The Secret Warriors

Two American field artillery officers, a colonel and a lieutenant colonel, were standing under the marquee when the Austin Princess limousine rolled up to it. Except for a narrow slit, the headlights of the limousine had been painted black, and the front fenders were outlined with white paint, in the standard if not very successful attempt to prevent fender benders on streets that were no longer illuminated. These small irregularities, however, did little to mask the elegance of the limousine.

It stopped under the marquee, and the driver, a young woman in the uniform of a sergeant of the Royal Women’s Army Service Corps, stepped quickly out from behind the wheel, trotted around the front of the limousine, and opened the rear door.

The American officers had their luggage at their feet. They had come to London on seventy-two-hour passes and had just been politely but firmly denied accommodations in the hotel. They both looked at the car out of the corners of their eyes, partly in simple curiosity, and partly because the limousine more than likely carried a general officer entitled to a salute.

The officer who got out of the limousine was American. He wore a leather-brimmed fur felt cap and a finely tailored Class A uniform. (It was, in fact, brand new.) But he was not a general officer, just a lowly lieutenant colonel. Nevertheless, the full colonel and the lieutenant colonel knew him.

“I’ll be damned,” the full colonel said. “Stevens!”

Stevens looked at him, then saluted. “Good evening, Sir,” he said.

After the colonel returned the salute and shook hands, Stevens then offered his hand to the lieutenant colonel.

“Hello, Bill,” he said, “how are you?”

“Awed by your car,” the lieutenant colonel said. “And surprised to see you.”

They had been classmates at West Point, and they had served together at Forts Bliss and Riley. The last time the lieutenant colonel had seen Edmund T. Stevens, they had both been captains, and Stevens had been in the limbo of an officer who has submitted his resignation but has not yet been released from duty.

Stevens ignored the implied questions. “Just checking in?” he asked.

“Just turned away,” the full colonel said. “This place is apparently reserved for VIPs.” His question was direct: “What are you doing here?”

“Dealing with a VIP,” Stevens said. “There’s a hotel reserved for field-grade officers, the Cavendish, by St. James’s Square, if you need a place to stay.”

“So we have been informed,” the full colonel said. “We were just wondering how we were going to get there.”

“No problem,” Stevens said. He turned and made a gesture with his hand to the driver of the Princess, who had just backed the limousine into one of the half-dozen reserved spots between the marquee and Park Lane. She started the engine, drove up to them, got out of the car, and waited for orders.

“Sergeant,” Stevens said, “would you run these officers over to the Cavendish and then come back?”

“I’m curious, Ed,” the lieutenant colonel said. “What have they got you doing?”

Stevens pointed to the SHAEF insignia on his shoulder and the General Staff Corps (GSC) insignia on his lapels. “I am now a member of the palace guard,” he said.

“Nice work, if you can get it,” the full colonel said.

“It has its compensations,” Stevens admitted.

“So we see,” the full colonel said. “Well, I appreciate the ride, Stevens.”

“My pleasure, Sir,” Stevens said.

The lieutenant colonel shook his hand. Then he followed the colonel into the backseat of the Princess.

As soon as they hit Park Lane, Stevens thought, they will begin to commiserate about the goddamned injustice: a man who had resigned his captain’s commission winding up a light bird on the SHAEF staff with a chauffeur-driven limousine.

The story would quickly move along the West Point grapevine. He now knew the word for that: “disinformation.” It was far better having his former peers think of him as a chair-warming sonofabitch at SHAEF than to suspect that he was deputy chief of station for the OSS in London.

Lieutenant Colonel Edmund T. Stevens had already come to the not-unpleasing conclusion that not only did he seem to perform well as a concierge to Bill Donovan’s spies, saboteurs, assassins, safecrackers, and other “specialists,” but that by doing so he could make a greater contribution to the war than he would in command of an artillery battalion.

He and the chief of station had hit it off right away. The day he arrived, the chief of station told him that the less he heard of administrative problems the better he would like it. He went on to say that since Stevens had come to him with Donovan’s personal recommendation, he was granting Stevens full authority to act in his name in all matters.

The next day, the chief of station had sent him over to Grosvenor Square, where Ike had his SHAEF headquarters. There General Walter Bedell Smith neatly solved virtually all of Stevens’s potential problems by giving him a letter stating that in the event SHAEF units were unable to comply with any request of the OSS, the reasons therefore were to be reported to him immediately.

Stevens’s role, as he saw it, was to be as helpful as possible. He had no notion that he would ever become operationally involved. He would simply assume the administrative burdens for the people who were carrying out the OSS mission. He would be the billeting officer, the finance officer, the transportation officer, the communications officer, and quite probably, he thought after meeting some of the operational people, the VD-control officer too.

He had, for instance, just spent two hours with a detective inspector from Scotland Yard, going over with him in boring detail the results of their investigation into the theft of a staff car from the motor pool and two and a half cases of mixed liquor from a storeroom. That wasn’t important. What was important was that his spending the two hours with Scotland Yard spared the station chief from having to do so. The station chief had more important things to do than help to bring a couple of car thieves to justice.

Stevens passed through the revolving door to the Dorchester lobby and walked to the bar. It was very crowded, mostly with officers of the Allied armies, among whom he was sure was at least one officer sent by the intelligence service of Free French Forces to see what he could learn to substantiate their suspicions regarding Vice Admiral d’Escadre Jean-Philippe de Verbey.

Major Richard Canidy was sitting at one of the tiny tables against the wall. When Stevens had made his way through the crowd to their table, Canidy stood up.

“Good evening, Sir,” he said.

There was no empty chair in sight, so Stevens squeezed in beside Canidy on the padded bench.

A waiter appeared immediately, which was a surprise.

Stevens looked at Canidy, who nodded.

“Just ice and a glass, please,” Stevens said.

Sometimes the Dorchester had whiskey and sometimes it didn’t. It never had much. Stevens had unlimited access to the Class VI stocks at SHAEF, and had planned to send several cases to Whitby House. This was the whiskey that had been stolen, but he could get more.

Canidy’s nod told him that Canidy had whiskey, probably in a flask. The Dorchester would charge them corkage for the privilege of drinking their own whiskey, but Stevens preferred to do that than use up what was available to others who did not have unlimited access to SHAEF Class VI.

“I have just spent two hours,” Stevens said, “discussing whiskey with Scotland Yard.”

“Oh?”

“We have been burgled. After two days of extensive investigation, Scotland Yard has come to the tentative conclusion that it’s an inside job. Party or parties unknown, in the dead of night, made off with three cases of whiskey, plus a staff car.”

“You don’t say?”

“Scotland Yard is taking it very seriously,” Stevens said. “They consider it most unpatriotic for their thieves to prey on their American cousins. I have been told that there ‘have been developments’ and that we ‘may expect to hear something shortly.’ I doubt if we’ll get the liquor back, but maybe the staff car. If we get the car back, I’ll send it over to you.”

“Big flap, is it?” Canidy asked.

“If Scotland Yard catches the thieves, I think they plan to behead them at the Tower of London to set an example,” Stevens said. “A chief inspector is devoting all of his time to the case.”

“What would happen, do you think, if the Ford were found on a country lane somewhere? Would they be satisfied with that?”

“Interesting question, Major Canidy,” Colonel Stevens said. “Particularly since I don’t recall mentioning that it was a Ford staff car.”

“Didn’t you?” Canidy asked innocently.

“Whittaker?” Stevens asked. “Goddamn! I want to change this subject before I am faced with a moral dilemma.”

“Apropos of nothing whatever,” Canidy said, “I have taken to heart what Mr. Baker said about our training. I have tried, consequently, to make it as realistic as possible.”

“Such as ‘practicing’ stealing objects and vehicles from an allegedly well-guarded intelligence establishment?” Stevens asked.

“Something like that.”

“As I said, I think we should change the subject,” Stevens said. “How, for instance, are your relations with Her Grace?”

“Sort of an armed truce,” Canidy said. “I think Her Grace was not amused when I told her she had a corncob up her ass. It may take her some time to get over that.”

Stevens had not, in the balance, been disturbed when Canidy had reported his battle with the duchess. Canidy had felt duty-bound to mention it, even though it made him look foolish. But he was pleased that Canidy had apparently worked it out with her.

“I would rather have her there than some of the other liaison officers I’ve met,” Stevens said. “I hope you can maintain the armistice.”

Canidy nodded, then said, “Christ, what games we play.”

“And, unfortunately, for such high stakes,” Stevens replied.

The waiter appeared with a glass and ice. Canidy took a flask from his pocket and splashed Scotch into Stevens’s glass.

“Found your own source of liquor, have you?” he asked, but when Canidy chuckled uncomfortably, he raised his glass. “To realistic training and hands across the seas.”

They sipped at their drinks.

“When we finish this one, and perhaps another,” Stevens said, “I think we should go upstairs and have a room-service dinner.”

“You’ve heard something?” Canidy asked.

“I want to tell you some things I know,” Stevens said.

When they got upstairs, a Signal Corps lieutenant was in the suite Admiral de Verbey had occupied. He told Colonel Stevens that the suite had just been swept and that nothing had been found. He also reported that a phone tap on the lines to Whitby House had been discovered. It had been put there, as Colonel Stevens had thought it might be, by the Free French. As Colonel Stevens directed, it had been left in place. They were still working on the installation of a secure line. It was difficult, he said, because of the old-fashioned British telephone equipment.

After he had gone, and their dinner was laid out for them, the reason for having the room swept became apparent. Stevens gave Canidy a report on the African flight first because he knew Canidy was concerned about it. The report was encouraging: The CAT C-46 was by now off the west coast of Africa, past danger of interception by German fighters. There should be word shortly that they had landed at Bissau, in Portuguese Guinea. Having got that over with, Stevens got down to what was more pressing for him.

“I wanted to talk to you about future operations, Dick,” he said.

“Torch?”

“Beyond Torch,” Stevens said matter-of-factly.

“We intend,” he went on, “to establish an OSS detachment in Switzerland. When Fine returns from Africa he will be sent there. He has contacts in Europe, both in the motion-picture business and with various Zionist organizations. There are people in Germany and Eastern Europe that we’re going to have to try to get out. There are already a couple of pipelines, but Colonel Donovan wants us to establish more. I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you anything more about that except that it has the highest priority.”

“I’m surprised you’re telling me this much,” Canidy said.

Stevens did not respond to that.

“Another high priority is getting our hands on a German jet engine. Depending on how things work out when we send him back into North Africa for Torch, Eric Fulmar will probably be involved with that. It may be necessary to send him into Germany. But in any event, when Torch is over, it is planned to send him to Switzerland. There is even an idea—which I consider pretty far-fetched—to steal a jet aircraft.”

“Have we got anybody who knows how to fly one?”

“No,” Stevens said. “And from the information we have, the jets don’t have sufficient range to make it out of Germany. But since Colonel Donovan hasn’t rejected the idea out of hand, you can see the priority he places on getting concrete information on the jet fighters.”

“Are you thinking of using me to steal one of these airplanes?” Canidy asked.

Jesus Christ, I hope not!

“As you don’t know how to fly one,” Stevens said, “I think that’s probably not in the works. But on the other hand, we’re in an unlikely business. There is one aviation operation in which you will be involved, however. You and Whittaker. The Germans have built submarine pens at Saint-Nazaire that are apparently bombproof. The Navy has come up with an idea. I’m told the idea actually came from a young lieutenant named Kennedy?”

Thinking he was being asked if he knew him, Canidy shook his head. “I don’t know him, I don’t think,” he said.

“No reason that you should,” Stevens said. “But I thought you might recognize the name. I know him. And what he wants to do is turn worn-out B-17s into radio-controlled flying bombs. The aircraft would be loaded with explosives, and then flown directly into the submarine pens.”

“Can that be done?” Canidy asked incredulously.

“Taking out the submarine pens is of such importance—we simply can’t accept the damage the submarines are doing to the Atlantic supply line—that the Joint Chiefs have given them authority to have at least a shot at it. We have been directed to support them as far as we can. You’re an aeronautical engineer—”

“Who has never even been in a B-17,” Canidy interrupted.

“And Jim Whittaker is an explosives expert,” Stevens went on. “I’ve arranged for the British to demonstrate an explosive of theirs, something called Torpex, to our experts. One of those experts should be Jim Whittaker. I think you should be the other one. Go talk to Kennedy, at least.”

“A lieutenant is running this?” Canidy asked.

“Not only is Lieutenant Kennedy a very bright young man,” Stevens said, “but his father owns the Merchandise Mart in Chicago, just about controls the import of Scotch whiskey into the United States, and was the ambassador to the Court of Saint James.”

“Almost as well-connected as Jimmy, in other words,” Canidy said dryly.

“I think that ran through Colonel Donovan’s mind when he suggested we involve Captain Whittaker in the flying-bomb project,” Stevens said dryly.

Then he looked at his watch. “Hadn’t you better start heading back to Whitby House?”

“I sort of hoped I could stick around here until we hear something more about Fine,” Canidy said.

“Sure,” Stevens said. “Stay right here, if you like. As soon as I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”