The Last Heroes Read online

  ‘‘I didn’t know you were coming,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Wild horses, that sort of thing,’’ he said.

  She was in a robe, and her hair was wrapped in a towel. There was a stray wet lock on her forehead. Her skin glowed.

  ‘‘I just got out of the shower,’’ she said.

  ‘‘No!’’ he said mockingly.

  ‘‘Wiseass,’’ she said, laughing, and kissed him quickly, then beckoned him inside. He noticed she had not dried her left buttock, and the robe was glued to it.

  He followed her into the living room. She started to make him a drink, but he stopped her.

  ‘‘I think cognac,’’ he said.

  She looked at him curiously.

  ‘‘I’ve been on the edge of a vicious headache all day,’’ he said. ‘‘The cognac seems to help.’’

  She found a snifter, filled it generously with Courvoisier, and handed it to him. ‘‘Drink this while I get dressed,’’ she said.

  She saw the look on his face.

  ‘‘At least let me dry my hair,’’ she said.

  He smiled.

  ‘‘You are impatient!’’ she said. ‘‘I’m glad.’’

  She went into her bedroom. He took a swallow of the cognac and followed her into the bedroom. She was sitting at a vanity, vigorously drying her hair with a towel. She smiled at his reflection in the mirror. He sat down on the bed.

  ‘‘You didn’t go to the game? Or they called it off? What I mean is that you’re earlier than usual.’’

  ‘‘I was with Bill Donovan,’’ he said. ‘‘The President sent an airplane for him. He gave me a ride.’’

  ‘‘How nice,’’ Cynthia said.

  ‘‘He wants me to work for him,’’ Chesty said.

  She turned to look at him.

  ‘‘Are you?’’ she asked, and he nodded. ‘‘They really hate Colonel Donovan at the State Department,’’ she said. ‘‘He’s trying to take over the whole intelligence setup.’’

  ‘‘If he hasn’t taken over yet,’’ Chesty said, ‘‘he will. He wants me to be one of what they call the Twelve Disciples.’’

  ‘‘Oh, then they hate you, too,’’ she said. ‘‘Will that bother you?’’

  ‘‘With one notable exception, I have never cared what diplomats think of me.’’

  ‘‘And I’m not even a diplomat,’’ she said. ‘‘More on the order of an uppity female.’’

  ‘‘Jimmy,’’ he said. ‘‘I’m worried about him.’’

  ‘‘Oh my God, I didn’t even think about him!’’

  ‘‘You should have,’’ he said. ‘‘When he gets back, Barbara intends to pair you off with him. If he gets back.’’

  ‘‘He’ll get back,’’ Cynthia said. ‘‘The pairing off is something else, of course.’’

  ‘‘Jimmy has excellent taste in women,’’ Chesty said. ‘‘He would really appreciate you.’’

  ‘‘Are you trying to send me some sort of message?’’

  ‘‘Every time I see how young and beautiful you are,’’ Chesty said, ‘‘it takes me some time to adjust to our situation. ’’

  ‘‘Every time I see how handsome and distinguished you are,’’ she said, ‘‘it takes me some time to believe how lucky I am.’’

  ‘‘Having a dead-end affair with a man old enough to be your father can hardly be called lucky,’’ he said. ‘‘Odd, maybe. Interesting.’’

  ‘‘Not satisfying?’’ she asked. ‘‘I’m satisfied.’’

  ‘‘I feel guilty,’’ he said. ‘‘Your father was my friend.’’

  ‘‘Don’t start that again,’’ she said.

  ‘‘I love you,’’ he said.

  ‘‘That you can say,’’ she said. ‘‘And I love you.’’

  She turned away again and brushed her hair while he propped himself against the headboard, sipped his cognac, and watched her. On top of the headache he had some kind of damned indigestion again. He tried to belch and could not.

  She finished brushing her hair, walked to the side of the bed, and looked down at him. Then she shrugged out of the robe.

  ‘‘My God, how beautiful you are!’’ he said.

  He started to get off the bed. She pushed him back.

  ‘‘Let me undress you,’’ she said. ‘‘It makes you horny when I undress you, and I like it when you’re horny.’’

  ‘‘Before you’re so nice to me, I had better tell you that you’re going to be evicted.’’

  ‘‘I don’t understand that,’’ she said as she untied his shoes and pulled them off.

  ‘‘Donovan wants this house for cloak-and-dagger purposes, ’’ he said. ‘‘I told him he could have it.’’

  ‘‘Well, he gets me with it,’’ she said. ‘‘Did you tell him that?’’

  ‘‘Certainly,’’ he said. ‘‘I said, ‘Bill, our old pal Tom’s daughter isn’t just living in the garage apartment, she’s my mistress.’ ’’

  ‘‘I don’t like that word,’’ she said. ‘‘It suggests I’m doing it for money.’’

  ‘‘No offense, my darling,’’ he said.

  ‘‘I’m your lover,’’ she said. ‘‘I don’t know why you refuse to accept that.’’

  ‘‘Possibly because I am afraid there is an element of gratitude in our relationship.’’

  ‘‘Who seduced who?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘I wish I really knew,’’ he said.

  ‘‘I don’t know whether to cry or throw something at you,’’ she said.

  They looked at each other for a moment, and then he shrugged.

  ‘‘Will you ask if I can keep the apartment?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘Or I’ll get you a better place,’’ he said.

  ‘‘If I can’t stay here, I’ll get another place,’’ she said. ‘‘Maybe that will shut you up once and for all about this. I want you in my bed because you’re you, not because you’re paying the rent.’’

  She had his zipper open. His erect organ sprang out. ‘‘Will you look at that!’’ Cynthia said.

  ‘‘You’re lewd and shameless,’’ he said, pushing her away, getting to his feet.

  ‘‘And doesn’t that make you happy?’’ she asked.

  She walked around to the other side of the bed, slipped under the covers, and watched him finish undressing.

  When he was done, she threw the covers off herself and held out her arms to him. In a moment he had entered the incredible warm soft wetness of her. At the same moment, tragically, his body had had enough.

  He cried out, and the goddamned headache he had been trying to avoid all day finally struck him—with a vengeance. He’d never known pain so sudden and so sharp.

  And then he was dead.

  ‘‘Chesty? Chesty, what’s the matter?’’ she asked.

  She worked her way out from under him and sat up. Then with all her energy she rolled him over on his back. His eyes stared at her, but she instantly knew he did not see her.

  ‘‘Oh, Chesty!’’ she said, putting her balled fists to her mouth. As she had been taught to do, she felt the artery in his neck for a pulse. There was none.

  After a few minutes, Cynthia pulled her robe on, and with infinite tenderness, as tears ran down her cheeks, she pulled Chesty’s eyelids shut.

  The White House Washington, D.C. 7:05 P.M., December 7, 1941

  Captain Peter Stuart Douglass, USN, was in the White House because he had become de facto deputy director of the Office of the Coordinator of Information. It hadn’t been planned that way. The original notion was that he would be assigned to Donovan because it would take him (and the fission-bomb project) out from under ONI and put it under Donovan, who had the ear of the President.

  But in the beginning of the fission project, there really hadn’t been much to do beyond sending the people to England to see what could be learned of English and German efforts and to wait for the results of the experiments being conducted at the University of Chicago.

  So he had started doing one t
hing and another for Donovan, and later it had seemed perfectly logical for him to assume duty as acting deputy director of COI until Donovan could find the proper man for the slot.

  Then, the week before, the President had decided to place the entire fission project under a group of academics headed by Dr. J. B. Conant, of Harvard. This had the logical cover of a scientific program being run by the Office of Scientific Research and Development.

  The change had taken place as of December 6, 1941, and Douglass had not moved over to OSRD.

  ‘‘Pete, you’re not a physicist, and I need you more than they do,’’ Donovan had said, with irrefutable logic.

  ‘‘Colonel, I’d like to go back to the Navy.’’

  ‘‘Come on, Pete, I need you more than the Navy,’’ Donovan said. ‘‘I can’t do without you, and you know it.’’

  ‘‘I’d hoped for a command, Colonel,’’ Douglass said.

  ‘‘Think that through, Pete,’’ Donovan said. ‘‘If you went back to the Navy, it would be to ONI. They’re not going to give you a sea command. You’re too valuable as an intelligence officer. And you would be of more value here than you would be in the Navy.’’

  Donovan was of course right. And what that meant was that after a lifetime of preparing for war at sea, Captain Peter Douglass was going to spend the war behind a desk. His friends and peers would be on the bridges of ships while he stayed in Washington. And the price he was going to pay for working for Donovan, he clearly understood, was that he could never make admiral.

  When the telephone call came for Donovan, Douglass took it. And then he quietly opened the door to the Oval Office and stepped inside. The office was heavy with cigarette smoke, and although there had been a steady stream of stewards passing in and out, doing their best to keep it shipshape, the place was a mess. Sandwich remnants and empty coffee cups on every flat surface but the President’s desk itself. That was covered with sheets of paper and a large map.

  Douglass found Colonel Donovan sitting beside General Marshall on a couch against the wall. The President had rolled his wheelchair close to the other two. They were all facing each other, deep in conversation.

  It was almost a minute before Donovan sensed Douglass’s presence and looked up at him. And when he did, it was with only partly hidden annoyance in his eyes.

  ‘‘What is it, Pete?’’ Donovan asked.

  ‘‘I’ve got a Miss Chenowith on the line,’’ Douglass said. ‘‘She’s calling for Mr. Chesley Whittaker, and says it’s important. ’’

  ‘‘See what she wants,’’ Donovan said impatiently.

  ‘‘She insists on talking to you, sir,’’ Douglass said.

  ‘‘Try again,’’ Donovan said, and returned his attention to the President.

  ‘‘Did he say that Chesty Whittaker was on the phone?’’ the President asked.

  ‘‘Chesty’s in Washington. He rode up with me from New York. I’ve asked him to work with me.’’

  ‘‘And he accepted?’’ the President asked. ‘‘He probably hopes you’re leading a palace coup.’’

  ‘‘He said to tell you he’s ready to join the team,’’ Donovan said.

  The President laughed.

  ‘‘As in ‘of jackasses’?’’ he quipped.

  Captain Douglass returned.

  ‘‘Miss Chenowith said to tell you it’s an emergency,’’ Douglass said.

  ‘‘Take the call, Bill,’’ the President ordered. ‘‘Chesty wouldn’t have her call under these circumstances unless he thought it was necessary.’’

  Donovan looked around for a phone. Douglass handed him the base of one, but kept the handset. ‘‘Miss Chenowith, here’s Colonel Donovan,’’ he said, and then handed the instrument to Donovan.

  ‘‘Hello, Cynthia,’’ Donovan said. ‘‘Put Chesty on.’’

  ‘‘I can’t do that, I’m afraid,’’ Cynthia Chenowith said.

  ‘‘What is this, Cynthia?’’

  ‘‘Chesty’s dead, Mr. Donovan,’’ she said. ‘‘And unless I have some help, right away, there’s going to be a mess.’’

  ‘‘Did I understand you correctly?’’

  ‘‘I said he was dead. Is that what you mean?’’

  ‘‘Where are you?’’

  "At the house on Q Street," she said.

  ‘‘I’m going to send my deputy, Captain Douglass, right over, Cynthia,’’ Donovan said. ‘‘He’ll take care of the matter. ’’

  ‘‘It would be better if you came yourself,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Captain Douglass will leave immediately,’’ Donovan said. ‘‘You’re there, I presume?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘He’ll leave immediately,’’ Donovan said sharply, and hung up. He reached for a notepad and scrawled the address.

  ‘‘Go over there, Peter, please,’’ he ordered. ‘‘See a Miss Chenowith. Do whatever has to be done.’’

  ‘‘Yes, sir,’’ Captain Douglass said.

  ‘‘Cynthia Chenowith? Is that Tom’s daughter?’’ the President asked.

  ‘‘Yes,’’ Donovan said. ‘‘She’s a lawyer in the State Department. Chesty rents her his garage apartment.’’

  ‘‘Is something wrong?’’

  "She said that Chesty is dead, Mr. President," Donovan said.

  EIGHT

  1

  Captain Douglass left the White House through a basement exit and went to the visitors’ parking lot. He had a gray Navy Plymouth, which a young sailor normally drove, but today he found behind the wheel a long-service boatswain’s mate first class who’d responded to the attack on Pearl Harbor by leaving his sickbed in the Washington Navy Yard Dispensary and reporting for duty. The young driver was now guarding the perimeter of the Navy Yard.

  Douglass found the old sailor huddled in his peacoat in the front seat of the Plymouth.

  ‘‘What are you doing here? Why didn’t you wait inside with the other drivers?’’

  ‘‘With all respect, sir. I don’t mind filling in in a pinch, but I won’t consort with them candy-asses.’’

  Douglass, hiding a smile, handed him the slip of paper with the address Donovan had written on it.

  ‘‘Can you find this?’’ Douglass asked. ‘‘It’s somewhere near Dupont Circle.’’

  ‘‘Sure,’’ the sailor replied.

  Soon Douglass found himself standing outside a ten-foot brick wall, pushing a doorbell.

  Then a faint noise caught his attention, and he looked in the direction of the sound. Eighty feet away a young woman appeared on the sidewalk. She had a kerchief over her head and was wearing a trench coat.

  ‘‘Miss Chenowith?’’ Douglass called.

  ‘‘I think you’d better bring the car inside,’’ Cynthia Chenowith said.

  Douglass signaled the boatswain’s mate to move the car, and he walked down the sidewalk toward the young woman. She looked a little pale—not entirely, because she was wearing makeup. She was shaken. But she also looked in control of herself.

  ‘‘I’m Peter Douglass, Miss Chenowith,’’ he said. He offered his hand. She neither replied nor took the hand, but she gave him a little smile.

  She waited until the Plymouth had passed inside the gate, then motioned him through. There was a switch inside the wall. She pressed it, and electric motors closed the double gate.

  Then she walked down the brick drive to the garage. She had, Peter Douglass noticed, a graceful carriage, a firm step. She was both attractive and self-assured.

  She stopped at the door to an outside stairway to the floor above the garage.

  ‘‘What about your driver?’’ she asked. ‘‘Can he be trusted to keep his mouth shut?’’

  Douglass hadn’t even considered that. He didn’t even know the boatswain’s mate’s name.

  ‘‘Is there any reason he has to know about the problem?’’ Douglass asked. She nodded. ‘‘In that case, he can be trusted.’’ He was a Regular Navy boatswain’s mate. He would do what he was told.

&
nbsp; Cynthia Chenowith nodded again and started up the stairs. Douglass signaled to the boatswain’s mate to come along, and he got out of the Plymouth and adjusted his white hat in the prescribed cocky position over his eyes.

  She led them through what was obviously her apartment and opened a door, standing to one side so that Douglass could go inside.

  It was her bedroom, obviously. And on the bed was a body under a sheet.

  ‘‘Mr. Whittaker?’’ Douglass asked.

  She nodded.

  ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ he said.

  The boatswain’s mate, muttering, ‘‘Coming through,’’ pushed past Douglass, went to the bed, and pulled the sheet off Chesley Haywood Whittaker’s head and torso. Whittaker was naked.

  The boatswain’s mate put his hand on the artery of Whittaker’s neck, then placed his hand flat on his chest.

  ‘‘He’s been dead maybe an hour,’’ he announced matter-of -factly.

  ‘‘I think you’d better tell me what happened, Miss Chenowith,’’ Captain Douglass said, turning to look at her.

  She flushed, but she met his eyes.

  ‘‘We were in bed,’’ she said. ‘‘He made a cry, and went limp.’’

  The man on the bed was old enough to be the girl’s father. ‘‘A stroke, probably,’’ the boatswain’s mate said professionally. ‘‘If it’s a heart attack, they generally . . . wet the bed. With a stroke, they’re dead right away and nothing works.’’

  Douglass looked at him.

  ‘‘I was a China sailor,’’ the boatswain’s mate said. ‘‘We didn’t have a medic for a while on the Panay, and I had to fill in.’’

  ‘‘For obvious reasons,’’ Cynthia Chenowith said, ‘‘it must not come out where and how he died.’’

  Cynthia Chenowith was having some difficulty maintaining control, but she was far from hysteria.

  ‘‘Where’d he live?’’ the boatswain’s mate asked.

  ‘‘New Jersey,’’ Cynthia replied automatically.

  ‘‘Well, we can’t take him home, can we?’’ the boatswain’s mate said.

  ‘‘And here,’’ Cynthia said. ‘‘And of course he lives here, too.’’

  ‘‘Here, or do you mean the house?’’ the boatswain’s mate pursued.