As they did so, the last man put down the heavy cardboard box on the floor beneath the Olivers. It made a loud thud, and the big man looked up at Montagu, his face apologetic.
“That’s fine,” Montagu said to him, then added to the others, “Thank you, gentlemen.”
“That,” Ustinov announced loudly as he shook his arms in a manner suggesting great relief, “was almost as exhausting as when we moved that canister down to the basement. Wasn’t it, men?”
They looked at him, not knowing what to say.
“Of course it was,” Ustinov answered for them. He looked at Niven. “Permission to retire for an hour’s recuperation, sir?”
They now understood and smiled.
“Permission denied,” Niven said. “You can take your bloody nap later.”
Ustinov looked at the men in the uniform of the British Motor Transport Corps and shrugged.
“Sorry, I tried,” he said.
“What makes me think you weren’t doing that precisely for their benefit?” Niven said.
“‘He that sees his men well rested ensures a loyal soldier,’” Ustinov quoted. “Shakespeare said that.”
Niven looked at him a moment in disbelief, then said, “Are you sure? And, regardless, what is it that you mean?”
Ustinov shrugged. “I’m fairly sure he did. If not, he should have.” He paused and there was a mischievous look in his eyes. “Just trying to keep my men satisfied, SAH! I hear that’s the mark of a good superior.”
There were chuckles.
“If it’s all right with everyone,” Jamison then said, “I really need to tend to some tasks involving my regular duties. If I don’t get at least the requisition paperwork filled out and signed, we may all very well find ourselves starving.”
Commander Fleming suddenly held out his right arm stiffly and pointed to the door.
“Leave!” he said with great drama. “I for one will not be responsible for you not being able to fulfill your duties—or, more important, my stomach!”
Lieutenant Colonel Ed Stevens laughed appreciatively.
“Do what you must, Bob,” Stevens said. “Join us when—if—you can. I have a feeling we’re going to be at this for some time.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jamison said. “I’m sorry, all.”
“No apology necessary,” First Lieutenant Charity Hoche said, suddenly hoping her tone did not make her sound as if she were pulling rank on him as Deputy Director (Acting) OSS Whitbey House Station.
“Thank you,” Jamison said, not seeming to have taken it in that manner. “Believe me, I would rather be involved in this.”
Jamison then turned to the men in the uniform of the British Motor Transport Corps.
“If you gentlemen have no other plans, I could use some help,” he said.
The brawny one looked to Montagu and said, “Commander, would that be permissible with you? We’ve all about gone mad waiting for something to do.” He looked at Ustinov and added, “With respect, bringing these machines up from the basement was a welcome diversion.”
“That’s it,” Ustinov said. “Ruin it for me! Dig deeper mine grave!”
There were chuckles.
“Very well,” Montagu said and looked at Jamison. “They’re all yours.”
“Don’t wear them out, Bob,” Ustinov put in. “I don’t plan to move that massive metal box by myself!”
As Jamison and the men left, those remaining in the room sat back at the table.
“As you may have gathered,” Montagu then said, “the typewriters are for the letters we’re to compose. I collected a variety of brands in order to give each letter its distinct characteristic.”
He pointed to the Olivers.
“These, for example,” he went on. “You may know that the special models 15 and 16 were manufactured specifically for British government offices. Thus, we’ll use them for those letters we write for the brass.”
“I see,” Charity said.
“And the box contains a great variety of stationery and business letterhead that we collected for our purposes,” he added.
Charity nodded, now clearly in thought. She looked across the table, then motioned for the sheet that was before the Duchess.
“May I?” she said.
“Of course,” the Duchess replied, and slid the Most Secret paper to her.
“Before we get into all that,” Charity said.
“Yes?”
“You were speaking earlier about how everything came together to this point.”
Montagu was nodding.
“I’m unclear on a couple of things.”
“Ask away.”
Charity picked up the paper and looked again at its first part.
* * *
1. OBJECT.
TO CAUSE A BRIEFCASE CONTAINING DOCUMENTS (BOTH ONES MOST SECRET AND OTHERS OF A PERSONAL NATURE) TO DRIFT ASHORE AS NEAR AS POSSIBLE TO HUELVA, SPAIN, IN SUCH CIRCUMSTANCES THAT IT WILL BE THOUGHT TO HAVE BEEN WASHED ASHORE FROM AN AIRCRAFT WHICH CRASHED EN ROUTE FROM THE U.K. TO ALLIED FORCES H.Q. IN NORTH AFRICA.
2. METHOD.
A DEAD BODY IN THE BATTLE-DRESS UNIFORM OF A MAJOR, ROYAL MARINES, AND WEARING A “MAE WEST,” WILL BE TAKEN OUT IN A SUBMARINE, TOGETHER WITH THE BRIEFCASE, AND A RUBBER DINGHY.
* * *
“Numbers one and two,” she went on. “How was it decided that it would be a Royal Marine, a major, and that he would be put ashore at Huelva?”
Montagu raised his eyebrows and looked at Fleming and Niven.
“No offense intended,” Charity added reasonably, glancing at them. “I do not mean to sound critical. It’s just that I think it might be good to know as we get into all these letters.”
“No offense taken,” Montagu replied. “It’s just that a great deal of effort went into it, so much so over many months, as we mentioned earlier, that frankly even if I could give you a complete chronology, we do not have the time for it.”
Fleming looked at Montagu and said, “How about simply explaining how we arrived at numbers one and two?”
“That’d be fine,” Charity said.
Montagu nodded. “Very well.”
He took in a deep breath, composed his thoughts, then said, “As we have mentioned, we entertained many scenarios—some quite good, some absolutely worthless. We ultimately arrived at the idea of a courier of some importance carrying correspondence between higher-ups. These letters are to be so secret that they could not be sent by wireless or any other method. And to get our courier to the enemy—in one, credible piece—we decided to use a submarine, having discarded the use of a flying boat or an escort ship diverted from a convoy as being too risky.”
He sipped his tea, then went on:
“Now, as to the Royal Marines, they are of course an elite force. And the rank of major is important, but”—he looked at Niven—“no offense to anyone present, not too important so as to draw undue attention.”
“Quite all right,” Niven said nobly, waving it off with a flick of his left wrist. “I’m accustomed to being unimportant.”
“So a major in the Royal Marines met our criteria for ‘a courier of some importance,’” Montagu finished.
“Okay,” Charity said. “That’s logical.”
“We picked Spain,” he went on, “because we know that Admiral Canaris of the Abwehr and Francisco Franco are quite friendly, quite close, actually. Accordingly, it’s commonly overlooked that the quote neutral unquote country teems with German spies, including a very active one in Huelva. Which is why we selected Huelva specifically—nothing goes on there without this German agent’s knowledge. We get our major and his briefcase to shore there, it’s as good as being in Hitler’s hands.”
“We hope,” Fleming added.
Montagu smiled. “Forgive me my exaggeration.”
Charity smiled back.
“Once we had pinpointed Huelva,” Montagu went on, “and began studying it, we found even more reason to use it. The hydrographer of the Navy at the
Admiralty ran a number of scenarios for tides and weather. He determined that the conditions in April, particularly the prevailing south-westerly wind, were perfect for our purposes of, one, ensuring that the body would indeed make it ashore—not float farther out to sea—and, two, being logical that the body could have come from a plane that crashed at sea.”
“A body wearing a Mae West?” Charity said.
“A life jacket. Sir Bernard Spilsbury—the pathologist?—explained to us that victims of plane crashes in water die from any number of events. It can be from the crash itself. It can be from drowning. Or, if they survive all that, then from exposure.”
“Which is how our man died,” Charity said.
“Pneumonia, triggered by exposure,” Montagu corrected. “So all that came together. Most important, it was approved by the chiefs of staff and the Prime Minister, who then approved our use of a submarine en route to Malta. We then convinced Lieutenant Jewell to delay the departure of the HMS Seraph two weeks for us.”
“And here we are,” Fleming said finally.
“Okay,” Charity said. “Thank you. Now I think I’ve got a good idea of where we’re going with this.”
“Incidentally,” Stevens added, “you probably know you were lucky to get the Seraph and Lieutenant Jewell. They seem uniquely equipped for these sort of special operations.”
“Indeed,” Fleming said. “Then you’ve no doubt heard what happened with Giraud?”
Stevens smiled. “Some of it.”
“The French general who escaped from the German prison?” Charity said.
“He was at the Casablanca Conference with all the other leaders,” the Duchess added.
Fleming nodded. “He almost cut off his skinny nose to spite his face. Had it not been for we Brits, he was this close”—he held up his index finger and thumb almost touching—“to spending the rest of the war back in a POW camp instead of there with Roosevelt and Churchill.”
“How so?”
“In late October, prior to the Torch landing,” Fleming explained, “Jewell carried a half dozen Allied officers, including General Mark Clark, to a lonely strip of beach forty kilometers west of Algiers. There, at the home of the head of the underground group Chantiers de la Jeunesse, they met in secret with Vichy French General Charles Mast. They tried to persuade Mast to bring his French forces in with the Allies, or, failing that, have the forces not fight the Allies during the invasion of North Africa. Mast said something could be possible—but only if General Henri-Honoré Giraud were there to lead them. Giraud was in Vichy France, having only months earlier escaped from a prisoner-of-war camp in Germany. He was more or less hiding from the Germans and their French friends, who wanted to lock him back up in Germany. Arrogantly, Giraud said he would consider being secreted to North Africa to command—but, ridiculously, he refused passage aboard any British vessel.”
Stevens laughed.
“What’s funny about that?” Charity asked.
“For one, it was a ridiculous demand from one with a bounty on his head,” Stevens explained. “Then, General Clark desperately tried to locate a U.S. Navy boat—surface or submarine—close enough to accomplish the mission soon enough. He couldn’t. So, cleverly, it was arranged with the British navy to allow the HMS Seraph to become the USS Seraph—flying a U.S. Navy ensign—and for it to be commanded by a Captain Jerauld Wright, U.S. Navy.”
“What about the crew?”
“All Brits but for Captain Wright,” Fleming said, grinning, “all putting on pitiful American accents. But the bastard Giraud got aboard.”
“So you’re lucky to have the Seraph,” Stevens said. “Lieutenant Jewell is not afraid to be unorthodox.”
“Lucky indeed,” Montagu said. “Let us hope it continues.”
[TWO]
Port of Algiers Algiers, Algeria 1745 31 March 1943
A half dozen crewmen on the deck of the Free French Forces submarine Casabianca were systematically carrying the last of the provisions toward the loading hatch. A low wooden rack next to the hatch held two new, glistening torpedoes. The crew would secure the fish below, remove the rack to shore, then, with everything else onloaded, secure the hatch.
Near the gangplank, two of the four 6 × 6 GMC trucks, their cargo areas all now empty, were being fired up. The driver of the first truck engaged its granny gear with a torturous grinding of metal and began rolling away.
Free French Forces Navy Commander Jean L’Herminier was making an inspection of the boat, stem to stern. Major Richard M. Canidy walked with him, then saw a U.S. Army jeep pulling through the gates. Canidy recognized First Lieutenant Hank Darmstadter at the wheel.
“That would appear to be our man, Jean,” Canidy said to L’Herminier. “With Frank Nola already belowdecks, we can go once this guy’s aboard.”
“Then you take care of that, Dick, and I’ll finish up here.”
At the OSS station that morning, Stan Fine had taken Dick Canidy upstairs to the commo room at the villa. There, they looked over the five operators on duty and spoke with them one by one. Two were women. When Canidy got to the last—a tall, intense fellow of maybe twenty-four, with somewhat-shaggy blond hair and unmistakable all-American facial features—he was about to blow his cork from frustration.
Canidy looked at the radio operator, then at Fine, and whispered, “I really do need someone who looks even remotely Italian or Sicilian.”
Fine nodded agreeably.
The young man sensed someone was talking about him and glanced over his shoulder. When he saw that it was Captain Fine standing there with some stranger, he immediately removed his earphones and stood up from the radio.
“Sir,” he said respectfully.
Fine nodded. “What’s your name, son?”
“Jim Fuller,” he said. “But call me Tubes, sir. Everyone does.”
“Because of the radio?” Canidy put in, curious. “Those tubes?”
Tubes looked at Canidy and said, “It’s become that in part. But I got the name from home.”
“And home is?”
“California. I got the nickname surfing. When I was ten. Some like to ride on top of a wave, but I love to go under them”—he grinned broadly—“in the tube.”
Canidy nodded. “Well…Tubes…inasmuch as I’d like to continue this, if you will excuse me….”
“Yes, sir,” Tubes said, sounding somewhat dejected. He started to sit back before his radio set.
“Out of curiosity…” Canidy said suddenly.
“Yes, sir?” Tubes said, standing upright again.
“There’s one man at the Sandbox I’m interested in as a radio operator. I don’t know the name he’s using, but maybe you’ve worked with him on the air.”
Tubes looked at Fine.
“Tell him whatever you know, son,” Fine said.
Tubes nodded. “I’ll try.”
Canidy went on: “This is rough, but it’s all I’ve got right now. It’s my impression that he was in some sales job in the States.”
“Sales?” Tubes said. “Well, there may be someone else out there who fits that. But Carmine—oh, man, that’s all he talks about. And he has the worst skills of any radioman I’ve ever heard. It’s like he’s working the key with a booted foot.”
Canidy was quiet a moment, absorbing that bit of new information.
Shit! Now what?
“Like I said, you could be talking about someone else,” Tubes said. “Hard to say. But I can tell you that this Carmine isn’t going to make it with a radio.”
Canidy nodded. “Thank you, Tubes. I appreciate your expertise.”
Tubes smiled. “You’re welcome.”
Canidy and Fine started for the door.
Then they heard Tubes call across the room.
“You want a good W/T guy,” he said, his tone authoritative, “then the guy you want is Tony. He’s a kid, with lots of energy, but he’s got a great hand. Tony’s who I’d pick.”
Hank Darmstadter’s jeep pulled up with a noi
sy screech of brakes. He shut off the engine.
Canidy got a good look at the kid in the passenger seat. “Tony” was indeed the excitable one he’d had in Max Corvo’s classroom at the Sandbox. He had that unruly shock of wiry jet-black hair that stuck out at odd angles.
The kid was looking at Canidy, smiling, and making the connection, too.
Darmstadter got out. The kid did the same, then followed Darmstadter over to where Canidy stood.
“Major,” Darmstadter said.
“Afternoon, sir!” the kid said, his manner excited. “Very nice to see you again. I had some follow-up questions about your lecture—”
“What’s your name?” Canidy interrupted.
“Antonio Jones, sir. Tony.”
“No, your real name.”
The kid looked for guidance to Darmstadter, who motioned with his head Go on, it’s okay to tell him.
“John Craig van der Ploeg, sir,” he answered in a chipper tone.
Canidy studied him a moment.
“That’s Dutch!” Canidy snapped. “How the hell are you Italian? And stop calling me sir.”
Unnerved, John Craig van der Ploeg grabbed a fistful of his hair.
“This look Dutch?” he said, smiling, then let go of the hair and motioned to his olive-skinned face. “This look fair?”
Canidy started at him impatiently. “So, what’s your story?”
“I was adopted, sir. Lost my family to La Grippe.”
Canidy was about to snap at him again for saying “sir,” but then thought, Jesus! The 1918 Spanish flu? That wiped out tens of millions….
“I’m sorry,” Canidy said, his tone genuine.
John Craig van der Ploeg shrugged, unbothered.
“I was two years old,” he said conversationally. “It’s ancient history to me. I have no memory of it—or them.”
Canidy nodded.
“Do you know the name you were given at birth?” he said.
John Craig van der Ploeg shook his head.
The Double Agents (AUDIOBOOK) (CD) Page 20
