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He took the white terry cloth robe from the hook on the back of the bathroom door, put it on, slipped the pistol in the right pocket, and, somewhat sure the gun wasn’t going to fall out, went back to the door.

After he unlocked it and went to open it, he found that there was some resistance. He got it open enough to peek out and saw that the resistance was because his clothes from the trip aboard the fishing boat had been cleaned and returned and were now hanging from the doorknob.

He pulled open the door completely, retrieved the clothes, and put them on the couch, then went back and picked up the tray and brought it in the room, pushing the door closed with his foot.

Canidy put the tray on the coffee table in the sitting room of his suite and looked at the New York Times as he poured steaming coffee into one of the two cups.

The biggest headline above the fold read: U-BOAT ATTACKS IN ATLANTIC ON RISE AGAIN.

“Jesus H. Christ,” he said disgustedly.

He sat in the armchair, unfolded the paper, and scanned the other headlines on the front page.

There was a long piece, with a large photograph showing strewn wreckage, about a train derailment in Oklahoma on Saturday. Beneath that, a report on the Luftwaffe’s attack on London with twin-engine Heinkel He 111 bombers. A short piece reported that the rate of pregnancies among American teenagers had spiked. And—some really good news—the rest of the page was devoted to progress on the war fronts: the Germans withdrawing from Tunisia, the RAF bombing the hell out of Berlin, and the Australians and Americans kicking the goddamned Japs’ asses in the Bismarck Sea.

He decided to start with the U-boat article and went back to it.

It reported that both of the convoys that had left the New York area in just the first week of March had been attacked, with a loss of four ships carrying matériel and one troopship.

“Shit,” he said and drained his coffee cup.

He moved on to the London bombing piece and that caused him to wonder—and worry—if Ann Chambers was right now knee-deep in rubble interviewing rescuers for her profiles.

Jesus, I’m getting nowhere sitting here, he thought, frustrated. I need to do something.

He poured more coffee, grabbed the newspaper, and started for the head.

He glanced at the clock. Eight-twenty.

To hell with it. Close enough.

Canidy put down the paper and picked up the phone receiver. He then asked the operator to connect him to a Washington number he gave from memory.

“Switchboard oh-five,” a woman’s monotone voice answered.

“Major Canidy for Chief Ellis. Is he available, please?”

“Major Canidy? One moment.”

Canidy took a sip of his coffee as he heard a click and another dial tone and then ringing.

“Ellis,” came the familiar voice.

“How they hanging, Chief?” Canidy said.

“One lower than the other, Major. Got a heads-up for you—I overheard the boss asking if you were having any success and when you’d be headed over there. Sounded like he wanted whatever done yesterday….”

Shit, Canidy thought.

He said, “Any chance you’re with the boss?”

“No chance. Sorry.”

“Well, if it comes up again before I speak to him, tell him I said, ‘Some, and very soon.’”

“Will do. He’s at home. The captain has me babysitting.”

Canidy knew that Colonel Donovan’s home was a town house in Georgetown, just off of Wisconsin Avenue, and that when Ellis said he was babysitting for the captain, that meant that Douglass had him keeping watch over someone at the house on Q Street.