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Canidy held up his hand to stop him. “Excuse me, Murray. Hold that thought, please, and pardon me for a moment. I’m going to make a quick visit to the gentlemen’s facilities.”

“Good idea,” Donovan said.

He surveyed the table, now little more than a collection of dirty dishes and glasses, and there followed the sound of his foot tapping the floor. After a moment, Canidy realized that Donovan was pressing the service call button.

“We can have our coffee in the library,” Donovan said. “Say, ten minutes?”

[ TWO ]

A silver coffee service tray was on the coffee table between the couches nearest the fireplace. Three china cups, each emptied of coffee at a different level, were on the table, as was a heavy wooden humidor.

Colonel William “Wild Bill” Donovan was seated on one couch and had leaned forward to open the lid of the humidor and dig out a cigar. His fingers found one, and, after he pulled it out, the heavy wooden lid fell shut with a resounding bang that carried well through the large room.

As Donovan went through the ritual of unwrapping the cigar, sniffing its length, then snipping the closed end and putting flame to the other end with an engraved, gold-plated lighter, Major Richard Canidy and Major Murray Gurfein stood at the rollaway cart of liquor.

Gurfein held fat snifters in each hand while Canidy poured into them from one of the VSOP cognac bottles, the brand of which he earlier had not recognized.

A third snifter was on the cart, and Canidy poured into it as Gurfein went to the couches, where he handed one glass of cognac to Colonel Donovan.

“You’re saying that Navy intel in New York was getting reports of U-boats in the Upper Bay?” Canidy asked, incredulously.

“Yeah,” Gurfein said, opening the lid of the humidor and digging out a cigar for himself. “But only reports. No sightings. Considering all the ships getting sunk not far offshore, and those saboteurs we caught last June who had come in at Long Island by U-boat, it’s understandable that people would make that leap of logic. Especially after the Normandie went down in the Hudson, moored there at Pier 88.”

“The Normandy?” Canidy said.

Gurfein, puffing deeply on his cigar as he held a match to it, nodded.

“The French luxury ocean liner SS Normandie,” he explained, “was the world’s largest ship when launched at St. Nazaire in 1932. She had crossed the Atlantic a hundred or so times when, after arriving in New York, the Coast Guard took her into custody.”

“How could they do that?”

“Rather easily. France had been occupied, and they were not about to let the Krauts have her back. So, instead, the U.S. War Department then seized the ship, renamed it the USS Lafayette, and began converting it into a troop carrier. That process was nearly completed when, on February 9, 1942, she began to burn. The fire quickly spread, there were explosions and more flames, and the great ship turned on her side and without ceremony sank.”

“Jesus Christ,” Canidy said. “Incredible.”

“Yeah,” Gurfein said, sipping cognac. “After that, you would not believe what kinds of reports came in from the public. Everyone who looked even mildly suspicious suddenly was considered a spy or saboteur. One guy was convinced he’d seen der Führer’s personal Mercedes—but the FBI, ever quick on their toes, discounted that one when two of their agents arrived to question him at the bar, on East Seventh.”

Canidy chuckled. “McSorley’s?”

“McSorley’s Ale House indeed. They couldn’t do anything with him, though. He was dusty as everything else in that hole, half in the bag, and adamant that he’d seen what he’d said he’d seen. He’d slurred, ‘Why the hell can’t you guys just do your jobs. The goddamned Krauts are right under your noses!’”

Now all three men chuckled.

“Have you seen her?” Gurfein said, his tone now serious. “The Lafayette, I mean. She’s still there. It’s an incredible sight. Bigger than the Queen Mary, but now just a burned abandoned hulk. That’s a real signal for someone to send.”

Canidy shook his head.

Donovan said, “I have, and you’re right. It’s sad. A magnificent ship burned right before it was ready to sail. You can see why rumors circulated about how it happened.”

“Rumors?” Canidy repeated.

“ONI’s Third Naval District,” Gurfein said, “is responsible for securing the waterfront in New York, Connecticut, and part of New Jersey—”

“And,” Canidy interrupted, “it reports to…?”

“The Office of Naval Intelligence here in Washington,” Donovan offered, “which means just about directly to Frank Knox.”

Colonel Frank Knox was secretary of the Navy.