[FOUR].

OSS Whitbey House Station Kent, England 1630 2 April 1943 The three-vehicle caravan wound down the rain-slick narrow country road that cut through dense forest. Lieutenant Colonel Ed Stevens's olive drab 1941 Ford staff car was in the lead. Behind it was a British Humber light ambulance-a large red cross within a white square painted on its side panels and its back doors-and trailing the ambulance was another U.S. Army '41 Ford.

As they approached the grounds of Whitbey House, Stevens noticed the faded cardboard signs nailed to trees and affixed to stakes driven in the ground. These the Brits had placed every twenty meters around the perimeter of the lands of Whitbey House. They bore the now barely legible legend GOVERNMENT ESTABLISHMENT ENTRY PROHIBITED GOVERNMENT ESTABLISHMENT ENTRY PROHIBITED and the seal of the Crown. and the seal of the Crown.

The procession came to an unmarked gap in the trees that was an ancient lane which wound into the forest.

Stevens's driver steered the Ford through the gap and began winding up the lane, and the trailing vehicles followed.

Stevens smiled.

Before the war, when he'd been living with his family in London, he liked to take his wife and sons on Sunday drives to admire the countryside. And now, despite the war-Or maybe in spite of the damn thing, because it's refreshing to get out of that dreary London-he discovered that he enjoyed the trip all the more. He found Whitbey House, and its storied history, to be absolutely magnificent.

Whitbey House-the ancestral seat of the Duchy of Stanfield-consisted of some twenty-six thousand acres. This included the eighty-four-room Whitbey House itself and its various outbuildings (garages, stables, et cetera), the village of Whitbey on Naer (population: 607), the ruins of the Roman Catholic abbey of St. William the Martyr, St. Timothy's Anglican Church, a ten-year-old, forty-six-hundred-foot gravel runway with an aircraft hangar, plus various other real property that had come into the hands of the first Duke of Stanfield circa 1213.

Like most of England's "stately homes," Whitbey House had been requisitioned for the duration of the war by His Majesty's government. The government's need for space had been bad enough-damn near insatiable-but when the United States entered the war, it quickly became unbelievably worse. U.S. air, ground, and naval forces arrived in the British Isles, and all of these people-and the supply depots they brought with them-required their own places.

Once requisitioned, Whitbey House had passed from the control of His Majesty's Office of Properties to the War Office, then to the Special Operations Executive, then to the Office of Strategic Services.

Shamelessly copying the Research and Development Station IX of their counterparts in the British Special Operations Executive-"Because they they know what they're doing," Wild Bill Donovan had said, only half in jest-the OSS set up the facility as a safe house and, as the Operational Techniques School, a training base for agents. know what they're doing," Wild Bill Donovan had said, only half in jest-the OSS set up the facility as a safe house and, as the Operational Techniques School, a training base for agents.

What Dick Canidy more accurately called the Throat-Cutting and Bomb-Throwing Academy.

There had been "improvements" to the property, beyond the Brits' cardboard warning signs that hung faded and limp on the perimeter.

A kilometer up the ancient lane, a shoulder had been added to either side of the road, one wide enough for vehicles to be able to turn around. A low stone wall crossed the shoulder, from the trees to a gatehouse, and served as a barrier. The Kent Constabulary supplied constables to man the gatehouse around the clock. The constable's job was to serve as the first level of security, passing those with proper clearance while turning back the casual visitors curious about the estate.

Stevens saw that after the constable-this one a rather portly fellow stretching his uniform buttons to the point of popping-had checked their identification and cleared the caravan to pass onto the estate, the constable cranked a U.S. Army EE-8 field telephone. He then reported to the sergeant of the U.S. Army Guard at the next barrier that he had just passed three authorized vehicles, the first carrying an American lieutenant colonel.

This next barrier, far out of sight of the roads bordering the estate and the first barrier, was protected by tall coils of concertina, a razor-sharp barbed wire. Plywood signs hung from the concertina at intervals of fifteen meters. These bore a representation of a skull and crossbones with the legend: PERSONS TRESPASSING BEYOND THIS LINE WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT PERSONS TRESPASSING BEYOND THIS LINE WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT.

Stevens was quite aware that the skull and crossbones and rolls of concertina were American, and that the guard was U.S. Army infantry.

That was because, just outside of the barbed wire, there was an American infantry battalion housed in a tent-and-hut encampment. While the OSS station did not need the twelve hundred men of a battalion, the soldiers had been stationed there anyway, the reasoning being that the battalion had to be stationed somewhere, somewhere, so why the hell not show the British that the Yanks were serious about keeping safe the secrets of their new OSS. so why the hell not show the British that the Yanks were serious about keeping safe the secrets of their new OSS.

The officers of the battalion had been told that Whitbey House housed a highly classified organization and that its mission was to select bombardment targets for the Eighth Air Force. The officers had no reason to doubt that, but it wasn't uncommon for them to wonder among themselves-"My God, George, eighteen hundred men eighteen hundred men? What the hell else is in that old house?"-if this wasn't a bit of bureaucratic overkill to guard one lousy facility.

The battalion's four companies were on rotation. As three companies carried on routine training (keeping themselves available as needed), the fourth provided the guard force between the concertina and a third barrier.

This third barrier enclosed just over three acres around Whitbey House itself. It consisted of an eight-foot-high fence of barbed wire, with concertina laid on either side of the fence. Atop poles planted every thirty meters were floodlights, three to a pole.

Past this point, the forest became manicured, and Stevens marveled at the two-kilometer-long path they followed. He knew that it had been carved out centuries before, designed not as the quickest route from Point A to Point B but, in order to accommodate the aristocracy's heavy carriages, as a route that was as level as possible up to the house.

They emerged from the forest, and there, at the end of a wide, curving entrance drive, was Whitbey House itself. Stevens smiled. The structure was so impressively large-three stories of brick and sandstone-that he could not take it all in without moving his head.

At the final U.S. Army guard post, the officer of the guard checked ID cards against a list of authorized personnel. Beyond him, Stevens saw Canidy's Packard parked in front of the front door of Whitbey House.

It was a custom-bodied 1939 Packard. It had a right-hand drive. The driver's compartment bore a canvas roof, and the front fenders held spare tires. It was just the type of car that belonged at a mansion like Whitbey House.

After the OSS had moved in, the Packard had been discovered behind hay bales in the stables. It hadn't been there by accident. It had, in fact, been hidden, put up on blocks and otherwise preserved from the war for the duration and six months.

Canidy had appropriated it for his own use, lettering U.S. ARMY U.S. ARMY on its doors and adding numbers on its hood. For protection at night, a strip of white paint edged the lower fenders, and the headlights were blacked out except for a one-inch strip. And he'd assigned a stunning English lady sergeant as its driver. on its doors and adding numbers on its hood. For protection at night, a strip of white paint edged the lower fenders, and the headlights were blacked out except for a one-inch strip. And he'd assigned a stunning English lady sergeant as its driver.

Only Canidy would be so bold as to declare that no British bobby or American MP would have the nerve to stop such an impressive automobile and ask for its papers. And, accordingly, only Canidy could get away with that.

Stevens grinned, then, as he got out of the car and glanced at the ambulance-which, for some reason, was now blowing its horn-he thought, with some concern, I wonder how in hell Dick is doing? I wonder how in hell Dick is doing?

[ONE].

The Sandbox OSS Dellys Station Dellys, Algeria 1720 30 March 1943 A crowd of men streamed into Max Corvo's "office," the first ones filling the wooden school desks that were empty and the rest collecting at the back of the room. Canidy saw their eyes on him, all of them studying the stranger in civilian clothing standing at the front of the room.

Canidy scanned the crowd and was impressed at the wide range of men who were willing to fight-and die-opposing the Germans and Italians. Some of them-like Pierre, the parachutist, whom he saw seated in the middle of the crowd-were well-educated men, men of some wealth. You could see it in their eyes that they were thoughtful, intelligent. Others were of more modest means and schooling, many of them tradesmen, hardworking men not afraid to get their hands dirty, even if that meant slitting Nazi throats.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," Canidy began, speaking slowly, his raised voice easily filling the room. "Thank you for interrupting your work on such short notice."

He paused as he paced before the blackboard. He glanced around the room, then went on: "You don't know me. I don't know you. Maybe that will change in the near future. Maybe it won't. For right now, simply consider me a visiting instructor."

Canidy let that sink in a second as he looked around the room, making eye contact. He noticed that a couple of the men were made uncomfortable with that. They looked away. He made a mental note on them, particularly the one with a thick black beard who appeared somewhat nervous.

Then he went to the blackboard, located a piece of white chalk, and picked it up.

"I'm going to make this presentation short and sweet," he said, looking at the men, "as we all have important work to do. But I believe what you're about to see and hear is important background for what you're doing."

He turned to the board.

"Okay," he began, and, with the chalk, wrote ABWEHR ABWEHR, centered near the top of the blackboard, then drew a box around it. "I'm sure you're all familiar with this."

He turned to look at the others and then went on. "Germany's real use of the Abwehr was to get around the Treaty of Versailles. As you know, with the end of the First World War the 1919 treaty was signed in order to keep Germany contained, keep its balls in a vise. The treaty said that Germany could not engage in espionage or other covert 'offensive' intelligence gathering. But it did allow a 'defensive' counterespionage. So they had-"

He turned back to the backboard and tapped the white box.

"-the Abwehr."

To the right of the box, he wrote AMT AUSLANDSNACHRICHTEN UND ABWEHR AMT AUSLANDSNACHRICHTEN UND ABWEHR.

"Anyone translate?" Canidy said.

"Simply," a voice with a French accent said, "the Office of Foreign and Counterintelligence."

Canidy looked to see who had answered. It was Pierre, the parachutist.

"Right, Mr.-"

"Mr. Jones," he said, his French accent somewhat mangling the pronunciation. It came out a nasally Mee-ster Joe-nay. Mee-ster Joe-nay.

Pierre Jones, Canidy thought and smiled inwardly. Canidy thought and smiled inwardly.

OSS agents did not use their real names in training camps, and usually only went by their first name. The cover helped protect them in the event that the agent sitting next to him was indeed a V-manner V-manner or just a low-level snitch who later could rat him out. or just a low-level snitch who later could rat him out.

"Of course," Canidy said and wrote the translation underneath the German as he repeated it. "OFFICE OF FOREIGN AND COUNTERINTELLIGENCE."

He circled the last word, then tapped FOREIGN FOREIGN.

"The treaty allowed Germany's military attached to its embassies and such to overtly gather information-the 'foreign'-and the Germans of course did exactly that. The treaty also allowed Germany to have its own security force, and so the 'counterintelligence.'"

He tapped the circled word.

"But it was under this legitimate service that Germany conducted its illicit activities-its international secret service."

He paused to let that sink in.

"Thus," he said, then stopped, and above ABWEHR ABWEHR wrote wrote HIGH COMMAND HIGH COMMAND in its own box and drew a line linking the two boxes. He went on: "Thus, the Abwehr, under the High Command, really began as an illegitimate, underground organization, its secret purpose to gather covert intel...all against the faith of the Treaty of Versailles." in its own box and drew a line linking the two boxes. He went on: "Thus, the Abwehr, under the High Command, really began as an illegitimate, underground organization, its secret purpose to gather covert intel...all against the faith of the Treaty of Versailles."

"Not that that damn Hitler abides by any agreements, anyway," Scamporino said.

"Unfortunately, very true," Canidy said, and immediately thought about the bastard violating the chemical warfare treaty by putting the Tabun in Palermo.

He cleared his throat, and went on: "By the time Admiral Wilhelm Canaris took over the Abwehr in 1935, Germany's rearming was pretty much in full swing, and the Abwehr quite powerful. Today, it's even more so, and the reason why we need to know all that we can to defeat them."

He saw that some of his students were starting to get a glazed look in their eyes.

"Okay, I'll try to make this next part fast."

He turned back toward the blackboard and, below the box with ABWEHR ABWEHR, he drew four more boxes on the same line. Then he drew lines from each new box to the ABWEHR ABWEHR box, forming what looked like a four-tine fork. box, forming what looked like a four-tine fork.

"The Abwehr has four main sections, called Abteilungen, Abteilungen, or Abt for short. And each Abt has men from the German army, navy, and air services." or Abt for short. And each Abt has men from the German army, navy, and air services."

He wrote ABT I ABT I in the first box, in the first box, ABT II ABT II in the second, in the second, ABT III ABT III in the third, and in the third, and ABT Z ABT Z in the last. in the last.

"Abt I is espionage," he said, and wrote ESPIONAGE ESPIONAGE in the box, "commanded as of this month by Colonel Georg Hansen." in the box, "commanded as of this month by Colonel Georg Hansen."

He wrote the name in the box.

"Oberst Hansen is a bit of a roughneck, but, as one might expect of someone in such a position, he is energetic and efficient at his job."

Canidy in the next box wrote SABOTAGE, SUBVERSION SABOTAGE, SUBVERSION, and after a dash put COL. ERWIN LAHOUSEN COL. ERWIN LAHOUSEN.

"Like a great many of Hitler's officers-like Hitler himself-Oberst Lahousen is an Austrian. He comes from a military family, and so is very much a natural at what he does"-Canidy tapped the box-"sabotage and subversion."

In the Abt III box, Canidy wrote SECURITY, COUNTERESPIONAGE SECURITY, COUNTERESPIONAGE, and COL. EGBERT VON BENTIVEGNI COL. EGBERT VON BENTIVEGNI. "This one, I'm sure you gather, is what once was the legitimate arm under which the illegitimate Abwehr once operated."

And in the last box, Abt Z, he wrote Z = "ZENTRAL" OR ADMIN Z = "ZENTRAL" OR ADMIN. and COL. HANS OSTER COL. HANS OSTER.

"And this one is the administrative section. A critical component, if only for its layers of bureaucracy that with luck we could target in order to cut off, or at least cause to delay, the lifeblood of money, munitions, et cetera, destined for German agents."

He looked around the room. A few men, the more intelligent-looking ones, were writing down what he'd put on the board. The vast majority, however, simply sat and stared back blankly.

"Questions at this point?" Canidy said.

The room remained silent, the men looking either reluctant to speak or, more likely, just disengaged.

"Anyone?" Canidy pursued. "If I don't know the answer, I'll just get it pooma."

There now were flashes of curiosity in their eyes.

"Pooh-what?" Darmstadter suddenly said, innocently...then looked embarrassed at his outburst.

Canidy grinned. "You surprise me. Of all people, I'd have thought you'd be the one who knew pooma up and down."

Canidy turned to the board and wrote the word on the board.

Then, tapping the appropriate letter as he went, Canidy said, "Pulled Out of My Ass. Pooma."

The room erupted with appreciative laughter.

After the sound of that settled, a young man at the front raised his hand. He appeared to be Sicilian, or Sicilian American, about twenty years old.

Canidy pointed to him. "Yes?"

"The odds of me running into Oberst Lahousen," the young man said, motioning at the blackboard, "well, let's just say I'm not holding my breath it's going to happen. So how exactly does all this fit with what we're doing?"

There's an American flavor to his speech, Canidy thought. Canidy thought. Maybe one of Corvo's ten recruits he brought over.... Maybe one of Corvo's ten recruits he brought over....

Canidy nodded.

"Okay," he said, "I understand what you're saying. But it's important to understand the big picture-Know Thy Enemy-so that you can understand the ones that you will come in contact with."

The young man nodded, his unruly black hair bouncing.

Canidy turned to the board and wrote PINS ON THE MAP SYNDROME PINS ON THE MAP SYNDROME.

He looked at the men, and said, "Anyone heard of that?"

An intelligent-looking Italian American of about thirty raised his hand.

"Is it like where you keep track of your salesmen by putting pushpins with different-colored heads on a map representing your sales territory?" he said clearly with the accent and experience of someone who had been in America for some time.

Definitely one of Corvo's recruits from the States.

Canidy nodded.