There was a reason for this, Canidy well knew. Here was a man whose accomplishments were legion—successful Wall Street lawyer and Medal of Honor recipient led the long list—a warrior, a genuine leader, someone whom men would follow anywhere, anytime, for anything, without question.
And here, Canidy knew, was the man he had let down.
“Good evening, sir,” Major Richard Canidy said, mustering a voice stronger than he felt. He started walking toward him.
“Dick,” Colonel William J. Donovan, director of the Office of Strategic Services, said warmly. “How are you?”
“Getting better by the sip, sir.” He raised his glass. “I hope you’ll forgive me for starting.”
Canidy and Donovan met in the middle of the room and they shook hands with some intensity.
“It’s really nice to see you, Dick,” Donovan said, his eyes locked on Canidy’s.
“Thank you, sir. And you.”
After a long moment, Donovan released Canidy’s hand, took a step back, and looked at Canidy’s glass.
“Do I suspect you’re into the good single malt?”
“Guilty, sir.”
“Well, then, what the hell.” He smiled. “As we say in the business, ‘When with evil companions, try to blend in.’”
Canidy grinned, nodded once, said, “Single malt it is, sir,” then turned for the bar, and thought, Helluva way to get my head handed to me. But—he glanced at the animal trophies—I can think of worse.
As Canidy poured another crystal tumbler with two shots of twenty-year-old Famous Grouse single malt scotch, the director of the OSS said behind him, “I read your after-action report.”
That was all he said. There was a silence, interrupted only by the sounds of Canidy putting the bottle back on the tray with a clunk and of the fire crackling.
Canidy wondered if he was supposed to say something in reply.
But what? Is this where I throw myself on the mercy of the court—court, my ass; more like the court, judge, jury, and firing squad—and confess to having fucked up, apologize to Donovan for having caused him to bring me home to deal with my actions, and then beg him that I not be sent to some hellhole of a stockade or mental ward where I’ll spend the duration of the war cutting sheets of paper into paper dolls and confetti?
“Yes, sir,” Canidy said—it was more of a question than a statement—as he handed the drink to Donovan.
“Thank you.” Donovan took the glass and raised it to Canidy in a toast. “To successful missions—”
“Sir?”
“—To successful missions that contribute to winning the war.”
Canidy touched his glass to Donovan’s, but as they both took sips it was clear that Canidy was not completely following the OSS director’s meaning.
“Nice,” Donovan said, holding the glass in his palm and admiring the booze. “Very nice.”
He walked over to the nearest leather couch, sat down, then motioned for Canidy to do the same on the facing couch. Canidy did, and now realized that the arrangement of furniture created an environment where a discussion could be at once open and confidential.
After a long moment, Donovan looked at Canidy. “Anything you want to add that you may have purposefully left out of your after-action report?” he said, his tone pointed yet at the same time assuring.
What the hell is he hinting at? Canidy wondered. I put everything in there.
“There were some minor things,” Canidy offered. “Operational logistics, communications snafus, that kind of thing.”
Donovan nodded.
Am I missing something here? Canidy thought. Of course I am. And, Christ, it’s crystal clear—that sonofabitch David Bruce even spelled it out for me—so why the hell not just get it over with?
Canidy inhaled deeply, let it out, and said, “There is one thing that I felt best not put in writing.”
Donovan raised an eyebrow.
Canidy stood. “I fucked up, sir. And I apologize.”
The director of the Office of Strategic Services did not respond.
“It’s just that,” Canidy went on, “someone had to do something to complete the mission. And so, completely aware of the fact that I was the control—and knew too much to go behind the lines—I ignored that and…and I went in.”
He took the last sip of scotch, put the empty tumbler on the coffee table, and after a long moment of considering if he should say his next thought, he dismissed it, then mustered the courage to say it.
“Colonel, while I do apologize to you personally, I feel you should also know that I would do it again. I couldn’t leave Eric and the professor in there; they knew too much. I couldn’t do it—wouldn’t do it—and so I would suggest that I am more than a little in over my head. That now said, I’m prepared to—what? I’m not exactly sure of my options. Quit? Resign? Drive a desk and push papers here in Washington?”
Donovan was quiet as he considered that. He looked Canidy in the eyes, looked at his glass, sipped the last of his single malt.
“None of the above,” Donovan finally said. “You know that, Dick. In fact, you know too much.” He paused. “Your offer—however misplaced—is declined—”
“Sir? I—”
“Let me finish, please. While I appreciate what you’ve said, more than I think you realize, I did not come here—I did not bring you back from London—to shut you down.”
Canidy, not believing what he was hearing, simply stared at the director of the Office of Strategic Services.
“Would you mind, while you’re up?” Donovan said, holding out his tumbler to Canidy. “But just half this time. And a water alongside, please.”
Canidy nodded, and as he walked to the bar Donovan said, “Tell me your understanding of what we’re doing in England.”
“As far as the OSS specifically?” Canidy said, uncorking the single malt bottle and pouring.
“Yeah.”
“Well, starting with the topic at hand, we’re pulling scientists such as Dyer out through our pipelines, as well as running harassment campaigns, such as Eric Fulmar’s blowing up of the ball-bearing plant that was in my report. Then there’s the Aphrodite Project, B-17 drones packed with Torpex to blow U-boat pens and targets of opportunity.”
Canidy delivered to Donovan his drinks, placing the glass of water and the glass of single malt on the coffee table in front of him.
“That, plus some counterintel and psych ops, are all being run out of Whitbey House Station,” Canidy said, returning to the bar for his drink and bringing it back to his place on the couch. “And just now, David Bruce told me I’m losing Stan Fine, who Bruce is sending—maybe has already sent—to Algiers to begin setting up teams to go into France to support the resistance the way we’ve got agents in Corsica.”
Canidy watched as Donovan picked up the glass with the water, poured some into the scotch, diluting it by about fifty percent, then picked up the single malt, took a test sip, and, apparently satisfied, put the glass back on the table.
“That’s mostly correct about Fine in Algiers,” Donovan finally said. “It’s all about building a réseau—a net—of resistance.”
He paused in thought.
“Let me paint you a couple of pictures,” Donovan went on. “First the big one. The Allies are mustering for a large push and Hitler knows it. And it’s pretty obvious to anyone paying even half attention that France is key; we take it back, take all of it back, and the march is on to Berlin. What isn’t so obvious is how we would take France—simply by going in across the narrow top of the English Channel or by coming up from the south, through what Churchill has intimated as ‘the soft under-belly of Europe,’ or by doing both—and what must be even less obvious to Hitler is how to successfully defend against any—indeed, all—of that while at the same time battling the Russians.
“Our having done so well with Torch,” he continued, “and now with having so many Allied forces in North Africa would tend to suggest preparations for the latter, taking Italy,
then in through southern France. Yet no matter which of those options is in play—indeed, if all of them are in play; the President made it clear in his Casablanca Conference speech two weeks ago that the Allies will settle for nothing short of unconditional surrender—Hitler knows that his chances are made far better by Germany’s success in the Atlantic.”
Canidy nodded. “The starving of England,” he said.
“Exactly. Continue to dramatically reduce the flow of supplies—food, fuel, weapons, ammunition—and the Germans’ defense of France becomes easier and gives way to the Germans’ offense of London. And the U-boats have been wildly successful in taking out our supply ships in the Atlantic and Mediterranean.”
The director of the Office of Strategic Services leaned forward and picked up his glass, took a sip of single malt, considered his next thoughts.
He continued: “That’s the big picture, dangerously simply put, for Europe. As for a smaller picture—at least as far as the OSS is concerned—it involves what David Bruce has Fine doing. OSS London’s Special Operations is working with Britain’s Special Operations Executive and the Free French to support the Maquis—young guys pretty much your age—who fled for France’s woods instead of being forced into slave labor for the German occupation.”
“Small wonder they don’t trust the Vichy government, either,” Canidy said.
“And for damned good reason. So they’ve formed groups. There’s the Francs Tireurs et Partisans, which is controlled by the Communists. The Organization de la Résistance dans l’Armée, full of followers of Giraud. De Gaulle’s faithful are Forces Française de l’Intérieur, which is the strongest, and in large part controlled from London by the Bureau de Renseignement et d’Action. And a smattering of others.”
“And we’re supposed to support all these various factions?”
“That and pull them together,” Donovan said, nodding. “For now, and for after the war. They’re already fighting among themselves for postwar control. But they need training. They need weapons. Food. Money.”
“They need us…” Canidy said.
“Exactly. We’re having great success in Corsica. And we can do it in France. The vast majority of the French was anti-Axis before being occupied by them, and they can only be more so now. And those who may be on the fence, for whatever reason, can be persuaded to work with the réseau by appealing to their patriotism—or to their basic sense of survival.”
“When you say ‘basic sense of survival’…?”
“I mean life or death,” Donovan replied, his tone cool and calculated.
He let Canidy consider that, then said, “Our mission will be to supply and lead the Maquis in guerrilla warfare, sabotaging fuel-storage facilities, rail lines, factories, power plants—anything to rob the Germans of their use. SHAEF will designate targets, which SO and SOE agents will then tell the Maquis to take out. For example, using Fulmar’s recent work, it’s a ball-bearing plant. If those who run it are receptive to working with the Maquis, then we blow the machinery—forges, lathes, electrical transformers, whatever—to disrupt production for the short term; if, however, they choose to be uncooperative, we lay on an aerial bombing run and blow the whole building. The whole damned neighborhood.”
“Making it a French decision if they want their infrastructure to survive the war,” Canidy said, nodding. “Effective.”
“Quite. And I don’t think we will have to resort to the bombing more than necessary. The French, as we’re finding on Corsica, will readily accept our arms and support. Perhaps too readily.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Donovan considered not answering. After a moment, he replied, “Part of dancing with the devil is that we have to recognize they’re the devil for a reason, and that the devil has his own motives.”
“For postwar?”
“I’m getting more than a little heat here in Washington when it’s suggested that we’re supplying the Communists—the devil incarnate—with arms.”
“But there is, even if only a little, Allied support for that,” Canidy said, making it more of a question than a statement. “‘If Hitler invaded hell, I would make at least a favorable reference to the devil in the House of Commons.’”
Donovan smiled. “So sayeth Winston. Yes, there is a reluctant Allied support. Because the success of the Maquis is critical to the success of the American and British and other Allied combat forces to come. And that, Major Canidy, is why I brought you back here.”
Canidy looked off in the distance and tried to make sense of it all. Something was not right. A piece of the puzzle was missing. He looked at the director of the Office of Strategic Services, who he saw was watching him, studying him.
Canidy said, “At the risk of losing what little credibility I’m afraid that I might have with you, I must admit that I do not follow you completely. I understand going in and supporting the French resistance—I’m fully prepared to act on that right now, set up SO teams, et cetera, et cetera—but what does not make sense to me, if you’ll forgive me for saying, is why you could not have made these orders in a Secret—Eyes Only message. I could be on the ground in Algiers with Stan Fine right now.”
“Because you’re not going into France.”
The surprise was evident on Canidy’s face. “But I thought that you just said—”
Donovan held up his hand. “Did you stop to wonder why it’s just you and me here, Dick?”
“Yes, sir. I thought my ass was in a crack—”
“And after I made it clear to you that it wasn’t, did you not wonder?”
Canidy said nothing. There was nothing to say.
Donovan continued: “The reason that I pulled you back in the manner that I did was so that everyone would think that your ass was in a crack. So if you disappear, it won’t be unexpected.”
“Disappear, sir? To where?”
Donovan did not reply directly. He studied the crystal tumbler as he rolled it in his fingers, making the single malt rise and fall as it slowly circled. “There are, as you know, people who do not like the OSS. People on our side of the war, some very high up. For good or otherwise, one of our chief supporters is the President of the United States.”
“One could do worse,” Canidy offered.
“Perhaps,” Donovan said, agreeably. “But sometimes—maybe most times—such connections can cause serious friction, particularly when you take your orders directly from the President. That’s why no one understood why it was so important that you flew a mission to bring back bags of what was thought to be dirt. And no one understood why it was so important to bring out Professor Dyer. And now no one will understand why it’s important you set up and run a resistance net in Sicily.”
“Sicily?”
“General Eisenhower, there at AFHQ in Algiers, has made it clear that he does not want us—OSS in general and OSS SO in particular—in Sicily before the invasion. He thinks it will tip our hand to Mussolini and Hitler. Especially if our Special Operations begins blowing up things.”
“So we’re going into France from the south?”
Donovan ignored that. “The OSS Italian SI desk here in Washington, under a very capable and very young Army fellow by the name of Corvo, has been pulling together men to compile intel on Sicily and Italy. Their work has been limited to interviewing anyone in the States with an interest in the place, from tourists who visited there to Mussolini-hating natives who fled to the States. They’re making relief maps of the islands, compiling lists of assets, targets of opportunity, et cetera. Naturally, this is leading to some internal jockeying as some of the SI guys try to set themselves up as SO, but we’ve been stalling, using Eisenhower as our excuse. Which is why you’re going to set up a resistance net in Sicily, just as is being done in France, one that will not be discovered by the Italians, the Germans, the OSS Italian SI—and particularly by Ike.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It won’t be easy. While the Sicilians hate the Fascists, they’re not exactly fon
d of anyone else, either. You’re going to have to develop some leverage with them, because we need intel and we need it right now, something to feed Eisenhower in the event he gets wind of what we’re up to—and particularly if we uncover something he doesn’t know but should.”
He paused to let that soak in, and as Canidy nodded, went on: “Your cover is the extraction of another scientist, this one a Sicilian named Arturo Rossi. He also has expertise in metallurgy. More important, he is a key contact with scientists whose disciplines are of extremely high value to the United States.”
“For example?”
Donovan took a sip of single malt before replying. It was obvious that he did not want to answer the question directly and that he was not going to.
“These disciplines,” he finally said, “and their importance will become clearer to you in time. For now, know that Professor Dyer said that he and Rossi worked together when they both were visiting professors at the University of Rome. So our immediate fear is that once the Germans figure that out, and find the connection with the missing Dyer and these other scientists, Rossi’s life will be at risk, if it’s not already.”
“I understand.”
“It’s going to be especially difficult because we don’t have any established pipelines, and establishing one means getting through to the tight-lipped Sicilians—”
There came a knock, and Donovan stopped speaking as one of the heavy wooden doors squeaked open.
Chief Ellis stood in the doorway with a natty man who carried in his left hand a tan leather satchel and who wore a dark two-piece business suit, white shirt, and navy blue patterned tie with a matching pocket square. He looked to be about thirty years old and was of average height, with pale skin, dark eyes, shiny black wavy hair that was neatly combed, and a finely trimmed black mustache.
“Major Gurfein, sir,” Ellis announced. “And Antonio says he’s prepared to serve in fifteen minutes.”
The Saboteurs Page 9
