Canidy wondered if this was yet another weird idea of Eldon C. Baker’s.
‘‘You’ll leave by air tomorrow,’’ Murphy said.
‘‘OK, I guess,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘If you’re going to be fucked, you might as well enjoy it.’’
Café des Deux Sabots Rabat, Morocco March 17, 1942
Jean-François, Max von Heurten-Mitnitz’s regular waiter, hovered expectantly over his table. ‘‘Your orders, messieurs? ’’ he asked.
‘‘Please, use your imagination, Jean-François,’’ said von Heurten-Mitnitz. ‘‘Anything but lamb.’’
‘‘And I’ll have the same,’’ said Müller.
‘‘And so,’’ von Heurten-Mitnitz said after Jean-François’s departure, ‘‘the little admiral has flown away.’’
‘‘I’m afraid so,’’ Müller agreed.
‘‘As have your two minor American consular officials.’’
‘‘Ah yes, I’m afraid so.’’
‘‘And Sidi el Ferruch and his friend Fulmar have now returned to Ksar es Souk from their recent vanishings. I imagine there is absolutely no connection among all these occurrences?’’
‘‘None whatever,’’ Müller said, smiling. ‘‘But I wonder why Fulmar stayed behind. We can safely arrest him now.’’
‘‘Interesting, isn’t it? I would have left . . . though I suppose he believes he’ll be safe enough with el Ferruch. And indeed he probably is safe with el Ferruch—at least as long as the French are the only resources available to us.’’
‘‘So then what do we do?’’
‘‘The loss of the admiral will have to be punished, lest you and I are given Russia as a reward. Round up a substantial number of suspects and throw the book at them. Is there any other business? It would be pleasant for a change to enjoy my meal.’’
‘‘Not much. A French mining engineer was robbed and burned to death after the criminals set fire to the house.’’
‘‘Too bad for him. But I expect that the French can take care of it.’’
‘‘Exactly my thought.’’
10
Washington, D.C. March 17, 1942
During the two days of his trip home Canidy did a lot of thinking. The result of this was the conclusion that he had nothing to complain about. He was home from China— alive—and he was now home from Morocco—alive. He wasn’t even especially worried about Eric Fulmar. Fulmar seemed perfectly capable of taking care of himself.
He now only had to quit his present employment. Once the pleasure he had taken from Murphy’s compliments had passed, he had realized that all of those had been soft soap. He had done nothing extraordinary, nothing that suggested he would make a good spy. Almost the reverse was true. He didn’t know what a spy was supposed to do, much less how to do it. He had no business being a spy. And since he was not a fool, he was not going to be one.
That was very simple. All he had to do was say ‘‘I quit.’’ He had done what he had been asked to do. He didn’t think they would really lock him up in the funny farm without reason, and he would give them no reason. He didn’t know any secrets (except that they were going to invade North Africa, and that was not much of a secret).
With a little bit of luck, he could go to work as an aeronautical engineer. With a little more luck, he could get an exemption from the draft. He would not have to stick his neck out again.
Everything had come out in the wash.
Chief Ellis was waiting for him at the airport in Washington.
‘‘I’m not sure if I’m glad to see you or not,’’ Canidy said as they shook hands. ‘‘What do you want?’’
‘‘Well, the captain wants to see you,’’ Ellis said. ‘‘And I was told to pick you up.’’
‘‘I don’t suppose by any chance that Mr. Baker is there?’’
‘‘No, he’s not.’’
‘‘Pity,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘The sooner I kick his ass, the sooner I can put this whole unpleasant business behind me.’’
‘‘The captain said you would probably still be pissed at Mr. Baker,’’ Ellis said.
‘‘Understatement of the year,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘Do I have to go to the house on Q Street?"
‘‘No. But unless you want to sleep on a bench in Union Station, it would be a good idea. There’s no hotel rooms in Washington.’’
‘‘In that case, Q Street," Canidy said.
‘‘Anyway, your clothes are there,’’ Ellis said. ‘‘They flew ’em back one day last week.’’
‘‘My clothes came by plane, but not the same one as I did,’’ Canidy said.
‘‘What the hell, the food was good, wasn’t it?’’
‘‘Yes, come to think of it, it was.’’
‘‘You got to learn to relax, Mr. Canidy,’’ Ellis said.
‘‘Oh, I’m going to,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘From now on.’’
Cynthia Chenowith met him at the door of the house.
‘‘Welcome home,’’ she said.
‘‘Thank you,’’ he said. ‘‘If you really mean that, you will have dinner with me tonight.’’
‘‘You plan to drink yours, obviously,’’ she said.
The telephone rang. She answered it, then handed it to him.
‘‘Hello?’’
‘‘Bill Donovan, Dick,’’ the familiar voice said. ‘‘Welcome home. Well done.’’
Oh shit.
‘‘Thank you, sir.’’
‘‘We’ve got you on an eleven o’clock plane tomorrow to Chicago, with a connection to Cedar Rapids,’’ Donovan said. ‘‘We thought you would like to see your father for a couple of days.’’
‘‘Thank you, sir.’’
‘‘Least we can do,’’ Donovan said.
What’s the matter with me? What is there about this man? Why can’t I say, ‘‘Stick your airplane ticket up your ass, I quit’’?
‘‘I’m grateful,’’ Canidy said.
‘‘We’ll talk when you get back,’’ Donovan said.
‘‘I’ll look forward to it, sir,’’ Canidy said.
"So will I," Donovan said. "Please give my regards to your father."
There was a click. Canidy took the telephone from his ear and stared at it.
He looked up at Cynthia.
‘‘I didn’t get an answer about dinner,’’ he said.
‘‘Dick, I really shouldn’t. I have work up to here,’’ she said, lifting her arm above her shoulder.
‘‘Well,’’ he said, ‘‘we must all make our little sacrifices for the war effort, mustn’t we? Yours is to have dinner with me.’’
1
Office of Naval Intelligence.
The Last Heroes Page 36