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“It stands for ‘Rear Echelon Mother Fucker’—” Canidy explained.

L’Herminier’s eyebrows went up at that.

“And next to the definition, you’ll find that chair warmer’s photo.”

“You sound like you’ve had a bad run-in with this Owen,” L’Herminier said.

“Not directly,” Canidy said, glancing at Fine, then looking back at L’Herminier. “But just about everyone else I know has—or knows someone who has—and it would seem to be just a matter of time till I have that distinct pleasure.”

“The reason Owen and everyone else is out of sorts at AFHQ,” Fine added in the even tone of a lawyer counseling a client, “is that Eisenhower has everyone running in circles with this divine declaration that there will be cooperation among the Allied Forces under his command. He means well. But we all know what happens when those who mean well—”

“They fuck it up for us few who are actually getting something done,” Canidy interrupted, “that’s what.”

Fine nodded, then went on: “According to my sources there at AFHQ, it’s causing more division than unity because Ike is bending over backward to accommodate the Brits—”

“And that,” Canidy finished, his tone disgusted, “is making the Americans feel shorted—by their own commander! Our OSS agents being snubbed at Club des Pins is a prime example. Thank God we’ve got the Sandbox or I’d be out of luck finding a commo man ready to go.” He grunted. “There’s no end to the shit being swallowed thanks to Ike’s steady drumbeat of ‘in the interests of inter-Allied unity.’”

Fine laughed. “You sound just like Georgie Patton.”

Canidy grinned. “That’s who I was told said that. I stole it. Which doesn’t mean I don’t believe it, too.”

“Beyond all that, there is some legitimate reason for the craziness at AFHQ,” Fine said. “They’re up to their asses in alligators with the fighting in Tunisia, where we’ll soon have some three hundred thousand troops. At the same time, AFHQ is making early plans for the Husky op—and not doing well with that at all.”

“Doesn’t help that the Brits are in charge of the op,” Canidy said, “making Eisenhower little more than a figurehead. Beating his own men up to ‘Cooperate! Cooperate!’”

“I can’t argue with that,” Fine said. “Word is that Alexander’s leadership right now is tenuous at best, and that has Tedder, Cunningham, and Montgomery squabbling among themselves.”

Neither Canidy nor L’Herminier was surprised to hear that Air Chief Marshall Arthur Tedder, Admiral Andrew Cunningham, and General Bernard Montgomery held different opinions of how the invasion should proceed.

“Is nothing concrete getting done on Husky?” Canidy said.

“Oh, there are plans,” Fine said. “Just too many. As you might expect, each man’s thoughts follow the lines of his particular service. Cunningham wants to spread out the landings so that the Allied fleet has the most security. Tedder wants priority to be the taking of southeast Sicily’s airfields so he can have them for his aircraft. And Montgomery, carrying Alexander’s water, is pushing for an invasion of southeast Sicily with the ground forces attack as a single unit.”

Canidy shook his head. “And what does General Patton have to say? Doesn’t matter. He can’t be heard over the rat-a-tat-tat of Ike—busier than a one-armed wallpaper hanger—beating the damn drum of inter-Allied unity.” He paused, then dramatically added, “C’est la guerre!”

Fine and L’Herminier chuckled.

Canidy drained what was left of his coffee in one gulp and put the mug on the table with a thud.

“We need to get the hell out of here,” he said, standing up. “And before we do that, Stanley, I have to raid your warehouse downstairs. But first, let’s go talk to your commo guys.”

[ONE]

OSS Whitbey House Station Kent, England 1155 3 April 1943

Private Peter Ustinov led a procession into the breakfast room that included First Lieutenant Robert Jamison and four men who wore British uniforms. All but one of the six were carrying typewriters; the last in line manhandled a very big, heavy cardboard box.

“The typewriters can go on the big table,” Lieutenant Commander Ewen Montagu, of Royal Naval intelligence, said as he stood pouring tea at the side table, “and the box on the floor beneath it.”

The Duchess Stanfield, Lieutenant Colonel Ed Stevens, Major David Niven, Commander Ian Fleming, and First Lieutenant Charity Hoche were seated at the big table. Stevens, Niven, and Fleming stood up and made room for the machines.

Charity studied the men helping Ustinov and Jamison. She had seen a couple of them when the caravan had arrived late yesterday with the ambulance bearing the body in the metal box. They wore, she saw, the uniform of the British Motor Transport Corps, but experience told her not to take that at face value.

Jamison and Ustinov each carried a nearly

new British Oliver manual typewriter to the table. One was a Special Model 15 and the other a Special Model 16. They carefully placed both on the table.

The next two men followed with a pair of Hermes—the manufacturer plates stamped HERMES MODEL 5, PAILLARD S.A., YVERDON, SWITZERLAND—and formed a line with these next to the Olivers.