Canidy chuckled.
“May fourth, they gave Major Martin a full military burial in Huleva.”
“And the briefcase?”
“Returned,” Stevens said. “Very, very carefully put back together.”
“Meaning, they read the contents? The writings finely crafted at Whitbey House?”
Stevens reached for a stack of papers and said, “Commander Fleming brought these over. These are far more interesting to read.”
“And they are…?”
“Intercepts of German wireless traffic courtesy of the fine folks connected to the Golf, Cheese, and Chess Society.”
Canidy grinned. He knew a little about the Brits’ code-breaking operations at Bletchley Park, some forty miles northwest of London. Golf, Cheese, and Chess Society—GCCS for short—came from its Government Code and Cypher School there.
Canidy flipped through the documents.
“I’ll give you the executive summary,” Stevens said, clearly enjoying himself.
“I’d say a bit of Niven or Fleming or Ustinov rubbed off on you, Ed.”
“They’re great guys, Dick,” Stevens replied. “Anyway, in the first week of May the German agents telegraphed the contents of the letters to German intel in Berlin. They stated that, due to time—the Admiralty was hammering the naval attaché to get them back, right?—they’re unable to examine documents for authenticity.”
Canidy nodded.
Stevens went on: “The first message sent to Berlin that was intercepted was boldly detailed and gave us a marvelous step-by-step. It said that the body of the Royal Marine had been found on the beach at Huelva by a fisherman who then had brought it to the attention of personnel at the nearby naval station. There a naval judicial officer took charge of all documents and personal effects. And the body was sent to the morgue, where a doctor certified that Martin had fallen into the sea alive but died of asphyxiations from five to eight days ‘exposure to sea.’”
“Ah, those brilliant Spanish physicians,” Canidy said, sipping his scotch.
“They even had a Captain Ron Bowlin, USAAF, who’d crashed into the sea there on April twenty-seventh, brought in to identify the body. He couldn’t, of course, but now we know where ole Ron is.”
Canidy chuckled.
“Meanwhile, German intel, working from photos of the contents of Major Martin’s briefcase, had determined that the documents were indeed genuine. That information then got forwarded to Admiral Doenitz.”
“Commander in Chief, Naval Staff,” Canidy said. “Ding, ding. We have a winner.”
“Even better, the cover letter read: ‘The genuineness of the captured documents is above suspicion.’”
Canidy shook his head in amazement.
“Then just yesterday came the sweetest piece,” Stevens went on. “His Heil Hitler himself now believes that the Sicily invasion is a diversion. He’s demanding that, quote, measures regarding Sardinia and the Peloponnese take precedence over everything else, unquote.”
Stevens stopped to take a sip.
“And now we hear that General Keitel—”
“Corporal Schickelgruber’s commander in chief,” Canidy said, impressed. “Very nice.”
“—has passed word down that they expect Sardinia, Corsica, and Sicily to be attacked all at once, or perhaps one at a time, when we take Greece.”
“I heard you were sucking up all those drachmas. Guess they did, too.”
Stevens nodded. “It was more than drachmas, but they helped.”
David Bruce finally spoke up.
“We couldn’t have asked for more out of an operation,” Bruce said. “They clearly believe that the Allies have enough troops for both assaults. And that can only cause them to defend—or not defend—territory accordingly.”
“So the radio traffic confirms that Mincemeat was swallowed?” Canidy said, but it was more a statement than a question.
“Whole,” a familiar voice said from the doorway.
“Jesus Christ!” Canidy said, seeing who it was, and struggling to quickly get to his feet.
“Not quite,” Wild Bill Donovan said, laughing. “Only a common general. But I thank you for the promotion.”
Canidy was smiling. He put out his hand.
“Very good to see you, General. And congratulations.”
“That was nice work, gentlemen,” Donovan said. “Even Ike and the boys at AFHQ are impressed.”
Donovan looked at Canidy. “You’ve been busy, too, Dick. Why don’t you fill me in.”
“Of course. I—”
Donovan, looking at Canidy’s drink, interrupted: “Why don’t you first pour me a little of whatever evil spirit that might be. I suspect, with your history, I’m going to need a taste.”
“…And that was the story that the Mafia guys were getting out of the SS office in Palermo,” Canidy said. “That Müller was scared and going to use the Tabun without authorization. The Germans had sent it to Palermo, without his knowledge, to be staged as insurance. Not as an offensive weapon. Of course, that can be all wrong….”
Donovan was quiet a moment, sipping his scotch.
“Thankfully,” he then said, “it would appear that you are right. We had corroborating evidence.”
“Confirmed?” Canidy said. “By who?”
“Hans Bernd Gisevius,” he said. “But ultimately Canaris.”
“Admiral Canaris in the Abwehr?”
He nodded. “We doubled Gisevius. He’s a leader of the German underground who Allen Dulles uses as his pipeline to Canaris. And Canaris also is tight with Fritz Thyssen.”
Canidy knew Dulles was the OSS station chief in Switzerland. The Thyssen name was unfamiliar to Canidy and his face showed he didn’t recognize the name.
“The Ruhr Valley industrialist. Who in the early days funneled a helluva lot of money into Hitler’s pockets. Then he finally saw the writing on the wall, packed up the kids and grandkids, and fled for Switzerland in 1939. He’s still a player in the Ruhr Valley, and tightly connected with Wolfgang Kappler.”
“Why is that name familiar?” Canidy wondered.
“Kappler Industrie GmbH,” Stevens furnished, “chief provider of coke, steel, and other materials to Mann and Daimler-Benz.”
“Engines,” Canidy said.
“Engines,” Stevens confirmed.
“And there is an SS Obersturmbannführer in the Messina office named Oskar Kappler,” Donovan went on. “And Thyssen has both been seen in the company of Wolffy Kappler and sniffing around industrial sites and the docks in Buenos Aires.”
It took Canidy a moment to put those pieces together in his mind.
“So the real reason they don’t want to use the gas,” Canidy ventured, “the reason they don’t want the war to become any worse than it has, is because they are making plans to get the hell out of Dodge.”
“There are some who would agree with you, Dick,” Wild Bill Donovan said. “I happen to be one of them.”
“Then the war is—?”
“Unfortunately, long from over,” Donovan said. “And we have a lot of work yet to do until it is.”
[FIVE]
Westminster Tower Park Lane at Aldford Street London, England 2020 14 May 1943
“No more jokes about my memory—the doctors said that’s mostly over and done,” Ann Chambers said playfully, one hand under the bedsheets, searching. “I’ve got a clean bill of health…and I’m beginning to remember why you drive me crazy.”
Her hand found what it was looking for, wrapped around the prize…and gently but pointedly squeezed.
“Okay, okay,” Canidy said. “No more jokes. And be easy with those. They only come in pairs—very, very delicate pairs.”
Ann moved in closer to Canidy. She pressed her nose into his neck, kissed it, and practically purred.
After a long quiet moment, she glanced around the room and suddenly sat up.
“This place is absolutely amazing,” she said.
She looked out the large pictu
re windows of the twelfth-floor luxury apartment. The view overlooked Hyde Park.
Although it was now dark, she had spent the last few hours waiting for Canidy by sitting in the plush armchair at the window. She now clearly recalled the last rays of the sunset casting long shadows of the trees across the Serpentine, the park’s long, curved picturesque pond.
“Thank Uncle Max,” Canidy said.
“Who?”
“Stanley S. Fine, Esquire, on leave as vice president of legal affairs for Continental Motion Picture Studios, is the nephew of Mr. Max Liebermann, chairman of the board of Continental Motion Picture Studios.”
“I think I knew that. I can’t—”
“The studio,” Canidy went on, “maintains this apartment for stars and executives—and very, very select friends of the family—who might be visiting London.”
“I see,” she said, rubbing his chest hairs.
When Stanley Fine had first arrived on duty in London, he had been temporarily housed in a shabby flat. The flat also had been a very long Underground ride away from the office. After a good deal of mental debate, he had put aside whatever pride had told him that he should take what he was given in the interest of the war. And he had made the luxurious Westminster Tower apartment his quarters.
His argument, at least to himself, was that he could walk the ten or so blocks to and from the office. This allowed him to spend more time on the job, in the interest of the war.
Now, of course, he was holed up in the OSS villa at Algiers.
“I’ll remember to thank him,” Ann said, sounding like the proper Southerner that she was.
“You realize, don’t you, that the Dorchester Hotel is only two blocks from here? We could go down, sit in Stan’s famous spot, where he held court. I believe it even has a brass plaque engraved with his name; if not, it should for all the money he and I have left there. Anyway, there was a pretty nice-sized crowd at the bar when I went by just a little while ago.”
“I got a nice letter from Charity,” Ann said, ignoring the suggestion and his ramblings.
Canidy could hear excitement in her tone.
“Really?” he said.
“She’s preggers.”
Whoa…oh, shit!
“Really!” he repeated, trying to make it sound excited. “Well, congrats to her. Does Doug know?”
What I really want to ask is: Does Douglass know what he’s doing?
Well, hell, he is a big boy….
“He’s already given her the engagement ring.”
Canidy was silent. And he realized it was making for an awkward moment.
“What’s on your mind, Dick?”
Her hand was making faster circles on his chest.
He looked her in the eyes and thought, I think I know what’s on yours, baby.
He said, “What’s on yours, baby?”
Ann was quiet, looking out the window at the park, clearly searching for the right words.
She said, her voice chipper, “I think we should, too.”
“I thought we had an understanding,” Canidy heard himself automatically saying, “that it’s the guy who’s supposed to—”
His voice trailed off when he caught sight of the tear on her cheek.
He kissed it.
“Sorry I said that, Annie. You know I love you. Yes?” He paused, then went on: “No one has ever reached me the way that you do.”
Her hand stopped making the circles.
“There’s a ‘but’ coming,” she said somewhat icily.
“Baby, if I were to ask for a hand in marriage, my heart tells me that there is absolutely no question it would be yours—”
“But…” she repeated.
“But my brain tells me that I’m just not ready. This is not the time. For us, for anyone.”
Canidy saw more tears on Ann’s cheeks.
He wiped them away as he went on: “It just would not be fair to you, Annie. Not with this war, not with my job.”
Ann sniffled. She was quiet a long moment, then nodded gently.
“Maybe this damn war will end soon,” he continued, “and then everything changes.”
She cleared her throat.
“Then,” she said, trying to sound strong, “I’ll just have to settle for right here and right now.”
He leaned over, wrapped his arms and legs around her, and gave her a long, soft kiss.
Then he whispered, “Why are we in this bed?”
“I…why, I forget,” she said with a straight face.
And after a long moment, she giggled.
And then her hand was under the sheets again, searching…and finding what it was looking for.
AFTERWORD
This book is a work of fiction based on actual events.
We may never know the exact depth of aid that Mafia boss Charles “Lucky” Luciano and his syndicate of ruthless wiseguys provided to fight the Axis in America and abroad.
What is known is that on V-E day—the very day that victory was declared in Europe—Thomas Dewey, the former prosecutor who was then governor of the great state of New York signed for the release of Luciano from Great Meadow Prison.
It was May 8, 1945, and Luciano had served just shy of ten years of his thirty-to-fifty-year sentence. He would not have been eligible for parole until 1956.
Charlie Lucky was deported—aboard a cargo ship—from the United States of America. He died in Italy in 1962.
What also is known is that the Nazis did have chemical and biological weapons programs. And that President Roosevelt had nerve gas munitions manufactured with which to retaliate should the Germans use theirs.
Understanding such history allows us today—in the noise that is the daily media—to better understand the difficult decisions of who we fight, why we fight, and how we fight. It is never simple.
Every day around the world, the United States of America has warriors putting their lives at risk so that our freedoms are protected. We owe them our everlasting respect, gratitude, and, most of all, support.
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