Ann Chambers was more than Canidy's sweetheart. She was the one woman who had made him look hard in the mirror and consider that by God there might be something to having a relationship that lasted longer than a half rotation of the earth.

But three weeks earlier, Canidy had gone to her London flat and found that, while he had been in the States, it and most of her street had been demolished by a Luftwaffe bombing-and that she had gone missing.

Fine produced a sheet of folded paper and held it out to Canidy.

"From London Station. I put it in my jacket to keep it separate of this stack." He gestured at the table. "I didn't want to forget it. Lot of good that did."

Canidy took the sheet and unfolded it.

"It's basically good news," Fine went on, "don't you think? Not everything we'd like, of course...."

Canidy read it, swallowed with some effort, then said, "So they still haven't found her, or any trace."

"Dick, that strikes me as positive. Otherwise, they'd be reporting that her body was found in the rubble of her flat. And they are making every effort to locate her."

He's right, Canidy thought. Canidy thought. Ann is smart as hell, more than able to take care of herself. Ann is smart as hell, more than able to take care of herself.

But my memory of her bombed street-and the thought of her being an innocent casualty in this damn war-no wonder I feel bad for those sorry bastards in Sicily.

"You're right, of course, Stan," he said, folding the paper and putting it in his pocket. "Thank you."

"I wish I could do more," Fine said.

"Me, too."

Canidy glanced out the doors at the harbor, out to the sea, and said, "You know, Donovan didn't tell me what I was looking for in Sicily besides Rossi, only to keep my eyes open, that I'd know it when I found it."

"And you did."

"But I thought that it was the villa with the yellow-fever lab.... And then, as we were leaving the dock, Rossi told me about the Tabun...and I just blew it up."

He turned and looked at Fine and said, "You know, maybe David Bruce is more right than I want to admit. I am a loose cannon, in way over my head."

Colonel David Kirkpatrick Este Bruce was the distinguished, high-level diplomat currently serving as the OSS London chief of station. At forty-five, he had more than twenty years-and a wealth of experience-over Canidy. And he was not hesitant to let him know that.

Fine made a face of frustration.

"Dammit, Dick. You know better than that. You're not going to get any false sympathy out of me. You had your orders and you followed your orders, and you did it damn well."

Canidy didn't respond to that. Instead, after a moment, he went on, his tone matter-of-fact, "I thought and rethought it on the sub and about the only thing that I came up with that was positive about the gas was the fact that the sea was flat calm that night. Not even a bit of a breeze."

"So if the Tabun did go up," Fine finished, "the cloud didn't go far."

Canidy nodded.

"Right," Canidy said. "We were sitting there on the fishing boat-the Stefania Stefania-waiting for the sub, about twelve klicks northwest of the explosion. Which was why we had such a good view of the show..."

"And the Casabianca Casabianca got there right after that?" got there right after that?"

"Uh-huh. Like clockwork."

"And another-what?-half hour for you to get out of the boat and into the sub?"

"Just shy of that, maybe twenty minutes from the moment it surfaced to the order to dive. L'Herminier's a real pro. So we weren't endangered by the Tabun. Trust me, I had the sub's doc keep a close eye on Rossi and me for symptoms. But I'm not sure where the Stefania Stefania went after dropping us. She was supposed to come here." went after dropping us. She was supposed to come here."

"After your messages en route," Fine said, "I had some discreet questions asked down at the commercial docks."

"And?"

"The Stefania Stefania is en route to here, fishing on the way, of course, as both a cover and a genuine source of income. She's due in tomorrow or the next day, though that does not mean anything. They said she's often late, especially if there's a mechanical problem." is en route to here, fishing on the way, of course, as both a cover and a genuine source of income. She's due in tomorrow or the next day, though that does not mean anything. They said she's often late, especially if there's a mechanical problem."

"Like a bullet to the engine block?" Canidy suggested. "After the cargo is looted by a German patrol boat?"

Fine grunted.

"They didn't say that," he said, "but I could see it as being problematic."

"I understand that that's a common occurrence," Canidy went on, "particularly for captains hesitant to surrender their tuna...and/or whatever they might be smuggling."

"Well, so far there is no word from her-which can be read pretty much any way anyone wants to read it. Bottom line: They were not too concerned."

Canidy shook his head in resignation. "If they went back into the port for any reason..."

"But why would they? A ship had just blown up. Who'd go into an inferno?"

Canidy shrugged.

"Changing the subject somewhat," Fine said, "what about the villa with the yellow fever?"

Canidy raised his hands, palms upward, and shrugged again.

"Hell if I know, Stan. Rossi had two assistants who had access and who he said he trusted completely. I gave them the C-2 and then taught a very basic demolitions course-where to place it for best effect, how much to use, et cetera. But we did not stay offshore long enough to see the villa blow. Which, now that we know what we do about what happens when nerve gas burns, I can't say I'm disappointed."

"But we don't know if the villa went up."

Canidy frowned.

"No, Stan, we don't."

"And we don't know, really, if there was gas and if it burned, and if it did did burn what damage it caused." burn what damage it caused."

"No, and no, and no."

"So small wonder that my new friend Lieutenant Colonel Owen says no one on Eisenhower's staff believes any of this."

"They don't think that we found the nerve gas," Canidy asked, "or they don't believe that it exists?"

"Both, as best I can tell," Fine said. "I'm having a little trouble discerning exactly what to them is worse: one, that they don't know about it or, two, that we, you, you, do. Regardless, it's clearly caused some concern at AFHQ, enough to merit our personal visit from this pompous Owen." do. Regardless, it's clearly caused some concern at AFHQ, enough to merit our personal visit from this pompous Owen."

"Does that mean they're actually going to act?"

Fine grunted derisively.

"Hardly. That, again as best I can tell, was the purpose of the visit. By definition, not to mention by Ike's supreme order, AFHQ speaks for all all Allied Forces here, the Brits included. And AFHQ's position is that they have the situation under control, thank you very much for your concern. Or, as Owen put it, 'Ike asked me personally to thank you for your input.' Which, basically, was a smack at the OSS, translation being: 'How could you new kids on the block possibly have anything over the British who've been playing the spy game for centuries?'" Allied Forces here, the Brits included. And AFHQ's position is that they have the situation under control, thank you very much for your concern. Or, as Owen put it, 'Ike asked me personally to thank you for your input.' Which, basically, was a smack at the OSS, translation being: 'How could you new kids on the block possibly have anything over the British who've been playing the spy game for centuries?'"

Canidy shook his head. He knew that the early beginnings of what would become the British Secret Intelligence Service, known as MI6, could be traced back to when Henry VIII sent agents slinking around Europe.

"Christ!" Canidy flared. "Ed Stevens warned me about that sonofabitch. Said he was glad Owen wasn't nosing around London Station anymore. Now I know why. I despise aides who love reminding you at every opportunity who they work for-worse, who they speak for, therefore their words carry the same power as their boss's."

Lieutenant Colonel Edmund T. Stevens was David Bruce's number two at OSS London Station. A West Pointer-not a diplomat with an assimilated military rank-Stevens understood Canidy as an operative and thus held a far higher opinion of him than did Bruce. Fine was acutely aware of the dynamics of all this, as he had served as Stevens's deputy prior to being sent to OSS Algiers.

Fine nodded. That certainly had been his experience with Lieutenant Colonel Warren J. Owen. He had also observed how Owen had used it as a sort of double standard.

When delivering orders from Ike that would be well received, Owen would agree with you that the man was brilliant and that he had no doubt whatsoever in his mind that you would perform admirably in the execution of the orders.

But when the orders were not what anyone wanted to hear-let alone eager to execute-Owen delivered them with the proverbial ten-foot pole while quietly agreeing with you that "the old man has lost his mind, but what can I say except that his orders are his orders and don't shoot the messenger, and all that."

And that was definitely how he just presented himself today...merely a messenger.

Fine wondered how a wet-behind-the-ears Warren J. Owen could have schlepped his books through Harvard Yard for four or more years and completely missed every damn course that could have created in him some-any-backbone.

Being a Harvard-trained lawyer, Fine personally knew plenty of graduates of that great institution, each of whom had come out with enough character for five men-FDR certainly chief among them. People with conviction, ones who did not use their Hah Hah vard sheepskin as evidence enough of their stellar status in the rarefied air of civilized society. vard sheepskin as evidence enough of their stellar status in the rarefied air of civilized society.

Still, Fine figured that Owen had to have learned something worthwhile along the way-Maybe from advanced courses in How to Cover Your Ass by Always Citing Regulations?- or Eisenhower would not keep him around. or Eisenhower would not keep him around.

Canidy looked curiously at Fine.

"What're you thinking about, Stan?"

Fine smirked.

"What a spineless bastard Owen can be," he said, then paused. "Grudgingly, however, I have to give the guy credit. His capacity for speaking at great length but actually saying nothing is remarkable."

"What do you mean?"

"He was here for almost an hour, and the only thing that I can tell you that I know he said for sure was that they had your information and that they had the situation under control. He shared no information from their intel. We could have just as easily been discussing the weather, for all I got out of it. Actually, now that I think of it, he did spend an annoyingly disproportionate amount time talking about the heat here."

Canidy laughed. Then he shook his head.

"What is it that Donovan says?" Canidy said. "'If it wasn't for the fighting amongst our own, I'd have had this war with the real enemy won long ago.'"

"Something like that," Fine said, grinning. "I shouldn't smile. It's not funny at all."

"Speaking of our fearless leader," Canidy said, "any idea what good ol' Colonel Wild Bill thinks about all this?"

"That's good ol' General General Wild Bill," Fine corrected. Wild Bill," Fine corrected.

Canidy turned, his eyebrows raised. "Really?" he said.

"Indeed. While you were gone-on the twenty-third, before you were headed back here-FDR had him placed back on active duty and made him a brigadier general."

"That's good news."

Fine smiled. "Yes, indeed it is."

Stanley Fine was quite aware that it had taken Richard Canidy quite some time to come to hold William Donovan in high regard. Fine knew that because he had known Canidy a long time. Fine's history of bailing out Canidy went back far before either of them had become part of the Office of the Coordinator of Information and the Office of Strategic Services-well before either organization even existed-back to when Fine was starting out in Hollywood and Canidy was in prep school in Iowa.

The young Stanley S. Fine, Esq., the ink still damp on the juris doctor juris doctor diploma hanging on the wall of his movie studio office, had been the lawyer for the actress Monica Carlisle when she had sent him to the Iowa school. diploma hanging on the wall of his movie studio office, had been the lawyer for the actress Monica Carlisle when she had sent him to the Iowa school.

Miss Carlisle was known at "America's Sweetheart," and the Hollywood studio PR flaks worked hard to maintain that image-and to keep secret from her adoring fans the fact that she had a young son, fathered before the war by a German industrialist.

And so it had been Fine's mission to smooth over the hysteria that had resulted from a practical joke performed by Eric Fulmar-who the sultry actress herself more or less refused to acknowledge existed-and his buddy, a troublemaker by the name of Dick Canidy.

The joke had backfired, causing a Studebaker President to erupt in flames and, with it, a lot of tempers. Fine had shown up with a new replacement car and a calming influence over those who could have pressed charges. And with the damage thus limited, the friendship between Canidy and Fulmar-and their relationship with Fine-had become solidified for life.

Canidy went on to pursue his dream to be a pilot, and in 1938 graduated (cum laude) from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology with a Bachelor of Science, Aeronautical Engineering. That had been on a Navy scholarship, in exchange for four years of postgraduation service. By the time he entered the Navy, he'd already accumulated a commercial pilot's license, an instrument ticket, and three hundred fifty hours of solo time.

A career in the Navy would have seemed the natural path for such a skilled aviator. Not Canidy. He made no secret of the fact that he felt constrained by the rigid ways of the service and that he was determined to stay only so long as to make good on his agreement. He swore not to serve one damn minute more than was contractually required to repay the cost of his education-and was already entertaining an offer of employment at the Boeing Aircraft Company, Seattle, Washington.

But then, in June 1941, with barely a year left to his commitment, a grizzled, gray-haired man named Claire Chennault showed up at Naval Air Station Pensacola, where then-Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Richard M. Canidy, USN, was spending long days in the backseat of a biwing Kaydet, as a Navy instructor pilot for fledgling flyboys.

The legendary General Chennault suggested that the United States of America was soon to join the raging world war and Canidy was kidding himself if he thought his country was going to just let him walk with his skills out of the military.

"Son," the crusty WWI fighter pilot said in his coarse Southern accent, "you damn may as well go ahead and believe in the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus, and and the fucking Tooth Fairy. There'll be no time in the ramping up for war to adequately train all the new pilots that're going to be needed. And you'll be front of the line." the fucking Tooth Fairy. There'll be no time in the ramping up for war to adequately train all the new pilots that're going to be needed. And you'll be front of the line."

Chennault said that he was pulling together a group of volunteers-with FDR's approval, if not direct order, though this was implied and not discussed in any more detail than necessary with Canidy. These top pilots would fly in support of the Chinese, specifically the protection of the two-thousand-mile-long Burma Road that was the critical route for getting Western aid to China.

On behalf of Chiang Kai-shek, Chennault could offer Canidy a one-year contract flying Curtiss P-40Bs against the Japanese. Pay was six hundred dollars a month-twice what Canidy was getting from the Navy-plus a five-hundred-buck bonus for every Jap he shot down.

Ever on the lookout for number one-himself-Canidy took it. He'd decided it was as much for the money as for the honorable discharge from the Navy that it came with.

Being a Flying Tiger in Chennault's American Volunteer Group (AVG) was not easy work-it was, in fact, damn dangerous-but Canidy quickly found his place and almost immediately had reaffirmed his belief that he'd been born to fly.

Yet it seemed that as soon as he had discovered that he not only loved being a fighter pilot but was damn good at it-five kills on one nasty sortie alone, making him a certifiable ace-a pudgy, pale, self-important-looking bureaucrat by the name of Eldon C. Baker showed up one day in December 1941 on the flight line at Kunming, China.

Baker came across as a supreme prick. But also a very highly placed prick-in his suit coat pocket he carried orders personally signed by the President of the United States-and he said that, as the U.S. had just joined the war, he was there to recruit Canidy.

Trouble was, he added, it was into an outfit described as so secretive that he (a) could not tell Canidy what he would be doing and (b) that in order for there to be no questions asked as to his disappearance-and thus no awkward answers that might reveal secrets-a cover story would have the newly minted ace whisked away under a cloud of disgrace.

That did not necessarily bother Canidy-"I really don't give a rat's ass what anything thinks of me," he'd muttered when informed of the need for the cover story-but leaving behind his buddies did.

Still, he'd thought, he'd thought, if whatever it is that I'm wanted to do is important enough for the President to send this asshole clear around the damn world to get me, then that's that. Pack the bags.... if whatever it is that I'm wanted to do is important enough for the President to send this asshole clear around the damn world to get me, then that's that. Pack the bags....

Besides, being out of the AVG would mean he no longer would be getting shot at by the Japs. He figured it was only a matter of time before their Mitsubishi A5M 7.7mm machine-gun rounds found his ass. More important, he figured that taking the offer put him one step closer to getting the hell out of his military service obligations.