Almost at once the answer came.
SHITHOUSE.
He sighed.
WILCO, he sent. HOTEL ADAMS FRANKLIN NEAR POTOMAC OUT.
He sat back. He was conscious of his body relaxing. He had not been aware of his tenseness.
It had to be Paul. Only he could know that the camp latrine was nicknamed Manny's Retreat because Mannering, the mess sergeant, spent all his leisure time there reading girlie magazines.
He ripped up his enciphered message. He packed up his X-35 set that looked for all the world like an ordinary portable typewriter. An Underwood.
He contemplated the antenna rig.
The hell with it.
Dirk Vandermeer, OSS agent Van G-8, stretched out on the bed to wait.
9
Major Rosenfeld felt like a salesman — with a second-rate product to sell. The worst of it was that he had to make the sale. He had nothing better to offer. And General McKinley was no easy mark.
He glanced at Colonel Reed. Your turn is coming up, Buddy, he thought without satisfaction.
He cleared his throat and continued his presentation. His sales pitch.
“Vandermeer possesses the following qualifications necessary for the job, sir,” he said persuasively. “He was born in Rotterdam in 1919 and came to the States as a pre-teenager. His father, still living, is a cheese importer in Brooklyn. The boy spent his high-school vacations in Holland and practically crisscrossed Germany as a Wandervogel—”
McKinley raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
“A term for young hikers, sir, making their way on foot through the country,” Rosenfeld explained. “He learned to speak German fluently on those trips,” he continued. “Not a difficult thing to do for someone brought up speaking Dutch.”
He referred to some notes.
“He joined the OSS immediately after Pearl Harbor,” he went on, “and finished all training courses in the top ten percent.” He frowned slightly. “He — he did not like being addressed by his OSS code name, Van G-8, and chose to be called by his own name, Dirk, contrary to instructions” He glanced at the general. “He is — eh — somewhat of an individualist, sir, but most effective. He has already proven himself courageous, imaginative and resourceful. He—”
Hold it, he thought. Don't oversell. He cleared his throat.
“He has had field experience on two OSS missions in Holland. The first an unqualified success. The second terminating in quite serious injuries. He—”
“How serious?” McKinley interrupted.
“One rib on his left side was partly sheared away, sir His left elbow was shattered He has regained only partial use of the arm. About eighty percent. He can, however, function perfectly all right and has recuperated remarkably well. But those wounds will provide him with a bona-fide excuse for not being in uniform in Germany.”
“He hasn't come up — eh — gun-shy in any way, has he?”
“No, sir. There have been no indications that he has.”
McKinley nodded. “I see.” He paused.
Here it comes, Rosenfeld thought bleakly.
“What are his scientific qualifications, Major?” the general asked.
Rosenfeld looked him straight in the eyes.
“None, sir,” he said. “None whatsoever.”
McKinley frowned. He sat back in his chair.
Okay, Reed, Rosenfeld thought, take it, dammit, take it!
“Sir.” It was Colonel Reed. “We do have another possible subject.”
“Let's have it.” McKinley sounded cool.
“His name is Brandt, sir. Sigmund Brandt.”
“Another OSS agent?”
Reed looked uncomfortable.
“Yes, sir,” he said, “and — no….”
“Which is it?” the general asked icily.
“Yes, sir. Since this morning.”
“What training has he had?”
“None.”
“You can't send in an untrained man, Colonel,” McKinley said. He was capable of making his voice sub-arctic. “You might as well shoot him here.”
“OSS has no available trained agent with all the necessary qualifications including scientific knowledge, sir,” Rosenfeld came to the rescue.
“When I briefed General Groves on the immediate problem,” Reed took up the relay staff, “he remembered Sigmund Brandt. He suggested I contact him. The general has been very much impressed by him.”
“In what way?”
“Brandt runs a manufacturing company in New Jersey that he took over from his father when he retired, sir. An electrochemical plant. It's a prime contractor on the Manhattan Project.” He paused, searching for the right words. “When the project hit a — a snag which none of the major corporations could solve, General Groves approached the senior Brandt. Brandt turned the problem over to his son, who told General Groves ‘Can do‘—and he did. In fact, he invented a whole new electrochemical process. The general was very impressed with his imaginative approach.”
“Why is he a subject for the Hechingen mission?” McKinley asked.
“He has the scientific knowledge, sir. Just enough — without being too great a danger if captured. He had to be briefed on the rudimentary aspects of the project in order to solve the problem handed him.” Reed was warming to his subject. “He also has other qualifications necessary to the mission,” he continued. He is a naturalized US citizen, born in Zürich in 1914, and he speaks German, French and English fluently — as well as Switzerdeutsch, the Swiss dialect. With proper papers as a Swiss-national technician, he should be able to sustain a safe cover in Germany.”
He looked at McKinley.
“He — he has agreed to join the OSS, General,” he said. “But — he has no prior intelligence training. In fact — no military training at all. Major Rosenfeld and I—”
“I agree,” McKinley interrupted him.
“Sir?” Reed looked puzzled.
McKinley smiled imperceptibly.
“I assume you are about to suggest that Vandermeer and Brandt be teamed to go on the mission to Hechingen,” he said matter-of-factly. “You were going to point out to me that together the two of them would make one hell of an agent. I agree.”
Rosenfeld and Reed exchanged glances. A wave of relief washed over Rosenfeld. The sale had been made.
“The mission will by mounted by OSS-SI,” he said. “From London. We will monitor it from there.”
“What is your next step?” McKinley asked.
“Both men are now at B-2, the OSS camp at Catoctin Manor in the Blue Ridge,” Rosenfeld answered briskly. “Brandt will undergo a two weeks’ crash training course with Vandermeer before going on to London.”
“Make it ten days,” McKinley said. “Four days saved now may be worth forty later.”
10
Sigmund Brandt cursed the day he'd first laid eyes on that Rosenfeld from the Office of Strategic Services. He had been summoned to the major's office in Temporary Building Q in Washington, D.C.: urgent and vital. He'd naturally assumed it had something to do with his contractual work for the Manhattan Project. He'd been wrong.
He should have known from the start that he was getting himself involved with a screwball outfit. The OSS. That file cabinet behind Rosenfeld's desk in his office should have tipped him off. Three drawers. On the top one a sign in big black letters — TOP SECRET. The next one down was marked MIDDLE SECRET — and the lowest, BOTTOM SECRET. Really!
He'd been snowed. But good! Rosenfeld had told him that the mission for which he was being asked to “volunteer” was of the utmost importance to the security of the Manhattan Project, of which he, Sigmund Brandt, was such a vital part. In fact, the job was vital to the safety of the entire United States of America, his chosen country. He hadn't been able to muster the guts to say no. There was a certain hazardous element involved, Rosenfelt had hinted; it would be behind enemy lines, but he had not been at liberty to tell Sig exactly what the mission was.