“Sounds fine to me, Dick,” Douglass said. “You said something about a clambake?”
“Baker, why don’t you get on the phone and tell Captain Douglass about our guests,” Canidy said, laughing. “I know you’re dying to do that.”
Baker walked quickly into the library.
Canidy looked at the others.
Sarah Child Bitter seemed close to tears.
Commander Bitter, Canidy thought, looked as if he has just farted in church.
“The first thing we have to do is get everybody bedded down,” Canidy ordered. “All right, lady prisoners, follow me. There’s a butler around here someplace, and we’ll get him to bed you down. The male prisoners will find the bar to the right.”
3
SUMMER PLACE
DEAL, NEW JERSEY
1005 HOURS
JULY 4, 1942
As his Packard rolled past the sailor guarding the private road to the Whittaker estate, Colonel William J. Donovan wanted to believe the affair at Summer Place was something like The Marx Brothers at the Seashore—because he thought it was so real, so immediate, and the security implications were so monumental that his mind couldn’t take it all in.
It was proving impossible on a bright Fourth of July, in your own car with your wife sitting beside you, riding up to a house and friends you knew well, to see a bona fide threat not only to the coming amphibious landing on the North Coast of Africa but to the Army Air Corps’ plans for the bombardment of Germany, and even to the development of the weapon that might, very likely, decide the outcome of the war.
When they approached the house, they told the chauffeur to go around to the front. The chauffeur was a former FBI agent who had a .38 in a shoulder holster. There was a Thompson .45 ACP machine pistol on the floorboard. Donovan himself carried a .32 Colt Automatic pistol—with a silencer—on his belt. He had not taken off his seersucker jacket, because he knew the sight of the pistol disturbed Ruth.
As the car rolled to a stop before the broad stairway, he saw three groups of people. Sitting at umbrellaed tables on the lawn were an extraordinarily handsome collection of young people. He recognized Canidy, Jimmy Whittaker, and young Douglass. The other men, a Navy lieutenant commander and two handsome, muscular young men wearing swim trunks and bathrobes, were obviously Bitter, young Martin, and the very interesting Eric Fulmar. Three young women were with them. One of them held a baby on her lap. On each of the tables were pitchers of iced tea, and a galvanized tub was sitting on the grass full of ice and beer.
Donovan thought that it was significant that Canidy was on the lawn with the intruders and not with one of the two groups that had formed on the porch.
The group on the right was made up of Vice Admiral d’Escadre de Verbey; his staff; their hostess, Mrs. Barbara Whittaker; and Mr. and Mrs. C. Holdsworth Martin, Jr. Two silver wine buckets held a half-dozen towel-wrapped bottles.
Probably champagne, Donovan thought.
On the left—with an iced-tea pitcher—sat “the forces of shamed righteousness”: Captain Peter Douglass, Sr., USN; a Navy commander and a young lieutenant (obviously these two were officers from the Lakehurst guard detail); Mr. Eldon C. Baker; Miss Cynthia Chenowith; and Captain Stanley S. Fine, USAAC. Donovan thought it was especially interesting that Fine sat with Douglass, Baker, and the others.
Captain Peter Douglass had the night before accepted full responsibility for what had happened and had offered his resignation. Donovan had no intention of accepting it, but when he glanced at Douglass’s crestfallen face he realized that Douglass had imagined the worst possible scenario for the situation. To judge by his face, Baker simply looked angry. Cynthia Chenowith seemed embarrassed and ashamed.
The two Navy officers had faces Donovan recognized from his own military service: The big brass hat has just arrived, and there is no telling what will happen next. Fine, as always, was a lawyer, privy to the mess before the bar but not personally involved in it.
Donovan suppressed a smile when the young lieutenant, carried away as the big brass hat started up the stairs, came to attention and saluted. That triggered an automatic reflex from the other officers on the porch. They all saluted, even the admiral.
“Good morning,” Donovan said as he reached the top. He offered his hand to Douglass and Baker, introduced himself to the other naval officers, smiled at Cynthia, and then took Ruth’s arm and crossed the porch to where Barbara Whittaker and her group waited.
The women embraced while Martin introduced Donovan to the admiral and his staff.
“We have a little problem, Barbara,” Donovan said, “that has to be talked out. Is there someplace we can go?”
“Captain Douglass suggested that we clean up the breakfast room for you, Bill,” Barbara said.
“Fine,” Donovan said. “Holdsworth, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to sit with us. I’m going to need your advice.”
With a little bit of luck, if it becomes necessary to put your son on ice, you will hear enough to agree that it is necessary.
“I am not a disinterested observer, Bill,” Martin said.
“None of us is,” Donovan said. “Will you excuse us, please?”
He walked toward the front door of the house.
“Pete,” he said, “you want to come along, please?”
“Yes, Sir,” Captain Douglass said, and followed them into the breakfast room.
A glass-topped table had been equipped with legal pads and a glass full of sharpened pencils. The security people had connected two telephones. One of them, a red instrument, was a secured line.
“I will begin, Pete,” Donovan said, “by saying your resignation is declined, and that while I will be very interested in your worst possible scenario, I don’t think the war has yet been lost.”
“I think,” Martin said, “that much ado is being made about nothing.”
“I must respectfully disagree with Mr. Martin, Colonel,” Captain Douglass said, and then he outlined his theory that every operation now under way, planned, or discussed was compromised by the current security breach. Donovan was impressed with Douglass’s presentation, and he suspected that Douglass had worked on his speech from the moment Baker had called him the night before.
“All right, Pete,” Donovan said when he had finished. “That’s just what I wanted. Will you send in Baker, so that we get all the bad news at once?”
Baker was in fact angry; more than angry, outraged. He was a professional intelligence officer, and furious that a number of well-laid plans were apparently going down the toilet not only because of the inexcusable carelessness of a bunch of amateurs, but because—more seriously—certain individuals who could have been expected to know better had acted sloppily.
He didn’t mention Captain Douglass’s name, Donovan thought, but he left no doubt who he means. And then he had another thought: No, that’s not all that he means. The “certain individuals,” plural, includes me.
Baker had apparently spent as much time as Douglass preparing his opening statement. He likewise had specific recommendations.
Canidy should be relieved of his responsibilities and put on ice at least until after the African flight and Operation Torch. After that his case would be reviewed and a decision made about what to do next with him.
Whittaker and Fulmar should also be put on ice, at least until after Operation Torch. Their cases would be reviewed then. Fulmar, considering the projected use of him, would require special attention.
Although it had to be presumed that they knew more than they had a right to know, Commander Bitter, Major Douglass, and Lieutenant Martin could probably be made aware of all the relevant security implications and so could be returned to their units and trusted to keep their mouths shut. Bitter’s wife could also doubtless be trusted.
The wild cards were Ann Chambers and Charity Hoche. Hoche, Baker said, had the brains of a gnat as well as an automatic mouth. There was no doubt that no matter how carefully everything was explained to her, she
would promptly talk to whoever would listen about the fascinating people she had met at Deal.
“And Ann Chambers is a journalist,” Baker concluded. “She smells a story, and she’s skilled at pulling facts from people. There is no question that at this very moment she is skillfully milking facts to fill in what didn’t come out last night when Canidy and company were in their cups.”
The Misses Chambers and Hoche consequently should be put under close supervision, regardless of the consequences, until after the African flight and Operation Torch, Baker said flatly.
That’s a wish list he’s offering me, Donovan concluded. Everything he would like to have but knows he can’t get. Still, he has gone on record that if something goes wrong, the onus will not fall on him.
But he’s right about one thing. Ann Chambers is a loose cannon rolling around on the deck of a ship in a storm.
“As for Captain Fine,” Baker concluded, “he is the silver lining. We can turn the African flight over to him. Presuming he returns safely from that, he can be put to work on the other projects.”
“If we relieve Canidy, what do we do about a backup aircraft?” Donovan asked. “It would mean bringing somebody else in, and who would that be?”
“I could go, of course,” Baker said.
“No, you know too much about uraninite,” Donovan said. “I’m even uncomfortable with Grunier’s knowledge of our interest.”
“But if the backup aircraft were required,” Baker argued, “we would have to presume that secrecy would be compromised anyway. For that reason I’d take my chances on only one plane.”
“But we absolutely have to have the uraninite,” C. Holdsworth Martin, Jr., said. “Even at the price of letting the Germans know we’re working on an atomic bomb. For the long term, getting that ore is of greater importance than Torch.”
Donovan snorted his agreement. Then, realizing that nothing more was going to come from Baker but repetition of the arguments he’d already made, Donovan cut him off.
“I want to talk to Ann Chambers,” Donovan said. “Would you send her in, please, Eldon?”
As soon as he was out the door, C. Holdsworth Martin, Jr., said, “Bill, for God’s sake, you’re not actually thinking of locking the Chambers girl up, are you?”
“Baker thinks that may be necessary,” Donovan said.
“Brandon Chambers,” C. Holdsworth Martin, Jr., said, “has so far been willing and eager to cooperate with us. You lock his daughter up, and that will change. You can’t tell Brandon Chambers that his daughter is a security risk. I’m sure you’re aware, further, that Richard Hoche, Charity’s father, is a very good constitutional lawyer. You lock those girls up, and you can count on Roosevelt’s questionable interpretation of habeas corpus being brought before the Supreme Court. And Chambers would keep the story on page one of all his newspapers until they heard it.”
“We have a mess, don’t we, Holdsworth?” Donovan said.
“I repeat that I think much ado is being made about nothing,” Martin said.
“And I repeat, we have a mess, don’t we, Holdsworth?”
There was a knock at the door, and a female voice called, “Colonel Donovan?”
“Come in, Ann,” Donovan said.
She was wearing a thin pale yellow blouse and a light blue pleated skirt. She looked as sweet and innocent as a college girl—until you looked at her eyes. She was considerably tougher than she looked at first glance, and she was clearly wary but not afraid.
“How’s your family, Ann?” Donovan asked.
“Cousin Edwin’s a little green around the gills, Colonel,” Ann said. “But the rest of us are just fine.”
Donovan smiled. “Commander Bitter may be a little green around the gills, as you put it, Ann,” he said, “because he may have a greater understanding of what’s going on right now than you do.”
“That could well be,” Ann said.
“What do you think is going on around here?”
“I’ll take the Fifth on that one, Colonel Donovan,” she said.
“Certainly you’re curious?”
“Sure,” she said.
“You sense you might have a hell of a story, in other words?” Donovan said.
“Is that what you’re worried about?” she asked.
“A good deal of damage would be done if there is whispering about what might be going on around here,” Donovan said. “If studied guesses were to appear in print . . . We just can’t afford that, Ann.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry about that, so far as I’m concerned,” she said. “I have no intention of writing a word about it.”
“Well, I’m certainly relieved to hear that,” Donovan said. “But I’ve got to pursue that a little further. I hope you won’t take offense.”
“Try me,” she said.
“How can I be sure that your patriotism won’t wear thin after you’ve had a chance to think it over?”
“This has nothing to do with my patriotism,” she said.
“Then what?” he asked, surprised.
“Dick Canidy is obviously in deep trouble over us in the first place,” Ann said. “I wouldn’t do anything to add to his troubles, and I think this is the time to tell you that he had nothing at all to do with our coming. I was the one who figured out where he was and talked the others into driving up.”
“Your loyalty to your friend is commendable,” C. Holdsworth Martin, Jr., said.
“This has nothing to do with loyalty to a friend,” Ann said. “I’m in love with Dick Canidy. I can’t tell you how badly I feel about getting him in trouble.”
“I didn’t know,” Donovan said, “that you were that close to Canidy.”
“Neither does he, Colonel,” Ann said. “But I hope, sooner or later, to change that.”
“Mon Dieu!” C. Holdsworth Martin, Jr., said.
“It wasn’t easy for me to tell you that,” Ann said. “But under the circumstances, I thought it was necessary.”
“I’m glad you told us, Ann,” Donovan said. “And it won’t go any further.”
“Thank you,” she said. “What happens now?”
“That’s what Mr. Martin and I are going to decide just about as soon as you leave,” Donovan said.
“If you sock it to Dick anyway,” Ann said, “I’ll help him in any way I can. I’ve heard whispers about people being locked up for psychiatric examination. If you do something like that to Canidy, you can count on it getting in the papers. Maybe my father’s papers wouldn’t print it, but somebody will.”
She walked out of the room. Donovan had a thought from left field: What the hell is wrong with Canidy? That young woman is really bright. She’s put together like the proverbial brick outhouse, and she’s really special to boot.
“Was that an example of the female hell hath no fury like?” C. Holdsworth Martin, Jr., asked.
“Well, she asked the question, didn’t she?” Donovan replied. “What happens now?”
“I think we should talk to Canidy,” Martin said, “before we decide.”
“Yeah,” Donovan said. He walked over and opened the door, then raised his voice and called, “Will somebody send Canidy in here, please?”
Canidy came in wearing khaki trousers and a T-shirt.
“We seem to have a problem on our hands, don’t we, Dick?” Donovan began.
“Not as much as Baker seems to think we have,” Canidy said. “But a problem.”
“You don’t seem overly concerned about it,” Donovan said sharply.
“What damage has been done has been done,” Canidy said. “And I don’t think you called me in here to ask for my remedy for it.”
“Canidy,” Donovan said, “at this moment, you’re on a greased skid at the bottom of which is a long stay in St. Elizabeth’s.”
“I thought that was probably what was going to happen,” Canidy said. “I thank you, Colonel, for telling me yourself. Denying Baker that satisfaction, I mean.”
He started to get up. “T
hat’s it, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Sit down, Canidy,” Donovan said.
Canidy shrugged and lowered himself back into the chair.
“Have you wondered why Baker is so upset?”
“Baker is a professional,” Canidy said. “He holds me in the contempt he holds all amateurs. I’m not serious enough.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t considered that he might know something you don’t.”
“Oh, I’ve considered that, Colonel.”
“Since the odds are about ninety to ten that you’re going to St. Elizabeth’s,” Donovan said, “I’m going to tell you a little more than you know. I’ll be interested in your reaction.”
“And if my reaction is not what you want, it’s St. Elizabeth’s for sure?”
“Yes,” Donovan said.
Canidy saw in Martin’s eyes that the direction this encounter was taking had come as a surprise to him.
“The Germans have begun test-flying a jet-powered fighter aircraft, the Messerschmitt ME-262,” Donovan said. “If the tests are successful, and if they can get the airplane into production in sufficient numbers, the ME-262 will be capable of inflicting tremendous losses on the bombers of the Eighth Air Force. This means that the current strategy calling for the destruction of German industry by aerial bombardment will have to be called off. At the moment, there is no satisfactory substitute available.”
“Jesus!” Canidy said.
“The only way out of this problem that seems to make any sense,” Donovan went on, “is to interrupt production of the engines. But that, in turn, depends on our getting our hands on either an engine or else its specifications. That will allow our technical people to determine how production can be delayed. Special metals, special smelting techniques, special machining, special machines to make those machines . . . Are you following me?”
“Yes, Sir,” Canidy said.
“The Fokker Company has sublet the development and production contracts for the engine to FEG—that is, to Fulmar Elektrische Gesellschaft.”
“And you think Eric can help?”
“We hope so.”
“Then how?”
The Secret Warriors Page 22
