Spying For The Yanks

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“It looks so to me, Sir.”

“Good. You’ll need a rubber band when you roll it up. Here’s one.”

It took me a little time to hail a cab. Rush hour. But at five to five General Donovan was slipping the elastic band off the chart. He examined it.

“Excellent,” he said, “excellent. But how on earth … ?”

“Do I have to tell you, Sir?”

“No, FitzGibbon. Of course not.”

“But I feel I could do with a bourbon, Sir. Now my day’s work is done.”

“Of course,” he said, “of course. ” And he poured it out himself.

Wild Bill Donovan is dead and gone. I never saw him again. I was therefore never able to ask him whether he had expected me to do precisely what I had done. On the whole I guess that maybe he did. And such was the beginning, and also the end, of my career as a spy. I never worked for the Central Intelligence Agency but I doubt if any member of the Company, which I had helped in this very minor way to create, can claim a 100 per cent success record.