Donovan now told the Disciples something he had learned from the President only the day before: The Army and Navy were shooting for an August or September D-Day for Operation Torch, but he and Roosevelt privately believed the operation could not be executed until October or November.
In addition to the logistical nightmare of sending an invasion force from the United States directly to Africa, there were geopolitical problems. If Spain joined the Axis, the Germans could legally move troops into Spanish Morocco, from where you could almost spit on Gibraltar. The Vichy government was almost certainly going to resist Torch with whatever they had. And they had troops and warships, including the battleship Jean Bart, in Casablanca.
All of these problems would be compounded if the natives decided to support the Franco-Germans against an American invasion. Some of their troops were not only good but in French service; and even the least modernized of their forces could function effectively as guerrillas. On the other hand, the French Army had never been able to pacify the ones who disdained French service.
Donovan ordered the five million to be spent with the missions of Project Arcadia alone in mind. As little as possible would be spent for “general war objectives.” It was further not to be regarded as supplemental funds by intelligence operators on the scene.
Gold was worth $32.00 an ounce, $512.00 a pound. Five million dollars’ worth of gold weighed about ten thousand pounds, five tons. A man named Atherton Richards, a banker on the fringes of the Disciples, would pick up the gold at the Federal Reserve Bank in Manhattan, transport it by Brink’s armored cars to the Navy base in Brooklyn, and load it on a U.S. Navy destroyer, which would then make a high-speed run across the Atlantic to Gibraltar.
Donovan’s Disciples had other plans and operations to discuss, offering suggestions and seeking instructions, and the session continued for two more hours before it died down.
“Is that all?” Donovan finally asked. He was tired and wanted some sleep. The rat poison and the Scotch were getting to him.
“I have one thing, William,” the Near Eastern Disciple said. “Has there been any decision about whether, or how, we’re going to deal with Thami el Glaoui?”
“No,” Donovan said, adding dryly, “There are many schools of thought on Thami.”
The Disciple, previously professor of Near Eastern Studies at Princeton, believed that Thami el Glaoui, pasha of Marrakech, was not only a very interesting character but that he had every likelihood of becoming king of Morocco.
“Who?” the German Industry Disciple asked, chuckling. “That sounds like an Armenian restaurant.”
He was given a withering look by the Near Eastern Disciple.
“Thami el Glaoui,” the Disciple began patiently, pedantically, “bridges, one might say—he’s sixty-some, maybe seventy, no one seems to know for sure—the Thousand and One Nights and what it pleases us to consider modern civilization. He rules over his tribesmen like a sheikh in the desert, as absolute monarch, exercising the power of life and death. But he also owns wineries, farms, a bus company, and phosphate mines. God only knows how much he made by taking a percentage for smuggling diamonds and currency out of Morocco and France.”
“Can he do us any good?” the Italian Disciple interrupted impatiently. “And if so, how?”
The Near Eastern Disciple was not used to being interrupted, and produced another withering look.
“We could not have gotten the mining engineer Grunier out of Morocco without his permission,” he said. “That cost us one hundred thousand dollars. If I may continue?”
“Please,” Donovan said, spreading oil on troubled waters.
“If Thami el Glaoui were to come to believe that we were in favor of his becoming king, or at least that we would not support the present monarch—who would, I should add, like to behead him—it could be quite valuable to us, I think.”
“Sorry, Charley,” the Italian Disciple said contritely. “No offense.”
The apology was ignored.
“The man who has led Thami el Glaoui into the twentieth century is another interesting chap,” the Disciple went on, as if picking up a lecture. “He is the old pasha of Ksar es Souk. For years and years and years he was the éminence grise behind Thami’s maneuverings. He was assassinated on December sixth last, probably by the king. Probably with the tacit approval of the Germans. Possibly by mistake—they could have easily been after his son instead. The son was involved in high-stakes smuggling.”
“I don’t get the point of all this, Charley,” C. Holdsworth Martin, Jr., said.
“On the death of the pasha,