Introduction

For fans of novels featuring strong, smart female protagonists, the first in a series about the novice female American spies in North Africa and the Mediterranean that changed the tide of World War II.

In 1942, during the height of World War II, Wild Bill Donovan, the director of the United States’ first spy agency, believes women are the key to winning the intelligence battle with the Nazis. To that end, he partners fledgling agent Kit Thomas with British MI6 agent Mark Williams and sends them to one of the most perilous places in the world—Massawa, Eritrea—to investigate the theft of millions of military payroll dollars.

In Massawa, Kit and Mark discover a conspiracy by Nazi sympathizers, known as the Vichy, to shut down the only Allied naval base on the Red Sea—which is an essential resource in stopping the Nazi invasion of North Africa. As they work to reveal the conspirators, Kit and Mark engage in a dangerous and tempestuous dance of trust versus mistrust.

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Excerpt

Chapter 1

Thursday, May 7, 1942

Kit Thomas quickened her pace down Constitution Avenue toward the heart of Washington, DC. Her taxi’s fender bender and the ensuing traffic jam had forced her to walk-run the last two blocks to the Senate Office Building.

“Senator Truman agreed to an emergency meeting,” her boss, Jake Morgan, had said when he called. “We’re going to need his help to launch this upcoming mission. I’ll meet you in the lobby of the SOB in an hour. Remember, he’s a stickler for punctuality.”

Sprinting up the marble steps and through the double glass doors, Kit entered the stately lobby with its black-and. white-checkered floor, high ceiling, and columned archways. Scanning the crowd, she spotted Jake near the elevators studying a large wall directory. His youthful looks belied the weight of his position as an assistant director of the fledgling Office of Strategic Services, the United States’ first international spy agency.

Four years Kit’s senior, Jake had been recruited from naval intelligence by OSS Director Bill Donovan to help train the first class of agents. Within nine months, Donovan had promoted him—likely because of Jake’s analytical acumen and calm effectiveness. Some in Washington interpreted Jake’s demeanor as passivity until they watched him in action at one of the OSS training centers or had to negotiate with him in meetings.

Donovan had also recruited Kit from her job as an intelligence analyst for the Department of War. She’d met Jake at the first OSS training camp where he’d been the agent in charge. After being promoted, he’d asked her to transfer to his division because he needed agents with intelligence experience. She hoped he’d asked for personal reasons as well. While she’d been intrigued by him from the moment they met, the more she watched him work and experienced his warmth and humor, her intrigue turned into something more. She sensed Jake felt the same way about her but except for a few occasions when she noticed him watching her with soft eyes, he’d kept his distance.

Within the OSS community, no one seemed to know much about Jake’s personal life. The gossipers said he wasn’t married and wasn’t dating anyone, something his exceptionally long work hours appeared to confirm. The lights in his third-floor corner office were always on when Kit arrived each morning at seven and were still burning regardless of how late she left at night, even on the weekends. She understood his intense commitment to launching the OSS and defeating Nazi Germany, fascist Italy, and imperial Japan. Most everyone in the OSS building felt the same way.

Jake turned and smiled as Kit crossed the lobby. His dark hair, classic features, and well-proportioned build had some around him taking a second look. Regardless of how fetching he looked in his dark blue suit, once their meeting with the senator ended, he would waste little time in ditching the coat and tie and rolling up his sleeves.

“I was getting worried,” Jake said with a smile, his copper colored eyes missing nothing and revealing little.

“Sorry. Traffic tie-up. Where are we going?”

“Office 449, the Special Committee to Investigate the National Defense Program.”

Pushing strands of shoulder-length, brunette hair off her damp forehead, Kit pointed across the hall to the only open elevator. Hurrying through the crowd, she and Jake reached the door just as the attendant started to pull it closed.

“Damn,” Jake mumbled. “Let’s take the stairs.”

“Wait,” a smooth baritone voice called from inside the elevator. “We can make room.”

“Great. Thanks.” Kit noticed the scent of sandalwood aftershave as she slipped into the elevator next to a Navy lieutenant with dirty-blond hair, green eyes, and a slim build. His dark double-breasted jacket with six gold buttons and two gold bands on the cuffs didn’t contain a speck of lint and the crease in his slacks broke perfectly over the top of his mirror-shined shoes. The cap in his hand looked new. She couldn’t see his name badge, but he appeared to be the perfect naval officer. Too perfect.

“Yes, thank you,” Jake echoed as he stepped into the elevator and close to Kit. She preferred the scent of his vanilla and cinnamon Old Spice to the earthy sandalwood.

“You’re welcome,” the lieutenant replied, directing his smile at Kit.

“What floor?” the attendant asked.

“Four, please,” Jake replied.

The lieutenant glanced at Kit as the elevator moved upward. She resisted the temptation to look back.

Exiting the elevator into the bustling hallway of the fourth floor, the smell of Minwax and cherry pipe tobacco filled the air. Kit scanned the walls looking for signs.

“Which office are you looking for?” the lieutenant asked, coming up behind them.

“449,” Jake replied.

“Ahh . . . the Truman Committee.” “Pardon?” Kit said, playing dumb.

“That’s what they call the congressional committee investigating fraud among the military’s civilian contractors,” the lieutenant continued. “Senator Truman of Missouri chairs it, hence the name.” He paused, as if expecting Kit or Jake to speak. When they didn’t, he continued. “I’m going that way. I’ll show you where the office is.”

Kit glanced at Jake as they turned down the hall. For this lieutenant to show up when he did and know all about the Truman Committee wasn’t a coincidence. It signaled an agenda.

Leading the way, the lieutenant stopped in front of a dark, heavily framed door with a sign that said Authorized Personnel Only. The transom at the top of the door was closed while other offices on the hall had open transoms to help circulate air.

“Welcome to 449,” the lieutenant said. “Have a seat in the back of the room. Senator Truman will call you up when he’s ready.”

Kit held the lieutenant’s gaze with questioning eyes.

“I’m Mark Williams,” he said, as if reading her mind. “I met with the Truman Committee yesterday.” He shook Kit’s hand, holding it a moment too long, then he shook Jake’s.

“Thanks for your help,” Jake said. Neither he nor Kit volunteered their names, not out of rudeness but training. You never knew when anonymity could be a friend.

“You’re welcome. I hope your meeting goes well.” The lieutenant flashed a quick smile at Jake, a longer one at Kit, then continued down the hall.

“He knows who we are, doesn’t he?” Kit whispered.

“Yes. He’s been watching us since we entered the building. I could see him in the glass covering the directory. He got on the elevator right before we did, which is how he managed to hold the door. Interestingly, he knew I was watching him. He wanted me to see him.”

Jake’s observational skills never ceased to amaze her. “Then he knows why we’re here.”

“Most likely.”

“Besides Director Donovan and the senator, who else knows about this meeting?” she asked.

“From our side? No one. From this building? Who knows? The place is a sieve.”

By close of business today, Jake would know everything there was to know about Lieutenant Mark Williams, including why he was watching them.

Kit straightened her jacket and smoothed her skirt as Jake opened the door to office 449. At the far end of the large, air-conditioned room sat a six-chair conference table covered with loose papers, file folders, coffee cups, and carafes. Senator Truman sat at the head of the table and Senators Hatch and Brewster sat to his left. Kit recognized the three from Washington newspapers. A petite woman with a bobbed haircut sat in a straight-back chair against the back wall, her legs demurely crossed at the ankles, a steno pad on her lap, a pencil poised in her hand.

Three more people who know about this meeting who shouldn’t. Why isn’t that secretary sitting at the table where she can write comfortably?

“Please have a seat,” Senator Truman said, looking at Kit and Jake over his round, wire-rimmed glasses. “I’ll be ready for you shortly.”

Kit slid into one of the wooden armchairs lining the wall and Jake took the chair beside her.

The spacious room wasn’t fancy, but the power emanating from the watchdog committee housed within its walls had civilian military contractors around the world quaking in their boots. The honest ones were triple-checking the validity of their bids, the quality of their work, and the accuracy of their bookkeeping, while corrupt ones were trying like hell to cover up their greed and dirty deeds. In less than a year, the Truman Committee had uncovered numerous instances of private contractor fraud, embezzlement, waste, and shoddy workmanship in buildings and supplies essential to the war effort. Not only were these contractors swindling American taxpayers out of billions of dollars, but they were also contributing to the deaths of an untold number of American and British soldiers, seamen, and airmen. Today, in an attempt to catch one of these corrupt contractors, she and Jake were going to ask this powerful committee to put their work on hold, at least for a little while, and just in a small, unknown corner of the world.

Senator Truman gathered the loose papers on the table, put them in a file folder with the words “Top Secret” stamped in red on the front, then turned to the demure woman with the steno pad. “Gloria, you may go back to your office.”

She nodded, gathered her things, and slipped out through a side door, pulling it closed until the latch clicked.

Senator Truman turned to the others sitting at the table. “Gentlemen, these folks have requested to brief me alone, so I’ll ask you to excuse us as well.”

Both senators protested at the same time. “Breach of protocol . . . We have a right to know . . . Inappropriate . . . We have top-secret clearance.”

Living in a republic, the two men were not wrong. Unfortunately, the United States Congress has a long history of leaking top-secret information to the press any time it served their political and personal agendas. In this case, such a leak could mean losing troops, ships, and a lot of money to a soulless, warring enemy.

Senator Truman raised his hand to stop their jabber. “Gentlemen, I don’t disagree. However, extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures. I ask for your understanding and patience.”

The two senators scowled as they gathered their things and exited through the main door.

Senator Truman motioned for Kit and Jake to join him at the table. “Congratulations on your appointment as an assistant director of the OSS, Jake,” Senator Truman said, shaking his hand. “I’m looking forward to seeing what this new agency can do to help our war effort.”

“Me too, sir,” Jake replied. “Director Donovan sends his apologies. He had a previous commitment but wanted you to be briefed as soon as possible.”

Jake omitted the fact that Director Donovan’s previous commitment involved finalizing the details of their upcoming joint mission with his counterpart at MI6, Britain’s Secret Military Intelligence Service Section 6. Located at Bletchley Park, an old estate on the outskirts of London, MI6 had become the hub of intelligence and espionage activities for the Allies since the start of the war. As the driving force behind the formation of the OSS, MI6 had helped train American agents until the United States could get its own training programs up and running.

Senator Truman did not offer his hand to Kit, probably for the same reason his secretary had to sit along the back wall.

Kit did not know where the senator stood on the highly controversial issue of women serving in the military and related agencies, but whatever his view, the success of this meeting and the pending OSS mission depended on him taking what she had to say seriously.

“Sir, I’d like you to meet Katherine Thomas,” Jake said. “She’s the agent who discovered the issue we need to discuss today.”

Kit held out her hand.

“Good morning, young lady,” Senator Truman said, accepting the handshake.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Have a seat,” the senator continued. “Jake, I believe you oversee OSS activities in the Southern Mediterranean and

North Africa. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I assume that is your watch area as well, Miss Thomas?” “Yes, sir.”

“So, what’s going on over there that involves this committee?”

“Sir,” Jake replied, “we have reason to believe that millions of dollars in payroll money destined for the only American naval base on the Red Sea, specifically the base at Massawa,

Eritrea, is being diverted.”

“You mean stolen?”

“Yes, sir. In the past five weeks, over two million dollars has been authorized and shipped to Eritrea but has never reached Massawa.”

“Soldiers, sailors, and other military personnel are paid in money notes secured with a specific seal. The seal can be rendered worthless if the notes fall into the wrong hands,” the senator replied. “So, what good does it do the thieves to steal them?”

Jake motioned for Kit to take over.

“Sir, it’s not the payroll for military personnel that’s disappearing. It’s the payroll earmarked for civilian workers at the base. Civilians are paid in cash by a private military contractor. In this case, the contractor is an American company with offices everywhere the United States has a military base that employs civilians, including overseas.”

“Let me guess,” the senator said with a grimace. “The company is Jackson, Davis, and Paulson, JDP.”

“Yes, sir,” Kit replied. “Supposedly, the money is being delivered to JDP’s main office in Asmara, the capital of Eritrea, but is not being forwarded to their branch office at the naval base in Massawa. The JDP manager in Asmara is insisting that it’s a simple bookkeeping issue and officials at JDP’s international headquarters keep saying they’re looking into it. Obviously, both are stalling and getting away with it. It seems that as a private military contractor, JDP functions as a law unto itself and doesn’t have to answer to anyone, at least not in a timely manner. They’re not even required to replace the missing money. In the meantime, Commander Edward Ellsberg, the naval officer in charge at Massawa, is concerned that the civilian employees are going to walk off the job because they’ve not been paid.”

“Whoever gave these private contractors this kind of power and independence should be shot,” the senator snarled.

“Please go on, Kit.”

“We started tracking the serial numbers of money earmarked for Asmara and traced several bills to a bank in Cairo. One that is known to do business with the Nazis. Then, two days ago, Bletchley Park intercepted a message implying that the JDP office manager in Asmara and local Nazi sympathizers known as the Vichy are responsible for the thefts. Obviously, we need to investigate.”

Kit watched the senator’s face. He had top-secret clearance, but she wasn’t sure he knew that MI6’s latest code-breaking machine, nicknamed ULTRA, had broken the Nazis’ once invincible ENIGMA coder. Luckily, he didn’t ask how MI6 had intercepted the message.

She also wasn’t sure if the senator knew about the rapidly evolving threat the Vichy posed to the war effort outside of occupied France. When the Nazis invaded France in May of 1940, defeatists in the French cabinet led by Philippe Pétain took control of the government and signed an armistice with the Nazis that gave them complete control of the country. In return, the Nazis gave Pétain governmental authority over southern France. The town of Vichy became Pétain’s capital. He hired the most radicalized Nazi sympathizers at all levels of his puppet government, and together they began a reign of terror toward anyone who dared oppose them or the Nazis. Collectively, Pétain and his Nazi sympathizers became known as the Vichy. If it wasn’t concerning enough that the Nazis and Vichy controlled France, Pétain started organizing Vichy cells all over Europe, the Middle East, and North Africa. These cells had two purposes: to serve Pétain and do everything they could to help the Nazis.

“To be clear, you think this JDP office manager is giving our payroll money to the Vichy and they in turn are using it to help the Nazis?” the senator asked.

“It’s a distinct possibility, sir,” Kit replied.

The senator’s worry lines deepened. “If JDP is conspiring with the Vichy anywhere, what you’re talking about isn’t greed or fraud, it’s treason.”

“Yes, sir.” Jake leaned forward. “Senator, we’re here to ask you to delay announcing any further investigation of or taking any action against JDP until we can find out who is behind the missing money and what JDP’s connection is to the Vichy, both in Eritrea and other points in North Africa. And we need you to keep this request under your hat.”

Senator Truman strummed his fingers on the table. “Keeping the rest of my committee in the dark about why I’m delaying our work will be difficult.”

“I understand, sir. We just can’t afford to tip our hand on either side of the Atlantic right now.”

“How much time do you need?”

“A week, maybe two. Two undercover agents, one from the OSS and one from MI6, are leaving for Asmara tomorrow. Timing will depend on how quickly they can find out what’s going on. The next payroll shipment is scheduled to be delivered a week from today, so we need to move quickly.”

“Why is MI6 sending someone? This is an American issue.”

“We’re focusing on the missing payroll money and keeping the naval base open. MI6 is focusing on possible Vichy involvement. They’re concerned this Vichy cell and others may be supplying money, fuel, and other supplies to Nazi troops along the North African coast.”

“I believe those troops are Germany’s Afrika Korps, led by Field Marshal Rommel,” the senator said. “I hear he’s marching across Libya now and getting close to the Egyptian border.”

“Yes, sir. He’s intent on seizing control of the Suez Canal and the oil fields of the Middle East.” Jake paused. “We have to stop him because whoever controls the Suez—”

“Wins the war in that part of the world,” the senator added dryly.

“Yes, sir. MI6 feels that it is now or never if the Allies have any hope of stopping him. Unfortunately, the United States isn’t likely to have a significant number of troops on the ground in North Africa until the fall and the British are losing ground.”

“Why is that?” the senator asked.

“In part because they don’t have service and repair facilities to keep their planes in the air and their supply ships running. The British are fighting in a region that is largely desert and inhabited by nomadic tribes, so there are little to no usable resources close by. However, there are two bases in Eritrea that the Italians abandoned during the British invasion last year that are being repurposed to help—an air base in Gura, which is five miles outside Asmara, and the naval base in Massawa, which is two hours away on the Red Sea. Unfortunately, when the Italians retreated, they did their best to destroy both bases.”

“Are the British rebuilding them?”

“They don’t have the necessary resources, sir. Consequently, Prime Minister Churchill asked President Roosevelt for help. At the time, the United States had not officially entered the war, so Roosevelt couldn’t send our military. As an alternative, he asked two private aircraft companies, Boeing and Douglas, to work together to get the air base at Gura up and running. They called the initiative Project 19. In a matter of weeks the two companies had repaired the runways, rebuilt airplane hangars and housing, resupplied the base, and had their technicians servicing and repairing British fighter planes twenty-four hours a day. While not fully restored, the base is functioning and daily operations have been turned over to the British. The United States has stationed various military personnel there to support them.”

“You’re saying Boeing and Douglas rebuilt Gura out of their own pockets?”

“Yes, sir.”

Senator Truman nodded in approval. “Thank God some companies still understand what duty, honor, and country really mean.” He sighed and adjusted his glasses. “What about the naval base? What’s the status there?”

“Unfortunately, even with the United States in the war now, efforts to reopen the naval base at Massawa have proven to be problematic. As the Italians retreated, they sank over forty ships across the entrance to Massawa’s harbor to block access to the base. They also destroyed land-based docks, cranes, machines, supplies, and service buildings, essentially anything the Allies could use to service and repair ships. After the invasion, Churchill sent British salvage experts to get the base reopened, but these experts insisted the harbor was impossible to clear and the land part of the base was beyond repair. Churchill didn’t believe them and asked Roosevelt if the American Navy would assess the base’s viability. Roosevelt said yes but then discovered that all of our salvage experts were busy resurrecting Pearl Harbor and raising torpedoed ships in the North Atlantic. There was no one to send to Massawa until Commander Ellsberg, a recently retired salvage officer with a desire to help the war effort, volunteered to rejoin the Navy. Within a week of arriving at Massawa, Ellsberg determined the harbor and land base could be saved. It took him five and a half weeks, but he reopened the base, albeit at a bare-bones level. Our Navy higher-ups are calling his work the Miracle at Massawa.”

“American ingenuity,” the senator said.

Jake chuckled. “True. But the real miracle is that the only thing American about the entire base is its commanding officer, one army assistant, and six civilian salvage supervisors. Commander Ellsberg cleared a path in the harbor and is servicing and repairing ships using thousands of unskilled Eritreans and skilled Italian prisoners of war.”

Senator Truman’s eyes widened. “Did you say Italian POWs?”

“Yes, sir. After the Italians surrendered, the newly appointed British governor of Eritrea, a Brigadier General Cook, confiscated their ammunition and most of their guns, then paroled them. They’re still considered POWs and can’t leave the country but they are allowed to live free.”

“Why in the world would he do that?”

“Because he didn’t have the resources to house and feed thousands of POWs. He also allowed the officers to keep their unloaded handguns. Apparently, it was a matter of honor for the Italians during the negotiations for their surrender. Later, when asked why he did all of this, Cook said, ‘The Allies get Eritrea, the Italians get to keep their honor, and everybody’s happy.’”

“Unbelievable,” the senator replied, leaning back in his chair.

“Yes, sir. The Brits are doing a lot of things in Eritrea that make sense only to them. But in this instance, it appears to be working.”

“Why?”

“We think it’s because most of the POWs were born in Eritrea. Until the British invasion, Eritrea had been under Italian rule for seventy years. As a result, there were over seventy-five thousand Italian Eritreans living in Asmara alone. When Mussolini came to power in Italy and decided to side with Germany in the war, he drafted young Eritrean Italian men into his military, forcing them to fight in a war most of them knew little about and wanted nothing to do with.” Jake sat back and gave the senator a half smile. “If what we heard is true, many of the POWs—the welders, mechanics, machinists, engineers, electricians, and such—didn’t retreat with the rest of the Italian Navy. They stayed behind during the invasion, surrendered to the British, and volunteered to do the same job for the Allies. Those are the skilled workers Ellsberg hired back into their old jobs.”

“That is even more unbelievable.”

“Yes, sir. Commander Ellsberg said the situation is completely cockeyed but that it’s working. The native Eritreans and POWs are moving ships in and out of dry dock every two to three days. And they’re the ones threatening to walk off the job because they haven’t been paid. If they do, base operations will shut down, and our efforts to help stop Rommel’s march to the Suez will come to a screeching halt.”

“Jake, do you think the Vichy are stealing the payroll money with the specific intent of shutting down that naval base?”

“It’s possible, sir.”

“Are the British helping us at Massawa at all?”

“Yes, sir. They’re in charge of base security and support services—military police, patrol and tugboats, food services, and housing.”

Senator Truman leaned back and raised his eyebrows. “This situation sounds as dangerous as it is complex. Since the OSS won’t receive final congressional approval until next month, do you have agents ready to go?”

“Yes, sir. As you know, Director Donovan has been acting as the coordinator of information for President Roosevelt for over a year. In anticipation of the OSS start-up and because of the increasing pressures of the war, he started training covert agents over a year ago with the help of MI6.”

“I see. Will you be going to North Africa?”

“No, sir.”

Kit looked at the senator, expecting him to ask her the same question, but he didn’t.

“Well,” the senator said, leaning back, “there’s always risk when acting in situations like this, but the far greater risk appears to be if we don’t act. You have your two weeks, Jake. Let me know if you need more time.”

“It’s interesting the senator didn’t ask if I’d be going,” Kit said as they exited the building and headed west along Constitution Avenue.

“Denial,” Jake replied. “Like a lot of others in Washington, he doesn’t want women going in harm’s way.”

“With military nurses working near the front lines in Europe and the Pacific, and the Senate finally clearing the way for women to serve in the Army, Air Force, and Navy, there will be a lot of females going in harm’s way. British women have been serving in their military for years.”

Jake didn’t respond but his brow creased. He openly supported women serving in the military and intelligence services, but he’d been unusually reserved since Director Donovan made the decision to send Kit to Eritrea.

“Donovan has arranged for you to go to Asmara as a civilian courier for the Navy,” Jake said. “You’ll be responsible for relaying messages between Colonel L. J. Clatterbos, head of the United States mission in country, and Commander Ellsberg at the naval base in Massawa. You’ll also be couriering messages between the British military commander in Eritrea, Brigadier General Platt, and Captain Lucas, the officer in charge of British interests in Massawa. This should give you easy access to essential people in both places.”

Kit had reviewed all of this information and more with Jake and Director Donovan last night, but she didn’t interrupt.

Jake seemed intent on going over it again. “I know they need couriers because the Italians cut the phone lines between Massawa and Asmara. But that was months ago. Why hasn’t the line been repaired?”

“Apparently, the British Cable and Wireless crew in charge of repairing the line is profoundly anti-American and doing everything they can to delay the process. As of now, there’s a single line between the two cities and it’s being held together by a wish and a prayer. Not only is it notoriously unreliable, it’s a party line so it is not secure.”

“It’s hard to believe British Cable and Wireless isn’t helping us help them,” Kit said.

“Unfortunate but true. Like JDP, they’re a private contractor, so there’s little we can do in the short term except keep pressure on the British military. When the United States has built up sufficient troops and supplies there, we’ll repair the lines ourselves,” Jake replied.

“Do we have any new information on Jacque Dumas, the JDP manager in Asmara?”

“According to MI6, he worked for JDP in Paris before the Nazi invasion. After that, JDP transferred him to their office in Cairo. When the American military started hiring civilians in Eritrea, JDP sent him to Asmara to open an office. Soon after, Dumas opened a second, smaller office at the naval base in Massawa.” Jake paused. “He’s not married and I’m told he’s a womanizer. So be careful.”

Kit heard a hint of jealousy in his voice. “Do we know anything about his assistant manager in Massawa?”

“Only that he’s a young man from the Midwest named Charlie McKay. It’s likely the payroll money is never reaching him.”

“Will I be assigned a car to drive back and forth to Massawa?”

“The Brits aren’t letting women drive alone, so you’ll be assigned an Eritrean driver.” Jake stopped and looked at her. “Massawa is seventy miles from and seven thousand feet below Asmara. The coastal desert you’ll have to cross to get there can easily reach 120 degrees or higher. Be sure the motor pool services your car before you leave every time and that it has extra water, gas, and oil in the trunk. And be sure to take plenty of drinking water. If you get stuck in the desert without it, you’ll be in serious trouble. Understand?” His concerned eyes never left hers.

“I understand, and I’ll be careful. Will anyone in Asmara or Massawa know the real reason I’m there?”

Jake loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar, and resumed walking, shortening his stride to match Kit’s. “Just the MI6 agent who is going with you. A guy. I don’t have a name yet, but he’ll be staying at Gura, which is where the payroll money enters the country. We’ll have eyes on the next shipment of money from the time it leaves Washington until it arrives in Gura, which, according to JDP’s schedule, is this coming Thursday, May fourteenth. Their personnel are supposed to pick up the shipment in an armored truck and deliver it to the office in Asmara. The MI6 agent will pick up surveillance once the money arrives at the air base.”

Kit nodded but remained quiet as Jake reiterated the operation’s timeline.

“Once the truck reaches Asmara, Dumas usually documents receipt of the money, then divides it according to payroll needs—keeping some in Asmara but sending the bulk to Massawa in time for Friday morning payday. Obviously, that hasn’t been happening.”

“So, someone in the JDP organization is lying and whoever is stealing the money isn’t likely to be working alone.”

“Right,” Jake replied. “And, they’re being obvious about it, which tells us three things. First, they’re not planning to keep it up much longer. Second, they have a plan to escape, and third, they’re incredibly arrogant, which makes them dangerous as hell.”

Kit heard the apprehension in his voice and stopped walking. “Jake, I’ll be fine. I understand the danger and I’m ready.”

He turned to her with angst in his eyes. “Do you know what the Nazis and Vichy are doing to spies, Kit? A firing squad if you’re lucky. Rape, torture, mutilation, prison, a concentration camp, gas chamber, or human oven if you’re not. They have spies everywhere, including Eritrea, and they’re ruthless.”

“That’s why I have to go,” Kit replied. “We have to stop them. I passed all the training camps with flying colors—the RTU-11 Farm, Catoctin, Prince William, and Camp X. I know surveillance techniques, how to avoid detection, self-defense strategies, how to handle small arms, how to read a map, and how to hide and escape. I can pick a lock, throw a knife, hit a bull’s-eye up close, and a target from a distance and on the run. And I can kill an enemy a dozen different ways.” She paused. “The MI6 training evaluators think I’m ready.”

“They’re amateurs, and we’re worse,” Jake said. “MI6 isn’t that old and the OSS is just getting started. We’re doing our best with the training, but we’re inching our way along. Most of the time we don’t even know what we don’t know. And we’ve never been up against anything as sadistic as the Nazis and the Vichy who support them. We have an idea about what you’ll encounter in Eritrea, but we don’t know for sure. You’re essentially going to be on your own.”

“If the positions were reversed, you’d go. I know the evidence. I know what I’m looking for. I’ll find it, turn it over to the military police, and be back here before you know it.”

“Things are very different in the field, Kit,” Jake replied in a different, softer tone. “One moment of distraction, one slipup, one mistake can get you killed, especially when you don’t know all the players or their motivation.”

“I’m not planning on making any mistakes, Jake.”

“I know.” His voice faltered. “I just wish we had time for you to gain field experience closer to home.”

“Like you said, none of the new agents have much field experience, especially in North Africa, but we have to do this. Whoever is stealing the money is not likely to suspect a woman. Plus, the British control the country and Commander Ellsberg controls the naval base. Help will be available if I need it.”

“The British are hanging on by a thread, Kit. So is Ellsberg. The Nazis are marching across North Africa and the Vichy are doing everything in their power to help them, including murdering innocent people. They’ll stop at nothing.” Jake swallowed hard and looked away.

A moment later, he turned back around, his expression pained yet resigned. “We need to get you moving. They’re waiting for you at the Navy Yard.” Walking to the curb, he raised an arm to hail a taxi. “Civilians working for the Navy do not have uniforms per se, so the supply office is going to fit you with some plain khakis. After that, one of the officers in the personnel department is going to orient you to the Navy, ours and the Brits. They’ll give you enough information to keep you from breaching protocols. MI6’s agent will make contact once you’re in London. He’ll brief you from their standpoint, then the two of you will travel separately to Gura, which should make it less obvious that you’re working together. He’ll stay on the base at the officers’ barracks and you’ll stay five miles away at the Albergo Hotel in Asmara, which is where other American and British civilian staffers are housed. A driver will meet your plane at Gura and take you to the hotel.”

“What if I need to communicate with you?” Kit asked.

“The MI6 agent will have a radio. Messages will be routed from Asmara, through Cairo, to Bletchley Park, then forwarded to us. It’s certainly not ideal, but it’s the best we can do for now.” Jake looked at her with an intense expression. “Remember your training. Pay close attention to details. Watch the eyes of those around you, they’ll tell you things that words can’t. Question what doesn’t fit. Always use your security checks. Keep your gun within reach and be very careful who you trust. If the thieves find out who you are—”

“I’ll be dead before the cock crows,” Kit added, finishing his sentence with a common admonition used in OSS training.

Jake gave her a slight nod. “Pan American Airlines is handling transport of military personnel now. Your flight leaves from their gate at National Airport at eight a.m. tomorrow. The pilot is likely to take detours as needed to avoid enemy planes and guns, so your arrival time is only an estimate.” A yellow taxi pulled to the curb.

Jake looked as if he wanted to say more but opened the back door of the cab instead. He gave the driver the address to the Navy Yard in Southeast Washington, then stepped back so Kit could get into the back seat. Closing the door, he covered her hand with his as it rested on the open window. “Godspeed, Kit. Stay safe.”

Kit turned left then right, looking at herself in the full-length mirror. The khaki skirt and blouse were lightweight and nondescript, but the nylons and regulation pumps weren’t practical for Africa’s hottest region.

“Can I get pants and shorts instead?” Kit asked the seamstress.

The lady chuckled. “The Navy brass is already squawking about women serving in active-duty roles. If you girls start wearing pants too, the old codgers will have a stroke.”

“Still, do you have them? Pants and shorts, I mean.”

The lady paused, then nodded. “Sure. I can give you a couple pairs of khaki slacks with side buttons. And if you’ll give me a few minutes, I’ll cut the legs off a couple more and hem them for shorts.”

“Perfect.”

After taking Kit’s measurements, the seamstress disappeared into the back of the shop. She returned thirty minutes later with Kit’s clothes, a canvas belt, and a shoebox containing clunky shoes.

“Keep the shoes,” Kit said. “I’ll take my own.”

The seamstress smiled. “I don’t blame you. Whoever chose these for Navy women never had to wear them. Good luck wherever you’re going, young lady.”

“Thanks.” Leaving the fitting, Kit headed to the personnel building. Inside the civilian training office, a secretary ushered her into a small conference room. On the table were two large, three-ring orientation notebooks, one for the American Navy and one for the British. She had just started flipping through British ranks and insignias when a tired-looking officer entered the room.

“Miss Thomas, I’m Lieutenant Bowers, one of the training officers for the Navy. I understand you are going overseas and need a crash course in all things Navy.”

“Pretty much.”

He sat down next to her. “We usually have a week to orient and test new employees, but there is no time for that now.” He centered the three-ring binders in front of them. “These notebooks contain everything you need to know as a civilian employee.”

For three hours, the lieutenant tediously went page by page through both notebooks, emphasizing essential information and passing over less important material. Finally turning the last page, he recited what had to be a standard reminder to all new hires.

“As a civilian employee of the Navy, you have a responsibility to perform your duties and represent the United States and the Navy in a respectful and professional manner. You are responsible to your military superiors, so when in doubt, treat everyone as an officer. As a courier, you’ll be expected to follow all security-related policies, procedures, and protocols. Failure to do so will get you sent home and fired.

Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Go get some lunch, then come back and go through the notebooks again, commit what’s in them to memory, and leave them here when you go.”

“Any last-minute advice?” Kit asked as the lieutenant stood and prepared to leave.

He paused. “Yes. Tread carefully around the British. Most are glad we entered the war, but some resent that it took us so long to get involved. Others think they can win the war without us. We’ve even had reports of Brits sabotaging Americans and their work. Be careful if you encounter these people, especially if they’re officers. Just remember, you’re working for the United States Navy, not the Brits. If you encounter problems, let your commanding officer handle it.”

That evening Kit pulled the old Humble suitcase she’d had since college out from under the bed. Tuning the radio to Glenn Miller’s greatest hits, she debated what to pack besides uniforms. Protocol advised taking only one suitcase and packing nothing that could identify you or that you weren’t willing to leave behind.

Sliding her dark blue canvas sneakers and a pair of slingback sandals into a paper bag, she placed them in the bottom of the suitcase. She surrounded them with the khakis, a couple of lightweight tops, a pair of slacks, an A-line skirt, essential underthings, and a set of short shorts and matching top to sleep in, just in case she had to get up and moving in a hurry. Lastly, she added a lightweight, midnight-blue pants outfit to wear at night if she needed to be incognito. There wasn’t time to get a haircut, so she stuck two tortoiseshell hairpins in the side pocket. They’d keep her shoulder-length hair up and back in the North African heat and would be useful if she had to pick any locks. Forcing the suitcase closed, she set it by the door, then laid out the clothes she’d wear on the plane. Passing her dresser, she picked up a framed picture of her family. She wished she could tell them where she was going and what she’d be doing but knew they’d understand why she couldn’t. Her parents had retired from the Military Intelligence Division of the Department of War and her younger brother, Ethan, was undergoing Naval aviation training in Pensacola, Florida.

Hearing a knock at the door, Kit hurried across the small apartment and put an eye to the peephole, hoping to see Jake.

Instead, an OSS security messenger stood in the hall. Sighing, she opened the door.

“Miss Thomas?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Morgan asked me to deliver this, ma’am.” He handed her a wrapped box marked “Personnel.” The handwriting belonged to Jake.

“Thank you.”

“Is there a return message?”

Kit had a sudden urge to tell Jake how she felt. What if I don’t come home? He’ll never know. She paused long enough for her head to rein in her heart. “No. No message.”

“Okay. Have a nice evening,” the messenger replied as he headed for the stairs.

Locking the door, she took the box to the bedroom and unwrapped it. Inside was a large envelope containing a name badge identifying her as a courier for the United States Navy, orders stationing her as a civilian employee in Asmara, a Pan Am ticket for the flight to London, a second ticket from London to Cairo, and a pass for a military transport plane to Gura. Cushioned in the bottom of the box were a small wallet containing three types of money—American dollars, British pounds, and East African shillings—a Minox spy camera the size and shape of a tube of lipstick, extra miniature film canisters, a hollow handle hairbrush, and a silver spoon ring with a small compass embedded under the wide end and a hidden, knifelike tip on the narrow end. All she had to do was bend the tip out and she had a weapon. Putting it on her right ring finger, she pulled a palm-size Colt pistol and two magazines out of the box. She’d trained with a larger gun, but as long as she could hit vital areas, the size of the bullets didn’t matter.

Dumping the usual paraphernalia from her handbag onto the dresser, Kit pulled back the liner, tucked the gun and magazines into the false bottom, and pushed the liner back in place. Putting the extra film canisters in the hollow handle of the hairbrush, she screwed the handle back in, then placed the lipstick camera, brush, wallet, and her own sunglasses in the handbag. Checking the delivery box one more time, she noticed a small, folded note tucked in the corner.

“Be safe. When you get home, let’s debrief over dinner. Jake.”

Kit’s heart soared as she reread the note. Jake just invited her to dinner, albeit a working dinner. “It’s a start,” she murmured with a smile. It was all she could do not to call him and accept the invitation right then. “Easy, Kit. Mission first.”

After a long, hot shower, she donned an ivory-colored dressing gown and set the alarm on her clock. Turning off the light, she curled up on the window seat and watched the moon ease up over the Potomac River and into the star-studded sky. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

STORY
1. What attracted you to this novel and why?
2. What themes and storylines intrigued you the most and why?
3. Which scene(s) are you most likely to remember and why?
4. What elements about World War II history were new to you? Would you like to read more about these?
5. What elements of the geographic locations did you find most interesting and why?
6. How is symbolism used throughout the story, and why do you think it was included?
7. What moment in the story prompted the strongest emotional reaction?
8. Do you think differently about the following after reading this story?
The emergence of intelligence and espionage as weapons of war
Justifiable killing
Malevolent occupation of underdeveloped countries with rich resources
9. What aspects of the story do you see as having sequel potential?

CHARACTERS
10. Were the main characters sufficiently developed? Why or why not?
11. Which supporting character(s) contributed most to the evolution of the story and why?
12. If you could have a conversation with any one character, who would it be and what would you want to know? What would you want to tell them?
13. In what ways have Kit, Jake, Mark, and Jacque evolved by the end of the story
14. Which love interest, Jake or Mark, would you like Kit to end up with and why?
15. Where do you see Kit, Jake, Mark, and Jacque in a year?

AUTHOR
16. Was this your first time reading a novel by this author?
17. Is there something about the author’s writing style you particularly liked or didn’t like?
18. If you could ask the author a question, what would it be?

Weblinks

»	Pam Webber's website She loves to call-in the book clubs! She has a form on the website
»	Publisher's book info
»	Kirkus starred review
»	Southern Literary Review Book of the Month
»	Booklife Review
»	Newsreel showing Massawa in 1938
»	Follow Pam on Facebook
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