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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, i

n 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 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?

[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, 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.

“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.

Pierre Jones, 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-männer 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.”