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“Oh, God…” he sobbed.

As Biaggio and Mahoney walked away from the office, they were aware of a U.S. Army six-by-six—a Truck, General Purpose, two-and-one-half-ton 6×6, meaning all wheels were powered—hanging from the cable of a ten-ton boom.

The GMC “deuce and a half,” an Army workhorse, had an open cab with a canvas-covered cargo area and was painted olive drab with white markings, including that of a three-foot-diameter star-in-a-ring that about covered the whole door. It was not uncommon for a Ben Hur trailer to be hooked behind a six-by-six.

“Okay,” Biaggio said to Maloney.

They gave the signal—each pulled a knit scarf from an overcoat pocket and simultaneously wrapped their necks—then turned to walk toward the farthest Liberty ship.

Immediately, they heard the pitch of the ten-ton boom winch become deeper, straining under a heavy load. The six-by-six hanging on the ten-ton boom cable was now beginning to swing toward its ship hold.

Then there came a great screaming of winch gears and the cable started to unspool rapidly as the giant GMC truck fell from the sky.

As he stared intently at the phone, waiting for it to ring and wondering who it would be, Tony heard a terrible noise on the dock outside the office.

He looked up at the plate-glass window in time to see a blur of olive drab with a white star fill it.

In his last conscious moment, Tony the Gut saw the window explode—its shards flying into the office and spearing his flesh—and felt the office ceiling collapse on his head.

A huge truck tire came to a rest on his back, crushing out his last breath.

[ FOUR ]

OSS London Station

Berkeley Square

London, England

0745 28 February 1943

Colonel David Kirkpatrick Este Bruce, the distinguished-looking chief of London Station, heard the rapping of knuckles on the wooden doorframe and looked up from the stack of documents that he had been reading since he had arrived at six o’clock.

Bruce had the calm and detached manner of a high-level career diplomat, which is what he had set out to be when he’d joined the diplomatic corps after graduating from Princeton University. His face was stonelike, chiseled, and his eyes burned with an intensity that caused him to appear older than his years, though he had turned forty-five just two weeks earlier.

His number two, Lieutenant Colonel Ed Stevens, a beginning-to-gray forty-four-year-old whose strong face always seemed to be in deep thought, stood in the doorway to the empty outer office of Bruce’s administrative assistant.

“Good morning, sir,” Lieutenant Colonel Stevens said, and held up an envelope stamped TOP SECRET. “This just came in from Colonel Donovan.”

Bruce glanced at a side table. It held photographs in silver and wooden frames of Bruce with politicians and military leaders—one showed him with British prime minister Winston Churchill at the polo grounds, another with General Dwight Eisenhower in Algiers—and there was a silver-framed image taken of Bruce in an Adirondack chair with his wife, Alisa, sitting on his lap.

It had been snapped in Nantucket some years earlier—a decade, if not longer—and it had captured the young, vibrant couple in a relaxed, carefree moment. A visibly half-in-the-bag Bruce, in a tailored dark suit, had the top button of his crisp white shirt undone and his orange-and-black rep necktie loosened, while his wife, in pearls and a dark silk cocktail dress, held her high-heel shoes in one hand, a drink in the other.

It was one of Bruce’s favorites because it froze in time a very rare moment when their vast wealth did not matter—Bruce had a great deal of his own money when he married Alisa, née Mellon, the richest woman in America.

At that moment, they had been simply happy, a loving couple—which wasn’t necessarily the case now, and one reason Bruce found himself more and more on edge.

“’Morning, Ed,” Bruce said almost absently, waving him in the office.

Next to the papers on the deeply polished desk was a silver service for coffee—a large carafe, three clean cups and saucers in addition to the cup and saucer Bruce had used, and sugar and milk in their bowl and pitcher—and Bruce motioned toward it.

“You’ll forgive my manners when I ask you to please pour yourself a cup,” Bruce said, taking the envelope.

“Thanks. I believe I can manage,” Stevens said agreeably, as Bruce broke the seal on the envelope, flipped past the two TOP SECRET cover pages, and began to read.

Bruce grunted.

“Interesting,” he said. “Not exactly surprising.” He put the sheets back in the envelope and looked at Stevens. “Damned good news, as far as I’m concerned.”