He decided that this was one of those rare instances where it was necessary to be very open with Hoover.
“Edgar, does Roosevelt know you’ve decided it was necessary to brief Clyde?”
“No,” Hoover said, and met his eyes.
“Are you going to tell him?”
“Certainly,” Donovan said.
“I’ve been hearing rumors about Clyde. He’s supposed to be about as pinko as Henry Wallace.”
Hoover laughed, but his smile was strained.
I’ll let you worry about whether or not I’m going to tell Roosevelt, Donovan thought. That hand went to me. Another proof of the theory that when you really don’t know what to do, try telling the truth.
Hoover looked at his wristwatch and stood up.
“I had no idea how late it is,” he said.
“I’ll walk you to your car, Edgar,” Donovan said.
[FOUR]
Union Station Washington, D.C. 30 January 1943
Staley had no trouble picking Capt. James M. B. Whittaker out of the crowd of people walking away from the train, although many of them were in uniform, and almost a dozen of those in uniform were captains of the U.S. Army Air Corps.
“Look for a guy who looks like an Air Corps recruiting poster,” Chief Ellis had told him.
“Tall, good-looking, and either the sloppiest officer you ever saw, or the sharpest. Depends on how he feels right then.”
Capt. Whittaker, Staley concluded, had decided to be sharp. He was wearing a perfectly tailored pink-and-green uniform, and he was in the process of putting on a camel’s-hair short coat when Staley spotted him. His brimmed cap had the fifty-mission crush, an affectation of a fighter pilot, but except for that, he looked as if he had just walked out of a clothing store window.
Staley intercepted him, catching himself just before he started to salute. He was not quite used to wearing civilian clothes and acting like a civilian.
“Captain Whittaker?”
“Guilty,” Whittaker said, smiling at him.
“I’m standing in for Chief Ellis, Sir,” Staley said.
“Let me give you a hand with your gear.”
“Since you’re foolish enough to volunteer,” Whittaker said, “you can have the heavy one. Where’s Ellis?”
“He’s in Georgia, Sir,” Staley said.
“With the Colonel? And our commander-in-chief?”
“Yes, Sir,” Staley said, wondering how Whittaker could have known that.
When they were in the Buick, Whittaker said, “Well, I appreciate you meeting me, but I could have taken a cab.”
“To Virginia?” Staley blurted. Ellis had told him that Whittaker was rich, that, in fact, he owned the house on Q Street, but the notion of taking a forty mile taxi ride startled him.
“Virginia? I’m talking about Q Street.”
“Sir, I’m supposed to take you to Virginia,” Staley said.
“I’m going to the house on Q Street,” Whittaker said firmly.
“If that makes it awkward for you, just drop me at the next corner. I’ll catch a cab, and we’ll say you couldn’t find me at Union Station.”
“They expect you in Virginia,” Staley protested.
“In a word, fuck ’em,” Whittaker said, then, quickly, “Right over there, there’s a cab.”
“I’ll take you to the house,” Staley said.
“Nobody said anything about me making you go to Virginia. But if you tell them I told you…”
“I’ll cover you,” Whittaker said.
“You know what goes on in Virginia, I suppose?
They do all sorts of obscene things out there, like push-ups and running for miles before they have breakfast.”
Staley laughed.
“I went through it.”
“Then you must know a prick by the name of Eldon C. Baker,” Whittaker said, “which is another reason I’m not going to Virginia.”
“I know him,” Staley said.
When they got to the house on Q Street, Northwest, the guard would not pass the Buick through the gate until Whittaker showed him his credentials.
And when they walked into the kitchen. Charity Hoche, in her bathrobe, was waiting for them.
“You’re not supposed to be here, Jimmy,” she said.
“Jesus, and I was hoping for something along the lines of’ Welcome Home, Jimmy.”” “They expect you in Virginia,” Charity said.
“I hope they’re not holding their breath,” Whittaker said.
“Aren’t you going to ask me about Doug?”
“How’s Doug?”
“Bearing up rather well, considering,” he said.
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