“L’Herminier is Mars, god of war.”
“Got it,” Fuller said softly.
He was quiet a moment, then added: “Why?”
“Why Mars?”
Fuller shook his head.
“Why am I leaving?” Canidy said.
Fuller nodded.
“We did it, Tubes. We found what we were supposed to. It’s all I need for now and you’re going to radio me the rest. You and the follow-up teams. You’re still up to it, right?”
Fuller pursed his lips. He tried to keep a straight face, but his expression showed he had his reservations.
Canidy put a hand on each of his shoulders and looked him in the eyes.
“Look, Tubes, it’s never easy,” he said. “You’re always looking over your shoulder, always on edge. But then when you get out, you discover you miss that rush. You find nothing compares to being in. Ever.”
Fuller stared back and said, “Really?”
Canidy then suddenly grinned from ear to ear.
“Why the hell do you think I keep coming back in?” he said. “This time tomorrow, I’ll be itching to get back in.”
Canidy then checked his watch again.
“It’s 2050. Go get this on the air. And sometime soon—not tonight—get that backup suitcase radio set and find a secure place for it that only you know.”
Fuller nodded, and Canidy detected that he was feeling a little more confident.
“You can count on me, Dick.”
“I know I can, Tubes,” Canidy said solemnly. “You’re going to be all right.” He paused, then added with a grin: “As long as you let the big head do all the thinking.”
Canidy, floating and waiting in the kayak a little after midnight, heard the diesel engine of the cargo ship before he saw its vague outline on the horizon.
With my luck, the damn thing will plow over me right before the submarine gets here.
The boat slowly rumbled past.
It’s going around to the south of the island.
That’s the long way to Messina.
Or are they going to stage the nerve gas at a southern port?
And that boat is in no hurry.
What does that mean?
Twenty minutes later, Canidy was startled by the sudden rocking of the kayak.
He grabbed the gunnels and quickly lay down in the wet bottom, trying to keep his center of gravity low.
Damn ship wake.
Now’s not the time to sink, Dick ol’ boy.
The rocking subsided after what seemed an eternity.
Over the next half hour, Canidy worked at getting his breathing back to normal. He’d just about accomplished that when there was an enormous whoosh of large volumes of water being displaced.
Canidy about came out of his skin.
Then he looked and sighed when he saw the silhouette of the submarine conn tower.
“But what if this gas burns?” Commander Jean L’Herminier, chief officer of the Free French Forces submarine Casabianca, asked Dick Canidy.
They were in the captain’s office and drinking coffee.
“How much water are we in?” Canidy said.
“Maybe a thousand meters.”
“Then it really doesn’t matter if it burns,” Canidy said. “We’re far enough out, and at a point where no one is around. If there’s a cloud, it will dissipate. No concentration, no harm. And what doesn’t burn goes to the bottom.”
L’Herminier nodded.
“Most important,” Canidy said, “the Germans don’t get the gas.”
The speaker of the inner-ship radio built into the wall of the office crackled alive.
“Commander, we’ve got her,” the nasally voice of the executive officer said.
When Canidy and L’Herminier came into the control room, the executive officer was at the periscope. The XO heard them enter and stepped back.
“She’s at eleven o’clock, Captain,” he said, gesturing toward the scope.
“Thank you,” L’Herminier said.
He put his face to the periscope.
After a moment, L’Herminier said, “Ninety-, ninety-five footer. A nice-sized target.”
He began turning the tube, making the start of a slow three-sixty scan of the surface. He did it in forty-five-degree segments, stopping to study each segment before moving to the next. When he had come back to the cargo vessel, he said, “Well, well. Looks as though she does have company. Maybe an escort?”
L’Herminier stepped back from the scope and motioned for Canidy to see.
Canidy looked but could not make out anything. He adjusted the optics.
“The cargo vessel is at eleven o’clock, just to the port of our bow,” L’Herminier said.
After a moment, Canidy said, “Got it.”
“Now, look to about two o’clock. Same size as the cargo ship but armed to the teeth.”
“Oh, shit! Another S-boat.”
Canidy stepped back from the periscope. When he looked at L’Herminier, he saw that the commander had his eyes closed and his head down.
What the hell is he doing?
Then L’Herminier brought up his head, and, as he opened his eyes, he crossed himself.
When he saw Canidy’s questioning look, he said softly, “I understand what it is we do and why. But still I say a prayer for the souls of the lives I must take.”
Canidy nodded. Then he quickly closed his eyes and lowered his head.
Merciful Lord,
Bless the souls of these men whose lives we are about to take.
Bless the fish we’re about to fire so that our sword is swift and sure.
And…and bless this boat and crew so it’s only the enemy’s ass and not mine.
Amen.
Canidy opened his eyes. L’Herminier was at the scope, looking in the direction of the S-boat.
Well, that might not be the prayer my father would have chosen.
But it’ll have to do.
“On my mark,” the sub commander said to the XO. “She’s settled in ahead of the cargo vessel and matched her speed. Steer one-zero-six degrees.”
“One-zero-six degrees!” the executive officer called to the helm.
After a minute, the captain calmly said, “Distance seven-five-zero meters.”
The XO repeated that.
“Fire torpedo two,” L’Herminier ordered.
Canidy felt the Casabianca shudder as the fish shot forward. There was silence for what seemed like an eternity, then L’Herminier crossed himself again—and a muffled roar reverberated through the ship.
Then all was quiet.
L’Herminier calmly turned the scope in search of the cargo vessel.
“Ah, she’s starting to run,” he said.
L’Herminier looked at Canidy.
“I like it when the target runs,” he added. “Not as easy as the S-boat just now. You have to lead them.”
[THREE]
OSS Algiers Station Algiers, Algeria 1245 10 April 1943
As Major Richard M. Canidy, United States Army Air Forces, looked out at the Casabianca among the ships in the harbor and barrage balloons above them, Captain Stanley S. Fine, United States Army Air Forces, came out onto the balcony, a fat manila folder in his hand.
Faintly, Canidy heard a familiar sound, and his eyes caught movement in the sky. He immediately pinpointed the USAAF P-38Fs—a small V formation of five Lockheed Lightnings—and grinned knowingly. The sound of the 1,475-horsepower Allison V-12 engines was like recognizing the voice of an old friend.
All things being equal, he thought, admiring the twin-engine fighters, I’d rather be in that lead aircraft, going wherever the hell it’s going—even if that’s air combat… especially air combat—because that is where I feel the most comfortable.
It had been only months earlier that Canidy—flying with Doug Douglass, protecting a stream of B-17 bombers over Germany—had been blasting Messerschmitt Me 109s out of the sky with his Lightning’s battery of eight .50 caliber Br
ownings.
“Those birds make a pretty sight,” Fine said. “I miss flying, too.”
Canidy nodded.
Fine was widely admired not just for his creative ability—as Canidy put it, “at silencing the rear-echelon bureaucratic bastards in Washington and their endless paperwork”—but also because, despite his somewhat-frail appearance, he was absolutely fearless. And one helluva pilot.
“Here’s the stack of everything we’ve received from Mercury Station,” Fine added. “No more reports on either the Tabun or the yellow-fever program.”
“Thanks, Caesar,” Canidy said with a smile. “That’s good news.”
“There’s also an update in there from Whitbey House. Says Ann is doing well.”
“Any reason she wouldn’t be?” Canidy said. “No word where she was, what happened?”
Fine shook his head. “No—to all the above.”
Canidy said, “I’m planning to get back to London—”
“And so you shall,” Fine said. “Soon as we knock this out.”
Canidy was more than halfway through the manila folder of messages—chuckling at one of the lines that Tubes had stuck in: “Adolf and Eva send regards”—when John Craig van der Ploeg appeared on the balcony. He was holding a single typewritten message. He had a look of uncertainty.
“What’s this?” Canidy said, looking at the message. “You miss one?”
“It’s the latest from Mercury,” van der Ploeg said.
Canidy took it from his hand and read it.
“Tubes says Nola wants more money for bribes and to start stockpiling weapons?” Canidy said. “So we send ’em.”
“There’s a Sandbox team getting ready to go in,” Fine offered. “Soon as Le Casa can get herself provisioned.”
“That’s not the problem,” van der Ploeg said.
“What is?” Canidy asked.
The radioman nodded at the message that Canidy held.
“That’s not his hand.”
“What do you mean?” Canidy said.
“The way he sends Morse code on the wireless key,” the radioman said, “I can tell that Tubes isn’t doing the—”
“I know what it means,” Canidy interrupted.
“But it’s his radio frequency,” John Craig van der Ploeg finished.
Canidy considered that.
“It was his hand for those”—van der Ploeg went on, nodding at the messages Canidy had been reading—“but at noon it suddenly wasn’t his hand. I even made him resend the messages.”
“You’re sure?” Canidy said. “Absolutely one hundred and ten percent certain?”
John Craig looked as if he took offense at the question.
“As certain as anyone can tell the difference between who’s blowing the blues horn, Miles Davis or Jack Benny. Or maybe the tone of airplane engines?”
“Your ear is that good?” Fine said.
“More like Tubes’s hand is that good. He has a natural rhythm. He makes his keying seem effortless. It’s almost art—”
“Shit!” Canidy flared.
“And whoever’s operating Tubes’s W/T has all the finesse of a ham-fisted gorilla.”
“Did he send the code for a compromised station?” Canidy said.
John Craig van der Ploeg shook his head. “Negative, sir.”
Canidy glared at him. “Don’t start with that sir shit again.”
“So you think he’s been turned?” said John Craig van der Ploeg. “He’s a double agent?”
The station is compromised, Canidy thought .
Jesus Christ, I led that poor sonofabitch there like a lamb to the slaughter.
Tubes, I pray you’re all right…as I promised you would be.
“Ask him,” Canidy said evenly to John Craig van der Ploeg. “Ask him, quote, is there another barnacle on the hull?, unquote.”
Canidy looked at John Craig van der Ploeg, then took the typewritten message he had just handed him and wrote on it: Is there another barnacle on the hull?
He handed it to him.
“What—?” John Craig van der Ploeg said after he read it.
“Just fucking send the message!” Canidy snapped.
When John Craig van der Ploeg had left the balcony, Canidy looked out in the direction of the Lightnings, their twin tails now tiny points on the horizon.
Stan Fine saw that, too.
“Don’t think about it, Dick. You’re not going back in, by air or sub. You did your job.”
Canidy stared at him.
“That’s really not your call, Stan.”
Resignedly, Fine nodded, then went on, “Corvo’s team from the Sandbox will be en route any day, maybe even tomorrow. They’ll find Tubes.”
Canidy didn’t say anything.
“As long as the Nazis consider you are valuable to them—an asset—no harm will come to you.”
Hope I’m at least right about that.
“Okay, meantime, we keep working him,” Canidy said coldly. “Double agents are useful. We can feed him info. Maybe that will buy time to keep him alive.”
Canidy looked out over the Mediterranean Sea, in the direction of Sicily, and sighed loudly.
“You can call me FDR,” he said. “I’m also going to accept only the unconditional surrender of the goddamn enemy.”
[FOUR]
OSS London Station Berkeley Square London, England 1701 14 May 1943
Lieutenant Colonel Edmund T. Stevens reached toward the tray on David Bruce’s desk that held two bottles of Famous Grouse scotch, one full and one about empty, and three glasses. He picked up the open bottle, then looked at David Bruce and Major Richard M. Canidy.
They both had glasses dark with scotch.
“I was about to wave the bottle at you,” Stevens said, “and offer you more, but it would appear that I’m drinking a bit faster than everyone else.”
“I’d suggest it’s an evaporation factor,” Canidy said, smiling. “Air is terribly dry this time of year.”
Stevens finished filling his glass, then touched it to Canidy’s in a toast. “I’m just damn glad you’re here, Dick.”
“Thank you. Me, too.”
David Bruce said, “You were saying about our agent who’s been doubled?”
Canidy nodded. “We’re feeding him disinformation with some really low-level real stuff. There’s a team that’s trying to get to him, see if he’s really turned or just controlled. We don’t know. It’s my opinion that he’s under duress. Tubes is a good guy with no ax to grind, no reason to aid the enemy.”
“Tubes?” Bruce said.
“Maximus, if you prefer.”
Bruce smiled. “Oh, yes. Thank you, Jupiter.”
David Bruce sipped his scotch, then said: “Will the Germans see Maximus as a sign we’re going to invade Sicily? And what about the S-boat and the ship you took out?”
Canidy drank from his glass as he considered his answer.
After a moment, he said, “As to the boats, I don’t see why they would not simply be seen as targets of opportunity. And we have agents in Sardinia, too, so why would we not in Sicily? And before you ask about blowing the villa, that could have been done by anyone, including the Mafia, pissed at the hanging in the port.”
David Bruce’s expression suggested that he did not exactly agree with that assessment.
“What about Ike?” Bruce then said.
“What about him?” Canidy said defensively.
“Has he been told?” Bruce went on.
“Told what?” Canidy said, his tone incredulous. “That we fucking took out a ship carrying nerve gas that his people said did not even exist? Jesus!”
Canidy drained his glass, then looked at Stevens.
“Give me that bottle, Ed. I can use another now.”
David Bruce made a face.
“Dick does make a good point,” Ed Stevens said evenly after he passed the bottle to Canidy. “Why muddy the waters?”
After a moment, David Bruce nodded.
; “Sorry, Dick,” he said. “I’m just trying to keep all the pieces in perspective. Now’s not the time for us to slow down. We’re making real progress. Thanks to our OSS agents in Sardinia you mentioned, eighty-four B-24 Liberators bombed La Maddalena on April tenth. They even sank the Italian heavy cruiser Trieste. And, of course, we took Bizerta and Tunis on May seventh.”
“More than a quarter million German and Italian prisoners,” Stevens said.
“And now,” Bruce added, “thanks to Ed Stevens and his new pals, it would appear the path to taking Sicily and Italy is clearing.”
Canidy looked at Stevens. “New pals?”
Stevens gave Canidy a copy of Lieutenant Commander Ewen Montagu’s OPERATION MINCEMEAT outline. When he’d read it, Stevens then gave Canidy an overview of the OSS’s contribution.
“We put together Major Martin at Whitbey House,” Ed Stevens said.
As he explained OSS Whitbey House Station’s participation, Canidy found himself laughing aloud at various points.
“I am really sorry I missed being a part of that,” Canidy said.
“I wish I had been of more help,” Stevens said, “but the others handled it marvelously.”
He then produced another typewritten page.
“That’s the report from ‘Jimmy’ Jewell—formally, Lieutenant N.L.A. Jewell—captain of HMS Seraph. Confirmation and details of the transport of the body and its launching off Spain on April thirtieth—two weeks ago. Pretty straightforward. Borderline boring, actually, as it all went according to plan.”
Canidy glanced at the page and nodded.
“Immediately after we got that signal,” Stevens said, “Montagu had the message traffic at the Admiralty reach a fevered pitch, all cranked up about the missing of Major Martin.”
Stevens took a moment to refreshen his scotch.
He went on: “On May second, the naval attaché in Madrid signaled that the body of Major Martin had been picked up off the coast. So the Admiralty responded to the naval attaché about the briefcase and its, quote, most secret, unquote, documents. The attaché then got hammered with urgent messages to get back every damn document—but don’t be too obvious. Don’t want the Spaniards getting suspicious, wink, wink. And return those documents to DNI immediately!”
The Double Agents Page 34