The 34th Degree

32

T he headquarters of the OSS was hidden inside an anonymous complex of drab brick-and-limestone buildings in the old gasworks part of Washington, D.C. As the black Chevy carrying Andros and Prestwick turned the corner of Twenty-fifth and E streets that Sunday afternoon, Andros could glimpse the Lincoln Memorial a few blocks to the east before they turned again into an unmarked driveway.

General Donovan’s office was in the Q building of the complex. The OSS chief was on the phone when Andros and Prestwick were ushered in. He motioned them to two chairs in front of his desk.

“They just came in,” said Donovan, and hung up. “That was Captain Whyte at the airstrip. She says the plane is ready. She also says that after four days at the Farm, so are you, Chris.”

“Ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose,” Andros replied. “You’re sure the Swiss will allow this?”

“The Swiss have replied in typically Swiss fashion.” Donovan drew out a telegram from his desk drawer and read from it. “They say they consider your ‘diplomatic mission’ a matter of interest to both Bern and Washington and will be glad to provide you with a visa. But they regretfully add that they cannot guarantee your safe passage into or out of the country.”

“Meaning they aren’t expecting me anytime soon.”

“Not when Switzerland is surrounded entirely by Axis troops in France, Germany, Austria, and Italy.” Donovan put away the Swiss telegram.

“So how do I get in?”

Donovan held up a Pan Am ticket labeled PRIORITY ONE. “We’ve got you on a Clipper flying out of New York tonight for Lisbon.” Andros reached for the ticket, but Donovan pulled it away. “But it won’t be you on that flight.”

Andros sighed in frustration and sat back in his seat. “Of course not.”

Donovan said, “Under normal circumstances, after arriving in Lisbon, you’d hop a Lufthansa to Madrid and Stuttgart, and from Stuttgart board a Swissair to Zurich. But since flights on Lufthansa are no longer possible for American citizens, we’re going to send you three out on a Flying Fortress to Blida, Algiers.”

“Colonel Prestwick and Captain Whyte are coming with me?”

“Only as far as Algiers,” Donovan said. “From there we’ll put you on a Skytrain transport and drop you into Switzerland by parachute during the blackout.”

“A parachute drop,” Andros muttered. “I wish you would have told me. I could have prepared myself mentally.”

“Nonsense,” Prestwick cut in. “According to General Wilby at West Point, you did quite well in paratrooper exercises with the Rangers. As for the drop outside Bern, there’s not another European capital so close to the countryside. You’ll be in the city within a half hour.”

“That’s right,” said Donovan. “An agent code-named Watchmaker will be waiting for you at the designated drop zone. He’ll drive you to a safe house in the city where you’ll spend the night. The next morning you’ll check into the Bellevue Palace Hotel.”

“Just like that, I pop up in Bern? Won’t the Swiss question the circumstances of my arrival?”

“They’ll question, but your visa should keep you out of trouble with the Bupo,” Donovan said. “My guess is they’ll assume that after your arrival in Lisbon, you made it by Spanish plane to Madrid and then crossed France by train or whatnot, with the help of some friends in the French Resistance.”

“Ah, yes, I forgot about my friends in France.” Andros shook his head in amused wonder at the considerable depth of Donovan’s deception. It seemed second nature to the OSS chief.

Donovan glanced down at the papers on his desk. “Now, a few more things and we’re done.” He handed Andros a file. “Read this. It’s your operation order.”

The order outlined the operation code-named Trojan Horse and gave Andros the field name of Sinon. It concluded with the phrase NOW