W E B Griffin – Men at War 4 – The Fighting Agents

“I heard about that,” the driver said dryly.

“If you are found guilty in a court of law–the place and time of your required appearance will be on the citation I am about to give you–your local ration board will be notified of this violation. You have a C sticker, which means that you agreed in writing to make a genuine effort to conserve the gasoline authorized for you. I think you will agree that driving seventy-three point six miles per hour does not conserve fuel.”

“I was in sort of a hurry,” the driver said.

“So are our boys in uniform,” the state trooper said.

“In a hurry to get the war over. And personally, I think we should do all we can to help them.”

Ellis! “Donovan warned softly.

“Can I go now?” Staley asked, taking the citation.

“Yes, Sir,” the state trooper said, and marched off.

The driver cranked up the window.

“Sorry about that, Colonel,” he said.

“Hell, I told you to step on it,” Donovan said.

“Ellis, give Staley money to pay the fine. If there are any other complications, let Captain Douglass know.”

“Yes, Sir,” Ellis said.

“And as soon as we’re over the next hill,” Donovan said, “step on it.”

Twenty minutes later, the Buick was in the Rock Creek section of the District of Columbia, moving down Q Street, Northwest. They came to an estate surrounded by an eight-foot-high brick wall. The driver switched from low beam to high beam and back again, and a moment later turned off Q Street, stopping the Buick with its nose against a heavy, solid gate in the wall.

A muscular man in civilian clothing stepped out of the shadows and walked to the car. The driver turned the interior lights on for a moment, and then off again.

The muscular man touched the brim of his snap-brim hat. A moment later, the double gate swung inward. As soon as the car was inside, the gates closed after it.

“Ellis,” Donovan said, “I hate to make you an orderly, but it would save us a lot of time if you went by my house and packed a bag. And get your own while you’re at it. Then we can go from here to Union Station.”

“The Secret Service sent over the passes?” Donovan asked.

“I’ll check on that, too, Sir,” Ellis said.

“I don’t want to find myself waving bye-bye on the platform as the President goes off to Georgia by himself,” Donovan said.

“No, Sir, I’ll see we’re aboard the train,” Ellis said.

Donovan and Douglass got out of the car and entered the turn-of-the century mansion through the kitchen door. The kitchen was enormous and furnished with restaurant-size stoves and refrigerators.

A tall young woman with blond hair hanging to her shoulders came into the room. She wore a simple black dress, a single string of pearls, and just above her right breast a miniature pair of pilot’s wings. Captain Douglass’s eyes betrayed a moment’s surprise and special interest in the wings. He was sure he knew their source: His wife had an identical pair, sent from London by their son. What seemed like last week, their son had seemed an eager-eyed West Point cadet; and now, at twenty-five, he was a lieutenant colonel. His son also liked this girl very much.

“Good evening,” Charity Hoche said with a radiant smile. Her accent betrayed her origins: Charity Hoche had been raised on a twenty-acre estate in Wallingford, which was one of the plusher suburbs of Philadelphia, and educated at Bryn Mawr.

“Hello, Charity,” Donovan said.

“Mr. Hoover here?”

“No, Sir,” she said.

“And no calls, either. From him.”

“Time and J. Edgar Hoover wait for no man,” Donovan said.

“What are we going to feed him?”

“Capon,” she said.

“And wild rice.”

“Good.” Donovan chuckled.

“Eating chicken with a knife and fork is not one of J. Edgar’s strong points. He always makes me feel he’d rather eat one with his hands. After biting off the head, of course.”

“And,” Charity said, “a very nice Chateau de Long Chablis, ’35.”

“Where the hell did we get that?” Donovan asked.

“Actually, I brought it from home,” Charity said.

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