Fine raised his voice slightly. "Monsieur Khatim!"

The leather-tough Algerian appeared almost instantly at the arched doorway.

"Please run Major Canidy out to the airport in my car, then take this Navy staff car"-he tossed the key to Khatim, who Canidy noted snatched it out of the air with catlike speed and grace-"back to AFHQ without letting them know you're doing it."

Wordlessly, Monsieur Khatim bowed slightly and turned and left.

Fine looked at Canidy. "I'll check on the Casabianca Casabianca's schedule with L'Herminier," he said, "and also, as an alternative, see what other sub might be available."

"Good idea," Canidy said. "Thanks, Stan."

"Anything else you can think of?"

Canidy shook his head.

"Not right now, but you know there's always something...and I usually discover it at the worst possible moment."

He scooped up his black rubberized duffel, went to the doorway, then stopped and looked back at Fine.

"Wait. Here's an obvious one," Canidy said. "I'm going to need the professor's help. Sit tight on him till I get back, will you?"

"Sure. Any idea when that'll be?"

"As soon as I can, Stan. As soon as I fucking can."

[ONE].

OSS London Station Berkeley Square London, England 1501 30 March 1943 Lieutenant Colonel Ed Stevens-who was tall and thin and, at forty-four years old, already silver-haired-stood in the doorway to the office of Colonel David Bruce. He held a message from OSS Algiers Station and waited for his boss to get off the phone.

The distinguished-looking chief of station, whose chiseled stone face, intense eyes, and starting-to-gray hair caused him to appear older than his age of forty-five, had outstretched his left hand and signaled Just another minute Just another minute with his index finger. with his index finger.

Stevens filled the time listening to the one side of the conversation, as the Metropolitan-Vickers radio in the corner of the office droned out yet another stiff bit of classical music courtesy of the British Broadcasting Corporation. He enjoyed classical music. But much of the BBC's selections were uninspired, and Stevens found himself looking forward to the breaks in the music for the BBC's regular readings of the Allied cryptic message traffic: "And now for our friends away from home: Churchy wishes Franky a happy birthday, Churchy wishes Franky a happy birthday. Adolf needs a shave, Adolf needs a shave...." "And now for our friends away from home: Churchy wishes Franky a happy birthday, Churchy wishes Franky a happy birthday. Adolf needs a shave, Adolf needs a shave...."

Stevens was not learning much about Bruce's call.

The chief of station's contributions were limited to multiples of "I understand" and "Right" and a few grunts. Then, almost exactly a minute later, he finally said, "Thank you, Mr. Ambassador," and placed the handset in its cradle. He stared at the phone with disdain, then looked up at Stevens.

"That," Bruce announced, "was not good news."

He waved Stevens to take a seat on the couch opposite the desk.

"I couldn't quite pick up on who it was let alone what it was about," Stevens said. "Winant?"

Bruce nodded. "I could almost hear him without benefit of the telephone."

The U.S. embassy at One Grosvenor Square was but blocks away from the Berkeley Square building that housed OSS London Station. The embassy stood near the house on the corner of Duke and Brook that was where America's first minister to the Court of St. James's-John Adams, later President John Adams-had lived, beginning in 1785.

Bruce was not particularly fond of John G. Winant, the ambassador extraordinary and plenipotentiary. He did not necessarily dislike the man-Winant had twice served as governor of New Hampshire and was, like Bruce, a product of Princeton-but was quite wary of him.

He could not put his finger on what exactly it was about Winant that caused the caution flags. There were his quirks, as might be expected of such a high-profile politician, but Bruce recognized something else-some disturbance, some imbalance, deep down. Something as yet not fully developed that could-and probably would-erupt at some point.

And Bruce was wise enough to maintain a healthy distance so as not to get caught in any aftereffects when it did.

David Bruce was not playing pseudo shrink in his analysis of the man. The very intelligent-some said brilliant-Bruce had personal experience with the oddities of the human condition. His wife suffered from mental illness. They had thrown a lot of money at the problem-Bruce had made his own fortune before marrying Alisa Mellon, one of the wealthiest women in the world-and in the hiring of the best medical minds, and the picking of said minds, he'd in his own way come to be somewhat of an expert layman.

Yet whatever the problem there may or may not be, David Bruce knew that Winant had a direct line to the Oval Office. (Literally. Word was that AT&T billed the embassy a small fortune-more than ten dollars a minute-for his calls over the transatlantic line.) Not only was Winant, as the Ambassador to the Court of Saint James's, the personal representative of the President of the United States of America, he was also one of his buddies. He had long enjoyed FDR's generosity. Roosevelt, before appointing Winant to his current position in London, had in 1935 made him the first leader of the newly formed Social Security Board.

Colonel David Bruce looked at Lieutenant Colonel Ed Stevens.

"Ambassador Winant informs me, as a courtesy, that his legal attache has been contacted by Brandon Chambers."

The legal attache, Stevens knew, was the agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation attached as a liaison between the embassy and the FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C.

"No doubt Chambers is looking for Ann," Stevens said. "Can't blame him for that."

"No, but we can can blame Canidy." blame Canidy."

"How so?"

"Because the father wants to know how he can find Canidy. He figures, reasonably, that if he finds Canidy, he finds Ann. It did not help-actually, it hurt, as he took offense-when the FBI agent professed ignorance of something called 'the OSS.'"

Stevens whistled softly. "Wish it were that simple. I know Dick does." He paused, then wondered aloud, "I wonder how he came to look for Dick in London?"

He was immediately sorry he had said it when he saw Bruce make a face.

"It doesn't hurt," Bruce said, "when your daughter lets you in on a secret or two along the way. Even without benefit of Canidy's indiscretions, Chambers can put two and two together. He's a man of considerable resources. And, apparently, temper. The ambassador said that Chambers demanded to be put in touch with the OSS office here-or, better, Canidy directly-or he'd take his request as high as he'd have to."

There were many secrets in the OSS stations in London and in Washington, but the relationship between the stunning Southern blonde and Dick Canidy wasn't one of them.

Ann Chambers, twenty years old, had gotten herself a job as a war correspondent for the Chambers News Service. It was obviously no coincidence that she shared her name with her employer's; her father was the chairman of the board of the Chambers Publishing Corporation and the Chambers News Service was a wholly owned subsidiary of that. The corporation also held total interest in nine newspapers and more than twice that many radio stations.

Her employment, however, had not been a blatant bout of nepotism.

In the summers of her high school years, Ann Chambers had worked part-time at The Atlanta Courier-Journal, The Atlanta Courier-Journal, making herself useful in the family business as best she could. She did anything from moving mail and fetching coffee for editors to checking page proofs in order to edit out typographic and other errors. Occasionally, she had been given short features to write from her desk. making herself useful in the family business as best she could. She did anything from moving mail and fetching coffee for editors to checking page proofs in order to edit out typographic and other errors. Occasionally, she had been given short features to write from her desk.

Human interest pieces came naturally to her, and she excelled at chronicling how newlyweds had come to meet, then fall desperately in love and marry. These articles appeared in the Sunday "Weddings" section. They became very popular with women readers-married and single alike-and thus with advertisers, too.

And it was there that Ann really began to better understand two very important things. One was the family business: bring in the readers and the ad dollars follow. And the other was: that she had a very marketable skill.

So when Ann decided that marrying Dick Canidy was to take precedence over her studies at Bryn Mawr, and to do that would require following him to London, and to get to London would require a legitimate civilian occupation deemed necessary in the eyes of the War Department, she had not had to look very far.

Brandon Chambers, however, did not think women in general should be in harm's way-a veteran of War One, he embraced the idea of the fairer sex keeping the home fires burning-and he sure as hell didn't believe his daughter should.

Brandon Chambers was a big man-both in business and, at two hundred thirty pounds, in girth-and not of the sort to give in easily. He was accustomed to getting his way. But when he balked at Ann's idea, he found that he had met his match in his daughter.

She had explained to him in a logical manner that either he could hire her or his competition would.

"Mr. Cowles," she had said in her soft, sweet Southern accent, "has kindly offered me a correspondent position in the London bureau of Look. Look."

Gardner Cowles was the owner of the hugely successful magazine, as well as quite a number of other properties that competed directly with those of the Chambers Publishing Corporation.

Brandon Chambers would just as soon gouge out his eyes than see his daughter's byline in Look, Look, never mind having the skills of a Chambers making money for that sonofabitch Cowles. never mind having the skills of a Chambers making money for that sonofabitch Cowles.

And so it was that Ann Chambers had come to England to work for the Chambers News Service.

While her dashing Dick Canidy disappeared now and then on some secret mission to win the war, Ann had set about the serious business of capturing the war in words for those back home. She worked writing scripts for the newsman Meachum Hope on his Report from London Report from London radio broadcast. And she had developed her own human interest series-"Profiles of Courage," newspaper articles about the extraordinary efforts of everyday citizens in war-torn England-and each week had sent out a new installment across the Chambers News Service wire. radio broadcast. And she had developed her own human interest series-"Profiles of Courage," newspaper articles about the extraordinary efforts of everyday citizens in war-torn England-and each week had sent out a new installment across the Chambers News Service wire.

Until her flat had been bombed during an attack of London by the Luftwaffe.

"You are aware," Lieutenant Colonel Ed Stevens said, "that I have been in touch with Andy Marks, the CNS bureau chief here. Canidy gave him my name as a contact if Marks heard news of Ann."

"I'm aware," Colonel David Bruce replied agreeably.

Bruce walked a somewhat fine line with Stevens. He knew that Donovan had personally recruited Stevens, a West Pointer who had resigned his commission before the war in order to work in his wife's wholesale food business, and who, because of that, had lived and worked in England. Donovan had noted how Stevens handled with ease the difficult upper-crust Englishmen and had tapped him for OSS London Station as much for that valuable skill as for his military expertise.

"As far as Marks knows," Stevens said, "we're no more than another bureaucratic layer for the Army Air Forces, a logistical office."

Bruce grinned. "Which is not exactly untrue."

"We spoke daily when Ann Chambers first went missing," Stevens went on, "then went to weekly. Marks waited as long as he could-ten days-before passing the news to the home office. Read: her father. Marks had had reporters disappear for a few days for any number of reasons and had hoped that that was the case with Ann. He didn't see any sense in worrying the family and had seen to it that there had been a bureau-wide effort not to draw attention to Ann's absence. But then it was inevitable that before long someone got suspicious, and Marks said he couldn't respond with a lie, so he took the bull by the horns...."

Bruce's eyebrows rose.

Stevens quickly added, "I didn't mean to suggest her father..."

"It's all right, Ed," Bruce said. "I know you didn't."

"Anyway, I feel responsible for where we are now."

"How is that?"

"I told Dick that I would keep on top of what was going on with Ann and let Dick know of any news. I went with Marks to inspect the bombed flat. The Civil Defence rescue crews had combed through the rubble and come up with nothing. Which we felt was better than if they had found her in there. Anyway, we gave them Ann's name and our names and numbers, and they promised to get in touch...."

Bruce shook his head slowly. "I know. A long shot."

"Marks said he'd have his reporters ask around as they went about their day-to-day duties, covering the city. It seemed sufficient...especially as she hadn't been found in the rubble.... People turn up all the time."

"Assuming that she went off to wherever," Bruce put in, "it's curious that she has not sent word she's fine. That she hasn't perhaps suggests she's not. But...it could be anything, Ed, and you shouldn't take it personally."

Both men sat in quiet thought for a moment.

"You know," Stevens then said, "I'm surprised that her father didn't get my name from Marks and then contact me."

"I'm not. I'm more surprised that I don't have a message from Bill Donovan or FDR, instead of a courtesy call from the ambassador. People like Brandon Chambers go right to the top of the food chain."

Bruce stood, methodically brushed the creases from his trousers, then walked over to the windows and looked out at the gray day.

"Knowing that," Bruce went on, "we had better, as you put it, take the bull by the horns."

"Message General Donovan?" Stevens said.

"Certainly that," Bruce said, turning and walking back to his desk. "Having the old man talk with Canidy is impossible. So I'd say we need to find Ann, and fast. Certainly before the FBI sticks its nose in it. It seems to be that or have her old man raise enough hell-or spill enough ink-to bring the OSS out of the shadows."

"Hoover would love that," Stevens said.

John Edgar Hoover, director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, had been silently furious when President Roosevelt shared with him his ideas of how the United States should deal with espionage and counterespionage. Hoover believed it to be the purview of his federal police force. But FDR had told him that (a) he was not only giving those duties (worldwide, with the exceptions of the Americas, which remained with the FBI) to what then was the COI (later the OSS), but (b) he was heading it with one of Hoover's longtime rivals, William Donovan.

Ever since, Hoover had made every attempt to prove that the President had made a grave error of judgment...and to rub it in, which invariably involved quietly feeding the information to reporters.

"It would serve as a fine example as to why this should be his territory, not Donovan's," Bruce said. "Hoover in a heartbeat would bring in his whole lot of agents-under the auspices of hunting down Nazis and Nazi sympathizers headed for the States-to make us look bad. He knows how fearful FDR is of the fifth column."

"We don't know how much Chambers really knows about the OSS," Stevens said.

"No, we don't. Probably more than we'd like and he'd admit. But I've met him. He's a good man. A veteran. A patriot. He understands the importance of keeping secrets. Yet...when a man is worried about his daughter, all bets are off as to what he will or won't do. Especially if a man as formidable as Brandon Chambers believes he's being lied to by the FBI."

"So we're in a race to find Ann," Stevens said.

Bruce nodded solemnly.

"Charity Hoche," Stevens added suddenly.

Bruce looked at him a moment.

"Yes. What about her?"

"It just came to me. She and Ann were at Bryn Mawr."

There was recognition in Bruce's eyes. He immediately had a mental picture of the tall, radiant, very smart-and very well-built-blonde. Charity Hoche was from the Main Line of Philadelphia, her family well-connected, which, in large part, explained why Wild Bill Donovan personally had approved her recent transfer from OSS Washington.

And, Bruce thought, Bruce thought, she's a shining example of why some derisively refer to the OSS as Donovan's Oh So Social club. she's a shining example of why some derisively refer to the OSS as Donovan's Oh So Social club.

Which isn't entirely fair, to the OSS in general and to Charity Hoche in particular.

Charity, connected or not, has a master's degree in political science, earned summa cum laude summa cum laude . She's worked hard for Donovan, surprising everyone with her worth to the organization...to the point Donovan says she has the Need to Know here on a par with Ed Stevens's. . She's worked hard for Donovan, surprising everyone with her worth to the organization...to the point Donovan says she has the Need to Know here on a par with Ed Stevens's.

She's shown me she's certainly no wilting lily.