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“But which considerations of security make it impossible for you to share with us, correct?” the general asked icily.

“Yes, sir, I’m afraid that’s the situation,” Stevens replied.

“Then there is not much point in going on with this meeting, is there?”

“Sir, I would suggest that everything has been covered,” Stevens said.

The general nodded, and simply got up and walked out of the room.

If the meeting was to be considered a battle, Canidy thought, the Air Corps had lost. But the OSS’s victory, if that’s what it was, was worse than hollow. A large number of men, men like himself, men like Doug Douglass, were going to die because the OSS—which in fact meant Canidy, Richard— insisted on photographing every spot in Germany that looked likely to contain something interesting about jet airplanes and flying bombs.

Both Stevens and Canidy fell asleep in the backseat of the Princess on the way to London. There didn’t seem to be anything to say, and the steady stream of expert opinion thrown at them, plus the growing acrimony, had left them exhausted.

They both knew that by the time they reached Berkeley Square, their reluctance to give in to the Air Corps would have preceded them. And they would have to justify it to David Bruce.

Two further annoyances awaited Canidy at Berkeley Square. The first came from Sergeant Major Davis: Ann Chambers had called to say she had gone to Nottingham, purpose unspecified, with Meachum Hope, and would be gone three days. The second came from Bruce himself, who announced that the CID (the Criminal Investigation Division of the Provost Marshal’s Office) had caught one of the cooks at Whitbey House selling food rations on the black market. He would of course have to be court-martialed.

Since Canidy was not a bona-fide officer and could not legally convene a court-martial himself, the chief of station “suggested” the way to handle it was to transfer the thief to Richodan, where Major Berry, the Richodan commandant, “was equipped to handle this sort of thing.”

For reasons Canidy had never understood, Major Berry had been taken into the OSS after proving himself an incompetent working for Bob Murphy in Casablanca. Canidy knew Berry to be the sort of sonofabitch who would joyously throw the book at the thief.

And Canidy was also more than a little aware that he himself had “diverted” from “the war effort” a Packard, a Ford, a B-25, and several tons of foodstuffs and liquor. Having set that example, he could not in good conscience send a corporal to the stockade for selling a couple of hams, or a couple of roasts, to get beer money.

“I’ll handle it,” he said. “I’ll throw the fear of Christ into him. It won’t happen again.”

“Once is more than enough, Canidy,” Bruce said.

“I don’t want him, during a break from cracking rocks at Litchfield, telling the other prisoners all the interesting things he’s seen at Whitbey House.”

The chief of station’s face tightened at that. His thinking had gone no further than “thieves must be punished.”

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“I’ll leave it up to you, then,” he said after a moment, and then went on to more serious matters:“About that meeting in High Wycombe, if you and Ed Stevens are in agreement, I’ll back you to the hilt.”

“The Air Corps has been heard from, I gather?”

“In the last forty-eight hours my phone has been ringing off the hook,” Bruce said, smiling just a little. “As I was saying, since you and Colonel Stevens seem to be in agreement, I will, of course, stand behind you. But I want you to know that it’s clear to me that you could have presented your case with a good deal more tact. Your position will prevail, but at a terrible price insofar as good relations among OSS and Eighth Air Force and SHAEF are concerned.”

The truth was that Canidy had been as tactful as he knew how, and that the complaints had been an attempt by the Air Corps to have his objections overridden. But if he said so, he knew that the chief of station would take that reasoning as nothing but another manifestation of Canidy’s “bad attitude. ”

“I’m sorry they took offense,” he said.

“I really wish I could believe that, Dick,” the chief of station said sadly. Bruce reminded Canidy of a master at St. Mark’s School. Every time the boys had gotten in trouble, the master had been sorrowful, not angry.

“It’s true, David,” Canidy said with as much sincerity as he could muster.

“Well, it’s water under the damn, I suppose,” David Bruce said. “But I wanted to get that out of the way before the meeting.”

“Oh, Christ, not another meeting! I’m meetinged out!”

“You may find this one interesting,” Bruce said, gesturing for Canidy to precede him out of the office.

Outside, Bruce stepped ahead and climbed the narrow, squeaking flight of stairs to what had been the servants’ quarters. Under the slant of the roof were now storerooms and small conference rooms.

Bruce stopped before one of the conference rooms and knocked at the door.

Colonel Wild Bill Donovan opened it.