, looking balefully at

Dick Canidy. "Cue the rolling drums and the trumpets," he said.

"Our hero is about to volunteer."

"Then let me be the first to welcome you, Captain," Canidy said, "to

Donovan's Dilettantes."

"I thought so," Fine said.

"What would happen if I changed my mind again?"

"Then there would be questions about your mental stability, " Canidy

said.

"Psychiatric evaluation would be ordered. It would take a long time.

For the duration, at least."

"Can they do that?" Fine the lawyer asked, surprised. "They can, and

they do, Captain Fine," Canidy said.

TIM BEE I Anacostia Naval Air Station Washington, D.C. June 29,1942

When Canidy and Fine landed at Anacostia, Chief Ellis was there with

the Buick to meet them, "Give Captain Fine a hand with his gear,

please, Chief," Canidy said. -I've got to see about getting this thing

fueled, and I want to check the weather." When they had Fine's Val-Pa

ks and his footlocker in the Buick, Chief Ellis led Captain Fine into

base ops, where they found Canidy in the weather room getting a

three-day forecast from a Navy meteorologist. As the weatherman was

concluding, Captain Chester Wezevitz-the Navy officer whom Canidy had

told that the C01's job was suppressing VD-came into the room. "VD

must he a hell of a problem in the fleet," he said.

"I had a look at your airplane, Major. Carpets, upholstered leather

seats, and everything."

"You noticed, I'm sure," Canidy said, "that the seats fold down into

couches. We think of it, Captain, as our airborne

prophylactics-testing laboratory."

"Shit," Wezevitz said, grinning. "It is considered so important to the

overall war effort," Canidy said, 44 that I have been given a copilot

to share the strain of my burden. May I present Captain Fine?" As

Fine, baffled, was shaking hands with Wezevitz, Lieutenant Commander

Edwin H.

Bitter, with the golden rope of an admiral's aide hanging down his arm,

walked into the weather room. He and Canidy looked at each other for a

moment without speaking. "Well," Canidy broke the silence, "look at

the dog robber."

Bitter offered his hand. "It's good to see you again, Dick," he said a

little stiffly. "In the Air Corps, are you?"

"That's right," Canidy said.

"Captain Fine, Commander Bitter. Do you remember him? He was at that

dinner in Washington."

"Of course," Fine said.

"He went off to the Flying Tigers with you." The eyebrows of the Navy

captain rose in surprise.

"You're now in the Air Corps, eh?" Bitter asked. "The Air Corps,"

Canidy said.

The awkwardness and tension between Bitter and Canidy was evident to

Ellis, Fine, and Wezevitz.

14 The admiral's flight is all laid on, Commander," Wezevitz said.

"I presume that's why you're here?"

"Yes, Sir," Bitter said.

"The admiral asked me to check on it."

"All laid on," Wezevitz repeated awkwardly.

134 N W.N.S. onsirfln "Are you stationed here?" Bitter asked. "No.

But I come in here from time to time," Canidy said.

"I'm assigned to the Office of the Coordinator of Information." Canidy

saw no comprehension on Bitter's face. "How's the knee?" Canidy

asked, to change the subject. "I have a cane," Bitter said.

"I left it in the staff car. It keeps me from flying. I'm assigned to

BUAIR " "You're a lieutenant commander, so congratulations are in

order," Canidy said, adding mischievously, "How do you like being a dog

robber?" Bitter was not amused. "Obviously, I can't fly," he said.

"I can't even get limited duty at sea."

"And that bothers you?" Canidy said.

"Be grateful, Edwin," Bitter didn't like that either, but he didn't

respond to it. Instead, he asked, "Have you got a minute?" Canidy

nodded. Bitter took his arm and led him out of the weather room into

the corridor. "Do you remember Sarah Child?" he asked. "Sure,"

Canidy said.

"Your pen pal. The little girl with the sexy eyes and the marvelous

boobs. "We're married," Bitter said levelly. "Ooops!" Canidy said.

"And we have a child," Bitter went on.

"A little boy. His name is Joseph after Sarah's father, and he was

born last March, We were secretly married before we went over there."

Canidy's eyebrows went up, and then he understood. "I remember," he

said.

"I was your best man. How could you have forgotten? "She's really a

fine woman, Dick," Bitter said. "I know she is," Canidy said. "Thank

you, Dick," Bitter said. Canidy was embarrassed. He was being

thanked, he understood, for his unspoken promise not to tell anyone,

should the occasion arise, that Lieutenant Commander and Mrs. Bitter

had not been married when Bitter went off to the Flying Tigers.

Quickly, Canidy said, "So tell me all about your little nest. You got

a picture of the kid?"

0 135

Bitter took several from his wallet and handed them over.

"Unfortunately, he looks just like his old man," Canidy said. "I'm

happy for you, Eddie."

"Come see us, Dick," Bitter said. "That would be difficult, Eddie,"

Canidy said. "We're in the Willard Hotel," Bitter said in a rush.

"We absolutely couldn't find a place to live, so Sarah's father turned

his apartment in the Willard over to us."

"You get along all right with Sarah's father, huh?"

"Our mothers are the ones who give us trouble," Bitter said. 4ioh?))

She's in and out of mental hospitals. And "Sarah's is-well, crazy.

mine-disapproves."

"She's probably sore you didn't tell her you were secretly married,"

Canidy said.

"She'll get over it."

"I really would like to talk to you, Dick," Bitter said. He means

about my cowardice in China. He wants an explanation. That's

touching. But I can't tell him about that. That would violate the

Donovan's Dilettantes code of honor "Tell me, Eddie, did your kid

inherit your undersized wang?" Bitter shook his head in resignation,

but then, surprising himself, he said, "He can lie on his back and piss

on the ceiling."

"Here's to a kid who can piss on the ceiling," Canidy said, lifting his

hand high, then, "Eddie, I have to go." They shook hands again, and

Canidy went to the weather-room door to motion to Fine and Ellis to

come with him. Whentheyweregone,Wezevitzasked, Oldpalofyours?"

"We were at Pensacola as IPS before the war," Bitter said. "And now

he's in the Air Corps?"

"He left the service in 1941," Bitter said. "Now he's an Air Corps

major flying a V.I.P transport for the VD comic-book people," Wezevitz

said.

"Seems like a hell of waste of a naval aviator." Bitter, not quite

sure he had heard correctly, asked, "Sir?"

"What the Coordinator of Information does, Commander," Wezevitz said,

"is publish those "Use a Pro Kit' comic books they issue to the white

hats. Why they need an airplane to do it is beyond me."

Bitter looked at him curiously but didn't say anything. He thought it

was highly unlikely that the Navy would assign a C-45 to airlift VD

comic books. It was even more unlikely that the Air Corps would

commission as a field-grade officer someone with Canidy's record. At

the same time, he remembered a cryptic remark from Doug Doug lass once

when Canidy's name had come up, that people should not jump to

conclusions before they had all the facts. Doug wouldn't say anything

else, but he obviously knew something else. When I get back to the

office, Ed Bitter decided, I will get to the bottom of this. While

there's a hell of a lot wrong with being an admiral's dog robber, it

has certain benefits. When you call somebody up and identify yourself

as the aide to a vice admiral, you get answers a lieutenant commander

wouldn't be given. Two hours later, when he walked into the office,

the admiral's WAVE said the admiral wanted to see him immediately.

"Close the door, Commander," Vice Admiral Enoch Hawley said. When

Bitter had done that, he went on: "I've just had a strange telephone

call about you, Commander. You will consider the following an order:

From this moment on, you will make no attempt to contact Major Richard

Canidy, U.S. Army Air Corps. Nor will you discuss him with anyone, nor

make inquiries regarding him or the Office of the Coordinator of

Information. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Sir," Bitter said. "Whatever this is about, Ed," the admiral

said, "it doesn't seem to bother you. You're smiling."

"In a way, Sir, it's very good news."

FOUR I The House on 0 Street, NW Washington, D.C. June 29,19411

"Is this the 'requisitioned mansion' Drew Pearson wrote about?"

Stanley Fine asked as Ellis drove through the gate of the house on Q

Street. "The one he wrote about is in Virginia," Ellis said.

"This is Jim Whittaker's house, isn't it?" Fine asked as they got out

of the car.

"What did you say happened to him?" Canidy shrugged and threw up his

hand, but Fine had seen the look in his eyes. "Something else you know

and can't tell?" Fine said. "People get pissed around here if you ask

questions, Stanley," Canidy said.

"After a while you'll get used to it." Cynthia Chenowith came into the

library as Canidy was helping himself to a drink. "It's nice to see

you again, Captain Fine."

"And it's nice to see you, Miss Chenowith," Fine said. "Miss Chenowith

is our housekeeper," Canidy said.

"You need extra towels, that sort of thing, you just let her know."

She glowered at him but didn't respond. "You'll be staying here for a

couple of days, Captain Fine," she said. "We've put you on the third

floor, first door on the right at the head of the stairs. "Thank you,"

Fine said." May I ask a question? I don't know who else to ask."

"That would depend on the question, Stan," Canidy said. "What is

it?"

Cynthia asked. "What do I tell my wife?"

"I would suggest," Cynthia said, "that you drop her a note telling her

that you are on temporary duty in Washington, and that as soon as you

have an address you'll be in touch again."

"I generally telephone her every few days," Fine said.

"She'll expect a call from me today or tomorrow."

"I don't think that calling her right now would be a very good idea,"

Cynthia said.

"But if you'd like to write her a note, I'll see that it's posted right

away." Fine didn't like that answer. He looked at Canidy, who

shrugged, as if to suggest that it wasn't worth fighting with Cynthia

Chenowith about. "Ask Donovan about calling when you see him," he

said. "All right," Fine said, and looked at Cynthia before adding,

"I'll do that."

... 138 N WEE. GRIFIFIN Fine was in the library, sitting at a Louis

XIV escritoire writing his wife when Colonel Donovan walked in, wearing

a mussed seersucker jacket. it was already hot and muggy in

Washington.

Canidy, who had been sitting in an armchair, started to rise. Donovan

waved at him, telling him to stay where he was. "Good to see you,

Fine," Donovan said, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief and then

offering his hand, "Welcome aboard."

"Thank you," Fine said. "What's Dick told you about all this?"

"That I shouldn't ask questions," Fine said.

"And that I should ask you about calling my wife. Miss Chenowith

didn't seem to think that was a good idea."

"Cynthia tends to err on the side of caution," Donovan said. "That's a

pretty good rule to follow around here. What Dick said about not

asking questions is another one, probably the most important one. You

don't ask questions, and you don't volunteer information."

"Yes, Sir," Fine said. "That said, I don't see any reason, when we're

finished here, that you can't call your wife and tell her you'll be out

of touch for a few days."

"Thank you," Fine said. "Dick seems to have volunteered the

information that I'm connected with all this?" Donovan asked.

"In violation of the rules?"

"Only after he swore true faith and allegiance to the Dilettantes,

Sir," Canidy said, unabashed. Donovan thought that over a moment, then

smiled and chuckled. "Did you see Pearson's 'dilettantes' column,

Stanley?"

"Yes, Sir," Fine said. "You two are the most unlikely candidates for

that description I can think of," Donovan said. They laughed,

dutifully.

"Stan, there are-aren't there always?-some administrative things to be

taken care of," Donovan said, "That'll take a day or two. Then Dick's

going to take you to a house we run in New Jersey. What we want you

for involves a rather interesting long-distance cargo flight. "Yes,

Sir," Fine said. "Tonight, at dinner, you'll meet El don Baker, with

whom you'll be working. Tomorrow Dick is going to take him to Fort

Knox. By the time they get back, you should be ready to go to Jersey

with Dick, "Why is Baker going to Knox?" Canidy asked. "He'll explain

that to you when he's ready," Donovan said.

"Oh hell, there's such a thing as carrying secrecy too far, You're

going down there to talk to Jimmy Whittaker."

"Really?" Canidy asked, but Colonel Donovan chose not to say anything

more.

over dinner-Donovan was not there-the African flight was discussed.

"You'll function as flight engineer, as well as the mission commander,"

Baker told Fine. "And before you go, there will be time to-what is it

they say?-'transition' you in the airplane." e Now that it was

official that he was not going, Canidy did not feel r lief, Instead, he

felt left out. Don't be a goddamn fool, he told himself.

"Incidentally, Canidy," Baker said, "we have decided that you, too,

should transition into the C-46."

"My feelings weren't hurt about being left out," Canidy said. "Your

feelings have nothing to do with it," Baker said.

"What is important is that something might happen to Captain Fine, in

which case you would go on the flight, "You've considered, I'm sure,

the possibility that either one of us might bend the bird learning how

to fly it?" Canidy asked dryly. "That was considered," Baker answered

matter-of factly. "According to your records, both you and Captain

Fine are rather good pilots. The chances are that there will be no

damage to the aircraft. But in case something does happen, we have

acquired another aircraft on standby, in case it is needed."

The next morning Canidy flew the D18S southwest across Virginia, with

the Appalachian Mountains on his right wingtip, to Roanoke. There he

turned more westerly, crossed the Appalachians, then the Alleghenies

and the lower tip of West Virginia, and then set down at a small

airport in Wheelwright, Kentucky, for coffee and a piss break. "Where

are we?"

Baker asked as Canidy walked through the cabin. "Eastern Kentucky, a

place called Wheelwright," Canidy said. Baker followed him out of the

airplane and went into the terminal, a 140 a W.E.H. anarran small frame

building with a sign on it advertising flying lessons for five dollars,

Canidy watched as the tanks were topped off, checked the oil, signed a

U.S. government purchase order for the gas, and then went to the

foul-smelling men's room.

Baker was waiting for him outside the small building.

"Let's stretch our legs," he said, gesturing down the single dirt-and

pebble runway.

They had walked half its length when Baker touched his sleeve. "This

is far enough."

No one, Canidy thought, could possibly overhear what Baker was about to

tell him.

"We're going to Fort Knox to see your friend Whittaker," he said.

"Donovan told me," Canidy said.

"And there's somebody else there you know," Baker said.

"Are you going to tell me who, or just tease me with your superior

knowledge?

"Eric Fulmar," Baker said, enjoying Canidy's surprise.

"If you wanted to surprise me, you've surprised me," Canidy said.

"How'd you get him out of Morocco? More important, why? And what is

he doing at Knox?"

"Getting him out was simplicity itself," Baker said.

"Even though he didn't want to come. We had a little talk with Sidi el

Ferruch, and Fulmar, trussed up like a Christmas turkey, was delivered

to Gibraltar. There he was loaded on a destroyer, taken to Charleston,

and then to Fort Knox."

"What for?"

"We have need for friend Fulmar again," Baker said. 99 Why ?" Canidy

asked.

"How?"

"Putting him together with Whittaker at Knox was my idea," Baker said,

ignoring Canidy's questions.

"He feels about you-about both of us-much as you feel about me. Since

we need his cooperation, I thought it might be a good idea to let him

know, via Whittaker, that we can make things very unpleasant for him if

he doesn't cooperate."

"You are indeed a true sonofabitch," Canidy said, more in resignation

than anger.

"You like pushing people around, don't you?" Baker didn't reply.

"What kind of cooperation?" Canidy asked. "In connection with the

North African invasion," Baker said.

TIME SECRET WARRIORS N 141

Canidy thought that over for a moment. "Bullshit," he said.

"First of all, you gave me that too quick, and second, we don't need

Fulmar. You've already compromised Sidi el Ferruch. He has no choice

but to do what you want him to do." Baker smiled patronizingly at

Canidy.

"Very good, Canidy," he said. "Let us say, then, we tell everybody who

has the need to know that we want Fulmar for Operation Torch."

"What do we really want him for?"

"You don't have the need to know, just yet," Baker said. "Fuck you,"

Canidy said. "You really should learn to control your mouth," Baker

flared. "One day it's going to get you in troub e." There was a pause

while Baker waited for an apology. He went on after none came: "It is

important, Canidy, You'll have to take my word for it.))

"If you say so, El don," Canidy said sarcastically. He was trying to

get under Baker's skin, and he succeeded. "You don't really think we

recruited Fine just to fly that airplane, do you?" Baker asked

sarcastically. "I wondered about that," Canidy said. "Fine has some

interesting contacts in Europe," Baker said. "And we have reason to

believe his uncle has made substantial contributions to the Zionist

movement."

"I don't understand that," Canidy said. "The Zionists have a very

skillful intelligence service," Baker said, as if patiently dealing

with a backward child. "I didn't know that," Canidy confessed. "Much

of what we know about German jet-engine development we got from the

British, who got it from the Zionists," Baker said. "And you're

shortly going to be joined at Summer Place by Second Lieutenant C.

Holds worth Martin the Third."

"The Disciple, junior?" Canidy asked, surprised.

"Wait till. Drew Pearson hears about that." Baker ignored him

again.

"He was at La Rosey in Switzerland with Fulmar," Baker said. "What the

hell is so important about Fulmar?" Canidy asked. "Important enough

that I may order responsibility for Captain Whittaker transferred from

Fort Knox to you, at Summer Place-if he can bring Fulmar with him."

"How can I get Whittaker to talk Fulmar into anything if neither of us

has the slightest idea what you want Fulmar to do?"

"We tell Whittaker that it's something connected with the invasion of

North Africa. That's credible. But we simply cannot even suggest what

we really want from Fulmar at this point."

"I'll be a sonofabitch if I understand any of this," Canidy said.

"Good.

You're not supposed to."

"What makes you think Fulmar will believe anything you have to say?"

Canidy asked.

"I suppose it's occurred to you that you destroyed your credibility

with Fulmar when you left him and me floating around in the Atlantic

off Safi?" Canidy said. "That's where you come in," Baker said.

"Why do you think you were left behind? You ever wonder about that?"

"I was too mad to wonder about it," Canidy said. "Police detectives

have an interrogation technique," Baker said, "where one is a heartless

sonofabitch, and another is kind, gentle, and understanding."

"And I'm to be the good guy, right?"

"Now you're getting the picture," Baker said.

"You're not a sonofabitch like Baker; you were left behind, too."

"The truth is that you are a genuine, heartless sonofabitch, and like

being one," Canidy said. "I'm sorry you feel that way," Baker said.

"Okay," Canidy said.

"I get the picture. Is this class about over now?"

"I was about to suggest it was," Baker said, and waved his hand back

down the pebble runway to where the DI 8 sat waiting for them.

V I ONE I The Willard Hotel Washington, D.C. June as, 1942

Sarah Child Bitter was kneeling on the floor of what at one time had

been the suite Joseph Schild and Company, Merchant Bankers, maintained

in Washington. The suite was now what she thought of as her first

married home. What she was trying to do was force mashed carrots into

Joe, a lo sin battle that was thankfully interrupted when the telephone

rang. Long distance was calling for Commander Bitter.

"I'm sorry, operator, he's not here," Sarah said. "If that's Mrs.

Bitter, operator, the voice said, "I'll talk to her."

"This is Mrs. Bitter," Sarah said. "Go ahead, Sir," the operator

said.

"This is Doug Doug lass, Mrs. Bitter," a pleasant voice said. "I'm an

old friend of Ed's."

"I know," she said. Doug Doug lass was more than an old friend. He

was the man who had saved Ed's life when Ed had been wounded. Doug

Doug lass had landed his own P-40 on a dry riverbed, manhandled Ed from

the cockpit of his plane into his own cockpit, and then somehow managed

to take off again.

"When I called his folks to ask if they knew where he was, they gave me

your number."

"You don't know how glad I am to hear you're back," Sarah said. "So am

I," he said.

"I never thought I would be delighted to be stationed in Selma,

Alabama, but-" "Is that where you are?" Sarah asked.

"Alabama?"

"They gave me a fighter group down here, Mrs. Bitter,' he said. I

will thank him for my husband's life, for Joe's daddy, hut this isn't

the time. Oh, please call me Sarah," she said. "I hear there's a

baby, too, I didn't know about," "Yes, there is," Sarah said.

"I'd like to see Ed," Doug lass said.

"And if he's going to be available, this weekend. I'm coming up to

Washington. "He'll be available," Sarah said.

"And you'll stay here with us." There was a perpetual shortage of

hotel rooms in Washington for civilians. And so many officers were

visiting the city, Ed had told her, that rooms in transient bachelor

officers' quarters had become nothing but wall-to-wall cots. Sarah was

at first delighted to have the chance to offer Doug Doug lass a place

to stay, until she remembered that her old friend Charity Hoc he was

coming on Friday afternoon and Ann Chambers on Saturday, which meant

there would be no spare room. Well, they would just have to make do,

have the hotel send up cots or something. Both Ann and Doug lass had

large claims on her. And Charity was a dear. Fortunately, it turned

out there wasn't going to be a problem after all. "Well, that's very

kind, Sarah, but I already have a place to stay," Doug said. "A nice

place?" she challenged. "Very nice." He chuckled, "I'll be staying

with my father."

"Well, there's a room here if you need one," Sarah said.

"Are you going to be here on business?"

"I am solemnly informed that the entire war effort will collapse unless

I immediately acquire some cross-country time," he said.

"So I decided to cross the country to our nation's capital instead of

Hogwash, Wisconsin." He has a nice voice, Sarah thought. And seems

like a nice fellow. "Well, if the fate of the nation depends on it,"

Sarah said. "How long can you stay?"

"Overnight, anyway," he said.

"If you can find a baby-sitter, I'd like to take you out to dinner."

"No, you won't," Sarah said.

"We'll have a party. I even know some girls."

"You don't have to do that," he said. "I want to," Sarah said.

"When and where are you arriving?"

"I'll leave here, say, six, six-thirty," he said.

"I should touch down at Bolling no later than half past ten."

"You can't make it from Alabama that quickly, can you?" she said.

"You can in a P-3 8," he said. "I really look forward to this," Sarah

said.

"Me, too, Sarah," he said, then: "Gotta go! See you Saturday." The

line went dead. What I really would like to do, she thought, is call

Ed and tell him. But he doesn' the me to ca im ere.

She meditated a moment, then lifted her finger off the switch. When

the operator came on the line, Sarah gave her Ann' number at the

Memphis Advocate. "Ed's friend Doug lass is going to be here Saturday,

too," she announced.

"If he's going to see Ed, maybe he'll see Dick Canidy, too."

"At least I should be able to corner him and see if he has a number or

an address," Ann said. Then: "Just for the bell of it, why don't you

try the National Institutes of Health again for me? Save me the price

of a call. If he comes on the line, hang up." Sarah giggled.

"Okay," she said.

"I will." Ann gave her the number, said, "See you Saturday," and hung

up. just as before with Ann, the operator at the National Institutes

of Health informed Sarah that no one named Canidy worked there. "I'm

sure there's some mistake," Sarah said.

"I was told to call him at the National Institutes of Health

building.

There was silence on the line, and Sarah had just about decided the

operator had hung up on her, when there was the sound of a phone being

rung. A woman answered and said," Hello? The one word was enough for

Sarah to judge that she was young, sophisticated, and intelligent.

"Major Richard Canidy, please," Sarah said. There was a hesitation.

"May I ask who's calling?"

"My name is Sarah Bitter," Sarah said. There was another pause. Sarah

suspected she was about to be put off again, so she quickly added, "My

husband is Commander Edwin Bitter. He and Major Canidy were in the

American Volunteer Group." There was another pause, not as long. "May

I ask where you got this number?" the young woman asked. "From

another Flying Tiger," Sarah said.

"Major Doug Doug lass."

"I see," the young woman said, her inflection explaining a good deal.

"Well, I'm sorry, Miss, there is no one here by that name."

"I see," Sarah said.

"Thank you very much, anyway." The young woman hung up without another

word.

TWO I God man Army Air Field Fort Knox, Kentucky June 29, 1942

The parking ramps of God man held a large number of what looked like

brand-new Lockheed P-38 aircraft. At least two squadrons, Canidy

judged.

He wondered why so many were in the middle of Kentucky, and wondered if

they were here to protect the United States gold reserves.

That made perfect bureaucratic/military sense: Station two squadrons of

brand-new fighters here to protect something that not only was buried

deep underground but far beyond the range of any enemy bomber. "They

expect us," Baker announced.

"I have a number to call."

"Go call it," Canidy said, and went to find somebody to top off the

D18's tanks.

A few moments later, Baker returned to the airplane and announced a car

was coming for them; it would be a couple of minutes.

Canidy looked at the other man carefully. After considerable thought

he had made up his mind to do something he now concluded was not un

duly colored by his dislike for El don C. Baker. 1@

"Let's stretch our legs , he said, mimicking Baker's manner at Wheel

THE SECRET WARRIORS N 14T wright. When he had him out of earshot of

the ground crew servicing the Beech, he said, "I've been thinking that

I'm not going to feed Whittaker your line of bullshit about some kind

of unspecified dangerous mission. I'm not going to lie to him."

"Your sense of humor, or loyalty, or whatever it is, is misplaced,"

Baker said.

"Though commendable," he added. "Well, I'm not going to do it, so do

whatever you have to do with that in mind," Canidy said. "Are we going

to have to call Captain Doug lass on the phone to get this straightened

out?"

"Call anybody you want," Canidy said. "There's a scrambler phone at

post headquarters," Baker said. "I'll use that." Canidy shrugged.

"What are you thinking, Canidy?" Baker asked, en route to post

headquarters in an Army olive-drab staff car.

"That he would learn the truth anyhow and be upset?"

"I don't think you understand trust," Canidy said.

"I don't think the elaborate bullshit is necessary with this guy. And

it damned well could be counterproductive. When you finish tattling on

me to Doug lass, that's the argument I'm going to make."

As he got out of the car before the brick post headquarters building,

Baker turned to Canidy. "We'll tell him as little of the truth as

necessary, agreed?"

"But the truth," Canidy said. Baker nodded. Either he realizes the

profound wisdom of my position, or else he's afraid to go to Doug lass

with it. Which means that I may have more influence with Doug lass

than I think I do-or Baker wants me to know I have.

Canidy had hoped to meet the post commander, a general named Patton

whom he knew to be quite a character. General Patton had not only

traveled around the prewar Army with his own string of polo ponies, but

he had designed a uniform for armored troops that made them look like

characters in the "Buck Rogers in the 21st Century" comic strip.

Unfortunately, it turned out that Patton was in Washington.

Though Patton's deputy, a brigadier general, was expecting them, he had

no idea why they were coming. And when Baker showed him the

identification of a deputy U.S. marshal, he was visibly uneasy-and even

more nervous when Baker produced an order of the United States Court of

Appeals directing him to give Baker access to Captain James M. B.

Whittaker and Eric Fulmar. The order went on to say that Baker was

authorized-if he so chose-to take one or both of the aforesaid patients

into his personal custody. "I'll have to check this, you understand,

Sir," the brigadier general said. A telephone call to the Chief of

Staff confirmed that Fort Knox had no choice but to comply with the

court order. The brigadier general then called in the post provost

marshal, who drove Canidy and Baker to the station hospital in a

Chevrolet sedan with a chrome siren on the fender. The station

hospital was a sprawling complex of single-story frame buildings. It

was brand new-still smelling of freshly sawed lumber and paint-and it

was built on gently undulating land half a mile from the brick

buildings of the main post. After the hospital commander, a tall,

heavy, white-mustachio ed full colonel, was shown the court order, he

told them that Whittaker and Fulmar were in private rooms in a private

ward, and that he would personally escort them there. "Whittaker

first," Canidy said. The private ward was in a fenced-in portion of

the neuropsychiatric division of the hospital.

Sections of hurricane fence enclosed a small porch. Fence material was

nailed over the windows. A military policeman was in the corridor, and

another sat outside the fence on a folding chair under a small tree.

"What's his physical condition, Colonel?" Baker asked.

"Physically-and so far as I am concerned mentally-there is nothing

wrong with Captain Whittaker," the hospital commander said.

"He was a mess when they brought him here, but once we got rid of his

parasites and got some food into him, he came right around."

"I'm glad to hear that," Baker said. "I've been told to ask you no

questions, and as a soldier I'll obey my orders. But I don't mind

telling you that I don't like a hospital ward being used as a prison,"

the hospital commander said.

"I don't think it's either ethical or legal."

Good for you, Colonel! Canidy thought. "Wouldn't you say, Colonel,"

Baker said coldly, "that the Attorney General would be the best judge

of that?" The colonel did not back down. "The Supreme Court,

perhaps," he said.

"I'm not sure about the Attorney General." Canidy chuckled, and Baker

glared at him. The MP unlocked the door to a room, then held it open

for Canidy, Baker, and the hospital commander. "Captain Whittaker,"

the doctor said.

"These gentlemen have been sent from Washington to see you."

"I'll be god damned," Whittaker said. He was in a red hospital

bathrobe, pajamas, and slippers. He had been reading Life magazine.

"Thank you, Doctor," Baker said, "I'll take it from here." The

hospital commander left, closing the door after him, and almost

immediately Canidy heard the lock being snapped shut. Whittaker looked

suspiciously at Canidy but got out of his chair and offered his hand.

"Hello, Jimmy," Canidy said.

"How the hell are you?" You look a hell of a lot better than the last

time I saw you. Not only physically. You must have put on forty

pounds.

And that nutty look in your eyes is gone. "This is the prison ward,"

Whittaker said.

"Or the lunatic ward. Or the prison slash lunatic ward. How the hell

do you think I am?"

"I hear you got rid of Clarence," Canidy said. "Yeah," Whittaker

said.

"And he was a persistent bastard. It took about ten pounds of quinine

to kill him. I was as yellow as a daisy for a while."

"It must run in the family," Canidy said.

"Your aunt Barbara told me that Chesly had one in-somewhere in the Far

East."

"I've heard that story," Whittaker said, and then he looked coldly at

El don C. Baker." Who're you?" he asked. "His name is Baker," Canidy

said.

"Watch out for him. He's a sonofabitch. But be nice to him. He has

the power to get you out of here."

"Uncle Franklin is no longer pissed?" Whittaker asked.

"I am to be sprung from durance vile?"

"That's up to you," Canidy said.

"Some people think you're a bomb about to go off. Others think you may

be useful to them. Once you hear why, you may want to stay in the

loony bin." Whittaker looked at Baker curiously. "Has Dick told you

about Morocco, Captain Whittaker?" Baker asked. "No," Whittaker said

simply."

You know, Baker," Canidy said." Loose lips lose ships.

"You are aware that he and I work for the Office of the Coordinator of

Information?"

"Yes," Whittaker said. "Would you mind telling me what you know about

the COV' Whittaker shrugged.

"It's a hush-hush outfit run by Bill Donovan," he said, "It's probably

involved in very strange things, like espionage. Who knows what

else?"

"Dick tell you that?" Baker asked. "If he had, I wouldn't tell you

and get him in trouble," Whittaker said.

"I got some of it from that captain, Doug lass, and some of it from the

President. The rest I put together myself, like Sherlock Holmes."

Baker smiled.

"Very good," he said. "You get two gold stars to take home to Mommy,"

Canidy said. Whittaker chuckled. Baker gave Canidy a dirty look.

"Why don't we stop the bullshit?" Canidy said. "Why don't you?"

Whittaker said. "You first," Canidy said.

"Do you know what was in that letter from MacArthur to the

President?"

" No," Whittaker said." I know it made General Marshall mad. "That's

one of the reasons you're down here," Canidy said.

"They're worried you'll give the press the contents of the letter."

"I have no idea what it said," Whittaker said. "And you'd take a

polygraph, a lie-detector test, about that?" Baker asked.

Bull's-eye!

Canidy thought. I knew damned well they didn't lock him in a loony bin

for pissing off the general. "It was that embarrassing, was it?"

Whittaker asked.

"Yeah, I'll take a lie-detector test. Why not? Anything that'll get

me out of here."

"The next question," Canidy said, "is, would you be willing to stick

your neck out, mission unspecified?"

AEEEW@

"No," Whittaker said after a split second's hesitation.

"I don't think I would."

" Your move, Baker," Canidy said." He just proved he's sane. "You've

had a chance to talk to Eric Fulmar?" Baker asked. "Of course, I

have," Whittaker said. "Did he tell you what happened in Morocco?"

Baker asked.

"Why do I feel that no matter how I answer that, it will cost me?"

Whittaker asked. "Answer that one, Jimmy," Canidy said.

"It's important." Whittaker looked at Canidy, as if making up his mind

whether or not to trust him. "Yeah," he said finally.

"He told me all about Morocco."

"Including him and me getting the shaft off the coast?" Canidy

asked.

"Yeah, that, and how he finally got out. Tied up in the bilge of an

Arab chow, or whatever they call those little boats, and taken from

Tangier to Gibraltar. He didn't like that much either."

"I didn't think he would," Canidy said. "A betrayal, followed by a

kidnapping," Whittaker said.

"You guys play dirty."

"Baker plays dirty," Canidy said.

"I got left behind too. I'm one of the good guys, Jimmy."

"You're doing fine, Canidy," Baker said angrily.

"Keep it up."

"Why not?" Canidy said.

"This way you can tell Doug lass and Donovan that I was the one who

told him all the secrets and you had nothing to do with it."

"So tell me a secret," Whittaker said.

"Things have been a little dull around here."

"Eric Fulmar is close to an important man in Morocco," Canidy said.

"We want to use that again.

We used him once."

"So he told me," Whittaker said.

"And if you ask him to do the same thing again, being a reasonable man

of average intelligence, he's going to tell you to go fuck

yourselves."

"If he does, then both of you stay here," Baker said. "You just can't

do that," Whittaker flared. "We can, Jimmy," Canidy said.

"And we will. Whittaker looked at him. "I notice you said 'we,'

Dick," he said.

"Yeah, I said 'we," Canidy said.

"I'm part of this."

"Otherwise you get locked up, too?"

"Partly that," Canidy said.

"And partly because I think that what we're doing is so important that

the usual rules don't apply."

"What's got me pissed off," Whittaker said, "is that just as soon as

got home, they start treating me like the enemy."

"You got between Marshall and MacArthur," Canidy said.

"You were an innocent bystander who got caught in the line of fire.

Nobody thinks you're the enemy."

"That's why there)s a fence over the window and an MP outside, right?

"We've come with the authority to take you out of here, Captain

Whittaker," Baker said. "What's the price?" 44you heard it," Canidy

said.

"You volunteer for the classic dangerous, secret mission, like Errol

Flynn."

"I couldn't just go back to flying fighters?" Whittaker asked.

"Not any more than I can," Canidy said. "Okay," Whittaker said after a

moment's thought.

"What the hell." He saluted Canidy, crisply but mockingly.

"I await my orders, Sir, and stand prepared to give my all for our

noble cause. Whatever the hell that might be."

"This really isn't a joking matter, Whittaker," Baker said. "I didn't

think it was," Whittaker said coldly. "You are now a member, more or

less in good standing," Canidy said, 94 of Donovan's Dilettantes."

"What the hell is that?"

"I'll tell you later," Canidy said. And what's the 'more or less in

good standing' mean?"

"Now we have to get Fulmar to cooperate," Canidy said. "My getting out

of here really depends on that?" Whittaker asked.

"I'm afraid so," Baker said. "No," Canidy said firmly.

"No, it doesn't, Jimmy. Baker, I'll go to Donovan himself about

that.

Jimmy's coming with us no matter what happens with Eric Fulmar." Baker

didn't reply "Well, Mr, Baker?" Whittaker asked after a moment.

AMMER can see no point in keeping you here any longer, Captain

Whittaker," Baker said finally.

"Okay," Whittaker said. "You guys are going to have a problem with

Fulmar. He's really pissed. He's tried to escape four times." I

didn't hear about that," Baker said.

"Are you sure @ " "Yeah, I'm sure, The only reason he hasn't escaped is

that every time he was about to go, I squealed on him." He know about

that?" Canidy asked. Whittaker shook his head no.

"It wasn't time to try something like that," Whittaker said. "It was

getting close, but it wasn't time yet, I sort of thought there was a

reason my childhood chum just 'coincidentally' wound up in the adjacent

cell."

"You are very perceptive, Captain," Baker said approvingly.

"Lucky for you I am," Whittaker said.

"I could have gotten out of here."

"How could you have done thao" Baker said scoffingly. "Would you like

to watch me take that forty-five away from that kid?" Whittaker said,

nodding at the MP sitting on a folding chair in the fence din yard.

"I'm surprised at you, Mr. Baker. I thought that surely Major Canidy

had regaled you with tales of my exploits on Bataan."

"I'm well aware that you were decorated for valor, Captain Whittaker,"

Baker said condescendingly, "I didn't get any medals for what I did,"

Whittaker said.

"You could call my medals political medals. It pleased the people who

gave them to me. It had nothing to do with what I did."

"What exactly did you do?" Baker asked. "I blew a lot of things up,"

Whittaker said. "Sometimes after the Japs had captured them. I'm

awfully good at explosions. "Really?"

"That meant we had to take out sentries," Whittaker said

conversationally. "Indeed?" Baker said impatiently. The next thing

Baker knew, he was on the floor. Whittaker's knee against his back

held him immobile. Whittaker's left hand was on his chin, twisting his

neck so that it was exposed. Whittaker drew the index finger of his

right hand across Baker's Adam's apple. "I don't think," Whittaker

said, still conversationally, "that I would have to cut that kid's

throat to get his gun. All I would have to do is say "Boo! "' "Let

him up, Jimmy," Canidy said, laughing.

"I think you've made your point." Baker rose awkwardly to his feet and

straightened his clothing. Then he surprised Canidy. "You're very

good," Baker said.

"I don't think I've ever seen anyone that fast." That surprised

Whittaker, too, and seemed to embarrass him. "You figured out how to

handle Fulmar?" Whittaker asked.

"Or are you open to suggestion?"

"Let's hear it," Canidy said quickly. "If you go in there and give him

the business about volunteering, he's going to tell you to go fuck

yourselves. "What do you suggest?"

"Take him someplace now, without conditions. Maybe the house on Q

Street, or better, Summer Place. Dangle the carrot in front of his

nose.

Sugar catches more flies than vinegar. Right now you've got him

trapped in a corner. Even Pekingese dogs will fight when you get them

in a corner, "I'm not sure I'm authorized to do that, give him his

freedom without conditions," Baker said uncomfortably. But Canidy saw

that he had not rejected Whittaker's reasoning out of hand. "And you

stay the hell out of sight," Whittaker said.

"He really hates you. Let Canidy go in there and tell him he's been

sent to get us out of here."

"Would he believe that?" Baker asked. "Why not? The last time he saw

Canidy was after they'd both been left behind in Morocco. And he would

probably take his cue from me."

"And what if he tries to escape?"

"Canidy and I can handle him until we get where we're going," Whittaker

said. "I'll have to have permission," Baker said. "No," Canidy

said.

"If you ask for permission, Doug lass is going to say no. You get on

the telephone after we're airborne and call Washington, and tell them

we're on the way Whittaker's right, and you know he is. Your coming

here was stupid." Baker thought that over for a moment, then walked to

the door and knocked. When the MP opened it, he asked him to fetch the

provost marshal. When the provost marshal came, Baker told him that he

was serving the court order which directed that Whittaker and Fulmar be

placed in his custody. He handed a copy of the court order to the

provost marshal. "You have been served, Sir," Baker said, formally.

"Before two witnesses." The provost marshal read the court order and

then put it in a pocket of his tunic. "Would you have Captain

Whittaker's uniforms brought here, please?" Canidy said.

"I won't be going with them," Baker said.

"Can you provide transportation for me to post headquarters? And Major

Canidy and the two gentlemen will require transportation to God man

Field."

"Yes, Sir," the provost marshal said.

"I'll telephone for another car." Baker turned and spoke to Canidy.

"Unless you hear to the contrary while you're en route," he said, "go

to Lakehurst. I'll have someone meet your plane.

"Jesus Christ!" Eric Fulmar said when Dick Canidy and Jim Whittaker

walked into his room.

"What the hell is all this?"

"Mr. Fulmar, Major Canidy," Whittaker said.

"Otherwise known as the knight in shining armor riding up on his white

horse to rescue Prince Charming-the Princes, plural, Charming-from the

evil king's dungeon."

"No shit? "Let's go, Eric," Canidy said.

"We're getting out of here."

" Where are we going?"

"Do you really care?"

"I don't know where my clothes are," Fulmar said. Before going for

Fulmar, Whittaker had suggested that keeping Fulmar in his pajamas and

bathrobe-people in bathrobes are less prone to try something foolish,

like running away-might be a very good idea.

"We don't have time for that now," Canidy said. "Jimmy's got his

clothes," Fulmar challenged.

"His uniform." Then he realized that Canidy was in uniform, too.

"You're an Air Corps major, Dick?"

"He's an Air Corps major, complete to airplane," Whittaker said. "On

which he's going to fly us both out of here, presuming we can get you

out of here before somebody around here changes his mind, and all three

of us are locked up again. Let's go, Eric."

"What the hell are they?" Whittaker asked as a Military Police start

car drove them onto the ramp at God man Field. "P-38s," Canidy said.

"New fighter. Fast as bell. High altitude. Long range. Eight

50-caliber machine guns."

"That's what I want for Christmas, Daddy," Whittaker said. "Me too,'

Canidy said.

"But I don't think there's much chance of that. We're both on Santa

Claus's shithst."

"Could you guys fly something like that?" Fulmar asked. "We're

fighter pilots," Whittaker said.

"Of course we could."

"And if you're a very good fighter pilot,' Canidy said as the MP staff

car stopped beside the Beech C-45, 'you get promoted and they let you

fly something like this."

"That's a Navy airplane?" Fulmar said. "My God, it can read, too.

The next thing you know, it'll be able to tie its own shoes," Canidy

said.

Fifteen minutes later, with Jimmy Whittaker in the right seat, Canidy

lifted the C-45 off from God man Field.

THREE I Pope Army Air Corps Field Fort Bragg, North Carolina 2005 Hours

June LIS, 1942

The D18S was an hour out of God man Field at Fort Knox when, very

faintly, Canidy heard Cincinnati calling him. "This is Navy

Six-one-one.

Go ahead, Cincinnati."

"Navy Six-one-one,' Cincinnati replied so faintly that they had to re

THE SECRET WARRIORS 0 IST peat it four times before Canidy could

understand, "this is a Navy Department priority in-flight advisory.

You are directed to divert to Pope Field, North Carolina.

Acknowledge."

Canidy acknowledged the message. But it took him several minutes to

find the place on his aerial navigation chart. It was on the Fort

Bragg reservation, just about as far on another heading as

Washington.

He turned the plane in the general direction of North Carolina, gave

the controls over to Jim Whittaker with an admonition to keep it as

straight and level as his limited ability would permit, and went back

in the cabin to plot the course. Eric Fulmar, in hospital pajamas,

robe, and slippers, was sitting in the leather-upholstered chair

intended for the admiral whose plane the Beech was to have been.

There's something about Fulmar, Canidy thought, that makes the purple

U.S. Army hospital robe look like a Silk dressing gown. "Change of

plans," Canidy announced.

"We're going to North Carolina." Why?" Fulmar asked, concern in his

voice. "I really don't know, Eric," Canidy said.

"But I wouldn't worry about it." Fulmar raised himself out of the

leather chair and, fascinated, watched over Canidy's shoulder as Canidy

went through the business of plotting their new course. "As closely as

I can figure it," Canidy said when he had finished, "we will either

make Pope Field with an hour-thirty's fuel aboard, or we will run out

of fuel and crash-land somewhere along around here in the foothills of

the Great Smoky Mountains." Fulmar laughed dutifully.

"You really know what you're doing, don't You?" he asked.

"Whittaker know how to do this, too?"

"Yes, he does." When Canidy went back to the cockpit and handed

Whittaker the marked chart, he saw that Fulmar had followed. "Is it

all right if I stand here?" he asked. "Sure," Canidy said quickly.

"Just don't touch anything," Whittaker snapped. That surprised Canidy,

until he realized that Fulmar was being reminded he was a non flier, an

outsider, that there was a Brotherhood he was possibly, probably, not

worthy of joining.

Whittaker, Canidy thought, seems to have a Baker-like talent for

manipulating other people. Between that point and Pope Field, Navy

Six-one-one received three more of the priority in-flight advisories

ordering diversion to Pope. Whatever's going on at Pope, Canidy

thought, someone considers it important enough to make one hell of an

effort to make sure we get there.

As they approached Pope Field, Canidy took the controls and made the

landing, wondering whether he had done so because Whittaker had never

landed a C-45 before, or whether it was because he wanted to establish

his superior position in the pecking order. A Follow Me jeep met them

at the threshold of the runway and led them to the transient parking

ramp in front of base operations. When Canidy opened the door, a

captain and a second lieutenant of the 508th Parachute Infantry

Regiment of the 82nd Airborne Division were standing there. They were

wearing gabardine jumpsuits, glistening jump boots, and steel helmets

covered with netting. Over their jumpsuit tunics they wore an

arrangement of straps and web belting from which hung canteens and

pouches for first-aid kits, spare magazines for their .45 Colt pistols,

compasses, and leather holsters for the pistols. The second lieutenant

had a Thompson submachine gun dangling from his shoulder, and at his

feet was a stuffed canvas Val-Pak. "Major Canidy, Sir?" the paratroop

captain asked, saluting crisply and holding it until Canidy made a

vague gesture in the general direction of his forehead. "I'm Canidy,"

Canidy said. "I have a classified message for you, Sir," the captain

said, "if you'll be good enough to show me your AGO' card." Canidy

found the card and passed it to him, and the captain said, "Thank you,

Sir," and handed him an envelope. Canidy tore it open and read it.

"A sealed-in-plastic officers' identity card issued by the Adjutant

General's Office.

THE SECRET WARRIORS 0 ISO PRIORITY WAR DEPT WASH DC COMMGEN FT BRAGG NC

DELIVER FOLLOWING MESSAGE MAJ R CANIDY USA AC EN ROUTE POPE FIELD

ABOARD USN C-45 AIRCRAFT TAIL NO SIX ONE ONE QUOTE PROCEED ANACOSTIA

SIGNED CHENOWITH EN ID QUOTE ADVISE DELIVERY MOST E)MEDITIOUS MEANS

FOSTER BRIG GEN Canidy chuckled. That explained all the in-flight

advisories.

Cynthia Chenowith was delightedly wallowing in her role as spy

master.

"I am under instructions to deliver this officer into your custody,

Major," the captain said. "Who are you?" Canidy asked the young

second lieutenant. "Martin, Sir, Second Lieutenant Holds worth C."

the Third."

The Disciple's son. "Would you please sign for Lieutenant Martin,

Sir?" the captain said, and extended a clipboard and a pen. Canidy

scrawled his name and handed it back. "Would you be good enough to

fill in the date-time block?" the cap @J tain said, giving it back to

him. Canidy did so.

"Thank you, Sir," the captain said crisply. "Now, Sir, is there

anything se you require before your departure?"

"I've got to put gas in the bird, and I would like to take a leak,"

Canidy said. "Refueling has been arranged, Sir," the captain said.

"The truck should be here directly. There is a latrine in base

operations, Sir. Lieutenant Martin has visited the latrine. If you

would like, Sir, he can secure our aircraft while you are gone, Sir."

y Whittaker jumped out of the airplane. He was hatless, his necktie

was puffed down, and his tunic was open. The paratroop captain looked

at him with a mixture of shock and outrage. Whittaker promptly made it

worse.

"And who are these two ferocious warriors?" he asked. "Shut up,

Jimmy," Canidy said.

"I'm going to take a leak. If you want to come with me, button your

tunic, pull up your tie, and put your hat on.)3 "Yes, Sir, Major, Sir,"

Whittaker said.

"I'm sorry to have embarrassed you, Sir."

"Lieutenant," Canidy said to Martin, "under no circumstances is our

passenger to leave the aircraft."

"Yes, Sir," Lieutenant Martin said. Then, having taken a look at

Fulmar, who was staring out the door, he went on in some embarrassment,

"Sir, I feel I should tell the major I know this ..." He searched for

a properwordandfinauycameupwith" ... individual."

"Fine," Canidy said.

"Then you two will have a chance for a little chat while Captain

Whittaker and I are taking our leak."

"Yes, Sir," Lieutenant Martin said militarily. The captain was gone

when they returned to the plane, and the fueling crew had topped off

the tanks. Canidy made the preflight, then motioned for Second

Lieutenant Holds worth Martin III to get aboard. "Sir, may I inquire

as to my destination?" He had an accent. But not much, considering

that Martin had been born in France, had a French mother, and had come

to the United States for the first time just over two years before.

"I'm not sure if I have the authority to divulge that highly classified

information," Canidy said.

"But, once we get in the air, if you've got a Class A uniform in your

Val-Pak, you'd better change into it and hide that tommy gun someplace,

or you're going to scare hell out of a bunch of bureaucrats."

"I was told to prepare myself for immediate overseas shipment, Sir,"

Martin said. "I don't know anything about that, Lieutenant," Canidy

said. "But where you're probably going to spend the night is on the

New Jersey seashore." Second Lieutenant C. Holds worth Martin III

seemed more disappointed than surprised.

FOUR Anacostin Naval Air Station Washington, D.C. 00:05 Hours June

30,1942

"Anacostia clears Navy Six-one-one to land on runway three-one," the

tower said.

"The winds are negligible, the altimeter is three-niner-niner eight."

"Understand three-one," Canidy replied. "You've got it," Jim Whittaker

said, taking his hands off the wheel. "You don't think you can land

it?"

Canidy asked. "What the hell, why not?" Whittaker replied, putting

his hands back on the wheel and banking to the left to line himself up

with the runway. "Six-one-one on final," Canidy said to the

microphone.

"Wheels going down," he said, pressing the intercom switch.

"Flaps going to twenty percent. It gets dirty quick, Jim. Don't chop

too much power."

"Got you." C "Wheels down and locked. Flaps at twenty percent. Jesus

Christ, I said don't chop the throttles's "Whoops!" Whittaker said,

advancing the throttles to increase his glide path.

"Now it's too much," Canidy said. "Work them yourself, goddamn it!"

Whittaker snapped. "You're flying it; go around if you have to,"

Canidy replied. "Oh shit," Whittaker said, cut the throttles again,

and flared out, too high, over the runway. They landed hard, bounced

into the air, landed again, bounced again, and finally touched down,

again hard; but this time they stayed on the ground.

"The next thing you do is lower the tail," Canidy said dryly as

Whittaker made a violent move to keep on the runway.

"Fuck you," Whittaker said as he eased back on the stick to lower the

tail. 11 Anacostia, Six-one-one on the ground at five past

midnight-and at five and a half past midnight, and finally at six past

midnight."

"Fuck you, wise ass," Whittaker said as he began to brake. There was

laughter in the tower operator's voice when he came back on the air.

"If you're sure you're finally down, Six-one-one, take taxiway three

left to the transient parking area. Your ground transportation is

waiting for you."

"We have apparently cheated death once again, Anacostia. I came on the

airways from Raleigh. Will you close me out with Washington control,

please?" Canidy said. "Will do, Six-one-one," the tower operator

said, still laughing. "And will you arrange to have me fueled,

please?"

"A fuel truck will meet you, Six-one-one."

"What happens here?" Whittaker asked. The translation of that is,

Canidy thought, Am I going to get to see Cynthia Chenowith?

"We'll have to wait and see, Jimmy," Canidy said. 4N@

As they taxied past base operations Canidy saw Chief Ellis standing

inside the glass door. "That landing was a little rough, wasn't it,

Dick?" Fulmar asked when Canidy walked through the cabin to open the

door. Canidy looked at him. He was mopping at his bathrobe with a

paper towel. He had apparently been drinking a cup of coffee when

Whittaker had made the landing. "I didn't think it was all that bad,

Eric," Canidy said.

"So far as I know, that was Whittaker's first landing in a twin-engine

airplane." He saw that Second Lieutenant Holds worth C. Martin III's

eyes grew very wide. Canidy went the rest of way down the aisle,

opened the door, and jumped onto the ground. Ellis was there. And so

was the gas truck and a crew of white hats. Ellis saluted, which he

would not have done if no one had been there. "Captain Doug lass's

compliments, Major," he said.

"And would the major come to the base ops building?" Canidy looked at

his watch. It was twelve minutes past midnight. "I have passengers

aboard, Chief," he said as formally as Ellis.

"What about them?"

"They're to remain aboard the aircraft, Sir," Ellis said.

"I'm to see to that."

"Be careful, Ellis," Canidy said softly.

"One of them has a Thompson submachine gun and high hopes that he can

shoot it at somebody."

"Oh, Christ!" Ellis said, chuckling.

"What are a pair of old sailors like us doing in this fucked-up

outfit?"

When Canidy walked into base ops, he was directed to an office on the

second floor. Captain Doug lass and Stanley Fine were inside, sipping

on coffee in heavy china mugs. "Everything go all right?"

"Young Martin has a submachine gun," Canidy said, "that scares me a

little. "When you get to Deal, take it away from him," Doug lass

said.

"Was all that priority in-flight advisory business necessary?"

Canidy asked.

"And the secret message ordering me here? Didn't Miss Spyrnaster of

1942 get a little excited?"

"So far as you're concerned, she does nothing right, does she?"

Captain Doug lass said coldly.

"But just to keep the record straight, she did what she did because I

told her to. And I was really doing you a favor, or so I thought. If

we hadn't managed to divert you, you would have found yourself flying

back here for Captain Fine from Deal tonight, and flying to North

Carolina to get young Martin tomorrow."

"Why?" Canidy asked.

"There's no more trains or planes? Or we don't get a priority?"

"Christ, you don't give up, do you? The colonel said you were to pick

Martin up at Bragg. He didn't tell me why. If you like, the next time

you see him, you ask him. And I ordered you here. Can you get all

that straight? " Canidy touched his forehead in sort of a salute.

"How's Whittaker?" Doug lass asked. "He landed the plane just now,"

Canidy said.

"He's all right."

"Baker is very impressed with him," Doug lass said. Canidy laughed.

"Why is that amusing?"

"Did Baker tell you Whittaker demonstrated how easily he could have cut

his throat?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, he did," Doug lass said, which surprised

Canidy.

"He thinks we should put Whittaker in charge of training in that sort

of thing at the school."

"What school?"

"We're starting a school for agents, new people in C01," Doug lass

said.

"When we can find the time, we're going to run you through it."

"I'm not sure I'd like that," Canidy said. "No one asked you," Doug

lass said.

"Baker also told me Whittaker has some good ideas about how to deal

with Fulmar."

"Yes, he does."

"Well, for the time being, keep a close eye on them, but let Whittaker

try his method."

"I'd planned to," Canidy said. "Good," Doug lass said tightly.

"Now to the business at hand. From this point, you and I will be

talking about the African flight. It is classified Top Secret."

"Yes, Sir."

"Captain Fine has been briefed on certain aspects of the mission and

provided with certain documents. You will note that he has also been

provided with a pistol and that there is provision to handcuff the

briefcase containing the documents to his wrist." Canidy looked at

Fine, then at the briefcase he held in his hand. It was handcuffed to

his wrist. "The documents placed in Fine's possession are to be in one

of five places," Doug lass said.

"In his possession; in your possession, in Commander Reynolds's safe at

Lakehurst, in El don Baker's possession, or in mine. "Yes, Sir."

"The lock has a sequence counter" Doug lass said.

"It counts every time the case is opened. You will keep a record of

those numbers. If you should ever open the briefcase and the number

does not tally, you are immediately to notify Cynthia, Baker, or me.

In that order. Canidy nodded. "And any documents removed from the

briefcase are to be returned to it before the case is shut again. The

documents are not to be separated. Understood? "Yes, Sir."

"The details of this operation are known in full only to Baker, myself,

and Chief Ellis. And, when we have finished filling each other in, to

you two. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir."

"I have explained to Captain Fine your other responsibilities at Summer

Place," Doug lass said.

"And that you will have your hands full for the next few days getting

everybody settled. So what I suggest you do, Dick, is put all this

material in Reynolds's safe tonight, when you get there, and forget it

until after the Fourth."

"When we get there this morning you mean,' Canidy said, and then,

puzzled, asked, "The Fourth?"

"The Fourth of July," Doug lass said "You remember, Independence Day?

Parades? Fireworks? Patriotic speeches?"

"Jesus, are we going to celebrate it in the middle of a war?"

"Even more enthusiastically than before the war," Doug lass said. "Now

it's considered important for morale."

"I know," Canidy said, straight-faced.

"I'll see if I can't come up with the makings, lobsters, beer, corn on

the cob, that sort of thing, and then we'll have a clambake on the

beach."

"That's an idea, certainly," Doug lass said.

"Why not?"

"If that's all, Captain? And presuming you're ready, Stanley?"

"Anytime," Fine said. His eyes were smiling, He had caught Canidy's

sarcasm, even though it had sailed right over Captain Doug lass's

head.

"Have a good flight," Captain Doug lass said.

"Tell Chief Ellis I'll be in the car."

VII ONE I The Willard Hotel Washington, D.C. July 2, 1942

Charity Hoc he, Sarah's friend from Bryn Mawr, had arrived at half past

five the day before. She was a tall, sharp-featured blonde. And she

was so very Main Line that Sarah and Ann Chambers had joked behind her

back that there was no way to tell whether Katharine Hepburn had lurked

in the shrubbery at Bryn Mawr to study Charity before she made The

Philadelphia Story, or whether Charity had gone to the movie over and

over so that she could faithfully mimic the actress's mannerisms and

nasal speech. Despite the heat, Charity had swept into the suite with

an ankle length mink coat over her shoulders. Under this she wore the

college-girl uniform of sweater and pleated plaid skirt. She had large

breasts, which Sarah and Ann called behind her back the Hoc he Dairy

and which the sweater did little to conceal. "Daahling!" she cried.

I can't wait to see it."

"You can't wait to see what?" Sarah asked, although she knew perfectly

well that Charity meant the baby. "Your child, Little Mother! What

else?" Charity searched through the suite until she found the crib,

then picked up Joe with a skill that surprised Sarah.

I always have to keep reminding myself that Charity is far less

incompetent-and much more intelligent-than she, for some reason, likes

to paint herself "He's adorable!" Charity said. "Thank you," Sarah

said.

"I would never have dreamed you had it in you," Charity said. "But

then, no one did, did they? Still waters, daahling, that sort of

thing." There were two remarks in that that could be innocent but I

know were not. I should he offended and angry, Sarah thought, but of

course I'm not.

Charity is Charity. "If this precious little bundle is the wages of

sin, daahling, you're just going to have to find a sailor for me."

Sarah laughed, although she knew she shouldn't.

"The sailors seem to be spoken for," she said.

"Would you settle for an Air Corps fighter pilot?"

"Have you one?"

Charity asked, bright with interest. "I've got one coming in the

morning Sarah said.

"He's the man who saved Eddie's life."

"A bona fide hero? Marvelous!

I wanted to see you, of course, and the bundle of joy here, but I

wasn't really looking forward to a whole weekend of watching you change

his diapers. Which, incidentally, is necessary now." She handed the

baby to Sarah, then gestured at the furniture in the room. It had been

furnished with the reputation of Child and Company, Merchant Bankers,

in mind.

Most of the Louis XIV furniture was genuine, and so were the Matisse

and the Gains borough and the other paintings hung on the brocade

walls. "It looks like a museum," Charity pronounced.

"The only thing that's missing are velvet ropes and signs saying

"Please Do Not Touch."

"It belongs to the bank," Sarah said.

"My father turned it over to us. You just can't find anywhere to live

in Washington."

"Being rich is nice, isn't it?" Charity said.

"What about the admiral? How did he react to finding out that

supporting you isn't going to be the usual problem?"

"Ed is a lieutenant commander," Sarah said.

"He can support us. "Not like this," Charity said flatly. She

followed Sarah into the bedroom and sniffed loudly as Sarah changed

Joe's diaper.

AISNE My God, do they all smell that bad, or have you been feeding that

innocent child something you shouldn't have?"

"You get used to it," Sarah said, and then: "Ed's father is a

commodities broker in Chicago. His mother is Ann's father's sister."

"In other words, the Chambers Publishing Company," Charity said.

"Uh-huh," Sarah said. "So you won't have to take in washing, will

you?

What did you get from them for a wedding present?" Sarah did not want

to tell Charity that there had been two large checks, from Ed's father

and hers, "to help them get started." So she pretended not to have

heard the question. "The story is that Ed and I were married secretly

before he went off to the Flying Tigers," she said.

"I hope you can go along with that." Charity was not ready to give

up.

"That got them off cheap, didn't it?" Charity asked, making it a

statement If I let that go unanswered, Charity will decide that our

parents are cheap, andlor that they disapprove of the marriage. "The

Bitters wanted to give us a car," Sarah said, "but my father had

already given us one."

"Hold out for a newspaper," Charity said.

"That would be a nice little nest egg in case the admiral misbehaves

when the novelty wears off."

"Before he gets here, Charity," Sarah said sharply, "I want to ask you

not to make fun of his being in the Navy. He's an Annapolis graduate,

a career officer, and he might not understand you."

Somewhat to Sarah's surprise, Charity and Ed got along very well. They

quickly came up with a half-dozen mutual acquaintances. Then, again

surprising Sarah, Charity firmly insisted that Ed take Sarah to dinner

while she baby-sat Joe. Ed even laughed heartily when Charity said

that she had to "get in practice, if I'm to believe half of what Sarah

says about your friend Doug lass." In the morning after Ed had gone

off to work, they dressed Joe, took Sarah's 1941 Cadillac Fleetwood

from the Willard garage, and drove to the airport.

"I think I should have told Ann to take a cab," Sarah said "This is

nearly out of gas, and I don't have any more ration coupons."

"Then buy some on the black market," Charity said. "Oh, I couldn't do

that," Sarah said.

"My God, Charity, my husband is a naval officer."

"What's that got to do with being out of gas?"

"If you can't figure that out, I certainly couldn't explain it to you,"

Sarah said coldly.

At the airport, Charity Hoc he went into the terminal to meet Ann while

Sarah and the baby waited in the car. When Charity reappeared with

Ann, there was a Marine officer Ann had picked up on the plane to carry

her bags. "I promised the lieutenant we'd drive him into town," Ann

said.

They drove back across the Potomac into Washington and dropped Ann's

bag carrier at the Temporary Navy Department buildings across from the

Smithsonian. "Now what?" Ann asked. "We go to Bolling Field to meet

Doug Doug lass," Sarah said. "Praying that we don't run out of gas."

"Out of ration coupons?" Ann asked. "And, my God, don't suggest

buying black-market gas," Charity said. "Sarah will turn you in as a

Nazi agent," "Well, if it gets to push and shove," Ann said, "she'll

just have to swallow her patriotism. I've got coupons for twenty

gallons. "Where'd you get them? " "Journalism is an essential

occupation," Ann said.

"I stole them from my city editor."

"You two may think you're clever," Sarah said, "but I don't."

"Amazing, isn't it," Ann said, "what marriage does to a girl? One

moment she's making backseat whoopee with sailors, and the next she's

delivering lectures on patriotic duty." I was about to say something I

would have later regretted, Sarah thought. But these are my best

friends in the world, Ann especially. "Sailor," Sarah said.

"Singular. One sailors" But I will not put black-market gas in this

car, if we have to walk back to the hotel.

Getting into Bolling Field wasn't as easy as they'd expected. The

captain they went to had orders that only journalists on his

list-they'd hoped Ann's press card would see them waved through-were to

be admitted.

But Ann finally charmed the captain into passing her in as a guest and

not as a journalist.

There was a chain-link fence beside the base operations building, and

Sarah pulled the Cadillac's nose against it. Then, because she had a

Naval Dependent's ID card, Sarah went into base operations to ask what

they knew about the arrival of an Air Corps plane from Selma,

Alabama.

Very politely they told her they could not give out that information to

her, dependent or not. "What do we want to know?" Charity asked when

Sarah returned to the car and told them she hadn't been able to do any

good. "The ETA of a P-38 inbound from Selma, Alabama," Ann

furnished.

"The ETA of a P-38 inbound from Selma, Alabama," Charity parroted,

obviously committing that to memory. Then she got out of the Cadillac

and walked toward base operations. Five minutes later she was back.

"An Air Corps P-38, probably ours," she announced, "has called in

extending his ETA by forty-five minutes. He should be on the ground in

ten or fifteen minutes."

"How did you do that?" Sarah asked. "She kept brushing lint off her

boobs," Ann said.

"Right?"

"That, too," Charity said.

"But I think what really got to him was the way I kept licking my

lips.

" "You two are disgusting!" Sarah said. Five minutes later, there was

unusual activity on the field. Two red fire engines, what looked like

a water truck, an ambulance, and several pickup trucks, all with

flashing red lights, raced across the field and stationed themselves on

either side of the main runway. "I don't like the look of that," Ann

said seriously. "What does this airplane we're looking for look

like?"

Charity asked. "A P-3 8," Ann said.

"It has twin engines and a dual tail structure."

"Like that?" Charity asked, pointing. "Like that," Ann said. A P-38,

its polished aluminum skin glistening in the bright sunlight,

straightened up from a steep bank and lined up with the runway.

"One of its things isn't working," Charity said. "Engines, idiot," Ann

snapped.

"He's coming in on one engine." The fire trucks and crash equipment

proved to be unnecessary. The P38 touched down in a perfect

three-point landing-a greaser, Ann thought-then turned off the

runway.

It disappeared for a minute or two. But then, traded by one fire truck

and several of the other vehicles, it reappeared on the taxiway right

in front of them. A ground handler showed the pilot where to park.

The canopy was back and they could see the pilot clearly as he taxied

into position. He was bareheaded and wearing sunglasses. Ten red-and

white Japanese Meatballs and the legend "Major Doug Doug lass" were

painted on the nose of the fuselage. "Now, there's a sight," Charity

Hoc he said softly, "that would make the Virgin Mary, much less any

red-blooded American fe male patriot say, this one-jump on her back and

spread her knees."

"Charity!" Sarah said. Ann Chambers grinned.

"I think that's yours, Charity," she said.

"Say thank you to Sarah."

"Thank you, Sarah," Charity said. "I don't know you two," Sarah said,

trying hard to suppress a smile. "I'm glad he didn't hear her," Ann

said.

"But she's right, Sarah. Nature takes care of that, making the

warriors powerfully attractive before they go off to get killed. She

wants them to impregnate the maidens while they stiff can." Sarah

looked at her, "Are you trying to say that's what you think happened to

me?"

"If the shoe fits, Cinderella." Ann laughed. When she saw that Doug

lass had shut the P-38 down and climbed down to the ground, she reached

over and tapped the Cadillac's horn: Shave and a haircut, two bits. It

caught Doug lass's attention, and after a moment's confusion he smiled,

waved, and, ignoring the people who were now fussing over the engine

that had faded, walked over to the fence. Ann stepped out of the car,

then Charity, and finally Sarah, carrying Joe.

"You're Sarah," Doug Doug lass said.

"I've seen your picture." He now had a battered cap on the back of his

head and was wearing a battered horsehide jacket on the front of which

was painted the Flying THE SECRET WARRIORS 8 Ila Tiger insignia. On

its back was a Chinese flag and an extensive legend in Chinese

calligraphy.

"What happened out there?" Sarah asked.

"I blew a jug in my right fan," he said.

"That's why I was late. "What does that mean?" Charity asked

breathlessly.

"He lost a cylinder in the engine," Ann explained.

"And I know who you are, then," Doug lass said to Ann.

"You're the one with the stagger-wing Beech. Canidy told me about

you."

" Guilty," Ann said.

I must be in love, she thought. All it took to get my heart thumping

was to hear that sonofabitch has been talking about me. "And I'm

Charity," Charity said, brushing lint off her sweater front and looking

right into his eyes. "God, I hope so!" Doug lass said.

"Well, ladies, your welcome makes me feel like a conquering hero."

"That was the intention," Sarah said.

Doug lass took a close look at the baby.

"I hate to tell you this," he sai , "but he looks like his father."

"He's handsome, you mean," Sarah said.

Doug lass laughed.

"It'll take me a couple of minutes to do the paperwork about the blown

jug," he said.

"I'll make it as quick as I can." It took him, in fact, closer to an

hour.

"Sorry it took so long," he said when he finally appeared. "But there

was a silver lining. The maintenance officer, his chin on his knees,

just told me there's no way he can swap engines for me before the

Fourth of July. Which means I can be here longer than I thought I

could."

"Great," Sarah said.

"Would you mind driving? I think we could make it off the base easier

if you did."

"Sure," he said, and slipped behind the wheel.

"Where's Eddie! "He had to work," Sarah said, "but he should be home

by one o'clock."

"Where's your friend Canidy?" Ann asked. "God only knows," Doug lass

said.

"He works for my father. Whatever they're doing, they're not supposed

to talk about it, and they don't. When we find somewhere where there's

a phone, I'll see if I can run him down."

Wonderful! Ann thought.

... They were well into the District before Doug lass happened to

glance at the fuel gauge.

"Does the fuel gauge work?" he asked. Ann giggled. "If it does,

we're running on the fumes," Doug lass went on. "Sarah's out of ration

coupons," Ann said. "Well, we'll just have to get some on the black

market," Doug lass said, "How does that fit in with your patriotism?"

Ann asked innocently. "What's running out of gas got to do with the

patriotism?" Doug lass asked. Ann and Charity were now both

giggling.

And then Doug lass suddenly pulled the car to a curb. "Don't tell me

we're out of gas?" Ann asked. "Not yet," Doug lass said.

"Just almost. There's a cop. I'm going to ask him. "Ask him what?"

"Where I can get some gas," Doug lass said. He got out of the car and

walked toward a policeman. In a minute, Doug lass was back behind the

wheel. "There's a Shell station," he said.

"Second right, and then two blocks up on the left. He said he wasn't

sure if they had coupons too, but he thought they did." Fifteen

minutes later, the fuel gauge of the Cadillac indicated past full, and

there was a sheet of ration coupons in the glove compartment. Sarah

wasn't pleased, but she didn't say anything.

When they got to the Willard, Ed was already there, and Admiral Hawley

was with him. "I didn't want to intrude on this reunion," the admiral

said. "But I did want to meet you and shake your hand, Major Doug

lass.

That was an incredible bit of flying you did when you picked Ed up."

With genuine modesty, Doug lass down played what he had done, but there

was no question in anyone's mind, least of all Sarah's, that Doug Doug

lass was a storybook hero. There were drinks. Then, without asking,

Sarah called room service and ordered shrimp salads-it was too hot to

eat anything else-and the THE SECRET WARRIORS 0 ITS women watched while

Doug lass and Ed, using hand movements, explained the fine points of

attacking a Japanese bomber formation in diving sweeps to the

admiral.

It was nearly two-thirty before the admiral left. Ann decided it was

time then to again bring up Dick Canidy-before Doug lass and Ed Bitter

had more to drink. Doug lass settled himself comfortably on one of a

pair of couches facing a low table that was in front of the

fireplace.

After Charity had brought him another drink and Ann the telephone, he

consulted a small pocket notebook for the number and dialed it. Ann

moved close so that she could hear both ends of the conversation.

"Liberty 6-4133," a male voice said. "Captain Peter Doug lass,

please," Doug lass said. "May I ask who's calling? " "This is Major

Peter Doug lass, Jr.," Doug said. "Oh, sure, just a moment, Major,

I'll ring."

"Captain Doug lass's office," a female voice said. "This is Major Doug

lass. May I speak with my father, please?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Major, he's in conference. I could interrupt, but it

would be better if you could call back in an hour." Damn! Ann

thought.

In an hour he's either going to be drunk, or else in a closet somewhere

with Charity, or both. "Miss Chenowith in there with him?"

"No, she's not."

"Could you switch me to her?" There were some clicking noises, and

then another female voice came on the line. "Twenty-eight," she

said.

"Cynthia, this is Doug Doug lass."

"Well, we've been expecting you, Major. How was the flight? I guess

you need a ride. Where are you?"

"The flight was fine, thank you," he said.

"But what I need is Dick Canidy's phone number. My dad's holding yet

another conference and won't be free for an hour."

"He's not here," Cynthia Chenowith said. "Where is he?" There was a

perceptible hesitation before she replied.

"Actually, he's in New jersey."

"Will you give me the number, please?"

There was a longer hesitation before she finally gave him the number.

"When the switchboard answers, Major," she continued, "you ask if this

is the Foster residence. Got that? Foster. Otherwise, they won't put

you through."

"Foster residence," Doug lass parroted.

"Got it. Tell my father I'll catch up with him later."

"I will," she said. Doug lass broke the connection with his finger,

then gave the operator the number Cynthia had given him. "As bury

4-9301," a male voice answered. "Is this the Foster residence?"

"Yes, it is," the male voice replied. "Can I get Dick Canidy on

this?"

I'll ring the major for you," the man said. Canidy came on the line,

answering with his name. "Early Bird Leader, this is Early Bird One,"

Doug lass said, "Early Bird" had been their plane-to-plane call sign in

China.

Canidy laughed happily. "You bastard, where are you?"

"I am sitting here with Commander Bitter, no less, three good-looking

ladies, gallons of booze, and a baby. The important question is, where

the bell are you?"

"I'm sitting here up to my ass in fuel-consumption charts," Canidy

said.

Ann became aware that her heart was beating; and when she put her

fingers to her cheek, she confirmed that her face was flushed.

"Where's there?" There was a hesitation before Canidy answered. "On

the seashore, near Lakehurst NAS," he said. "Well, drop whatever

you're doing, get on a train, and come here before Bitter drinks all

the booze."

"Christ, I wish I could, Doug," Canidy said. "But it's out of the

question."

"Why is it out of the question?"

"I've got the duty."

"Over the whole god damned Fourth of July weekend?"

"Over the whole god damned Fourth of July weekend," Canidy confirmed.

"I'm really sorry, Doug. I just can't."

"Ah, shit!" Doug lass said, disappointed but understanding. "It would

have been fun. Well, at least say hello to the commander and the

girls."

He handed the telephone to Bitter. "What was that "Early Bird'

business?" Charity asked. "That was our call sign in China," Doug

lass said. "What's this story I heard about Canidy being sent home for

cowardice?" Ann asked. "Bullshit is what it was," Doug lass said.

"They used that story to explain why he suddenly took off to work for

my father. Christ, the first time out, he attacked-by himself-nine jap

bombers and shot down five of them. He was the first ace in the

AVG."

Ann looked at Ed Bitter in triumph. Then she took the telephone from

him, "Hello, Dick, how are you? This is Ann Chambers. Remember me?"

"What's a nice girl like you doing with those two?" Canidy replied.

"It's all right," she said.

"We have Sarah as a chaperone." Sarah took that as her cue to take the

telephone. Ann gave it up willingly. Now that I finally had the

chance to talk to him, I couldn't think of a damned thing to say. But

by the time everybody, including Charity, had talked to Canidy and the

phone was back in its usual place, she did have something to say. "I

think I know where he is," she said.

"On the seashore, near Lake burst." Doug lass looked at her

curiously.

"My father and Chesley Hay wood Whittaker were friends. Chesly

Whittaker had a big place on the shore at Deal. Summer Place. I was

there once with my father," Ann said.

"I'll bet that's where he is."

"That makes sense," Doug lass said.

"Donovan and my father have taken over the Whittaker place here in D.C.

But so what?"

"So, no matter what he's doing, I don't think he'll be doing it on the

Fourth. If you two wanted to see him, I mean."

"Damn right I want to see him," Ed Bitter said, a little thickly. The

alcohol was getting to him.

"Jesus, I owe him an apology."

"Yes, I think you do," Ann said, reinforcing that argument.

"The seashore sounds splendid to me," Charity offered. "Anyplace but

this steam bath."

"But how would we get there?" Bitter asked reasonably.

"I don't want to take the baby on a train. And it would take

forever.

And we don't know he's where you think he is."

"We can drive," Doug lass said. "You need gas to drive," Bitter

said.

"The tank in your car is full," Doug lass said.

"And there's a hundred gallons' worth of coupons in the glove

compartment." Ed Bitter, surprising his wife, accepted the

black-market gasoline and ration coupons without comment. But, as if

he sensed that they really shouldn't be going through with their plan,

he offered a last objection. "Who's going to drive?" he asked,

focusing his eyes with an effort on Doug lass.

"I'm a little tiddly myself, and you're obviously in 'no condition to

drive."

"I'll drive," Ann said.

TWO I Summer Place Deal, New Jersey 2830 Hours July 3,1942 Even with a

priority, there had been no airline seat available from Louisville for

El don Baker. And he had elected not to use his priority to evict from

their berths officers traveling by train from Fort Knox northward. He

had consequently caught what sleep he could sitting up in a passenger

car to Washington, and it had been nearly six in the evening when he

finally reached Summer Place. He was not especially pleased with what

he found. First, Canidy had allowed Second Lieutenant C. Holds worth

Martin III to call his parents. Then Mrs. Chesley Hay wood Whittaker

had taken it upon herself to invite Mr. and Mrs. C. Holds worth

Martin, Jr." to come out of the brutal heat of Manhattan and spend the

Fourth of July with their son at Summer Place.

THE SECRET WARRIORS 0 ITO "I said they could come," an unrepentant

Canidy told Baker after the damage was done.

"Martin pre came to the horn and asked me if it would be all right."

"You should have politely told him no," Baker said. "I was not about

to do that. From where I sit, one of Donovan's Disciples ranks the

hell out of a lowly Dilettante like myself. And I also thought it

would please the admiral."

"And you didn't think you should keep them away from Fulmar?" Baker

demanded. At this moment, Eric Fulmar, wearing trunks and a beach

robe, was sitting with the Martins and the admiral beneath one of the

umbreflaed tables on the lawn. "Again, El don, when Martin pre asked

to speak to him, I didn't think it was my place to tell him no."

The damage has been done, Baker decided. First thing in the morning I

will report what's happened to Captain Doug lass. In the meantime, I

will do what I came here to do. "Captain Doug lass thought it would be

a good idea if I sat in on the first session between you and Fine. In

case the two of you don't have everything you should have."

"He told me to put the briefcase in Reynolds's safe at Lakehurst and

start on it fresh after the Fourth."

"Then, inasmuch as Commander Reynolds doesn't know me, I think that you

and I had better ride out there to get it," Baker said. "What about

waiting until after the Fourth?"

"I plan to leave here at five tomorrow afternoon," Baker said. "So

it's either tonight or tomorrow morning" "Tonight, then," Canidy

said.

"Tomorrow we're going to have a clambake on the beach, I wouldn't want

anything to interfere with that."

"Let's go, then, Baker said. "You realize we'll have to make the trip

twice? Once to get it, and once to put it back?"

"Unless you elect to sleep with it handcuffed to your wrist," Baker

said.

When they returned from Lakehurst, Canidy politely asked Admiral de

Verbey if he might use his war room.

He then collected Fine, who had been sitting on the porch with Mrs.

Whittaker, and led him up to it. "In the somewhat changed

circumstances," Baker said, "I think the best thing to do is run

briefly through the whole mission. If either Of YOU have questions,

interrupt me. It may not be necessary to remind both of you, but I

will: The classification of this operation is Top Secret Cabinet

Level.

And the cabinet's access is on a need-to-know basis. For your general

information, the President has decided that the Vice President does not

have the need to know."

"We're impressed, El don," Canidy said.

"Can we move on now?" Baker opened the briefcase, made note of the

lock-open sequence count and took out a large-scale map. He spread the

map out on the table so that it was right side up in front of Canidy.

"if you will look, you can see, halfway down the leg of Africa near the

E Portuguese Angola, Rhodesia, and Belgian Congo borders, a town ca ed

Kolwezi," Baker said.

"It's in the Mitumba mountain chain in Katanga Province.

Canidy found it and pointed. Lindbergh's guess had been off by no more

than two or three hundred miles.

Baker next handed him a sheaf of photographs: brand-new ten-inch square

aerial photographs, some eight-by-ten-inch prints, which were also new,

and some other photographs that appeared to have been blown up from old

snapshots.

These showed a small town of frame buildings with several huge

excavations around it. The excavations were so huge that roads leading

to the bottoms of the pits had been carved into its sides. There were

also smelters and mountains of smelter and mine tailings. There was an

airfield, which looked unpaved except perhaps with mine or smelter

tailings, which were often used for that purpose. The " tower" was

about ten feet off the ground, and none of the airplanes on the parking

ramp was multi engined.

"What we have to do, in absolute secrecy," Baker said as Canidy worked

his way through the pictures, "is remove from Kolwezi ten thousand

pounds of a very special cargo and bring it here."

"What kind of cargo?" Canidy asked. "An ore," Baker said.

"Please do not ask any further questions about the ore. All you have

to know is that it is a dry, nonexplosive substance.

Some of it has the characteristics of ordinary dirt, and some of it is

what they call spellings, which means with rocks in it. The rest of it

is in the form of smelter residue. it will all be packed in canvas

bags, each weighing approximately ninety pounds." Canidy nodded.

"That' s a lot of weight," he said.

"But it' s within the weight range limitations of several of the flight

plans Colonel Lindbergh laid out."

"What did you say, Dick?"

Stanley Fine asked, shocked. "I don't think you should talk about

that," Baker said. "Oh, for Christ's sake!" Canidy flared.

"Stan, the transport expert who laid most of this on was Colonel

Charles Lindbergb. But don't say anything. The President thinks he's

a Nazi sympathizer." Fine shook his head in disbelief. "The departure

point will be Newark Airport," Baker resumed. "You will fly the bomber

stream to Ireland, via Gander Field, Newfoundland and from Ireland to

Portugal and then down the west coast of Africa, stopping here, and

here, and here. To Kolwezi. There will be a crew of three. We have

recruited a pilot and copilot from the Air Transport Command. They

were both formerly Pan American pilots who have flown to South Africa

before. Not, it is germane to note, in land aircraft. They flew

Sikorsky seaplanes.

"But they have received transition training, so they are C-46

qualified, and they will transition both of you into the C-46, so that

if it becomes necessary you can fly the aircraft. Coming out of

Kolwezi, there will be a passenger."

"Who?" Canidy asked. "Grunier," Baker said. "Grunier?" Canidy

asked.

"Oh, Christ! Again?"

"We hope to have his family in England within two weeks," Baker said,

again ignoring him.

"That was his price for his cooperation in this, and we met it."

"He's in the Belgian Congo?" Canidy asked. "He will be," Baker

replied, "That's one of the things holding us up. We have to put him

in and then make sure he's in place before we send the airplane.

"What's he going to be doing there?" Canidy asked. "He's going to

make sure that the bags contain what we're paying for," Baker said.

"We're going to send a substantial sum of money into the Belgian Congo

with him to pay for all this. An even more substantial amount will be

paid after you pick it up."

"How much is 'substantial'?" Canidy asked, Baker thought it over

before he replied. "The deposit was a hundred thousand dollars' worth

of Swiss francs, gold coins. The payment due on delivery is four

hundred thousand."

"And why do we trust Grunier? Not only with a hundred thousand

dollars, but after what we've already done to him?"

"Because we told him that it would be even easier to send his family

back to France than it was to sneak them out," Baker said

matter-of-factly. "And because he has been told that if he does what

we want him to) his family will be brought here and he will be given a

job in Colorado."

"And he believes you?"

"Well, for one thing, it's true," Baker said. "And for another, people

believe what they want to believe."

"What the hell is this stuff?"

"I've told you, you're not to ask that sort of question," Baker said.

"Now, about the aircraft. If I'm wrong about anything, Canidy, please

interrupt, He was looking through the papers on the table when there

was a knock at the door. Baker looked at it impatiently. "Yeah?"

Canidy called. "I think you had better come downstairs, Mr. Canidy,"

a voice said. Canidy recognized it as the security duty officer's.

"Won't it wait?" Canidy replied.

"We're almost through in here."

"I think you had better come right down, Mr. Canidy," the ex-FBI agent

said doggedly. "Duty apparently calls, El don," Canidy said, "What

would you suggest I do?"

"Let's wind this up," Fine said.

"If all we're going to do is talk about the airplane, I'd really prefer

to look at it myself." A Baker thought that over a moment and then

nodded. He started folding the map. "Be down in a minute," Canidy

called to the security man. When Baker had the documents back inside

the briefcase) he locked it and handed it to Fine. "You'd better use

the handcuff, Captain," he said.

Christ, yes, Stanley. For all we know, Joseph Goebbels and Hermann

G6ring are downstairs upsetting the guards," Canidy said. "I hope it's

something as simple as that. From the security guy's tone of voice, I

am more than a little afraid he's going to tell me the admiral has had

a heart attack." They went quickly down the wide stairway to the

foyer.

There, surrounded by both COI security guards and rifle-armed sailors,

were Lieutenant Commander Edwin Bitter, USN; Major Peter Doug lass,

Jr., USA AC; and three women, one of them with a baby in her arms.

"I'm really embarrassed about this, Major Canidy," the crew-cut young

lieutenant (j.g.) in charge of the Navy guard detail said. "My sentry

at the gate passed them into the compound. Because one of them was a

naval officer, he said, and because they said they were here with your

permission."

"Oh, Christ!" Canidy said in exasperation, and then he laughed. He

had taken a close look at Doug lass. Not only was his face smeared

with lipstick, but somehow the buttons on his fly did not match the

holes.

"You two need keepers," he said to Doug lass and Bitter. "Who are

these people?" Baker snapped. "The one with the lipstick on his face

is Peter Doug lass, Jr.," Canidy said.

"Doug, say hello to El don Baker. He works for your father."

"What are they doing here?" Baker demanded icily. "I guess they came

for the clambake," Canidy said. He turned to the young Navy officer of

the guard.

"I can't say there's no harm done," he said.

"But they're not dangerous. You can let the white hats go."

"None of these people are to leave the grounds without my specific

permission," Baker said. "Until I'm relieved, El don-and you don't

have the authority to do that-I'm in charge. Which means you issue

orders through me," Canidy said. Then he looked at the others.

"But he's right. I'm sorry; now that you're here, you'll have to stay

here until they decide what to do with you. "Sounds fine to me, Dick,"

Douglas said.

"You said something about a clambake?"

"Baker, why don't you get on the phone and tell Captain Doug lass about

our guests," Canidy said, laughing.

"I know you're dying to do that. @)

Baker walked quickly into the library.

Canidy looked at the others. Sarah Child Bitter seemed close to

tears.

Commander Bitter, Canidy thought, looked as if he has just farted in

church. "The first thing we have to do is get everybody bedded down,"

Canidy ordered.

"All right, lady prisoners, follow me. There's a butler around here

someplace, and we'll get him to bed you down. The male prisoners will

find the bar to the right."

THREE Summer Place Deal, New Jersey 1005 Hours July 4, 1942

As his Packard rolled past the sailor guarding the private road to the

Whittaker estate, Colonel William J. Donovan wanted to believe the

affair at Summer Place was something like The Marx Brothers at the

Seashore-because he thought it was so real, so immediate, and the

security implications were so monumental that his mind couldn't take it

all in. It was proving impossible on a bright Fourth of July, in your

own car with your wife sitting beside you, riding up to a house and

friends you knew well, to see a bona fide threat not only to the coming

amphibious landing on the North Coast of Africa but to the Army Air

Corps' plans for the bombardment of Germany, and even to the

development of the weapon that might, very likely, decide the outcome

of the war.

When they approached the house, they told the chauffeur to go around to

the front. The chauffeur was a former FBI agent who had a .3 8 in a

shoulder holster. There was a Thompson .45 ACP machine pistol on the

floorboard. Donovan himself carried a .32 Colt Automatic pistol with a

silencer-on his belt. He had not taken off his seersucker jacket,

because he knew the sight of the pistol disturbed Ruth. As the car

rolled to a stop before the broad stairway, he saw three groups of

people. Sitting at umbrella ed tables on the lawn were an

extraordinarily handsome collection of young people. He recognized

Canidy, Jimmy Whittaker, and young Doug lass. The other men, a Navy

lieutenant commander and two handsome, muscular young men wearing swim

trunks and bathrobes, were obviously Bitter, young Martin, and the very

interesting Eric Fulmar. Three young women were with them. One of

them held a baby on her lap. On each of the tables were pitchers of

iced tea, and a galvanized tub was sitting on the grass full of ice and

beer.

Donovan thought that it was significant that Canidy was on the lawn

with the intruders and not with one of the two groups that had formed

on the porch. The group on the right was made up of Vice Admiral

d'escadre de Verbey; his staff; their hostess, Mrs. Barbara Whittaker;

and Mr. and Mrs. C. Holds worth Martin, Jr. Two silver wine buckets

held a half-dozen towel-wrapped bottles. Probably champagne, Donovan

thought.

On the left-with an iced-tea pitcher-sat "the forces of shamed

righteousness": Captain Peter Doug lass, Sr."

USN; a Navy commander and a young lieutenant (obviously these two were

officers from the Lakehurst guard detail); Mr. El don C. Baker; Miss

Cynthia Chenowith; and Captain Stanley S. Fine, USA AC. Donovan

thought it was especially interesting that Fine sat with Doug lass,

Baker, and the others. Captain Peter Doug lass had the night before

accepted full responsibility for what had happened and had offered his

resignation.

Donovan had no intention of accepting it, but when he glanced at Doug

lass's crestfallen face he realized that Doug lass had imagined the

worst possible scenario for the situation. To judge by his face, Baker

simply looked angry. Cynthia Chenowith seemed embarrassed and

ashamed.

The two Navy officers had faces Donovan recognized from his own

military service: The big brass hat has just arrived, and there is no

telling what will happen next. Fine, as always, was a lawyer, privy to

the mess before the bar but not personally involved in it. Donovan

suppressed a smile when the young lieutenant, carried away as the big

brass hat started up the stairs, came to attention and saluted. That

triggered an automatic reflex from the other officers on the porch,

They all saluted, even the admiral. "Good morning Donovan said as he

reached the top. He offered his hand to Doug lass and Baker,

introduced himself to the other naval officers, smiled at Cynthia, and

then took Ruth's arm and crossed the porch to where Barbara Whittaker

and her group waited.

The women embraced while Martin introduced Donovan to the admiral and

his staff, "We have a little problem, Barbara," Donovan said, "that has

to be talked out. Is there someplace we can go?"

"Captain Doug lass suggested that we clean up the breakfast room for

you, Bill," Barbara said. "Fine," Donovan said.

"Holds worth, if you don't mind, I'd like you to sit with us. I'm

going to need your advice." With a little bit of luck, if it becomes

necessary to put your son on ice, you will hear enough to agree that it

is necessary. "I am not a disinterested observer, Bill," Martin

said.

"None of us is," Donovan said.

"Will you excuse us, please?" He walked toward the front door of the

house. "Pete," he said, 4C you want to come along, please "Yes, Sir,"

Captain Doug lass said, and followed them into the breakfast room. A

glass-topped table had been equipped with legal pads and a glass full

of sharpened pencils. The security people had connected two

telephones. One of them, a red instrument, was a secured line. "I

will begin, Pete," Donovan said, "by saying your resignation is

declined, and that while I will be very interested in your worst

possible scenario, I don't think the war has yet been lost."

"I think," Martin said, "that much ado is being made about nothing. "I

must respectfully disagree with Mr. Martin, Colonel," Captain Doug

lass said, and then he outlined his theory that every operation now

under way, planned, or discussed was compromised by the current

security breach. Donovan was impressed with Doug lass's presentation,

and he suspected that Doug lass had worked on his speech from the

moment Baker had called him the night before. "All right, Pete,"

Donovan said when he had finished.

"That's just what I wanted. Will you send in Baker, so that we get all

the bad news at once? Baker was in fact angry; more than angry,

outraged. He was a professional intelligence officer, and furious that

a number of well-laid plans were apparently going down the toilet not

only because of the inexcusable carelessness of a bunch of amateurs,

but because-more seriously certain individuals who could have been

expected to know better had acted sloppily.

THE SECRET WARRIORS M low He didn't mention Captain Doug lass's name,

Donovan thought, but he left no doubt who he means. And then he had

another thought: No, that's not all that he means. The "certain

individuals,' plural, includes me. Baker had apparently spent as much

time as Doug lass preparing his opening statement. He likewise had

specific recommendations. Canidy should be relieved of his

responsibilities and put on ice at least until after the African flight

and Operation Torch.

After that his case would be reviewed and a decision made about what to

do next with him. Whittaker and Fulmar should also be put on ice, at

least until after operation Torch. Their cases would be reviewed

then.

Fulmar, considering the projected use of him, would require special

attention. Although it had to be presumed that they knew more than

they had a right to know, Commander Bitter, Major Doug lass, and

Lieutenant Martin could probably be made aware of all the relevant

security implications and so could be returned to their units and

trusted to keep their mouths shut. Bitter's wife could also doubtless

be trusted.

s The wild cards were Ann Chambers and Charity Hoc he. Hoc he, Baker

said, had the brains of a gnat as well as an automatic mouth. There

was no doubt that no matter how carefully everything was explained to

her, she would promptly talk to whoever would listen about the

fascinating people she had met at Deal. "And Ann Chambers is a

journalist," Baker concluded, "She smells a story, and she's skilled at

pulling facts from people. There is no question that at this very

moment she is skillfully milking facts to fill in what didn't come out

last night when Canidy and company were in their cups." The Misses

Chambers and Hoc he consequently should be put under close supervision,

regardless of the consequences, until after the African flight and

Operation Torch, Baker said flatly.

That's a wish list he's offering me, Donovan concluded. Everything he

would like to have but knows he can't get. Still, he has gone on

record that if something goes wrong, the onus will not fall on him.

But he's right about one thing. Ann Chambers is a loose cannon rolling

around on the deck of a ship in a storm. "As for Captain Fine," Baker

concluded, "he is the silver lining. We can turn the African flight

over to him.

Presuming he returns safely from that, he can be put to work on the

other projects." If we relieve Canidy, what do we do about a backup

aircraft?" Donovan asked.

"It would mean bringing somebody else in, and who would that be?"

"I could go, of course," Baker said. "No, you know too much about

uraninite," Donovan said.

"I'm even uncomfortable with Grunier's knowledge of our interest. "But

if the backup aircraft were required," Baker argued, "we would have to

presume that secrecy would be compromised anyway. For that reason I'd

take my chances on only one plane. "But we absolutely have to have the

uraninite," C. Holds worth Martin, Jr." said.

"Even at the price of letting the Germans know we're working on an

atomic bomb. For the long term, getting that ore is of greater

importance than Torch." Donovan snorted his agreement. Then,

realizing that nothing more was going to come from Baker but repetition

of the' arguments he'd already made, Donovan cut him off. "I want to

talk to Ann Chambers," Donovan said.

"Would you send her in, please, El don?" As soon as he was out the

door, C. Holds worth Martin, Jr., said, "Bill, for God's sake, you're

not actually thinking of locking the Chambers girl up, are you?"

"Baker thinks that may be necessary," Donovan said. "Brandon

Chambers," C. Holds worth Martin, Jr." said, "has so far been willing

and eager to cooperate with us. You lock his daughter up, and that

will change. You can't tell Brandon Chambers that his daughter is a

security risk. I'm sure you're aware, further, that Richard Hoc he,

Charity's father, is a very good constitutional lawyer. You lock those

girls up, and you can count on Roosevelt's questionable interpretation

of habeas corpus being brought before the Supreme Court. And Chambers

would keep the story on page one of all his newspapers until they heard

it," "We have a mess, don't we, Holds worth?" Donovan said. "I re eat

that I think much ado is being made about nothing," Martin p said.

"And I repeat, we have a mess, don't we, Holds worth?" There was a

knock at the door, and a female voice called, "Colonel Donovan? "Come

in, Ann," Donovan said.

She was wearing a thin pale yellow blouse and a light blue pleated

skirt. She looked as sweet and innocent as a college girl-until you

looked at her eyes. She was considerably tougher than she looked at

first glance, and she was clearly wary but not afraid. "How's your

family, Ann?" Donovan asked. "Cousin Edwin's a little green around

the gills, Colonel," Ann said. "But the rest of us are just fine."

Donovan smiled.

"Commander Bitter may be a little green around the gills, as you put

it, Ann," he said, "because he may have a greater understanding of

what's going on right now than you do."

"That could well be," Ann said. "What do you think is going on around

here?"

"I'll take the Fifth on that one, Colonel Donovan," she said.

"Certainly you're curious?"

"Sure," she said. "You sense you might have a hell of a story, in

other words?" Donovan said. "Is that what you're worried about?" she

asked. "A good deal of damage would be done if there is whispering

about what might be going on around here," Donovan said.

"If studied guesses were to appear in print ... We just can't afford

that, Ann."

"Well, you don't have to worry about that, so far as I'm concerned,"

she said.

"I have no intention of writing a word about it."

"Well, I'm certainly relieved to hear that," Donovan said. "But I've

got to pursue that a little further. I hope you won't take offense."

"Try me," she said. "How can I be sure that your patriotism won't wear

thin after you've had a chance to think it over?"

"This has nothing to do with my patriotism," she said. "Then what?"

he asked, surprised. "Dick Canidy is obviously in deep trouble over us

in the first place, Ann said.

"I wouldn't do anything to add to his troubles, and I think this is the

time to tell you that he had nothing at all to do with our coming. I

was the one who figured out where he was and talked the others into

driving up. "Your loyalty to your friend is commendable," C. Holds

worth Martin, Jr." said.

"This has nothing to do with loyalty to a friend," Ann said. "I'm in

love with Dick Canidy, I can't tell you how badly I feel about getting

him in trouble."

"I didn't know," Donovan said, "that you were that close to Canidy."

"Neither does he, Colonel," Ann said.

"But I hope, sooner or later, to change that," "Mon Dieu!" C. Holds

worth Martin, Jr." said. "It wasn't easy for me to tell you that,"

Ann said, "But under the circumstances, I thought it was necessary."

"I'm glad you told us, Ann," Donovan said.

"And it won't go any further."

"Thank you," she said.

"What happens now" "That's what Mr. Martin and I are going to decide

just about as soon as you leave," Donovan said. "If you sock it to

Dick anyway," Ann said," I'll help him in any way I can. I've heard

whispers about people being locked up for psychiatric examination. If

you do something like that to Canidy, you can count on it getting in

the papers. Maybe my father's papers wouldn't print it, but somebody

will.

She walked out of the room. Donovan had a thought from left field:

What the hell is wrong with Canidy? That young woman is really

bright.

She's put together like the proverbial brick outhouse, and she's really

special to boot. "Was that an example of the female hell hath no fury

like?" C. Holds worth Martin, Jr." asked. "Well, she asked the

question, didn't she?" Donovan replied. "What happens now?"

"I think we should talk to Canidy," Martin said, "before we decide."

"Yeah," Donovan said. He walked over and opened the door, then raised

his voice and called, "Will somebody send Canidy in here, please?"

Canidy came in wearing khaki trousers and a T-shirt. "We seem to have

a problem on our hands, don't we, Dick?" Donovan began. "Not as much

as Baker seems to think we have," Canidy said. "But a problem."

"You don't seem overly concerned about it," Donovan said sharply.

"What damage has been done has been done," Canidy said.

"And I don't think you called me in here to ask for my remedy for it.

"Canidy," Donovan said, "at this moment, you're on a greased skid at

the bottom of which is a long stay in St. Elizabeth's."

"I thought that was probably what was going to happen," Canidy said.

"I thank you, Colonel, for telling me yourself. Denying Baker that

satisfaction, I mean." He started to get up.

"That's it, isn't it?" he asked. "Sit down, Canidy," Donovan said.

Canidy shrugged and lowered himself back into the chair. "Have you

wondered why Baker is so upset?"

"Baker is a professional," Canidy said.

"He holds me in the contempt he holds all amateurs. I'm not serious

enough."

"I'm surprised you haven't considered that he might know something you

don't."

"Oh, I've considered that, Colonel."

"Since the odds are about ninety to ten that you're going to St.

Elizabeth's," Donovan said, "I'm going to tell you a little more than

you know. I'll be interested in your reaction."

"And if my reaction is not what you want, it's St. Elizabeth's for

sure?

" "Yes,' Donovan said. Canidy saw in Martin's eyes that the direction

this encounter was taking had come as a surprise to him. "The Germans

have begun test-flying a jet-powered fighter aircraft, the

Messerschmitt ME-262," Donovan said.

"If the tests are successful, and if they can get the airplane into

production in sufficient numbers, the ME-262 will be capable of

inflicting tremendous losses on the bombers of the Eighth Air Force.

This means that the current strategy calling for the destruction of

German industry by aerial bombardment will have to be called off. At

the moment, there is no satisfactory substitute available."

"Jesus!" Canidy said. "The only way out of this problem that seems to

make any sense," Donovan went on, "is to interrupt production of the

engines. But that, in turn, depends on our getting our hands on either

an engine or else its specifications. That will allow our technical

people to determine how production can be delayed. Special metals,

special smelting techniques, special machining, special machines to

make those machines ... Are you following me?"

"Yes, Sir," Canidy said.

"The Fokker Company has sublet the development and production contracts

for the engine to FEG-that is, to Fulmar Elektrische Gesellschaft.

"And you think Eric can help?"

"We hope so."

"Then how?"

"He can help us recruit a man who we hope can do something useful in

this regard. Our man in Morocco, Murphy ... You met him, I think?"

"On my way out," Canidy confirmed. "He has established a rather

interesting contact with a man named Helm ut von Heurten-Mitnitz."

"He heads the Franco-German Armistice Commission," Canidy said. "He

was doing his damnedest-he and an SS officer named Milller-to get

Fulmar back to Germany."

"Well, for several reasons, Murphy believes he can be very valuable to

us. Fulmar is the key to his cooperation. That's why we brought

Fulmar out of Morocco. It has little or nothing to do with Operation

Torch."

"How is this tied in with the African flight?"

"It's not," Donovan said after a moment's hesitation. It was obvious

that Canidy did not believe him, "And this breach of security has

fucked this up?"

"If it gets out, it will," Donovan said. "Then, and for the first

time, I am truly sorry," Canidy said. "Shit! Why didn't somebody tell

me this?"

"You weren't sorry before?"

"You want a straight answer to that?" Canidy asked. "Please," C.

Holds worth Martin, Jr." said. "It struck me as much ado about

nothing," Canidy said. Donovan coughed, as if he were trying in vain

to dislodge something in his throat. Canidy waited for him to stop and

then went on.

"All you have to do is tell Bitter and Doug lass to keep their mouths

shut. To consider them security risks is patently absurd. So far as

Whittaker and Martin are concerned, they don't know anything, except

who's here in Deal. They also can be told to keep their mouths shut.

There is a problem with one of the women, Ann Chambers. She may look

like she's nineteen years old, but she's a lot smarter than you'd think

just to look at her. Last night she was pumping everybody."

"You think she learned anything?"

"No," Canidy said matter-of-factly.

"I'm sure she didn't. But she's smart, and we can't afford to have her

speculating in the newspapers."

"Are you telling me that, with her exception, you don't see any

security problem?"

"I don't suppose my opinion is worth much," Canidy said, "but if you

figure some way to shut her up, I don't see a security problem,

period.

I never did."

"That's very interesting, Canidy," Donovan said.

"It is almost exactly the opposite of the opinion Baker holds. And

he's a professional."

"I'm not exactly an amateur myself anymore, Colonel. I stopped being

an amateur when the sub went off without me."

"Not exactly an amateur, but not a professional either," Donovan

said.

"Okay, Canidy, that'll be it. Thank you."

"What's my status, may I ask?"

"Mr. Martin and I are going to discuss that now. Until a decision has

been reached, I think it would be best if you waited in your room."

"Yes, Sir," Canidy said. When he had gone, Martin said, "You're not

going to like this, Bin, but my vote goes to Canidy."

"Oh, mine, too," Donovan said.

"What you and I are going to have to do is come up with some way to

stroke Baker's ruffled feathers. He's good, and we can't afford to

have him feeling that we're pissing on him."

"Piss on him a little, Bill," Martin said.

"It'll be good for him. He seems to think that he's the spy master,

and that's your role." Donovan thought that over a moment. "I'll tell

you what," he said.

"I'll send him in and you piss on him. Tell him you question his

judgment about yelling "Fire!" so loudly."

"Why me?"

"It was your idea, Holds worth," Donovan said reasonably, and stood

up.

"I'm going to go see Canidy and read the riot act again, and then I'm

going to find out if he really has laid on a clambake. I haven't been

to one in years."

TWENTY-ONE Summer Place Deal, New Jersey July 4, 1942

Colonel William J. Donovan was not surprised at Dick Canidy's reaction

when he went to Canidy's room-actually a small apartment over the

boathouse-and told him that he had decided it would be a mistake to put

everybody on ice. From the tone of Canidy's "Yes, Sir," Donovan

understood that Canidy had already put himself in Donovan's shoes,

considered the possible options, and reached the decision that Donovan

would most likely come to. "That's all you've got to say? No

questions?"

"All sorts of questions," Canidy said.

"How are you going to handle Baker? How are you going to handle the

Chambers girl? And that bird brained friend of hers, Charity Hoc he?

Canidy is either more artfully deceitful than I believe or he really

has no idea how Ann Chambers feels about him "I've spoken to the

Chambers girl," Donovan said.

"She's very much like her father. Once she understands how important

it is to protect the secrecy of what we're doing, it wouldn't enter her

mind to endanger that by writing about it."

"The Chambers newspapers ran Drew Pearson's "Donovan's Dilettantes'

column," Canidy said.

"Brandon Chambers reserves the right to read Pearson's columns before

they run in his newspapers. He has killed dozens of them that I know

about. I can only assume that Chambers decided that whatever I'm

doing, I'm not providing a haven for well-bred draft dodgers, and thus

there was no question of national security involved."

"Hmmm," Canidy grunted thoughtfully. "Or he believed Pearson," Donovan

said, chuckling, "and decided to publish that piece as his patriotic

duty. It's even possible that he understood I would actually be

pleased by such a story, because it would divert attention from what

we're really doing." Canidy laughed at that. He knew Brandon Chambers

enough to see that Donovan might be right about that. "In any event,

I'm going to arrange to have a meal with him to express my appreciation

for his discretion. I don't think we have anything to worry about with

the Chamberses, pre or fille. Canidy nodded.

"And the birdbrain? "We're going to offer Miss Hoc he," Donovan said,

"whose father, incidentally, is also a friend of mine, summer

employment."

"Summer employment? Doing what?" Canidy asked, surprised. "Working

at the house on Q Street, where she can relieve many of Cynthia's

housekeeping chores. Cynthia can meanwhile keep an eye on her."

"I don't know how to say this tactfully, Colonel," Canidy said, "but do

you understand how outraged Baker is?"

"I understand that he holds you in contempt, Dick," Donovan said.

"Perhaps even more than he holds me in at this moment. But I have a

plan which will, I hope, make him come to see me as profoundly wise and

sound of judgment."

"How are you going to do that?"

"I'm going to promote him," Donovan said. Canidy laughed.

"To what?"

"Director of recruitment and training for the OSS," Donovan said. "I

don't know what that means," Canidy said. "Just what it sounds like,"

Donovan said.

"Since Baker devoutly believes that we have been recruiting the wrong

kind of people for the OSS, I'm going to let him handle the

recruiting.

It's been taking too much of Pete Doug lass's time anyway."

"I mean, what the hell is this "OSS'? What's it got to do with us?

"You mean you don't know?"

"I've seen it on paperwork," Canidy said.

"They're now going to pay for our purchase orders, but I don't know

who, or what, it is."

"Well, I can't imagine why no one has told you just who and what the

OSS is," Donovan said, smiling.

"Maybe Baker decided you didn't have the need to know. It happened

three weeks ago." He opened his briefcase and searched through it.

"I'm sure I had it in here," he sai .

"It's r my personal file." He searched a moment more, then said, "Here

it is." He handed Canidy a single sheet of crisp white paper:

ORDER 06pk 2 of 3

Strategic Services By virtue of the all vested in me as President of

the United States and as Commander 'in Chief of the Army and Navy of

the United States, it is ordered as fbllows@

1. The Office of the Coordinator of Ttifopmation, established by Order

of July 11, 1941, exclusive of the foreign information ities

transferred to the Office of war Information by Executive Order of June

13, 1942, shall hereafter be known as the Office of Strategic Services,

and is hereby transferred to the jurisdiction of the United states

Joint Chiefs of Staff. 2. The Office of Strategic Services shall

perform file follow dutiesa. Collect and analyze such strategic

information as may be required by the United States Joint Chiefs of

Staff. b. Plan and operate such. special services as may be directed

by the United States Joint Chiefs of Staff. 3. At the head of the

Office of Strategic Services shall be a Director of Strategic Services

who shall be appointed by the President and who shall perform his

duties under the direction and supervision of United States Joint

Chiefs of Staff.

4. William J. Donovan is hereby appointed as Director of Strategic U

Services.

5. The order of July I 1, 1941, is hereby revo in Chief "So you're now

under the Joint Chiefs," Canidy said.

"Read that very carefully," Donovan said.

"And start thinking 'we,' Dick.

After a moment, Canidy said, "I always wondered how you managed to get

away with being a free agent. Military and Naval Intelligence must

think you're an interloper on their sacred preserve."

"I'm afraid they do," Donovan said.

"But ONI and G-2 are under the Chief of Naval Operations and the Army

Chief of Staff."

"Who are under the Joint Chiefs," Canidy said.

"Who are under the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs," Donovan said. "So if

there is any complaint about us, it has to pass through two levels of

the military hierarchy."

"And you're not worried about the Chairman? Isn't he going to

naturally side with the brass hats?"

"No," Donovan said.

"Despite what you might have heard, Admiral Leahy and I agree far more

often than we disagree. And besides, I'm sure he has drawn the correct

inference from the fact that not only was he not given the right to

pick the director of the OSS, he wasn't even asked for a suggestion.

Canidy chuckled.

"I get the point."

"That's about as much of a blanket authority as I think anyone could

get under the existing bureaucracy," Donovan said.

"It's more, frankly, than I thought I was going to get."

"Does it come with money, too?"

"Whenever possible, we're going to draw our funds from the non

accountable funds allocated to the Joint Chiefs. If it's not there, we

can get what we need from the President's discretionary funds. That

airplane of yours, for example, will be charged against the Joint

Chiefs. The money we're spending on the African flight operation is

coming from the President."

" Interesting. "Getting back to Baker," Donovan said.

"We're about to start recruiting people on a large scale. Baker is the

man to handle that, I think, and also to run the school. Have you

heard about that?"

"Back when he was still talking to me, Baker threatened to send me to

it," Canidy said.

"But all I know is that there is a school."

"One now, more later. We're going to take over the Congressional

Country Club in Maryland, and we're taking over a country place, the

estate of a duke, in England. The place we have right now is an estate

made available to us in Virginia, not far from Washington," Donovan

said.

"I think we can give you and Whittaker-especially Whittaker-credit for

on-the-job training and excuse you from going through it; but from now

on, just about everybody we recruit will go through formal training."

"Espionage 101?" Canidy said. "Just about," Donovan said.

"Some of the people we're going to recruit will come from the military,

but many others will come directly from civilian life. They'll need to

acquire some basic skills-firearms, for example-and a little belly

flattening and muscle toning. Sort of our version of basic

training."

41 understand," Canidy said. "Baker wants Jimmy Whittaker as an

instructor, and I think for once he will be a round peg in a round

hole. And young Martin, too."

"You mean to go through the school, don't you? Not as an instructor?

"Martin was commissioned when he finished basic training," Donovan

said.

"From then on, he's been at either Fort Bragg or Fort Benning working

with the people developing parachute operations. He's actually

something of an expert. He's made sixty or seventy jumps, many at

night, and he's spent a lot of time learning how to drop cargo by

parachute."

"I thought he was involved with us because he knew Fulmar-and because

of his father," Canidy said. "That, too," Donovan said.

"If you need him to deal with Fulmar, he'll be available. Or just go

get him. There's an airfield on the estate." He dipped into his

briefcase again and came up with an Esso road map. On it was marked a

surprisingly large area about thirty miles from the District of

Columbia.

"The field was a private strip," Donovan said.

"And is not, I understand, on FAA aerial charts. Can you find it from

that?"

"I can find it, but will it take the Beech?"

"I'm sure it will," Donovan said.

"I was once picked up there in a DC-3."

"I can find it," Canidy said, making a careful mental note of where the

estate was in relation to Washington. "Can you get everybody in the

Beech?"

"Who's everybody?" it Baker, Cynthia, the two Doug lasses, your friend

Bitter, Jimmy Whittaker, and young Martin."

"Yeah," Canidy said after thinking it over.

"To this place in the country, you mean?"

"No. To Anacostia. Doug lass can arrange to get them to the estate in

the morning" "You're talking about right now?"

"I heard something about a clambake," Donovan said. "I'm responsible

for that," Canidy said.

"Guarding this place is really lousy duty for the white hats. I feel

sorry for them. I thought they would probably like a clambake, and I

showed them what had to be done."

"A pit on the beach?" Donovan asked.

"Lobsters? Clams? Corn on the cob? Beer?"

"The works," Canidy said. "Who's paying for the beer and lobster?"

"I am."

"Well, turn in a voucher for it." Canidy was surprised.

"Thank you," he said. "You won't get to drink any of the beer, since

you'll be flying, but I can't see any point in letting all that food go

to waste by sending everybody to Washington right now. And Mrs.

Donovan and I love clambakes."

"Considering what I feared was going to happen to me, I can cheerfully

do without the beer," Canidy said. Donovan nodded. "How close was I

to St. Elizabeth's, Colonel?" Canidy asked. "It was a close call,

Dick," Donovan said.

"As close as I've made lately. I hope it was a good call.

THE SECRET WARRIORS 0 a0l "Yeah," Canidy said after a moment,

thoughtfully, but as if he was thinking of someone else.

"So do I." As Donovan began to move toward the door, Canidy asked,

"What about Bitter's wife and the birdbrain?"

"I'll have Ann Chambers drive their car back in the morning Donovan

said.

"If she thinks that's too much to ask of her, you can see about getting

someone to drive the car."

"Oh, she can drive it," Canidy said.

"She can even fly. I mean, really. Not just a Piper Cub. She's got a

commercial ticket, an instrument rating, and five hundred-odd hours.

She's really a very capable young woman."

"Not bad-looking, either," Donovan said. "Yeah," Canidy said

noncommittally. Maybe it's chemical, Donovan thought. Maybe as there

is a chemical attraction between young people of opposite sexes, there

is also a chemical repulsion. Obviously, Ann Chambers does not ring

bells in Dick Canidy.

TWO I Summer Place Deal, New Jersey 0015 Hours July 5, 1942

Ann Chambers had not been asleep, although she had pretended to be when

Charity had finally, about eleven, returned to their room. Charity had

been spending considerable time with Doug Doug lass in Canidy's room

above the boathouse during the clambake. And Ann-in her current state

of mind-did not want to listen to Charity's impassioned rhapsodies

about it. The problem was that, unlike Charity's dashing hero, hers,

rather than leaping enthusiastically into her bed, seemed oblivious to

her very existence. How could she look soulfully into his eyes when

she couldn't get him to look at her?

When the luminous hands on the traveling alarm clock lined up at

midnight, Ann was really faced with doing what she had decided to do

that afternoon. It was different now. It was not an intellectual

exercise.

7@

She thought some more, and when the hands of the clock reached fifteen

minutes after midnight, she finally made up her mind. She would forget

she was a nice girl, a virgin, an Episcopalian, and that good

Episcopalian virgins who find themselves awake at midnight roll over

and go back to sleep. Opportunity knocks but once, she told herself

quietly as she swung her legs out and searched for her shoes under the

bed with her toes. If not now, then probably never There is absolutely

no chance I'll ever get invited back here, and where else would there

ever be the opportunity again? There was enough light in the room for

her to see Charity clearly. She was on her stomach, with her nightgown

up to her waist. She was in a deep sleep. Ann pulled a high-collared

cotton robe over her baby-doll pajamas, buttoned it, and then, her lips

tight in determination, reached under it and pulled the cutesy-poo

balloon-leg pajama pants off. The one thing she didn't want Dick

Canidy to think was that she was a cutesy-poo college girl. Though it

was a little wicked to leave her bedroom half naked under a thin robe,

it gave her determination. There was no turning back now.

She went down the stairs to the foyer. A civilian security guard was

sitting in an upholstered chair by the door to what had been a closet

but now held a switchboard. Presuming everyone had gone to bed, he had

pulled down his tie, removed his seersucker jacket, and hung his

shoulder holster over the back of his chair. He looked up from his

copy of The Saturday Evening Post, his face expressionless. "Can't

sleep," Ann said.

"I think it's probably the corn. I ate two dozen ears." He smiled.

It was a friendly smile. "That was nice, wasn't it?" he said.

"I had four lobsters. I think there's some baking soda in the

kitchen."

"I think I'll try a walk," Ann said.

"Then the baking soda." He leaned down then and came up with a

flashlight. There were half a dozen of them, the funny-looking kind

they had in the military services, with the lens and bulb at right

angles to the battery case, lined neatly against the baseboard.

"Here," he said.

"I won't need that," she said. "The sailors may be a little nervous,"

he said practically. "Better they see you coming than think

somebody-like the officer of the guard-is sneaking around to check up

on them."

"Thank you," she said, and took the light and walked out toward the

boathouse. If he's not there already, it won't be long. They left

Summer Place at half past seven. It was fifteen minutes to Lakehurst,

and maybe another fifteen minutes to put everybody in the airplane,

file a flight plan, and take off. It was about a hundred seventy-five

air miles to Washington. At, say, a hundred fifteen knots, that was an

hour and a half to Anacostia, call it two hours before they were on the

ground.

Then another two hours back to Lakehurst. He should be back about half

past midnight. Halfway to the boathouse, startling her, one of the

sailors appeared suddenly out of the darkness, his rifle held

diagonally across his chest. "Can I help you, Miss?" No, thank you,"

she said." I'm just going to the boathouse. "Yes, Miss," he said, and

when she started walking again, he marched behind her. Ann thought:

These guys all had the riot act read to them after Doug lass had glibly

talked their way past the sentry on the road when we arrived. This

nice-looking man had gotten the message. If I tell him I'm going to

the boathouse he intends to see that I go there and nowhere else. As

Ann climbed the outside stairway to Canidy's rooms, she expected the

door to be locked. But the door was open, and she let herself in. Did

that mean he was home already? There was nothing to do but turn on the

lights, she realized.

Otherwise, the young sailor with the rifle would climb the stairs and

see if anything was wrong. She snapped the switch. It was one big

room, and he was not there. The bed was mussed, and the ashtray on the

table beside it was full of cigarette butts. Half had lipstick on

them. That damned Charity doesn't even have the decency to clean up

after herself, Ann thought angrily. She dumped the cigarette butts

into a wastebasket under the washbasin, then searched in drawers and

closets for clean sheets and pillowcases.

She had just finished making the bed when she heard footsteps on the

wooden stairs. Suddenly absolutely unable to face Dick Canidy, she

retreated first against the wall, then into a closet. I'll have to

come out, she thought as she peered through a crack in the slatted

door, but not this instant! "Richard? You there?" a male voice

called. In a moment, she saw who it was. It was Eric Fulmar, someone

everybody seemed to know but no one was willing to talk about. "Shit,"

Fulmar said, "nobody's home." Now he'll go. Please, God, make him

go!

Eric Fulmar looked around the room, found what he was looking

for-Canidy's liquor-made himself a drink, and settled himself

comfortably to wait for Canidy in the room's one upholstered chair. He

didn't have long to wait. An automobile was on the drive. A car door

opened and closed, then she heard Canidy's voice: "Thanks. Sorry you

had to wait up for me." And then there was the sound of his footsteps

coming up the stairs, apparently two at a time. "What the hell?"

Canidy said when he saw Fulmar. "Find everything you wanted?" he

asked unpleasantly.

He was wearing his Air Corps uniform. When he took off the tunic, Ann

was sure that he would want to hang it up, pull open the closet door,

and find her hiding there. But there were two closets, and Canidy kept

his uniforms in the other one. "I found the booze,' Fulmar said.

"More important, how did you get in here? You're supposed to be kept

in the house."

"If I wanted to leave here,' Eric said, "I could. I hate to tell you

this, but your security is a joke."

"What do you want, Eric?" Canidy asked. "I want to talk to you,'

Fulmar said. There was a moment's hesitation, and for a moment Ann

thought he was going to send Eric Fulmar away. But he didn't. "Okay,

we'll talk," he said.

"Fix me a stiff one of those, will you?" He disappeared. In a moment,

there was the sound of splashing water. For a moment, Ann was

confused.

Then she understood what was going on.

My God, when he does that, it sounds like Niagara Falls. Or afire

hose!

Canidy flushed the toilet and came back into sight, He took the drink

Fulmar had made and swallowed it straight down. "Jesus!" Fulmar

said.

"That was a little quick, wasn't it?"

"I drank about a quart of coffee so that I wouldn't fall asleep on the

way home," Canidy said.

"I hope that two or three like that, plus a warm shower, will overwhelm

the caffeine. Make me another one, will you?" Then he started to get

undressed. He very neatly hung his trousers on a hanger, then tossed

his shirt, his T-shirt, and his shorts on top of the soiled sheets.

It's not even funny-looking, Ann decided. He's beautiful, gorgeous,

handsome, but that thing between his legs is ugly. "I won't be long,"

Dick Canidy said to Fulmar. He disappeared again, and there was the

sound of a shower running. Much more quickly than Ann expected, he

reappeared, still naked, toweling his head. He made a quick swipe at

the rest of his body, then wrapped the towel around his waist. My God,

ugly or not, I'm disappointed! Canidy picked up his drink and went to

his bed. He propped pillows against the headboard and arranged himself

against it. "Okay, Eric," he said, "ask away. But make it brief, will

you? This has been a bad day."

"Where did you take Jimmy and Martin?" Fulmar asked. "To Washington,"

Canidy said. "I know that," Fulmar said. "Okay," Canidy said after a

minute.

"Why not? The OSS is starting a school in Virginia. Jimmy and Martin

are going to be instructors."

"What's the OSS?"

"It stands for the Office of Strategic Services," Canidy said. "We're

all in it. Colonel Donovan is the boss."

"What are they going to teach?"

"Martin is a parachute expert. Jimmy is going to teach people to cut

throats and blow things up."

"I could teach that," Fulmar said.

"I could teach a lot of interesting Errol Flynn-type things. You'd be

surprised how good the Berbers are at cutting throats."

"I suppose you could," Canidy said, 'but as I'm sure you have already

figured out for yourself, there is some question whose side you are on

in this war. "You don't believe that, do you?" Fulmar said. "It

doesn't matter what I believe," Canidy said. "Well, do you or don't

you, goddamn it?"

"No, I don't," Canidy said.

"But right now, my opinion doesn't count for a whole hell of a lot

around here."

"Well, what do they want with me? Since they don't trust me?" Canidy

wanted to avoid answering that.

"You can't blame them, Eric," he said, "for wondering."

"Wondering what?"

"For Christ's sake, figure it out yourself. You didn't want to come to

this country."

"Bullshit!" Fulmar flared.

"You were with me in that god damned boat. I didn't ask to get left

behind over there. I was prepared to kill to get on that god damned

submarine, and you know it."

"I mean the second chance you were offered," Canidy said. "What second

chance?"

"You know damned well what I mean," Canidy said.

"You had to be tied up and smuggled to Gibraltar because you wouldn't

come voluntarily."

"Who told you that?"

"Baker," Canidy said. "Shit!" Fulmar said.

"It hasn't occurred to you that He's a lying bastard?" Canidy was on a

spot, and quickly moved to get off it.

"And people have wondered why, since you've been here, you have made no

attempt to get in touch with your mother."

""Hi, Mom, I'm in the loony bin at Fort Knox'?" Fulmar said

mockingly.

"Is that the reason?"

"You know the reason," Eric said.

"You and Jimmy. My mother doesn't give a shit for me and never has.

If that question came up, one of you should have said something."

"You never tried to get in touch with my father, either," Canidy

said.

""Hi, Dr. Canidy! Guess where I am, Dr. Canidy?" A "Okay," Canidy

said.

"But you can't tell me what's going on, right? Or you won't."

"I can't," Canidy said. "You know, for years I always talked myself

into thinking, so what that my mother doesn't even want people to know

I exist, and so what that my father made it pretty clear the big

mistake of his life was not using a rubber when he screwed my mother.

I've got another kind of family, I've got Sidi el Ferruch, and back in

the States are my asshole buddies, Dick and Jimmy, and your good

father. So what happens? The first chance el Ferruch gets, he sells

me to that fucking Baker. And when I finally get together with you

two, Jimmy acts like I have a swastika tattooed on the head of my

pecker, and you're not one fucking bit better; and I can't even call

Father Canidy, because if I do, I'd have to tell him I can't come to

see him, because you've got me locked up. He's the only person in the

world who's ever given a shit about me, and I'm not going to have him

worrying about me, or let him know what a prick his son is. "Jesus

Christ!" Canidy said. "Fuck you, Canidy!" Fulmar said, and Ann saw

tears running down his face as he glowered angrily at Canidy. "You

know a German officer named Helm ut von Heurten-Mitnitz, I understand,"

Canidy said. "Yeah, I know him. He's just like you, Canidy. Two peas

out of a pod. If Baker hadn't beat him to it, he would have had me

tied up and sent to Germany. They would trust me there about as far as

I'm trusted here."

"Now, get your fucking emotions under control and think it over

carefully before you answer me. From what you know of this guy, would

he be useful to us?"

"No," Fulmar said after a long pause.

"What you're asking is whether he would be a traitor. The answer is

not any more than you would. Is that what this is all about? You

think I can get to von Heurten-Mitnitz? You're dreaming. No way."

"One more question," Canidy said.

"If we asked you to, would you stick your neck out?"

"You're asking would I go back to Morocco?"

"I didn't ask that. But would you?"

"Yeah," Fulmar said.

"I'm not too bright, Dick. I trust people I shouldn't. But if you

tell me that it's important that I go back to Morocco, Okay, I'll go.

just one condition."

208 8 W.Z.B. URIFFIN "You're in no position to ask for conditions,"

Canidy said. "I want a commission," Fulmar said.

"A real one, like Jimmy's and Doug lass's and Bitter's, not a phony one

like yours."

"Doug lass is a major, Bitter's the Navy equivalent, and Jimmy is a

captain. They're not going to give you that."

"They made Martin a second lieutenant just because he had a college

degree, he told me. I went to college, Second lieutenant would be

okay."

"Why is that important?"

"Because if I get killed going back to Morocco, I want to be brought

home in a casket with a flag on it and buried as a soldier, not left

over there in a ditch because I was just a dumb sonofabitch who was

used by people he thought were his friends. "I'm your friend, you dumb

sonofabitch. I always have been." 44 Right, sure. Two choruses of

"For Auld Langsyne But for the time being, try to think of some way to

turn good ol' Helm ut von Heurtenmitnitz into a traitor, right?"

"Yeah, and don't tell anybody I told you to. I've already told you a

hell of a lot more than I should."

"Because you're a nice guy, right?"

"No Canidy said, "because we need you, and because I decided that was

the way to get you to help."

"That sounds honest enough," Fulmar said. J "I'll raise the question

of a commission as soon as I can," Canidy said. "No promises."

"Good enough," Fulmar said. "My father knows you're safe in this

country," Canidy said. "How does he know?"

"I told him. He was worried about you."

"That's all you told him?"

"That's enough to get me locked up for the duration if anybody hears

about it, so keep it under your hat."

"I had diarrhea of the mouth a while back," Fulmar said.

"Keep that under your hat." Canidy got out of bed.

"I'm going to call the sentry," he said.

"And he will escort you back to the house."

"if you do that, the sailor sitting outside my door to keep me in the

house will have his ass in a crack."

THE SECRET WARRIORS 0 goo What did you do, make a rope from your

blankets and climb out the window?"

"I didn't need a rope," Fulmar said. "You could get back without

one?"

"Watch me," Fulmar said. "No," Canidy said.

"You're too valuable to have your balls blown off by a nervous sentry "

"I don't want that kid to get in trouble because of me," Fulmar said.

"I'm going to let him worry a little for the rest of the night about

your getting away from him," Canidy said.

"But I'm not going to squeal on him." Then he did something which

surprised Ann and brought tears to her eyes. He put his arms around

Eric Fulmar and hugged him.

"Besides, asshole, if the sentry blew you away, I would miss you.

You're the only thing close to a little brother I have. They went out

of sight, and Canidy called for the sentry and asked him to "escort Mr.

Fulmar back to the house. When Canidy walked into the bedroom end of

the room, she was leaning on the wall beside the closet. "Oh, Jesus

H.

Christ! he groaned. 4(Hi!

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he asked, "That's my intention,"

Ann heard herself say, "but I'm not sure I like the tone of voice."

"How much did you hear?" he asked.

"I got here a couple of minutes before Eric did," Ann said.

"I hid in there. I heard everything."

"Wonderful!" he said.

"I'm not going to tell anybody," she said.

"I'll have to tell Donovan," he said.

"You understand what that means? You'll be hauled away for psychiatric

examination. It will take years.

"Not necessarily," she said.

He turned away from her and headed for the whiskey on the sink. She

took a couple of steps after him. Now he spun around and angrily

demanded, "What do you mean, not necessarily?"

"Bill Donovan called me in this morning and asked how he could be sure

I wouldn't write anything I shouldn't. I gave him an answer that

satisfied him. And it covers this situation, too." He opened his

mouth to say something, stopped as if something shocked him, then moved

his eyes to hers. His face was flushed. What did he see that caused

that? And then in her reflected image in a dresser mirror, she saw

what had shocked him. What he was looking at again now. Her leg, all

the way up to her crotch, had escaped her bathrobe. That happened when

he startled me by spinning around like that. She covered herself in a

reflex action, then looked at his face. It was now red, and she saw

him swallow. "I'd love to hear what you told him,' Canidy said, his

voice strained. In for a penny, in for a pound, Ann decided. She took

a step toward him. In the process, her leg 'escaped" her bathrobe

again. Is that what you want to see? Have a good look! He looked,

then looked quickly away. "I told him that I love you," Ann said

softly, "and that I was consequently incapable of doing anything that

would hurt you," Now his eyes met hers.

"What's the matter with you?" he flared. "Are you crazy? Saying

something like that? And what you said before-" "That's a distinct

possibility,' she said.

"Because the facts seem to be that I do love you, and I came here to-"

"Shut up!" Canidy interrupted furiously.

"Just shut up!"

"-see if I could get you to-" she went on relentlessly. "Shut up!" he

screamed again.

"Goddamn you, shut your mouth! You don't know what you're saying! She

met his eyes and saw determination in them, and knew that she had

failed. Her own eyes teared, and she felt a sob rising. There were

the sounds of footsteps on the stairs. "Major Canidy? Everything all

right in there, Major?" It was the sentry. He pushed her against the

wall, "Ssh!" he cautioned. "Major Canidy?" the sentry asked.

"Everything's just fine," Canidy said. "You're sure, Sir? I thought I

heard shouting."

"I didn't hear any shouting," Canidy said innocently.

Ann started to giggle. Canidy quickly clapped his hand over her

mouth.

"Well, someone was shouting," the sentry said firmly. "Not me," Canidy

said.

"Everything's perfectly normal in here." Something was pressed

painfully against Ann's abdomen. She put her hand down to push it

away, but when she realized what it was, she put her hand around it and

held it tightly. She felt her heart pound. For a moment, she thought

she might faint. "Well, good night, Sir," the sentry said. "Sorry to

disturb you, Major."

"Perfectly all right," Canidy said.

"Keep up the good work." When the sentry had gone down the stairs, he

took his hand from her mouth. She did not remove her hand from where

she was holding him. She heard him exhale deeply, almost as if it hurt

him, and then he picked her up and carried her to the bed. She was

glad that she had taken off the cutesy-poo pants, because all he had to

do was push the cotton robe out of the way.

it didn't take long to become a woman, Ann thought, and I never

believed those horror stories about the pain anyway. And when it was

over, when he said, "You goddamn fool!" she heard tenderness in his

voice, and was sure she had done the right thing even before he reached

for her, and pulled her to him, and held her tightly against him, and

said all the things she was so afraid she would never hear him say.

The second time was longer, and better, and so was the third.

I TURKE I Summer Place Deal, Now Jersey 0830 Hours July 5, 1942

When Barbara Whittaker left the table to go to the kitchen to ask for

another pot of coffee, Charity Hoc he smiled sweetly at Ann and said,

"The tabletop is glass, so I think I should tell you that everybody can

see you playing kneesie with Major Canidy."

"Charity!" Sarah Child Bitter snapped. Captain Stanley S. Fine had

trouble swallowing his coffee, while Ann Chambers and Richard Canidy

flushed and separated at the knees. Then Ann looked at Canidy. "I

don't mind if you don't," she said, and Canidy moved his knee against

hers again. Ann thumbed her nose at Charity, and Fine and Sarah

laughed. This was the scene that greeted a security man and two Air

Corps officers-both captains and both appearing to be in their

mid-thirties when they walked into the breakfast room: A very

good-looking young woman was thumbing her nose at two other equally

attractive young women and two men, one wearing an insignia-less

tropical worsted uniform and the other, younger, wearing swim trunks

and a battered, washed out gray sweatshirt with cutoff sleeves. On the

front of the sweatshirt was still faintly visible the legend

"Massachusetts Institute of Technology." They were all giggling and

more than a little red in the face. It was not what two officers who

had volunteered for a hazardous secret mission expected to find when

they reported for duty on orders conspicuously stamped Top Secret.

"These gentlemen have orders to report to you, Major," the security man

said.

"I've verified their identity." Canidy took his knee away from

Ann's.

She sensed it would be a long time before she felt that delightful

pressure again. "Thank you," Canidy said, and reached out for a manila

envelope the older of the two captains held in his hand. "I'm Canidy,"

he said.

"That's Captain Fine." He did not introduce the women. He opened the

envelope, removed another envelope from inside, and broke its seal. He

then read the orders, put them back in the envelope, and passed it down

the table to Fine. "Is the car ready? You put gas in it?" Canidy

asked the security man. "Yes, Sir. It's out in front."

"The weekend is over, I guess," Canidy said to Ann. "Come see us off,"

Ann said as she got up. He nodded.

"Give me a minute," he said, and waited until the women had left the

room before asking, "Have you had breakfast?"

"No, Sir," the older of the two Air Corps officers said. The "Sir'

came hard, Fine thought. But if I were as old as they are, I would

find it hard saying "Sir" to a guy in trunks and an MIT sweatshirt who

looks as young-who is as young-as Canidy is. "Sit down," Canidy

ordered, waving the two officers into chairs at the table. Barbara

Whittaker came back into the room with a silver coffeepot.

"Gentlemen," Canidy said, "this is our hostess, Mrs. Barbara

Whittaker." Uncomfortably, the two officers gave Barbara Whittaker

their hands and mumbled their names. "Would you please see about

getting them some breakfast?" Canidy said.

"And then detour anyone else who wants to eat?"

"I'll have a table set on the porch," Barbara said. I'll see the girls

off," Canidy said."

Stan, hold the fort, will you? When they were alone, the older of the

two captains said to Fine with mingled annoyance and curiosity, "He's a

little young to be a major, isn't he? "He's also a little young to be

the man in charge," Fine said. "But he's an unusual young man. He was

the first ace in the AVG."

"This isn't what I expected to find," the Air Corps officer said. "Me

either," Fine said.

"A week ago I had a B-17 squadron at Chanute, "What the hell is this

all about?"

"I think," Fine said, "that I had better wait and let Major Canidy tell

you that." , Canidy returned to the breakfast room five minutes

later.

He was still wearing the battered, washed-out MIT sweatshirt and swim

trunks, but Fine thought he no longer looked or sounded like a young

Romeo who had just found his Juliet. "I'll begin with a statement of

fact," Canidy said as he poured another cup of coffee.

"If either of you in any way breaches the security requirements I am

about to outline for you, you will spend the duration of the war in a

psychiatric hospital. It is not a threat. Simply a fact. Is that

perfectly clear to both of you?"

"Yes, Sir," the two Air Corps officers said, almost in unison. There

was no hesitation in calling him "Sir' this time, Fine thought. Was

that because I had told them Canidy had been the AVG-sfirst ace, or did

they now sense a ruthlessness in him that had not been there when they

had first walked into the breakfast room?

I x ONE I Le Re lais de Pointe-Noire Near Casablanca, Morocco July

R9,1942

Le Re lais de Pointe-Noire, a two-story stone building, sat on a huge

granite crag thrusting into the Atlantic Ocean. The granite appeared

black when surf crashed against it, hence the name Pointe-Noire. It

was said that Le Re lais de Pointe-Noire was the best restaurant on the

Atlantic Coast of Morocco, but it was perhaps best known for its

chamhres spares-there were ten-on the floor above the main

restaurant.

Five of the discreet, private dining rooms-which were furnished with a

table, and a chaise lounge in case the diners decided to take a little

nap after eating-had large windows looking out upon the surf. The

others faced inward toward the narrow road that led from the shore to

the granite crag.

Helm ut von Heurten-Mitnitz had reserved a chambre spare looking out on

the surf for himself and Madame Jeanine Lernoine. There was no biding

from anyone that the senior member of the Franco-German Armistice

Commission for Morocco was a guest of the restaurant. For one thing,

his Mercedes-Benz automobile was well known. And so, he suspected, was

the Peugeot sedan with the Rabat license tag he used when he wished to

be more discreet. For another, he was usually accompanied by a second

Mercedes, a smaller one, carrying three members of the SS-SD, the

secret police branch of the SS, and one member of the Sfiret6, the

French Security Service, who were charged with his protection.

His best protection at this moment, von Heurten-Mitnitz had concluded,

was to trust that people would imagine he had brought Jeanine Lemoine

here tonight for carnal purposes. He would have been pleased if it

came to that, for Jeanine was an attractive, pert-breasted female with

surprisingly long legs for a Frenchwoman. Despite the official policy

of Franco-German friendship, she was held in contempt by the French in

Morocco. The wife of an officer being held in a German POW camp,

especially one who did not need the money, should not have become "the

little friend" of von Heurten-Mitnitz, who, more than any other man in

Morocco, represented the Germany that had so humiliated France.

The entire rear wall of the chambre spare was a black mirror. Von

Heurten-Mitnitz had wondered idly whether it had been designed that way

simply because it made the room appear to be larger, or whether it was

intended to reflect whatever might transpire on the wide, softly

upholstered chaise lounge pushed against it, to cater to some odd

French sexual hunger.

We make an attractive couple, von Heurten-Mitnitz thought as he saw

their reflection in the mirror. It's really a shame she's not what

people believe, and that we're not here for an illicit liaison. Or at

least not an illicit sexual liaison.

Helm ut von Heurten-Mitnitz was a tall, sharp-featured, very erect

Pomeranian, thirty-five years old and blond-haired. He was an

aristocrat who, like half a dozen younger sons of the Grafs von

Heurten-Mitnitz before him, had entered the diplomatic service of his

sovereign. Karl Heinz von Heurten-Mitnitz, his paternal uncle, had

witnessed the German humiliation at Compi&gne in 1918. And the current

Graf von Heurten-Mitnitz, his elder brother, resplendent in his black

honorary Standartenfiihrer-SS's uniform, had been part of Hitler's

entourage at Compi&gne in 1940, when humiliation had been turned into

revenge. An odd combination, von Heurten-Mitnitz thought, a whore who

is not a whore, and a patriot about to turn traitor. Two minutes after

von Heurten-Mitnitz and Jeanine Lernoine entered the chambre sjpar4@e,

a third man joined them. The presence of Robert Murphy, consul general

of the United States to the French Republic's Pro rectorate of Morocco,

at the Re lais de Pointe-Noire could not be concealed any more than von

Heurten-Mitnitz's. His official Buick was trailed everywhere by a

Sfiret6 Peugeot or Citron whose ostensible purpose was to provide him

with the protection his rank was entitled to but whose real purpose was

to keep an eye on him. He had to hope that whoever noticed that the

head American and the head German in Morocco were simultaneously at the

Re lais de Pointenoire would call it simply coincidence. That was in

fact plausible. If they wanted to meet secretly, it was unlikely they

would do so in a place where their presence would be so conspicuous.

The two men shook hands but did not speak. Murphy nodded his

head-conceivably it could be construed to be a bow-at Mme. Jeanine

Lemoine, and said, "Madame."

"Monsieur," she replied. Helm ut von Heurten-Mitnitz opened a bottle

of wine, poured three glasses, and passed one each to Murphy and Madame

Lemoine. "A toast would be a little awkward," von Heurten-Mitnitz

said, "don't you think?"

"Better times," Murphy said Madame Lemoine and von Heurten-Mitnitz

smiled and raised their glasses. Then Murphy reached into the pocket

of his suit jacket and took from it an envelope, which he handed to von

Heurten-Mitnitz. The German took it, sat down at the table, opened it,

and took from it half a dozen sheets of crisp white stationery. "The

White House," von Heurten-Mitnitz said.

"I didn't know Roosevelt was fluent in German."

"He's not," Murphy said.

"That's from Putzi von Hanfstaengel."

"Really?" von Heurten-Mitnitz said, surprised.

THE WHITE HOUSE Washington 20 July 1942

My dear Helm ut: By the very reading of this you will, according to the

laws of the Third Reich, he committing treason. I mention this because

when Franklin Roosevelt asked me to write to you, I was forced to

consider what that word really meant. Before, I was able to

rationalize my own status: Heinrich Himmler had tried to kill me, and

it was only by the grace of God that I was able to leave Germany, so

therefore I could be anything I chose to be, and I chose to think of

myself as an escapee, or a refugee, anything but a traitor. I now

realize that is dishonest. I am legally a traitor. I axa consorting

with n-ly country's enemies, and doing whatever I can to help them

cause my country to lose the war, including writing this letter. But

when I ask myself what I am being a traitor to, I am able to believe

that I aan really acting in Germany's best interests. Roosevelt has

unquestioned proof, some of it from the Vatican, of what unspeakable

barbarities the Austrian Maniac and his Cohorts are inflicting, not

only upon Jews, but Gypsies, ordinary Polish and Russian peasants, and

on Germans as well. I wall not dwell on this, other than to give you

my word that I have proof of what the bearer of this will tell you in

detail. No matter what horrors he relates, I suspect that his memory

will prove unable to store and recall the full obscenity of it. That

alone would be sufficient cause to overthrow Hitler and his

associates.

But I will give you, if you need one, another argument why that must be

done, and why you must help: Germany will inevitably lose this warl The

genius of Germany's generals and the courage of her Soldiers will never

prevail against the industrial might Of America. You have lived here,

you know what I'm talking about.

Roosevelt tells me that he believes "as much as forty percent" of the

American gross national product may be necessary to support this war.

"Total war," as Goebbels and Speer envision it for Germany, is not even

being considered by the Americans. I will not dwell upon this.

Germany will lose the war. The degree of destruction of our cities,

the number of millions of our countrymen who will be killed, is

directly related to how quickly Germany loses it. There will be no

armistice this time.

Powerful people at Roosevelt's side are already Few know Adolph Hit

etter I ian me, when he knew he was going to Land shut prison after

Munich, and tried to kill himself, I stopped him!) You must believe me,

my dear Helm ut, when I tell. you Unser Fuhrer will see Germany in

rubble, her fields sown with salt, and her people extinguished from the

face of the earth before he surrenders his mad dream. It is therefore,

Helm ut, perfectly evident to me that it is the duty of people like you

and me, whose families have guided Germany for centuries, to do our

duty, at whatever cost, to see this temporary insane leadership of our

country destroyed. If, after the war is lost, this will see us put in

leadership positions by the victorious allies, that would probably be a

good thing, but that isn't the point. The point is that we must do our

duty as we see it. Our beloved Germany cries out to you to do this.

May God give you courage and be with you, until better times.

P.S. I am guarded by an American Army sergeant in my hotel. He is

equipped with a rifle and a steel helmet, and wears a baggy denim work

uniform on duty. But I aan as proud of Sergeant von Hanfstaengel in

his baggy U.S. Army uniform as my father was of me when I went to the

front in the first, war, and as convinced that truly, Gott Mit Uns.

demanding unconditional surrenders Rao a Helm ut von Heurten-Mitnitz

read the letter carefully twice, then took a gold Dun hill lighter from

his jacket pocket and burned the letter-one sheet at a time-over the

ashtray. Only when he finished did he speak. "You are aware, of

course, what was in that," he said to Murphy. "How do you know?"

"The 'better times' toast," von Heurten-Mitnitz said. "It was sent to

me unsealed," Murphy admitted.

"There are no copies. I read it and then sealed it."

"That wasn't a very gentlemanly thing to do," von Heurten-Mitnitz

said."

No," Murphy admitted." I don't suppose it was. "He writes a very

stirring letter," von Heurten-Mitnitz said. "If you see him, please

don't hurt his feelings by letting him know I had already reached very

much the same conclusions he has."

"I'm pleased to hear that," Murphy said.

"But I still suppose it is expected of me to relate what we have

learned about the extermination camps and the special SS squads."

"I probably know more about that than you do," von Heurten-Mitnitz

said.

"It was a factor in my decision."

"We have been led to believe that, outside of the circle of those

actually involved, it is pretty much of a secret in Germany."

"Milller has a friend, wounded in Russia, who came here on recuperative

leave. He got drunk and told Milller-and he knew about everything, not

just the extermination detachments at the front. MUER had me to

dinner, got him drunk again, and had him tell me all over again. I had

heard whispers, and now there was proof. Mi iller's friend is a

Leica-what's the word?-snapshot photographer."

"Why do you think MUER did that?"

"Because I tell him things I think he should know, and he does the

same.

"Was he morally outraged?"

"He's a policeman," von Heurten-Mitnitz said.

"Nothing shocks him."

"Motivate, then," Murphy said.

"What would it take to motivate him? "Money," von Heurten-Mitnitz

said.

"A good deal of money."

"That's been thought of," Murphy said. He took two envelopes from his

jacket pocket.

"There's mixed currency in each of these," he said.

"Mostly Swiss francs, some Reichsmarks, some dollars, some pounds,

altogether about twenty-five thousand dollars' worth." Von

Heurten-Mitnitz looked at them as if they were dog droppings. "We

wanted to make sure that you had cash available in case the need

arose," Murphy said quickly.

"Hence the envelope for you." Von Heurten-Mitnitz looked closely at

Murphy. "But you wouldn't have blinked an eye, would you, Mr. Murphy,

if I had said that wasn't nearly enough to buy me."

"I never believed you were for sale, Herr von Heurten-Mitnitz, " Murphy

said. "I have no choice but to take your word for that, do I?"

"You have my word," Murphy said. "I will give Milffer one envelope,"

von Heurten-Mitnitz said. "And retain the other, should I need it.

Afterward I will give you a precise accounting."

"That's not necessary," Murphy said. "Yes, it is, Mr. Murphy," von

Heurten-Mitnitz said.

"To me, it is necessary."

"I was about to say I understand how you feel. But that wouldn't be

true."

"Pray you never find yourself in my situation, Mr. Murphy," von

Heurten-Mitnitz said. Their eyes met for a moment, then von

Heurten-Mitnitz looked away. "There was something symbolic about your

twenty-five thousand pieces of assorted silver," von Heurten-Mitnitz

said.

"I presume that now you will tell me just what you want from me."

"I didn't look at the money that way," Murphy said. "Perhaps because

it is written in Scripture that it is more blessed to give than

receive," the German aristocrat said dryly.

"I wonder how Putzi is being paid."

"He's not," Murphy said.

"Roosevelt, by executive order, exempted his art gallery from seizure

under the Enemy Property Act."

"I'm surprised Putzi permitted him to do that." Murphy didn't reply.

"I really am curious what specifically you want from me," von

Heurten-Mitnitz said.

"Presumably it has to do with the invasion of North Africa.

"What makes you think we're going to invade North Africa?" Murphy

asked.

"Roosevelt made that clear when he abandoned the Philippine Islands.

The major thrust of the American effort will first be against

Germany.

That leaves the question where," von Heurten-Mitnitz said.

"I doubt, despite the enormous effort being made by Roosevelt to turn

Joseph Stalin into Friendly Uncle Joe, that the American people would

stand for sending American troops to fight in Russia. Not the Balkans,

certainly, after Churchill's Gallipoli debacle' in the First War. Not

the Continent itself, not yet. Where, then, else?"

"Have you heard anything?" Murphy asked, poker-faced. "Conjecture,"

von Heurten-Mitnitz said.

"Nothing specific. The French doubt that you are capable of attacking

sovereign French soil with the forces you presently have in England

even if you would dare try it. They also do not believe you are

capable of launching an invasion force across the Atlantic directly

from the United States. I do."

"Well," Murphy said, seeing his opportunity, "since we are not, so far

as I know, about to invade North Africa, where we think you could help

is not connected with any such invasion."

"Then what?" von Heurten-Mitnitz asked. "FEG is developing a jet

engine for aircraft," Murphy said. "We have to have a set of authentic

specifications and, if we can get it, an actual engine. "Frankly,

that's not what I expected," von Heurten-Mitnitz replied and then added

wryly, "Fulmar Elektrische Gesellschaft, the ubiquitous young Mr.

Fulmar."

"From what he says, I don't think he'll be much help in this. I gather

he is not the apple of his father's eye."

"Hardly," von Heurten-Mitnitz agreed.

"I should think that getting the plans would be virtually impossible.

I can't imagine they'd be left anywhere where anyone could get to them,

and I daresay the plans for an aircraft engine would not fit in a

valise.

"In April 1915, in a plan devised by Winston Churchill, then First Lord

of the Admiralty, fifteen British Commonwealth divisions were landed at

Gallipoli with the intention of capturing Constantinople and forcing

the Dardanelles Channel. After suffering 213,980 casualties, the force

was soundly defeated by the Turks and withdrawn. Churchill was forced

to resign as First Lord, and went to France to command a battalion of

infantry in the trenches.

"We need the metallurgical and machining specifications," Murphy

said.

"I don't see how I could get them," von Heurten-Mitnitz said. "What

about an engine itself?"

"Could you arrange for that?"

"From somewhere in the back of my mind I recall that on the Fulmar

family estate near Augsburg FEG has an experimental electric smelter.

I don't know why I remember this, but I do. I was told that it simply

melts everything in, say, an auto engine. They then extract the copper

and other alloying material. Wouldn't it seem likely they would send

experimental ?1)

aircraft engines there? Failed ones, worn-out ones "Can you find

out?"

"I will make inquiries," von Heurten-Mitnitz said.

"It may take a little time-perhaps months. I will have to wait until I

can find someone who knows. My telephone calls are monitored, and I

suspect my mail is being opened."

"I'm surprised to hear about the mail," Murphy said. "The Bavarian

corporal doesn't trust people like me," von Heurtenp Mitnitz said

dryly.

"I can't imagine why."

TWO I The House on 0 Street, NW 1715 Hours August 3, 1942

When he heard the sliding door to the library open, Lieutenant Colonel

Edmund T. Stevens, a tall, thin, silver-haired man in his late forties,

looked up from a first-edition copy of Lee in Northern Virginia he had

found on the shelves.

A young man walked in, raised his eyebrows when he saw Stevens, and

said, "Good afternoon, Colonel," then walked directly to a cabinet that

contained-hid, Stevens thought; I had no idea that was there-not only

an array of liquor bottles but a small refrigerator and a stock of

glasses.

The young man selected a bottle of Scotch.

"Can I fix you something, Colonel?" he asked.

Colonel Stevens, who was usually self-assured, was now surprisingly

hesitant. He was on alien ground. He didn't know how to behave.

There was to be a "working dinner," he had been told, with Captain

Peter Doug lass, and he wondered if he should appear at that with

liquor on his breath. He decided that whoever this young man was, he

was probably part of the establishment-he certainly showed no

uneasiness about helping himself to the hidden liquor-and that

suggested that alcohol was not proscribed in a place where everything

else seemed to be. "Yes, if you'll be so kind," Stevens said.

"Some of that Scotch and a splash of water will be fine." The young

man did not offer his name, and Stevens did not offer his. Cynthia

Chenowith came into the room. "They told me you were here," she

said.

"In your voice there is an implication I your office, stood to

attention, saluted, and formally," the young man said. "Colonel

Stevens," Cynthia Chenowith said, in control of herself but

tight-lipped, "this is Major Canidy. They shook hands. Colonel

Stevens had heard a good deal about Major Canidy in the past few

days.

He knew he was scheduled to meet him, but was surprised by the civilian

clothing. "Dinner will be at seven," Cynthia said.

"The others will be here shortly."

"Is it a command performance?" Canidy asked.

"If so, what others?"

"If by that you're asking if you are expected to be there, Dick, the

answer is yes, you are."

"Yes, Ma' am," Canidy said.

"I'll look forward to it, Ma' am." She walked toward the door and had

just about reached it when Canidy said, softly but loud enough for her

to hear, "Nice tail, wouldn't you say, Colonel?" Cynthia spun

around.

Canidy was stroking the tail feathers of a cast-bronze pheasant sitting

on a bookcase shelf. He smiled at her benignly. "Something else,

Cynthia?" he asked innocently. She turned around again and marched

out of the room. Canidy looked at Colonel Stevens, his eyes

mischievous.

"Sometimes, if I'm lucky," he said, "I can get her to swear. You'd be

surprised at the words that refined young woman has in her

vocabulary."

should have marched into announced my arrival for Although he wasn't

sure why, Stevens heard himself laugh. He wondered what was behind the

exchange. "She implied that you'll be at dinner," Canidy said. "Yes,

I will be," Stevens said. "Does that mean you're one of us?" Yes, I

suppose I am," Stevens said." A very new one, however. "I would ask

what they have you doing," Canidy said, "and what the dinner is all

about, but if I do that, tight-lipped little men will suddenly leap out

of the woodwork, crying, "Shame on you, you broke the rules,' and

confiscate the booze." Stevens laughed again. When he'd seen Bill

Donovan, Donovan had told him not to be put off by Canidy's irreverent

attitude, and that he was where it counted a very good man. Stevens

had also been told both about Canidy's exploits in the air and that

he'd completed a secret mission in Morocco. This irreverent young man,

Stevens thought, is a veteran.

When the Second World War had started, Stevens himself had been a

civilian. And his somewhat sad judgment at the time was that he would

not serve at all. Even if they scraped him from the bottom of the

barrel and put him back in uniform, they'd make him a troop morale

officer, or some such, at a remote training camp in Arkansas or South

Dakota. He had made inquiries in 1940, and it had been made quite

clear to him that he was persona non grata at the War Department. In

1937, after sixteen years of commissioned service following his

graduation from the Military Academy at West Point with the class of

1921, Edmund T. Stevens resigned from the Army. He had risen only, in

a decade and a half, to captain in the Coast Artillery Corps. From the

beginning, his wife never liked the service, and there had been

constant pressure from her, from her family, and from his own family

for him to give it up. Clearly he was not destined for high rank or

important command. The pay was very low, and the environment not right

for the children. Subtly and bluntly they put it to him that he was no

longer a child; and, as it says in the Bible, it was time for him "to

put away childish things."

Bitterly disappointed when he did not find his name on the majors list

in the spring of 1937, he submitted his resignation. He took his

family from Fort Bliss, Texas, to New York, where a place was quickly

found for him in his wife's father's business, the importing of

European canned goods and wines. By the fall of 1938, by dint of hard

work, and, he joked, because his wife had inherited controlling

interest in the firm, he had been elected vice president for European

operations and sent to London. The Stevenses had a splendid year

before the war started. The boys loved their school despite the absurd

hats and customs, which left Debbie and him alone together in London on

what was almost a second honeymoon. On their first, there hadn't been

much they could afford on his second lieutenant's pay. When war came

to England, they sadly boarded the Queen Mary for New York. Shortly

before Pearl Harbor, Edmund T. Stevens ran into William J. Donovan in

the bar at the Baltusrol Country Club in New Jersey. Donovan asked him

how he planned to spend the war, and Stevens, somewhat stiffly, told

Donovan that he thought he could qualify for a commission in the

Quartermaster Corps. "You're going back in the Army?" Donovan asked,

surprised, "If they'll have me," Stevens confessed.

"It's been made rather clear to me that I have let the side down. I

don't think I could get a commission in artillery again, but perhaps,

if there's a war, maybe in the Quartermaster Corps. I now know a good

deal about how to store canned goods."

"Don't be surprised if I get in touch," Donovan said, and then

something happened to interrupt the conversation. By the time war

came, Stevens managed to get a reserve commission as a captain, QMC.

This was based more on his canned-goods experience than on his West

Point diploma and previous service, but there had been no telegram

ordering Captain Stevens of the Quartermaster Corps (Reserve) to

arrange his affairs so that he could enter upon extended active

service. Disappointed but not really surprised, he put military

service from his mind, forgot the Bahusrol Golf Club conversation he

had had with Colonel Wild Bill Donovan, and went back to the family

business. And then one day, wearing a look of utter confusion on her

face, his secretary put her head in the door and said there was an Army

officer on the telephone, asking for Colonel Stevens.

"This is Edmund Stevens," he said when he had picked up the

telephone.

"Hold on, please, Colonel, for Colonel Donovan," a woman on the line

said. "Ed," Donovan asked without preliminaries, "how soon can you get

down here? I need you right now." Despite a surprisingly emotional

reaction-Pavlovian drooling at the sound of a military trumpet, he told

himself-Stevens could not, as Donovan wanted, catch the next

Congressional Limited for Washington. Stevens wasn't able to get to

Washington until eleven-thirty the next morning His wife was furious:

He was simply too old to go running off the moment Bill Donovan blew

his bugle. He considered his wife's arguments on the ride to

Washington.

They were reinforced by his uncomfortable awareness that he was wearing

a uniform that no longer fit. It was worse in Washington. As he

walked across the waiting room at Union Station, a military policeman

stopped him and informed him that the leather Sam Browne belt he was

wearing had been proscribed for more than a year. He was sorry, he

said, but he had his orders, and would have to issue Stevens a citation

for being out of uniform. He then asked for Stevens's ID card, and of

course Stevens didn't have one. Stevens had resigned himself to arrest

for impersonating an officer when a man walked up, asked if he was

Edmund T.

Stevens, and then flashed some sort of identity card. The MP backed

off immediately. "I'm Chief Ellis, Colonel," the man said.

"Captain Doug lass sent me to fetch you. I must have missed you on the

platform."

"It's Captain Stevens," Stevens insisted. "Yes, Sir, whatever you say,

Sir," Ellis said. He then took Stevens to the dining room in the Ward

man Park Hotel, where Colonel Donovan and Captain Peter Doug lass were

about to take luncheon. That afternoon was the first Stevens heard of

the Office of Strategic Services. Over broiled scrod Donovan told him

that he wanted Stevens to go to London for that organization and serve

as sort of secretary-treasurer of the office he had established

there.

What was needed over there right away, Donovan said, was someone with

enough military experience to deal with the military from whom OSS was

drawing ninety percent of its logistical support, as well as someone

familiar with the idiosyncrasies of the "natives."

Since Stevens obviously met both criteria, Donovan felt certain he

would accept the job. Stevens of course agreed. "Buy yourself some

silver leaves, Colonel," Donovan said, handing him a War Department

general order, four consecutive paragraphs of which promoted Captain

Stevens, Quartermaster Corps, U.S. Army Reserve, to lieutenant colonel;

ordered Lieutenant Colonel Stevens to extended active duty for the

duration of the war plus six months; detailed him to the General Staff

Corps for duty with the Joint Chiefs of Staff; and further reassigned

him to the Office of Strategic Services. Stevens spent the next

several days in briefing, most of which he didn't understand, and,

honor-bound, told Captain Peter Doug lass about it. "Once you get over

there, it will all fall in place," Doug lass had said.

"And tomorrow night there will be a working dinner, and things should

be a lot clearer after that. If you'd like, you could take the day off

and go home. Just be back here by, say, half past five tomorrow

afternoon."

"I will have some sort of leave before I actually go to London, won't

l?"

"I don't think that will be possible right now," Doug lass said.

"But you'll be coming back and forth, I'm sure, and we'll work

something out then."

His wife was furious and heartsick when he announced he was leaving for

overseas practically immediately. But his private reaction-though he

was careful not to show it-was exultation, as if he had been pardoned

from prison.

As Canidy made himself-Stevens politely declined-a second drink, a

muscular young first lieutenant in Class-A uniform-pink trousers and

green blouse and glossy jump boots-arrived, soon after followed by a

somewhat better-looking young man also wearing pinks and greens, but

with no insignia except for parachutist's wings on the breast. "What's

he dressed for, Martin?" Canidy asked. "His commission came through,

Sir," Martin said. "Where's his insignia?"

"He hasn't been sworn in yet, Sir," Martin said.

"I thought it best to wait for that before pinning on his insignia."

"if I didn't know better, Martin," Canidy said, "I would mistake you

for a West Pointer." Martin, Colonel Stevens thought, isn't sure if he

has been complimented or insulted. And Major Canidy, come to think of

it, certainly wouldn't have made that crack if he suspected that this

middle-aged retread warrior marched in the Long Gray Line. "Do those

little silver wings mean what I think they do?" Canidy asked.

"That you have willingly been jumping out of airplanes?"

"Why don't you lay off me, Dick?" the handsome young man snapped.

"Eric, if you are going to be an officer and a gentleman, you will have

to lear in to treat your superior officers with much greater

respect."

The man glared at him but said nothing. "Is Captain Whittaker with

you?" Canidy asked. "Yes, Sir," Martin said. "He went to say hello

to Miss Chenowith."

"I don't think saying hello is exactly what he had in mind," Canidy

said.

"Oh, excuse me, Colonel. These gentlemen are Lieutenant Martin and

about-to-be-Lieutenant Fulmar. They jump out of airplanes." The

announcement was not entirely necessary. As part of his briefing,

Stevens had read both officers' dossiers. But now, he thought, he

could put faces with names." My name is Stevens," he said." I'm very

pleased to meet you. Captain Doug lass, Captain Whittaker, and Miss

Cynthia Chenowith came into the library together a few minutes later,

trailed almost immediately by Charity Hoc he pushing a butler's tray

loaded with hors d'oeuvres. They also serve, Canidy thought, who pass

the canap@s.

"I thought a small celebration was in order," Doug lass said, "to mark

this momentous occasion."

"What momentous occasion?" Canidy asked. "The swearing in of Eric

Fulmar as a commissioned officer," Doug lass said.

"I thought that I would ask Colonel Stevens, as the senior Army officer

present, to do the honors."

"I'd be honored," Colonel Stevens said.

And Fulmar put his hand on the Bible, took the oath, and stood silently

as Stevens and Doug lass pinned the gold bars of a second lieutenant to

the epaulets of Fulmar's tunic.

Then everyone solemnly shook Eric's hand and congratulated him, 230 M

during which time Canidy had a premonition that Fulmar was somehow once

again getting the shaft-even if he couldn't figure out how. Charity

Hoc he, meanwhile, gave Fulmar an unusually intimate kiss, and Canidy

supposed that if she was half as casual with her favors as Ann claimed

she was, the kiss was only a sample of what Eric would get in the way

of a present later tonight. That didn't surprise him. What did was

that when they went in to dinner, a place at the table had been set for

her. Doug lass began the business part of the dinner by offering a

flattering resume of Lieutenant Colonel Stevens's military and civilian

experience. He followed that with an announcement: On their arrival in

London Stevens would assume the duty of deputy chief of station. "On

whose arrival in London?" Canidy asked. "Yours," Doug lass said. He

inclined his head slightly toward Charity Hoc he. Now she really

surprised Canidy, "The aircraft arrived at Anacostia at 1530," she

said.

"The crew was sent over to ONI. They will be here in about an hour."

"What aircraft?" Canidy asked.

"I guess I'm not too bright, but I don't understand what she's talking

about."

"We have borrowed a C-46 from the Navy," Charity Hoc he went on,

completely in charge of the situation.

"They were about to put it in service as sort of a V.I.P transport,

flying Navy brass hats between the West Coast and Hawaii, but we had a

higher priority, of course. They're more than a little miffed, Dick.

It may be necessary for you to smooth their feathers a little. "Why

have we borrowed a C-46?" Canidy asked. "To take Admiral de Verbey

and his staff to En land," Captain Doug lass said, "in a manner fitting

a very senior French naval officer. And for other purposes, which you

and I will get into a little later. Canidy knew what the "other

purposes" were. It was obvious that the Navy C-46 was the backup

aircraft for the African flight. But he did not understand the

business of moving Admiral de Verbey to England. "Barring objections

from you, Dick," Charity went on, "you're scheduled to depart Anacostia

at 0845 hours tomorrow. The admiral and his staff will be waiting for

you at Lakehurst from 0915.

That should put you into Newark by 1030, with departure for England

sometime tomorrow afternoon. That means you will have to leave here no

later than 0800 tomorrow. It will take two cars to carry all of you

and your luggage. I'll drive the station wagon and Chief Ellis the

Buick. I checked just a few minutes THE SECRET WARRIORS M Z31 ago, and

there will be no problem with the weather, either here or in New

Jersey," "Got all that so far, Dick?" Captain Doug lass asked. "Any

questions so far?" When Canidy looked at him, Doug lass's eyes were

smiling. He was enjoying Charity Hoc he's briefing-and Canidy's

reaction to it. "No questions so far," Canidy said. "London has been

alerted to your arrival, and I'll reconfirm, of course," Charity went

on, "once we have your departure time from Newark. You'll be met at

Croydon and taken to the Dorchester, where you'll be put up for at

least two days before going on to Whitby House."

"Whitby House?" Canidy asked. "The Dorchester?" Stevens asked

simultaneously, obviously surprised. Canidy made a gesture, deferring

to Colonel Stevens. "Colonel Donovan thought you would like that,

Colonel," Captain Doug lass said. "What's the Dorchester?" Canidy

asked. "It's arguably the best hotel in London," Stevens said.

"What's behind this touching interest in our physical comfort?" Canidy

asked. "We want to make sure that Admiral de Verbey is comfortable,"

Dound that his arrival in England is not missed by certain glass said,

"a people."

"And what's Whitby House?" Canidy asked. "for us to set up a "It's

been considered necessary," Doug lass said, close working relationship

with what the British call the Special Operations Executive, SOE being

much like the OSS-except, as Colonel Donovan points out, they know what

they're doing. search and Development Station "They operate what they

call SOE Re IX on a requisitioned estate near London. it's sort of a

combination of Summer Place and the estate; it houses their

agent-training facilities and serves as a hotel or billet. It is our

intention to set up a similar facility as soon as possible. Another

estate-they call them country houses-has been made available to us.

It's called Whitby House. It is the ancestral home of the dukes of

Stan field."

"And you're going to move the admiral there?" Can idy asked. "You're

going to move him there, Dick," Doug lass said.

"He remains a3a a W.R.B. antivirin your responsibility. You will

report to Colonel Stevens. You know what is needed in the way of

security and communications, and Colonel Stevens will arrange for you

to get what you need, While you and Captain Whittaker are doing that,

Lieutenants Martin and Fulmar win go through the SOE agent school at

Station IX. SOE has also agreed to make available some of their staff

to help us set up and operate our own training cour seat least for the

time being."

"Charity,' Doug lass said after dinner was over, "do you think you

could amuse Captain Whittaker and Lieutenants Fulmar and Martin while

Cynthia and I go over some details with Colonel Stevens and Major

Canidy?" When they had gone, Doug lass said, "There are some things

the others don't have the need to know."

"No kidding?" Canidy asked in sarcastic innocence, Cynthia gave him a

dirty look. Doug lass shook his head in resignation, but Stevens

smiled.

Canidy saw it and smiled conspiratorially at him. =mg "Are we going to

let the admiral try to steal the Jean Bart?" Canidy asked.

"There has been no decision about that," Doug lass said, taking

Canidy's question at face value.

"What we're up to is a little political blackmail. General de Gaulle

is giving General Eisenhower fits, More than fits. Eisenhower believes

that de Gaulle can cause enormous mischief during Operation Torch. If

he gets away with that, Ike is certain he'll raise even more trouble

when we are ready to invade the European landmass. And if we decide to

make the landing in France ... Jesus! Eisenhower, therefore, wants

very badly to get de Gaulle off his back. He has recommended that we

withdraw our support from him entirely. The British rather strongly

object."

"May I ask why? What do they recommend? Do they side with de

Gaulle?"

Colonel Stevens asked.

"If that came up in the briefings, I'm afraid I missed it," "The

British completely agree that de Gaulle spells more trouble than he is

worth," Doug lass said evenly. "They suggested that it would be most

convenient if de Gaulle were to have a fatal accident." 40 "My, my!"

Canidy said.

"Would they do it?"

"Certainly," Doug lass said.

"But neither Eisenhower nor the President is willing to go that far.

At least not yet. Eisenhower has suggested and Roosevelt has

approved-another tack, If General de Gaulle learns THE SECRET WARRIORS

N a33 that we have 'secretly' brought the admiral to England, perhaps

he win find it in himself to be a bit more cooperative. He just might

realize that he is only the self-anointed head of the French government

in exile."

"Why bring in the admiral secretly?" Canidy asked. "If we officially

imported the admiral, that would be a confrontation," Doug lass

explained.

"Eisenhower doesn't want that confrontation if it can be avoided. If

we secretly import him, while taking pains to make sure de Gaulle

knows, that's something else. And, of course, the threat to replace de

Gaulle with Admiral de Verbey will not be entirely a bluff. If

Roosevelt decides that de Gaulle has to go, we'll have de Verbey in

place."

"So we continue to let the admiral believ(! we're going along with his

steal-the-battleship idea in order to make him behave in England?"

"It really is still under consideration," Doug lass said.

"It has gone from 'impossible' to 'possible, but probably not worth the

effort."

"What about the plane? Is that just to make sure de Gaulle doesn't

miss the admiral? Or is there anything else?"

"I'm impressed, Dick," Doug lass said.

"You're learning that simply asking questions often gives things

away.

In this case, your concern is not necessary. Colonel Stevens knows all

about the African flight. To answer your question, yes, the Navy plane

is the backup aircraft for the African mission. As soon as you land in

England, it will be taken to a guarded hangar and stripped of its

seats, the way the Pan American plane has been. We hope that de Gaulle

will believe the airplane has been reserved for the admiral's exclusive

use and put in a hangar to await his pleasure. De Gaulle's been after

Eisenhower to get him a personal C-47, and Eisenhower hasn't elected to

give him one. We think de Gaulle's monstrous ego will be bruised."

"You are a devious man, Captain Doug lass,' Canidy said, chuckling.

"Somehow, that sounds like a compliment," Doug lass said.

"I guess around here it really is."

"Right up there with chicanery, fraud, and false pretense," Canidy

said, "There's one thing," Doug lass said, "that I don't want you to

think of as simply another stage prop in this scenario."

"What's that?" "We have arranged for a battalion of infantry to guard

Whitby House," Doug lass said. "There are twelve hundred men in a

battalion!"

--I thought a battalion was a bit excessive," Doug lass said. "But

Eisenhower overruled me. He seems to feel that de Gaulle couldn't help

but be impressed with the admiral's importance if we chose to guard him

with that large a force."

"I could use maybe a company," Canidy thought aloud.

"The others could just be there and do what they normally do."

"Rather than make an issue of it, I decided just about the same thing,"

Doug lass, said.

"But I'd like to make the point that you're really going to have to

guard him, Dick." Canidy looked at him curiously.

"You're suggesting something," he said. "The admiral didn't pose a

real and present danger to de Gaulle so long as he was in New jersey,"

Doug lass said.

"He will at Whitby House. You'll have to keep that in mind. More

important, you will have to impress it upon the commanding officer of

the infantry battalion."

"This Brigadier de Gaulle seems to be a charming fellow," Canidy

said.

"I think he really believes God appointed him to save France," Doug

lass said.

"People who take their orders directly from God are often difficult and

dangerous."

"How much of this can I tell Whittaker, Martin, and Fulmar?" Canidy

asked. "When you think Whittaker should know, you are authorized to

tell him there is a bona fide threat to Admiral de Verbey's life."

"And the others?"

"I'll leave it up to you, but I can think of no reason they have to

know."

"Then why are you sending them along in the first place?" Doug lass

and Stevens exchanged glances. "Tomorrow morning Doug lass said,

"Chief Ellis will deliver to Colonel Stevens a small suitcase. It will

contain a little over one minion dollars in American, English, French,

and Swiss currency. Most of it will be used for other purposes by the

London station, but possibly two hundred fifty thousand dollars of

it-Murphy is still negotiating with Sidi el Ferruch-will be sent to

Morocco. Fulmar and Martin will take it in." Canidy looked at Doug

lass for a long moment considering that. The money didn't surprise

him. Fine was carrying a hundred thousand dollars in cash. Something

else bothered him.

7V "And you're not going to tell me, are you," he asked, "why You just

diplomatic pouch?" don't send it in the "Not in specifics," Doug lass

said.

"How about philosophically?" Canidy asked. it's often neces "Before

you ask someone to do something important, sary to ask him to do

something somewhat less important , to see how he handles it." can be

trusted,' Canidy said, and then he un" You mean to see if he u're

talking derstood.

"You're not talking about Fulmar," he said.

"Yo about von Heurten-Mitnitz. You're going to put Fulmar on his plate

like bone in front of a dog, and see if he can resist it."

"That's your scenario," Doug lass said. "Oh, Christ!" Canidy said.

But that was all he said. Donovan was right, Stevens decided. Canidy

is, where it counts, a very good man.

THREE I The House on a Street, NW Washington, D.C. 1130 Hours August 5,

19411 ang the bell. Takcharity Hoc he came to the door when the

security man ring one look at Ann, she announced, "You're not supposed

to be here, Ann, and you know it."

"She's got a press card, and she said she had an appointment with Miss

Chenowith,' the security man said. "Do you?"

Charity challenged.

"Yes," Ann said.

"Ask Cynthia." a moment, I'll Charity knew Ann was lying, but she

still said, "Just check," and closed the door. Cynthia Chenowith

opened it two minutes later." I'll handle this," she said to the

guard." Come in, Ann.

She led her no farther into the house than the vestibule. "Now, what's

all this?" Cynthia said.

"I thought it was understood I was sort of an honorary Dilettante," Ann

said. "What was understood was that you would write nothing and ask no

questions. You should know better than to come here, "N%ere's Dick?"

Ann said. "You thought he was here?" Cynthia asked.

"What gave you that idea? " Ann didn't reply. To do so would have

been an admission that Dick had called her from Deal and told her that

he had been ordered to come to Washington with enough clothes for two

weeks.

He'd said he couldn't promise he would be in Washington, but if she

could get away and wanted to take the chance ... Cynthia took the

meaning of the silence. "He's not here, Ann," she said.

"And he won't be."

"Where is he?" Ann asked. "I really don't know," Cynthia said. "You

mean you won't tell me," Ann said. "I mean he's not here," Cynthia

repeated, and then she took just a little pity on Ann.

"And he won't be here, Ann, for some time."

"You mean he went overseas," Ann ch ge The reporter in her saw she had

hit home. "I said nothing of the kind," Cynthia said. "Well, thanks

for nothing," Ann said, and turned around and started to leave. "Wait

a minute," Cynthia said.

"I'll have Charity take you back downtown."

"Don't bother," Ann said. "Don't be any more of a fool than you

already are," Cynthia said, then called Charity. Despite her best

efforts-including what she hoped were credible sobs-Ann got nothing out

of Charity in the station wagon on the way downtown. But then she

thought that Dick's whereabouts weren't completely the mystery they at

first seemed to be. He was almost certainly overseas. And he was

involved in Europe and Africa, not the Far East. That French admiral

was somehow connected, and so was that Fulmar character. The American

headquarters for Europe was in London. It was going to be difficult

finding him in London, but there was absolutely no way she was going to

find him if she was in Memphis, Tennessee. Charity," she commanded,"

drop me at Woodward and Lathrop's. The landmark Washington department

store was several blocks from the Washington bureau of the Chambers

Publishing Company. Two could play at the Big Secret, she thought.

She did not want Charity to report to that damned Cynthia Chenowith

that she had gone directly from the Secret Mansion to a news bureau.

"I'm really sorry," Charity said when she dropped her off. "I know,"

Ann said.

There was a good omen at Chambers Publishing. When she went into the

newsroom and called her father's office on the tie-line to Atlanta, his

secretary told her he was in Washington. He was right there in the

office-and torn between pleasure and annce when he saw her.

noya "You're a little off your beat, aren't you, honey?" he asked.

"Well, since you got me the job, Daddy," Ann said, "I thought it only

fair that I hand my resignation to you."

"May I ask why?"

"Since you won't send me overseas, I'm going to get a job that will."

"We've been over this before," he said. "I remember."

"This has something to do with Dick Canidy?"

"Yes, it does."

"He went overseas and you want to follow him, is that it?"

"I didn't say that," she said. "You didn't have to," he said, "But the

point is, I simply cannot send you overseas. The War Department

allocates the spaces. Every war correspondent has to be housed and

fed.

I've got good men I'd love to have over there, and I cannot justify

sending you in place of one of them."

"I thought that's what you would say," she said.

"Which is Why I'm resigning."

"And you think you can get someone else to send you?" he asked. His

clear implication was that she was dreaming. "I'll send you a postcard

from London," she said.

"Who's going to send you to Europe?"

"Lots of people," Ann said. "Hey, for every guy you might charm into

giving you a job," he said, "I know two senior editors who will be

happy to do me a favor by not giving you a job. Don't get too big for

your britches, missy."

"How about Gar diner Cowles?" she said immediately.

"You think he'd do you that kind of favor?" She saw from his look that

the lie could not possibly have been a better choice. The Cowles

Publishing Company published, among others, a Life-like photo magazine

called Look. Since her father and Gar diner Cowles had been warring

for years, he apparently immediately concluded that Gar diner Cowles

had offered her a job just to make him angry. Now that I think about

it, the sonofabitch is perfectly capable of doing just that! "Just for

the sake of argument, what would Gar diner Cowles have you doing?"

Brandon Chambers asked, making a valiant effort to sound only mildly

curious.

"Women's-interest things, the WACS, the WAVES, and whatever it is

they're going to call the lady Marines," Ann said. "And you would

really work for Gar diner Cowles?" he asked. "I would work for the

Daily Worker if they agreed to send me to Europe," Ann said. "You

don't mean that," he said. "I'll try to get home before I go," Ann

said. They locked eyes for a moment, and then Brandon Chambers said,

"Greg Lohmer, who runs our radio stations, is sending a news announcer,

a man named Meachurn Hope, over to London from WI(KL in New Orleans.

He'll make a nightly broadcast via shortwave which all the stations

will carry. Greg Lohmer says the fellow has a splendid voice but some

difficulty with basic journalism. He'll need somebody to write his

scripts. If I could somehow arrange to send you over there to write

his scripts-call you a technician or something, maybe administrative

assistant-would you be interested?"

"Gar diner Cowles," Ann said, "is arranging for my correspondent's

accreditation right now. How can he do that if you can't?"

"Why don't I call him and ask?" he said. "Why don't you?" Ann

said.

"It would have to be clearly understood between us, Ann," her father

said, in conditional surrender, "that you would be going over there to

write Meachurn Hope's scripts."

"Until other arrangements can be made," Ann said.

"Thank you, Daddy."

"I don't know how I'm going to explain this to your mother," he said.

"You're a very clever man, Daddy. You'll think of something."

AK ONE I Croydon Airfield London, England August 7, 1942

It was raining softly but steadily when the Curtiss Commando with Naval

Air Transport Command lettered along its fuselage landed. When they

stopped on a taxiway and just sat there, Canidy went forward to the

cockpit to see what was going on. Making it plain he resented being

questioned, the pilot told Canidy he had been ordered by the tower,

without explanation, to hold where he was. This wasn't the first

trouble the pilot had given them. He was a regular navy full commander

who Canidy suspected had put in a lot of time flying long, slow

Catalina patrols before the war had promoted him to pilot in command of

transoceanic NATC aircraft. The pep talk ONI had given the man in

Washington hadn't taken very well, Even before they left Washington he

had made it plain that so far as he was concerned, this flight to carry

some foreign admiral, his tiny staff, and a handful of relatively

junior American officers to London was a typical Washington boondoggle

diverting an important aviator like himself and his important aircraft

from making an important contribution to the important war being fought

in the Pacific. Between Gander, Newfoundland, and Prest wick,

Scotland, their European landfall, Canidy had gone forward to offer to

relieve one of the pilots at the controls. "Do you have any time in

the C-46, Major?" the pilot had asked. "About twenty hours," Canidy

said.

"I'm rated in it."

"Not with twenty hours you're not, not by Navy standards," the

commander had told him abruptly.

Between Prest wick, where they had refueled, and London, Colonel

Stevens had politely asked the commander to come into the cabin. He

told him then that in London the aircraft would be taken to a hangar,

where the seats would be removed and auxiliary fuel tanks installed.

During this time quarters for him and his crew would be provided at

Croydon, where they were to hold themselves in readiness for departure

on twelve hours' notice.

"I'm afraid I would require authority from a competent naval authority

before I could permit any modifications to the aircraft," the commander

said.

Stevens handed the commander a Top Secret order on the stationery of

the Joint Chiefs of Staff. It directed the movement of the aircraft

"to such places as Lieutenant Colonel Edmund T. Stevens might deem

necessary in the execution of his mission," and directed " all United

States military bases and facilities to render any and all support as

Lieutenant Colonel Stevens might request."

"I'm not entirely sure I understand this," the commander said. "Let me

make it simple for you," Stevens snapped icily.

"So far as you're concerned, Commander, until I relieve you, I'm the

Chief of Naval Operations. "Aye, aye, Sir," the commander said.

Canidy was amused and pleased at Colonel Stevens's reaction to the

commander's density. And he was also sure that as soon as the

commander had the chance, he would get in contact with the

highest-ranking Naval officer he could find. With a little bit of

luck, he might even get to an admiral to relate his tale of woe.

Eventually he would be told that so far as he was concerned, Stevens

was in truth speaking with the authority of the Chief of Naval

Operations, and his ass would be thoroughly chewed for talking about a

mission he had been specifically ordered not to talk about. On the

other hand, if the C-46 was needed to fly to Africa, the commander

probably was just the guy they needed, someone with a lot of experience

in flying great distances where there would be no navigational aids

worth speaking about. He had probably, Canidy thought, been selected

for just that reason. Doug lass had requested from the Navy-which

really meant Eddie Bitter's Vice Admiral Hawley-the best C-46 they had

and the best crew to fly it. Hawley had provided a nearly new C-46 and

the commander. But after a minute, when he thought about it, having

the commander get his ass chewed-however delightful a prospect that

was-was not worth the risk of the bastard compromising the mission by

running off at the mouth. He decided he would have to mention this to

Colonel Stevens. "Our minds run in similar paths," Stevens said with a

smile. "I was just thinking that I should talk with the commander and

give him the 'loose lips sink ships' speech suitably revised for the

circumstances." When theydanded at Croydon, they sat on the taxiway

for fifteen minutes before the tower directed them to a hangar some

distance from the terminal building. There a small caravan of vehicles

was waiting for them: an English limousine with its fenders outlined in

white reflective paint; an Army three-quarter-ton truck; and four

American Ford staff cars.

The moment the plane door opened, Canidy realized he was back in the

war. There was a familiar, pervasive odor of burning and open

sewage.

The smell of burning he remembered from Burma and China. It was the

aftermath of bombing. The sewers had already been open in Burma and

China. Here the smell came from sewers ruptured by bombs.

Two colonels wearing the SHAEF (Supreme Headquarters Allied

Expeditionary Force) patch spoke briefly with Colonel Stevens, who then

came back on the airplane and said that he was going to take Admiral de

Verbey with them, and Canidy should come along to the Dorchester with

the others when the plane had been unloaded. The limousine, preceded

and trailed by two of the Ford staff cars, each occupied by three men

wearing U.S. Army uniforms with civilian technician insignia,' drove

off into the rain.

When the truck had been loaded, the remaining Fords drove them into

London. Almost immediately they saw signs of the bombing. There were

fire-scarred holes, like missing teeth, where German bombs had landed

on row houses. They passed a bomb crater from which the rear of "An

embroidered blue triangle with the letters "US,' worn sewn to the

lapels.

a bus still protruded, and when they got to the Dorchester Hotel, the

entrance was piled high with sandbags, Canidy saw there remnants of

what must have been prewar splendor-there was an elaborately uniformed

doorman in a top bat, and small uniformed boys who came out to unload

the truck-but the hotel was war-tarnished, and the lobby was crowded

with headquarters types. One of the civilian technicians from Croydon

was waiting for them inside, and led them to an elevator. There was

another civilian technician sitting at a small desk in the corridor of

the sixth floor, barring access to the wing where Colonel Stevens,

alone, was waiting for them. The civilian technician who had met them

in the lobby was introduced as Mr. Zigler of the Counterintelligence

Corps. Zigler told him that he would be responsible for Admiral de

Verbey until Canidy felt that the security of Whitby House was such

that he could take over. Zigler explained that after a survey of the

estate, he'd made certain recommendations for its security. The first

elements of the infantry battalion had begun arriving that morning "If

you feel up to it, Dick," Stevens said, "I thought you might go out

there first thing in the morning You could drop Martin and Fulmar off

at Station IX on your way. There will be a car for you here at eight

o'clock. 7) "Fine," Canidy agreed, although he would have preferred to

sleep for twenty-four hours, Stevens, Canidy, and Whittaker had a

room-service dinner with Admiral de Verbey in the three-room suite

provided for him. The service was shabbily elegant, Canidy thought,

and the portions very small. He had ordered roast beef, envisioning a

juicy slice of rib. He got a two-inch-square, tough chunk of overdone

meat. During the dinner, Colonel Stevens told the admiral politely but

firmly it would be best if he didn't leave his suite or contact anyone

while he was in London. The admiral seemed resigned to whatever

indignities the OSS had planned for him. Canidy felt a little sorry

for him. Breakfast in the hotel dining room was much like dinner.

The coffee-and they were allowed only one cup-was watery, the jam for

the single piece of cold toast was artificial, and the scrambled eggs

were powdered But precisely at eight o'clock a bellboy wearing a round

hat cocked over his eye like Johnny in the Phillip Morris

advertisements came into the dining room paging Canidy by holding up a

slate on a pole with "Major Canidy" written on it. "Your car and

driver are here, Sir," he announced when Canidy waved him over. The

car was a Plymouth sedan driven by a GI. Even with some of their

luggage on the front seat, the trunk would not close over the rest of

it, and it had to be tied closed with twine. They made it that way,

however, to Station IX. Canidy found the British Special Operations

Executive training school officers to be an insufferably smug

collection of bastards who made no effort to conceal their

"superiority" over their American cousins. The lieutenant colonel in

charge told Canidy and Whittaker in great detail what was planned for

"your young chaps." What was planned that didn't sound childish

sounded sadistic, and Canidy toyed for a few minutes with the notion of

somehow rescuing Fulmar and Martin from the Englishman before he

realized that was out of the question. And so was telling the

Englishman that Fulmar had lived among the Berber tribesmen of

Morocco-some of the most vicious fighters in the world-long enough to

be accepted as one of them. He was also tempted to tell the English

officer-a parachutist who made it plain that parachuting was an

exclusively English specialty@a story that Fulmar had told him: At the

OSS school in Virginia, Martin had given his own high-altitude jump

trainees a long moment's horror by "falling out" of his harness and,

with a bloodcurdling scream, dropping out of sight, It turned out that

he did not become hamburger. He had hidden a second reserve chute

under his field jacket, and was waiting, smiling broadly, immensely

pleased with himself, when they themselves had landed. Martin had made

sixty-odd jumps, which Canidy suspected was far more than any of the

Englishmen who were going to teach him how it should be done had

made.

The temptation to tell the colonel that story was great, but he

resisted it, and he went even further in the interest of hands across

the sea: he told both Fulmar and Martin, as sternly as he could, that

they were to keep their eyes open and their mouths shut and absolutely

no fucking around with their English hosts.

When he and Whittaker went outside to get in the Plymouth to be taken

to Whitby House, the Plymouth was gone, the driver having apparently

decided on his own that he had done his duty for that day. The British

found this frightfully amusing, of course, but ultimately produced an

automobile for them. It was a worn-out Anglia, an English automobile

that obviously had not been designed to accommodate two large American

males, their luggage, and a driver at the same time. But it was better

than walking, Canidy told himself as the Anglia roared along-it

sounded, Whittaker solemnly pronounced, "like an overworked lawn

mower"-at what must have been all of thirty miles an hour, bouncing and

lurching in the rain down what seemed like an endless country road.

There was an American GI in a steel helmet and a raincoat guarding

access to Whitby House with a rifle hung muzzle down over his shoulder,

but their pleasure at seeing him-"Thank God, a GI! Where there are GIS

there is a mess hall," Whittaker had cried.

"Dying for my country is one thing; starving painfully to death on

English food is something else! was quickly replaced by annoyance.

The guard had been ordered to pass no one, and so far as he was

concerned, that included two Army Air Corps officers. It was ten

minutes before the officer of the guard responded to the sentry's

summons, and another five minutes before he received permission from

the "colonel" to pass the Anglia through the gate.

Whitby House was enormous and, like everything else he'd seen so far in

England, it looked run-down. But even run-down, Canidy reflected, it

looked comfortable-sort of like the mock "Olde English" buildings he'd

known in prep school as a boy. Except none of the those buildings had

genuine suits of armor lining their corridors, as this one did, hung up

on the walls, as if they'd been put up to dry. The officer from the

London station, a nice-looking young lieutenant named Jamison, waited

for them with a bulletin from Colonel Stevens. An English officer who

was going to make himself helpful to the new tenants of Whitby House

would shortly show up, and the duchess of Stan field herself was going

to make an appearance. "Colonel Stevens said to tell you he has

absolute faith in your ability to handle the duchess," Lieutenant

Jamison said.

"Captain Whittaker, Lieutenant," Canidy said, "is herewith appointed

officer in charge of dealing with duchesses."

"And Colonel Innes is waiting to see you, Major," Jamison said. "And I

think I should warn you, Major, he' more than a little pissed." s

"Why?"

"I told him he couldn't move his officers into the house, Major,' the

man from the London station said.

"And he said he would have to hear that from you."

"Why can't he move his officers in?" Canidy asked.

"Christ, from what I've seen of this place, he could move his whole

battalion in here."

"The final decision's yours, Major, but this is what they recommend."

"They being-Mr. Zigler of the CIC?" Canidy asked. "Yes, Sir,"

Jamison said.

"He left a map for you." The map showed that the house was to be

surrounded by a double barbed-wire fence. The guard battalion was to

be placed between the inner and the outer barrier. There was a note on

the map: "For self-evident reasons of security, it is not anticipated

that the guard force will have any reason to enter the interior

perimeter."

"Did you show Colonel Innes this?" Canidy asked. "It's classified

Secret, Sir," the lieutenant said.

"I didn't think I should."

"Where is he?"

"There's a-I don't know what to call it, Sir-a great big room, down the

corridor."

"Let's go deal with him. They told you, I suppose, that you would be

here a while?"

"For as long as you need me, Sir," Lieutenant Jamison said. Canidy

offered his hand. "You and I may grow old in this place, Lieutenant

Jamison," Canicly said.

"With that in mind, you better stop calling me "Sir' so often. It's

liable to go to my head. This, on the other hand, is Captain

Whittaker.

He would prefer if you bowed to him a lot."

"Jim Whittaker, Jamison," Whittaker said, offering his hand. They

followed Jamison down a corridor, then through tall double doors into

what looked, Canidy thought, like a furnished roller-skating rink-a

huge, high-ceilinged room with parquet floors and what looked like

battle flags from the Wars of the Roses hanging from the walls. A

plump, bald infantry lieutenant colonel, wearing an open-collared

shirt, stood up when he saw Canidy.

That is not in respect, Canidy thought dryly, it is so he will look

military when he returns my salute. "Good afternoon, Colonel," he

said.

"My name is Canidy, I'm in charge here. May I see some identification,

please?" It was not what the colonel expected. He produced an AGO

card, and as Canidy was examining it he took from his shirt pocket a

piece of paper and unfolded it. When Canidy handed him the AGO card

back, the colonel gave him the sheet of paper. "Those are my orders,"

he said.

"Why didn't you give them to Lieutenant Jamison?" Canidy asked. "I

was told to present myself to the commanding officer," the colonel

said.

"For the future, Colonel, Lieutenant Jamison is my adjutant," Canidy

said. "Captain Whittaker is my executive officer."

"I understand," the colonel said. "Jamison, give Colonel Innes the

map," Canidy said. "Yes, Sir," Jamison said crisply. "I authorize you

herewith, Colonel," Canidy said, it to make the contents of this map

known to such officers, in the grade of captain or above, as you deem

necessary. I would like your thoughts about the fences, together with

an estimate of materials and construction time, by, say, zero eight

hundred hours tomorrow. Can you do that?"

"Yes, Sir," the colonel said. That's what I was waiting for. Now I

don't think you'll give me any trouble.

"When things get under control, Colonel," Canidy said, "perhaps you

would join me for dinner. But right now there's a good bit to do, and

precious little time to do it in, so I'll have to ask you to excuse

me."

"I understand, Sir," Colonel Innes said. Canidy marched purposefully

down the long hall and passed through a door, with Jamison on his

heels.

"Where are you going?" Jamison asked when he stopped. "Damned if I

know," Canidy confessed.

"I just thought a purposeful march seemed called for."

TWO I Headquarters Free French Forces London, England 130S Hours August

12, 1942 The deputy chief of the Deuxi&me Bureau of Free French Forces

was responsible for the most delicate intelligence function: gathering

information from allies. Because the consequences of discovery while

conducting such operations were not pleasant to consider, these

consequences had to be constantly kept in mind. Spying on one's

friends, especially when one is drawing one's entire financial and

logistical support from them, has a considerably different flavor from

spying on the Boches. One can accept the loss of compromised agents to

a German firing squad. It is quite another thing-quite impossible-to

accept the penalties that would likely result from the compromise of a

mission against one's allies. As he made his way to le General's

office, the deputy chief of the Deuxi&me Bureau of Free French Forces

went over these considerations in his mind. Under the circumstances,

it would be appropriate to remind le General of the opqational limits

his agents were forced to work under: In a "friendly" country they must

not get caught. That imperative dominated any seeking of

intelligence.

The deputy chief could tell from the look of le General's personal

adjutant that le Gjn&al was already annoyed. He marched into le

Gjn&al's office and saluted. "Mon Giniral-" he began. "Let's have the

information I requested," le Giniral snapped. The deputy chief of the

Deuxi@me Bureau handed le Giniral the report. Le Gjn&al went into his

desk drawer, took his spectacles from it, and put them on. Normally,

because le Gjn&al believed that eyeglasses detracted from correct

military appearance, he wore them only in private. Normally, the

deputy chief of the Deuxi@me Bureau would have been dismissed and made

to wait outside while le Giniral read the report in private.

Le GMIRAL, his round eyeglasses perched uneasily on his prominent nose,

began to read:

5 hours 7 Augu@

OY the Naval Air Transport Command landed r the usual terminus of

flights originating in Uriltoo to craft sto Ded some than taxiing the

terminal the air PI from the terminal buildings. Two senior officers,

the London of station of the American OSS and Oscar Zigler of SHAEF co

un A chief terintelligence@ met the aircrafti TWO passengers debarked,

a naval officer and an American lieutenant colonel, presumably Edmund

T.

Stevens. the new number two man for the OSS in London. They entered

an Austin Princess limousine assigned to the OSS and were driven to the

Dorchester Hotel, accompanied by two umnarked American CIC cars.

The driver of a U.S. Army three-quarter-ton truck Plus a man in the

uniform of a French Navy seaman, began unloading luggage and several

wooden crates from the Navy aircraft Four American officers then

debarked from the aircraft, entered two more Ford CIO oars, and tel

were driven, with the truck following, to the Dorchester Ho Almost

immediately, the aircraft was moved to a guarded hangar. It has been

impossible to penetrate the rooms the OSS maintains in the Dorchester

Hotel, because that entire wing of the eighth floor is being guarded by

both the British (who have a man riding the elevators and another

stationed in the fire escape stairs) and by the American Army's CIC@ It

had been learned, however, that the largest of the three OSS suites had

been reserved for an unidentified senior personage.

Air 5 The next morning it was determined that the American is a man

named Canidy, who was in charge of the safe Vice-Admiral de Verbey was

interned in the United "Merde!" said the commander in chief of Free

French Forces and head of the French State. ""Confirm the identity'?

Who else do you think it could possibly be?" from our:

Jive in THE SECRET WARRIORS 0 asl the safe house in Deal, New Jersey,

it is probable that the other three officers are Captain James M. B.

Whittaker, an intimate of President Roosevelt; Lieutenant C. Holds

worth Martin III, formerly a French resident and a 1939 graduate of the

Rcole Poly technique in Paris; and Eric Fulmar, a German-American last

known to be in Morocco. (There is a rather extensive dossier on

Fulmar. In Morocco, he was intimately associated with Sidi Has san el

Ferruch, the pasha of Ksar es Souk. Although there is no intelligence

previously connecting him with Vice-Admiral de Verbey, it seems logical

to conclude that he is a longtime American agent.)

The dossier of C. Holds worth Martin, Jr." reveals that he is married

to a French national and was general manager of Lefreque, &A." the

engineering firm, before the war. He and his wife have a long-standing

personal relationship with Vice-Admiral de Verbb@ Now residing in New

York City, he is known to be associated with Colonel William Donovan of

the CS&

At 0810 8 August 1942, Canidy, Whittaker, Martin, and Fulmar left the

Dorchester Hotel in an OSS automobile and were driven to the British

SOE Station IX. At 1420, Canidy and Whittaker, in a vehicle assigned

to SOE, were driven to Whitby House, Kent, which is the seat of the

duchy of Stan field, where they remained until 1915 hours 11 August

1942, when they returned to the Dorchester Hotel.

The estate has been turned into an OSS installation. A double

barbed-wire fence has been erected by American troops, a battalion of

which (Infantry, Lieutenant Colonel Innes) has been encamped on the

estate since 3 August.

At 0615 hours 12 August, the naval personage and his immediate staff

departed the Dorchester Hotel in the Austin Princess limousine of the

OSS and were driven to Whitby House. An attempt is presently under way

to penetrate Whitby House, or in some other manner confirm the identity

of the naval personage.

"The possibility exists, mon G,@n&al, that they wish us to believe that

it is Admiral de Verbey. That, perhaps, the man is a double."

"Of course it's de Verbey, you idiot!" le Gimiral fumed. "In that

case, it would seem, mon GM&al," the deputy chief of the cc Deuxi&me

Bureau said, that Bedell Smith has lied to you." De Gaulle fixed him

with an icy glare. "Find out for me," he said finally, "why that Navy

airplane is being held in reserve. Find out where it's going."

THREE I Newark Airport 1130 Hours August 13,1942

Three of the four men in the 1941 Ford wooden-bodied station wagon were

wearing the uniforms of Pan American World Airways' air crews. The two

middle-aged Air Transport Command captains had in fact been Pan

American Airways pilots before volunteering for the Air Corps. They

had taken Pan American uniforms-including one for Stanley S. Fine out

of mothballs for the African flight. The C-46 now had painted on the

fuselage the insignia of CAT, the Chinese Airline, and Chinese

registration numbers.

Pan American's experienced pilots were routinely hired by aircraft

manufacturers to deliver aircraft to foreign airlines. All departing

transatlantic flights, military and civilian, were controlled by the

Air Corps. The great majority of these flights left from Newark. The

C-46 had consequently been flown from Lakehurst to Newark three days

before; the more routine their flight appeared, the better. From all

outward appearances, theirs was just one more routine ferry flight. As

the station wagon approached the airfield, with the skyscrapers of New

York City visible beyond the ironwork of the Pulaski Skyway, a B17E

passed over them, flaps and wheels lowered, and touched down. "Pretty,

isn't it?" Fine said dryly.

"Four engines, too."

"Oh ye of little faith!" Homer Wilson, the older of the two ex-PAA

pilots, chuckled.

Once they had shown their papers to the guard and been passed inside

the fence, they drove past long rows of B-17Es sitting on parking

ramps.

Sometimes as many as a hundred B-17s left Newark every day for

ngland.

The details of these ferry flights had been explained during one E of

their briefings-an operation Fine thought remarkably casual. They

simply formed up flights of twenty or twenty-five aircraft. Two of the

planes in each flight had pilots and navigators familiar with the route

qualified people who did nothing but fly back and forth across the

Atlantic. The rest of the flight just followed the leaders. The trip

was in two legs, first to Gander Field, in Newfoundland, and then

across the Atlantic to Prest wick Field, Scotland. They drove to a

Quonset hut with a "Transient Flight Crews Report Here" sign nailed

above its door.

The hut was jammed with Air Corps fliers, officers and enlisted men,

almost all of them carrying Val-Pa ks and duffel bags, Some of them,

Fine thought, were behaving like a high-school football team en route

to a game. A few others, the brighter ones-or perhaps those who

weren't so new to this sot of thing-sat quietly and thoughtfully, as if

they knew what they were getting into and were considering their

chances of living through it. There were a harassed-looking captain

and several sergeants behind a small counter The officer spotted the

civilians. "You're the CAT guys?" he asked. "Right," Fine said. The

captain flipped through sheets of paper on a clipboard and pulled one

loose and handed it to Fine. "They took it out of the hangar," he

said.

"It's on the parking ramp, way down at the end. You got wheels?" Fine

nodded." When you've checked it over, come back here," the captain

said, and we'll see about getting you off."

The C-46, surprisingly, looked larger than the B-17E parked next to

it.

It was in fact a larger airplane, even though it had only two engines

to the B-17E's four.

As they were walking around it, starting the preflight check, a B-17E

on its landing approach came over them at fifty feet, the noise of its

throttled-back engines deafening.

They found a work stand, manhandled it into place, and removed the

inspection plates on the port engine while the B- 17E taxied up the

ramp, turned, and parked beside them.

"I am lo sing my mind," Homer Wilson said.

"If the kid in the left seat of that thing is a day older than sixteen,

I'm Eddie Rickenbacker. Fine looked up but couldn't see anything. By

the time they finished inspecting the engine and were pushing the

platform around the nose to the other engine, the B-17E crew had shut

the airplane down, done the paperwork, and climbed out. They were

standing by the nose, waiting for a ride down the parking ramp.

"You're right," Fine said incredulously, "that's a boy. They're both

boys! " "No, I'm not," one of the B-17E pilots said to him, shaking

her head.

Her hair, which she had had pinned up, came loose and fell across her

shoulders. "We're WASPS."

"I'm afraid to ask what that is," Homer Wilson said. "Women Auxiliary

Service Pilots," she said.

"We ferry these from the factory." She nodded at the C-46.

"I thought they were flying these over from the West Coast."

"Not this one," Wilson said.

"If somebody with fifteen hundred hours-plus of multi engine time

wanted a job with CAT," she said, "who could she ask?"

"There's an office in Rockefeller Center," Wilson said.

"But I don't think you'd want to go to China."

"Yeah, I would ," she said.

"Three trips a week here from Seattle get a little dull."

They gave the WASP crew, two pilots and a flight engineer, an women, a

ride back up the ramp. Both the Pan American pilots seemed stunned,

Fine saw.

They were sent to base operations for a pilots' briefing. A major, an

older pilot, told them, using a map and a pointer, that a flight of

twenty three B-17Es would soon begin taking off. They would form up at

cruise altitude, nine thousand feet, over Morris town, New Jersey.

Then, in four and five-plane Vs, they would fly north over Connecticut,

Massachusetts, and Maine, toward Newfoundland.

"If you can get off the ground now-within the next thirty minutes or

so" he said, "the flight will catch up with you somewhere over Maine.

A.4 j By the time the tail of the flight has gone past you, you should

be pretty close to Gander. In other words, you'll have some company on

the scary part of the first leg."

"Let's go wind it up," Homer Wilson said, and they went directly back

to the plane, loaded their luggage aboard, and climbed up the ladder

into the cabin. There were several fire extinguishers on wheels

scattered along the parking ramp, and Fine drafted the security agent

to help him wheel one into place. Once he had his engines running,

Homer Wilson paid no attention to Fine at all. Fine heard the

hydraulic hiss as the brakes were released; then the C-46 moved onto

the taxiway and headed for the far end of the field.

FOUR Whitby House Kent, England August 14, 1942 Lieutenant Jamison went

looking for Dick Canidy late in the afternoon, carrying with him a

six-inch-thick stack of printed forms. He found him in Colonel Innes's

command post, formerly the gamekeeper's cottage, listening with

something less than enraptured fascination to the colonel's most recent

inspiration about what he called "perimeter security." Jamison had

learned that Colonel Innes had fresh ideas on the subject at least

twice a day. Jamison decided that Canidy would probably like to be

rescued.

"Sorry to interrupt, Sir," he said, crisply military.

"But there are some matters that require the major's immediate

attention."

"I'm afraid I'll have to get back with you later, Colonel," Canidy

said.

"I understand, of course," Colonel Innes said. As they walked back to

the house, Canidy asked, "What's up?" Jamison hoisted the stack of

requisitions. "Well, I appreciate being rescued, Jamey," Canidy

said.

"If I had spent another five minutes in there, I would have fallen

asleep and really hurt his feelings."

"He does try hard, doesn't he?" Jamison said. "Still-as a

manifestation of my boundless faith in your ability, and also because I

don't know what I'm signing anyway-you should know that I want you to

go right ahead and forge my name to requisitions whenever you think you

have to."

"That sort of puts me on a spot," Jamison said after Canidy had flipped

through the stack of requisitions. "How?"

"One of those requisitions you are about to sign is for a car," Jamison

said.

"A real car, not a jeep. I am prepared to defend it, but I'd rather

you knew about it. You won't if you haven't even seen it. Canidy

looked at him curiously. "A car?" he asked.

"You mean an American car?"

"Three jeeps and a couple of three-quarter-ton trucks are supposed to

arrive tomorrow with the service troops," Jamison said.

"I thought a car would be nice to have. You just signed what I

consider to be a splendid justification for a sedan," "Okay," Canidy

said, smiling.

"If you think you can 'persuade' them to give us one, fine."

"They just got half a dozen Fords," Jamison said, and added, "I have a

spy planted in the enemy headquarters. I can't promise, but there's a

chance I can steal one from the motor pool, and we can worry about

returning it later."

"Lieutenant," Canidy said, "are you actually standing there and

proposing theft of an automobile from the OSS motor pool? You don't

really think you could get away with that, do you?

Christ, it's the OSS. They probably chain each vehicle to the

pavement.

And have you considered the trouble I would be in if you got caught?"

"I guess," Jamison said uncomfortably, "it's not such a hot idea,"

"Now," Canidy went on, "Captain Whittaker could probably get away with

it. And he could probably figure out how we could keep it after we

stole it. Where is he?" Jamison smiled.

"Playing billiards," he said. "How do you plan to get to London?"

"With the message-center car," Jamison said. "I am going to hold you

responsible if Captain Whittaker returns from London with a social

disease," Canidy said.

"With that caveat, you have my permission to have at it. But you

should keep in mind that I will follow sacred OSS tradition in this.

If you get caught, I never saw you before in my life." He handed the

requisitions back to Jamison, and they went looking for Whittaker.

Canidy had dinner with Admiral de Verbey, and they played chess for an

hour afterward; then Canidy went to his room. The ducal chambers,

which Canidy had claimed for himself, were large, beautifully

furnished, and had an alcove with a desk and telephone he used as an

office. Both for reasons of protocol and because he liked the old man,

Canidy had originally planned to put the admiral in the ducal chambers,

but Lieutenant Jamison talked him out of it. The apartment had so many

entrances that guarding the admiral there would be more difficult than

it would be in a smaller apartment with only one door. Whittaker was

in the connecting apartment, where the duchess of Stan field had

slept.

Despite the warning Canidy had received from Colonel Stevens, Her Grace

had not appeared at Whitby House, and neither had the British Army

officer who was supposed to "liaise" with him. Canidy wasn't sure

exactly what that meant; and so far as he was concerned, he hoped

neither ever showed up. n Chambers a letter-exactly the same letter he

had writhe wrote An ten her every day since his first night in Whitby

House: "Having a smashing time, wish you were here. Love, Dick." The

letters, all bearing the return address "Box 142, Washington, D.C.,"

were sent to London, where they were put in a pouch and flown to the

States. They would be stamped with a Washington postmark and mailed.

Presumably, eventually there would be letters from Ann. He was smugly

pleased with the idea of sending her what amounted to a daily postcard

the censors and letter readers could find no fault with. Ann's

incoming mail was not supposed to be intercepted, of course-actually,

he was not entirely sure about that-and she would, he told himself,

understand why he was not writing more than he was. He was sure she'd

get the message that he was indeed thinking about her at least daily.

The truth of the matter was that he was thinking of her all the time,

like a lovesick high-school kid. And the simple act of sitting down

and writing those very few words to Ann had become enormously important

to him.

Having finished this day's letter to Ann, he decided to take a drink

from one of the bottles of Chesly Whittaker's twenty-four-year-old

Scotch he had "borrowed" from the library in the house on Q Street just

before they'd come to England. He was sitting in a brocade-upholstered

armchair with the almost untouched drink in his hand, his mind full of

the myriad physical charms of Ann Chambers, when there came a knock at

his door. "Come!"

It was the officer of the guard, a southern second lieutenant with a

double chin.

"Thcah's an officer he ah wants to see Loo-tenant Jamison, " the

officer of the guard said.

"An English officer. I mean an English lady officer."

"Lieutenant Jamison isn't here. Mat does she want?" Canidy said. As

he spoke he realized what was up: Damn! Jamison's gone, and now, of

course, the missing British officer with whom I am supposed to

"liaise'finally shows up. "Ah don't know, Suh. But she's got the

right pass to get inside the inn uh perimetuh, Majuh."

"Would you ask her to come in, please?" Canidy said. The captain

marched in, came to attention, and saluted crisply. "Sir!" the

captain barked, with an accompanying stamp of his boot heel. The

captain, Canidy judged, is about five feet four, weighs maybe 125

pounds, is about thirty-two, give or take a couple of years, and under

that really ugly Women's Royal Army Corps cotton uniform obviously has

a splendid set of teats. "I'm Major Canidy," he said. "I'm sorry to

bother you, Major. I had hoped to report to Lieutenant Jamison."

"The lieutenant's off stealing a car in London, I'm afraid," Canidy

said. Not willing to believe what she heard, the captain said: "I am

reporting for duty, Sir. I am to haise with you." That sounds vaguely

obscene, Canidy thought, and became aware he was smiling. He was

greatly tempted to pursue that line of thought, and gave in to it.

"You were expected a couple of days ago, Captain," Canidy said, "I

might as well tell you right now, Captain, that when people liaise with

me, I expect them to be on time. There's nothing I dislike more than

working myself up to haise and having no one to liaise with." The

captain did not find that at all amusing. "I'm sure the major will

find my orders are all correct," she said. She handed them to him, and

he tossed them on the desk. She has remarkable eyes. Very light

blue.

They disturb me, as if she read my mind and knew I was thinking about

her body. Which, come to think of it, I am not supposed to be doing

anymore, And what the hell, that was a lousy joke, and she's probably

scared half to death of the American barbarians. "As it has been

explained to me, Captain," Canidy said, "you have a dual mission

here.

You will handle the English for us, and for the English you will do

your best to preserve this ancestral mansion from the ravages to be

expected from the barbarians from across the sea."

"Oh, I don't think you're all barbarians," she said with a little

laugh, "but that's about the size of it, yes."

"Your first responsibility, Captain," Canidy said, "deals with duty

A."

"I don't quite understand," she said. "We were supposed to be graced

with a visit from the duchess herself a couple of days ago, when we

expected you. I don't suppose you have any idea where the old bat is,

do you?"

"I do know exactly where she is, Major," the captain said. "Great!"

Canidy said.

"At my best, I would not be very good dealing with an elderly English

noblewoman. I'm a simple American boy from Cedar Rapids, Iowa, and we

have very few noblewoman out there. And this one is apparently a holy

terror."

"Why do you say that?" 44 my colonel warned me to handle her with kid

gloves," Canidy said. "I am herewith delegating that responsibility to

you. You handle the old lady when she shows up. Tell her that we

shall guard her furnishings as if they were our own, thank her for the

use of this monstrosity, and then get rid of her as politely as

possible."

"I understand completely, Sir," she said. "Jamison handles room

assignments," Canidy said.

"There's a couple of rooms set up on the first floor, more or less for

transients. I suggest you put up overnight in one of them, and then

Jamison can place you where he wants you in the morning" "I believe I

saw them as I came in," the captain said. "The lieutenant who brought

you up here can show you," Canidy said.

"If you need anything, ask him."

"Thank you very much, Sir," she said.

"Have I your permission to withdraw? " "Good night, Captain," Canidy

said. The captain stamped her foot, did an about-face, and marched

militarily out of the room.

The captain had worn a wedding ring. Canidy wondered where her husband

was-and whether the wedding ring would have an effect on Whittaker.

All things considered, he'd rather the captain were a man. He finished

his drink, undressed, and went to bed.

FIVE Shannon Airfield Republic of Ireland August 14, 1942

One of the B-17Es in their flight had lost an engine over New

Brunswick, left the formation, and turned around and landed safely at

Presque Isle, Maine. A second experienced engine trouble over Cape

Breton Island, but because of weather conditions at alternative

airports, they decided to make the first scheduled stop at Gander

Field, Newfoundland. Homer Wilson, who was convinced the B-17 pilot

was probably going to get lost flying by himself, got on the radio and

told the other pilot he was above and behind him.

"Suggest YOU go on oxygen, climb to one five thousand, and get on my

tail," he said.

"I'll throttle back so you can." The B-17E pilot's voice, even clipped

by the radio, was emotional with gratitude.

Slowing down caused them to reach Gander two hours after the other

B-17Es. And they were on the ground there only long enough to refuel,

even though many of the B-17Es "required attention," One of the lead

pilots told them this was standard practice, The mechanics would in

fact find very little wrong with engines or anything else, once they

investigated the reported red Xs. But faced with flying a

thirty-four-hundred-mile leg across the North Atlantic, pilots with

only a couple of hundred hours could reasonably be expected to be a

little nervous -I can't say I blame them. When I had as much time as

most of these kids, I thought New York to Boston was a dangerously long

hop."

They took off and headed east on the course the B- 17Es would fly en

route to their destination in Scotland. Wilson made the takeoff, but

before they had even reached cruising altitude, he got out of his seat

and turned it over to Fine. He needed rest, and there was no sense

sitting there watching the fuel gauge needles move. Twelve hours into

the flight, after his second two-hour stint at the controls, Fine went

aft, sat on the round, backless radio operator's stool, and began

cranking the radio direction finder antenna, a circle of aluminum

tubing mounted on top of the fuselage. A half hour later, the needles

of the direction finder jumped into life. Although he could not yet

make out the Morse code through the static, Fine went forward and

suggested to Wilson that he change course and try to pick it up on his

own separate RDF system. When he did, the needle jumped, but the

little X flag on the dial, indicating a signal too weak to be reliable,

remained in view, Fine returned to the radio operator's station and

rotated the RDF antenna again. Before long the needle jumped, and he

could hear the Shannon identifier, The plane immediately began to bank

in that direction. Fine stood on the navigator's stand and watched

through the plastic navigator's hemisphere on the top of the C-46 until

the last of the B-17Es, on a course for Prest wick, had faded from

sight, The Irish coastline appeared twenty minutes later, a black blur

on the horizon that gradually came into focus. An hour later, they

made contact with the Shannon tower on the communication radio. They

touched down at Shannon with forty-five minutes' fuel remaining.

"On the post flight examination form, mechanical problems that would

make further flight hazardous are marked with a red X.

"I have just had a profound thought," Fine said as he stood behind the

pi, lots' seats while Wilson taxied the C -46 down a taxiway toward the

terminal buildings.

"Mrs. Fine's little boy, Stanley, has just flown the ocean." Wilson

laughed. "It may be routine to you," Fine said.

"But it's extremely exhilarating. If I weren't a happily married man,

I would get drunk and chase immoral women. The Irish customs officials

who met the plane were not the smiling, genial Irishmen of lore. There

were four of them, pinch-faced and scowling, and they examined the

C-46's papers and their passports suspiciously. Then they conducted a

thorough search of the airplane itself, as if they had been tipped it

was carrying contraband. Fortunately, they did not go so far as to

strip-search the crew, for if they had, they would have learned that

Fine was wearing a money belt that held one hundred thousand dollars'

worth of assorted currency and a dozen Hamilton aviator's

chronometers.

Possession of either the money or the wristwatches was not illegal, but

it was unusual, and he would have been asked questions. Two of the

customs officers stayed with them when they went through the paperwork

at the terminal, and stayed with them when they went to the shabby,

unpleasant restaurant for dry rolls, artificial strawberry preserves,

and tea, but no coffee. The custom officials even followed them into

the men's room, leaning impatiently against cracked and dirty

washbasins until they had come out of the stalls.

They took off again after an hour and fifteen minutes on the ground.

First they flew west, but then turned on a southeasterly course that

would carry them over the southern tip of Ireland and then over the

Atlantic on a straight course toward Lisbon.

X I ONE I Whitby House Kent, England 0400 Hours August 15, 1942

Captain the Duchess Stan field, V@TAC, was not at all surprised when

wakened by the sound of a whistle, and then a cheerful voice bellowing,

"Aw right, aw right, drop your cocks and pick up your socks, it's that

time, haul your ass out of the sack! " There had been an essentially

identical announcement the night before at 10:00 Pm." shortly after

she had gone to sleep on an American Army folding canvas cot in a

nine-by-twenty-foot room that had been, she recalled, her downstairs

housekeeper's broom closet. Similar whistle blowing and picaresque

admonitions to the guard came at midnight and at 2:00 A.M. The racket

lasted about five minutes. The whistle blowing and obscenities-some

clever, some simply vulgar roused the thirty-odd men of the guard

relief from their cots in tents erected close behind her window.

After they were up, the guards were formed in ranks and loaded aboard

two large trucks. The trucks were then driven off with loud clashes of

gears and roaring whines of transmissions. Ten minutes or so

later-just long enough for her to begin to fall asleep-the trucks

returned with the just-relieved guard, who, following another

picaresque announcement 264

N W.K.R. ariffin from the sergeant, entered the tents, exchanged

colorful obscenities as they removed their boots, then slept. The

difference between the British Army and the American Army, she

concluded afterward, is that the British Tommy suffers the obscene

exhortations of his sergeant in silence, while the American GI, to the

delight of his peers, is quick to exchange obscenity for obscenity, and

he apparently does it with impunity, She could scarcely imagine a

British sergeant accepting a suggestion shouted from the ranks that he

"knock off the fucking bullshit!"

Captain the Duchess Stan field, WRAC, whose Christian names were

Elizabeth Alexandra Mary, knew by now she would probably not get back

to sleep. She usually was a sound sleeper. But once woken it was hard

for her to get back to sleep. This was the third time she had been

awakened.

She was naked between the American Army sheets. It had either been

that or sleep in her underwear. She did not like to sleep in a

brassiere, and her slip was standard issue, which meant it was skimpy

and abrasive. One of the supplemental benefits of her new assignment

would be access to her own linen, presuming she could find it. When

Whitby House had been requisitioned, the staff had of course carefully

packed away all her personal things. But the staff was now gone, and

she had not a notion where in the house her trunks had been stored.

And because I wasn't able to go looking for them last night, she

thought, I was forced to sleep naked in the broom closet while a young

and distinctly unpleasant American major slept in my husband's bed.

But then she came to realize that there was no reason why she could not

turn her wakefulness to her own advantage. She would start looking for

her things right now. In seconds she was standing on the balls of her

feet on the cold, gritty stone floor and reaching for her discarded

underwear. Then she decided to ignore the soiled undergarments. In

five or ten minutes she would have her own fresh, clean, soft

underwear. In the meantime, all she had to do was pass the officer of

the guard in the adjacent room and head down the corridor to the rear

stairs. It was entirely likely that he would not even come out of his

little office. She slipped her bare feet into her oxfords and tucked

her shirt into the waistband of her khaki skirt. She was reminded of

what she thought of as the "bloody sexual injustice in women officers'

uniforms." Despite the shortages, prewar-quality material was somehow

made available to gentlemen's tailors. Male officers had at least

several uniforms of prewar quality, while officers' uniforms of the

Women's Royal Army Corps came from the same manufacturer who made

uniforms for enlisted men, and were of much lower quality and fit. It

had been possible for a seamstress to tighten her uniform skirts where

they bagged over her rear end, but there had not been enough material

to let out her shirts and tunics to make room for her bosom. Unless

she wore a tight brassiere, she strained buttons.

She looked down at her shirt now. The buttons looked about ready to

pop.

now that I'm assigned to Whitby House. That's something else I can do,

I can go into the village and find some seamstress who could take care

my uniforms for me. Somewhere in the house-and I will find them if it

takes me two weeks-are a half dozen or more of Edward's uniforms. I'll

have them cut down for me, even if every stitch has to be taken out of

them and the uniform started from scratch. With her nakedness now more

or les's covered, she carefully opened the door, found no one in the

foyer, and slipped out, walking quickly down the corridor toward the

kitchen.

From there stairs led upstairs. With no one in it, the kitchen seemed

enormous. The six huge black stoves-now cold-were larger than she

remembered them. The Americans apparently were not going to trouble

themselves with coal stoves, as there were now two stainless-steel

field ranges where the butcher blocks had been. And still in a crate

addressed to Quartermaster ETO-European Theater of Operations-was a

huge, restaurant-size refrigerator. Beside it, the Whitby House

refrigerator looked incongruously small. to see if there was something

to eat in She gave in to the temptation before, and she the old

refrigerator. She had missed supper the night would be damned if she

would ask Major Canidy for a meal. inside she found an almost

unbelievable cornucopia of foodstuffs. There were, for starters, at

least six dozen fresh eggs. The British ration was one fresh egg per

week-when available. There were two-gallon containers of milk marked

"Container Property US Army Quartermaster Corps." Only children under

four, pregnant women, and nursing women were given a milk ration.

hams, pound There were steaks, chickens, two enormous tinned blocks of

fresh butter "[Butter, 1 lb Block, Grade AAA, Schmalz's Dairy, Oshkosh,

Wisc. USAV' and, the most incredible thing of all, a wooden crate

marked "Sun kist Florida Oranges."

My God, there must be eight, ten, twelve dozen oranges! Captain the

Duchess Stan field could not remember the last time she had had an

orange. They were rationed out to British children even more strictly

than eggs and milk. No wonder, she thought as she slammed the door

angrily, our refrigerator is inadequate for their needs. When she was

in the stairwell she began to consider the most likely place the staff

would have put her clothing. The answer was immediately obvious.

There were two small rooms just above what had been her own apartment

where her personal maid-now a Leading Aircraftswornan, Royal Air

Force-had lived. just as she had hoped, a neatly lettered sign was

thumbtacked to her personal maid's door:

ROOMS CONTAIN THE PERSONAL EFFECTS 01 S, THE DUKE AM DUCHESS OF

STANFIEASK THAT THEY NOT BE DISTURBED.

And the door was not locked. The small room was crowded with steamer

trunks, ordinary luggage, and even some paper cartons, all neatly

labeled, She was lifting a cardboard box labeled "HG Personal Summer

Linen" when an automobile horn blared. It was cheerfully tooting Shave

and a haircut, two bits. She wondered what peculiarity of American

culture that represented. When the horn sounded again, she grew more

curious. When it sounded a third time, she went to the window and

looked down. An American army car, a Ford, had pulled up to the

house.

As she watched, a young American Air Corps captain stepped out, A

rather good-looking one, Captain the Duchess Stan field thought. He

had his cap, with its crown crushed, on the back of his head. For some

reason, American pilots felt that was chic.

His jacket was open, his tie pulled down, and he wore the self-pleased

look of someone in his cups. He went to the trunk and opened it, then

returned to the driver's door and blew the horn again, this time a

long, steady, almost angry blast.

At the same moment the duchess was noticing that the Ford's left front

fender was crumpled, a window below her, Edward's window, opened and

Major Canidy looked out. "I thought you were in the stockade," he

called down. The duchess remembered Canidy had said something about

Lieutenant Jamison being off "stealing a car in London."

"We ran off the road and hit a stone post," the captain called up, "and

we couldn't get it out of the ditch in the dark. Aside from that, it

was worthy of John Dillinger."

"Does anyone know you stole it?" Canidy asked.

"Are you a half mile ahead of the MPS? " "I told you, Dick, it went

like clockwork."

"Until you ran it off the road." Canidy chuckled, "Where's Jamison?

"We also stole some whiskey," the captain reported.

"He drank some of it." At that moment, a lieutenant stumbled out the

other side of the car. Since he was deeper in his cups than the

captain, the duchess concluded that this one was Lieutenant Jamison,

the man to whom she was supposed to report. "You can't leave the car

there," Canidy said.

"Not out in the open." My God, they did steal it! 14 Istole a

tarpaulin for it," the captain announced, then went back to the trunk

and hauled out a huge canvas tarpaulin. Lieutenant Jamison went into

the backseat of the car and began to unload cases of whiskey and

beer.

"Did you steal that from the OSS, too?"

"No," the captain said.

"We found it in the middle of the road. "Jimmy, behave yourself and

come in," Canidy called.

"That English captain we've been waiting for showed up. It's a female,

a real tight-assed bitch. I'm sure she's been sent to spy on us,

anyway, so keep your hands off her and your mouth shut. That applies

to you too, Jamison. Deeply offended, her face coloring, the Duchess

of Stan field stepped back from the open window and very carefully

closed it. She rummaged through her summer linen for suitable

underclothing, then went through the steamer trunks until she found

nightgowns. She wrapped one of the nightgowns around everything else

and descended the stairs to the kitchen. When she pushed open the

door, she startled Major Canidy, the captain, and Lieutenant Jamison,

who were sharing various breakfast preparation tasks. One of the

unused stoves was littered with what they obviously planned to eat;

this amounted to a week's ration for a British family of six, not

counting the oranges.

"Up early, aren't you, Captain?" Canidy asked sarcastically.

"Tight, all right," the rather good-looking captain observed, "but not

too tight."

That was a reference to my fanny!

"I told you to watch your mouth," Canidy snapped.

"I was gathering some personal possessions," the duchess blurted, and

exhibited her nightgown bundle.

"You've been here before, then?" Canidy accused. "Yes," she said, "I

have."

Obviously, he has never even looked at my orders. If he had, he would

know who I am.

"The captain has been sent by the War Office to 'liaise' with us,"

Canidy said.

"Apparently, 'to liaise' means to roam through the place before anybody

is up."

"I'm Jim Whittaker," the rather good-looking captain said, advancing on

her with his hand extended.

"I think I should warn you that I am a pervert and find females in

uniform terribly exciting."

He was looking at her with great fascination, and she flushed.

"I'm not going to tell you about your mouth again, Jimmy," Major Canidy

flared. "I didn't catch the name, Captain," Whittaker said. He had

her hand now and seemed reluctant to let it go. "My name is Stan

field," the duchess said. "Like the duke?" Canidy asked. "I am the

duchess," she said. It did not produce the reaction she expected:

Major Canidy, she saw, was more annoyed than awed. "You should have

told me that last night," Canidy said. "You didn't give me the chance,

Sir," she said, Jim Whittaker bowed deeply, with an accompanying sweep

of his arm. "How's that, Duchess?" he asked.

"Is that the way to do it?" She had to restrain herself from smiling

at him. The rather good-looking young captain was drunk. A happy

young man who is drunk can almost be expected to stare at a female

bosom. Major Canidy was the unpleasant one. A question of protocol

occurred to Lieutenant Jamison. "If you're the duchess," he asked

somewhat thickly, "what are we supposed to call you? Captain or

Duchess?"

"I had a dog named Duchess one time," Captain Whittaker announced. You

remember her, Dick? Great big Labrador bitch?"

"I am ordinarily addressed as "Your Grace," she said.

"But I think that would be a bit awkward, wouldn't it? My Christian

name is Elizabeth."

"Isn't that the other extreme?" Canidy asked. "Please," she said

softly.

"You and I seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot." He's thinking

that over, the insufferable bastard! "Okay," he said.

"We'll start all over. Put your package down and have some breakfast,

The cooks don't show until half past six, so I'm afraid it'll have to

be an omelet."

"A sudden rage swept through her, unstoppable.

"My God, you Americans are something! "Since there's nothing decent to

he had, we'll have to make do with an omelet'! " He looked at her

curiously. "Is there something wrong with an omelet?" he asked. "Do

you know what the British egg ration is?"

"No, and I don't really give a damn,' Canidy said. They locked eyes

for a minute, then she gave in. "Sorry," she said. No," Canidy

said."

Sorry won't wash. Let's have it out in the open. "I beg your

pardon?"

"I don't like your attitude, Duchess , Canidy said.

"I may have to put up with those arrogant bastards at SOE, but I'll be

damned if I'm going to put up with you. I don't like the way you came

in here last night, playing captain without letting me know this is

your house. And I have no intention of putting up with a litany of

'what' wrong with you Americans is'

s from you, duchess or no duchess. Whittaker here ate cavalry horses

in the Philippines until the horses ran out-" "Hey, Dick-" Whittaker

tried to interrupt, but Canidy was not to be stopped.

-and neither of us needs any lectures on short rations from the likes

of you. If you feel uncomfortable eating our fresh egg omelets, Your

Grace, I think you should ask to be reassigned. As long as I'm running

this place, I'm going to get my hands on and pass out to the people

here all the god damned luxuries-from fresh eggs to high-class

whores-that I can.

And I don't want you standing around with a corncob up your ass looking

down your aristocratic nose at us."

"Jesus Christ!

Dick!" Whittaker said. The duchess of Stan field took a moment to

find her voice. Then she said, "Perhaps it would be best if someone

else were assigned to Raise with you, Major Canidy. And now, if you'll

please excuse me?" She marched out of the kitchen and down the

corridor to what had been the downstairs housekeeper's broom closet,

closed the door, threw herself on the folding cot, and with a great

deal of effort managed to keep from crying. She thought she was going

to look like a bloody fool when she had to report back to the War

Office that she had immediately gotten into it with the man she was

supposed to liaise with over something as bloody silly as how many eggs

the Americans had. She could also report, of course, that they

apparently spent much of their time drunk, and that they considered it

great fun to steal automobiles from one another. The problem was that

the War Office didn't give a damn about such things. They would simply

see that she had failed. What I am going to have to do is go to the

bastard and apologize. And sound as if I mean it. She pushed herself

off the bed. And he properly dressed when I do it. She picked the

bundle off the floor and unrolled it on the bed.

She picked out underwear, then started to take off her shirt. There

was a knock at the door. "Yes? Who is it?"

"Room service," a voice she recognized as Captain Whittaker's called

cheerfully. She went to the door and pulled it open. He had found a

butler's cart somewhere. It was covered with food: ham, eggs, toast,

and what certainly-since it was American-was genuine strawberry

marmalade."

No matter what," he said," you have to eat.

THE SECRET WARRIORS V 271

"I made a fool of myself in there, didn't V' she asked. He rolled the

cart to a chair at the far end of the bed and stood behind it like a

waiter. "I don't know what happened between you two last night," he

said. "But I know what's generally wrong with him. "Generally wrong

with him?"

"For the first time in his life, he's in love," Whittaker said, "and

almost immediately upon getting jabbed with Cupid's arrow, they shipped

him over here."

"Being in love produced that tirade?" she asked. "That, and knowing

that a mission he set up is under way," Whittaker said.

"Despite what he says, he really thinks he should be doing it."

"You seem to know a great deal about the major," she said. "We've been

pals since we were kids," Whittaker said. "What did he mean about you

eating cavalry horses in the Philippines? " "Eat your ham and eggs,

Duchess," Whittaker said.

"After which, Friendly Jim Whittaker will take you to Nasty Dick Canidy

so that you can kiss and make up."

"But you were in the Philippines?" she pursued." Yeah," he said." I

was in the Philippines." She looked down at the huge slice of ham and

the four fried eggs on her plate. And saw that her shirt was

unbuttoned halfway to her navel. She felt her face color. He was

still behind her, which meant that he was almost certainly looking down

her dress. She was not furious with him. He was, she reminded

herself, in his cups.

TWO I Lisbon, Portugal August 16,1942 There were a dozen German fighter

bases around Brest and Saint-Nazaire, whose pilots would have been

happy to shoot the China Air Transport C46 down, but they had come no

closer to Brest than two hundred miles.

And they'd been four hundred from Saint-Nazaire. En route to Lisbon,

they picked up some air-to-air conversation in German, which gave Fine

time to experience vicariously what bomber pilots went through. Four

and a half hours after taking off from Shannon, the Lisbon tower

operator, in a strangely accented English, cleared China Air Transport

Two-naught-six to land on runway twelve. The Portuguese customs

officials, who were accompanied by a Portugese Air Force officer, were

considerably more pleasant than the Irish had been. The Air Force

officer's request to be shown around the airplane was pure flier's

curiosity. The C-46 was the first he had ever seen. When they asked

him if there was someplace they could get something to eat and a few

hours' sleep, he summoned a taxi bargained with the driver for them,

and sent them to "a place I think you will like" in Lisbon. It turned

out to be an elegant turn-of-the century hotel. They were met by a

desk clerk in a morning coat who told them he had had a telephone call

about them from the Air Force officer. He then took them to a finely

furnished two-bedroom suite on an upper floor overlooking Rossi Square

and the Dona Maria 11 National Theater. The bathroom contained an

enormous bathtub and thick towels. After Fine came out of his bath, he

found the others sitting before a large assortment of hors d'oeuvres.

"No Scotch," Homer Wilson said dryly.

"The war, you know. But they did manage to scrape this up." He raised

a quart bottle of I. W, Harper. The dining room offered a wide menu at

incredibly low prices, and they ate ravenously. Wilson arranged with

the maitre duiel for box lunches to be prepared for the morning chicken

and ham sandwiches.

At half past six the next morn in , China Air Transport Two-zero-six

requested taxi and takeoff for Porto Santo, in the Madeira islands.

Almost exactly four hours later, they were telling another amiling,

friendly Portuguese Air Force officer that all they were going to do

was top off the tanks and get back in the air. The next leg was a long

one, twenty-six hundred miles, ten hours plus, to Bissau in Portuguese

Guinea on the lower tip of the Horn of Africa. They climbed slowly to

twenty thousand feet and set up a course that would place them no

closer than a hundred miles off the African coast. They also planned

to fly just to the west and out of sight of the Spanish Ca nary

Islands, If they were spotted by Spanish aircraft, it was likely that

the Spanish would make their presence known to the Germans. Twenty

minutes after Wilson had turned the pilot's seat over to Will Nembly,

the other ex-PAA pilot, and gone back into the cabin to sleep, a buzzer

sounded and the oil-pressure warning light for the starboard engine

lit. Almost immediately, there was another warning buzzer, louder than

the first, and the fire light for the starboard engine lit. "You

better go get Wilson," Nembly ordered calmly as he quickly shut off

fuel to the starboard engine and pulled the lever that engaged the

carbon dioxide fire extinguisher. Fine looked out the window as he

entered the cabin. Thick black smoke was pouring from the engine

nacelle. it turned gray and white as carbon dioxide mixed with the

smoke, and then the gray smoke vanished. Wilson, instantly awake, went

to the cockpit and sat down, hastily fastening his seat and shoulder

harness. Fine stood between the two pilots' seats, He could see that

the starboard propeller, feathered, had stopped spinning, and that the

airspeed was already down well under two hundred miles per hour and

dropping. Wilson did not take over the controls from Nembly. He

didn't even seem especially upset. "We have an oil leak," he announced

conversationally. "No shit?" Nembly asked sarcastically. "What the

hell do we do now?" Homer Wilson asked rhetorically. "Go back? How

long can we rely on the other engine? And where the bell are we?" He

reached beside him for the chart. "We're a hundred fifty miles,

roughly, from Santa Cruz in the Canary Islands," Nembly said.

"The Spanish Canary Islands."

"Christ, if we sit down there, we'll be interned for six months,"

Wilson said.

"And when they finally let us go, there will be a flight of German

fighters waiting for us." Nembly began to adjust the engine

controls.

Fine saw that he was unable to maintain altitude without moving the RPM

needle into the red. "We're just going to have to dump some fuel,"

Nembly said finally "And try to make it back."

"Set a course for Lanzarote," Fine said, "That sounds like an order,"

Wilson said with a hint of annoyance. "I suppose that's what it

amounts to," Fine said.

Wilson considered that a moment, then looked at the chart. "Lanzarote,

you said?" he asked.

"There's only a fighter strip on Lanzarote, according to the chart."

"There is a contingency plan," Fine said, 'for an emergency like

this."

"Why is this the first I've heard of it?" Wilson said, but then,

without waiting for a reply, told Nembly to "Steer zero-eight-five."

Nembly began a slow, wide turn to the east. "I'm going to start

dumping fuel," Nembly said. "No," Fine said. Wilson looked at him

questioningly. "Our only hope to continue the mission is that when we

have a look at the engine, we'll be able to fix it. With a little bit

of luck, we'll find we have a loose-not broken--oil feed line. If we

have fuel aboard, we can take off again."

"What makes you think they'll let us take off? Or that there won't be

a squadron of Messersclunitts waiting for us? Lanzarote is close to

the Moroccan coast, well within the range of German fighters, " "If the

Spaniards at Lanzarote don't tell them we've landed, they won't come

looking for us," Fine said, "Why wouldn't they?" Nembly asked. "I've

got a name to use," Fine said.

"And some money to give him."

"Then the only small little problem we have," Wilson said, "is trying

to set this big sonofabitch down on a fighter strip with nearly full

tanks."

"I think we have to try," Fine said, "That's presuming, of course,"

Wilson said, "that Nembly can keep us in the air until we get there,

and that the Spanish don't shoot us down for violating their

airspace.

I don't suppose this contingency plan of yours says we can call the

name you have before we get there?"

"We'll just have to try to set it down at Lanzarote," Fine said.

"I don't see where we have any other choice."

The island appeared to their right forty minutes later. When they got

closer to the island, they could see the single strip, running

diagonally across the only level part of it, a sort of plateau on the

northern shore." Should we try to call their tower? You have the

frequency?" Wilson asked.

"No," Fine said.

"Let's just go in. Straight in."

"If I screw this up with all this fuel aboard, I won't be able to go

around," Nembly said. "Then don't screw it up," Wilson said

reasonably.

Fine wondered why Wilson, as the senior pilot, didn't take over the

controls himself, but this was not the time to ask. Homer Wilson

turned and looked at Fine.

"You better go strap yourself in," he said. "I will," Fine said.

"There's time. He continued to look out the windshield until he saw

they were lined up on the runway. Then he dropped to the floor, braced

his feet against he bulkhead of the radio panel, put his arms over his

knees, then rested t his head on his arms. Nembly, unused to the sink

rate of the aircraft on one engine, misjudged, and came in too low. He

reached up and shoved the throttle to full emergency power. The

airplane turned to the dead engine. He made a violent crab maneuver,

then chopped the throttle, and crabbed nearly as violently in the other

direction.

They landed heavily, bounced, and then touched down again. Nembly

reversed pitch on the propeller, which sent the plane off the

centerline of the runway. The right tire screamed as he applied the

brake. Fine felt himself being thrown into the aisle and for a moment

sensed the aircraft was on the edge of turning over. But then it

settled, and there was a lower-pitched scream as both brakes locked.

The plane skidded for a moment, stopped when the brakes were released,

and then screamed again as they were reapplied. Finally the plane

lurched to the left and shuddered still.

Fine got to his feet and went forward. Out of Wilson's side window, he

saw that they were perhaps a hundred feet from the end of the runway

threshold. Beyond that, fifty feet below, was a pile of rocks, onto

which the waters of the Atlantic splashed in slow rolling waves. "Here

comes somebody," Homer Wilson said, nodding his head toward his side

window. A procession of vehicles was racing down the runway toward

them.

It was led by an automobile of a make none of them could identify.

Next came a small fire truck on a Ford chassis. And finally two

Mercedes trucks.

"I think we should shut the engine down," Wilson said, "and then

practice smiling. You're going to do the talking, right, Stan?" Fine

went back through the fuselage and, with great difficulty, because a

strong wind was blowing from the sea, pushed the large door open. The

Spaniards were waiting for them. The trucks each carried a dozen

soldiers. They now formed a ring around the door. The muzzles of

their rifles were toward the ground. They were wearing German helmets,

and the rifles were Mausers. Fine did not need to be reminded that the

sympathies of Generalissimo Francisco Franco were with the

German-Italian japanese Axis.

Behind the fine of soldiers were three officers. To judge both by his

more luxurious uniform and by his air of arrogance, one was a senior

officer. He was tall, stocky, mustachio ed, and good-looking. He's

standing there, Fine thought, with all the arrogance of a Marine Corps

second lieutenant. "It is forbidden to land here," the Spanish officer

said in British accented English.

"You will consider yourselves under arrest."

"It was an emergency, Colonel," Fine said.

"We lost an engine. If the officer wasn't a colonel, flattery would

not make things worse. The officer snapped his fingers, and two of the

soldiers laid a wooden ladder against the fuselage. The officer

climbed up it. "I don't think you're Chinese," he said.

"English?" American," Fine said." Is Colonel di Fortini available?

"I am not familiar with that aircraft," the officer said, igporing the

question. "It is a Boeing," Fine said.

"A Strato cruiser transport. We're ferrying it from the factory to

China."

"May I see your documents, please?" the officer asked. "I'll get them

for you," Fine said, and turned toward the cockpit. When he returned

he held a stack of one-hundred-dollar bills. These were bound together

with a paper band marked 110,000 in $100."

"It really means a great deal to me to be able to get in touch with

Colonel di Fortini," he said. "Colonel di Fortini is not here," he

said.

"He may be on Las Palm as. I will make inquiries." He took the stack

of money and put it in an inner pocket of his tunic.

Or may e you' just put the money in your pocket and not make

inquiries.

"And now if I may have your documents, please?" the officer said.

THREE I The Dorchester Hotel London, England 1720 Hours August 17,

1942

Two American field artillery officers, a colonel and a lieutenant

colonel, were standing under the marquee when the Austin Princess

limousine rolled up to it. Except for a narrow slit, the headlights of

the limousine had been painted black, and the front fenders were

outlined with white paint, in the standard if not very successful

attempt to prevent fender benders on streets that were no longer

illuminated, These small irregularities, however, did little to mask

the elegance of the limousine. It stopped under the marquee, and the

driver, a young woman in the uniform of a sergeant of the Royal Women's

Army Service Corps, stepped quickly out from behind the wheel, trotted

around the front of the limousine, and opened the rear door.

The American officers had their luggage at their feet. They had come

to London on seventy-two-hour passes and had just been politely but

firmly denied accommodations in the hotel. They both looked at the car

out of the corners of their eyes, partly in simple curiosity, and

partly because the limousine more than likely carried a general officer

entitled to a salute. The officer who got out of the limousine was

American. He wore a leather-brimmed fur felt cap and a finely tailored

Class A uniform. (It was, in fact, brand new.) But he was not a

general officer, just a lowly lieutenant colonel. Nevertheless, the

full colonel and the lieutenant colonel knew him. "I'll be damned,"

the full colonel said.

"Stevens!" Stevens looked at him, then saluted.

"Good evening, Sir," he said.

After the colonel returned the salute and shook hands, Stevens then

offered his hand to the lieutenant colonel.

Hello, Bill," he said," how are you? "Awed by your car," the

lieutenant colonel said.

"And surprised to see you. They had been classmates at West Point, and

they had served together at Forts Bliss and Riley. The last time the

lieutenant colonel had seen Edmund T. Stevens, they had both been

captains, and Stevens had been in the limbo of an officer who has

submitted his resignation but has not yet been released from duty.

Stevens ignored the implied questions.

"Just checking in?" he asked. "Just turned away," the full colonel

said.

"This place is apparently reserved for VIPS." His question was direct:

"What are you doing here?"

"Dealing with a V.I.P," Stevens said.

"There's a hotel reserved for field-grade officers, the Cavendish, by

St. James's Square, if you need a place to stay. "So we have been

informed," the full colonel said.

"We were just wondering how we were going to get there."

"No problem," Stevens said. He turned and made a gesture with his hand

to the driver of the Princess, who had just backed the limousine into

one of the half-dozen reserved spots between the marquee and Park

Lane.

She started the engine, drove up to them, got out of the car, and

waited for orders. "Sergeant," Stevens said, "would you run these

officers over to the Cavendish and then come back?"

"I'm curious, Ed," the lieutenant colonel said.

"What have they got you doing?" Stevens pointed to the SHAEF insignia

on his shoulder and the General Staff Corps (GSC) insignia on his

lapels.

"I am now a member of the palace guard," he said. "Nice work, if you

can get it," the full colonel said. "It has its compensations,"

Stevens admitted. "So we see," the full colonel said.

"Well, I appreciate the ride, Stevens."

"My pleasure, Sir," Stevens said. The lieutenant colonel shook his

hand.

Then he followed the colonel into the backseat of the Princess. As

soon as they hit Park Lane, Stevens thought, they will begin to

commiserate about the god damned injustice: a man who had resigned his

captain's commission winding up a light bird on the SHAEF staff with a

chauffeur-driven limousine.

The story would quickly move along the West Point grapevine. He now

knew the word for that: "disinformation." It was far better having his

former peers think of him as a chair-warming sonofabitch at SHAEF than

to suspect that he was deputy chief of station for the OSS in London.

Lieutenant Colonel Edmund T. Stevens had already come to the not

unpleasing conclusion that not only did he seem to perform well as a

concierge to Bill Donovan's spies, saboteurs, assassins, safe crackers,

and other "specialists," but that by doing so he could make a greater

contribution to the war than he would in command of an artillery

battalion. He and the chief of station had hit it off right away. The

day he arrived, the chief of station told him that the less he heard of

administrative problems the better he would like it. He went on to say

that since Stevens had come to him with Donovan's personal

recommendation, he was granting Stevens full authority to act in his

name in all matters. The next day, the chief of station had sent him

over to Grosvenor Square, where Ike had his SHAEF headquarters. There

General Walter Bedell Smith neatly solved virtually all of Stevens's

potential problems by giving him a letter stating that in the event

SHAEF units were unable to comply with any request of the OSS, the

reasons therefore were to be reported to him immediately. Stevens's

role, as he saw it, was to be as helpful as possible. He had no notion

that he would ever become operationally involved. He would simply

assume the administrative burdens r the people who were carrying out

the OSS mission. He would be the billeting officer, the finance

officer, the transportation officer, the communications officer, and

quite probably, he thought after meeting some of the operational

people, the VD-control officer too. He had, for instance, just spent

two hours with a detective inspector from Scotland Yard, going over

with him in boring detail the results of their investigation into the

theft of a staff car from the motor pool and two and a half cases of

mixed liquor from a storeroom.

That wasn't important. What was important was that his spending the

two hours with Scotland Yard spared the station chief from having to do

so.

The station chief had more important things to do than help to bring a

couple of car thieves to justice. Stevens passed through the revolving

door to the Dorchester lobby and walked to the bar. It was very

crowded, mostly with officers of the Allied armies, among whom he was

sure was at least one officer sent by the intelligence service of Free

French Forces to see what he could learn to substantiate their

suspicions regarding Vice Admiral d'escadre Jeanphilippe de Verbey.

Major Richard Canidy was sitting at one of the tiny tables against the

wall. When Stevens had made his way through the crowd to their table,

Canidy stood up. "Good evening, Sir," he said. There was no empty

chair in sight, so Stevens squeezed in beside Canidy on the padded

bench. A waiter appeared immediately, which was a surprise. Stevens

looked at Canidy, who nodded. "Just ice and a glass, please," Stevens

said.

Sometimes the Dorchester had whiskey and sometimes it didn't. It never

had much. Stevens had unlimited access to the Class VI stocks at

SHAEF, and had planned to send several cases to Whitby House. This was

the whiskey that had been stolen, but he could get more. Canidy's nod

told him that Canidy had whiskey, probably in a flask. The Dorchester

would charge them corkage for the privilege of drinking their own

whiskey, but Stevens preferred to do that than use up what was

available to others who did not have unlimited access to SHAEF Class

VI. "I have just spent two hours," Stevens said, "discussing whiskey

with Scotland Yard."

" Oh? " "We have been burgled. After two days of extensive

investigation, Scotland Yard has come to the tentative conclusion that

it's an inside job. Party or parties unknown, in the dead of night,

made off with three cases of whiskey, plus a staff car."

"You don't say?"

"Scotland Yard is taking it very seriously," Stevens said. "They

consider it most unpatriotic for their thieves to prey on their

American cousins. I have been told that there 'have been developments'

and that we 'may expect to hear something shortly." I doubt if we'll

get the liquor back, but maybe the staff car. If we get the car back,

I'll send it over to you."

"Big flap, is it?" Canidy asked. "If Scotland Yard catches the

thieves, I think they plan to behead them at the Tower of London to set

an example," Stevens said.

"A chief inspector is devoting all of his time to the case."

"What would happen, do you think, if the Ford were found on a country

lane somewhere? Would they be satisfied with that?"

"Interesting question, Major Canidy," Colonel Stevens said.

"Particularly since I don't recall mentioning that it was a Ford staff

car."

"Didn't you?" Canidy asked innocently. "Whittaker?" Stevens asked.

"Goddamn! I want to change this subject before I am faced with a moral

dilemma."

"Apropos of nothing whatever," Canidy said, "I have taken to heart what

Mr. Baker said about our training. I have tried, consequently, to

make it as realistic as possible."

"Such as 'practicing' stealing objects and vehicles from an allegedly

well-guarded intelligence establishment?" Stevens asked. "Something

like that."

"As I said, I think we should change the subject," Stevens said.

"How, for instance, are your relations with Her Grace?"

"Sort of an armed truce," Canidy said.

"I think Her Grace was not amused when I told her she had a corncob up

her ass. It may take her some time to get over that." Stevens had

not, in the balance, been disturbed when Canidy had reported his battle

with the duchess. Canidy had felt duty-bound to mention it, even

though it made him look foolish. But he was pleased that Canidy had

apparently worked it out with her. "I would rather have her there than

some of the other liaison officers I've met," Stevens said.

"I hope you can maintain the armistice." Canidy nodded, then said,

"Christ, what games we play."

"And, unfortunately, for such high stakes," Stevens replied. The

waiter appeared with a glass and ice. Canidy took a flask from his

pocket and splashed Scotch into Stevens's glass. "Found your own

source of liquor, have you?" he asked, but when Canidy chuckled

uncomfortably, he raised his glass.

"To realistic training and hands across the seas." They sipped at

their drinks. "When we finish this one, and perhaps another," Stevens

said, "I think we should go upstairs and have a room-service dinner."

"You've heard something?" Canidy asked. IJ want to tell you some

things I know," Stevens said. When they got upstairs, a Signal Corps

lieutenant was in the suite Admiral de Verbey had occupied. He told

Colonel Stevens that the suite had just been swept and that nothing had

been found. He also reported that a phone tap on the lines to Whitby

House had been discovered. It had been put there, as Colonel Stevens

had thought it might be, by the Free French. As Colonel Stevens

directed, it had been left in place. They were still working on the

installation of a secure line. It was difficult, he said, because of

the old-fashioned British telephone equipment. After he had gone, and

their dinner was laid out for them, the reason for having the room

swept became apparent.

Stevens gave Canidy a report on the African flight first because he

knew Canidy was concerned about it. The report was encouraging: The

CAT C-46 was by now off the west coast of Africa, past danger of

interception by German fighters. There should be word shortly that

they had landed at Bissau, in Portuguese Guinea. Having got that over

with, Stevens got down to what was more pressing for him. "I wanted to

talk to you about future operations, Dick," he said. "Torch? "

"Beyond Torch," Stevens said matter-of-factly. "We intend," he went

on, "to establish an OSS detachment in Switzerland. When Fine returns

from Africa he will be sent there. He has contacts in Europe, both in

the motion-picture business and with various Zionist organizations.

There are people in Germany and Eastern Europe that we're going to have

to try to get out. There are already a couple of pipelines, but

Colonel Donovan wants us to establish more. I'm sorry, but I can't

tell you anything more about that except that it has the highest

priority. "I'm surprised you're telling me this much," Canidy said.

Stevens did not respond to that. "Another high priority is getting our

hands on a German jet engine. Depending on how things work out when we

send him back into North Africa for Torch, Eric Fulmar will probably be

involved with that.

It may be necessary to send him into Germany. But in any event, when

Torch is over, it is planned to send him to Switzerland. There is even

an idea which I consider pretty far-fetched-to steal a jet aircraft."

"Have we got anybody who knows how to fly one?"

"No," Stevens said.

"And from the information we have, the jets don't have sufficient range

to make it out of Germany. Bdt since Colonel Do no van hasn't rejected

the idea out of hand, you can see the priority he places on getting

concrete information on the jet fighters."

"Are you thinking of using me to steal one of these airplanes?" Canidy

asked. Jesus Christ, I hope not! "As you don't know how to fly one,"

Stevens said, "I think that's probably not in the works. But on the

other hand, we're in an unlikely p business. There is one aviation

operation in which you will be involved, however. You and Whittaker.

The Germans have built submarine pens at Saint-Nazaire that are

apparently bombproof. The Navy has come up with an idea. I'm told the

idea actually came from a young lieutenant named Kennedy?" Thinking he

was being asked if he knew him, Canidy shook his head. 411 don't know

him, I don't think," he said. "No reason that you should," Stevens

said.

"But I thought you might recognize the name. I know him. And what he

wants to do is turn worn out B-17s into radio-controlled flying

bombs.

The aircraft would be loaded with explosives, and then flown directly

into the submarine pens."

"Can that be done?" Canidy asked incredulously. "Taking out the

submarine pens is of such importance-we simply can't accept the damage

the submarines are doing to the Atlantic supply line-that the joint

Chiefs have given them authority to have at least a shot at it. We

have been directed to support them as far as we can. You're an

aeronautical engineer" Who has never even been in a B-17," Canidy

interrupted. "And Jim Whittaker is an explosives expert," Stevens went

on. "I've arranged for the British to demonstrate an explosive of

theirs, something called Torpex, to our experts. One of those experts

should be Jim Whittaker. I think you should be the other -one. Go

talk to Kennedy, at least."

"A lieutenant is running this?" Canidy asked. "Not only is Lieutenant

Kennedy a very bright young man," Stevens said, "but his father owns

the Merchandise Mart in Chicago, just about controls the import of

Scotch whiskey into the United States, and was the ambassador to the

Court of Saint James."

"Almost as well-connected as Jimmy, in other words," Canidy said

dryly.

"I think that ran through Colonel Donovan' mind when he suggested we

involve Captain Whittaker in the flying-bomb project," Stevens said

dryly. Then he looked at his watch.

"Hadn't you better start heading back to Whitby House?"

"I sort of hoped I could stick around here until we hear something more

about Fine," Canidy said. "Sure," Stevens said.

"Stay right here, if you like. As soon as I hear anything, IT let you

know."

FOUR I Whithy House Sent, England 2100 Hours August 17, 1942

As he pulled the heavy tarpaulin from the trunk of the Ford and dragged

it in place over the car, Captain James M. B. Whittaker wondered if he

was being subtly punished by Major Richard Canidy. There was no reason

Canidy couldn't have driven the Ford himself into London, but he had

insisted that Whittaker drive him. And there was no reason Whittaker

could not have stayed in London, but Canidy had insisted the risk of

leaving the stolen car (despite new numbers painted on the hood and a

valid trip ticket) in London overnight was too great to take. So he

wound up, in the car he had stolen for his own convenience, playing

chauffeur to Canidy and being sent back to Whitby House like any other

chauffeur.

Canidy could be subtle at times, and this was probably one of those

times. When he walked into Whitby House, the officer of the guard told

him that Lieutenant Jamison had gone to the movie they were showing.

The movie started at 2000 hours, so there was no point in walking down

there just to see the end of it. If Jamison had gone to the movies,

the duchess had probably gone with him. With Canidy gone, he could

have at least tried to have a shot at the THE SECRET WARRIORS 11 BOB

duchess, even though he knew Canidy was dead serious when he told him

the duchess was off-limits. As Whittaker made his way up the wide

staircase to his apartment-the one that was once the duchess's-he was

forced to conclude that the world was often cruel to kind, gentle, and

all around worthy people like himself. When he got to the apartment,

he felt he was entitled, by way of solace, to a drink or two of the

Scotch Canidy had had the foresight to steal from the cabinet in the

library of the house on Q Street. If he didn't drink it now, he

thought, it would be all gone. And technically, it was his anyway. He

went into the ducal chambers, found the Scotch, poured a glassful, and

carried the glass back into the apartment. There he carefully poured

two inches of it into a second glass, added water, and sat down in a

high-backed chair. He was sipping it when there was a loud and almost

vulgar gurgling sound. He looked around the suite in surprise and for

the first time saw there was a crack of light under the door to the

bathroom. The duchess is shamelessly taking advantage of the American

hot water, he thought.

Naughty. And she is not at the movies with Jamison.. Elizabeth,

Duchess Stan field, came into the room several minutes later, She was

wearing a thick terry-cloth robe, and her hair was wrapped in a

towel.

"I'd hoped to be done before you returned," she said. "No apologies

required," he said.

"My bathtub is your bathtub, as they say in ol' Meh-hi-co." She smiled

at him.

"That was a quick trip," she said. "Our leader elected to stay in

London," Whittaker said. "And you didn't?" she teased. "Oh, he was

on business," Whittaker said, "And I guess he-" can at? " "There's a

mission on. I think he wanted to stick close to London to get word on

it. A couple of pals of ours are involved."

"I see," she said.

"Waiting is difficult, isn't it?"

"Can I offer you a little belt of this?" he asked.

"Guaranteed to cure what ails you and to take the hair off your

chest."

Now, that was a god damned dumb thing to say. "What is it?" she

asked.

"Genuine Scotch whiskey," he said "Yes, I think I would," she said.

"I feel a bit down, myself." or given me. Watch She basf the mouth

from here on in.

"Me, too," he said.

"They say that misery loves company." He made her a drink. She

surprised him by saying she -would take it neat. "This is very nice,"

she said.

"Reimported from the United States by our leader," he said. "Will he

be angry when he finds it gone?"

"Probably," Whittaker said.

"Why do you ask? Has he been jumping on you again?"

"Oh no," she said, and then laughed. "What's so funny?"

"Two people speaking the same language differently again," she said.

"The vernacular is different. I would not use that slang, if you don't

mind the suggestion, in mixed English company."

"Jumping is screwing in English English?" he asked. "Why did I bring

this subject up?" Why indeed?

"In Australia it's 'rooting," Whittaker offered. "Did you have a nice

ride to and from London?" she asked, diverting the conversation to

what she obviously hoped was a sexless subject. "Lovely," he said.

"Why are you down? Is there anything I can do?"

"You've done it," she said, raising the whiskey glass. "That's not an

answer," he said. "I took advantage of everyone's absence to wander

through the house," she said.

"I'm afraid it was a mistake. It made me miss my husband." Well,

there goes the ball game. "Where's he stationed?"

"My husband is down," she said.

"He was flying a Wellington. It went down over Hanover. There were

some parachutes, but there's been no word."

"Jesus," Whittaker said.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know about that." Her eyes met his for a moment,

then she looked away. "Could you possibly spare some more of that?"

she asked. She could not let things stand like that, she decided. It

would be unfair. "Of course," he said, and poured Scotch in her

glass.

"When that's gone, I'll go steal some more."

"Why are you down?" she asked. "The standard reason, I suppose:

unrequited love."

"That's strange," she said.

"I thought you would be one of these people who believe that not to

worry, if you lose one woman, another will be along shortly, like a

tram."

"After a while, Your Grace, one becomes rather bored with trams," he

said, in a credible, mock British accent. She laughed. "Then this is

a serious relationship that's gone awry?" she said. "It hasn't gone

awry, because I have never been able to get this particular tram on the

tracks."

"Have you told her?"

"She knows."

"Oh."

"Were you ever infatuated, as a girl, with a boy? I mean when you were

ten, or twelve? And the boy was a couple of years older? 410f

course," she said.

"This girl thinks she is too young for you?"

"The reverse. I was the ten-year-old hopelessly in love with a

thirteen year-old girl."

"And she thought-still thinks-she's too old for you?"

"That's part of it, I think," he said.

"She can't forget the bony-kneed little boy with braces on his teeth

and suppurating acne." She chuckled. "You don't have acne now," she

said.

You're a damned good-looking young man, as a matter of fact. "I was

sitting here developing a theory that she's been burned by love."

"All women are burned by love at one time or another," she said.

"It passes with time."

"I think she was really in love with this guy," Whittaker said.

"Which makes sense, considering the guy. And the girl."

"You know him?"

"Very well," Whittaker said.

"He died."

"And she's mourning over him?"

"Some people have said that this guy and I are-were-very much alike.

Theory two thousand and two holds that she is rejecting me because I am

so much like the other guy. That she was really hurt when he kicked

the bucket and is afraid of getting involved again and getting hurt

again."

"That's an interesting theory," she said.

"You want my advice?"

"Why not?"

"She'll probably come to her senses," she said.

"Sooner or later. Are you willing to wait?"

"Oh, yeah. I don't have any choice in the matter."

"Then wait," she said.

"It may not take as long as you think it will. "And, in the meantime,

you don't happen to know when the next tram will be along, do you? To

tide me over?" Whittaker saw her face change. You did it again, Motor

mouth! Jesus, what's wrong with you? "I'm sorry," he said.

"I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

"No offense taken," she said.

"I knew what you meant."

"I'm about to have another of these," Whittaker said, raising his

glass. "How about you?"

"I won't even say I shouldn't," she said, drained her glass, and handed

it to him. He reached for the bottle of Scotch. "Have you ever

wondered why there are two apartments?" she asked. "Why I lived here,

and my husband in a separate apartment?" The question confused him,

and when he turned to look at her, it showed on his face. "I suppose

that goes back a long time," he said. "The purpose of marriage between

the nobility is to ensure the line, to buttress alliances," she said.

"That sort of thing."

"I'm about to misinterpret this whole conversation," he said. "No,"

she said.

"You already have misinterpreted this conversation, with that sweet,

hopeless look on your face when I told you Edward is listed as

missing."

"You said you missed him," Whittaker said. "As indeed I do," she

said.

"He's a fine, amusing, decent human being, and I pray he's all

right."

"But?"

"We were married because it was expected of us," she said. "One does

what one is expected to do. And avoids what one is expected to avoid,

which includes doing anything that would cause talk. In other words, I

had to be Caesar's wife while I was assigned to the War Office." He

looked at her in surprise. He saw in her eyes that he had not

misunderstood her meaning. "This isn't the War Office," Whittaker

said.

TELL SECRET WARRIORS 0 ass "And we are alone in the house," she said.

"I was thinking that perhaps we both have been waiting for the same

tram."

"Jesus H. Christ!" Whittaker said. She licked her lips nervously.

"I shock you, don't I?" she asked. She stood up.

"Would you rather I leave?"

"No," he said, a tone of excitement in his voice.

"For Christ's sake, you can't leave now." She nodded her head.

Carrying her fresh drink, he went to her and handed it to her. She

took a sip and then set the glass on the table beside her chair. "I

probably shouldn't tell you this," she said.

"But I just realized I have been hoping that something like this would

happen from the moment I saw you looking at my breasts."

"In the kitchen, you mean?" he asked. She nodded. She put her hand

to his face. "You looked so hungry," she said.

"So love-starved. I know the feeling.))

She took her hand from his cheek, caught his hand with hers, and

directed it to the cord of her robe. He tugged on it, and it came

loose.

He lowered his head and took her nipple in his mouth. She held him

there for a moment, then shrugged out of the robe and let it fall to

the floor. She stepped away from him and, looking into his eyes,

pulled the towel off her head and shook her hair. Then she turned and

walked naked to the canopied bed, threw the cover off, and slipped

under the sheets.

"If Canidy finds out about this," he said, "both our asses will be in a

crack." 11

"Then," the Duchess of Stan field said, we shall have to be careful

that he doesn't find out, shall't we?" He went to the three doors to

the apartment and carefully locked them. Then he walked toward the

bed, shrugging out of his clothes.

He was later glad that he had locked them, for at ten minutes after

four, several minutes after the duchess had woken up feeling frisky and

had awakened him in what he thought was a delightfully wicked way,

Lieutenant Jamison attempted entry without knocking. "Whittaker!"

Jamison called impatiently.

"Open the damned door! Whittaker tried to open the door just wide

enough to see what the sonofabitch wanted, but Jamison pushed his way

inside, looked in genuine surprise at the duchess, and thereafter

pretended she was invisible. "Colonel Stevens was just on the horn,"

he said.

"You're to come to the hangar at Croydon as soon as you can get

there."

"He say why?"

"No," he said.

"But he said bring a change of clothes, and either come by jeep or

bring somebody along to drive the Ford back here."

"Go take the tarpaulin off," the duchess of Stan field said. "I can

drive the Ford." Then she got out of bed and trotted regally, stark

naked, across the room to retrieve her bathrobe from where she had

dropped it on the floor. X X11

ONE I Croydon Airfield London, England 0915 Hours August 19, 1942

They had a bit of trouble, as it turned out, gaining entrance to the

field itself. The red-hatted soldiers of His Majesty's Military

Police, who guarded it, had been ordered to be on the lookout for a

stolen American Ford staff car meeting the description of the one they

were driving. The MP officer of the guard, however, backed down before

the icy indignation of Captain the Duchess Stan field, V@RAC, who was

driving the car. Her Grace was incensed that anyone could imagine for

a moment that she could possibly be found in the company of a car

thief.

And they were passed on to the field. The C-46 was out of the hangar,

and a snub-nosed English fuel truck was parked beside it. Its hose led

to the auxiliary fuel tanks inside the fuselage. Canidy was standing

in the aircraft door watching the proceedings. When he saw the Ford

drive up, he came down the ladder. "What's going on?" Whittaker

asked. "I hate to say this, but the duchess doesn't have the need to

know," Canidy said.

"The War Office and the OSS agreed that any actions taken with regard

to Admiral de Verbey would be a joint decision," the duchess said.

"So file an official complaint," Canidy said, and took Whittaker by the

arm and led him inside the hangar. "The captain," he said to the

guards loud enough for the duchess to hear him, "is not authorized to

enter the hangar." Inside, Whittaker saw Colonel Stevens standing

expectantly beside a telephone. Next to him, a cigarette dangling from

his lips, was the London chief of station. "Are they down?" Whittaker

asked. That could be the only explanation for their summons in the

middle of the night to Croydon. Something had happened to Fine's

airplane, and the backup was needed. "They're overdue at Bissau,"

Canidy said, "They will run out of fuel in about fifteen minutes."

"So the backup flight is on?"

"Well, that's being decided," Canidy said dryly, nodding toward Colonel

Stevens and the chief of station, "at the highest levels. Things are

just fucked up, Jimmy."

"Well, then, tell me what's going on," Whittaker said reasonably.

"I'll start from the beginning," Canidy said, "At seventeen hundred

hours yesterday, purely as a precautionary measure, Colonel Stevens

called over here and asked to speak to Commander Whatsisname. He

wanted to put him on a six-as opposed to a twelve-hour alert. The

flight engineer told him that Commander Whatsisnarne was with Captain

Somebody at the moment.

So Stevens, being a nice guy, said that's all right, when he comes

back, tell him he's now on a six-hour alert, and ask him to call me for

details. That's fuckup number one."

"How?" Whittaker asked. "Bear with me," Canidy said.

"Then he went over to meet me at the Dorchester, where he told me that

Scotland Yard is on the case of the stolen Ford, and that they expect

to have the criminal behind bars in the immediate future."

"Are you serious "Dead serious," Canidy said. "Christ, and Elizabeth's

going to drive it back to Whitby House."

"I'm fascinated to hear you refer to her as Elizabeth," Canidy said.

"But I thought you wanted to hear about this."

"Go on."

"We had a drink, and then he took me upstairs to a just-swept room, THE

SECRET WARRIORS a 29a where I was, as they say, brought into the big

picture. That was fucki number two."

"I don't understand that."

"I am now possessed, the London station chief feels, of such hot s(

crets that my capture cannot be risked, and therefore I can't go on

the, backup flight."

"So I'm to go," Whittaker said. "I'm not finished," Canidy said.

"After I was admitted to all the secret crap, and Stevens went back to

the OSS, the duty officer told him that Commander Whatsisname-"

"Logan," Whittaker impatiently furnished the name of the NATC aircraft

pilot. "-Logan had yet to report in, So Stevens called back out here,

and the flight engineer said he had heard from him. They were in

Liverpool, and Liverpool is socked in. The captain Commander Logan had

gone to see was in Liverpool. That was the first time Stevens had

heard that," "What time is Logan due here?"

"The train will get them here sometime around noon, I understand,"

Canidy said.

"The weather has been updated-would you like a report? I've been

running over to the weather office every fifteen minutes or so since

about one this morning when the chief of station arrived out here.

Liverpool is thick ground fog, visibility about two and a half feet,

and expected to worsen. Oh yeah, and I seem to have left out that at

midnight Colonel Stevens woke me up and told me it might be a good idea

if I came out here."

"What about another crew?" Whittaker said. "There ought to be lot of

people who can fly C-46s around here."

"Not as many as everybody thought," Canidy said.

"And none we can find with a Top Secret security clearance, which the

station chief has thrown into the equation. The Air Force is working

on that. If they find somebody, then we have the problem of getting

them here."

"You and I could fly it,' Whittaker said. "You said the engineer is

here."

"You weren't listening,' Canidy said.

"I can't go. I know too much."

"So what happens now?" Canidy nodded again toward the station chief

and Colonel Stevens, who were hovering around the telephone.

"We wait for the phone to ring," Canidy said. "Jesus Christ,"

Whittaker said. The phone never rang. But ten minutes later, after

Canidy had looked at his wristwatch yet again, a motorcycle messenger

arrived outside the hangar. "I don't like that," Canidy said. "How do

you know what it is?" Whittaker asked. "If it were good news," Canidy

said, "they would have called and said something mysterious that would

have let him know. Shit, they're down. They've probably been down for

hours." The chief of station took the message, read it, and handed it

to Colonel Stevens. They exchanged no more than six words, and then

Stevens waved Canidy and Whittaker over to them. As they approached,

the station chief took the message back from Stevens. "We can't wait

any longer," Stevens said.

"We have just been authorized to take any risk considered necessary."

"Such as sending two fighter pilots to Africa in a C-46? " Canidy

said.

"The risk, Major Canidy," the station chief said coldly, "is that you

would find yourself being interrogated by the Germans. it has been

decided that the mission is worth running that risk."

"So we go?"

Canidy asked. "Yes, Dick, as soon as you can get in the air," Stevens

said. "I want to see you alone a moment, Whittaker," the station chief

said. "I'll go wake up the engineer and tell him to wind the rubber

bands, Canidy said, "Colonel, where's the flight plan?"

"The engineer has it," Stevens said.

Ten minutes later, Canidy called the Croydon tower and reported that

NATS Four-oh-two was at the threshold of the active and requested

takeoff clearance. "NATS Four-oh-two, hold your position. I have a

C-54 trying to land at this time."

"Roger, Croydon," Canidy said.

"Four-oh-two holding on the threshold. Whittaker got out of his

seat.

"Don't go anywhere without me," he said.

Canidy wondered where the hell he was going, then realized that

Whittaker needed to take a leak. Whittaker came back as an Air

Transport Command C-54 roared past and touched down. C'I hope the

rubber bands don't break and we have to come back," Canidy said.

"I'd hate to try to land here in this shit, He looked at Whittaker as

he spoke. Whittaker was extending a small snub-nosed Smith & Wesson

revolver toward him. "Put this where you won't shoot yourself," he

said." Where'd you get that?" i'the station chief gave me one, and he

gave the engineer one. I just took that one away from the engineer."

" Why? " "Because when the station chief gave me mine, he said I was

to use it on you in case it looked as if you were going to fall into

enemy hands, and I figured he probably told the engineer the same

thing." Canidy looked at him incredulously. Whittaker nodded. "Jesus

Christ," Canidy said.

"Yeah," Whittaker said. "NATS Four-oh-two, you are cleared for

takeoff.

Maintain a heading of two-seven-zero magnetic until you reach seven

thousand feet." Canidy looked over his shoulder at the engineer.

"Stand by to give me takeoff power," he said into his microphone. Then

he released the brakes, tapped the throttles enough to get him onto the

runway, and lined up with the white line down the center. "Give me

fall takeoff power," he said to the microphone, then switched to

transmit.

"Understand two-seven-zero, seven thousand. Navy A.T.C. Four-oh-two

roiling" The C-46 began to gather speed very quickly, and he felt the

controls come to life. just as he lifted off, he saw the C-54 that had

just landed taxiing toward the terminal area.

The C-54 stopped three minutes later in front of the terminal. Ground

crewmen pushed steps to the door. An officer with colonel's eagles on

the --Mo. Unar1ran epaulets of his trench coat ran through the rain

from the terminal and up the stairs. It took the flight attendant

longer than he expected to open the door, and he was drenched when he

finally stepped inside the aircraft. "Gentlemen," he said, "welcome to

the European Theater of Operations. We are delighted to have so many

distinguished members of the press with us. We have buses waiting for

you, which will take you to the press center, where we will serve

breakfast. By the time breakfast is over, '11 have your luggage sorted

out and in your rooms. I must remind you we that from this moment you

are subject to both censorship and military authority, Now, if there

are no questions that won't wait, gentlemen, I suggest you begin to

debark the aircraft." The last distinguished gentleman of the press

off the aircraft wore a pink skirt beneath her brand-new green tunic

with the shiny war correspondent brass pins. There was an official hat

that went with the ensemble, but Ann Chambers thought it made her look

ridiculous, and she had already 'lost" it. She carried a canvas

suitcase, a typewriter, and a Leica camera that had cost her an arm and

a leg in Washington just before she left. Well, here I am, Ann

Chambers thought.

Now the question is, where's Dick Canidy?

I TWO I Over Exeter, England 0715 Hours August 19,1942

The P-38, with flaps down to dirty it up enough to slow it to the speed

of the C-46, appeared so suddenly that Canidy was a little shaken.

They were over the soup, and the early-morning sun made the thick layer

of clouds beneath them look like an endless layer of cotton batting.

Canidy reached forward, took the cans from the throttle quadrant, and

held one to his ear. "Good morning big fat Navy lady," the cheerful

voice of the fighter pilot said. "Good morning Canidy replied.

"There seems to be some doubt that big fat Navy lady could find the

ocean by its lonesome," the fighter pilot said.

"We have been sent up to lead you to it." Whittaker grabbed his

microphone. "This is Admiral Wellington," he said.

"Not only are you fifteen minutes late to the rendezvous point, but you

have an intolerable notion of toper radio procedure. I recommend that

you take up a position five P him re yar s above and in front of this

aircraft, and maintain radio silence until directed otherwise." The

flaps went up, the P-38 moved ahead, and the fighter pilot came back on

the air. "Tangerine, this is Tangerine Leader. Form on me in a V

formation," he said, considerably less cheerful. There were six P-38s

in Tangerine, and they quickly formed a V five hundred yards above and

ahead of the C-46. Whittaker went back on the radio. "Tangerine

Leader, drop back to the rear of the formation," he ordered. Very

slowly, the other aircraft in the flight passed the P-38 that had been

the point of the V. When the leader was trading the formation,

Whittaker went back on the radio again. "Tangerine Six," he ordered,

"wiggle your wings."

The wings of the last P-3 8 on the right of the V dutifully dipped to

the left and then to the right. "Tangerine Leader," Whittaker went on,

"exercising due caution, move up behind Tangerine Six, until such time

as you have your nose up his ass.

Tangerine Leader's P-38, which had begun obediently to ease up behind

Tangerine Six, now moved to the center of the V, and then back to the

point. "Let that be a lesson to you, Tangerine Leader," Whittaker

said.

"Never try to fuck with a couple of old fighter pilots. "Score one for

the Navy," Tangerine Leader said, chuckling. "We have enough benzene

to stick with you for maybe two hours. We were already up here when

they sent us looking for you. Hope that helps."

"We're glad to have you," Canidy said, meaning it. German fighter

aircra from fields in Normandy and Brittany patrolled the Atlantic off

the western coast of England.

"What are a couple of old fighter pilots doing flying that thing?"

" One of us stole a car," Canidy said," and we are being punished. The

P-38s left them over the Atlantic when they were about halfway between

Brest and Cape Finister on the western coast of Spain. Two and a half

hours later, without incident, Canidy put the C-46 down at Lisbon.

THREE I Arrecite Field Lanzarote, Canary Islands 1800 Hours August

19,1942

Fine, Wilson, and Nembly had been taken in the back of one of the

trucks to an ancient stone barracks on Lanzarote, and held in a

sparsely furnished basement room long enough for Wilson and Nembly to

conclude that whatever Fine was up to, it wasn't going to work. They

were going to be interned for God alone knew how long. There was no

breeze in the room and the air was hot and humid. They were fed, three

times, on speckled blue porcelain-over-tin plates. The first meal was

sausage and peppers, a chunk of bread, and coffee. The second meal was

ground meat and peppers, a chunk of bread, and coffee. The third meal

was identical to the first. When the door to their basement room

opened again, Wilson cracked, "Gee, I hope they serve peppers for a

change." But this wasn't another meal. It was-a tall,

aristocratic-looking officer in a well-cut uniform, who announced that

he was Colonel di Fortini. Di Fortini went to each of them in turn,

formally and expansively shook their hands, and told them, in vaguely

British-accented English, that he was very happy indeed to have the

pleasure of meeting them. Then he politely asked if he could have a

word in private with Stanley S. Fine, took him to a corner of the room,

and, whispering confidentially, said that he was sure Fine was aware of

the arrangement made between certain mutual friends of theirs. Fine

gave him forty thousand dollars. Colonel di Fortini very politely said

he understood the figure agreed upon was fifty thousand dollars. Fine

told him he had given the other ten thousand dollars to the officer who

had met them on landing. Colonel di Fortini said that whatever Fine

had given anyone else was between them, the figure that he had agreed

to was fifty thousand dollars. There was something unreal, almost

comical, about the conversation. All he has to do, Fine thought as he

took another ten-thousand-dollar stack of bills from his money belt and

handed it to di Fortini, is help himself I couldn't do a damned thing

if he did. As Fine stuffed his shirt over the remaining forty thousand

dollars in his money belt, di Fortini carefully distributed his five

ten-thousand-dollar stacks of currency in his tunic pockets, then shook

Fine's hand again. Then he gestured dramatically toward the door.

Fine told him that it would be necessary to work on the engine, and

that he would be most grateful if the colonel could arrange for a

ladder to do so. "Your mechanical irregularity has been detected and

corrected," di Fortini said, "by our very best workmen. It was a loose

oil line." Fine said that he would like to have a look at the engine

anyway, just to be sure there was nothing else wrong. "That will be

unnecessary," di Fortini said.

"You have my personal assurance that there is no longer any sort of

mechanical irregularity." Fine decided not to press the point. If the

leak had not been repaired, that would be evident when they started the

engine. To insist on checking would have been an insult to Spanish

pride, and they were in no position to insult anything Spanish. There

was a little smoke when Wilson cranked the engine, but that was

residual lost oil, and it disappeared before they had taxied back down

the runway and turned around to take off. Wilson was flying. He

didn't say so, but it was clear that he thought the runway much too

short. He ran the engines to full takeoff power before releasing the

brakes, and they were within a hundred yards of the end of the runway

before he could get it in the air.

There was nothing to worry about now, Fine thought, as they passed

through 8,000 on their way to their cruising altitude of 9,000 feet,

but two 44 small" problems. First, there was the very real possibility

that the charming Colonel di Fortini had contacted his German friends

in Morocco.

300 a W.E.H. ariffin Second, they were now going to arrive at Bissau

before daybreak. Arrangements had been made for them to land there at

night, and the runway lights would be on to accommodate them. Now they

were long behind schedule. Bissau would naturally have assumed that

they had gone down in the drink, and there would be no one available to

turn on the landing-field lights.

Thankfully, there were no Germans, but there was another problem. As

they reached 10,000 feet, Nembly began to complain of cramps. By the

time they had climbed to 20,000 feet, his cramps had turned to

diarrhea.

With a portable oxygen mask clamped to his face, he had gone into the

cabin to deal as best he could with the situation on the makeshift

toilet.

FOUR I Aero port de Bissau Portuguese auinea 0225 Hours August 20, 194a

There was a radio direction transmitter at Bissau, a weak one. And

when the CAT aircraft reached the area, they spotted a rotating

beacon.

But aside from a few faint lights-which could have been streetlights or

anything-the beacon was the only aviation light, There were no runway

lights. And there was no answer when Fine tried to reach the tower on

the air-to-ground radio, There was an hour-thirty fuel aboard.

Sunrise was at 0455, twenty-five minutes after they would run out of

fuel, There was no alternative airport.

They were flying two-minute circles around the flashing beacon, when

all of a sudden approach lights and runway lights flickered, blinked,

and then stayed on, and a voice came over the air.

"Aircraft in vicinity Bissau aerodrome, this is Bissau tower." The

runway was rough, narrow, short, and-when they finally slowed down

enough in the landing roll-they saw that it was paved with some sort of

shell.

When they went into the cabin, Nembly was sitting on the makeshift

toilet, hunched under a blanket. He was obviously quite ill.

THE SECRET WARRIORS NM 301

"Fucking Spaniards and their fucking peppers," Nembly said. One man

was both tower operator and airport manager. He was plump and

olive-skinned and he wore a loosely woven shirt with square tails

outside his trousers. In broken English, he told them that when they

hadn't shown up on schedule, he had assumed they weren't coming. Fine

managed to explain that they would need a ladder to inspect the

engines. A heavy wooden ladder was produced, which proved too short to

reach the C-46's engine nacelles. The airport manager sent for a

truck. With the ladder on the truck bed, it was high enough. Wilson

climbed very carefully up, worked the Dzus fasteners, and opened the

nacelle cover. "Looks all right to me," Wilson called after three

minutes of close inspection.

"Maybe that Spaniard knew what he was doing." And then the ladder rung

he was standing on made a cracking noise and gave way. Wilson fell

outward, arms flailing. His forehead struck one of the propeller

blades a glancing blow, but enough to open the skin. Then he fell onto

the roof of the truck. The steel roof made a dull thump, and then

Wilson slid off the roof onto the hood and then the ground. He was

unconscious when Fine reached him, and blood from the cut on his

forehead covered his eyes and lower face. It was immediately evident

that his left arm was broken.

Fine went quickly up the ladder and snatched the first-aid kit from its

mounting just for-ward of the door. When he saw Nembly on the toilet,

he realized for the first time that the C-46 was without a competent

pilot.

He went back down the ladder and rolled Wilson onto his back. First he

applied a pressure dressings pad of bandage attached to cloth-to

Wilson's head to stop the bleeding. Then he found an ammonia ampoule,

snapped the top, and put it under Wilson's nostrils. Wilson groaned,

shook his head, tried to sit up, and then cried out in agony as the

broken ends of the bones of his left arm ground against each other.

"Oh shit!" Wilson said.

"It hurts." Fine found a morphine syringe in the first-aid kit and

injected Wilson in the buttock. There was a hospital, the airport

manager told Fine, run by Catholic nuns. They put Wilson in the cab of

the truck and took him there, a fifteen-minute drive over a very bumpy

road. Twice Wilson asked to stop so that he could throw up. With

infinite gentleness, but no local anesthetic, two very obliging nuns,

wearing thin cotton robes and headpieces, cleaned and sutured the deep

cut in Wilson's forehead, and then, making him scream despite the

morphine, set his broken arm and wrapped it in a heavy plaster of parts

cast. Wilson sat up, his face gray and covered with beads of sweat.

"It's a hell of a place to be marooned," he said.

"But it looks like this cockamamy operation is suspended again, at

least until we can cure Nembly of his terminal shits."

"There's a schedule," Fine said. "Is the schedule that important?"

Wilson asked after a moment. "I think so," Fine said. "Well, I can

sit there and work the flaps, I suppose," Wilson said. Four hours

after they landed at Bissau, they took off again. When he had it at

cruising altitude and trimmed up, Fine went back in the cabin to check

on Nembly.

He was off the portable toilet, but not far from it, curled up under

blankets.

As he went back to the cabin, Fine consoled himself that even the worst

case of diarrhea probably wouldn't last more than twelve hours. By the

time they reached Luanda, Nembly would be well enough to take the

controls. When he had strapped himself in the pilot's seat, Wilson

asked him if there was any Benzedrine.

"I'm getting pretty damned groggy," he said. "Why don't you get some

sleep?" Fine said.

"And take the Benzedrine when you wake up? I can handle it for a

while."

"I've just got to take a couple of winks," Wilson said, making it an

apology. He fell asleep almost immediately. Fine found the

Benzedrine.

It was guaranteed to keep you awake, he had been told, the price being

that you slept like you were dead when they wore off. He decided

against taking any yet. He would wait until he really needed one.

There was very little to do in the cockpit. The C-46 was on autopilot

on a southeasterly course that took them over the South Atlantic. It

was twenty-four hundred miles, say ten hours, from Bissau to Luanda.

He knew he could not expect to hit it using only dead reckoning. It

was like flying from Pensacola to Boston and back with no reference to

anything on the ground and with no assist from navigational aids. They

were also now out of oxygen, which meant that he could fly no higher

than 12,000 feet, which in turn meant the fuel consumption was

considerably higher than it would have been at 20,000. He drank all

but what he guessed were two cups of the now-cold coffee in the

thermos. He had to leave some for Nembly, he knew, presuming he

recovered, or for Wilson if he didn't, He dozed off, caught himself,

shifted in the seat, and flexed his legs and arms. He thought that

perhaps if he took the plane off the autopilot and flew it, that might

keep him awake. He really didn't want to start taking the Benzedrine

just yet.

He woke up, he didn't know how much later, looked at the altimeter, and

felt bile in his throat. The altimeter indicated 7,000 feet, He knew

what had happened. He had dozed off, apparently with the airplane

trimmed in a very slight nose-down position. Losing this much altitude

was bad, but it would have been worse if the nose had been elevated as

much as it had been depressed. If that had happened, they would have

just as gently climbed 5,000 feet, which would have taken them to

17,000. From 13,000 up there would have been increasing oxygen

starvation. He would have been unconscious at around 14,000, and at

17,000 they would have all been dead. He reached for the trim wheel

and set up a slight nose-up altitude. Then he popped three of the

Benzedrine capsules into his mouth and washed them down with a swallow

of cold coffee. Benzedrine was no longer an option for later use; he

needed it now. He took the C-46 to 10,000 feet, then went aft again to

check on Nembly. If anything, he was worse. Whatever was wrong with

him, Fine decided, it had nothing to do with Spanish peppers. But when

he got back to the cockpit, Wilson was awake. "Is there any coffee

left?" Wilson asked.

"I can watch the gauges awhile.

"I just took some Benzedrine," Fine said as he poured a cupful of

coffee for Wilson. "You should have woken me up," Wilson said.

What I should have done, Fine thought, suddenly furious, when Canidy

waved the flag at me, was tell him to stick it up his ass. Then I

wouldn't be in this fucking mess. The depth of his anger surprised

him.

After a moment, he decided it was a symptom of fatigue. And fear.

The next thing he knew, he was coming awake. His bladder ached to be

relieved of all the coffee, The damned Benzedrine doesn't work, he

thought angrily. The forty-eight-hour clock on the instrument panel

had stopped. He looked at his watch. He had been asleep for two

hours. The clock had stopped long before that. They had forgotten to

wind it. What else, in our fatigue, have we forgotten to do? He wound

the clock and set it, and then went aft to relieve himself. Nembly was

shivering beneath his blankets, and the square aluminum box they were

using as a toilet smelled so foul when Fine lifted the lid he thought

he was going to be sick.

I FIVE I Luanda, Portuguese Angola 1000 Hours August ao, 194a For some

reason-perhaps, Whittaker thought, because the London station chief had

given him a gun so he could shoot Canidy, or perhaps because Whittaker

had shoved his own gun into the man's face and taken the gun away-the

flight engineer was growing more and more nervous and irritable as the

flight progressed. And ten hours and fifteen minutes after they had

taken off, he had come forward and angrily and without asking

permission switched on the radio direction finder. Canidy had turned

it off hours before; its hiss annoyed him, and they were not in range

of any transmitter it could detect. The way that sono/abitcb did that,

Whittaker thought angrily, was pretty damned close to giving me the

finger I'm pilot in command of this god damned airplane; I decide what

gets switched on and when.

THE SECRET WARRIORS 9 3os After a moment's thought, he decided against

calling the engineer down.

The poor bastard's probably nearly as scared as I am. Whittaker looked

over at Canidy, who was sound asleep with his head resting at an angle

that was going to give him a stiff neck when he woke. Very tenderly,

Whittaker leaned over and pushed Dick gently, so that his head hung

down over his chest. He would not wake him, he decided, until they

were twenty minutes or so out of Luanda.

They found Luanda when and where they had planned to, and Whittaker set

it down with no trouble. When they shut down the engines in front of

the corrugated tin building that was the Luanda terminal, they saw

waiting for them-in addition to the khaki-uniformed Portuguese customs

officials-a civilian, obviously American, wearing a seersucker suit, a

necktie, and a natty straw hat. Canidy climbed down the ladder and

approached him. "I'm Canidy," Canidy said.

"I presume you're from the consulate?" The man gave him his hand. The

handshake was perfunctory. "My name is Spiers," the man said, "Ronald

I.

Spiers, and I'm the United States Consul General for Angola."

"Have you any word on what happened to the other plane?"

Canidy asked.

Ronald I. Spiers ignored the question.

"Excuse me, but you'll understand the necessity of this," he said.

"Do you have any identification?"

"Who the bell else do you think would be flying that airplane?" Jim

Whittaker asked. He looks and talks like Baker, Canidy thought. They

must have a mold somewhere where they turn them out like Hershey bars,

each one just like every other one. And how did you fuck up, Mr United

States Consul General, to get stuck in an asshole of the world like

this?

"One never knows, does one?" Spiers said. Canidy handed over his AGO

card. Spiers examined it and passed it back.

"There has been no word on the other aircraft," he said. Shit!"

Canidy said.

"Goddamn it!" Whittaker said. Spiers looked at them with distaste.

Then he opened his briefcase and took from it an envelope stamped "Top

Secret." He opened it and took out a single sheet of paper and handed

it to Canidy.

U R G E N T DEPT STATE WASHINGTON VIA MACKAY FOR US EMBASSY

JOHANNESBURG SOUTH AFRICA SSADOR STATE RELAY FOLLOWING US CONSUL

GENERAL T-,T-TSSIBLE MEANS INCLUDING bbumm STOP REPORT D RADIO STOP

QUOTE DIRECTION SEC STATE RELAY TO STA: S FM ABOARD CHINA AM TRANSPORT

C-46 AIRCRAFT SCHEDULED REFUEL LUANDA 19 AUGUST STOP IF UNABLE ARRIVE

CAR FOUR HOURS PRIOR DAYBREAK 21 AUGUST ABO CAPETOWN SOUTH AFRICA STOP

CANNOT IMPORTANCE OF CARGO PICKUP STOP SIGN AT STOP END MESSAGE

"Inasmuch as we must presume the other aircraft has been lost, Spiers;

said, emotionless, "I thought I should make the contents of the cable

known to you."

Canidy handed the cable to Whittaker. "You should have no problem,"

Spiers said.

"I have arranged for your aircraft to be refueled. That should take no

more than an hour. You can arrive in Kolwezi in plenty of time to load

your cargo and depart within that time frame."

"We'll take off about half past seven tonight," Canidy said. "That

should put us over the border at half past eight. By then it should be

dark."

"I'd really rather you continue on with this mission just as soon as

you could," Spiers said. "You would?" Canidy asked dryly. "I was led

to believe that the aircraft would bear civilian markings," Spiers

said.

"There is liable to be trouble with the Portuguese authorities over a

military aircraft."

"Well, you'll just have to handle the Portuguese," Canidy said. "I'm

afraid I must insist," Spiers said. "I have no intention of flying an

aircraft with "US Navy' painted in large letters on the wings over the

Belgian Congo in the daylight," Canidy said. "I hadn't considered

that," Spiers said.

"It will make things difficult for me, but I suppose you're right."

"I'm glad you feel that way," Canidy said. If Spiers detected the

sarcasm, he gave no sign. "Is there someplace we can get something to

eat, and maybe some sleep?" Canidy asked. "Do you think that's

wise?"

Spiers asked. "The eating or the sleeping?" Whittaker asked

innocently.

Spiers could not ignore the' sarcasm. "There is a hotel in town," he

said.

"I'll take you there."

The hotel rooms were dirty, and none of them could read the menu in the

dining room. Whittaker solved the problem by flapping his arms and

making sounds like a rooster. Soon they were served a large platter of

scrambled eggs and a large loaf of freshly baked, very good bread. The

mosquito netting over the beds had holes through which a variety of

winged insects flew with ease. Although he remembered being bitten

only once or twice, when Canidy splashed water on his face and looked

in the mirror, he saw at least a dozen round, angry insect bites. He

found that Whittaker had suffered equally when he met him in the

lobby.

But when he went to wake the night engineer, the room was empty.

Spiers had already joined Whittaker by the time Canidy returned to the

lobby.

"Where do you think he is?" he asked. "He's around town somewhere,"

Canidy said.

"He's going to wait until we take off and then reappear, all apologies

for having missed the night."

"Why would he do that?"

"He probably came to the slow realization while we flew that this

flight was hazardous duty," Whittaker said. "What am I supposed to do

with him?"

Spiers asked.

"That could pose a very embarrassing situation."

"When he does show up," Canidy said angrily, "you can brighten his day

by telling him that when he does get back, I will press charges." Even

as he said it, he knew it was an empty threat. To charge a man with

avoiding hazardous duty, you would have to specify what hazardous

duty.

Officially, this flight-whether or not they made it-didn't exist. They

didn't absolutely have to have a flight engineer. It was a really

chickenshit-chickenshit, hell, cowardly-thing for the engineer to do,

of course, but he knew that they could do without him. He wondered if

that had entered into the man's thinking. Spiers drove them back to

the airport, where, obviously relieved to be rid of them, he gave them

another perfunctory handshake and watched them climb into the aircraft

and start the engines. Before they taxied to the end of the runway,

they saw his car driving off.

Once they left Luanda, navigation was surprisingly simple. Twenty

minutes out of Luanda-still in a slow climb passing 9,000 feet-Canidy

saw a light to their right and pointed it out to Whittaker. "Probably

Salazar," Whittaker said, but then corrected himself.

"It has to be Salazar. According to the chart, there's absolutely

nothing down there but jungle and that town." Canidy leveled off at

10,000 feet, flew far enough to the left of Salazar so that no one

would hear the airplane, and pointed the nose toward Malange, 110 miles

farther along. Five minutes later, faint but unmistakable against the

absolute blackness, they could see another glow of lights. He flew the

lights to Ca colo, then to Nova Chaves, again far enough to one side so

that no one could hear the engines. Ten minutes after passing Nova

Chaves, they spotted a yellow glow that had to be Kasaji, in the

Belgian Congo, for there was nothing else resembling civilization for

three hundred miles.

They were now over the border-which made them now absolutely illegal.

They had entered the airspace of a neutral, German-occupied country

without permission. The least offense they could be accused of now

would be violating airspace. Later, after they loaded the ore, they

would be smuggling. Unless, of course-and this didn't seem

unlikely-the Germans to whom the Belgians would have to turn them over

decided the best way to deal with the situation-cut down on the

paperwork-was to shoot them on the spot. The London chief of station

wants Whittaker to shoot me. He won't do that, and I damned sure won't

shoot myself Why would the Germans, before they shot me, suspect I knew

anything more than my orders? And probably damned little about why I

was flying this airplane except that I was ordered to. Then the glow

that had to be Kolwezi appeared dead ahead, a soft yellow spot that

seemed even from a distance larger than the other towns. As they got

closer, the lights came into focus and took on a strange pattern like a

lopsided bull's-eye-lines of lights forming concentric circles. "What

the hell is that?" Whittaker asked. "The copper mines," Canidy said,

"the largest man-made hole in the world."

"Kolwezi," Whittaker said to the microphone, "this is Belgian African

Airways Two-zero-six, five miles west. Request you light the

runway."

The lights came on a moment later, not at all bright, but two parallel

lines of them, with three Vs, forming an arrow at one end. Canidy had

never seen lights like that before. He cut back on the power and

lowered the nose. Though there was no communication from the tower,

when he had touched down and begun to slow, he saw the headlights of a

car racing down what had to be an unlighted taxiway parallel to the

runway. He taxied all the way to the far end of the runway, and

concluded that getting out of here with a full load was not going to be

as difficult as he had feared. The runway was wide and very, very

long. It was paved with some sort of crushed stone that was almost

certainly mine tailings.

Canidy shut down the engines as Whittaker went aft to open the door.

When they climbed down the ladder, a man cradling a shotgun in his arm

like a hunter was standing there next to another European. "Bonsoir,

Monsieur Grunier,' Canidy said. "We were beginning to give you up,"

Grunier said. He did not seem surprised to see Canidy, although the

last time they had seen each other was in a small boat off Safi,

Morocco. Grunier had been bound and gagged because his pathetic

pleading to remain in Morocco had been more than Canidy could stand.

Awkwardly, because of his shotgun, Grunier climbed into the C-46 and

looked around. Then he climbed down again. While he was in the

airplane, the runway lights went off. Grunier looked at Whittaker and

matter-of-factly said, "I will kill you if you attempt to leave without

me."

"What the hell is he talking about?" Whittaker asked. "The last time

he was offered government transportation, they left me behind. I guess

he doesn't want that to happen to him," Canidy explained, and then

turned to Grunier.

"My orders are to take you," he said. "Where's the cargo?"

The European took a small flashlight, pointed it, and blinked it on and

off three times. Several hundred yards off in the darkness, there was

the sound of engines starting, and then the sound of vehicles

approaching. When headlights came on, Canidy saw two trucks, a 1938 or

1939 Chevrolet panel truck and a large, canvas-roofed French Renault.

Both had the legend "Union Mini re" painted on their doors.

The larger truck approached the C-46 and then made a turn so that the

headlights shone on an area of spellings. The Chevrolet stopped so

that its headlights lit the C-46 door.

An astonishing number of Africans, tall, muscular, good-looking men

wearing white cotton shirts and what looked like American dungarees,

poured out the back of the Renault truck.

There must be thirty of them, Canidy thought.

The last couple of men off the truck reached back inside and began to

pass out shovels. Several others went to the Chevrolet and came out

with bundles of cloth bags. "It isn't bagged?" Canidy asked

incredulously. "I could move it here without suspicion," the European

said. "But I could not bag it without attracting the attention of the

wrong people." THE SECRET WARRIORS N all "Jesus!" Canidy said. There

was the sound of another truck engine, and Canidy looked with alarm in

that direction.

"The fuel truck," the European said.

"Nothing to worry about. "How long is this going to take?" Canidy

said.

"As long as it takes thirty noires to fill one hundred twenty bags,"

the European said, "and load them on the airplane." The Africans, the

noires, seemed to know exactly what they were doing. One man held open

the mouth of one of the bags while two men shoveled the material into

it. As Canidy watched, a bag was filled. The man who had been holding

the mouth picked it up, shook it to settle it, held it for another

couple of shovelfuls, shook it again, and then took several steps

back.

As he tied the bag, another African with a bag moved into position so

the shovelers could fill it. At the rate they're going, Canidy

thought, they'll be finished long before we're refueled.

six I Luanda, Portuguese Angola 2030 Hours August 20, 1942 When the

Luanda radio direction finder signal had finally grown strong enough to

be trusted, Fine knew they were 150 miles or so almost dead south of

where they were supposed to be. A little farther south and they would

not have picked up the Luanda transmitter at all. But they flew the

needle, and ten hours and fifty minutes after taking off from Bissau,

they received permission from Luanda to land. The landing, Fine

thought, was a real greaser, the best one he had ever made in the

C-46.

That had to be just pure dumb luck-and he almost immediately had good

cause to suspect that was all the good luck they were going to have.

Three Portuguese customs officials walked out from the small terminal

to the C-46 and, as soon as Fine put the ladder out, climbed aboard.

They saluted, bowed, and shook hands-and then saw Nembly, asleep or

unconscious, and Wilson with his bandaged head and his arm in a

splint.

"You have befell a misfortune?" the senior of the customs officials

asked. "He fell," Fine said.

"And he's sick. Is there a doctor?" They seemed to be genuinely sorry

to report there was no doctor. "There is supposed to be a gentleman

from the U.S. consulate waiting for us," Fine said. They seemed to be

just as genuinely sorry to have to tell him that the gentleman from the

U.S. consulate had only recently departed, a matter of only hours

before.

Fine went down the ladder and on unsteady legs walked to the terminal

building, where he tried and failed to get through on the telephone to

the U.S. consulate.

Wilson came up to him as he was putting the telephone down. "No guy

from the consulate?" he asked. "No," Fine said. "So what do we do

now?"

Wilson asked. "Kolwezi is nine hundred miles from here. None of us is

in any shape to fly that thing around the pattern, much less nine

hundred miles. "You're not suggesting we give up?" Wilson asked.

"Have you got a better idea?" Fine said.

"We have done all that could possibly be expected of us. We have flown

without any real rest nine thousand miles in thirty-six hours."

"We've come this far," Wilson continued.

"I'd hate to quit now."

As if to make a joke of it, he spilled a handful of Benzedrine pills

into his hand and mimed swallowing them all at once.

"They wouldn't do any good," Fine said.

"We need to lie down in a bed and sleep."

"And then?" Wilson asked. "Then we go," Fine decided.

When he saw Nembly, huddling under his blankets, he was not at all sure

he had made the right decision.

Getting the lie-down-in-a-bed type of sleep he had told Wilson they

needed proved to be impossible. By the time they had refueled the

airplane, the customs officials were gone; the driver of the fuel

truck-who had ridden to work on his bicycle-said that he was forbidden

to take the truck from the airfield. He proved to be immune-never

having seen any before-to the large amount of American currency with

which Fine tried to bribe him. Fine and Wilson lay down on the floor

of the fuselage making what beds they could from a few blankets.

Immediately, hordes of insects found them. They gave up, went into the

cockpit, and started the engines.

SEVEN I Holwezi Hatanga Province, Belgian Congo 0630 Hours August MI,

1942

When Canidy climbed off the wing, walked under the plane, and looked up

at the door, Grunier was standing in it, still carrying the shotgun and

wearing a look of mingled fear and determination. "If you have

anything to put aboard," Canidy said to him, "do it now. We're

going."

He had decided the night before that there was no sense taking chances

now that they were so close. Two things-in addition to his own and

Whittaker's fatigue-bothered him. Since there were no cabin lights,

the lashing down of the bags of ore could not be inspected. And he

wanted to be very careful when he made the preflight inspection, which

meant doing it when there was light stronger than a flashlight or the

headlights of a truck. "I am ready," Grunier said, without emotion.

Whittaker came up from the tail. "Okay back there," he said.

"You about ready?" Canidy waved him up the ladder. The European

touched his arm. "Bon voyage, bonne fortune," he said. "Thank you,"

Canidy said, and climbed up the ladder. Grunier backed into the cabin,

as if afraid at the last moment Canidy would somehow keep him from

going along.

Canidy pulled the ladder into the airplane and tried to put it in its

rack. It was blocked by ore bags. That didn't matter; he laid it on

top of some ore bags. Whittaker had had the Africans arrange these on

the fuselage floor in stacks of three: two on the cabin floor, one on

top of the two. Whittaker had then lashed the stacks down and had done

a good job even by lantern light. By the time Canidy went into the

cockpit Whittaker had started the engines. Canidy strapped himself in,

released the brakes, turned the C-46 back onto the runway, and taxied

slowly down to the other end.

It steered heavily, "It's heavy," Canidy said, hoping he sounded less

concerned than he felt.

"You can feel it."

"A hundred twenty bags at a hundred pounds," Whittaker said. "Twelve

thousand pounds. Six tons. That's heavy, but within our max gross

takeoff weight."

"Even heavier if those bags weigh, say, a hundred twenty pounds,"

Canidy said. Whittaker's smile faded. "Jesus Christ, you're

serious!

"I don't think anybody weighed them," Canidy said.

"But this won't be the first plane ever to take off a little over max

gross weight."

"The runway's pretty long," Whittaker said.

"We'll be all right."

"I thought about weighing a couple of bags," Canidy said. "Then I

wondered where we could get a scale this time of morning" "It'll be all

right," Whittaker said. There was no point contacting the tower, and

he didn't. He ran the engines up, checked the gauges, took off the

brakes, and advanced the throttles. The rumble of the takeoff roll was

heavier and more muted than it usually was, and acceleration was

noticeably slower. "Goddamned thing doesn't want to go," he said. "I

wonder," Whittaker said thoughtfully, "just how much weight we do have

aboard." The C-46 finally came off the tail wheel. Canidy was

watching the airspeed indicator move with maddening slowness to takeoff

velocity when there was a sound like an enormous shotgun being fired.

A terrible vibration followed. Instinctively, he applied right rudder

and pulled a little harder on the wheel, and the vibration stopped.

But the rumble of the takeoff roll seemed undiminished.

"We've blown the left tire," Whittaker said, and then very calmly, and

we're running out of runway." There seemed, perversely, to be all the

time in the world to make a decision. "What should we do?" Canidy

asked.

There was bile in his mouth again. "Cut the switches and Pull the

wheels," Whittaker said.

"If you get this big sonofabitch in the air and then come down, it'll

blow up for sure. And it's not going to fly." Canidy dropped his eyes

to the control panel. The airspeed needle was very far from indicating

even a marginal takeoff velocity. "Wheels up," he ordered calmly as he

reached forward to cut the main switch. There was a split second when

he thought he felt life in the controls, and there was a terrible

temptation to take a chance, to ease back on the stick and see if he

could get it in the air. He resisted it. Their only chance was to

stay on the ground and pray that sparks generated by metal against the

runway would not ignite the fuel that would almost certainly leak from

ruptured tanks. Then there was a loud, very frightening scream of

tortured metal as the wheels folded inward, and the prop tips and then

the fuselage dropped down to encounter the runway. Canidy felt himself

being thrown violently against his harness and for a moment heard an

absolutely terrifying screech of metal being violently torn apart.

Then his head struck the bulkhead by his side window, and everything

went red, and then black. Whittaker had the wind knocked out of him

but did not lose consciousness as the plane skidded for what seemed

like a very long time to the end of the runway and then off. With a

final crash of crumpling metal, the C-46 came to a stop against a mound

of what looked like mine tailings. Being out of wind, unable to

breathe, frightened Whittaker. He was convinced that it was a symptom

of grave injury, most probably paralysis. But then, in short, painful

intakes, he was able to begin breathing. Then the terror of being

paralyzed was replaced by the terror of being burned alive. He tore

off his harness, leaned over Canidy, unfastened his harness, and picked

him up and out of his seat by brute force. He dragged him to the crew

door. It was wedged shut. He laid Canidy to one side and kicked it

open with both feet. He then took Canidy's wrists and started to lower

him over the edge of the cabin door. He would have to drop him, but

there was no choice. Then he let him drop to the floor of the fuselage

again. Once he dropped Canidy and then jumped out himself, there would

be no way to get back into the cabin from the ground. He remembered

seeing the ladder, and went looking for it. He found it, way up in

front of the cabin, and stumbling over the bags, made his way back to

the door with it. He threw it out the door, then took Canidy's wrists

again. When he let go of him, Canidy just crumpled onto the ground.

Whittaker exited the aircraft backward, on his stomach, so that he was

hanging from the door with his fingers when he let go. He landed

harder than he thought he could. He picked Canidy up and got him over

his shoulder, and ran for a hundred yards, expecting to hear the dull

grump of igniting avgas any second. He found an undulation in the

dirt, and dropped Canidy down in it. There was no explosion. The

plane just sat there. He thought of Grunier. Fuck him, I don't owe

him a thing!

After a moment, he ran back to the airplane, looked around for the

ladder, finally managed to get it in place, and climbed up and into the

fuselage. He found Grunier crumpled against the forward bulkhead of

the cabin, his face bloody, his neck broken, quite dead. He stayed in

the fuselage long enough to confirm the incredible: The auxiliary tanks

had not ruptured. They were warped, but the seams had held. He walked

back to where he had left Canidy. Canidy was awake and sitting up,

holding a handkerchief to a cut on his forehead. "I wondered where the

hell you were," Canidy said. "Who did you think carried you here? The

good fairy?" He knelt over Canidy and examined the cut. "You'll

live," Whittaker said.

"Only the good die young." There was the sound of aircraft engines.

Whittaker stood up, then reached down and hauled Canidy to his feet so

that he, too, could see the Curtiss C-46 with "China Air Transport"

painted on the fuselage making its final approach to the Kolwezi

runway.

E1438T I The House on 0 Street, NW Washington, D.C. 1340 Hours August

213,1942

Colonel William J. Donovan and Captain Peter Doug lass were having a

private business lunch to which Miss Cynthia Chenowith, to her very

carefully concealed displeasure, had not been invited. She suspected,

correctly, that the luncheon had very little to do with the national

security generally, but a very great deal to do with one particular

activity of the OSS. Fine and the CAT transport were missing and

presumably lost. As the result of a series of fuck ups-Cynthia was

fully aware that the F in the acronym SNAFU did not represent

"fouled"-it had been necessary to send the backup Naval Air Transport

Command C-46 on the African mission. And with Canidy and Whittaker

flying it, rather than the qualified Navy crew on the backup flight.

And they had not been heard from, either. Cynthia thought that it was

one thing to order faceless agents on a mission. it was something else

entirely for Donovan and Doug lass when they knew-and were fond of-the

participants. That was the real reason Colonel Donovan and Captain

Doug lass wished to be alone, have a "private" working luncheon. But

it's my mission too! I've been involved in it from the beginning.

God's sake, I'm the damned case officer! And it was worse than that,

worse than being banished to sit over a cup of cold tea in the kitchen

while the colonel and the captain waited in splendid masculine

isolation in the dining room. She had been considering over the past

thirty-six hours the very real possibility that Canidy, that

sonofabitch, and Jimmy Whittaker would not be coming back, As time

passed, she was no longer able to convince herself that her concern was

primarily because poor Mrs. Whittaker would be devastated if poor

Jimmy were lost. The truth was that she was going to be devastated

herself, and not even because Jimmy was a dear old friend.

She realized now that what Ann Chambers had done at Summer Place with

Dick Canidy was what she should have done with Jimmy. It would have

been very unprofessional, of course, and unladylike, but she should

have given him that-and not only because he was going in harm's way,

but for her own selfish purposes. When an unsmiling Chief Ellis came

into the kitchen of the house on Q Street, she knew that he had word,

and that it was not good news. "They said they didn't want to be

disturbed unless it was important," Cynthia said. Her voice, she noted

with bitter pride, had not broken. "This is addressed to you," Ellis

said, and handed her the sheet of light green paper on which decrypt ed

Top Secret messages were typed. "Thank you, Chief," she said, and

unfolded it and read it.

U R G E N T T 0 P FROM STEVENS LONDON 1600 GREENWICH 22 AUGUST 1942 FOR

OFFICE OF DIRECTOR WASHINGTON EYES ONLY CHENOWITH FOLLOWING FROM

BLUEBELL PRETORIA LIFEBOAT CRASHED ON TAKEOFF LEAD CITY STOP REMAINS

NAPOLEON BURNED WITH WRECK STOP SANDBAGS AND HARDY BOYS EVACUATED KEY

WEST BY CHOP SUEY WHOSE ARRIVAL DELAYED BY INTERNMENT BIRI)LAND STOP

SANDBAGS TRANSFERRED TOMATO WHICH SAILED BROADWAY 0515 GREENWICH 22 AUG

STOP CHOP SUEY DEPARTED KEY WEST WITH ALL HANDS 09:10 GREENWICH 22 AUG

STOP JULIET VERY NOSY STOP ADVISE STOP STEVENS It was a coded message

within an encrypted message, but Cynthia did not need her little black

code book to read it. Lifeboat was the relief C-46 aircraft borrowed

from the U.S. Navy. Lead city was Kolwezi. Napoleon was the French

mining engineer, Grunier. Sandbags was the uranitite ore. The Hardy

Boys was Donovan's droll contribution to the list of code names for

Canidy and Whittaker. Chop suey was the C-46 with China Air Transport

markings.

Bird land was the emergency landing field in the Spanish Canary

Islands.

Key west was Capetown, South Africa. Tomato was the destroyer ("tin

can") U.S.S. Dwain Kenyon, DD-301, a brand new, very fast vessel that

had been waiting in Capetown to transfer the uranitite to Broadway,

which was the Brooklyn Navy Yard. And Juliet was, of course, Miss Ann

Chambers, who was in London, and was determined to find Canidy.

Colonel Stevens was fully aware of the trouble she could cause if she

was aroused. The standard solution-"psychiatric evaluation"-could not

be applied to the daughter of the owner of the Chambers Publishing

Company.

Cynthia finished reading the message and looked up at Chief Ellis. He

was fuzzy. Cynthia realized her eyes were wet. "If I didn't know

better," Chief Ellis said, "I'd think you were really worried about

them." She didn't trust herself to speak. If she opened her mouth,

she realized, and could find her voice, she would say "Fuck you!" or

something else she shouldn't. She went to the dining room, slid open

the door, and handed the decrypt ed message to Colonel Donovan. He

read it and wordlessly handed it to Captain Doug lass. Everybody was

smiling.

Doug lass finally broke the silence.

"I think under the circumstances, Ellis, it would be all right if you

sent Colonel Stevens a cable telling him he's authorized to inform Miss

Chambers that Major Canidy will shortly be in London, and there will

probably be an opportunity for her to meet with him."

"We can do better than that, Pete , the Director of the Office of

Strategic Services said.

"Chief Ellis, send a separate Urgent to Colonel Stevens over my

signature. The message is "Have Juliet meet Romeo at the airport.

NINE Croydon Airfield London, England 2345 Hours August as, 1942

Dick Canidy-who had been sleeping on the fuselage floor most of the way

from Portugal-was first down the ladder when the China Air Transport

C-46 was led to a remote corner of the airfield and parked. He walked

directly to the London chief of station, who was standing with

Lieutenant Colonel Ed Stevens. "We have one really sick-it may be food

poisoning-man aboard, and another one with a cut head and a broken

arm," he announced. "What about an ambulance?" Stevens pointed

wordlessly to a black Anglia ambulance. Canidy gestured at it

impatiently. Two men, one carrying what looked like a medical bag,

came trotting up. "In the plane," Canidy ordered. When he looked

where he was pointing, he saw Whittaker climbing down the ladder.

"I'll need a detailed report on everything, Canidy," the chief of

station said.

"But I think that can wait until you get some rest. How about first

thing in the morning?" Jesus, what the hell is this concern for my

comfort and rest all about? "We are not, Major Canidy," Colonel

Stevens said, "all of your welcome-home greeting party." He pointed to

where the ambulance was parked, and then raised his hand in a "come up"

signal. A woman wearing what he first thought was a WAC officer's

uniform came run rung up. Who the hell is the WAC?

And then he saw the uniform had a "War Correspondent" insignia on it,

and finally realized that Ann Chambers was inside the uniform. "Jesus

Christ, what are you doing here?" he blurted. "You know what I'm

doing here," she said, and threw herself into his arms. "Oh, baby, am

I glad to see you," Canidy said. "Ain't love grand?" Captain

Whittaker asked, and then another female in uniform walked up.

Whittaker shifted into his very good British accent. "I'll be dashed

if it isn't Her Grace," he said.

"Fancy meeting you here, Your Grace. Might one inquire what you're

doing here at this unspeakable hour?"

"I knew you would need transportation, Captain Whittaker, and I wanted

to make sure you didn't take the wrong tram, so to speak."

"Am I going to be needed here, Dick?" Whittaker asked. The chief of

station answered for him.

"I think between Canidy and Captain Fine we can get all we need," he

said.

"If we need you, we'll send for you."

"In that case, I think I'll let Her Grace take me out to Whitby

House."

"Get a good night's rest. We may need you," the station chief said.

"Yes, Sir." He followed the duchess to the stolen Ford and got in the

front seat beside her. "Like bloody hell you will, Jimmy," Her Grace

said. "Like bloody bell I will what?"

"Get a good night's rest," Her Grace said.

"Not on this tram."

END NOTE The refining of sufficient quantities of uranium ore to

manufacture nuclear weapons, should this theoretical possibility

actually prove feasible, began in early September 1942 at a secret

facility at Oak Ridge, Tennessee, using a stock of uranium ore secretly

imported from the Belgian Congo at the direct order of the President of

the United States. On December 2, 1942, in a laboratory under the

seats of the University of Chicago's stadium, the first chain nuclear

reactor, composed of graphite and uranium, operated as predicted,

resulting in the sustained, controlled production of atomic energy. An

atomic bomb was now possible. It would be irresistible against any

enemy. The problem now became to produce a functioning weapon before

the Germans could build one ...