"How do you know that?"
"The British have an agent in Marburg.
There's a fighter base outside.
We asked him to keep an eye on the professor. He thought this was interesting, and sent it along."
"They're watching Dyer for us?" Canidy asked, surprised.
"No. Not the way you suggest. If they fall into something, they pass it along if they can. He must have been at the hotel and thought Dyer's daughter's association with a Sicherheitsdienst colonel might interest us. But our English brothers have made it clear that what we've gotten is all we're going to get. No more help from them from their guy in Marburg, in other words." Canidy took that in and gave it a moment's thought. "Okay," he said, "so what do we do now?"
"The first thing is to get Fulmar back here from Morocco," Stevens said.
"I hope Gisella remembers his handwriting."
"And we can't get the Limeys to help? Is that what you just said?
Beneath their dignity, or what?"
"There are other priorities, Dick," Stevens said.
"Did the new aerial photos show you anything, Dick?" Fine asked.
"Yeah," Canidy said. "That Douglass's mission was a waste of effort.
It's true that Doug's guys managed to put a few five-hundred-pounders where they were supposed to be. But the Air Corps' position that these did some damage is wishful thinking. I think they'll be willing to admit that before long, although they've got theirioxperts' still looking for something."
"You sound pretty sure," Stevens challenged.
"I'm a former naval person myself, Colonel," Canidy said dryly.
"When I see a photograph of a sub being fueled while a crane loads torpedoes, I am expert enough to deduce the maintenance facility is functional." He waited until Stevens nodded, then went on. "It's going to take several of those flying bombs to take out those pens, and the small problem there is that I don't think Aphrodite's going to work." "Why not?" Fine asked.
"Controlling those airplanes by radio is a lot easier said than done," Canidy said. "Particularly when they're old and shot up and worn out.
"Is there a reason for that?" Stevens asked.
"Yeah, if you mean an aeronautical, or aerodynamic reason," Canidy said.
"Control surfaces are activated by cables. Even in a brand-new airplane, you may have to apply more pressure to get, say, the desired amount of left rudder or up-aileron than you do to get that much right rudder or down aileron. The B-17s Kennedy's working with are old airplanes that should be in the bone yard. In many cases, they're made up of parts cannibalized from three, four, five airplanes. They're harder than hell for a pilot to fly. Trying to fly them with radio-actuated servomechanisms is damned near impossible.
Power enough to put one into a dive, power enough for that much cable movement in other words, often won't raise the nose perceptibly when it's applied the other way. But servomotors give you the same pull in both directions. You follow?" Stevens nodded.
And that's empty," Canidy said. "We haven't even tried flying them with a load."
"Would it be easier--more possible--if Kennedy had new airplanes?" Stevens asked.
"Some, not much, but some," Canidy said.
I'll check on that," Stevens said. "And Dick, you just said 'we' haven't tried flying. You are not to fly Aphrodite aircraft. If that sounds like an order, it is." "I know," Canidy said, dryly sarcastic. "Like a vestal virgin, I'm being saved for something important, right?" "Yes," Stevens said, aas a matter of fact, you are." Stevens took the front page of the Frankfurter Rundschau from the table and put it back in its envelope.
"That's it," he said. "You can go back to your party." [FOUR] Broadcant Sourordod, Engl'dd lols Sourn 8 January 1943 The producer in the booth pointed his index finger at the left of two men sitting in the studio. The man he pointed at leaned barely forward. i, This is the overseas service of the British Broadcasting Corporation," the man said.
The producer pointed his index finger at the engineer in the booth beside him. The engineer lifted the balls of his fingers from the edge of the phonograph record he had cued.
The chimes of Big Ben went out over the air. vo The producer pointed his finger at the man sitting at the right of the table in the studio.
"And now some messages for our friends in Germany," the man said to his microphone. He read down a neatly typed list of brief, cryptic messages until he came to number eight.
"The Kurfurstendamm is slippery with ice," he read, then read it again, slowly, with precision, "The Kurfurstendamm is slippery with ice." The message sounded meaningless. But it would be carefully recorded in Berlin by radio operators of the several German intelligence agencies, including the SS-SD, and by the Ministry of Information, who would study it in an attempt to take some meaning from it. It would be compared with all other messages mentioning the Kurfurstendamm, or Berlin, or slippery, or ice. All possible meanings would be noted, however far-fetched, and copies would be made and distributed, so that information would be available for reference when the next "message for our friends in Germany" using any of those words came over the air. All the effort would be futile, for that message was in fact meaningless.
The BBC announcer did not read message number 9. For there was an insert mark between number 8 and number 9. The message he read next had been given to him less than thirty minutes before. And a notation at the bottom of the sheet of paper instructed him to read the message each night for ten nights.
"Gisella thanks Eric for the radio," he read very carefully, and then again, "Gisella thanks Eric for the radio." Then he returned to his original sheet, "Bruno sends greetings to Uncle Hans. Bruno sends greetings to Uncle Hans."
[FIVE]
Whilby Roune Kill, EDGLASD 8 January 1943 Somewhat chagrined to be wakened by a sergeant with the message that if he wanted breakfast, hexd better shag ass, It. Commander W.
Bitter dressed quickly and went looking for the mess. When they arrived the night before, he had been led to a room by another sergeant, and he had been sleepy and a little drunk. So when he went into the corridor now, he didn't remember which way to go to return to the main hall.
Whitbey House reminded him of a museum. He would not have been astonished to see uniformed guards standing around, or a group of schoolchildren being given a tour down the wide corridors.
He turned the wrong way and had to retrace his steps after finding himself at a dead end. When he finally found the main hall, he felt like a fool. It was equipped with a direction sign. Lettered arrows had been nailed to the pole. Two of them pointed to "Washington" and "Berlin." And near the bottom was one with "Mess" lettered on it.
As he got close, he heard the murmur of voices and could smell coffee and bacon. At the entrance to a long, high-ceilinged room a PFC sat at a table and collected thirty-five cents for the meal.
He saw that the mess at Whitbey House served both enlisted and commissioned personnel, and there were far more people than Bitter had expected. He made a quick guess of one hundred fifty, including twenty-five or thirty uniformed women. He wondered at first if this was yet another manifestation of Canidy's disdain for those customs of the service that decreed separation by rank.
But then he saw subtle differences, Although there were officers and men (of both sexes) sitting together at the eight-chair tables, the enlisted personnel were going through a serving line, while the officers were served by waiters. And there were separate tables for both enlisted and commissioned instructors. And one table at the far end of the room was separate from all the others. This one was reserved for the commanding officer and his staff, which was to say Canidy, Whittaker, Jamison, and Captain the Duchess Stanfield, WRAC.
Canidy saw Bitter standing in the door and motioned him to the head table. As he started across the room, someone greeted him.
"Good morning, Commander," Sergeant Agnes Draper said.
She was at a table with several other enlisted women, American WACS and British.
"Good morning, Sergeant," Bitter said.
Sergeant Draper, Bitter noticed, was not wearing a tunic, just a khaki uniform shirt and knit khaki necktie. Her breasts stretched the khaki noticeably.
"I have known Commander Don Winslow," Canidy greeted him, "since @ X Christ was an apprentice seaman, and this is the first time I've ever seen him needing a shave."
"Sit down, Commander," the duchess said.
"Ignore him. He's in one of his rotten moods."
"Overslept, did you?
" Canidy pursued.
"I guess I did," Bitter said as a GI waiter handed him a mimeographed menu. He was impressed with the array of food offered.
"Very impressive menu," he said.
"A well-fed sailor is a happy sailor," Canidy said piously.
"Thank Jamison for the food. He is a first-class scrounger."
"So I see, "Bitter said. He ordered poached eggs and roast beef hash, then poured himself a cup of coffee from a silver pitcher.
"We have a reputation to maintain here, Commander," Canidy said.
"Your commanding officer expects you to be shaved and shined and in every way to measure up to our well-known spiffy sartorial standards." Bitter looked at him. Canidy was wearing an open-collared khaki shirt with no insignia of rank, and over that an olive-drab sleeveless sweater with the neck and arm holes bound in leather. It was, Bitter decided, British rather than American issue.
"Yes, sir," Bitter said. "I will try not to disappoint you, sir."
"That's the spirit!" Canidy said. "When you go to see the admiral, I want him to look at your freshly shaven chin and sharply creased trousers and say to himself, Now, this young officer is clearly one of our own. "' "What admiral?" he asked.
"On our part, we are so concerned about what the admiral thinks of you that we are going to let you use the Packard," Canidy said.
"What admiral?" Bitter repeated.
"The Deputy Commander for Air, Naval Element, SHAEF," Canidy said, "called Colonel Stevens first thing this morning. He told the colonel he deeply regretted not having been on hand to properly welcome you to the European Theater of Operations. Translated, that means he wants to remind you of your naval heritage, and why you have been sent here." "If I have to say this, Dick," Bitter said, "I consider that I work for you. Period, n Canidy nodded.
"He asked Colonel Stevens if there was any way you could possibly find time in your busy schedule to give him a few minutes of your time.
When Stevens told him he thought that might be difficult, the admiral sweetened his offer. He announced that he is an old friend of General Lorimer and would be happy to introduce the two of you."
"You're losing me, Dick," Bitter said.
"Bear with me, Commander," Canidy said. "Now, as a trade-school graduate himself, Colonel Stevens is well aware of the hoary military adage, Beware of admirals bearing gifts. So he did not tell the admiral that we had already discussed you with General Lorimer and had in fact planned to send you over there this morning for a little chat.
He decided that it might well be in our interest to see what the admiral has in mind. So he thanked the admiral profusely for his interest and suggested that you meet him there at noon."
"Where's there'? and for the third time, who is General Lorimer?"
" There' is London. Brigadier General Kenneth Lorimer, of the Eighth Air Force Headquarters at High Wycombe, is what the Eighth Air Force chooses to call the cognizant officer' for the Project Aphrodite," Canidy said.
"Okay," Bitter said.
"The admiral's concern for your welfare apparently goes beyond introducing you to the old boy network," Canidy said. "He volunteered to provide you with a car and driver. Now, that really made Colonel Stevens suspicious, as cars and drivers are about as scarce as fifteen-year-old English virgins."
"Thank you very much, Dick," the Duchess Stanfield said.
"No offense, Your Gracefulness," Canidy said, abut please don't interrupt your commanding officer when he is speaking."
"I don't understand," Bitter said.
"Dick suspects, Commander," the duchess said, "that the car will come with a driver."
"And we don't need a sailor spy around here," Jimmy Whittaker said.
"We have our hands full as it is with French and German spies.
And English ones."
"The pair of you can go to hell!" the duchess said.
"Present company excepted, of course," Whittaker said.
"I have the feeling, I can't imagine how, that my leg is being pulled, " Bitter said.
"No, it's not," Canidy said. "We spend so much time spying on each other that it's a bloody miracle we have any time left to spy on the Germans."
"It's unfortunately true, Commander," the duchess said.
"In order to forestall you finding yourself in debt to the admiral, or the Navy generally, Her Gracefulness suggested, and I agreed, that the thing to do is send you to London, and then High Wycombe and Fersfield, in my personal Packard. With the faithful Agnes at the wheel, of course, to lend a final touch of class."
"Youripersonal Packard'?"
"You don't want to hear about that," the duchess said.
"Yes, I do."
"It is a matter of some delicacy," Canidy said. "But what the hell, Your Gracefulness, we either trust him or we don't." The duchess shrugged.
"Lieutenant Jamison was prowling the premises, Commander, and came across a door in the stables, hidden behind hay bales. Curious chap that he is, he moved the hay bales and opened the door, and lo and behold, there was a Packard automobile up on blocks and otherwise preserved for the duration and six months. Somehow, Her Gracefulness had simply for gotten about it when His Majesty's Government came around requisitioning motorcars." The duchess, Bitter saw, was embarrassed.
"Once the car surfaced, however," Canidy said, zshe was of course anxious to put it to work in the war effort. And who was the most deserving person we could think of?" Bitter chuckled.
"So we painted'u. S. Army' on the doors, and Whittaker's serial number on the hood."
"Whittaker's serial. number?"
"We haven't figured out how to get the proper papers for it yet," Whittaker said. "We are trusting in the hunch that very few MPS are going to demand the trip ticket of a U. S. Army Packard driven by an English lady sergeant." "Stevens has chosen to look the other way," Canidy said. "But I suppose there are those who would consider my personal Packard violates some petty regulation or other."
"So be careful, Ed," Whittaker said.
"There's a moral in this tale, Edwin," Canidy said.
"I'd love to know what it is."
"If you hadn't been nosy and asked questions, you would not now possess potentially damaging information.