Today's Reading
But as she darted out of headquarters into the moist September evening, she understood the difference between Donovan and herself: she was not a wounded colonel, charging enemy fire. She was Julia McWilliams, supervisor of the OSS Registry of secret documents and files. Yet her boss wasn't there, and she was—with the lives of "thousands of good souls" in her hands.
Pausing at the top of the steps, she surveyed the circular entrance drive—a few parked vehicles, not a taxi among them. Set on an isolated knoll above the Potomac River, the old stone complex was dark and quiet, wispy clouds obscuring the crescent moon. A perfect setting for a spy novel. This was not fiction, though. She was taking an enormous risk now, following her conscience into an unauthorized mission. There would be consequences.
The shadows parted. She jumped.
"Leaving before midnight?" the armed sergeant asked.
His Massachusetts accent, reminiscent of her late mother's, had brought forth a sense of tenderness toward the earnest young man, who chafed at his rear echelon duty. Julia understood the feeling: she, too, yearned to get out into the world. "Dinner date," she replied, her voice rising as she tried to conceal her nerves. "Haven't eaten all day!"
"Have a martini for me, doll. With two olives."
"You can count on it." Julia waggled her fingers, uncomfortable with the subterfuge while also imagining herself inside the character of a real operative. She felt on the verge of a larger life, challenging and dangerous.
Preparing to hotfoot it to E Street for a taxi, she was halfway down to the entry drive when, out of the darkness, a dazzling yellow cab came rolling up. Adrenaline surged through her body. As a suit-clad leg emerged, she raised an arm and dashed for the door. The civilian caught her eye and held it. Then, emerging from a clump of shrubby dogwoods, two army officers hopped in. One flicked a cigarette butt out the window. Was she invisible? Or merely outranked?
Before they could make their getaway, she leaned in. "Excuse me, sir. I've an emergency at Georgetown Hospital. My little brother..." she improvised, hand over beating heart. She only hoped Mother Caro wasn't viewing her duplicity from above. "He's army, too—a training accident. I'd be grateful if you could give me a lift."
"Sorry, sister. We've a train to catch." The jug-eared lieutenant frowned. "But for an army man...least we can do is drop you partway. Get in."
Sliding into the front seat, she made a private apology to her not-so-little brother, John McWilliams III, serving somewhere in occupied France. Her fears for him fueled her anxiety over the phone call she'd just taken from an agent who identified himself as Dan O'Connell of the SI Division—Secret Intelligence. His raw whisper reverberated through her brain: I have actionable intel.
The last one in the office, she'd been clearing her inbox when a pimpled Messages fellow handed her a decrypted cable from the OSS station in Berne, Switzerland—ALARMING REPORT RE FINAL SOLUTION. Noting the time, Julia logged it in, then scanned the text...Her stomach turned. She lurched to her feet, crossing the anteroom to Donovan's inner sanctum, where she propped the message against his red telephone. He would not miss it when he returned from the Marlene Dietrich war-bond rally.
Then the red telephone rang. Startled, she stepped back. Julia could almost see the instrument throbbing with urgency. Its private number was known only to a few, including the boss's Secret Project agents. It was not her place to answer it. But there could be an emergency, life or death...She took a deep breath and answered the call.
Now here she was, gesturing frantically on a Georgetown street corner, where the yellow cab had dropped her en route to Union Station—but still some distance from the O'Connell meeting farther uptown. As the taxis shot by, she kept hearing the secret agent's final words: If I don't see you before one hour, you'll be responsible for the deaths of thousands of good souls.
"To heck with you!" Ignored by another cab, Julia hurried north toward the hospital.
This was not the first time she'd been tested since snagging a clerical job last December at the new Office of Strategic Services, which Donovan had staffed with some of the nation's most brilliant, unconventional minds, including Ivy Leaguers, movie directors, and safecrackers. Women, too. Her boss lived life full tilt. He had a photographic memory, a voracious work ethic, and the Irish gift of gab, ready to chat up everyone from the shoeshine man to President Franklin D. Roosevelt—to her. Challenged by the creative ferment, she gave it her all.
...
