The president twisted a Chesterfield into his ivory cigarette holder. Donovan leaned over and held a lighter to it.
Then he walked to the bar and poured himself another whiskey. "Actually when you think about it, we're in the same boat as Hitler," he said. "We have nothing at all to lose, either."
Roosevelt leaned back with a satisfied grin.
"Excellent," he said. "Delighted you agree."
THIRTY-NINE
The line for the Staten Island Ferry was shorter than usual. It was below freezing and a harsh wind was blowing up from Hell Gate, bringing with it the first hints of a snowstorm. Chunks of ice that had broken off the jetty bobbed in the choppy water. Snow flurries danced in the wind.
Why had he picked this cold dismal day to take a ride on the Staten Island Ferry? Keegan wondered. The man had called him earlier that day.
"Mr. Keegan?"
"Yes."
"I'm calling on behalf of the colonel."
"The colonel?"
"I believe you have his business card."
"Oh," he said. "That colonel."
"Can you meet me on the upper deck of the Staten Island Ferry this afternoon? There's one that leaves Manhattan at two-thirty."
"I suppose so. Who is this?"
"Back end of the enclosed area."
"Who is this?"
"Be reading Life magazine. Good-bye."
And he had hung up.
Why all the cloak-and-dagger stuff? Keegan wondered. All he wanted to do was look at a few files, for God's sake.
The guard raised the gates and the stream of cars moved slowly into the tunnellike parking deck. Keegan set his brakes and went to the second deck of the ferry, a narrow glass-enclosed room with rows of dark-stained wooden benches. The windows were opaque with frost from the cold outside air. Even though heated, the large room was cold and drafty and smelled of oil, saltwater and creosote. Keegan took a seat at the end of the room on the corner of one of the seats and opened his magazine.
The foghorn bleated as the ferry shuddered and backed into the bay. A minute or two later Keegan heard the sliding door behind him open. A cold blast of air whooshed past him as the door rolled shut. Keegan turned back to his magazine and then a voice said, "Mr. Keegan?"
He looked up at the man.
"That's right."
The stranger was carrying a small brown paper sack which he held out.
"Peanut?"
"No thanks," Keegan said.
He was a tall man dressed in a tweed jacket with its collar turned up, a wool turtleneck sweater and a tweed cap. He carried himself erect like a career military man and had an intense look about him, his narrow face dominated by deep-set, piercing eyes and topped by a shock of thick, black hair. He was wearing aviator sunglasses which he whipped off and stuck in his jacket pocket.
"The name's Smith," he said, holding out his hand. His voice was pleasant with a hint of southern drawl. As they shook hands, Keegan felt something press into his palm. It was the other half of Donovan's card.
"Just to make it official," Smith said.
Keegan took his half out of his pocket and slipped the two sections together. A perfect fit. Keegan smiled up at him.
"Good to see you," he said.
Smith sat down beside him, leaning back, crossing his legs and stretching his arms out on the back of the bench. Keegan shook his shoulders against the chill and looked around the room.
"What's the matter, won't they give you an office?" he asked.
"I've had a tail on me all day," he said. "I dumped them just before I jumped on the ferry. Actually it's quite an effective maneuver. If they do get aboard they're easy to spot, in which case of course, I simply would have ignored you."
"You think the Germans have people following you? Isn't that a bit paranoid?" Keegan asked.
"Not the Germans, Mr. Keegan," Smith said in a patronizing tone. "Hoover's boys. They have two teams on me. They know I work Tor Donovan and Hoover wants to know every move he makes. That's the reason for all the inconvenience. If they tie us together they'll be all over you, too. You'll never get anything done."
"Why is FDR so nervous about Hoover? He's the President of the United States, for God's sake."
"Because Hoover was appointed for life. Nobody can fire him without a damn good reason and that makes Mr. Hoover a very powerful man. The president does not want him as an adversary."
"Hoover's really that way, huh?"
"Little Napoleon? I'm surprised he doesn't walk around with his hand in his vest speaking French."
"You mean we're going to have to sneak around and meet like this from now on?" Keegan said.
"I'm afraid so."
"I feel like a married man cheating on his wife, Mr. Smith."
"Bizarre notion," Smith said.
"I assume we have a deal," Keegan said.
"Yes," Smith drawled. "Here's the situation. I'll be your contact man. You need anything, anytime, you contact me. You get in trouble, you contact me. You get arrested, sick, need to go to the hospital, you contact me. Nobody else. Me. Okay?"
"Sure. Kind of like rubbing a bottle and a genie pops out. Only you're the genie."
His genie ignored his analogy. "I just put a briefcase in your trunk. It contains everything you'll need to get started. I'd like the case back. It's my personal property. Abercrombie and Fitch."
"How the hell did you get in my trunk?"
"I picked the lock."
Keegan laughed. "You and I are going to get along," he said.
"I hope you don't make my life miserable, Mr. Keegan. I have this feeling you could make it a living hell."
Keegan laughed. "I wouldn't do that, Mr. Smith."
"I'd like you to run things by me. I'd like to know what you're up to. Since I'm your only contact with Washington, it's important that you keep me up-to-date."
Smith broke open another peanut, letting the shells drop into the bag. "Sure you won't have a peanut? Straight from Georgia."
"No thanks. Just don't cramp my style, okay?"
Smith glared at him for a moment, then went on. "Now listen, this is important. I don't know what you're looking for, Mr. Keegan, but be as subtle as possible. Anybody asks what you're doing for White House Security, tell them security checks and background."
"Security checks and background."
"Right. You don't mention me or Donovan to anybody and you never even met the Boss."
"You call him the Boss, huh? You must be right on up there."
"I couldn't get a private meeting with him on twenty-four hours' notice. That's being right on up there."
Keegan chuckled. What it really was was $350,000 in campaign donations and four years selling the old boy his booze.
"You certainly have a lot of muscle to have pulled this off," Smith added.
"Just logic," Keegan said.
"It's logical to send a rich businessman on the trail of a Nazi spy?"
"Why not? Look, I'm sure you have the whole resume on me, Mr. Smith, but let me tell you something. When it comes to advice I have unlimited resources in just about any field you can imagine. Experts, Mr. Smith. If I don't know how to do something, I can find out in short order. If I need information, I can get it. A virgin heater? Nothing to it. And as far as the FBI goes, I'm sure you know I dodged the feds for six years. They never even had a good description of me. I've thought a lot about Twenty-seven. If we catch him it's going to take a lot of logic—and a lot more luck. I'm a logical man and I have my share of Irish luck. True, I'll be flying by the seat of my pants but what's the alternative—give the information to Hoover and have him file it under ‘Forget it'?"
"It seemed like a bad call to me, Mr. Keegan, but I'm not calling the shots."
"Just what do you do exactly?" Keegan asked. "Do you have a title? Everybody in Washington seems to have a title."
"No title."
"What's your job?"
"I get things done, Mr. Keegan."
"You're Mr
. Smith and you get things done?"
"Precisely. And my name is Smith. You might call me an expediter. Are you familiar with the expression dog robber?"
"No."
"It's a Navy expression. I was in the Navy for several years. For a time I was Admiral Harry Grogan's dog robber. When the admiral wanted something, I got it for him. When he wanted something done, I did it. Anything, anytime. No matter what it was, I would say, ‘Yes sir,' and take care of it. That's a dog robber, Mr. Keegan. Every admiral has one. Now I'm Donovan's dog robber. Just so we're straight, I know vaguely what you're up to and my job is to help you in any sane and legitimate way I can. I emphasize sane and legitimate because I don't like trouble. The mark of a good dog robber is to get results with an apparent minimum of effort and no trouble."
"And I assume you're a very good dog robber?"
Smith ignored the comment. "I know what you're trying to do and you know what I do, that takes care of all the biographical niceties. Now shall we talk about this operation of yours?"
"Ah, so now it's an operation."
"Probably stretching the point a bit. There's you and there's me—part—time. Not much of an operation."
"What's in the briefcase?"
"Credentials, some phone numbers, a contact or two, my card with a day and night number on it. Naturally I prefer day."
"Are you married?"
"I was. I was attached to the embassy in Shanghai when the Japs started their war. My wife was in the street market. She was killed by the first wave of bombers."
"I'm sorry."
"Thanks. The Chief—Donovan likes to be called Chief, by the way—is concerned because he feels this witch hunt of yours . . ."
"It's not a witch hunt, Mr. Smith. I assure you, Siebenundzwanzig exists."
"Uh huh. As I was saying, he's afraid your motive is too personal. People who are too personally involved in these things sometimes act recklessly."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"If by some miracle you do turn this man up, you will give him to us, won't you." He was not asking a question, it was more like a statement of fact. He paused long enough to shell another peanut. "You realize how valuable this man could be to us, don't you, Mr. Keegan?"
"Sure."
"Sure what? Sure you'll turn him over or sure you know how valuable he is?"
"Both."
"You won't do something rash like dropping him in the East River with cement boots on?"
"It's not boots, Mr. Smith, the expression is a cement overcoat and I never did that kind of thing."
"The Chief seems to think you know about eighty-seven exotic ways to dispose of people."
"I said I didn't do that kind of thing, I didn't say I don't know how to do them."
"I feel reassured."
"Wonderful. Does Donovan believe me?"
"Whether he believes you or not is immaterial. He does think you believe the story and that's what counts. He's taking a shot on you. And don't forget, if this information gets to Hoover there will be a lot of hell to pay. And Donovan'll be the first one to catch it."
Keegan smiled his crooked smile and nodded. "I got the message, Mr. Smith."
"If you have any questions after you go over the material in your trunk give me a call. I'll have the briefcase picked up. I think that about covers everything. Anything else you need?"
Keegan liked Smith. There was a surly irreverence about him, a nasty edge coated with humor. He decided to test him.
"So you're the best dog robber there is, huh?"
"I don't like to brag, Mr. Keegan. Why do you ask?"
"There's something I could use."
"Oh?" Smith answered skeptically.
"I think transportation is going to be a big problem for me. I hate to wait around for trains and buses, that sort of thing. So I was wondering—do you think you might shake me up an airplane?"
Smith's expression never changed. "An airplane," he said in a flat voice.
"Yeah, with a pilot that knows what he's doing."
"You want an airplane and a pilot."
"It would really be a big help."
"I'm sure it would."
Smith peeled another peanut and popped it in his mouth. He stared straight ahead thinking for a minute or so.
"That's it? An airplane and pilot?" he said sarcastically.
"For now," Keegan answered pleasantly. He sensed that Smith secretly enjoyed the challenge although he would never admit it.
Smith ate another peanut and sighed. "I'll be in touch," he said. And without another word he got up and left the ferry boat cabin.
"Nice to meet you, too," Keegan mumbled to himself.
Back in his apartment, Keegan fixed himself a drink, put on a Count Basie album and sorted through the material in the black briefcase. He was impressed. There was a leather folder about the size of a wallet containing credentials identifying him as a member of the "White House Security Staff, Investigation Division" with a space for a photograph; a stapled, typewritten list of all government agencies with the unlisted phone numbers of the directors; a temporary pass to the "File Section" of the Federal Bureau of Investigation; a pass permitting him on U.S. military bases; and a White House business card ambiguously identifying Don Smith simply as "staff" with his day and night numbers on the back; and a note:Mr. Keegan:
Please affix a current photograph in the proper places on both the White House and military credentials. No glamour poses please, a simple passport photo will do.
Memorize the phone numbers and dispose of the card.
Your contact at the FBI is Glen Kirbo, 4th floor of the bureau building in Washington. He doesn't know what you are up to and doesn't want to know.
Your military clearance will give you access to all unclassified material.
Discretion is the soul of valor.
Smith
The next day Dryman showed up.
FORTY
He did not walk into the Killarney Rose, he swaggered. There was arrogance in every step as if he were defying everyone in the bar not to know who he was. His dress was almost sloppy. A pair of baggy tweed pants atop scuffed-up cowboy boots, a bright red flannel shirt with a white silk scarf draped from under its turned-up collar, a scruffy leather flying jacket with a pair of Air Corps wings over the heart and an army officer's cap, its crown crushed down around his ears.
In his early thirties, Keegan guessed, tallish and well built with auburn-red hair and a pleasant, cherub face, a cocky grin and twinkling blue eyes; a man who looked like he had the world where it hurts. He swaggered straight to the back end of the bar and took a bar stool across from Tiny.
"Canadian on ice in a highball glass, General, Coke on the side," he said, then spun the stool around and sat with his back to the bar, checking the place out. His eyes fixed on Keegan. He smiled and pointed a finger at him.
"I'll bet you're Francis Keegan," he said. His accent was soft Boston, not quite the long A's and E's, but enough of a twang to root him somewhere in New England.
"What makes you think so?" Keegan asked, returning the smile.
"Well sir, you look like you own the place and since Keegan owns this place, I figure you must be him," he said.
"That's pretty good, pal. And who might you be?"
He walked over to Keegan's table, put his two glasses down and stuck out his hand.
"Captain John Dryman, United States Army Air Corps."
"It's a pleasure, Cap'n," Keegan said, looking over the flier's clothes. "Are you on furlough?"
"T.D.," he answered and took a long pull at the whiskey.
"Oh yeah? Where?"
"Here."
"In New York?"
Dryman looked surprised. "Right here. In this bar. With you. I am on temporary duty here as of," he looked at his watch, "one hour from now."
Keegan's brow furrowed. "To do what?"
"I was hoping you'd tell me that. Look, I'm not complaining, Mr. Keegan, I got six months left on this tour and then
I'm off to China."
"Maybe you haven't heard, there's a war going on in China."
Dryman winked. "Yes sir, sure is. Ever hear of Major Claire Chennault? The Flying Tigers? He's started his own little air force over there. As of January 1, I will be in Kunming, teaching the Japs a few tricks. Meantime I have been assigned to something called White House Security and I'm to take my orders from you. And Boss," he looked around and giggled joyfully to himself, "I can't think of a better place to finish out my tour. The plane's out at Mitchell Field."
"Plane?"
"Old Delilah, a two-seat AT-6. I wouldn't go anywhere without her." He stopped and checked out the bar again. "I have a hard time believing this," he said. "Let me tell you, this is a pilot's dream. I mean, to get assigned to a bar taking orders from the owner. The guys will never believe this."
"The guys aren't going to know anything about it, Cap'n," Keegan said seriously. "From now until you're off buzzing the Himalayas you're going to forget everything you see, hear and do. Okay? That's the first and probably last order you'll get from me."
Dryman looked over both shoulders, then leaned over and whispered, "Is this some kind of spy stuff? I mean, the bar, these plain clothes, uh . . . you. What's it all about?"
"You'll find out in due time. What do they call you?"
"H.P."
"H.P.? I thought your name was John."
"It is," he said, still grinning his cherub grin. "H.P.—for Hot Pilot, a nickname, incidentally, I have earned the hard way. Ten years in the Air Corps, the last two instructing snotty college kids, hoping they'll stay alive through the course. I was a test pilot for two years, had my own squadron for a while. Hell, I am so hot, Mr. Keegan, I could set this place on fire with the seat of my pants."
Keegan was astounded. Smith actually had an Air Corps pilot and plane assigned to him. His respect for dog robbers was growing by the day.
"So tell me, H.P.," Keegan said. "If you're so hot, why are you flying courier duty for the White House?"
Dryman shoved his cap to the back of his head and leaned back in the booth.
"Actually . . . I was grounded when the White House called."