by Lee Jackson
He rose from his chair. “I think we’ve concluded our business. I’ll show you out. Uh, Captain Littlefield, remain in here a moment. A call will be coming through on my phone.” His eyes gleamed with mischief. “Would you take it, please? It’ll be for you.”
Paul watched in shock as Churchill ushered Stephenson and Donovan through the door. The phone rang again even before they had closed it. Gingerly, he stepped to the desk and lifted the receiver. “Captain Littlefield speaking.”
“You certainly have a unique way of courting a girl,” came the reply.
Momentarily speechless, a boyish grin broke across Paul’s face. “Ryan? How did—? How are—? Where are you?”
“As if you don’t know. It’s not every WAAF officer who gets a call from the PM’s office and is told to stand by. Everyone in the bunker is staring at me.” She laughed musically, the way that had captured Paul the single day they spent together at Fighter Command’s 11 Group bunker in Uxbridge, north of London. Air Chief Marshal Dowding had sent Paul there to observe operations for a report compiled for the MI-6 director. Ryan had been his escort for the day.
That had been a terrible day, one of the worst in Hitler’s attacks on Great Britain. On that day, Germany came closer to delivering victory to the tyrant than he could ever know. All of Britain’s reserves were committed, and only a few more hours of fighting would have brought her to her knees.
Looking back, the two good things that had come of the day were that Great Britain had survived, and for Paul personally, that he had met Ryan.
“I’m so pleased to speak to you—”
“Ooh, so formal,” she teased.
“But I didn’t place the call. It was a surprise…” Paul stopped talking, and then rolled his eyes at how ridiculous he must sound.
“So, you didn’t want to talk to me?”
“Of course I did. I’ve loved your letters. I live for them.” His neck and cheeks flushed hot, and he knew he must sound giddy, like a schoolboy.
“Are you in London, then? Can I see you?”
Just then, the door opened. Churchill peered in, grinned, and shot him his famous “V for victory” sign. Then he tapped his watch and left once again, closing the door behind him.
Paul returned his attention to Ryan. “I want to see you for certain, and yes, I’m in London. We flew in this morning, but we’re flying out again straightaway. I’m already getting the high-sign.” He stumbled over his next words. “I think of you all the time. Your image in my head gives me… Well, I like it.”
A short silence followed, and when Ryan spoke again, she struck a mournful note. “I feel the same,” she said quietly. “Please take care of yourself, whatever you’re doing. I know it must be important.”
When Paul hung up, he leaned forward and rested his hands on the desk. His short reverie was ended by the door’s reopening.
“Come along,” the prime minister chided. “The war won’t wait.” As Paul passed by him on his way out, they shook hands, and Churchill added, “You should call your sister from the airport.”
11
December 2, 1940
Rockefeller Center, New York City
“The president is safely ensconced in Jamaica,” Stephenson said, looking up from a newspaper he was reading in his office as Paul sat across from him. “The press is reporting that he’s combining an inspection of US naval bases in the Caribbean with a vacation. He should be sunning himself by now, giving the impression that the war is the furthest thing from his mind.” He continued scanning the article.
“Donovan is already on his way to Bermuda under the alias ‘Donald Williams.’” He chuckled. “And the newspapers are reporting—with glee, I might add—that ‘America’s Secret Envoy Flies on Mystery Mission.’ He gave them the slip in London. They’re frustrated that they don’t know his destination. They pointed out that his ‘weak’ disguise was undone by his having carried his own luggage with his real initials, WJD. That leaves me free to travel unnoticed.”
Stephenson stood. “I should be off, then. I’ll see you in Bermuda at least by tomorrow, I expect. Bring your swimming trunks if you like, although I wouldn’t expect either the weather or our schedule to allow much time for the beach. Analyzing Hitler’s Directive and that other document will take all of two weeks.”
December 15, 1940
Bermuda
“Our gambit is working so far,” Stephenson told Donovan, chuckling while scanning a newspaper. “The US press is complaining that they’ve lost track of this ‘foreign emissary who causes difficulties for the foreign service.’ That would be you.”
Paul sat quietly listening to the conversation. For two weeks, he had read Hitler’s stunning Directive 21 over and over to the point that he could almost recite it. The three of them had pored over its details and those of Wiedemann’s document, analyzing them against a large map of Europe hanging on a conference room wall; and they had discussed a blinding number of alternatives to thwart Hitler with limited resources.
“I leave tomorrow on another presidential assignment,” Donovan replied, “and I’ll take every opportunity to enhance my growing reputation as an inept international vagabond. I’ll arrive back in London on the 24th, and then the three of us meet with the prime minister on January 2.
“So, let’s get to the nubs of the issues. Both Finland and Romania have a bone to pick with Stalin for territory he seized and absorbed into the Soviet Union. They’d like to have it back. Hitler’s concept is to have the Finns pin down the Russkies in the north while the Romanians do it in the southeast, preventing a strong military response when he launches his ‘greatest deception plan in the history of the world.’ His words. Does that describe things in a nutshell?”
“With a few refinements,” Stephenson said. “Yugoslavia and Greece are key to securing Hitler’s southern flank, and he needs the Romanian oil fields to meet the huge demand he’ll create when he invades Soviet territory. Air superiority is imperative for Barbarossa’s success, but Hitler’s used up only a fraction of the Luftwaffe in battling us, and now he has the resources from all the countries Germany’s conquered.”
“Roger that. So, Yugoslavia and Greece become key to our mucking up his plans, which we aim to do with virtually no resources.”
“That’s what we’ll present to Mr. Churchill.”
“I have other business to attend to in London, so I’ll see you there on the 2nd. What’s on your schedule?”
“There’s another program we’re working with Canada,” Stephenson replied. “I mentioned it to you. Camp X. We have some preparatory work to do on it. We’ll take a trip up there soon, and I’d like to have you along.
“I’ll fly to London on the 1st.” He looked at Paul with a smile. “Our young captain will already be there, because he’ll be home in time for Christmas.”
Taken by complete surprise, Paul whirled around. “Sir?” He held his enthusiasm in check and straightened up. “Thank you, but that’s not necessary. I’ll be wherever you need me to be.”
“Which is at home. You’ve earned it. I’ll be resting a few days too, so no need to fret. Come back ready for work.”
12
December 24, 1940
London, England
The international news media picked up Donovan’s trail quickly when he landed in London. On spotting him, a reporter called out, “Where’ve you been? Why did you resort to your Douglas Williams alias? Your initials on your suitcase gave you away.”
Donovan kept walking through the airport, waving a hand over his head and glancing down at his luggage as if surprised. “Ah, you caught me.”
“What are you working on? Can you tell us?”
Donovan smiled obligingly. “I’d rather not. Mum’s the word, as they say on this side of the pond, and if you trip me up too many times, I’ll get canned.”
“The word’s already been leaked,” the reporter persisted. “Purportedly, you’re here for a few days of conferences, and then sometime in
the spring you’ll go on a tour of British facilities, particularly in the eastern Mediterranean and the Baltics, to assess for President Roosevelt whether or not the British can hold out for any extended time; and you’ll meet with French commanders in North Africa to reach a new understanding with Vichy France. Can you confirm that?”
Donovan laughed as he saw other reporters heading his way. “If that’s what your papers report, then it must be true,” he replied, and then dodged into an embassy sedan waiting for him outside the terminal. “Whitehall,” he told the driver.
A block away from the War Office, he saw that another gaggle of reporters had gathered at the main entrance. “Let me off here and get someone to drop my suitcase in my room at Claridge’s,” he instructed. Then, carrying only his valise, he strode toward the door, anticipating the rush and clamor of journalists anxious for scoops. As they trooped toward him, he threw his arms in front of him as if to avoid their attention as much as possible.
“Please don’t make me mysterious or important,” he pleaded. “I’m here on a mundane task that I can’t mention but you all seem to know about. As some of you have pointed out, I’m not someone the president would trust with something earth-shattering.”
He stopped outside the entrance to engage the press, answering routine questions. “No. I don’t know how long I’ll be here.”
“Will I disappear again?” He shrugged. “I might.”
“I’m sure the prime minister has far more important matters to deal with, but if I see him, I’ll pass along your concern.”
“The US is a neutral country. The president made that perfectly clear. If he changes his stance, you’ll know about it before I will, as you’ve demonstrated regarding my current mission. If that happens, I’m sure Congress will have something to say.”
After breaking through the gaggle, he found Paul awaiting him inside the enormous, stately entry of the War Office. Here and there, Christmas was celebrated with bits and pieces of paper in holiday colors, and last year’s banners and lights festooned the balustrades. The two men stood to the left of a grand marble staircase leading to a second-floor mezzanine, but neither spent time taking in the magnificent interior or its trappings.
“A little bit of a somber Christmas,” Donovan noted, and then nudged Paul. “Good job leaking the news of my arrival. When did you get in?”
“Not even an hour ago. I got your message to meet you here just before I boarded the airplane.”
“Good. I needed that charade out front to go well. Now, for the rest of the show.”
“Do we need to see anyone here at Whitehall?” Paul asked.
Donovan shook his head. “No. This is a pass-through. I’ll hang out for an hour or two, look up some old acquaintances, and then have a car take me to the hotel. I’ll see you again on the 2nd with Stephenson and the prime minister.”
“Any changes or new information?”
“Nothing pertinent. My job is to appear intent on a mission, which means attending several do-nothing meetings and social events, and yours is to not be publicly identified with me. Your time is your own. Enjoy yourself, take a break.” He started to walk away, then turned back, his eyes twinkling. “I almost forgot. I’m expecting to meet a WAAF here, Flight Officer Northridge, I believe. She’s my escort.”
Paul gulped and glanced about, his heart suddenly throbbing. “Are you sure you’ve got the right name?” he asked anxiously.
“I’m sure. She was instructed to meet me here at the bottom of these stairs.” A questioning look crossed his face. “Is that the name of the WAAF officer you—"
Then they heard a woman calling, “Paul? Is that you?”
When they turned, Claire stood there, her hands covering half of her face. She stared wide-eyed as tears brimmed. Then, rushing to Paul, she threw her arms around him.
Next to them, Donovan watched in amusement. “I neglected to tell you that your sister was coming too.”
Just then, a WAAF officer approached in a blue uniform that matched her large eyes adorning a face with smooth skin, full lips, and an upturned nose. Her dark hair was pulled back in a bun. She stared at Paul questioningly as Claire continued to hold him and then stepped toward Donovan. Extending her hand, she said, “General Donovan? I was instructed to meet you here to escort you.”
Donovan took her hand. “My pleasure. Flight Officer Ryan Northridge, isn’t it? And now your instructions have changed.” He gestured toward Paul. “You’re free to spend as much or as little time with Captain Littlefield as you care to for the next two days, courtesy of Mr. Churchill, and you can use whatever leave you’re allowed after that. Then you’ll return to normal duties.”
Standing almost at attention, Ryan alternated an astonished gaze from Donovan to Paul and back. Then she glanced at Claire, who had let go of Paul but still dabbed tears from her eyes with a kerchief.
Donovan stepped next to Ryan and leaned close to her ear. “That’s his sister,” he whispered. “They haven’t seen each other in a while.” With that, he turned and disappeared into the passing stream of people.
Claire observed Ryan and then Paul, understanding dawning on her face. She drew in her breath. “You must be Ryan Northridge,” she said. “How wonderful. Paul mentioned you in his letters. I’m so happy to meet you. He’s never shown such interest in anyone before.”
Ryan’s face grew red. Paul’s eyes widened, and he stared at her.
Claire laughed. “Sorry,” she quipped. “I didn’t mean to embarrass either of you.” She shoved her shoulder into Paul’s arm. “Go on,” she pressed. “Hug her. You might even try a kiss. You know you want to, and she wants you to.” She looked around at the Christmas decorations around the great hall, and then pointed. “Look there. Mistletoe.” When both hesitated, she laughed. “Don’t waste time. There’s a war on, you know.”
She stepped forward, grasped Ryan’s elbow, and started edging her toward a branch with deep green leaves and small white berries. “Of course you’ll stay at my home for the next two days—that is unless you have other Christmas plans. I have a spare bedroom and Paul can sleep in Timmy’s room. I’ll make sure he behaves, but that’s really up to you, and anyway, he’s always such a gentleman.
“It’s so good to see Paul. I’ve lost count of the months, but I hadn’t expected to see him again until the war’s end. I can’t believe he’ll be here for Christmas.” She sighed. “But with the war on—"
Claire caught herself and went on. “There’s no reason to stop for your things. You look about my size, so you can borrow whatever you need.”
Still looking dazed, Ryan allowed herself to be steered, glancing back uncertainly at Paul. Claire followed her gaze. “I’m so excited that Paul has finally met a girl he really likes, and so pretty too.”
Bewildered at the unexpected turn of events, Paul scratched his head. Then, he grinned as overwhelming excitement seized him, and he hurried to catch up.
13
L’Orme, France
Ferrand Boulier traveled only at night and only on backroads and lanes unknown to the Wehrmacht. He skirted checkpoints, slept in barns, and approached households where the inhabitants were known and vetted. The routine was difficult for a man in his mid-sixties, but his practices had kept him alive since fleeing his home with Amélie and Chantal six months ago. Thin by nature and habit, he had grown thinner, his clothes hanging on him, and he now wore an unkempt beard that matched his hair in color and condition. Usually fastidious, his appearance bothered him, but he tolerated it as a means of hiding his identity. In public, he walked slowly, bent over, with a cane. Out of sight of all but friends, he straightened up and walked energetically with the gait of a much younger man.
Tonight, he was going to an unknown farmhouse in this rural community a few miles from Dinard. He had been opposed to this trip of over five-hundred kilometers each way to an area not familiar to him, but it had been specifically requested by Hérisson, codename for Madame Fourcade. She had been instrumental
in saving his life and restoring his network, so he was reluctant to refuse. Then, when he resisted, she persisted, and when he pressed back harder, she told him, “Go, Ferrand. You’ll be glad you did.”
Also traveling to L’Orme in pairs by diverse routes were his brother, Claude; his nephew, Nicolas; the MI-6 team leader, Jacques; the courier, codenamed Théo; and the radio operator, codenamed Brigitte. They converged with Ferrand on the farm after dusk and rendezvoused in a stand of trees well back from a barn. He sent Nicolas and Jacques forward to reconnoiter.
Waiting for them in the darkness and with the passage of time, Ferrand stemmed anxiety. When they returned, Ferrand noticed that his nephew barely concealed unexplained excitement.
“Come on,” Nicolas urged. “It’s safe.”
Ferrand and the rest of the group followed Nicolas and Jacques through the darkness into the unlit, cold, damp barn. There, Nicolas turned on a flashlight and led them to one of the far corners, then stooped and lifted a section of flooring to reveal a dimly lit staircase. Urging caution with a gesture, he led them down into a small room lined with empty shelves. Behind them, Jacques lowered the trapdoor back into place.
“Follow me,” Nicolas said in a low voice. “The farmhouse here is ancient. It has an underground tunnel that connects to the barn.”
He went to the opposite side of the room and pulled on a section to reveal a hidden passage. Gesturing for the group to follow, he turned on a flashlight again. The tunnel was not long, but the other end was blocked by a wooden panel. Nicolas knocked lightly, and from the other side came a thump, the sound of voices, and a knob turning.
The door swung open into a wine cellar illuminated by dim lights along the wall. Ferrand followed closely behind Nicolas. On emerging into the room, he looked about in wonder at the huge vats lining each side.
