If the British had their way, all the assets--materiel, personnel, and financial--of the OSS would be directed by the various intelligence officers who, in one way or another, all reported to'c." Colonel William J. Donovan was the World War II equivalent for espionage and sabotage--for "strategic services"--of General Black Jack Pershing and the AEF of World War I, Despite their inexperience and despite any other objection the Imperial General Staff--or Winston Churchill himself-might have, Americans, Donovan insisted--with the authority of President Roosevelt--would run their own covert operations.
And, to the surprise of some British, the Americans had done well, in an intelligence sense, in the invasion of North Africa. If they had failed, perhaps there would have been a chance to argue again for British control. But that hadn't happened. There was no way now to talk the Americans out of independent operation. There would be cooperation, nothing more.
And that, Stevens thought, was the real reason "C" was sitting across the poker table from him now. The ostensible purpose of this meeting had to do with certain operational details involving Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz. S and Johann Muller. If the British had been running these agents, the personal attention of "C" would not be required. "C" was here now to ensure that his people understood that the decision had been made to cooperate with the independently operating Americans.
Photostatic copies of all the MI-6 files on Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz and Johann Muller, on the von Heurten-Mitnitz family, on the Baron Fulmar, on the German rocket installation at Peenemunde, on German jet-engine experimentation, on everything the Americans had asked for, plus some things they hadn't asked for but which they would find of interest, had been brought to the meeting at Station X. It took more than four hours before the Americans had examined the photostats and were out of questions, arranged the details of liaison with the British agents in Germany, and come to an understanding, an agreement, about where British support would end and the Americans would have to fend for themselves.
And then the Americans left.
The deputy chief of MI-6 sat alone with'c" at the poker table, a bemused look on his face.
"If you're about to say something witty, Charles, about our American friends, ""C" said, "please spare me. Otherwise?"
"I had a rather profound thought, actually," the deputy chief of MI-6 said.
"I confess to thinking about sending virgins off to do a woman's work.
But then it occurred to me they all start off as virgins, don't they?
All it takes is once."
"C" smiled.
"I knew I could count on you for something romantic, Charles.
"Then he added, KBUT I don't think you can fairly categorize either that Major Canidy or that half-German chap they're going to send in as virgins.
They may not yet know how to run a professional like von Heurten-Mitnitz, but they're not virgins. They've both been operational."
"Virgins," the deputy chief of MI-6 insisted. "Deadly virgins, perhaps.
But virgins." [SHREE] Sho Sotol d'anfa an. Caszblonca, Morocco 8 December 1942 Though it was now functioning as officers' quarters for Western Task Force, the Hotel d'anfa had lost none of its elegance or ambience.
The pool and the tennis courts remained open, as did the only rooftop bar and night club in Casablanca.
Eldon C. Baker, a man of not quite thirty-two years with something of a moon face and thinning, sandy hair, sat in a corner of the bar.
He wore an officer's uniform with the customary U. S." lapel insignia but without insignia of branch of service or rank. On the shoulder of his green gabardine tunic was a square embroidered in blue. There was a triangle within the square and the letters
"U. S." It was the insignia worn by civilian experts attached to the U. S. Army in the field.
Baker carried both orders and an AGO card in the name of James B. Westerman. The orders had been issued by the War Department and authorized priority military air travel from the United States to "Western Task Force in the Field" in connection with activities of the Offfice of the Comptroller of the Army. In the
"RANK" block, the AGO card said, "ASS It/Col." This meant that Baker carried the assimilated rank of Lieutenant Colonel and was entitled to the privileges of that rank when it came to quarters, transportation, and so on. So far, no one else had thought
"ASS It/Col" was at all amusing.
Baker also carried--in a safe place--a second identification card and a second set of orders. These had his correct name on them. The identification card, which came with a badge, identified him as a Special Agent of the U. S. Army Counterintelligence Corps, and the orders, issued in the name of the Assistant Chief of Staff, Intelligence, said that he was engaged in a confidential mission for the Assistant Chief of Staff, G2, and any questions concerning him and his mission should be referred to that office.
While the second set of credentials was genuine--they had in fact been issued by G2--Eldon C. Baker was not an agent of the CIC. He was in fact an employee of the State Department and was paid as an FSO-4.
For more than a year, however, he had been on temporary duty with the OSS.
He was listed on the OSS table of organization as "Chief, Recruitment and Training", and it was in connection with this that he had come to Morocco. His primary mission was to recruit people, with emphasis on officers fluent in French, Italian, or German, for planned covert operations against Germany and Italy. He also intended to arrange for the parachute training of OSS agents by the U. S. Army. And he had a third mission, known only to Colonel Donovan and Captain Douglass, He was going to send a postcard.
The third mission had a higher priority than anything else that had brought Eldon C. Baker from Washington to the rooftop bar of the Hotel d'anfa.
Baker saw Eric Fulmar before Fulmar saw him. As Baker expected, Fulmar came into the bar a little after five o'clock. The hint of a smile appeared on Baker's lips when he saw him. Eric Fulmar was rather obviously pleased with himself and his role in the scheme of things.
He was in olive-drab uniform, a shirt, trousers, and tie. His feet were in highly polished jump boots, which went with the silver parachutist's wings on his breast pocket just above his two ribbons.
He was wearing the ETO (European Theater of Operations) ribbon with a battle star and the ribbon of the Silver Star medal. Hanging from his shoulder was a Thompson machine-pistol, a non-issue weapon.
As he sat down, he rather ostentatiously laid the weapon on the bar stool beside his and, in Arabic, ordered Scotch and water from the Moroccan barman.
He got strange looks from the other officers at the bar, who were young staff officers of one kind or another assigned to the various rear-area support services in Casablanca. Fulmar managed to remind them, Baker saw, that while they might be in uniform, they weren't really soldiers.
Fulmar, with his Silver Star and parachutist's wings and Thompson machine-pistol, was a soldier.
Baker stood up from his table, walked to the bar, and slid onto the stool beside him.
" Wie gexts, Eric?" he asked in flawless German. "Was 1st Ios?" That got some attention from the other officers at the bar, too.
It probably wasn't the smartest thing to do, Baker thought, but on the other hand, he felt sure that Fulmar would somehow already have let the others know that he spoke German.
Fulmar turned to look at him. His eyes were cold. Baker was made a little uncomfortable to be reminded that beneath the facade of self-impressed young parachutist hero, this was a very tough and self-reliant young man.
KWHAT brings you here, Baker?" Fulmar asked. His eyes were contemptuous and wary.
"Westerman," Baker said.
Fulmar thought that over.
"Westerman, then," he said.
KWELL, I had to come over here, and I thought I'd say hello," Baker said.
He saw the chill deepen in Fulmar's eyes, and quickly added, "I heard about the promotion and the Silver Star. Congratulations." "Bullshit," Fulmar said flatly.
Fulmar took a sip of his Scotch, then turned to look at Baker out of his cold blue eyes.
He would have made an SS off ficer to warm the cockles of Hitler's heart, Baker thought. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, muscular, erect, the perfect Aryan.
KHAVE your word," Fulmar said.
"Not here," Baker said. "Can we go to your room?" Fulmar said something to the bartender, who picked up Fulmar's glass and pushed it into a bed of ice behind the bar. Then Fulmar picked up his machine-pistol and walked out of the bar. Baker followed him.
They rode wordlessly two floors down in an elevator and then walked down a corridor to Fulmar's suite, a small sitting room and a much larger bedroom with a balcony. The balcony overlooked the Atlantic Ocean and a rather stunning beach.
KI don't know if this place is secure or not," Fulmar said.
"It doesn't matter," Baker said. "This isn't going to take long." He took from the breast pocket of his tunic two 3x8-inch sheets of corrugated paperboard, held together by rubber bands, and then a fountain pen, a large, somewhat ungainly instrument.
"Is that German?" Fulmar asked, his curiosity aroused. Baker nodded his head.
"I used to have one something like it," Fulmar said. i.
"Sit down, Eric," Baker said, nodding toward a small writing desk as he removed the rubber bands from the sheets of cardboard.
When Fulmar had seated himself, Baker handed him a postcard and two sheets of paper cut to the same size. Fulmar examined the postcard.
It was a photograph of the Kurhotel in Bad Ems.
"What's all this?"
"I have only the one postcard," Baker said. "So we can't take the risk of fucking this up. What I want you to do is copy the message from the one sheet of paper onto the other sheet of paper. Copy what is written exactly." Fulmar looked at the piece of paper. The postcard was to be addressed to Herr Joachim Freienstall, 7476 Beerenstrasse, Berlin/Zehlendorf.
The message (in German) was' Sorry I missed you. Please give my regards to my father and Prof. Dyer. Kindest regards, Willi von K."
"What the hell is this?" Fulmar asked. "Who's Freienstall? For that matter, who the hell is Willi von K'?" KTHAT has nothing to do with you," Baker said.
"Bullshit," Fulmar said. "Why do you need me to write it?"
"Let me put it this way," Baker said coldly. "You don't have the need to know, Eric."
"Then write your own fucking postcard," Fulmar said.
"Just do what I ask you, Eric," Baker ordered. "This is important." They locked eyes for a moment.
"I'd like to know what scurvy trick this is," Fulmar said. "And on whom." KAT the moment, that's impossible," Baker said.
"Shit!" Fulmar said, but he took up the fountain pen and copied the message onto the blank sheet of paper.
When he had finished, Baker picked it up, examined it, nodded, and said, "Fine. Now do it exactly the same way on the postcard." As Fulmar complied, Baker took a Zippo lighter from his pocket and burned the first copy. When he had examined the final version and found it satisfactory, he burned the original message.
"Get up," he ordered. After Fulmar complied, Baker sat down at the desk. He laid the cardboard sheets on the desk and then the postcard.
Then he wet his index finger with his tongue and ran it over' Joachim Freienstall," rendering the name illegible.
Fulmar's eyebrows rose, but he didn't say anything.
Baker waited for the spit to dry, then very carefully wiped the postcard with his handleerchief, paying particular attention to the glossy side with the photograph of the Kurhotel. Next, holding it with his handleerchief, he extended the card to Fulmar, who made no move to take it.
"Now what?" Fulmar asked.
"Take the card and lay it on the cardboard," Baker said.
"Will my index and thumb prints be enough?" Fulmar asked sarcastically.
"Or should I put the rest on it, too?"
"Pass it back and forth a couple of times between your hands," Baker said.
Fulmar did as he was told. Baker then laid the second sheet of cardboard on top of the postcard, replaced the rubber bands, and put the whole thing back in his pocket.
"You understand, of course," he said, ut hat you are to mention this to no one?"
"The thing about you, Baker," Fulmar said, "is that you're such a truly devious bastard that I really have no idea what you're up to."
"In our business, Eric," Baker said, "there are those who would take that as a first-rate compliment." He put out his hand.
"That's it," he said, "unless there's something I could do for you in Washington?" Fulmar pointedly ignored the hand.
"Not a thing you could do for me," Fulmar said. "You've already done enough fgr me. Or to me."
"I'm really sorry you feel that way, Eric, " Baker said.
"Yeah, I'm sure you are," Fulmar said.
Baker shrugged and walked out of the room. Fulmar looked at the closed door for a full minute, his face lost in thought. And then a look of genuine concern crossed his face.
"Christ!" he said, and hurried out of the room.
He had remembered a Red Cross girl with absolutely marvelous eyes who had said she would meet him at quarter to six in the bar.
FOUR] The Wrdman Parle Hotel Wnhington, D. C December 1942 Major
"Doug" Douglass, Jr. , who was short for a pilot and looked even younger than his twenty-five years, wanted to say good-bye to his father before he took off for Europe. The easiest way to do that would have been simply to land his P-38 in Washington. But Peter Douglass, Sr. , was a captain in the United States Navy, and Doug Douglass did not want the "good-bye" to turn into a fatherly lecture on the hazards to an officer's career of flouting regulations forbidding' diversions en route to the aerial port of departure." The other easy alternative, declaring engine trouble over Washington, was just too much of a convenient coincidence.
Between Alabama and North Carolina, howeveg Doug Douglass found his answer. He had a good executive officer who could lead the rest of the group to Westover. And he really didn't think anyone would ask questions about carburetor trouble near Baltimore making a Kprecautionary" landing there necessary. So he used the in-flight communications system to relay a spurious message to his father, "Replacement package will arrive Baltimore 1330 hours." He was confident his father would know what it meant.
Charity Hoche was waiting for him with an OSS station wagon. He knew Charity fairly well. He had, in fact, rather casually made the beast with two backs with her on one of the few times he'd been able to make it to Washington Charity worked for the OSS--that is to say, for his father--as sort of a housekeeper for the turn-of-the-century mansion the OSS operated on Q Street near Rock Creek Park.
She came out of the same very upper-echelon set as Donovan and Jimmy Whittaker and Cynthia Chenowith and Ed Bitter and his wife. A bright girl with a dim look, she had picked up from friends (most of them OSS types) and at parties more than she should have picked up about the
OSS.
So it was decided that the best way to keep an eye on her was to give her a job.
And she looked damn good, too, when he saw her. Marvelous breasts, long blond hair, and a pronounced nasal manner of speech he found enticingly erotic. But he had come to see his father, not for a casual roll in the hay.
"My dad's tied up?" he asked.
Charity told him that his father was indeed "tied up" but that he hoped Doug could wait until eight, at which time he might be free.
On the other hand, since my father is tied up, maybe a casual roll in the hay would steady my nerves for the arduous duty I am about to face.
So they went for a beer, except he didn't drink because he was going to have to fly, and Charity drank some concoction with fruit juice and a cherry and
gin. It tended to make her emotional. By four o'clock, Doug had decided he would not fly on to Westover until tomorrow. Every hour on the hour, Charity called to see if his father had any word for them.
Then they had dinner someplace, but he didn't pay much attention to what they had to eat. They had started playing kneesy under the table pretty soon after their arrival, and that was more interesting than food.
Around dessert or coffee or some damn thing, she leaned over to say something to him and rested her magnificent breast on his hand.
W E B Griffin - Men at War 3 - The Soldier Spies Page 8