Free The One Man by Andrew Gross

debris in from London in a manila envelope marked URGENT and sent it up channels. Attention: Captain Greer. Inwardly, it gave him pride that Polish combatants were the ones who had put their lives on the line to find it. He was sure the right people would be going over them “with a fine-tooth comb,” as they said here, within a day. Then he took out the rest of the day’s incoming cables. From Pilava. Lodz. Troop movements sighted on the Ukrainian frontier. A bridge over the Bug River blown, blocking the German retreat routes. Warsaw in flames. It had taken a while but the Poles were finally fighting.
    His mind went to his parents the day they had sent him off on his new journey.
    â€œI don’t want to leave,” he had said to his father. “You need me to remain here with you. Who else will watch over you?”
    â€œGod will watch over us,” his father, who wasn’t religious, said. “God always protects the righteous, right?” He winked like he was letting Blum in on an inside joke. “Especially,” he said, “if he is wearing the proper hat.”
    His father removed his hat, a prized homburg that his own father had worn, and placed it on Nathan’s head, brushing the felt and tilting the angle slightly, just right. His father always said you could judge a man’s character more by his choice of hat than by any other aspect.
    â€œHe hasn’t deserted us yet, Nathan.” He patted his son’s shoulders. “Now let’s go. To the rebi, shall we? Before curfew.” He stopped and looked at Nathan for a long time.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWhen I see you next you may finally have yourself a beard,” his father said, his eyes misting slightly. “But you will never be more of a man to me than you are today.”
    They hugged, and Blum knew for certain as he felt his father’s arms around him that he would never see any of them again.
    â€œ Blum…”
    His thoughts rushed back. The duty officer, a big, broad-shouldered redhead named Sloan, who had played football at the University of Virginia, stepped up to his desk.
    Blum stood up. “Sir.”
    â€œTake a break. You’re wanted over at the Main Hall.”
    â€œMain Hall…?” That’s where all the bigwigs worked. Blum had been there only once, the day he arrived, to the administrative offices to receive his assignment and sign the confidentiality papers. He felt a surge in his blood. “Personnel…?” he asked, certain that his transfer to Fort Ritchie had finally come through.
    â€œNot quite.” The duty officer chuckled knowingly. “The Big Man wants to see you upstairs.”
    â€œThe Big Man…?” Blum looked back as if the duty officer must be joking. “Me?”
    â€œLook smart, Lieutenant.” The big redhead nodded and tossed him his cap. “Colonel Donovan.”

 
    ELEVEN
    A female JG led Blum, cap in hand, past rows of secretaries and chattering telexes, into a suite of carpeted offices on the third floor.
    â€œWait here.” The female duty officer knocked on the door of the corner office and put her head in. “Lieutenant Blum is here, sir.”
    A voice said, “Have him come in, please.”
    Not fully believing, Blum stepped into the large, red-carpeted office with a substantial oak desk flanked by an American and an Allied command flag and a photograph of President Roosevelt on the wall.
    Colonel William Donovan, whom Blum had only even seen a couple of times on visits to the pen and whose hand he had shaken once as the Big Man passed his desk, stood up from behind it. He was of medium height, large-chested, with a strong Irish nose, a solid chin like a prizefighter, and narrow, deep-set eyes. Everyone knew he had won the Congressional Medal of Honor for acts of valor in the previous war, acts that had earned him the nickname “Wild Bill.” At the long conference table, another