Chapter Ten.

The wheeled loading stairs pushed up against the main entrance behind the wing on the left rear of the fuselage of the C-54 Skymaster was pushed away as the young corporal steward closed and locked the door. The only passengers this trip were Josie and her crew, "Captain Charlotte Mckenna," and six unimposing, middle-rank Air Force officers. As they settled into their seats, the pilot began his engine start routine. The fire picket standing out on the concrete apron indicated "All Clear," the pilot pressed the first engine start button... number Three. The inside engine on the right wing whined and backfired with a cloud of blue smoke; then, picked up. Number Four; the outside engine on the right wing, whined, coughed and started; again with lots of blue smoke. This was followed by Number Two; the inside engine on the left wing; and finally, Number One... the outside engine on the left wing. Engine number Three was always started first because it provided the primary source of power for the airplanes hydraulic system. He released the brakes and taxied the airplane to the engine run-up position off the end of the active runway. After reaching the run-up area he turned the aircraft into the wind and ran the engines up; individually checking each engine in turn at high revs, with the aircraft vibrating; and then easing each throttle back to return the engine to idle.

As she watched from the fuselage window; "Charlotte" saw the ailerons move up and down and heard the flap motors whine as they drove the flaps out from under the trailing edge of the wing. The Skymaster moved on to the active runway and the pilot applied the brakes which made a loud squealing noise. He looked down the runway centre line making sure it was clear, and scanned his engine instruments. Everything was in proper working condition. He slowly advanced the four big throttle levers, carefully watching the engine instruments, and released the brakes.

The Skymaster started to move. The Co-pilot grasped the control yoke and pushed it fully forward giving the aircraft a good firm track down the runway. Once the airplane started picking up speed the pilot pushed the four throttles forward to their maximum takeoff setting. He was steering the airplane by way of the nose wheel steering wheel located on the left side of the cockpit until enough speed was built up for the rudder pedals to work. As the Skymaster raced down the runway, "Charlotte" watched the B-17s parked up on their circular hardstandings flashing past. Each big silver bomber had a white letter "G" in a black triangle on its tail fin. How many of these, she wondered, had she seen tracing their white trails high in the blue skies over Berlin?

The big airplane gently lifted off the runway and she heard the undercarriage retract with a soft hiss and thump. The sound of the engines lessened as the pilot reduced power as the big Skymaster reached the correct speed and height for the wing flaps to be retracted. She felt the nose drop slightly as the pilot lowered it gently, to pick up some airspeed.

Josie glanced back over her shoulder.

'Nice take-off! This guy's a hot-shot!

The other girls nodded their agreement.

Chelveston Air Base and Middle England slowly receded to a green patchwork drifting beneath them as they gained height; and the pilot turned the Skymaster's nose into the west; aiming for the radio beacon of the British weather ship "Jig" patiently circling her permanent mooring; a tiny speck keeping watch over the cold, inhospitable North Atlantic; six hundred miles off the Irish coast.

As the airplane reached its operational altitude; the coast of Wales passed behind them and the widening St George's Channel gave way to the coast of Ireland, the "Seat belt" and "No Smoking" signs were switched off. The steward came forward with his coffee pot and said that they would cross Southern Ireland and leave the coast a little to the south of Shannon. If they were on a transit from Germany, they would have landed there to refuel; but, on this trip, their first stop would be their destination. This was a special transit; they would be taking the "Middle Atlantic" route, rather than the southern flight path via the Azores; where they would normally land and refuel. The Skymaster, with a full fuel load... such as they now had; could fly for four thousand miles, non-stop.

Hunter Field at Savannah, Georgia, was the normal port of debarkation for aircraft redeployed over the southern route, but they were heading for Andrews Field, Maryland. It was just over three thousand miles away... something approaching seventeen hours flight time at cruise speed. He also said that weather over the North Atlantic normally was not good, as they would be flying against the prevailing winds; so it might be a good idea to be ready to buckle up quickly if any real turbulence was encountered.

Josie laughed.

'Hell! You want to try flying a B-17 from Bluie West-One across to Iceland. We ran into a cloud bank and began to climb to get over it. According to Metro we could top anything at fourteen thousand. We reached fourteen thousand and we were still in it; rime ice began to form on our wing leading edges and our B-17's de-icer equipment wasn't operational. Meeks Field near Keflavik on the southwest tip of the island was nearly three hours away. So there we were; trying to climb higher through zero-visibility conditions in an attempt to escape the grip of the vicious weather with ten-ten cloud above and the white capped waves of the North Atlantic below! I was standing on the rudder pedals whilst hauling back on the stick with Nancy heaving her stick back with her feet planted on the instrument panel coaming! We managed to get her nose up and broke cloud at eighteen thousand... and, there was no oxygen coupled up!

Anyway; we eventually sighted the coast of Iceland and started our glide in. It looked cold and bleak down there and there was a crosswind of some forty knots blowing. She came in like a cross-tied hog; but we managed to get her down in one piece... so, a touch of "chop" ain't worth wasting no thoughts on!'

The corporal grinned.

'You flew a "Fort" across to ETO? Hell, Ma'am; that's impressive! I thought WASPs only delivered in The Zone.'

Josie raised an eyebrow.

'Not this time, baby. They seemed to think the same at Meeks Field; but we straightened them out. The Duty S-3 operations officer took quite an exception to the thought that "mere women" could ride a B-17 on the "Snowball Run." They did try to order us that anything other than a strictly contact/visual flight to Prestwick, Scotland would not be attempted under any conditions. They said that no "On Top"... above cloud; or instrument flying was allowed, and that if such contact flight was not possible, we should return to Meeks Field. We smiled sweetly and agreed; then blew out of there and promptly forgot everything that they had said.

The course for the final destination, Prestwick, Scotland, took us over the Outer Hebrides and the Inner Hebrides Islands, and the flight time was four hours. It was really great, seeing all the little islands of Scotland washed with foamy white water. As we turned in on final approach to Prestwick airdrome, we crossed a concrete runway crammed with B-17s... some, with RAF markings; lining the parking areas. Across on the north side, amongst the big, black hangars, was a beautiful Art-Deco building which we later discovered, was called "The Palace of Engineering"; and had been moved, brick by brick from the 1938 Empire Exhibition in Glasgow, Scotland; and rebuilt. They even had flower beds decorating the place... even in wartime.'

She glanced at the aviator's chronograph on her wrist.

'Almost two hours already. We should be leaving the Irish coast soon.'

She glanced out of the cabin window.

'Yeah... there; Shannon Airport, out to starboard.'

As they gazed down; the coast of Ireland slipped away below them, and they watched the last land they were to see for two thousand miles slowly slide away. This was the jutting point of the Loop Head peninsula, the south-westerly tip of County Clare; with nothing but a whitewashed lighthouse standing at the tip of the head, shining in the early morning sun. With mixed feelings, "Charlotte" settled down for the long flight to the southern coast of Newfoundland on the other side of the World.

A little later; the steward came from his little galley and enquired as to what they would like for lunch. Josie grinned.

'OK, let me guess... sandwiches... or, sandwiches; or maybe, sandwiches?'

The steward gave a hurt look, and then grinned.

'No Ma'am. This bird has a galley for hot meals! That's why you're sitting in smart reclining seats. She's half-modified and heading back to Douglas at Santa Monica to be fitted with comfortable berths before they attach her to the India China Division of the Air Transport Command for operations in PTO. I would suggest rib-eye steak, eggs over easy, and hash browns.'

Josie laughed.

'Damn. You don't have to ask twice. Same all round, girls?'

The others nodded their agreement. The steward grinned again.

'Good choice! I'll just go and ask the guys up front what they want. It'll be about twenty minutes.'

The meal that the steward brought came as a shock to "Charlotte." The portions... in comparison to what had been available back in Berlin were ridiculously large. The steak alone covered almost half the sizeable plate. There were three eggs; and the pile of hash browns would have served to feed an entire Berlin family. She gave a wry grin. If this was the normal American meal, she would need to be very careful... or she might easily become a typical, portly Berliner "Hausfrau" very, very, quickly.

With the meal finished, and everyone getting sleepy from the food and the soporific hum of the Skymaster's engines; she gazed down on the featureless ocean for a while. They were flying a few hundred feet above a vast carpet of dense, cottony clouds so white that it was difficult to look at them for any length of time in the blindingly brilliant reflected sunlight. From this height she could see for scores of miles; the atmosphere was remarkably clear, and the horizon was sharply defined. Watching it carefully, she could just make out the slight bend of the earth’s surface. Looking up from the horizon, it was a fantasy world of white clouds in all directions; great cathedrals and lakes of clouds, which, through the odd breaks; the deep blue of the sky could occasionally be seen. She was becoming drowsy. The other passengers seemed to be sleeping. She closed her eyes.

She sensed a presence, which brought her wide awake. Josie stood in the aisle alongside her seat; then quietly sat down in the seat beside her. She smiled, faintly; and spoke in a hushed tone.

'So; Captain Mckenna; How are you enjoying your flight?'

Charlotte stared at her.

'How could you possibly know that name?'

Josie gave a wry grin.

'I'm your escort. I'm to accompany you to Washington. I'm Josie Pullen; Office of Strategic Services. My father was in the same business and I followed in his footsteps. He did "unofficial" flying reconnaissance in South America and the Caribbean for the Government during the so-called "Banana Wars," using his Pullen Flying Service Mail-planes and the like. Pop taught me to fly, and this WASP business was chosen by my controller in Washington as a cover.'

She grinned.

'We're all "Spooks" here, Honey. The girls are Morale Operations operatives. The guys up front are Research and Analysis Branch. You're in; but what the deal is, is anyone's guess. Our boss has just lost his biggest supporter. President Roosevelt died suddenly a couple of weeks ago, and was succeeded by President Truman. We heard that he's made it clear that he has his own plans for a post-war intelligence agency and his own idea of the best man to run it. We'll just have to see what's happening when we finally get to Washington.'

When Josie Pullen returned to her seat; Charlotte sat, gazing out of the cabin window for a while, watching the featureless Ocean, and wondering just where they would fit her into this Intelligence community in Washington. Her troubled thoughts were disturbed by the steward bringing coffee. He also brought a supply of American Magazines to distribute among his passengers to alleviate the boredom of the long flight. Charlotte chose three. The first was a copy of Life Magazine dated April 23rd, 1945. The cover was dominated by a picture of the new American President Truman. She thought how similar his spectacles were to those worn by Heinrich Himmler.

The magazine was a glossy weekly with fifty pages of pictures and advertisements. Another periodical... Time Magazine of the same date promised much more reading content. The article "World's Man" related to the Death of President Roosevelt and the impact it made around the world. The next article focussed on the new President; followed by the attitude of the Axis powers to the news.

The magazine contained all manner of articles, including large sections on the War, American Business, Education; Arts and Entertainment, and all manner of titbits concerning the American way of life. There was also a section of readers' letters. As she read through them, Charlotte realised that the average American didn't seem to be much different to the average German... the same criticisms and opinions that she had heard frequently over the past few months.

She picked up the next magazine: Newsweek, dated April 30th 1945. It contained several patriotically lurid articles, with headlines that screamed:

"Nazi Policy of Organized Murder Blackens Germany for all History... World is shocked by evidence, living and dead, of Herrenvolk's Brutality"... "Doomsday Strikes for the Nazis with Berlin Dying… Nation Split."

She gave a sad, wry smile; and who could blame them?

As she sipped her coffee and continued reading her magazines by the rays of the evening sun that filled the cabin with a soft, golden light; she began to feel sleepy. Her eyes were becoming heavy. She put down the magazine she was reading and adjusted the reclining seat to a more comfortable position. Within a few minutes, she was sound asleep.

She awoke, conscious of the steward covering her with a blanket. It was dark and chilly in the cabin. Drowsily, she glanced out of the window. The stars were brighter and bigger than she had ever seen, and the blue exhaust flames of the droning engines danced under the wide shadow of the wing. Moonlight glistened off the propellers, and the green navigation light on the far end of the wing shone out into the blackness of the night. She snuggled down into her seat, tugged the blanket up under her chin, and slipped back into a deep sleep.

She slept well, and awoke to bright daylight, a cloudless sky, and calm, bright blue sea fading to grey at the horizon. The steward came with a cup of coffee, which he placed on the little folding table in front of her. She excused herself and went to the washroom to tidy her up. Having refreshed herself and touched up her makeup; she returned to her seat. The steward returned and smiled.

Good morning Ma'am. Would you care for something to eat? It's ham and eggs.'

Charlotte smiled.

'Yes please, that would be fine. Where are we?'

'About a hundred nautical miles off our turning point to the south of Newfoundland. It'll be about half an hour until you see North America; then its eight-hundred-miles down to the next turning point off the Nantucket Shoals Lightship south of Boston. From there; its two hundred and fifty miles to the last turn across the Delmarva Peninsula and Delaware Bay, and about one-hundred- and-twenty land-miles into Andrews Field. I guess there's about another six hours until we land.'

She nodded.

'What time is it now?'

He glanced at the big chronograph on his wrist.

'It's just coming up to 13.00. You slept really well, Ma'am.'

That would mean it would be coming up to eight o'clock in the evening, back in Europe. She thanked him, and, as he went back to prepare her meal she gazed back down at the Ocean. With no clouds, it seemed that the Skymaster was hanging dead-steady in the blue infinity between sea and sky. The only sensation of movement was evident by the square patches of sunlight through the cabin windows creeping up and down the cabin walls.

The ham and eggs were delicious, and of the familiar, generous American quantities. As the steward collected her plate and replaced it with another large coffee, the distant coast of Newfoundland appeared out over the starboard wing and the Skymaster began its gentle turn to the south-west. The first glimpse of the North American continent! She watched, as the coastline gave way to the vast Gulf of St Lawrence, and the southern coastline of the Nova Scotia peninsula appeared. The Skymaster followed the coast until the southern tip of Nova Scotia disappeared, and the coastline receded into the distance until it was no more than a dark smudge on the edge of a clear blue, hundred-mile-wide expanse of water.

The Skymaster droned on. Charlotte noticed that the clear blue of the sky as becoming hazy. Slowly the distant coastline disappeared as though a grey veil had gradually been drawn across it. Everything was turning grey; the colours had faded from the Ocean and the sky. The steward came back and said that this was the annoying "Three H's"... Humidity, Heat and Haze. This was typical of the New England climate, but they should fly out of it by the time they reached the Nantucket Shoals Lightship... about one hour's flying.

Sure enough; after about an hour, the grey haze began thinning and the Ocean began to appear. The coastline was still distant, but appeared to be curving out towards the Skymaster's flight path. Josie came back and sat beside Charlotte, pointing out over the starboard wingtip.

'Look; you can just make out Boston over there across the headland. We're almost over Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket Island. You'll soon be able to make out New York and Long Island out to starboard. We're just a couple of hours away from landfall.'

She glanced at her aviator's chronograph.

'Not bad. We'll be on American soil in time for supper. You're going to love this place. You'll be based at Headquarters, right in the middle of Washington with a view out over the Potomac River, and overlooking Theodore Roosevelt Island.'

Charlotte listened intently as Josie described Washington. It sounded wonderful... especially after the memories of the destruction, fear, and privations of war-torn Berlin. She glanced along the cabin to the six Air Force officers sitting in their self-imposed isolation at the front.

'Who are those guys? They haven't spoken hardly a word for the entire flight.'

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Josie grinned.

'They're Monterey Marys... Signal Intelligence Branch linguists. They call them that because they graduated from the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, California. They're an odd bunch; they keep to themselves.'

She glanced out of the cabin window.

'Look! There's Long Island. Pity we're too far out from New York Harbour for you to see Liberty Island, and the Statue of Liberty.'

She began to explain the workings of "Headquarters." Charlotte realised very quickly that Josie seemed to know a lot more than would be expected from someone who was just "an escort." She glanced along the cabin at the other girls. Josie had said they were "Morale Operations" operatives... whatever they might be. Perhaps, they were the American equivalent of the shadowy Abwehr IIIB Counter-intelligence division, who had been responsible for counter-intelligence operations in German industry, planting false information; and penetration of foreign intelligence services... as well as raising fifth columnist cells in Latin America that operated right up to the Mexican-U.S. border.

She had seen a few of the so-called black-propaganda leaflets that had been circulated in Berlin by O.S.S. agents. These were from the "Wie lange noch?" or "How much longer?" campaign, that were supposed to have been distributed from an anti-Nazi resistance group. The leaflets, stickers, and posters were identified by a red circle and three extended fingers forming a W. Each one consisted of a cartoon asking how much longer ordinary Germans were going to tolerate the situation before they rebelled or quit the war. Examples had included cartoons showing crosses or other appropriate drawings and such captions as:

"How much longer will they deny that the Eastern Front is a common grave?"

Or,

"How much longer shall our soldiers be forced to fight side by side with the dregs of Europe?"

Or,

"How much longer are we left behind while the party bosses flee the bombs?"

Of course; anyone caught with such a leaflet could have expected a swift and summary execution; but these leaflets were circulated widely from hand to hand.

Perhaps Josie and her crew had even made a covert flight across Berlin and dropped some of these leaflets. There simply was no way of knowing. As Charlotte pondered this; the Skymaster banked gently to starboard and gradually began to lose height as it crossed the coastline of Delaware Bay.

Andrews Field, Maryland had four runways, each five thousand, five hundred feet long; running North to South, and was the Army Air Forces Headquarters base with secondary usage for fighter and bomber training. The Skymaster began its descent some five miles out as the pilot lined up on approach to the western runway. Josie returned to her seat as the "No Smoking" and "Seat Belts" signs illuminated. Charlotte fastened her seat belt as the high-pitched, hydraulic whine of the flaps and undercarriage being lowered resonated through the fuselage and the sweet, cloying smell of the insecticide bomb being deployed wafted through the cabin.

Her ears blocked as the nose of the Skymaster dipped, and the ground rushed towards its shadow skimming across the green blur of the grass on the final approach path. She felt the strange floating sensation again, as the nose lifted and the thump and squeal of the tyres touching the concrete jarred through the cabin. The roar of the engines receded; to be replaced by the screech of the brakes being applied as the big aeroplane rushed along the concrete, slowing for the distant taxiway, with its propellers idling and throwing glinting shards of evening sunlight across the cabin interior.

Andrews Field was big. Across to the right, Charlotte saw a line of big single-engined fighters lined up. She recognised them as P-47 Thunderbolts. She had watched fighters like those, escorting the bombers over Berlin. The Skymaster turned off the runway and rumbled around the taxiway towards the wide tarmac hardstand in front of a row of large buildings. It stopped with a gentle jolt as the steward opened the rear door ready for his passengers to disembark. A set of wheeled loading stairs was pushed up to the door, and Josie stepped out first.

At the bottom of the stairs two men in civilian suits waited patiently. Charlotte followed her down the stairs, with the other girls bringing up the rear. One of the men held out his hand to Josie. He gave a thin smile and said,

'Welcome home, Colonel. A successful operation?'

Josie nodded, and introduced Charlotte.

'Agent; this is Captain Charlotte Mckenna.'

The man smiled his thin smile again.

'Pleased to meet you, Ma'am. Welcome to Washington.'

He turned back to Josie, and pointed to a pale grey, civilian Pontiac station wagon parked alongside a black Lincoln sedan.

'Your transport Ma'am.'

And accompanied the girls to the station wagon; opening the rear door for Josie. She climbed into the rear seat followed by Charlotte. Nancy Taylor climbed into the front passenger seat; whilst Grace Kavenagh and Jessie Davis were ushered to the black Lincoln, the front seats of which were occupied by two large, forbidding-looking men in dark suits. The man with the thin smile climbed into the driving seat of the station wagon; snicked the column-change shift lever into gear and drew away from the loading stairs, with the black Lincoln following closely. At the northern perimeter security gate of Andrews Field, he turned left onto Pennsylvania Avenue and accelerated away, still closely followed by the Lincoln. As the station wagon sped along the dead-straight, tree-lined highway, Charlotte turned to Josie.

'Colonel? You're a Colonel?'

Josie grinned.

'Actually, a Lieutenant Colonel; but they don't bother with the "Lieutenant" part. Nancy is a Major, and Grace and Jessie are both Captains. We don't stand on rank in our team.'

She tapped the driver on the shoulder.

'John; have Captain Mckenna's clearances come through?'

The driver nodded and spoke over his shoulder.

'Yes, Ma'am. Director Donovan passed them over his desk yesterday. Captain Mckenna is now officially a consultant to the Special Operations Branch.'

Josie nodded and turned to Charlotte.

'Now I can tell you. Rank isn't going to matter too damned much in the near future. The President will soon sign an Executive Order splitting the functions of the O.S.S. between the Department of State and the Department of War. The State Department will receive the Research and Analysis Branch, and the War Department will take over the Secret Intelligence and Counter-espionage Branches, which will become the Strategic Services Unit. There will be a new Agency called the Central Intelligence Group. "Wild Bill" Donovan is pushing for a centralised peacetime intelligence agency when the war is won in the Pacific. Then, there are the Russians. We're going to be busy for a long time yet. Still; that's for future days. Enjoy the ride; we'll soon see Washington proper.

As the station wagon continued on along Pennsylvania Avenue, Charlotte wondered what "A consultant to the Special Operations Branch" would entail. Oh, well; she'd find out soon enough. She gazed out of the window trying to take in this strange new world... the bright yellow taxis of the Yellow Cab Co; the strange traffic signs... "Yield,"..."Soft Shoulders,"..."Four-Way Stop"... "Reverse Curve,"... "Squeeze,"... "Grooved pavement."

The brightly coloured cars loaded with garish chrome fitments were so different to those she had been familiar with back in Berlin. The other surprising thing was how many of them were being driven by women. Pennsylvania Avenue curved into a long, sweeping "S" and straightened again. Now, they were coming away from the suburbs and approaching Washington proper. The station wagon swept across a bridge spanning a wide river. Josie said that this was the John Philip Sousa Bridge... named after the famed conductor and composer of patriotic marches, and spanned the Anacostia River. They would soon see the vast White dome of the Capitol Building through the trees lining the Avenue.

Charlotte noticed that, curiously, all the streets running east to west were named by letters... from "K St SE" by the bridge, reducing backwards through the alphabet as they continued north; whilst all the streets running north to south were numbered in descending order... "12th St SE,"... "11th St SE,"... "10th St SE." Josie explained that Washington DC was a city divided into four sections consisting of Northwest, Northeast, Southeast, and Southwest quadrants. The streets were laid out in a basic grid pattern; and all addresses were designated with their quadrant: NW, NE, SE, and SW.

Numbered streets... 1st, 2nd, 3rd Street, and so on; ran north to south while lettered streets... A, B, C Street, etc. ran east to west. The numbering and lettering system began at The Capitol Building and worked out in all four directions. It sounded really complicated, but was actually quite logical when you studied a map of the street layout.

The two vehicles turned off Pennsylvania Avenue, past the imposing Library of Congress, and sped down Independence Avenue; with the massive Capitol Building looming on the right through the trees. Just beyond a splendid Neo-Classical Revival style building on the left, which Josie said was one of the offices for members of The House of Representatives; the station wagon turned hard right onto 1st Street S, followed closely by the black Lincoln, and accelerated up towards a statue mounted on a substantial stone plinth. Josie said this was the Garfield Monument; in memory of the twentieth President James Abram Garfield, who was assassinated after only two hundred days in office.

Behind his monument; the Capitol Building rose in splendid Majesty across the wide, green expanse to the right of the road. The driver didn't slow, but continued at speed along to the extension of Pennsylvania Avenue, which merged with Constitution Avenue NW; and then turned left onto Constitution Avenue NW, proper. Again; the broad Avenue was lined with dramatic buildings that flashed past as the station wagon accelerated through the traffic. The buildings thinned out; to be replaced by open parkland.

Josie said that if Charlotte looked across to the right; in the distance she would see The White House. To her left was The Washington Monument; the huge obelisk built to commemorate the first U.S. president, General George Washington. A little further on; she would see the Constitution gardens, and through the trees, The Lincoln Memorial.

As Charlotte peered through the trees; the station wagon made a sharp turn to the right, into 23rd Street NW. Josie grinned.

'Not too far, now. Our place is just up the street.'

At 2430 E Street NW, the station wagon turned into the drive of an imposing building complex followed by the black Lincoln. There were no guards, no check-points... nothing. The cars drove around to the north side of the compound and stopped outside a long, two storey building lined with Doric pillars along its entire frontage. The driver of the station wagon climbed out of the driving seat and opened the rear door for the girls.

They had arrived.

The complex consisted of four buildings, including the East Administration Building in which William Donovan, the O.S.S. chief, had his office; together with the North, Central, and South buildings. They were situated directly across from the U.S. State Department. Because of its Washington neighbourhood location, the complex was almost universally known to its occupants as "Foggy Bottom"... to others, it was sarcastically known as "The Kremlin."

Josie and Charlotte walked from the car up the wide flight of stone steps to the large entrance door surmounted by a towering white Doric pediment supported by pillars spaced across the front of the East Administration building. Inside the large, marble-floored entrance hall, a handsome young man with a military-style haircut; and wearing a dark civilian suit, stood from behind his polished reception desk, smiled amiably; and addressed Josie.

'Welcome back Colonel. The General said to go right on up as soon as you arrived.'

Josie nodded.

'Thank you Tom. This is Captain Mckenna.'

The young man smiled, and held out his hand.

'Pleased to meet you, Ma'am. We've heard a deal about you. Welcome to Foggy Bottom.'

After the brief introduction to the General in his office on the first floor of the East building; which comprised a welcome, and the issue of a laminated photo security badge; Charlotte was shown to her office in the North building. General Donovan had seemed a pleasant enough. A handsome man in his late fifties; of sturdy build and a personal magnetism, he was rosy-cheeked and smiling, with blue eyes and a soft voice. At this first meeting he was wearing his military uniform, but she would become used to seeing him striding towards his office, swinging his briefcase and wearing a smart civilian suit... looking every inch the Wall street lawyer.

Roosevelt's death in April had triggered a vicious struggle for control of America's intelligence system. Donovan had, so far, resisted all attempts to wrest control from his O.S.S. but the new President, Harry Truman was intent on setting up an interim agency as soon as the War in the Pacific ended. In Europe, O.S.S. had been penetrated by the Soviets. Its wartime record was controversial, and there was plenty of opposition when Donovan suggested that O.S.S. should continue into the post-war period.

The door to her office in the west wing of the first floor was made of polished mahogany, with her name engraved on a steel plaque attached to it. Beyond this was an "L"-shaped office with a high ceiling and some expensive leather furniture. The walls were painted a pleasant shade of pastel blue, on which were hung several framed maps of the United States and Europe.

Across a deep-pile carpet was a desk with a dark leather top. The desk had very little on it except a square of felt, upon which rested a chromium writing set. An ivory-coloured bakelite telephone was placed on the right-hand side of the desk, along with various stationary items... a hole punch, a stapler; and a wire basket containing several buff-coloured folders. The large window looked out over the Potomac River, with the heavily-wooded Theodore Roosevelt Island just a stone's-throw away.

There was a bulky buff envelope placed on the centre of the desk. Charlotte walked across the office and picked it up; tearing open the sealed flap, and emptying the contents onto the leather surface. The envelope contained her documents; Driver's Licence, Checking Account with The National Capital Bank of Washington; her Social Security card, U.S. Passport, Birth Certificate; and other assorted documentation. There was also a key ring to which were attached a "Yale" cylinder latch door key and what appeared to be an automobile key set. There was also a page from a signals pad, with the printed heading:

WAR DEPARTMENT

OFFICE OF THE ASSISTANT SECRETARY OF WAR

STRATEGIC SERVICES UNIT

25TH ~ E STREETS, NW.

WASHINGTON 25, D.C.

Upon which was typed a Washington address, a street map of Washington, and the description and licence plate number of a Pontiac automobile parked in the southern parking lot.

The telephone rang. It was Donovan. He said that she should familiarise herself with the building and then, go to her apartment. She was to take a few days to familiarise herself with Washington. Josie Pullen would call for her at the apartment and show her around.

Charlotte made her way to the parking lot; to look for the matching licence plate to the piece of paper in her hand. Over in the north corner under the trees was parked a five-year-old, red Pontiac two-door coupe with white sidewall tyres. The licence plate numbers matched. She inserted the key into the door key-lock cylinder below the handle and opened the rear-hinged door. She slipped into the grey Bedford-cloth-trimmed driver's side of the bench seat, slid the key into the ignition switch, and started the big, straight-eight engine. The Pontiac had a column gear shift. She selected first gear, released the brake, and inched the automobile forward. The general feel of the steering and clutch were not unlike the old Adler she had used in Berlin.

Leaving the complex by the north gate, she turned east onto E Street NW, and drove the short distance to its junction with 24th street NW. Turning left, she drove up 24th street; crossing Virginia Avenue NW, and passing the two massive Gas holder tanks at 25th and G streets NW; continued on up to new Hampshire Avenue NW and Dupont Circle. Negotiating the traffic and getting into the correct lane, was scary; but she succeeded and continued north along 19th Street NW until she reached the street mentioned on the signal pad sheet... Riggs Street NW; four blocks north of Dupont Circle.

Charlotte's allocated apartment was in a modernised three-storey building halfway along Riggs Street, on the northern side. It had originally been a "walk-up" without an elevator, but now boasted a vintage Birdcage-type elevator with outer and inner doors. The second-storey apartment was fully furnished, and comprised a bedroom with a double bed, a good-sized lounge; a fully equipped, eat-in kitchen, and one bathroom which included a generously-sized shower/bath tub.

The building had a basement laundry room, the original steam radiators; and a Concierge... a middle-aged, athletic-looking woman with a military bearing, who was obviously a retained "Gatekeeper" supplied by the Department. She had smiled thinly at Charlotte; and said,

'You must be Miss Mckenna. Your apartment is on the second floor. I am Ella Beringer, the concierge. I hold the mail of the residents when they are away; am entrusted with the apartment keys to deal with emergencies when the residents are on assignment, and provide any necessary information the residents might need. I also provide access control. I live in the ground-floor apartment and monitor all comings and goings, both in the building and out on the street. You will not be disturbed here.

We have a janitor who looks after maintenance and cleaning, and also provides the muscle for security. He's ex-Jeds; so our residents are perfectly secure. He'll see that the punks don't mess with your automobile, and will deal with nosey Feds and News-hounds. This building is safe for now; they haven't located it as yet; but Hoover likes to keep our people in sight; and the News-hounds are always sniffing for a headline.'

"Jeds" was short for "The Jedburghs." These were three-member teams comprised of American, British, and French operatives who were dropped behind German lines. Their mission was a combination of sabotage, intelligence gathering, and arranging air drops of arms and supplies for the French Resistance. The janitor had been badly wounded on ops and invalided out upon his return to Zone of Interior. Now, he was retained as primary security for the O.S.S. operatives' residence on Riggs Street.

She walked with Charlotte to the elevator. Pulling the outer door open; she paused, and studied her.

'Your luggage has been delivered. I have put your clothes in the dressing room closets in your apartment. I hope you are comfortable here; but remember... any men-friends you may invite back must be cleared by O.G.C. first.'

Charlotte nodded, and stepped into the elevator. Ella Beringer pulled the doors closed; turned on her heel, and strode back to her apartment across the hall.

The insistent cadence of the telephone dragged Charlotte from a deep slumber. The morning light was streaming in, and her head felt as though it was stuffed with absorbent cotton balls. Josie Pullen had taken her out on the town the previous night and ended up at the Blue Mirror; a classy supper club on 14th St. NW, where they had rather overindulged in more than a few Jim Beam Kentucky straight bourbons.

The telephone had stopped nagging her... if it had been important, they'd call again. Stumbling to the bathroom, she rummaged around in the medicine cabinet above the sink and found the glass, screw-top tube containing Alka-Seltzer tablets. She dropped two tablets into a glass of water and peered at herself in the mirror while the tablets fizzed in the glass. Surely that tousle-headed, dopey-looking blonde staring back, couldn't be her? Taking a deep gulp from the glass, she tentatively checked to see just how much her tongue resembled a hallway carpet.

The Alka-Seltzer brought her fully awake; and she began to repair the damage of the previous night. Feeling much better, she dressed, and double-checked her briefcase to make sure she had everything she needed for the day. Coming out of her bedroom; she made her way to the dining area of the kitchen for a quick breakfast. She was late; her alarm had gone off on time, but she'd been so tired that she had slept through it. As she walked past the bathroom, she briefly checked her appearance in the mirror. Satisfied, she moved on.

A quick cup of coffee and a slice of toast later, she left the kitchen and proceeded to the living-room. She made a quick check to see that nothing was left out that would compromise her identity... as was standard procedure when an operative's apartment was to be vacant for any length of time. The telephone rang again. The voice on the other end of the line said that she was to be in the Director's office by nine-thirty.

The drive down to 25th and E Streets, NW was uneventful. Traffic was light, and she arrived at the complex in good time. Parking up and walking to the East Administration Building; she wondered what was going on. You only ever had an invitation to Donovan's office if you were in trouble... or you were going to be sent out into the field. At least, that's what Josie had said.

The handsome young man with a military-style haircut; wearing a dark civilian suit, sat behind his polished reception desk, and looked up as she entered the building. She smiled at him.

'Good morning, Tom.'

He returned her smile.

'Good morning, Ma'am. Go right on up. The General is expecting you.'

At the door of Donovan's office on the first floor, she paused, and swiftly primped herself. She knocked on the door. A muffled voice said,

'Come.'

Entering the large office she was confronted with Donovan. He was wearing a beautifully tailored civilian suit. He stood up from behind his huge desk, and motioned her to sit with an expansive flourish of his hand. As she took the chair in front of his desk, he sat again, smiled, and said, in his soft voice,

'Captain Mckenna. I am activating you for overseas duty. I am putting you back into Berlin before the President closes us down. As you are aware the Pacific War has ended, and we are about to be disbanded. The functions of the Department are to be split between the Department of State and the Department of War. Your talents are too important to be squandered by the Politicians on The Hill, so I am posting you to Berlin Operations Base in Dahlem... not so very far from your old Ahnenerbe haunt. The city has been divided into four sectors: the American, British, and French in the west, and the Soviets in the east. With your background and knowledge of Berlin, you will be able to move freely between the west and east sectors.'

He opened a file on his desk.

'You are a resourceful linguist who worked with German intelligence during the war. You are also well read in history, philosophy, and politics; and, unlike many intellectuals, you have a reputation for being street-smart. You are perfectly suited for counter-espionage, Captain Mckenna.

We will provide you with a suitable new wardrobe. American clothes would be too noticeable.'

Charlotte interrupted him.

'General; I have a whole wardrobe of Wartime German fashions secreted in a steamer chest hidden away in a safe place in Berlin. These garments will blend in much more naturally... if they still exist after the destruction of the city. They were provided by Himmler's Administration for me, prior to the Tunguska Expedition; and were taken to my suite at the Adlon Hotel in Unter Den Linden upon my return. As the bombing intensified, I had the trunk removed to the Swedish Legation Bunker in the Tiergarten. They are probably still there.'

Donovan nodded.

'Good call. You see, you are street-smart. I'll have one of the Berlin team check it out. Meantime; you have a flight to catch at Andrews.'

He slid a buff envelope across the desk.

'This contains your authorised Overseas Agent Employment Contract. It provides for compensation during the performance of your future missions, and death benefits for any family members you may still have, should you be lost on assignment.'

Charlotte shrugged.

'I have no family. They were lost in the evacuation of East Prussia. I believe they were caught in the middle of combat and the bitter winter weather, and were amongst the many thousands of refugees who died during the evacuation period.'

Donovan gave her a supportive smile.

'No matter. The terms of the contract still stand. I am sorry for your presumed loss, Charlotte, but who knows? They may have made it.'

His pleasant expression and blue eyes became businesslike again.

'As of now, your cryptonym will be "Monokel"... the stereotypical accessory of German military officers.'

He grinned; a warm, amiable grin.

'No offence meant, Charlotte; quite apt, considering what your recent past has been.'

She smiled.

'None taken, General. What will I be doing in Berlin?'

He rested his chin on his hands.

'You will be a civilian intelligence officer involved in what we have designated as "Operation GRAIL." This operation will be centred on uncovering the truth of the Russian military intentions and strengths in their sector of Berlin. The Head of Operations Base will assign you when you get there.'