Hoover was a skilled political infighter with many friends on Capitol Hill and within Roosevelt's inner circle. He did not simply roll over and play dead.
He got President Roosevelt to agree that the FBI should retain its intelligence and counterintelligence roles, not only within the United States but in Latin and South America as well. And he got Roosevelt to keep Bill Donovan's agents in South America under his own control by claiming the right to "coordinate" all their activities. Clearly, he could not coordinate their activities unless they made frequent and detailed reports of their activities to the FBI.
Donovan, because he acknowledged the battle as lost, or perhaps because Latin and South America were low in his priorities, gave Hoover his way. Not completely, of course, but he paid lip service to the notion that Hoover had been given North and South America as his area of operations.
Hoover saw Donovan for what he was: a highly competent man with a sense of morality and patriotism that was close to his own--and a good friend.
But he also saw Donovan as someone who was challenging his (the FBI's) authority in all things concerned with espionage. And this was especially galling because Donovan had the same access to the President's ear that Hoover did. Despite their sharp political and ideological differences, Donovan and Roosevelt had been friends since they had been students at the Columbia School of Law.
And, with consummate skill, Roosevelt played games with them--Hoover and Donovan--sometimes pitting one against the other, and other times assuring one that the other regarded him as the greatest patriot and most efficient employee on the government payroll.
And both Hoover and Donovan understood that the most dangerous thing that could happen to either was to force Roosevelt to choose between them.
As confident of their own ability and their own influence with Roosevelt as they each were, neither was assured that the other would ever be asked for his resignation.
Tonight, with nothing specific on the agenda, they exchanged tidbits.
Hoover told Donovan and Douglass what his agents had uncovered in Latin and South America. Donovan heard nothing he thought was very important.
Much of what Hoover told him, he had heard before.
Hoover, only half joking, said that he was on the edge of doubling his security force at Oak Ridge, Tennessee, where the refining of uranium was getting under way in a top-secret plant. He would use half the force, he said, to keep the Germans from finding out what was going on, and the other half to keep the scientists--fifty percent of whom, he said, were "pinkos"--from passing what they knew and were learning to the Soviets. There was no question in his mind, Hoover said, that the scientist in charge, J. Robert Oppenheimer, was as left of center as Vladimir Lenin.
"And it's delicate, you know, Bill, with the Boss," Hoover said.
"If he has one flaw in his political judgment, it has to do with the Russians. He thinks Joe Stalin is sort of the Russian senator from Georgia. And that he can buy him off with a dam or a highway."
Donovan laughed.
"You think there's a genuine danger of somebody actually spilling the beans to the Russians? "he asked.
"Not so long as I'm in charge of security," Hoover said.
"Instead of, for example, Henry Wallace."
He said it with a smile, but Donovan understood that Hoover regarded the Vice President and several of the people around him as bona fide threats to the one great secret of the war: that the United States was engaged in building a bomb that would use as its explosive force nuclear energy, a force-presuming theory could be turned into practice--that would give one five thousand-pound bomb the destructive force of twenty thousand tons of "Henry doesn't know about Oak Ridge," Donovan said.
"And the President tells me he has no intention of telling him."
"Franklin Roosevelt has been known to change his mind to fit the circumstances of the moment," Hoover said, adding dryly, "I'm surprised you haven't noticed."
Donovan chuckled appreciatively.
"On the subject of Oak Ridge, Edgar," Donovan said, "there's something coming up--" "Oh?" Hoover interrupted.
"We are going to try to bring some German scientists here," Donovan said.
"You mean, get them out of Germany?" Hoover asked, surprised.
"Can you do that?"
"In the next couple of days," Donovan said, "we're going to make sort of a trial run." He waited for Hoover to interrupt him again, and when he didn't, went on.
"The first man we're going to bring out is a metallurgist--" Now Hoover obliged him.
"Why a metallurgist?"
"I've told you about the German flying bombs, and jet-propulsion engines," Donovan said.
"I finally managed to convince the President that they pose a real threat, no matter what the Air Corps says, to our plans for the massive bombing of Germany. I have permission to do what I can to at least slow down the production of jet-propulsion and rocket engines. Both require special metal alloys and special techniques to machine the special alloys. The idea is that when we find out what kind of special metal and what kind of special techniques are required for the necessary machining, we will just put those locations on the top of the bombing priority list."
Hoover grunted, then asked, "What's this got to do with Groves's bomb?
With Oak Ridge?"
"If we succeed in getting the metallurgist safely out, and see how much attention the Germans pay to his disappearance, we'll start bringing out the mathematicians and physicists we need... or whose services we don't want the Germans to have."
"And if they catch you bringing out the metallurgist, the Germans won't connect it with the Manhattan Project?" Hoover asked.
"Precisely," Donovan said.
"If we get to the point where we do bring nuclear people out, once they get to this country, they'll be your responsibility, protecting them at either Oak Ridge or White Sands. I thought perhaps, presuming we get the metallurgist out, you might want to use him as sort of a dry run yourself."
"You keep saying 'if' and 'presuming' you can get him out," Hoover said.
"There's some question in your mind that you will? Or do you believe the operation won't work?"
"We have high hopes, of course," Donovan said, and went on to explain that the OSS had set up a new escape route "pipeline," which ran through Hungary and Yugoslavia, for the sole purpose of getting the "special category" people out of Germany. The normal, in-place pipelines took people off the European continent through Holland and France to England.
Hoover displayed a deep curiosity in the details of the new pipeline, and Donovan explained the operation to him, wondering if the FBI Director's curiosity was professional or personal. Hoover, he knew, liked to think of himself as an agent rather than an administrator. Donovan suspected that Hoover was vicariously crossing the border from Germany into Hungary, and then walking out of Yugoslavia in the company of Yugoslavian partisans.
When the explanation was finally over, Hoover grunted, then looked at Captain Douglass.
"You don't seem to have much to say, Douglass," he said.
"I ask Pete to sit in on the more important meetings, Edgar, so I don't have to spend time repeating to him what was said."
"I was thinking along those lines myself," Hoover said.
"That it's going to take me some time to repeat all this to Tolson." Clyde Tolson was Deputy Director of the FBI, and Hoover's closest friend. They shared a house.
"If Clyde was cleared for the Manhattan Project," Donovan said, "I'd be the first to say bring him along."
"Clyde knows about the Manhattan Project," Hoover said.
"He's my Deputy."
Donovan was not surprised that Hoover had made Tolson privy to the secrets of the Manhattan Project, but he was surprised that Hoover had admitted it so openly to him. Tolson, like Vice President Wallace, was not on the shortlist of people authorized access to information concerning the atomic bomb.
"Then you should have brought him with you,
Edgar," Donovan said.
"Clyde's an old pal. He doesn't need a formal invitation to break bread with us."
Hoover, Donovan realized, had just put him on a spot. Should he run, as he was supposed to, to Roosevelt and tattle that the head of the FBI had taken it upon himself to breach security? If he did, would it turn out that Hoover had gotten permission from Roosevelt to tell Tolson? Which would make him look the fool. And if he didn't go, would Roosevelt find out, and be justifiably angry that he had known and said nothing?
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.
"Bearing up rather well considering what?"
"That he's the official stud for the London-area Red Cross girls," Whittaker said.
"Some of them are real man-eaters."
"Damn you," she said.
"Actually, the last time I saw him, he was staring moodily off into space, muttering Browning sonnets," Whittaker said. '"How do I love Charity? Let me count the ways.... I love her..."" "That's better," Charity said.
"I'm going over there. I found out a couple of days ago."
"Well, that should certainly change his social life," Whittaker said, and then he asked the question that had been on his mind since he first saw Charity.
"Where's the regular house mother?"
"Cynthia's at the place in Virginia," Charity said.
"What's she doing there?"
"Going through the course," Charity said.
"What course?"
"The regular course," Charity said.
"What the hell is that all about?" he asked.
"What do you think?" Charity asked.
The notion that Cynthia was undergoing training to become an agent was so preposterous that he didn't pursue it.
"I'll go out there in the morning," he said.
"Is my car here?"
"It is, but I'm not sure they allow you to have a car out there," Charity said.
"I'll take my chances," he said.
"Now, if you will give me some whiskey to drink, I'll brief you on the competition you're going to face when you get to England. And just for the record, Charity, I came here over the very strenuous objections of this gentleman."
"Staley's my name, Captain," Staley said, and offered his hand. Staley liked Whittaker. Ellis had said he would. He himself hadn't been so sure. Officers are officers. But there was something about this guy that made him special.
"Over the strenuous objections of Mr. Staley," Whittaker said.
"And now can I have some booze?"
He woke early, his body clock confused by the distances he'd covered, and aware that sometime around two in the afternoon, he would get very sleepy.
Worse, he thought, his mind would be dulled. And he wanted to be sharp when he saw Cynthia.
He took a shower in the large, tiled, two-headed shower where legend had it that Chesley Haywood Whittaker, his uncle "Chesty," had died of a stroke.
The truth was that Chesty Whittaker had died in the saddle, on Pearl Harbor Day, and that Chief Ellis had manhandled the body over here so that it could be "found" in his own shower rather than in the bed of a young woman, the daughter of a college classmate, with whom he had had a two-year affair. The young woman's name was Cynthia Chenowith.
Only a few people knew what had really happened: Wild Bill Donovan-who had been Chesty's lifelong crony and with whom he had flown to Washington when Donovan had been summoned to the White House--knew. And Captain Douglass knew. And Chief Ellis. And Dick Canidy, Whittaker's school chum and now number-three man in London for the OSS. And, of course, Jimmy Whittaker knew. He didn't think
Cynthia knew he knew, and that was the way he wanted to keep it. It didn't matter to him, he told himself--and most of the time, he believed, it didn't.
W E B Griffin - Men at War 4 - The Fighting Agents Page 6