Curious about the women who spied for the U.S. during World War II, I recently read Sisterhood of Spies: The Women of the OSS, by Elizabeth P. McIntosh (1998) and Shadow Warriors: Daring Missions of World War II by Women of the OSS and SOE, by Gordon Thomas and Greg Lewis (2016). Both nonfiction, they describe many fascinating women who were part of the Office of Strategic Services (OSS) of the United States, an organization formed by President FDR that turned out to be a pre

Washington, DC – Monday, Feb. 24, 9:45 a.m. EST When Sara and Giovanni arrived outside Café de Nimes, Giovanni looked at her for guidance. “Go,” was all she said. He understood, and she followed him inside. Jean Claude’s face lit up at the sight of her. “Ah, Mademoiselle!” he said. “Your Frenchman has found you!” “Yes, Jean Claude,” she said, mustering a smile. “Two more café au laits, please.” “Right away, Mademoiselle!” Jean Claude said. Sara pointed to a booth in the back.

Washington, DC – Sunday, Feb. 23, 6:00 p.m. EST Anna was not exactly surprised when Charles de Jeanbourg called her—she was used to sources aiming to spin a story, and plenty of people called journalists all the time telling bald face lies hoping to mold reality. She was, however, taken aback that he contacted her so soon. “Well, Mr. de Jeanbourg, you are quick,” she said. “You have been asking around about me,” he said. “I’d like to talk.” “And why is that?” “I’ll tell you w

Washington, DC – Sunday, Feb. 23, 5:00 p.m. EST Anna was purchasing a latte for a late afternoon pick-me-up on her way to visit Viktor, when Zarribe called back. “Mr. Zarribe?” Anna answered as she handed a five to the cashier. “I don’t have much, Anna, but it’s not for lack of trying,” Zarribe said. “Oh,” Anna replied, disappointed. She made a fist with her left hand and held it close to her chest. With her right, she pushed her bag’s shoulder strap back and then grabbed her

Washington, DC – Tuesday, Feb. 18, 7:00 a.m. EST As soon as Anna Jones saw the number on her caller ID, she knew something was wrong. Richard Tanner, the DC bureau chief of the New York Daily Journal, never called his reporters before the morning meeting. “Hey,” Anna answered, as the elevator doors rattled shut. “Jones, where are you?” the old man barked. “On my way up right now.” “How serendipitous,” he said, clearing his throat. “Why? What’s wrong?” “Nou Channarong was foun