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Donovan continued: “The reason that I pulled you back in the manner that I did was so that everyone would think that your ass was in a crack. So if you disappear, it won’t be unexpected.”

“Disappear, sir? To where?”

Donovan did not reply directly. He studied the crystal tumbler as he rolled it in his fingers, making the single malt rise and fall as it slowly circled. “There are, as you know, people who do not like the OSS. People on our side of the war, some very high up. For good or otherwise, one of our chief supporters is the President of the United States.”

“One could do worse,” Canidy offered.

“Perhaps,” Donovan said, agreeably. “But sometimes—maybe most times—such connections can cause serious friction, particularly when you take your orders directly from the President. That’s why no one understood why it was so important that you flew a mission to bring back bags of what was thought to be dirt. And no one understood why it was so important to bring out Professor Dyer. And now no one will understand why it’s important you set up and run a resistance net in Sicily.”

“Sicily?”

“General Eisenhower, there at AFHQ in Algiers, has made it clear that he does not want us—OSS in general and OSS SO in particular—in Sicily before the invasion. He thinks it will tip our hand to Mussolini and Hitler. Especially if our Special Operations begins blowing up things.”

“So we’re going into France from the south?”

Donovan ignored that. “The OSS Italian SI desk here in Washington, under a very capable and very young Army fellow by the name of Corvo, has been pulling together men to compile intel on Sicily and Italy. Their work has been limited to interviewing anyone in the States with an interest in the place, from tourists who visited there to Mussolini-hating natives who fled to the States. They’re making relief maps of the islands, compiling lists of assets, targets of opportunity, et cetera. Naturally, this is leading to some internal jockeying as some of the SI guys try to set themselves up as SO, but we’ve been stalling, using Eisenhower as our excuse. Which is why you’re going to set up a resistance net in Sicily, just as is being done in France, one that will not be discovered by the Italians, the Germans, the OSS Italian SI—and particularly by Ike.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It won’t be easy. While the Sicilians hate the Fascists, they’re not exactly fon

d of anyone else, either. You’re going to have to develop some leverage with them, because we need intel and we need it right now, something to feed Eisenhower in the event he gets wind of what we’re up to—and particularly if we uncover something he doesn’t know but should.”

He paused to let that soak in, and as Canidy nodded, went on: “Your cover is the extraction of another scientist, this one a Sicilian named Arturo Rossi. He also has expertise in metallurgy. More important, he is a key contact with scientists whose disciplines are of extremely high value to the United States.”

“For example?”

Donovan took a sip of single malt before replying. It was obvious that he did not want to answer the question directly and that he was not going to.

“These disciplines,” he finally said, “and their importance will become clearer to you in time. For now, know that Professor Dyer said that he and Rossi worked together when they both were visiting professors at the University of Rome. So our immediate fear is that once the Germans figure that out, and find the connection with the missing Dyer and these other scientists, Rossi’s life will be at risk, if it’s not already.”

“I understand.”

“It’s going to be especially difficult because we don’t have any established pipelines, and establishing one means getting through to the tight-lipped Sicilians—”

There came a knock, and Donovan stopped speaking as one of the heavy wooden doors squeaked open.

Chief Ellis stood in the doorway with a natty man who carried in his left hand a tan leather satchel and who wore a dark two-piece business suit, white shirt, and navy blue patterned tie with a matching pocket square. He looked to be about thirty years old and was of average height, with pale skin, dark eyes, shiny black wavy hair that was neatly combed, and a finely trimmed black mustache.

“Major Gurfein, sir,” Ellis announced. “And Antonio says he’s prepared to serve in fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you, Chief,” Donovan said as he stood up. “Murray, please come join us,” he added, waving him in.

Canidy stood and followed Donovan as Ellis left the room and closed the door.

Donovan shook hands with Gurfein, then motioned toward Canidy. “Murray Gurfein, Dick Canidy. Dick, Murray.”

They shook hands.

Donovan put a hand on Gurfein’s shoulder, squeezed it, and said, “Something to drink, Murray? Dick pours a deadly single malt.”

Gurfein smiled. “That would be a lifesaver.”

Canidy brought the drink to where Donovan and Gurfein were seated.

The director of the Office of Strategic Services raised his glass in a toast and Canidy and Gurfein followed.

“Our swords,” Donovan said.