‘‘From what I know of him, that’s not surprising. Is he working with the locals?’’
‘‘With the son of the late pasha of Ksar es Souk,’’ Baker said. ‘‘He and the son, known as Sidi el Ferruch, were in school in Germany together—Fulmar’s father is German, as you may know. El Ferruch runs a very efficient intelligence operation for the pasha of Marrakech.’’
‘‘Your idea is to have Eric Fulmar smuggle Grunier out of the country.’’
‘‘Yes, sir,’’ Baker said. ‘‘He and the Moroccan.’’
‘‘You think they would?’’
‘‘There is a chance they would, if we paid them enough,’’ Baker said.
‘‘How much is enough?’’
‘‘A great deal. I proposed an amount that shocked Captain Douglass.’’
‘‘What was that figure?’’ Donovan asked.
‘‘One hundred thousand dollars,’’ Baker said.
‘‘That’s an awful lot of money,’’ Donovan said. ‘‘Try offering him fifty.’’
‘‘You think this idea has merit, Colonel?’’ Douglass asked, genuinely surprised.
‘‘If it fails, they would believe that Grunier went to a smuggler. Not to the United States government,’’ Donovan said.
‘‘Or that he was involved with Sidi Hassan el Ferruch,’’ Baker said.
‘‘Yes,’’ Donovan said thoughtfully. He nodded at Baker. ‘‘Go ahead with this. Come with something definite.’’
‘‘I have more, sir,’’ Baker said.
‘‘Something to do with the assassination?’’
‘‘And the fact that we are now at war. The possibility exists that France will enter the war on the side of Germany. If that happens, we could just about forget Grunier. And for that matter whatever is so vital in the Congo.’’
Donovan realized, astonished, that he had forgotten that there was now a war on.
‘‘Fulmar could not participate in any operation to remove Grunier from Morocco without the permission of Sidi Hassan el Ferruch,’’ Baker said. ‘‘And then I think we have to consider the possibility the Germans are also likely to go looking for Grunier.’’
‘‘Why would they do that?’’ Douglass asked innocently.
‘‘To put him to work in the mines at Joachimsthal in Saxony,’’ Baker said.
‘‘Why would they want to do that?’’ Donovan asked.
‘‘Because that is the only other source of uraninite, the other being in Katanga in the Belgian Congo,’’ Baker said.
There was no response from either Donovan or Baker for a moment, and then Donovan chuckled.
‘‘Douglass has been worried about your unfettered imagination, Baker. I see he has cause. Why do you think we or the Germans are so interested in a . . . what did you say, uranium? . . . mining engineer?’’
‘‘I said ‘uraninite,’ which is the source of uranium. All I know is that it is radioactive—it actually glows in the dark. I don’t know yet why we want it, but I rather doubt we’re going to make a lot of luminescent watch faces.’’
‘‘OK,’’ Donovan said, ‘‘you really are dangerous, Baker. This whole thing has something to do with uranium.’’
‘‘That will help,’’ Baker said. ‘‘But to get back on the track. I believe that if we’re going to do anything about Grunier, we’re going to have to do it as soon as possible.’’
‘‘OK, go on.’’
‘‘I had the FBI do a check on Fulmar,’’ Baker said. ‘‘It seems his mother is the actress Monica Carlisle.’’
‘‘As it happens, I know about Fulmar’s mother, too. Are you suggesting she would be helpful?’’
‘‘No, I don’t think she would,’’ Baker said. If he was surprised that Donovan knew the name Fulmar, or that he was the son of Monica Carlisle, it did not register on his face.
‘‘The worst possible scenario,’’ Baker said, ‘‘is that I approach Fulmar after he has decided he is at bottom a German and he turns me over to the SS.’’
‘‘You think he’d do that?’’
‘‘I think we have to consider the possibility,’’ Baker said.
‘‘Go on,’’ Donovan said.
‘‘I think Fulmar could turn me over to the Germans and get a good night’s sleep the same night,’’ Baker said. ‘‘But he does have a couple of American friends, whom he’s very close to. I don’t think he’d turn them in.’’
‘‘Who are they? How do you know?’’
‘‘I talked to the father of one of them,’’ Baker said, ‘‘the Reverend Dr. Canidy, headmaster of St. Paul’s School in Cedar Rapids, Iowa.’’
‘‘You’re talking about Dick Canidy and Jimmy Whittaker, ’’ Donovan said.
Now genuine surprise registered on Baker’s face.
‘‘Is somebody else working on this?’’ he blurted, and then answered his own question. ‘‘I don’t know why I didn’t think about that. Is there some reason we can’t compare notes?’’
‘‘Nobody else is working on this,’’ Donovan said. ‘‘The fact is that this house belongs to Jim Whittaker. It is his uncle who died here tonight.’’
‘‘Jesus Christ!’’ Baker said. ‘‘I just didn’t make the connection. All I’ve found out so far about Whittaker is that he’s in the Air Corps. I expect to find out tomorrow where he is.’’
‘‘He’s in the Philippines,’’ Donovan said. ‘‘So you can forget about him. And you can forget about Canidy, too. He’s off in China with the Flying Tigers.’’
Baker was silent for a moment.
‘‘Is there some reason I can’t think of why I couldn’t recruit Canidy?’’ he asked.
‘‘How would you get over there to recruit him?’’ Douglass asked.
‘‘That would be a question of travel priority,’’ Baker replied. ‘‘I don’t think any priority would get me into the Philippines right now. But China is something else.’’
‘‘You think Canidy is that important?’’
‘‘I think he’s important in that he might keep Fulmar from turning us in,’’ Baker said. ‘‘At least that. He might even be able to blow on what small ember of patriotism may be left in Fulmar.’’
‘‘You don’t like Fulmar, do you?’’ Donovan asked.
‘‘No,’’ Baker said, ‘‘I don’t.’’
‘‘When would you like to leave?’’ Donovan asked.
‘‘As soon as I can,’’ Baker said.
‘‘Go pack,’’ Donovan said. ‘‘By this time tomorrow, I should be able to have your travel priority arranged.’’
3
Ellis drove Donovan to the morgue, where he was given the paperwork involved in certifying Chesty Whittaker’s death. Cynthia Chenowith and Douglass stayed at the house, where they taped brown kraft paper over the side windows of Baker’s station wagon.
When Donovan and Ellis returned, Chesty’s Packard was put into one of the garages. Then Donovan called Barbara Whittaker at Summer Place. After he expressed his condolences, he told her how they had worked things out. Barbara knew a funeral parlor in Asbury Park. She would telephone and tell them Edward was coming.
‘‘Cynthia Chenowith will be with him,’’ Donovan said.
‘‘Oh?’’ Barbara asked, and Donovan thought he heard a catch in her voice. ‘‘Is she up to that?’’
‘‘She says she is,’’ Donovan said.
‘‘Well, tell her I’ll have a room waiting for her,’’ Barbara said.
‘‘Is there anything else I can do for you tonight?’’ Donovan asked.
‘‘Yes,’’ she said, surprising him. ‘‘There is. I tried to get in touch with Jimmy. I couldn’t. Is there some way you could get word to him?’’
‘‘I’ll take care of it, if you’ll give me an address.’’
She gave it to him and thanked him; then, without saying good-bye, she hung up.
They drove to the funeral home. The casket fit as Ellis said it would in Baker’s station wagon. Cynthia Chenowith got
in beside Edward, and they drove off.
While the others went to take care of the body, Ellis drove Donovan and Douglass to their homes. Donovan owned a town house in Georgetown, and Douglass had a small apartment nearby.
Donovan, exhausted, fell into bed without even taking his ritual shower. But as he mashed the pillow beneath him, he remembered that he had told Barbara he would do what he could to get word to Jimmy Whittaker that Chesty was dead.
The international operator told him that they weren’t accepting calls for the Philippines. And both Western Union and Mackay told him that while they would accept messages, they would not guarantee delivery. The military had priority, and all the circuits were tied up with official business.
He put the handset in the cradle and started to turn off the light. Then he thought of something he had to do right then.
He dialed a number from memory. A woman’s voice answered.
‘‘This is Bill Donovan. Is he still up?’’ Donovan said.
‘‘Yes, Bill?’’ the familiar voice came on the line a moment later.
‘‘Mr. President, if you hadn’t ordered me to report on this, I wouldn’t bother you. We’ve sent Chesty Whittaker’s body to New Jersey,’’ Donovan said.
‘‘I’ll telephone Barbara in the morning,’’ the President said. ‘‘But you’ll have to represent me at the funeral, Bill.’’
‘‘Yes, Mr. President.’’
‘‘And I’ll see you in the morning. Thank you for calling.’’
‘‘Good night, Mr. President.’’
The President of the United States had a personal, kind thought when he hung up the telephone. Poor Chesty had never had any children. But he had looked upon Jimmy as his son, and Jimmy would have to be told. Communication with the Philippines was difficult.
He summoned one of his military aides. ‘‘If there’s a moment’s free time on the lines to the Philippines, I would like to ask General MacArthur to pass the word to Lieutenant James Whittaker that his uncle Chesty has passed away. I’m sure he’ll know where he is.’’
‘‘Yes, Mr. President,’’ the aide said. ‘‘I’ll take care of it.’’
An hour later a radio message went out from Washington:
PRIORITY
THE WHITE HOUSE WASHINGTON
0005 HOURS 8 DEC 41
HEADQUARTERS US FORCES PHILIPPINES PERSONAL FOR GENERAL MACARTHUR DIRECTION OF THE PRESIDENT STOP LOCATE AND RELAY 2D LT JAMES M. C. WHITTAKER US ARMY AIRCORPS CONDOLENCES OF PRESIDENT RE CHESLEY HAYWOOD WHITTAKER DECEASED WASH DC OF STROKE 7 DEC 1941 STOP LEWIS MAJOR GEN USA
4
Memphis, Tennessee 8:30 P.M., December 7, 1941
Ann Chambers had been in the city room of the Memphis Daily Advocate when the bells had rung on the AP and the INS, and finally the UP Teletype machines, announcing the arrival of a flash. She was covering the hospitals with the ‘‘good’’ funerals (as opposed to routine obituaries, the province of a feisty old lady). When the bells rang, she was working on a feature story about questionable business practices of certain funeral directors.
The instant he was told of the Pearl Harbor story, Orrin Fox, the editor of the Daily Advocate, decided to put on an extra. Since the Advocate was a morning paper, which normally went to bed at two in the morning, he had to move the deadline forward to six that night, which he thought would give him and his staff time both to get out the news the paper would normally print eight hours early and to assemble the facts about the Japanese attack from the wires.
Ann’s greedy funeral directors’ story went into a drawer as she and everybody else worked frantically to put together the paper. It was half past eight when Ann went home to the four-room suite she shared with Sarah in the Peabody Hotel.
Ann found Sarah sitting on the windowsill, looking in the general direction of the Mississippi River, tears running unashamedly down her cheeks. Her pregnancy was now obvious: she was in her sixth month.
‘‘Well,’’ Ann said, ‘‘I finally got a byline on page one. It took a war to do it.’’
She handed Sarah a copy of the Advocate, the ink still slick, and pointed out a box on the front page: ‘‘Last-Minute War News From Our Wire Services. Compiled by Ann Chambers, Daily Advocate staff writer.’’
‘‘Ed could be dead right now, you know that?’’ Sarah said.
‘‘Oh, I don’t think so,’’ Ann replied. ‘‘They attacked Hawaii, not Burma.’’
‘‘I’ve been listening to the radio,’’ Sarah said, turning to Ann to argue with her. ‘‘There’s fighting all over, over there.’’
Ann shrugged.
‘‘I want a father for my baby!’’ Sarah said, close to tears.
Tears weren’t going to help anything, Ann thought. A fight would be better.
‘‘Then maybe you should have written and told him,’’ she said sarcastically.
‘‘I couldn’t do that,’’ Sarah said illogically, but rising to the bait.
‘‘And when he comes back? Do you plan to tell him then?’’
‘‘If he comes back, you mean,’’ Sarah said.
‘‘He’ll be back,’’ Ann said, hoping she sounded more convincing than she felt. She had spent the day reading the wire-service yellows: the Japanese had struck all over the Orient. She hadn’t seen any specific story about an attack on Rangoon, but that didn’t mean anything. And if the Japanese had struck Rangoon, Ed and Dick would have been in it. They were fighter pilots. Fighter pilots, by definition, fought.
God, Ann prayed silently, protect those two bastards.
‘‘It’s not really fair, is it?’’ Sarah asked.
‘‘You should have thought about that before you took your pants off,’’ Ann said, and immediately regretted it.
‘‘Ann!’’ Sarah replied, shocked and hurt.
‘‘I’m sorry,’’ Ann said. ‘‘I’m really sorry.’’ Sarah looked at her, Ann thought, like a kicked dog.
‘‘I had an interesting thought today,’’ Ann said. Sarah didn’t seem at all interested in her interesting thought. ‘‘I thought that you were one up on me.’’
‘‘What’s that supposed to mean?’’
‘‘If mine doesn’t come back, I don’t have anything.’’
‘‘What do you mean, ‘yours’?’’
‘‘I thought you’d figured that out,’’ Ann said. ‘‘Did you really think I’ve been writing him as my ‘patriotic duty’? The only reason he didn’t get in my pants is because he didn’t ask.’’
‘‘Ann,’’ Sarah said, disapproving but unable to keep from smiling. ‘‘You’re outrageous.’’
‘‘I really wish he had,’’ Ann said. ‘‘I almost—but not quite—wish I was in your condition.’’
‘‘Oh, Ann!’’
‘‘Well, knowing those two, we have nothing to worry about,’’ Ann said. ‘‘Unless you want to worry about them being picked off by some exotic foreign female, while we sit here and wait.’’
‘‘I thought,’’ Sarah said, ignoring Ann’s last remark, ‘‘that you’d . . . never done it.’’
‘‘I never have,’’ Ann said. ‘‘That’s what I meant when I decided you were one up on me.’’
‘‘Thanks a lot,’’ Sarah said.
‘‘If you knew then what you know now, would you have?’’ Ann asked.
Sarah thought that over a moment.
‘‘Yes,’’ she said.
‘‘See what I mean?’’ Ann said. ‘‘Pity you can’t drink,’’ she said. ‘‘I could use some company.’’
She picked up the telephone and told the bell captain to send up a quart of bourbon.
‘‘I worked it out,’’ Sarah said. ‘‘At this moment, it’s half past nine tomorrow morning in Rangoon. If he’s still alive, he’s already had his breakfast.’’
5
Rangoon, Burma 0930 Hours 9 December 1941
If there had been any tea at Wing Commander Hepple’s house, six blocks away, Bitter hadn’t seen it. But there had been a
good deal of gin and whiskey, and even a bottle of bourbon. A redheaded Scottish woman had also been there. She was private secretary to a Briton high in the colonial bureaucracy, and she and Stephanie Walker, the woman with whom she shared an apartment, found the newly arrived young American fliers a welcome addition to the British officers and civil servants.
Stephanie Walker was small and pale, and in some ways reminded Ed Bitter of Sarah Child. It was, Ed Bitter told himself when he woke up in Stephanie Walker’s bed, partly that, plus the excitement of the war starting, plus all the liquor they had put away at Wing Commander Hepple’s tea, that had brought him to her bed.
Stephanie Walker was married to an RAF fighter pilot ‘‘temporarily, for eight damned months’’ posted to Singapore, but by the time Ed learned that, they were already in the apartment.
He got out of bed and found Canidy naked and entwined with the redhead in another bedroom. Then he walked on tiptoe to the bed and shook Canidy’s arm. The obvious thing to do was get out of the apartment as quietly and quickly as possible.
Canidy was hungover, he announced quite unnecessarily, and before he did anything he wanted a good breakfast and a lot of coffee. There was no sense in rushing off to get it, since they had been invited to eat right here.
Breakfast was actually rather pleasant, and Stephanie Walker was neither as coarse nor as crude as he thought he would find her when he was sober.
He would, he thought, telephone her in a day or two.
Then he thought, Good Christ, I’m getting as amoral as Canidy.
When they stopped by the CAMCO house to change clothing, there was another radio message for them, taped to Canidy’s mirror:
CANIDY BITTER RELIEVED RANGOON STOP REPORT ME WITH FERRY GEAR STOP CROOKSHANKS
There was a penciled note on the bottom of the Teletype paper: I’ve got a truck going up there this afternoon. Your gear would probably make it OK on it. Dolan.
‘‘Shit,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘I knew this was too good to last.’’
They packed their clothing, then drove out to Mingaladon Air Base.
Canidy, without making any kind of preflight examination of aircraft, climbed into the cockpit and put his helmet on. Bitter was at first surprised that he was taking chances like that, then angry that he was probably still drunk and didn’t know what he was doing. But finally he was angry with himself when he realized what Canidy was actually doing.
The Last Heroes Page 24